Rock and Roll and RPGs

I feel like I’ve neglected this blog a bit. A few things started to take up more of my time, energy and attention and I wound up letting months and months slip by without an update. But I guess that’s ok; the main thing from my point of view is that I didn’t stop trying to channel creative energy. The vast majority of my efforts have been in the realm of music, so that’s what this post is about, mostly. That and a really harebrained idea I have for a game.

I can’t recall exactly when this happened, but sometime early in 2024 I switched from playing guitar to playing bass. I played a borrowed four string bass for a few months and then picked up a five string for myself. I like having that extra low range. I have really been enjoying it – it’s very different from guitar in terms of the approach and I’ve learned a lot as a result, and it has helped me hear new things in music, even in very familiar pieces. It helps that our drummer also has extensive experience with bass and has coached me some on how to change stylistically. You can really feel a difference in the music when the bass and drums, the kick especially, are locked in together. I am pretty sure that this is what makes a band sound “tight.”

The bass has a much larger scale than a guitar does, and as a result, it is physically more demanding to play. My fingers hurt for a while as I got used to the thicker strings. Also, when I finally picked up the guitar again after a couple of months, it felt almost childishly small to me. All of a sudden I was able to make four or five fret stretches pretty easily. And I’ve noticed during our less active periods that I have to stay in practice or I loose my chops much, much faster than I did for guitar – more endurance in the musculature is required, and if I don’t play for a few weeks, I wind up feeling like my arm or fingers are almost, like, paralyzed with exhaustion after playing something with a lot of fast downpicking.

About three months ago, we decided to record a few songs, essentially an EP. Our drummer has done music professionally since he was in his early twenties, and he has a pretty nice home studio so we did the actual recording there to save money that we are now using for post-production. We wrapped up the recording part itself a couple of weeks ago and it’s been sent to someone who really knows what they are doing for mixing and mastering and general post-production.

One of the things that I feel like I really grasped during this particular recording experience is the role of preproduction and how incredibly important it actually is. Typically I have always thought of preproduction as just rehearsing the songs into the ground and making sure that everyone knows where they need to be at all times, knows the pieces backwards and forwards. And that has actually been sufficient in the past, when all we were looking to do was capture what we do live. But it’s also the time to ensure that everyone is on the same page, and in a band like the one we are in now where we are doing some somewhat more complex arrangements than we could easily reproduce live, this really matters. The thing about working in the studio is that if there are differences of creative vision, they come right to the fore and can no longer be ignored during the recording process. That can be a real test of a band’s communication and interpersonal skills, since you often have multiple creatives with strong personalities and opinions who are involved in the disagreement. We did have some differences in our creative visions for some of the material this time around. Mostly with us it involved the keyboardist / singer wanting to add a LOT of instruments that are not normally part of our performance. He has a much different sense of dynamics than the other three of us, and we were sort of constantly having to restrain and reel him in. We worked through it, but there were some moments when I could tell it was stressful for various members of the band. It’s never fun to be told “Hey that idea you had? Yeah, we don’t like it,” you know? And for myself personally, I don't enjoy delivering this kind of news either, and would expect most people do not. In the future, I am going to do my best to make sure that this kind of thing gets hashed out during preproduction. I’m also going to make sure that during the recording process, if there are differences of opinion anyway, that the band has a “lead” we have agreed can make the final decision on something if we cannot otherwise reach consensus. A “ref” if you will. The drummer has also acted as a producer for a lot of other bands during his career, and he filled the same role for us. If he’s going to do that again, I’m going to make sure he has buy in from the entire band so that he can make the final decision on a dispute and once he does, we cease discussion and move on.

I don’t want to make it sound too dramatic, it really was not bad compared to some of the disputes I’ve been in with fellow band members. I will say though, that it takes a special kind of person to be a singer; they almost have to have a little ego. I used to have kind of a hate-on for singers and spent about 10 years playing in bands that were instrumental only as a result. It stemmed from several experiences I had at live shows I played where the band minus the singer humped in all the gear – our drummer at the time had a massive heavy metal kit with two bass drums and like 6 rack toms and probably as many cymbals and just a ton of hardware to rig it all up. This was also in the days where you had to have a decently powerful amp to play a live show, so those also weighed like eighty pounds – most house sound systems were much more primitive than they are now. So the band gets all this gear in, and set up, and we’re waiting for the singer. And he’s not there….and he’s not there…and it’s fifteen minutes to go live and he’s not there….and it’s ten minutes to go live and he’s not there….and it’s five minutes to go live and he shows up doped to the gills carrying a microphone. This happened more than once. Thankfully the guy we are working with these days is not like that at all.

