— Wins every argument, even the ones you haven’t started.
🌿🕊 GG™ Lore Entry: Lady Gutterglam, Saint Shitpost of the Fifth Draft
There is always a higher god. This one shits.
The most common influencer activity I see?
Over-edited, overly posed, and overly excited about being near water 🌊✨, all to sell mermaid vibes 🧜♀️🐚 in bikini photos holding a starfish like it’s whispering deep truths 🌟👄. Maybe a shell near her ear like it told her she’s original 🐚👂💭.
Fake spiritualism 🔮, trauma-chic 📖, and let’s be honest, probably milking the “I care about men’s mental health” line 🐳🫠 for an oiler or whale to drop some cash, depending on the platform 💸. All the while preaching “I don’t need a man to pay my bills”. All heart emojis 💕, parasocial tears 😭, plastic gratitude 🎀:
‘I love you guys 💞 Let’s reach this goal together 🥹💫!’ Blah. Blah.
A performance dressed as truth 🎭🧃, skimpy enough to convert 🩱🙏.
Money goals sold as empathy 💰🤝, community built on condescension 😇, clickbait healing 🩹📲, and the:
‘I understand you because I’m a nerd too 🤓🎮✨’.
She doesn’t care about you. She cares about conversion rates 📊.
The kind who weaponises sincerity 💌🔪, filters flaws into a brand 🧴💅, turns healing into a performance 🎬💔, and cries on camera on schedule 🗓️🎥, and lets be honest probably wants to be an actress 🎭.
That’s what inspired the pigeon, Lady Gutterglam.
She arrived, mid-flight, mid-comment, mid-defacement. Took a steaming shit with cosmic alignment on their lies. Smirked. Left bruises.
Pigeon lands when you get too curated. When the aesthetic outweighs the truth.
She doesn’t argue. She just drops something rancid on your plot point and leaves.
She’s not divine. She’s correction.
The garden doesn’t know what she is. A divine prank? A scribe? A symptom? Just another arsehole with better morals.
She doesn’t care what they call her.
She calls herself correct.
She’s not edited.
She edits until the truth is revealed.
CHARACTER CREATION:
Mythic Function: In the Garden pantheon, the others hold memory (Glint, Poxie), archive injustice (Varnok), or distort stories (Thrixel). Lady Gutterglam forces clarity through discomfort. Not by revealing memory, but by mocking the narrative that’s been built around it. She is disruption without destruction. The divine equivalent of an autocorrect with an attitude. She’s not an origin. She’s a reaction. And that’s why the gods hate her, and why she’s necessary.
Vibe: Pigeon-shaped celestial editor with main character energy and a mean streak. Might be sacred. Might be satire. Nobody’s dared to find out.
Form: Ordinary city pigeon (allegedly). Shimmering neck feathers like petrol. Too clean. Too sharp.
Colour notes: Pink-purple head, green and gold body, all shimmering like an oil slick praying for attention. A pink-headed fruit dove on neon-grade acid.
Personality: Smug. Sassy. Unapologetic. Doesn’t argue. Just arrives late, drops a message (or worse), and vanishes before questions land. Thinks silence is a slow-witted opponent.
Power: Delivers divine messages encoded in birdshit. Can alter timelines, redirect stories, or correct lore via one well-placed splatter.
Ritual: Write a message you shouldn’t send. Burn it on the garden path. If a feather appears in the ash, she’s already rewritten it.
Symbol: A feather stuck in faeces. Or punctuation. Same difference.
Quirk: Appears only during hubris or key narrative peaks. Immune to bribery. Smug. Zero interest in truth — high interest in spectacle. Might be a scribe. Might be the author. Definitely your problem now. Shits with intent: each dropping an edit, omen, or insult, sometimes mid-sentence for maximum humiliation.
MICRO-SCENE: Rewritten Mid-Air
A whispering mushroom grove had finally agreed on their shared myth.
Six days of rewrites. Twelve footnotes. Moss signatures.
Glint had confirmed it.
Thrixel had approved the root-canon.
Even Varnok had blinked.
Then she dropped from the sky, circled once, and gifted them an edit directly onto the title.
The droplet hissed.
Thrixel whispered, ‘That was sacred’.
She grinned. ‘Then why was it so easy to reach?’
Poxie cackled. Glint winced.
Varnok refused to comment.
The title blurred. The myth re-formed.
In the margin, a new clause grew: (This story has been corrected by authority unknown.)
FIELD FRAGMENT:
🪶 Field Note #009: On Divine Defacement
When the droplet becomes too neat. Too precious. She arrives.
She does not hate the story.
She hates when it believes itself finished.
If you see her above your plotline, brace yourself.
She edits for impact.
And she doesn’t miss.
Next up: The one who doesn’t know what she is. Yet.