Welcome our dear guests! Welcome to our cabaret of macabre and suspense! Theatre Cultic welcomes you all!
It seems this update is going to be among the shortest because it is time for "Stygian: Reign of the Old Ones" to talk for itself.
Time to join the cast of Stygian
You can find the Windows version of our backer demo from here.
And the Mac version here.
You can contact culticgames@gmail.com for the Linux version.
Be good, be old school and read your "Read Me" file. It includes some helpful info and tips.
We did our bests to materialize the fever dream which happens to be Stygian. We hope we've been able to deserve your never-ending support.
In addition to our usual meeting place down the black seas of infinity, we can also meet at Discord and chat about Stygian here.
We'll continue this journey through the whirlpools of reality, altogether. For the moment, enjoy your time in the lost town of Arkham and listen to the sorrowful stories of its residents.
We better get back to work. So much to do and so little time until the end of days...
Team Cultic
I found some of the dialogue disappointing as well, mostly the PC's "infodump me" lines:
Yawn! Hopefully this kind of stuff is placeholder; it deadens the otherwise brilliant atmosphere.
Writing with non-native language could be hard. They maybe first wrote in Turkish, then translated to English though, I don't know.
), but I'll be damned if the art, sound, music and descriptive texts don't send chills down one's spine. My only complaint is the liberal use of 'fuck' in dialogues, as I don't think it was that common in the 1920s and that kind of takes me out of the setting for a bit, but I could be wrong on that.
“Queer haow picters kin set a body thinkin’. Take this un here near the front. Hev yew ever seed trees like thet, with big leaves a-floppin’ over an’ daown? And them men—them can’t be niggers—they dew beat all. Kinder like Injuns, I guess, even ef they be in Afriky. Some o’ these here critters looks like monkeys, or half monkeys an’ half men, but I never heerd o’ nothing like this un.” Here he pointed to a fabulous creature of the artist, which one might describe as a sort of dragon with the head of an alligator.
[...]
“As I says, ’tis queer haow picters sets ye thinkin’. D’ye know, young Sir, I’m right sot on this un here. Arter I got the book off Eb I uster look at it a lot, especial when I’d heerd Passon Clark rant o’ Sundays in his big wig. Onct I tried suthin’ funny—here, young Sir, don’t git skeert—all I done was ter look at the picter afore I kilt the sheep for market—killin’ sheep was kinder more fun arter lookin’ at it—” The tone of the old man now sank very low, sometimes becoming so faint that his words were hardly audible. I listened to the rain, and to the rattling of the bleared, small-paned windows, and marked a rumbling of approaching thunder quite unusual for the season. Once a terrific flash and peal shook the frail house to its foundations, but the whisperer seemed not to notice it.
“Killin’ sheep was kinder more fun—but d’ye know, ’twan’t quite satisfyin’. Queer haow a cravin’gits a holt on ye— As ye love the Almighty, young man, don’t tell nobody, but I swar ter Gawd thet picter begun ta make me hungry fer victuals I couldn’t raise nor buy—here, set still, what’s ailin’ ye?—I didn’t do nothin’, only I wondered haow ’twud be ef I did— They say meat makes blood an’ flesh, an’ gives ye new life, so I wondered ef ’twudn’t make a man live longer an’ longer ef ’twas more the same—” But the whisperer never continued. The interruption was not produced by my fright, nor by the rapidly increasing storm amidst whose fury I was presently to open my eyes on a smoky solitude of blackened ruins. It was produced by a very simple though somewhat unusual happening.