Anyway, I think the recording should be ready within the next couple of months. It’s just a little thing, hardly even an EP, two songs at about five minutes, two that are around a minute and a half, and one that is about twenty seconds. The singer wanted to do thirty songs, and given that we ran into some of this stuff, I am really, really glad we didn’t try to do that! We got mixes on the first few short pieces back earlier this week, and I am hugely impressed with the guy doing that work. He’s really managed to get the best out of the recordings. Of course, I am of the (admittedly biased) opinion that he had really solid material to begin with, but still – given that these were just little throwaway things, I am really pleased with how they sound and am eager to hear what he does with the longer, more complex, more serious stuff. There is probably not much call for it, but I will post links when the stuff is ready. One tune in particular might be of interest to people familiar with this blog; the lyrics were written by the singer after he read a short story of mine posted here, and then we co-wrote the music. My original inspiration for the story was a sort of amalgam of real world stuff that has kind of haunted me for years and ideas from the Starling and Shrike world that Dave (aka Her Christmas Knight, who runs the Grand Commodore blog) created. It’s been really interesting to watch how one idea can spin out and serve as inspiration for multiple projects, even cross-genre. The same kind of thing happened a long while ago working with this particular singer where I wrote a short story and he wound up writing lyrics based on the story. That tune musically quoted Lovely Rita Meter Maid and Sympathy for the Devil (at the same time, no less!) and then went into a dirgelike metal thing. The overall effect was a little Helter Skelter, like the acid trips of the Summer of Love gone very, very bad indeed and devolved into the Tate-LaBianca murders. I’m really quite fond of it.

Aside from the main band, I’ve started fooling around with some ideas for a two-piece side project with the guitarist. Heavy, super bleak industrial stuff reminiscent of Streetcleaner-era Godflesh. It gives me an excuse to tune the 5th string on the bass even lower and allow all the nasty feedback I generate when I use distortion to bleed through ungated. That side project is in its infancy right now and it may discontinue before much happens with it, but we will see. At the very least it’s forcing me to learn a lot more about drum machines and MIDI programming than I have ever bothered with in the past.

SO: There are some really interesting parallels between playing RPGs and being in a band. The most obvious one is that you’re all trying to imagine and create something together, and it’s very easy to think of a band as a bunch of PCs. There are also both roles and rules. The role parallel is pretty easy to envision I think – drummer: maybe the fighter, bass player: cleric, guitar player: rogue, singer: magic user. Of course these could be interpreted differently, and there is overlap, and multi-classing, and you might wind up with like an electronic digeridoo sub-class, but I think most people would agree that these parallels make sense. Like a party of PCs, a band must often cooperate if they are to achieve the best result; when that result is achieved, whether it is in an RPG or a band, there is a sense not just of getting to a flow state, but of arriving at a group flow state, which is just an amazing feeling, exponentially better for every additional person who gets there together. There’s also the potential for PvP, particularly if the singer shows up late and so fucked-up they can’t function. I’ll admit I’m holding on to a bit of resentment there.

There are also rules. Even in the most avant-garde bands, and those most dedicated to improvisation, there is usually some structure. One project I was a part of (which was actually a very very long running thing) there was one rule, which was: if you know how to play it, you’re not allowed to touch it. A lot of people would call what that project did noise rather than music, but I have a very loose definition of music – “sounds arranged for the purpose of listening to.” And by that definition what we were doing was certainly music, as well as just a lot of fun. There were some absolutely beautiful, happy accidents during improv sessions with that group where things came together even though no one knew how to play whatever instrument they were holding, if it even was an instrument – sessions with that band used to begin with someone emptying a box full of toys that made weird noises into a central area in the middle of the room. This pile consisted of everything from a kid’s laser gun that made zap sounds to an old 8 track machine to an out of tune harpsicord, to a child’s xylophone. Once we used the spring from a garage door to make absolutely heinous crashing sounds. Probably we are lucky it didn’t snap and take someone’s head off as it unwound.

But in what most folks think of as music, there are more and more rules - typically you need to play in the same key for example, and stay in time, and you usually don’t want the bass to be louder than the vocals. And there are quite obvious skill checks when it comes to playing the music, but not so obvious ones as well: I’ve watched more than one person fail a wisdom check by putting a beer on top of their amplifier which then vibrated until it tipped over and spilled the contents into their gear. To continue the D&D metaphor, one could think of different bands as different parties. And I guess the city or area in which a band plays is the campaign world, whether that’s the local suburban VFW, clubs in the city, or, at the superstardom level, the world.

Because of all these parallels between being in a band and playing RPG’s I have had this recurring idea to write an RPG where the characters are musicians and their enemy is possibly the crowd itself. I was initially thinking the enemy would be other bands, but I like the idea of the crowd being the foe. Somewhat related, buried in the root for the word “monster” is “monstrare” – which among other things, means “to show.” I kind of like that.

Each kind of musician (drummer, guitar player, etc) would have an RPG analog level and techniques they could learn as they leveled up, almost like spells or feats. The venue (the “dungeon” analog) can make a massive difference, like maybe one place is a total shithole that pays in pitchers. I played a venue (which shall remain nameless) like this once, and wound up ordering a pitcher of gin, which seemed like a very good idea at the time, but in hindsight (speaking of failed wisdom checks) was unwise. I did not have a great performance that particular night (though I managed not to fall off the stage either, which was actually kind of difficult given that it was split by a lane leading to the bathroom down the middle). But another venue might give you 10% of the door or something, which could be used like treasure.  And gear would be like, well, gear – swords and armor and stuff. I guess the lawyers might come after me if I use brand names like Fender and Gibson but maybe a Gibson 335 gives you a +2 skill check when playing rockabilly or using the chicken picking technique, where something like a BC Rich Warlock or Mockingbird gives you that kind of bonus if you’re playing death metal, or shredding – something along those lines, anyway! I’ll do my best to work out something that makes sense.

If this thing stops living entirely in my head and I start to actually put down anything solid, I’ll throw it up here. And if anyone knows of anything out there already that is like this, I’d love to hear about it – I’m aware of something out there called Deathbulge that looks kind of amusing and similar enough that I may abandon this entire idea completely, but I don’t know very much about it - if anyone has played it, I would love to hear what it was like!

