Virtual Love began as a groundbreaking project in the waning days of Flash, only to be abruptly stalled when the platform was retired—halting years of effort for us and countless creators.
Now, combining legacy experience with modern tools like Unity and AI, we’re back on track and closer than ever to realizing the original vision. Video production is already underway, with dozens more in active planning.
Our focus is on delivering curated, long-form scenes designed for both seamless video playback and future integration into custom apps and immersive, interactive environments.
Expect regular updates as new content goes live and the platform expands—this time with the momentum to last.
The Ran System: Before the coming of the Cataclysmic Object—called Doom by the survivors—Ran presided over a family of worlds in rough alignment.
The system boasted planets as varied as the ambitions of their folk: worlds of storm and chemical sea, of verdant forest and rising empires, of savage law and decadent peace. Some bore moons, others rings, some nothing at all but the weight of their own history.
Before the age of doom, Ran’s children moved in stately order, each world bearing its own silent ambitions.
[Inner Resource Worlds]
I. Yalar The first planet of the Ran system was nothing more than a primordial sphere, wrapped in a choking viridian atmosphere—a world locked in chemical tumult, eternally hostile to biology. Nothing seeded, nothing stirred; the surface swam with toxic clouds and silence.
II. Tyvex The second planet of the Ran system rose out of ancient swamps. In its earliest age, the lowlands seethed with amphibian life, forms poised at the brink of transformation—half-dreaming of legs, lungs, and dominion beyond the mire. The world’s hunger was primordial, its promise uncertain, its waters thick with unspent potential.
III. Illynar The third planet of the Ran system, Illynar was a garden world. Forests ran unbroken for leagues; river valleys bred life in profusion. Tribal cultures traced their beginnings along the watercourses, and two distinct peoples edged toward the first, uncertain glimmers of civilization. The world was green, vital, and poised for memory.
[The Imperial Worlds]
Thanator & Kydahn These planets did not simply cultivate their own soils or histories; they radiated ambition, dominating their neighbors by design and force.
Thanator’s society was relentless—a machinery of conquest, where the refinement of imperial law met a culture of violence that penetrated every institution, from the blood-sport of noble courts to the conscription of whole continents for war. Every festival was edged with cruelty; every law enforced with the threat of steel.
Kydahn, no less ruthless, secured mastery through intellect and precision. Where Thanator flexed, Kydahn calculated, applying superior artifice and administration with a cold authority that tolerated no defiance. Dissent was not crushed in public spectacle, but erased by systems so intricate that challenge became unthinkable. The rivalry between these twin powers dictated the fate of the system; the history of every lesser world was bent by the reach of their fleets and the legacy of defeat they imposed.
The other planets in the Ran system did not orbit only their star, but the gravitational pull of Thanator and Kydahn—the true axis of power. Their ambitions, wars, and bargains shaped the order of all things, and only the Cataclysm could render such striving meaningless. When Doom came, even the greatest designs were stripped of purpose, and dominion became just another memory lost in the dark.
IV. Vandyrus The fourth planet of the Ran system, Vandyrus was never the heart of empire. It was neither cradle nor capital, but a frontier—provincial, harsh, and unsettled. The planet’s surface was scarred by halls of stone, ziggurats raised to cruel gods, and fortress-cities clinging to the edge of survival. Wolf dens in Vulsa, the lion courts, the serpent vaults beneath Drael—all these were experimental holdings, not homelands. Vandyrus, even in its height, was a deployment site at the rim of greater dominion, a foothold within the outer grasp of the vanished Empire of Vandyria. If there ever was a true Vandyrian homeworld, its name and location have been lost beyond memory—consumed, perhaps, by their own engines of expansion or annihilated in the chaos that followed their collapse.
The Moon of Artana Artana, Vandyrus’s principal moon, was a world on the threshold. From the surface of Vandyrus, distant watchers sometimes saw faint glimmers—evidence of fire, movement, or the first stirrings of civilization. The moon’s surface was scarred and pitted, but some believed enclaves or primitive settlements were beginning to rise. To the Vandyrians, Artana was a mystery—an object of speculation, never fully understood or mapped.
