Here, you'll raise, role play as, upgrade, and shape a mochi-like blobling into any creature your heart desires!
Do you want to play a talking flower with a mischievous side? We support you.
Do you want to play a wolf with a lion's mane? Cool. We can help you.
Do you want to play a base blobling, but with a tuft of hair
and stars all over its skin? Hell yeah. Once you're happy with your blobling, you can
start breeding it with other people's creatures to form strange and
Play through the rise of a new world after an apocalyptic-level event has forced a reset. Build the world from the ground up and engage in a rules-light role play that encourages creativity over crunch. Help decide what sorts of plants and animals will populate the planet. Worship the God of Death!
If this sounds interesting to you, we'd love to have you! We accept role players, artists and writers of all skill levels.
Please start by going to the Information Station and getting your read on, and hopefully
we'll see more of you around here. ^__^
Bloblings have noticed mysterious, gooey bloblings popping up in the world. Many bloblings are weary of them because of their resemblance to the tar from the tar pits, which have been known to eat bloblings for something called 'breakfast'.
01/10/23 Hey there!
It's October now!
We've updated the Art Prompts and Writing Prompts with some new stuff for October, as ever. It's spoooooOOOOoopy season now, and our prompts have been updated appropriately! Go take a look.
It's going to be a Bleeding Season this month! New droplets will be being born at the end of next month. Get thinking about what kinds of bloblings you want to stick into some bleeds, because the Season will be releasing within the first week of the month!
We have some fun things planned for this month, but we'll be sort of sprinkling them throughout. We hope you'll like them!
Our Discord server is invite only. Please DM Ichor or Saerfall after you've submitted your blobling claim form, and we'll send you an invite link. We spend most of our time on our Discord, so if it seems quiet here, we're probably all sequestered away in our server.
Post by Saint Judas on Nov 23, 2022 6:33:05 GMT -5
For as long as Quinnsing could remember, he had not found the one who called to him yet. His memory, he was inclined to believe, was not entirely to be trusted. With clarity he could recall all that he had done while upon this world that had been put together, piece at a time, from the blood and labor of the Gods and Bloblings both. What once had been only a barren expanse of desert and sand had been given it's first signs of life, as blood spilled from Ichor's hands, and from it was given the first vestiges of life. The first few beings, that quickly sprouted simple and functionary organs from which to see and speak, as they explored at first by rolling around aimlessly, sprouting questions and complaints, a cacophony of voices, wondering how, why, and where. And from these confused new life forms, the Goddess Ichor created their first companions, bringing forth her hands to craft the creatures and the plants of the land.
Quinnsing remembered that so clearly, and knew of how the first days, if one could call it such when there was no night to separate the passing of time. But of course, it seemed only logical he could recall those. After all, he was one of the first to roll from her hands, one of the only ones to have been born from Ichor's hands directly, and to have seen the world when it was all but nothing. An idea, unformed yet. Just like the bloblings themselves.
Everyone had a different idea for how they became what they are today, and Blobling remains a blanket term for their species mostly in lack of anything better. After all, the term was coined because of their general amorphous shape and body, but that hardly held true anymore for most of them. Some... some he lost track of a long time ago now. Others though had grown, much like himself. And oh... how much he had changed.
What once was a shapeless shade of grey, notable only for it's bright blue eyes, was now a great beast, halfway between reptilian and mammalian, for what little value those antiquated terms that floated through his memory means. A scaled under-belly in a rich tinge of royal purple contrasted the grey fur that covered more of his body, save where those two feathered wings rose from his back, layered with inner wings of white that faded to blue and outer wings that went from a stark grey swirled at the top with black to black to white, except where his primaries became a brilliant blue at their outermost tips, and his tail crested into a plume of white soft feathers. A long muzzle and a black mask of fur marked his face now, with a wet black nose and a forked pink tongue that poked between his teeth. Long white whiskers and a beard marked his muzzle and his brows, where brilliant blue eye sat still, now slitted at the pupil and vibrant with streaks of silver rimming their iris, a marking along his cheek and drawing a line down from his crested mane pained blue as well.