In September of 2015, Motorhead kicked my ass.  I really wish I'd seen them earlier.

The Basquiat Tarot v1.3

A few weeks ago, the Satrap of Saturn mentioned seeing a couple of stickers of Basquiat paintings and thinking for a moment that they were Tarot cards.  I started looking through some of his paintings online, and soon found that many of his images actually matched up pretty nicely to the Major Arcana.  I put together a deck and shared it with a bunch of friends and acquaintances, and they seemed to get a kick out of it.  I've always liked Basquiat's work, though it's been a while since I looked at it.  It struck me that there were stylistic similarities to the work of one of my favorite OSR artists, Scrap Princess.

Anyway, I've been messing with it and trying to improve it a bit for the last few weeks and I thought I would put it up here.  If anyone can figure out how to edit Boy and Dog in a Johnnypump so it fits a card without excising major parts of it, it would make a near-perfect Fool, so let me know! In any case, feel free to use the cards as an Artpunk Deck of Many Things if you have a campaign you need to end in a hurry.

Here is a PDF of all the images if you prefer that.

RIP Steve Albini 1962 - 2024

The most destructive thing a musician can do is start worrying about whether or not other people will like the music. Fuck other people. They're not in the band. Just make music that stimulates you and don't second-guess yourself. 

- Steve Albini

20 System-Neutral Magical Drugs

Psst...c'mere kid...

Some drugs for your campaign! Hopefully these could be slotted in to any system that had magic or the unnatural in it. Substances with strange properties when ingested are rampant in fiction – Substance D, The Black Meat, Alzabo Juice, Semuta, Zu'ur, etc etc. Here are a few I cooked up for games. You can find many, many more over at the Center Cannot Hold in their Pharmacopoeia.

Go ahead and help yourself. The first one is free.

Disintegrator – This clear, tasteless liquid looks like water and is typically injected. It raises dex / str / con (or the equivalent in whatever system you use – all the physical traits, basically) to human maximum (18/00 or 18 etc) for about an hour and destroys some small part of the body forever (no save). It also gives the user a feeling of power – they are intellectually aware they cannot run through boulders and leap castle walls, but they damn sure feel like they can. Hence, it is extremely addictive. Also called Horrorface and Paddlehand for what long term users look like. D6 determines what bit is disintegrated. Fingers and toes go from the tip of the finger down.

1. finger joint
2. ear
3. nose
4. eye
5. toe joint
6. tongue

Blue Death – Usually taken intranasally, though it can be smoked, injected, or inserted into the rectum as well. The user “fits in” among low level undead – skeletons, zombies, ghouls, up through about the power level of ghasts will treat the user as if they were undead as well. In addition, the user experiences a sort of slow, tantric, melodic ringing in the ears. This is exceptionally comforting, imparting a languorous feeling of peace, but if the user is trying to concentrate on something else (anything that requires focused attention, like combat or translation of an inscription, etc) it is very distracting – there is a penalty to concentration, perception, and skill checks as DM rules. The user can also be turned as an undead of HD equal to their level. It comes in the form of chalky ultramarine chunks, and is typically crushed into a powder.

Blink –User begins randomly teleporting as per the “blink” spell. While the effect lasts, the user has a sense of exhilaration (something like a big drop on a rollercoaster or freefall) when the effect wears off, users are extremely disoriented (treat as confusion spell or similar). Moderately addictive.  This is a pale rose gas that is inhaled.

Bloop – This is a green liquid dancing with sparkles consumed orally. It produces a magical lighter-than-air gas in the user’s stomach, which allows them to gently float a foot or so off the ground and maneuver using the copious flatus also produced by the drug. It also causes hysterical fits of laughter, and potty jokes are much funnier than they would be otherwise. A bloop party is something to see, though not necessarily to smell, as the participants zip around a foot off the ground, farting and laughing.

Lifejacket - This drug typically looks like pale pink crystal, which is crushed and inhaled or cooked and injected. For the next week, the next time the user would die, they are instead spared with a single hit point. Also called Blood of Heroes and Widowmaker, it is extremely addictive due to the feeling of invincibility that results. Users often take it and then do something exciting but stupidly dangerous, like jumping from a cliff.

SDL – SDL stands for Sorcerous Dweomercrafty Liniment. This vaguely yellowish liquid is absorbed transdermally, or sometimes dropped into the eyes with a special glass dropper. For the next eight to ten hours the user trips balls, has true seeing as well as darkvision, and can speak with the thing on the d6 table below. However, you are otherwise incapacitated during that time – you can’t even really talk with fellow PCs – you are simply not making any sense to them. Relaying information gathered by speaking to whatever it is the PC can suddenly understand once the drug has worn off is extremely difficult, but possible. Not addictive, though it has a 10% chance each time it is taken to alter the user’s personality; this can be anything from simply making them slightly more open to new experiences to a spiritual awakening to a reversal of various core personality traits to insanity. If the thing rolled does not exist in present circumstances, the PC hallucinates it/them.

1. animals
2. plants
3. the dead
4. rocks and stones
5. the air
6. The Universal Consciousness Core

Battery – This amplifies the user’s bioelectricity to the point where they can use it as a weapon for d6 rounds, projecting it from their eyes. Treat these attacks as lightning bolts. The drug also imparts a feeling of frisson, a kind of anticipatory thrill. Additional doses create more powerful lightning bolts, but each extra dose has a cumulative 20% chance that the user will die of a heart attack or that his brain will be torn apart by the current. It is obvious when someone has used this drug, as blue-white bolts of St. Elmo’s Fire crawl across their body. The drug itself comes as small flakes of some dry, blue substance. It is smoked. Moderately addictive.

