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the Miraculous Crosswise Horizon Machine was discovered underneath a pile of rubble by disgraced cultural theorist W.S. Healed (she/her) & rogue fresco artist Citizen Abel (he/him), who repaired its rusted circuits and fused wires by whispering stories to it during long summer nights. now it consumes the equivalent power of a city block to occasionally print out tabletop roleplaying games plucked from attenuation to the numinous ether of the world-soul. this is infinitely less efficient than the traditional method of having an artist draw and a writer write, but isn't it nicer to believe that the world is miraculous?