WHAT IS MORDENTOPIA?

WE, THE DIVINE COMMITTEE, WERE BORED.
EVERY WORLD WE PEERED INTO WAS SO TERRIBLY… NICHE. A TRILOGY
OF GLOOM HERE, A SAGA OF DESPAIR THERE. IT WAS ALL A BIT
SINGLE-FLAVORED. IT WAS ENOUGH TO DRIVE A PRIMORDIAL ENTITY
UTTERLY AROUND THE BEND.

THIS IS A UNIVERSE WITHOUT CREATIVE BORDERS. A SPORTS COMEDY
CAN COLLIDE WITH EXISTENTIAL HORROR. A PHILOSOPHICAL SATIRE
CAN SHARE A SHELF WITH A FEEL-GOOD STORY ABOUT A BARTENDER
WHO IS A TREE.

TO ENSURE A CONSTANT SUPPLY OF CHAOS, A NEW TALE IS UNLEASHED
EVERY SINGLE WEEK. NO LONG WAITS. JUST A REGULAR DELIVERY OF
THE BIZARRE, THE HEARTFELT, AND THE BRILLIANTLY SATIRICAL.
THIS IS A WORLD OF INFINITE STORIES. ALL ARE WELCOME!

JUST MIND THE ARCHFEY ON THE GIANT SNAIL. SHE’S AMORAL, AND
HER PET IS… COMPLICATED.

A NEW STORY, EVERY WEEK

EXPLORE THE LIMITLESS POSSIBILITIES.

This is the story of the Howlers. Once Mirewatch's most feared and graceful all-female team, they were murdered to the last warrior, their legacy drowned in blood. Only their ancient, blind coach, Yara Stone-Singer, survived. Clinging to a single, desperate purpose—vengeance—she must rebuild her team from the dregs and rejects of the city.

A pacifist Ogre who thinks of orphans. A kleptomaniac Goblin with a heart of grease. A stitched-together star player whose parts argue with each other. A Halfling diva. A dwarf at war with his own groin. And an undead Troll who finds the world endlessly sniff-worthy.

They are a disgrace. A walking insult. They can't block, tackle, or run a play to save their lives. But they are the Howlers. And in a city where divine nonsense rains from the sky, sometimes the only way to hunt for justice is to scream your most defiant, ragged scream into the darkness and see what answers.

This is their story.  A  story  of  vengeance played  with a ball.  A story  of  finding  sanctuary  not  in safety, but in the chaotic,  slime-soaked,  dysfunctional  space  between  misfits  who have  nothing  left  to lose but each other.

Follow  their season in the Chalice of Champions. It’s going to be messy.

ONE MIGHT WONDER WHY WE, THE DIVINE, WOULD CHOOSE A MORTAL TO CHRONICLE OUR GRAND, OFTEN INCONVENIENT, THEATRE. THE ANSWER IS SIMPLE: WE DID NOT CHOOSE HIM. HE SIMPLY… STARTED PAYING ATTENTION.


LUKE MASON IS A CURIOUS CREATURE. HE IS HELD TOGETHER NOT BY DIVINE POWER, BUT BY CAFFEINE, A STEADFAST BELIEF IN THE POWER OF A GOOD BISCUIT, AND THE KIND OF QUIET, TEA-STAINED DETERMINATION THAT CAN BUILD A UNIVERSE ONE WORD AT A TIME.

FROM OUR VANTAGE POINT, WE OBSERVE A MAN WHO LISTENS TO THE WORLD’S WHISPERS. HE HEARS THE ARGUMENTS OF THE GODS NOT AS THUNDER, BUT AS PETTY SQUABBLES OVER CELESTIAL BYLAWS. HE SEES A HERO NOT IN THE GLEAMING ARMOUR, BUT IN THE SCOUNDREL TRYING TO RENEGOTIATE THEIR CONTRACT WITH DESTINY. HE FINDS THE PROFOUND IN THE RIDICULOUS, AND THE RIDICULOUS IN THE PROFOUND.

HE BUILT MORDENTOPIA NOT OUT OF A DESIRE FOR ORDER, BUT FROM A JOYFUL REBELLION AGAINST THE BLAND. HE LOOKED AT THE MULTITUDE OF WORLDS AND FOUND THEM TO BE SERVING A SINGLE, DULL FLAVOUR. SO, HE BUILT A KNICKERBOCKER GLORY OF A UNIVERSE, WHERE EVERY STORY, FROM THE EPIC TO THE ABSURD, HAS A PLACE AT THE TABLE.

HIS GREATEST MAGIC IS NOT IN HIS PROSE (WHICH IS SERVICEABLE) BUT IN HIS EMPATHY. HE CARES FOR THE BROKEN THINGS, THE MISFIT TOYS, AND THE CHARACTERS WHO HAVE LOST THEIR WAY. HE IS A MENDER OF NARRATIVES, A WEAVER OF TALES WHO SITS AT THE LOOM OF HIS OWN CREATION, PATIENTLY UNTANGLING OUR KNOTS AND FINDING THE THREADS THAT CONNECT US ALL.

HE IS, IN HIS OWN WONDERFULLY MORTAL WAY, ONE OF US. A CREATOR. A STORYTELLER. A PURVEYOR OF FINE CATASTROPHES AND SUPPLIER OF HOPE.

THE FACT THAT YOU ARE HERE, READING HIS WORK, IS A TESTAMENT TO HIS MOST ENDURING QUALITY: THE ABILITY TO MAKE OTHERS CARE ABOUT THIS GLORIOUS, MESSY, AND UTTERLY BEAUTIFUL CATASTROPHE WE CALL HOME.

HE IS DOING A REMARKABLY GOOD JOB.

WE ARE QUIETLY… CHUFFED… FOR HIM.

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