Glamer - Think of this as the ultimate tik-tok beauty filter; it beautifies the user to an amazing degree, but they are still recognizable as themselves. Often used by assassins and spies for the purpose of seduction. While the effect lasts (usually several hours) the user also experiences waves of well-being and self-confidence, but for an hour or so after it wears off, users feel absolutely worthless, and nothing can fix this except another dose of the drug. An inferiority complex may result if the substance is used long term. Moderately addictive. Also called Face or Mascara. To take it, a special poultice is made and applied to the skin, where the drug is absorbed transdermally.

Jelly – For the time the effect of the drug lasts, a user’s body takes on the properties of a liquid. They can ooze under locked doors (provided there is even the slightest space to flow through), be poured into different containers, etc. Typically this drug is in the form of an off-white powder that can be taken by inhaling or injecting it. The physical sensation of flowing is exceptionally pleasurable to most people, and thus this is mildly addictive. Woe betide the user who has a divided body when the effects wear off.

Elucidia – Users are able to read and speak any language and comprehend any artificial pattern with meaning (e.g. red/yellow/green traffic lights when they have never seen one before, or an Xbox controller when their universe doesn't have them, etc). The user feels mentally alert and perceptive and they are; however, users will also attempt to derive meaning from patterns that are meaningless or are totally mundane, and this can (pass a save or check of DM’s choice) lead to a form of paranoia. If this happens, the PC thinks everyone is out to get him and will flee from their own party members, fighting using deadly force if cornered.

Bounce – Refined from bloop, this turquoise powder is dissolved in alcohol and then taken orally. Users can jump up to 100’ in the air and are treated as if they are under the effect of a feather fall spell. The gas produced is highly flammable and the smallest spark can set off a firestorm or explode the user.

Paint – allows the user to change their appearance, per change self / disguise / etc. Also referred to as Mask. Moderately addictive inhaled purple powder, everything just seems a little more interesting while the effect lasts – the skies a little bluer, the grass a bit greener, people a little friendlier, etc. With continued use, the user's features become rubbery and stretched, droopy in a horrifying way.

Grin – This dark brown powder is indirectly smoked (it is placed on a sheet of something heated and the resulting smoke is inhaled). It produces a strong, euphoric rush and the user is healed of a large amount or all of the damage they have sustained. The euphoric effect lasts for no more than one hour, and comedown is a bitch – a deep depression often ensues. It is extremely addictive; addicts will cut or otherwise hurt themselves in order to gain the euphoric effects of the drug - it has no effect on the unwounded.

Ghost – This renders a user invisible and non-corporeal (i.e. they can walk through walls etc). In D&D terms, this might mean they can travel ethereally. There is also a refined version of Ghost termed Specter that allows astral travel. The user also experiences small waves of euphoria in the case of consuming either drug and so they are mildly addictive.  This is a white gas that is inhaled.

Remembrance – When the user takes this drug, he can absorb memories from the creature whose flesh he eats next. A little (or well, really, a lot) like Alzabo juice – ok, I’ll just face it, it’s exactly like Alazbo juice. There is a cumulative 5% chance per use that the user just cannot handle the memory absorption and goes insane, becoming catatonic or developing multiple personalities. This is a pink liquid filled with streaks of white light; it is ingested orally and tastes a bit like bubblegum.

Grunk – This black powder is rubbed against the skin, which it turns hard and knobby. Also called Scrut for the sound a fingernail makes scraping against the skin after it is taken. It improves the armor of the user considerably as well as being a mild stimulant. However, typically some of the skin stays hardened even after the drug wears off. Over time, this can get to a point where the user looks as though they have advanced epidermodysplasia verruciformis and will suffer all the debilitating effects of that disease. They will be in constant pain and have trouble moving or in some cases even dressing themselves.

Sorc - This strange drug is ingested by cutting a particular pattern into the skin with a specially consecrated dagger. It is also called Scar.  For the next half an hour the user develops an affinity with magic or psychic powers (Ref’s choice if both exist in the campaign world). Long term users are covered with scars. Each pattern must be cut into virgin skin – the larger the pattern, the more powerful the effect. In a D&D campaign, cutting a pattern into the forearm that is 2” in diameter might allow access to cantrips and 1st level spells for a few rounds, whereas cutting a pattern a foot in diameter across the chest or back might allow access to 8th or 9th level spells for 8 hours. Ref determines the damage the user takes while the pattern is being cut into them according to the system in play, but it should be commensurate with the size of the pattern.

Spell – as its name implies, there is no physical component for this drug. Instead it takes the form of a spell that can be cast, either on one’s self or on others. It is a potent stimulant, increasing dopamine, norepinephrine and serotonin. For the next five to ten minutes, users are allowed bonuses on things like perception, search, and insight checks. These are from 5e, but should be converted to apply to whatever system you are using – for example in Delta Green these might apply to HUMINT or SIGINT (depending on the situation), Alertness, Search, etc. In OSR systems that may not rely on the dice at all, you may give the PC a hint if they are missing something. For example, if someone didn’t investigate the trapped chest thoroughly enough, “You begin to raise the lid, but hear a clicking noise like something being wound up.” Use your best judgement. If this is used on a PC more than once in a 24 hour period, they run the risk of going into intense paranoia. For some period of time, they will look at everything and one in the vicinity as an enemy of some kind and act appropriately; if a fight is hopeless, they will flee, if not, they will attack.