V. Kydahn Kydahn, the fifth planet of the Ran system, was a power to rival Thanator—some say its better. The world stood apart: decadent, proud, and technologically sovereign, its cities towers of silent threat and intricate demonstration. Kydahn’s influence checked the ambitions of the system not through open conquest, but through mastery. Its authority was absolute; its reputation, a warning.
VI. Rethka Rethka was a planet defined by contempt. It served the Ran system as a penal world and industrial graveyard—a dumping ground for toxic waste, spent fuel, heavy metals, and those folk deemed too despised, too dangerous, or too inconvenient to be allowed to die anywhere else. Its surface was scarred by slag fields, poisoned seas, and sealed labor zones where survival itself was considered part of the sentence. Nothing was cultivated here except suffering and neglect.
VII. Titanum & Its Moons Thanator & Jotun Titanum, the sixth planet of the Ran system, was a gas giant whose secrets eluded even the most ambitious empires. Its atmosphere roiled with storms of unimaginable violence, colored bands wrapping a world whose depths remained unmeasured. Some speculated at a hollow core, others at a rocky or even artificial heart, but no expedition ever returned with proof. Around Titanum orbited two major moons, Thanator and Jotun—each the seat of its own troubled history.
Thanator
First Moon of Titanum
Thanator was the jewel of the Ran system—a moon-empire whose palaces soared above jungle canopies and whose civilization was both feared and envied.
Here, violence was refined into art, and debauchery became the science of courts and warlords. Thanator’s fleets ranged far; its reputation shaped the fates of worlds. Admired by some, abhorred by others, Thanator was never ignored.
Jotun
Second Moon of Titanum
Jotun, the outer moon of Titanum and sister to Thanator, was always the system’s outcast. Cold, sparse, and battered by distance and neglect, Jotun’s surface supported a thin, marginal existence. Its people—never numerous—endured through endurance alone, their societies shaped more by privation and retreat than by ambition or conquest. Even in the high age of Thanator’s empire, Jotun remained peripheral: an afterthought, a harsh frontier at the edge of the system’s true power.
VIII. Rywar Rywar was a distant, silent planet, its only features the colossal ruins of a civilization that vanished long before any known record in the Ran system. No living ecosystem ever emerged; the world’s surface remained an archive of emptiness, observed but never settled. In the golden ages of Thanator and Kydahn—millennia before Doom—expeditions from both worlds explored Rywar, uncovering glyphs and structures unmistakably marked by the Greater Vandyrian Empire.
These findings dated back nearly three hundred million years, predating the rise of Thanator or Kydahn themselves. Automated fleets—drones and colonial starter systems—had once landed here, mapping and surveying Rywar as a potential hub for Vandyrian expansion.
Vandyrus itself, it is now believed, was originally little more than a designated outpost—its name the legacy of imperial logistics, not of origin or birthright. By the time Thanatorian explorers set foot on Rywar, the automated presence of the Greater Empire had long failed, and what remained of the ancient installations was already decayed by time.
The erosion of myth has been a long, visible process, and the disconnect some readers feel between Crow’s current workflow and what they remember from his Flash and Newgrounds era is real. This journal exists to address that plainly.
Crow’s work was never meant to terminate at small browser games. Even in the early 2000s, when High Tail Hall first took shape, the trajectory was already pointed toward something larger: persistent worlds, coherent mythic structures, and settings with memory and consequence. What never changed was the core principle that these worlds must remain enjoyable, usable, and rewarding for the communities that inhabit them over time.
Modern myth was not in its present condition in the early 2000s. There was still coherence, restraint, and an understanding of myth as structure rather than branding. Crow’s position is blunt: the Star Wars cycle he valued peaked roughly between 1997 and 2005 and never recovered. This is not an internet-hot take or nostalgia reflex.