Tufted ears marked with metal rings and cuffs of silver and earrings of white feathers, sleek black antlers that curved together with wrappings and cuffs to where they held an orb in the space between their branches, the gems that crested his forehead and cheeks where fur tufted out white again, along the joints of his legs where they streaked to black paws and silvery claws, marked again by tufts at the 'elbow' joints. The gem at his throat, where brilliant white wings wrapped around his throat, and the ones along his tail, breaking up his crest before becoming a plume, the fading of his tail from grey to black where it was furred... even a sash of brilliant blue with black loops and a scarf of matching color with stars speckling it's length... so much had changed.
Quinnsing Ta'Hala was no longer a blobling by any definition. Unrecognizable really in fact, from what he used to be, keeping only the same grey tone in his fur and blue in his eyes. A word lingered on the tip of his tongue that would have put a name to his new shape, but it escaped him, as many things seemed to. That was the trouble with it... he remembered everything from whence he opened his eyes first to now, when he stirred from the cave he had taken residence in, scales rasping over the stone of the floor as his tail uncurled around him, his body long and serpentine, yet clearly no mere reptile. He could even recall many of those who had begun their first days with him, when the land was barren sand and naught else. Some... some had, much like himself, spread their wings and taken shape, dreaming, remembering, or perhaps creating what they were meant to be. Others simply faded into obscurity.
No... what made Quinnsing so sure his memory couldn't be relied on was the hazy thoughts of something else. Something before he had been born. "They" had been born. Words came to his mind to describe things he had never yet seen, with a sense of familiarity and certainty that bore confidence without question or hesitation. Yet by all rights, how can one remember something they have never seen? This sense of Deja Vu persisted though, spreading further then that. It was dreams that coiled around him as he slept, recollections of a life before this one. Of a library spread before him, scrolls heaped like treasure and meticulously sorted. Of great spiraled forts and creatures in shiny metal armor. Of war. Of death. Of love. So many many things... in fact, he was inclined to believe it was more then just one life he was recalling, although he could not put a claw to it to say for certainty.
Perhaps that was why, originally, like many of those who have been gifted with life upon this new world, he had originally looked to those who had named themselves Gods to search for an answer to his questions and hazy recollections. For whom should explain it best but the ones who bled him onto the lands, or the ones who followed her, seeking to lay claim and govern the world to their own goals and aims. Creatures beyond even the wildest dreams of prowess and knowledge, a wealth of skills and information at their tongue, and the powers to create something from which there was once nothing.
Yet still... Quinnsing could not find an answer to satisfy him.
The problem thus, Quinnsing concluded, was that none of them had the answers he sought. Or more likely, perhaps, they knew, but in their previous follies and war between one another, they were unwilling to provide clear answers. How clearly he remembered... the trial. How quickly it turned to personal grudges between the gods. Perhaps though, such a fight was inevitable, waiting, like a dam on the brink of bursting and overflowing it's walls. It had merely been biding it's time until a spark could set it ablaze. And how brilliantly the fire burned once it flickered to life. Spitefulness drove Eris to unveil a past of Ichor's, confirming not only that once... there had been something else. Somewhere else. A life before the one they knew.
But also that there was more to the story then it seemed.
Something about the figures seemed familiar. The crimson blood, uniformly the same color despite their differences. The expressions of agony and ecstasy, caught in a moment of rapture and sacrifice, worship and cultism, slavery and enlightenment. It called to him in a way that betrayed a truth that with time, Quinnsing would realize others had recognized as well. A truth of a history he could not remember, and a life he didn't realize he had once held as his own. Something that had not been spoken of yet, and had not been spoken much on since.
Yet... it lingers in Quinnsing's mind that it was there none the less. Were it so that he did not question, but once presented with the knowledge, it could only occur to him to ask the question then of why such information had been hidden, and why, even upon questions, there would be no answers, or only vague ones. Why could he not recall such things to mind on his own? No... that was inaccurate. He could... recall it. In vague and unclear glimpses. In memories, knowing distinctly the word for something he had never seen before, or something looking familiar when he had never set his eyes upon it before.