Prowl – an incredibly powerful stimulant, this blue powder can be inhaled, injected, or orally ingested. The user becomes totally aware of their own body and the periphery around it. This lets them move extremely quickly but with absolute silence – they won’t accidentally snap a twig etc. Attempts at stealth / move silently / sneak / etc are treated very favorably. They can also sneak attack / backstab as a thief / rogue of their level. If they are already a thief, this increases the damage they do to the next level.  An example using 5e rules: if they are 5th level fighter they would do an additional 3d6 damage while under the influence, but if they were a 5th level thief, they would do an extra 4d6 damage. They also get a bonus to initiative and are impossible to surprise. These effects last for an hour. The substance is very addictive – being more than peripherally aware of where every centimeter of your body exists is an exceptionally interesting and pleasant feeling and there are other uses for the drug – athletes and lovers use it as well. Comedown is described as though one were going blind or deaf over the course of fifteen or twenty minutes, eventually being completely blind or totally deaf. The drug turns the lips and the finger and toenails of a user a poisonous corpse-blue. On habitual users, this becomes permanent.

Block – This is made from leaves that have been dried and crushed. A tea is made from them which is usually a translucent shade of moss green. This is ingested orally. Someone who has done so is immune to the effects of charm, confusion, and fear, and cannot be stunned or poisoned for the next two hours. It also causes a narcotic drowsiness, which makes the user’s reaction times slower and makes them want to just lie down in a nice corner somewhere and dream for a while – in game, this can be a malus to initiative and sleep effects, as well as checks every so often to see if the PC is overcome with lethargy and just lies down for a while no matter what his comrades say or do.

...hmm.  Well.  Guess I better be going now, I see the city guard are headed our way. I'll see all of you later!

Viaticum on Fierce Firelight

Most folks here are no doubt familiar with Dave Greggs' Grand Commodore blog, which I've gushed about a few times, and by way of that, his venture into Podcasting, Fierce Firelight.  Dave did a reading of a story I wrote called Viaticum for his podcast, and I'm chuffed.  He nailed it.

I stumbled into Dave's stuff by way of Patrick Stuart's blog.  I saw he had a blog of his own and decided to check it out.  What I found there made me realize that Dave has an imagination that is nothing short of stunning, and a talent for expressing that imagination in several modes of writing. The setting he was describing seemed at once to be incredibly original and detailed (and fuckin' awesome, let's not forget that) and at the same time to have enough room in it for someone to invent their own additions.  That's pretty rare - it's usually one or the other - and Viaticum arose in a kind of dialog between Dave's work and my own, initially based on a city state I rolled up using a generator he made.  He also edited an early draft and saved me from a couple of massive missteps as well as giving me many suggestions on phrasing and flow.  I implemented nearly all of his suggestions, or some variation thereof.  I think it's probably one of the better things I've written and its creation and quality is owed in no small part to his help.

In addition to a rich imagination, Dave has a pretty good voice as it turns out.  I'm not expert enough to tell what range it is for sure, but my guess would be baritone, and most of the time it's pretty goddamned smooth.  Buttery even!  But he can embody anything from harsh desperation to quiet menace, and it's a pleasure to hear him read.  He's also done a few interviews and poetry readings.  It's all quite good.

I have links to Fierce Firelight up just under my blogroll, but I'll post another link here just for good measure.

Have a listen when you get some time!

Magic Burnin' Funny Cars

“Where you come from is gone.  Where you thought you were goin’ to weren’t never there.  And where you are ain't no good unless you can get away from it.” – Hazel Motes

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6f-MVwfyG48

There is only one correct volume for this and it is maximum.

"Oh, you like that one, huh?  Well, let me tell you, that's a really nice piece of transport, right there.  Fastest thing this side of teleportation.  Got a WitchBroom 447 in it.  Get you from here to Stair in just under twenty-seven seconds.  What's it run on?  Oh -  don't you worry about that..."

What does this thaumaturgic hot rod run on?  Roll d20 to find out...

1. The blood of murdered lawyers and politicians
2. Kisses from the woman it’s in love with
3. An extremely powerful drug called DMZ which has become the second most difficult substance to find in the universe; it originates in a rare mold that only grows on other molds, and is known as “the single grimmest thing ever conceived in a tube.” Boston drug users have nicknamed it Madame Psychosis after a “cult radio personality” on M.I.T.’s student-run station
4. Liquified steaks from jackals fed on live lionesses and massaged constantly by hybrid octuplets conceived by a human and a gelatinous cube
5. The Pallid Effluvium of Blu-Tlatme
6. Fallout from the ultra-vivid miniature photonuclear bombs used in pinlighting
7. Brainwaves from electrodes hooked up to the Bodhisattva of Saturn as he hallucinates in a tank filled with a liquid oxygen substitute and laced with ayahuasca
8. Unanswered voicemails – lots and lots and lots of unanswered voicemails
9. Chromatic Dragon Semen (must be fresh – you can tell by the nacreous sheen or lack thereof)
10. Calculations derived from an alien universe that has a slightly different constant for π
11. Dreams induced through g-LOC
12. The combined sounds of a pyromaniac child with an infinite supply of firecrackers and a small but aggressive dog
13. Timewave Zero
14. The Immanentization of the Eschaton
15. Ink re-liquified after being used in Rorschach Blot tests with mis-diagnosed psychopaths
16. Fornus
17. Nitrous oxide residing in a setup that, when triggered, is fed to both the engine and directly to the airway of the driver
18. Objectified exuberance in the form of the uncollected wages of teenagers who went to their first break on a job and just never came back
19. Trapped solar energy in the form of hydrocarbons from massive quantities of dead organisms and for which there is absolutely no infrastructure in the current setting
20. Exhalations collected from Cheyne-Stokes respiration

