Ronan is a Pluriverse-inspired Solarpunk in pursuit of the Good. This vignette describes his preparation for a hunt in psychic realms, as he prepares for inevitable battles with Moloch and other demonic forces.

The how’s and why’s of getting to where he was were never made clear. He’s since accepted that some things are better left unexplored, at least for now.

One thing was clear, though — at that moment he was on a hunt, or at least what felt like one in hindsight. Not for white stags or wild boar or even other dopes like him. He wasn’t chasing wild geese and goslings either. No, this hunt had tones resonant with his quasi-Catholic upbringing; akin to searching for Easter eggs or slaying European dragons.

That’s what made this hunting trip all the more…shall we say…theatrically (dramatically?) self-serving and utterly bewildering. He’d never wielded a gun, sword, or bow. He’d never seen a bunny poop an egg out. He’d never met a dragon (although he had learned of their Tales a la American Public Broadcasting Service, Kids) despite having spent considerable time in Europe.

Instead, he brandished a European export synthesized by a WWII era Swiss chemist at the behest of would-be Big Pharma. This Dragonite-stamped piece of paper - no bigger than a newborn’s pinky fingernail - was the vessel that would deliver him to the hunting grounds.  

He’d hunted in this fashion before, but this time - every time - was different.

Like all good hunters, he knew the importance of preparation, conditions, and heeding set and setting. In lieu of camouflage he donned an oversized, well-worn hooded sweatshirt from his high school alma mater and threadbare plaid pajama pants. Instead of binoculars or a scope, he opted for a blackout blindfold. Camp was between corporate Threshold (TM) cotton sheets and a duvet-less down comforter, white with the yellowish tint of time. In this way, he connected his noise cancelling bluetooth headphones, queued theta wave binaural beats, mistily declared “Dragonite, I choose you!”, placed the fingernail-like paper under his tongue, and initiated his meditative, breath-based, Ohm-invoked pre-hunt ritual.

Where it began, he can’t begin to knowing, but then he know it’s growing strong. Credits to Diamond, with light shine on, knowing dissipated and a crazy brilliance refracted. Entropy ensued. Of a psychic bent the ensuing creative destruction converged on pursuing, on the hunt.      

Colors, kaleidoscopes, fractals, and images of (solarpunk-ish?) angels indicated the hunt was thoroughly underway; Ronan was in the throes of the topsy-turvy thing. Trodding upon amythos territory. 

<A thought: By definition, Moloch does not exist in amythos territory. Where does Moloch emerge?> 

Vibes were high, to say the least. To say the most would drive him mad, surely. 

The only fact of the thing was its preposterousness. Possibility, plausibility, probability, and projection were wherever whatever is after the after thought, relegated to realms wherein past and future reside with the likes of Cosmogenic and Numinous Moloch. I mean Christ time wasn’t even on Ronan’s radar. 

<A thought: Does Moloch know Christ time? If yes, how does Moloch wield it?>

That’s when the dragons came. 

Carted and catered and cared for by octopuses and other cephalopodic creatures known for their intelligence in meatspace, the dragons’ magnificence and majesty mesmerized Ronan, stoking in him a fear and respect of mythical proportions.

Without a Cardinal compass (Ronan must have left it alongside whatever is after after thoughts), the dragons’ Westerliness or Easterliness was like, whatever. In that moment.

In this moment, though, the dragons’ Cardinal characteristics take on newfangled, imperative significance. 

For, to classify a dragon with Cardinal characteristics is to claim it prey, predator, or prophet; hunted, hunter, or harmonizer.  

Will Ronan use his Cardinal Compass as a weapon, a shield, a mirror, or …? 

<A thought: Will Moloch commandeer Ronan’s Cardinal Compass?>

Ronan is a Pluriverse-inspired Solarpunk in pursuit of the Good. This vignette describes his preparation for a hunt in psychic realms, as he prepares for inevitable battles with Moloch and other demonic forces.

The how’s and why’s of getting to where he was were never made clear. He’s since accepted that some things are better left unexplored, at least for now.

One thing was clear, though — at that moment he was on a hunt, or at least what felt like one in hindsight. Not for white stags or wild boar or even other dopes like him. He wasn’t chasing wild geese and goslings either. No, this hunt had tones resonant with his quasi-Catholic upbringing; akin to searching for Easter eggs or slaying European dragons.

That’s what made this hunting trip all the more…shall we say…theatrically (dramatically?) self-serving and utterly bewildering. He’d never wielded a gun, sword, or bow. He’d never seen a bunny poop an egg out. He’d never met a dragon (although he had learned of their Tales a la American Public Broadcasting Service, Kids) despite having spent considerable time in Europe.

Instead, he brandished a European export synthesized by a WWII era Swiss chemist at the behest of would-be Big Pharma. This Dragonite-stamped piece of paper - no bigger than a newborn’s pinky fingernail - was the vessel that would deliver him to the hunting grounds.  

He’d hunted in this fashion before, but this time - every time - was different.

Like all good hunters, he knew the importance of preparation, conditions, and heeding set and setting. In lieu of camouflage he donned an oversized, well-worn hooded sweatshirt from his high school alma mater and threadbare plaid pajama pants. Instead of binoculars or a scope, he opted for a blackout blindfold. Camp was between corporate Threshold (TM) cotton sheets and a duvet-less down comforter, white with the yellowish tint of time. In this way, he connected his noise cancelling bluetooth headphones, queued theta wave binaural beats, mistily declared “Dragonite, I choose you!”, placed the fingernail-like paper under his tongue, and initiated his meditative, breath-based, Ohm-invoked pre-hunt ritual.

Where it began, he can’t begin to knowing, but then he know it’s growing strong. Credits to Diamond, with light shine on, knowing dissipated and a crazy brilliance refracted. Entropy ensued. Of a psychic bent the ensuing creative destruction converged on pursuing, on the hunt.      

Colors, kaleidoscopes, fractals, and images of (solarpunk-ish?) angels indicated the hunt was thoroughly underway; Ronan was in the throes of the topsy-turvy thing. Trodding upon amythos territory. 

<A thought: By definition, Moloch does not exist in amythos territory. Where does Moloch emerge?> 

Vibes were high, to say the least. To say the most would drive him mad, surely. 

The only fact of the thing was its preposterousness. Possibility, plausibility, probability, and projection were wherever whatever is after the after thought, relegated to realms wherein past and future reside with the likes of Cosmogenic and Numinous Moloch. I mean Christ time wasn’t even on Ronan’s radar. 

<A thought: Does Moloch know Christ time? If yes, how does Moloch wield it?>

That’s when the dragons came. 

Carted and catered and cared for by octopuses and other cephalopodic creatures known for their intelligence in meatspace, the dragons’ magnificence and majesty mesmerized Ronan, stoking in him a fear and respect of mythical proportions.

Without a Cardinal compass (Ronan must have left it alongside whatever is after after thoughts), the dragons’ Westerliness or Easterliness was like, whatever. In that moment.

In this moment, though, the dragons’ Cardinal characteristics take on newfangled, imperative significance. 

For, to classify a dragon with Cardinal characteristics is to claim it prey, predator, or prophet; hunted, hunter, or harmonizer.  

Will Ronan use his Cardinal Compass as a weapon, a shield, a mirror, or …? 

<A thought: Will Moloch commandeer Ronan’s Cardinal Compass?>