And in the occasional dreams of things Quinnsing had never experienced before, thrust upon him, a vision both completely alien, and yet distinctly his own. To this though, the gods had no answers... there had been something before. A world before, whereupon they had ruled as well, or perhaps merely were a part of. A world where he had once belonged, and he could guess, others had as well. Books in the library charted scattered memories, notes and scribbles from those who also had these same vague recollections. Still... he waited upon an answer. Something tactile to which Quinnsing could observe and understand. He would not have said he was strictly a person of science, but he was not one to blindly chase after something either.
Many looked to the gods for answers. Themis brought to those upon the world a law and justice that they deemed to be Order. It was absolute, for only in absolution did they believe they could keep balance. Everything is white, and everything is equal: there is a place for all things of Order, and everything has it's role. It is neatly defined, organized, and functional, but beyond that, there is nothing else. Something either will serve it's purpose, or be cast aside as defective, and everything must be rigid, structured, and organized.
Eris brought the opposite. Spontaneity, creativity, wildness. From them was a break of all things structured, and a breakdown of all methods of organization. There was no thought given to the greater good, peace and war, and everything inbetween, for all of it was considered abstract in concept. The only thing that must matter is the immediate desire of the soul and heart, the gratification of the moment. There is no future, there will hold no past, and the selfish whim is the only law to speak of, for nothing can be held and nothing will be sacred.
And lastly... the one to whom the first vestiges of life were brought forth to the world. Ichor brought life, and with it, the worship of that which represented life: blood. No matter which you called her the goddess of, it was clear what worship of her was to mean. The worship of creation, of new things, of life. It did not care for selflessness or selfishness, for purpose and order or chaos and mayhem. It cares only for the love and labor of every living thing, and the purpose of creating more and more, ever trying to grow and expand.
In practice, Quinnsing had tasted of each of them. There was admiration to be found, he discovered, in each, but again, none truly matched what he looked for. Within order, one could lay out rules and structure, one could make many innovations, but there was efficiency to the point of suffocation. Were it allowed, everything would fall to mechanical monotony and move forward only when it could be ruled and measured. Within chaos, only could constantly change and grow, there would be no limits or impositions, but there was also nothing with which to build upon. Were it allowed, everything would fall to chaos, wherein nothing could truly be appreciate or stable, and there would be no rules or regulations to stop others from taking and doing as they wished, with no mind of consequence.
And life... life had seemed such a beautiful concept. It was the creation of all new things. Yet... within that beauty there was also a flaw. It had no purpose, nothing it tried to serve or reach towards. There was no end goal, and left unchecked, it occurred to Quinnsing one thing... the very thing about Life that had seemed so captivating when looking upon an empty and barren desert now seemed daunting, when looking upon an ever changing expanse of new life, teeming with colors, noise, and feelings, and biome upon biome they called home.
The problem with life was it had no end. Once born, something would not die, and every day more and more and more came upon this earth, until eventually one must come to the conclusion that left unchecked... it would fall to devastation. When life was given without end, strife was also given, for the continuous creation of it led to conflict, which would only lead to further suffering. There was too much of it, and it seemed to have no intentions of slowing or stopping.
Post by Saint Judas on Dec 1, 2022 10:56:52 GMT -5
It took much time, much pondering, and much experimenting, before the idea even was first born in his mind. It was such a small thought to Quinnsing, a curiosity really. Practically nothing, really. A thought of what was... after life. The answer presented itself immediately in the form of there was no answer. Not truly, because nothing was really capable of dying. Not... yet. When popped, a blobling would eventually form again, when slain, a creature would eventually regain it's life, and when torn asunder a plant would eventually regrow itself from whence it was planted.