The Maximalist Weird Fantasy War Gallery Generator at Grand Commodore (which you should go check out, seriously it is a lot of fun) got me thinking about racing (which I know nothing about) and this is the result.

Now hand over the fornus and no one gets hurt.  I got somewhere I gotta be.

Facility Designate 339-19

Some time ago I wrote up an adventure I have been referring to as "Facility Designate 339-19" - you will find a link below to a Google docs folder containing all the material I put together for this thing.  There are two main parts to this adventure; a short prelude involving an African village in an alternate history Earth, and a main portion that is a somewhat more classic delve into a demon-haunted scientific facility.  I really feel I should do some additional research and probably a full re-write of the section on the village.  I live in fear that Enziramire will read that part and rip me a new one (quite rightfully) for my shabby appropriations of Africa.  I think the facility part stands up pretty well, but what do I know.  There are definitely a few things in here that are specific to my game and players, and which you should feel free to discard or change if you would like to use it.  If I ever sought to publish this professionally, I would clean that stuff up, but it's free, and my hope is that even if you don't use it wholesale, you find a part of it you like, maybe a single encounter or a magic item, or a monster.  Or the art.  God only knows how I talked Julian Feylona into letting me use his art for the equivalent of a few cups of coffee, but he was really gracious about it.  It won't be the layout, which is pretty much nonexistent.  Around this time I looked at a few layout tools (Affinity for one) and found out that layout is HARD.  But part of punk is working with the tools, ideas, and skills you have - if the guitar only has a low E and an A string, you can still make power chords - so that's what I did, and pardon me if it's a little out of tune.

This was written for 5e, but honestly, that stuff is mostly just stats, which you should feel free to change and re-arrange in any way you please.  I didn't follow the script when I ran this thing (introducing an encounter with a T-Rex to kick things off and get players moving, for example) and you shouldn't either.

This worked for me and my players when I ran it, but I took a slightly insane approach - I split the four players up pretty early and then ran four remote game sessions a week (instead of a single game session for all four players).  In some ways this might be easier to run remotely than it would be to run face to face.  I spent some time before I ran this feeling out schedules to determine if splitting the party up in that way would actually work from a commitment standpoint, and was happy when my players bought in.  I put together a chart (found towards the end of the main document) to track which players had been through which experiences in the maze so that I could re-use an experience if I wanted (or note if something was changed).  There's a corruption system here as well, but you certainly don't have to use it if your players would rather you did not.  Once I split my players up I gave each one a proposal at some point or another to be a secret villain, and I may have rather purposely let it slip that it was ok if they decided not to join the dark side, I could just ask someone else.  I don't think they trusted each other very much when they finally re-united near the end of the adventure.

I refer to the ultimate prize should the PCs successfully defeat the demon (or be rewarded for releasing it into the world) as a MacGuffin, but I only use that term in the sense that it is a prize used to drive action.  In fact, as a powerful reality-reshaping instrument it could easily be the kind of reward that totally changes the nature of the world and the campaign itself, depending on what the PCs do with it and what the DM agrees to, and there are plenty of other reasons the PCs may want to explore the maze.

One other note - there are some assumptions about other works the DM should refer to - the most important of these is probably Veins of the Earth.  There is a full list near the beginning.  You can certainly make this work without access to that stuff, but it helps.

The reason I share this thing now is because it's Halloween, and the goal of this thing was to see if I could turn D&D into an effective vehicle for horror.  It worked for me and my players and I hope it does for you, should you decide to use it.

Happy Halloween!

Facility Designate 339-19

Viaticum

The rain fell like ruin on the scarlet city.  Eli drew the collar of his long leather duster up and stalked through the cinnabar streets, on his way to church.  He picked his way through back alleys blue like bruises, stained where the setting sun shone weakest through the gunmetal clouds.  Blacker patches hung under unlit streetlights like badges of abuse.  The scrubland didn’t see rain often and the city wasn’t built for it.  Violet puddles pooled on the broken streets, cloudy with thin mud.

He knew it was a tell that could draw predators, but he put his hand in his pocket to reassure himself that the silver was still there.  He had been lucky to find labor that paid silver.  He scanned the dusky street again.  The coins were enough to bring killers from the shadows.  It was enough for the Sacrament of the Score and then some.  A woman leaned against a cracked wall on the opposite corner and looked back at him speculatively.

Shaped like the v in evil and skinny like the l, he thought, in spite of himself, my god.  Her eyes were hungry black pits in the twilight and her exposed white belly rippled like a viper when she moved.  He felt a dark appetite to possess her but remembered his errand and tried to hurry by.