It is the judgment of someone who has watched enough cultural cycles rise, hollow out, and collapse to recognize terminal decline. There is a real failure threshold—once audience rejection crosses a certain point, a canon no longer heals. It fossilizes. At that stage, revival becomes simulation, not restoration.
This pattern has repeated across modern franchises. Star Wars persists on life support, animated primarily by reputation and memory. Star Trek survives as a self-parody, reproducing surface aesthetics while abandoning its internal logic.
Lord of the Rings drifts without a clear audience or identity. These outcomes were not accidents of time. They were the predictable result of corporate systems that treat myth as an extractable resource rather than a living structure. Myth cannot survive that treatment indefinitely.
Crow is explicit about who he is and where this work comes from. He emerged from the Flash-era internet as a cyberspace pornographer, producing small, sharp adult games for a narrow but dedicated audience. He does not distance himself from that history. He rejects the premise that this background disqualifies him from mythic work.
Historically, myth has always been carried forward by figures outside polite institutions: outsiders, degenerates, mercenaries, poets, and people deemed unfit by gatekeepers. Institutional consensus has rarely been the source of durable myth.
The ambition to operate at a mythic scale did not appear recently. What appeared recently was the technology to support it. The acceleration some readers have noticed is not impulsive; it is deferred momentum. Decades of abandoned plans, constrained ideas, and unrealized structures are now viable. That includes megastructures, planetary-scale conflict, ancient feuds, long arcs, and settings that remember what happened to them.
It also includes sex and adult content integrated into the myth rather than segregated as an embarrassment. Crow’s position is that these elements were never incompatible; only modern corporate myth pretends they are.
This is not resignation. It is escalation. The mishandling of modern mythic franchises is not abstract theory; it has unfolded in real time. The end state is consistent: myth reduced to product, product reduced to poor product, and poor product reduced to infantilized sludge. When the work is dismissed as “AI slop,” the accusation fails because it assumes a landscape where comparable projects exist at this scale, with this level of continuity and risk. They largely do not. The absence is precisely why this work exists.
Crow’s argument regarding Star Wars is specific. It was never merely “for children” in the way it is now defended. It was a family myth that made room for children without evacuating darkness, loss, brutality, or consequence. Limbs were severed. Worlds were destroyed. Death mattered. Those elements were not incidental; they were foundational. When they were stripped away, the myth lost its gravity. That loss is not trivial, and it is not recoverable through branding alone.
Crow accepts the possibility of failure—total, public, irreversible failure. He considers that preferable to waiting for corporations with vastly greater resources to act responsibly and choosing not to, again and again.
The projects moving forward are adult by design. They are mythic by intent. They are allowed to be dangerous, sexual, grand, and uncomfortable. They are not built to satisfy quarterly risk assessments. No permission is required to make them, and no credible authority exists to prevent them.
This journal exists to clarify that position. What follows is not reactionary content, trend-chasing, or nostalgia mining. It is the continuation of a long trajectory that finally has the tools to support its own weight. Crow did not arrive here accidentally. He arrived here because he understood that this was the only direction left that still made sense.
To be clear, this is not an attempt to compete with Star Wars on its own terms. Crow’s intent is to operate in a space that corporate franchises can no longer access, let alone control. What is being built here is a line of premium works—adult, uncompromised, and structurally coherent—that institutions bound to risk committees, brand management, and shareholder appeasement are fundamentally incapable of producing. That is not bravado; it is a simple consequence of how those systems function.
Crow’s position is that creators and audiences alike deserve better than endless myth recycling in service of entities that have neither the courage nor the capacity to protect what they own. The point is not to eclipse the great sci-fi myths of the past. It may never do that, and it does not need to. What matters is that the work retains its integrity—myth built with intent, continuity, and consequence rather than diluted into focus-tested sludge.
This is not about replacement. It is about refusal. Refusal to submit to creative servitude, refusal to hollow out meaning for scale, and refusal to pretend that degraded myth is the best we can do. If nothing else, these works will stand as proof that coherence, adulthood, and conviction are still possible. Crow understands the limits. He also understands the obligation. Integrity, at this stage, is not optional—it is the minimum.