It was harder to speculate what happened when a plant or animal was obliterated permanently, whether eaten or destroyed through other means. That one ate at him for a while, as Quinnsing mused over it, unable to observe or check anything. A blobing was an easier answer... he asked first from others, who described a land somewhere else, where they were cradled by Themis and returned from whence they came as though born again. But the creature, if it ever came to life again, did not do so where it was killed, and he had yet to find one whom he had slain.
The thought made him lick his lips. The first time Quinnsing had killed a Prismermine it had been an instinct. An urge... he had feasted upon it's body out of curiosity more then anything. A desire to know what it was like, and a feeling as well that it was just 'right.' It was that twist again, that just knowledge that he had done this before. And the experience itself, while proving unnecessary for his survival, was actually to an extent, enjoyable. Tasting things was something he basked in, a new experience for him to note, remember, and savor over in his records.
Then it became a method for trying to test his theories as well, as Quinnsing hunted the pesky creatures that overpopulated the dunes in order to ask the question of what would happen when one was injured, when one was killed, and when one was obliterated or devoured completely. He tested it a couple times, to be sure he had enough samples to know that when he scoured the desert and could not find one whom recognized him or what he had done to them, he knew it was not just coincidence, and that either they had completely forgotten, or simply did not come back.
Which was strange, because bloblings came back. Usually they also retained some memory of what had occurred that lead to that conclusion as well. A defense mechanism, one could assume, to ensure past mistakes did not repeat ad infinitum without any knowledge of how one had perished to start with. Of course, if a blobling died of injuries and not total destruction, they would slowly regenerate themselves and replenish their blood... but that could lead to some further unforeseen problems with the concept of life without end at it's core.
If there was no way to truly kill something, and it would naturally revive, it could be kept in a state of constant death and agony, unable to escape or reach any sort of conclusion. The first cases had been Eris' doing. In hindsight, Quinnsing had to wonder if it really was just a side effect of the God's creations, or if it had been an intentional message and doing. A exploitation of a flaw within Ichor's machinations. Within the mud and the muck, one could get trapped, forever drowning. Many have gone mad, either succumbing to pure instinct and leaving feral when accident or a savior freed them, or blindly devoted themselves to Eris in order to bargain for freedom from their hell, praying and begging and pleading until the God of Chaos saw fit to release them for their amusement and service.
More disturbingly, one sometimes heard tales of a blobling who buried others beneath the sands intentionally, trying to break down through torturous methods that state of wild abandon that lay past sentience, when a blobling became nothing more then an animal, driven to a constant baser need for flight or fight. They were beyond reason, intellect, or thought, and would flee or attack indiscriminately, with only the vaguest of hopes of ever regaining themselves for whom they were before.
Such a thing was nightmarish to think of, even for one whose claws were sharp, body was skilled, and had tools and answer that could potentially unbury one's self. After all, with enough planning and cleverness, anything and anyone could be bested and broken. Quinnsing refused to entertain that he would succumb to such a thing, but it did not escape his mind as a possibility that required his attention. Yet lingering this thoughts on it came to of course, a question...
If Ichor truly loved her creations, why would she let such a fate befall them? Better would it be not to be uncreated then suffer in torment for timeless ages and be broken into something that could not even be recognized any longer as the life which was bled into creation? And yet if she wept for this, she did not act. Themis did not demand order, for it was outside of their walls. And Eris watched on, perhaps enticed and amused by it all, and the concept of Chaos. It had been decreed the Gods would each rule only their own, and would not interfere in mortal matters lest it turn to constant war and squabble, but there remained of course the idea then that...
If the Gods were merely to be bystanders in the affairs of the world, then could one truly believe in them with such a title as God? Surely yes, they existed, and their powers could be observed as that beyond the capability of any natural blobling, but to pray to one, to worship one, to follow one... that implied they provided an answer, goal, or meaning to life, when there was none to be had there. A methodology perhaps, but even that was flawed should anyone truly take a step back and observe the bigger picture of things. It was idealistic to follow one, and the blind willingness to have something and someone to believe in and tell one how to live, not an actual solution to the world or meaning to life.