As he drew near her, he caught the stink of deep sepsis.  Contusions and circular scars covered her arms.  Some of the scabs wept a thick pus made runny by the steady rain.  A convert, he realized.  He watched her fingers slide down her thigh and figured she was probably tooled up with a hidden stiletto somewhere.  His hand went inside his coat to his own knife, a shank he’d made the day before with a five-inch spike for a blade, and he stared at her stonily.  The gesture was enough – she realized he wouldn’t be easy prey and turned away from him as if she had never considered slitting his throat so she could take what little he had.

He passed a quartet of massive bruisers wearing the ruby-encrusted breastplates of the Duke. They led a chain gang of slaves who had the Ikon of Fire tattooed on their right bicep. This marked them as property of Solitude Spire, one of the noble houses.  Eli investigated the empty gazes of the men bound to one another with heavy iron links, examined their emaciated frames and the ribs sticking through their skin.  They wore nothing but loincloths and their bare feet were dirty and bloody from their march, legs covered with mud, hair tangled and filthy and wet.  Many bore wounds from work or the whips.  As he watched, the slave in back stumbled, and the nearest patroller, a massive man with a scowl and a square beard, delivered a vicious hammerfist to the side of the slave’s head.  The blow was so hard that the slave staggered and fell to his knees.  A trickle of blood ran from his ear.  It mingled with rainfall and turned a pale pink as the guard screamed at him.

Wordlessly, the slave slowly struggled to his feet.  As he stood, the bruiser spat at him.  The gobbet struck and oozed down the slave’s bare back, driven by gravity and rain. Just one more degradation on top of all the others.  He shook his head and hurried on into the rusty evening, trying to put the pity he felt for the slave from his mind.

I’m so sorry, he thought.  We tried so hard.  And on the heels of that, all we have left now is the guilt.

 

* * * *

 

Slowly, quietly, but with a steady momentum, they had begun to organize an uprising among the free people and the slaves alike.  Eli has been ready to do his part.  He’d had each of his men gather the materials for a firearm, the way Gal had told him.  He could listen to Gal endlessly as he talked about the better tomorrow they would all share, come the revolution.  There was wealth enough to sustain everyone until a new seam of gems was found in the mines, once they had rid themselves of the parasitic nobles.  It was almost time.  Soon their lives would become a single continuous scream against the forces that ruled them.

He had met Gal when they were kids and they looked out for each other almost from the start.  They were both just old enough to remember the city before the mines played out and things got bad.  Eli knew immediately that Gal had something special. He was a leader.  He drew people with his good looks and his perfect blue bombardier’s eyes, but it was more than that.  He was frighteningly intelligent, always one step ahead of everyone else.  And his mind wasn’t just quick – it was deep.  When Gal lapsed into silence, Eli knew that the next thing Gal said would be profound.  But even that was only part of it.  His soul.  His courage.  His belief in a better tomorrow despite all he’d been through.  All they had both been through together.

 

Eli never knew who had originally betrayed them.  He had been seized in his sleep, trussed and blindfolded and taken by silent men.  When they removed the blindfold, Eli was on his knees before a regal figure who wore the finery of a noble house – pauldrons studded with sapphires denoting the Barren Manor.  A mild smile played across the man’s gentle features.

“Who are you?” spat Eli.

The corners of the man’s mouth turned up a little more.  He spoke softly.  “Who I am is not important.  It is you who are important, Eli.  We’ve heard of your… rebellion.  You are highly placed, yes?  You know the leaders.  You will tell me their names.”

Eli’s face curled into a snarl.  “I’ll go through hell before I say a word to you,” he hissed.

The nobleman raised an eyebrow and then turned his head slightly to the left.  He never stopped smiling.

For the first time Eli noticed that another stood near the nobleman, a cadaverous man in a sleeveless black sticharion.  He was rail thin and tall and wore layers of baroque vestments in black and red embroidery.  He loomed over Eli like a great, ghastly carrion bird.  An epigonation was attached to his right hip, the fabric stained burgundy by venous blood. His eyes were glazed but still glittered somehow, pinprick pupils in glassy green irises.  Faraway eyes.  Prophet’s eyes.  Junkie’s eyes.

He’d seen junkies before.  Everyone knew some of the farmers grew opium poppies to supplement their income, and that the Heroin Priests hid in the city’s underworld.  He figured this man must be one of them.  But they were a hunted bunch.  What is he doing here? Eli wondered.

When he spoke, the cleric’s tone was like the chill of an endless body of dark water.  “Indeed, you will go through hell, my son.  But in order to know hell, you must know what heaven is first.”

The man brought a crystal syringe level with Eli’s eyes.  His fingers twitched.  A thin stream of golden fluid arced from the syringe.

 

The next thing he remembered was feeling good.  Really good.  In fact, he realized, I feel fucking amazing.  And a momentary concern, another thought: am I dying?

He decided it didn’t matter.  He felt so good that it didn’t matter to him that he was in a cage, either.  He knew that would be alright.  He felt sure that things were going to be ok, that even if bad things happened, that they wouldn’t touch him, couldn’t touch him.  The cage thing would work itself out.  He felt as if his heart was glowing. Not burning, but miraculously glowing. He possessed a sense of oneness and completeness, his soul finally joined to the larger universal network, connected to everything and everyone and glowing together, all of them hanging in the Great Dark.  This knowledge was nothing he could articulate, but came to him from some deep place in his body, like a long-practiced sequence of movements.  It was as if his bones and organs and blood had been singing to him forever in a language that he only now understood, a sublime chorus which signaled undeniably that human beings were luminous, and that there was no need for sadness.  That although every human being suffered, they would all return back to this when it was time, and that returning would make everything alright in the end.  Sinners and saints, martyrs and the mad, good men and bad, they were all joined by the universal network, complete and as one in the Great Dark, and it would all work out in the end.