The retro projects are not just legacy obligations; they actively support the broader creative process. As they are revisited and stabilized, the combined lore of the classic settings is being clarified, expanded, and documented in a more permanent form. Over the coming months, that material will be fleshed out directly on the website, giving long-fragmented ideas a coherent home rather than leaving them scattered across dead platforms and half-remembered builds.
Moving forward, the output will be broader and more consistent in form, even if the releases themselves remain staggered. You should expect a steady flow of general content: development journals, workflow updates, and deeper lore entries alongside video material, audio erotica, and the next generation of interactive experiences.
This is not a pivot away from games, but an expansion of how the worlds are communicated and inhabited while those games are being brought properly up to speed.
Many of you have supported this work for a long time. That support is remembered, and it matters. The patience and dedication shown over the years are not being taken for granted, and you will see the results of that commitment as the upcoming lineup reaches demo-ready form and begins releasing in a more tangible way.
For those who are newer to the project, the recent increase in released material is intentional and expected to continue. As tooling improves, workflows stabilize, and external platform costs become more predictable and manageable, Crow expects both output and cadence to increase. This is the natural result of foundational systems finally locking into place after a long period of instability.
During this phase of active development and structural reinforcement, support through Patreon directly helps keep HTH Studios moving forward. It allows more frequent updates, clearer communication,
and a steady flow of material without forcing premature changes onto the “classic IP’s”.
Vaultus, in particular, will see more regular updates, serving as the space where stylistically experimental work can live and evolve without compromising the integrity of the legacy settings.
Thank you for joining us. We hope you have found this more “direct” format of behind the scenes dev-journal informative, and we will have more for you soon. take care, and as always, thank yu for playing.
This entry into the vaultus archives has been made possible by the collaborative efforts of both man and machine. AI was utilized specifically to assemble and compile vast amounts of notes and data as part of the editorial process over seen and posted in it’s current form
Crow is opening the inner sanctum for a closer look—not just at the finished product, but at the thinking, the missteps, and the method behind the madness.
Title:Empire [Redux] Released: 2025 Format: Digital Production Company: HTH Studios Producer: Crowchild Software: SUNO
Intro [REDUX]Force of Empire [NEW]Diva [REDUX]Midnight Empire [REDUX]Grinder [REDUX]Grinder II [REDUX]Infinite Night [NEW]Pulse of Empire [REDUX]Sunrise [REDUX]
It’s built as an open-source experiment, meant to grow, adapt, and eventually invite collaboration once the foundation is solid. What you’re seeing on this page is the entry point: four concept albums released through SUNO that establish the tone, atmosphere, and narrative logic of this version of the Florida Project.
The Prelude, The Florida Project, sets the mood before the city exists—raw land, ambition, and the serious industrial mindset required to carve a metropolis out of central Florida’s wilderness. It’s the prologue to everything that follows.
Before the towers, before the monorails, before the skyline had a shape, there was the raw expanse of central Florida and one man insisting a city of tomorrow could be carved out of that wilderness.
The sound of a metropolis that has survived its proving years and now knows it will endure.
Taken together, the four albums aren’t just soundtrack pieces—they’re the audible blueprint of the setting itself.
EPCOT City begins with music because it’s the cleanest, fastest way to communicate the kind of world this is meant to be: corporate-futurist, ambitious, grounded in 1960s–1990s technical optimism, and serious about exploring what Walt actually meant when he said the city would “never be completed.”
That’s the doorway. The larger experiment grows from here—documents, timelines, maps, systems, corporate entities, and eventually an openly collaborative framework where others can build within the same fictional city.
![The Ranar System [4,500 PCS]](https://hthstudios.com/website/wp-content/uploads/2026/01/Vaultus.webp)
![EMPIRE [REDUX]](https://hthstudios.com/website/wp-content/uploads/2025/12/Empire.2025.webp)