Post by Saint Judas on Dec 1, 2022 11:24:39 GMT -5
So Quinnsing could not look to Life, Chaos, or Order. What then, was the answer to this? To simply let it happen? To watch, and acknowledge, and avoid it? No, for should he live forever, and should those who would commit such actions also live forever, then by that definition, such a fate was inevitability. War had struck, but he failed to believe that war would truly solve the matter, for from Life would always come only more Life. No matter what one did, it bled through the cracks, and in the end, War only gave birth to new Life that had not existed before as the blood spilt from wounds and pooled together in the dust.
Quinnsing refused to submit to such a fate as well though. He refused to believe also that things would simply grow and grow, until inevitably the world was so thick with Life it would suffocate itself. It seemed to obvious that things could not sustain themselves, and yet apathy prevailed to such matters, each blobling caught up in the individual picture of the life before themselves. How blind, to not see the bigger matter at hand... yet there was no point chastising, he knew already to expect such answers from others.
Slowly though, he would set it upon himself, Quinnsing Ta'Hala, to find an answer if no one else did. From the Library he was relieved to at least find a few more studies on the matter of life and death. Their methods... he chose not to question, for in the long run he was looking for a solution, and could not be held back by semantics. Others had studied what it was like to die, some even recording personal records of it. And he scoured through for answers.
The first conclusion Quinnsing came to was that Death was clearly a concept. The process had gotten easier over time it seemed, but it did not erase that it existed... Life was not seamless, and there was a period in which it could be defined as having ended, even if only temporarily. There was clearly something... besides Life. A place from which new bloblings were drawn from when they were first bled, and a place that briefly they returned to when they had lost too much of the ichor that gave them the essence of their life. The question was what was that place. Where?
The easiest answer to finding it was obvious, although unpleasant.
For some time, Quinnsing debated upon it, but eventually he was presented with the truth that he had no other true option. His claws were sharp, and his teeth even more so. It was not hard to tear at fur and rip at the flesh beneath. Pain blossomed, but as he felt himself stumble and collapse, there was determination in his heart, or at least his spirit, for lack of the organ to call upon. And his vision faded as his body faltered, unable to support itself and losing more blood then it could gain, spilling upon the cave in a beautiful turquoise streaked through with silver.
There was a brief vision of... something else. Beautiful and white.
And then Quinnsing stirred on the cave floor again.
A flick of his tongue as it forked out, slipping between his fangs, and Quinnsing blinked his eyes open slowly, then narrowed them, curling his paws under him to see his injuries were gone. His tail scraped across the floor and thumped a pattern, unhappy and concentrating. But he expected that result... he knew it was coming. He pushed himself up, and moved to his next idea. This would not stop him.
A serpentine body paused a moment to observe itself before the gentle waves of a beach. For a moment Quinnsing let his shape shift, adopting one... more similar the those he had glimpsed briefly in the trial. He had dreamt this form into being, as he had his usual one, with a mane still of silvery hair that fell from his head and crested his features, far more flat on his face and sculpted into it rather then upon a snout, and clawed hands and clothing in place of his paws and scales. Although he kept still his fluffy ears, the horns, the crest upon his neck, the tail, and his lower paws, among a few other things... in all parts he was recognizable as the same, but it served far better for jobs such as pouring through the library and handling the delicate threads used for craft and weaving.
Now though, those hands roamed over Quinnsing's beard, then traced down to tap silvery-white claws to his throat. He considered a long moment, then moved into the water. And he made sure the lapping of it's waves would wash away his blood again and again before he laid himself down to rest and tried again. The second attempt... bore no more fruit then the first.
The third would involve piercing his body, so that it might be unable to naturally heal for something remained lodged within it to cause further bleeding on each attempt. To that regard, he would awaken to find it removed. His words, it seemed, were ignored as well when he attempted to speak in that brief moment somewhere else. There was no time to parry conversation, no time any longer for the Gods to listen to mere mortals. That was the problem though, wasn't it? There were too many to listen any longer, a formless cacophony, and yet they did nothing to solve it. He hissed slowly.
Quinnsing was frustrated, but he was no easily defeated. And for hours he would try and try again to find ways to delay his return, finding himself moved back in space, shifted through time, and removed from the situation. It needed to be, it seemed, something which could not push one fully unto a death which could not be naturally recovered if one wished to be stuck... but being truly stuck did not benefit him either, for he was searching for a solution to such a condition, not to place himself within it carelessly. If he had another... perhaps, but he was not of a mind to ask another blobling. There were so few to whom he truly could respect their opinions and minds.
No... Quinnsing knew what was best. He just needed to find a way to make it work...
Post by Saint Judas on Dec 1, 2022 11:51:16 GMT -5
Quinnsing was being ignored. How... disdainful. He let his thoughts drift aimlessly as he noted that once more it seemed his messages over the EB to the direct channels of Ichor and Themis remained untouched. Eris of course was the most likely to answer... yet he knew already better then to ask Eris of such a thing. They were the one who was most likely to cause such states of limbo, since they were the first to witness it and only thought to take advantage of it. Moreover, an abundance of things would inevitably lead to conflict, which bred forth Chaos... all things that served the capricious God rather well.
Ichor bore forth this problem though, and Themis had clearly put themselves in charge of managing it in the meantime. Yet as he had the last few times, Quinnsing was met with silence of Gods too busy to answer calls any longer from those who toiled upon the earth. Frustration was leaking through again... he did not even have to check himself to know that feeling coiling within him, for the Camivian thrummed in his head, a constant hum that attempted to soothe him. He would NOT be dissuaded. He had seen generation upon generation of his blood upon this land, and there was no end to it... it disgusted him, the idea that one day there would be hundreds spawned from him, and hundreds more from every other blob.
All living together. At the same time. On the same planet, which would not be able to accommodate them. And some would be driven feral, unable to pass when slain, and others would linger on for eternity even long after they had lost any point and goal to their existence. It left one to wonder, if there was no end or consequence, then how could there be any point to begin with that in the face of an eternity would not become futile and meaningless? Yet he was a chronicler, a historian. Quinnsing refused to believe that there was no point or meaning to what he did. He had a purpose. A necessity.
Yet these stories had no ending, they lingered on and on beyond their conclusions, waiting for another hook to take them in again and again. A tired boring cycle, where new players and cast kept joining and the old never bowed and left the stage, and whereupon there was no true stakes to the conflict, for torture was the only option of punishment and slaughter and warfare ended more often with new life then it ever could with a true loss of anything beyond perhaps the pointless remains of pride that those who still were fresh and bright eyed had not lost.
How hypocritical Quinnsing could be, to denounce pride even while his own claimed that he would find an answer to this inevitable coming of a problem not yet fully arisen to the oblivious. He acknowledged it, but it was inconsequential to question his own methods if he could at least get results. That was the justification he used, in any case, when he hunted down another blobling and captured them. And within his mountain layer within his cave, he bled them dry, and then attempted to stuff their body before it could revive. It did anyways, of course... but it delayed the process as the body was forced to expel what did not belong first.
The process was... unpleasant, but not one Quinnsing could replicate on himself. It was necessary he had another there to serve that role, and that was justification for the fact that what he did was temporary suffering for a permanent answer. He continued this, experimenting now with another instead of himself, although occasionally he deigned to let himself bleed again, if only to see if perhaps he would be met with an answer this time. Yet he was still eluded, and his messages remained unanswered as others, desperate follows and hopeful believers, also tried to message the gods, leaving mournings of their absences, concerns of their health, and thanks over past events. Most all went without answer.
They would have to answer Quinnsing eventually though.
If it was not enough to attempt himself, not enough to attempt with another... perhaps he needed something more convincing though. A genuine reason for Quinnsing to not be ignored, a forgotten life within the thousands. How vexing, that he could have been amongst the first, and now he was lost amongst the multitude. How it burned at his scales to even consider that the one whom assigned himself the task to remember always could be forgotten. No... not quite. He doubted they did not know who he was, with how active he had been in many of those earliest events. The City Themis built, the Trial upon Yume, the creation of new life with Ichor. They knew his name. But he was forgotten in the fact that his voice was drowned.
How loyally Quinnsing had tried to record the events, once Onyxia had finally been put into creation, and the growth of new life had finally led itself to ink and paper. How diligently he had tried to be an observer, to be removed and objective when he was asked to attend gatherings of the bloblings to decide upon matters or discuss upon issues. Yet it was rewarded the same as those who were fresh from their blood, who knew nothing of the world, and who eagerly spilled their foolish first words without thought or care to what they were asked or thought to the deeper implications.
The wrong impression could be easily garnered though. Quinnsing was not upset that they were busy. He had not asked for them to appreciate him. But he was asking now for something of which they were so diligently ignoring. And the twist within his body was one born of ill feelings that he tried normally not to harbor, yet found himself in the moment desiring to welcome. Very well... he would make his voice louder, and his dreams bolder, until either they would answer, or he would come at last upon the solution himself without them entirely. Unlikely, but he had dreamt a great many truths about himself that had in time found themselves taking shape. He was not done... was not complete. Perhaps he would never be... but this must then logically be his next step. Such a thing he felt assured of.
Quinnsing would find a Death beyond Life, even if it was only to erase the concept itself so that it might have a way to end.
Post by Saint Judas on Dec 1, 2022 12:05:02 GMT -5
The concept of a day was lost upon a world without cycles from which to discern the passing of time truly, but the concept of time passing must still naturally exist as it stretched on within the dwelling Quinnsing Ta'Hala named home. His studies did not end, what had started as a curiosity, and then an agitation, turned to an obsession while he had not noticed. Fixated on the necessity of his cause, more and more was justified in the quest for his answer.
Slaughter was inconsequential after all, if the Gods themselves could not deign to enforce any actual rule or punishment for ripping others lives asunder beyond the concept of pain being unpleasant and cruel by it's nature to inflict upon others. That in it of itself was not good enough though, for if that was the only deterrent, it was natural that with time some would enjoy inflicting discomfort on another. Sadism was merely another aspect of that complex and varied nature of the mind and soul. One he was willing to account for as well, despite personally taking no joy out of such acts.
And such acts did Quinnsing commit for the sake of his cause. He would kill, and kill, and kill again. He would carve a bloodied path, a warmonger in his own right. A beast. Nearly feral to some he must have seemed, unwilling to listen to pleas, cries, or threats of matched violence. Children rose from the wreckage of his carnage, bled amidst the mixing of his blood and those he made an example of, but that only served to fuel his aggravation and the necessity of his goal. And when his claws were bloody, his body tired, and his eyes heavily opened after dying once again, he would muse upon the decision once more to return him to his body, despite his continuous attempts to sever others from their own.
The ruling was fair because the ruling was equal in the fact that it would accept no one.
It was destined to end in ruin though. That Quinnsing was sure of.
Yet it seemed Quinnsing's displays were not enough, nor would he be given chance to convince. How his fur... prickled, to know that. How far would they demand he take this savagery to prove his point that this was merely allowed unless another blobling stopped him, and found a way to put him down that he could not escape from and would not kill him?
The answer of course, was a self-fulfilled prophecy. After all, no matter how small or how large he could attempt to be, to be restricted and buried would make any such action for Quinnsing difficult, especially when beneath the black murky tar of Eris, and with time, his meddling in the affairs of mortality would find him an opponent who came to such a conclusion, and brought about one of the very fears which had led him to the conclusion he approached to begin with.
In agony, Quinnsing would drown and suffocate, the tar mixing with his very blood as he struggled in vain to free himself. An eternity became a meaningless definition of time where none could be noted to pass, and in that silence, as agony ripped through his muscles and he choked upon the thick sludge, he tried to find reason within the deserved outcome of his actions, and found in it's place only desperation, fear, and anger that one could only know in the constant throes of death that would not come.
And Quinnsing wished and dreamt in dark nightmares more fervently then ever.