He often felt sleepy and sometimes he couldn’t tell if he was dreaming or not.  He had long discussions with the priest.  The priest told him that control was an illusion, that human beings couldn’t even control their own bodies.  They couldn’t even help the way they felt – couldn’t choose who to fall in love with, or if their hearts hurt when that love went unrequited.  The priest told him there were stones three million years old, and that nothing any group of men did mattered in the long run, much less what any individual did.  When Eli talked about freedom, the priest told him that the end of freedom was coming, and all it would take would be the first wave of babies born addicted to opiates, but that freedom was not important.  Not when there were stones three million years old.  All was frailty, vanity, and dust, and there was nothing redeeming in the world save the wonderful glowing feeling.

 

They worked on him slowly, but it wasn't long before he was hopelessly addicted.  Then they took it away and simply waited.

Time became an enemy then, each moment a toothed thing that took slow, agonizing bites of him as it passed.  Later, he felt he may have been able to hold out if only he’d been able to get to sleep even for a half an hour, to get some relief, however temporary.  But he couldn’t get comfortable no matter what he did.  His eyes watered and his nose ran and he felt cold and hot and cold again and he’d sweat even as he froze and though he couldn’t stop yawning, sleep would not come.  His joints were full of broken glass and ground against one another when he moved.  He was desperately hungry but he gagged every time he thought too much about eating.  Once, they left a tray of beef in his cell, and the smell alone made him vomit uncontrollably.  He found he couldn’t control his bowels, either.  Muscles he never even realized he possessed began to cramp, spasms so strong and painful they twisted his entire body, made him feel as though someone were stabbing him in the back.  The contractions ripped through him and tore him into two again and again, rippling pain so strong he writhed on the floor heedless of his own waste.  When these convulsions abated, however briefly, he lay in a state of anhedonia so total, he was unable to summon the energy to even clean himself.

Every so often, the smiling man would visit, the priest ever at his side.

“Names,” he would say.

Each instant felt like a glacier and a saw combined that slid slowly over him and crushed jagged edges into his flesh so that femtoseconds telescoped into hours.  For a long while, his resolve held in spite of the timeless agony.

“Names,” the little smiling man would say.

“Fuck off,” he’d manage to spit, snot running from his nose as another spasm of cramps wracked him.

The noble’s smile would widen a little and he and the priest would leave without a word.

Finally, after an eternity of eternities in his mind, he could bear it no longer.  The smiling man visited him, and Eli cracked.  This time, even before the man could state the same demand he always had, Eli started screaming.

“Christopher Trane!”  he screamed.  “John Giller!  Harvey Stroud!”

He shrieked names endlessly.  All the names of his compatriots and co-conspirators.  Every friend he ever had.  All but one, all but Galahad Vowne.

It didn’t matter, as it turned out.  They got to him anyway.

 

* * * *

 

A motorcoach sped by with a growl, the wire-rimmed wheels running through a puddle and drenching the bottom of his long coat, pulling his mind back to the present.  The muddy water was maroon in the remains of the day.  When he was a boy, the scarlet streets had been filled with horses.  Eli missed the horses, the way a pony would nuzzle your hand.  You couldn’t do that with motorcars, which all had engines that seemed to scream hate as they shot by.

He looked down an alley to his left.  Two men were near a rain-soaked corpse.  He heard the younger of the two men say, “Man, I don’t like this, right by this dead guy.”

“Why?” came his senior’s reply, “it’s not like he wants any, he’s dead.”

That seemed to settle the thing and as they squatted near the rotting body and readied rigs, Eli quickly moved on.

 

* * * *

 

They kept him for another month after he’d turned his coat, and then abruptly let him go.  He remembered almost nothing from this time except being high, feeling good.  He knew the priest sometimes tutored him in the Orthodoxy of Opiates.  In a voice like a bottomless black well, he taught Eli the preces of the Sacrament of the Score.  He talked about how he had given Eli his First Communion, how he was a convert now, having made his choice between heaven and hell.  And how any convert could administer last rites.

After his release, he wandered the streets underneath the Mammoth, the giant statue in the center of the scarlet city, for half a day, trying to catch rumors.  The colossus’ bronze skin reflected the red city in the morning light.  He soon found out that the Orthodoxy had been legalized and there were more converts every day.  This news came as a perverse relief.  He didn’t think he could go without that feeling of connection for the rest of his life.

But there were other rumors that scared him.  Rumors about The Crown.  How fifty men had been staked in the square in front of the Mammoth with soaked ropes twisted tight with sticks about their skulls until the cord bit into the flesh.  How the heat of the day had been used as a weapon on these men.  The searing sun baked the moisture from the braids over the course of a day and that by afternoon, the ropes had dried and tightened to the point where they cracked skulls, burst brains, and how those who were not killed were the unluckiest.

When he’d heard enough, he hurried to his friend’s home with a sick feeling in his stomach.  He pulled up short as he reached the tenement where Vowne had lived.  A man was sitting outside.  The man had a horrendous scar, a ring around his head that cut a bald path through his unkempt, curly hair.  He was staring dumbly at the ground as if he didn’t know what it was.  As Eli approached, he looked up.

The sick feeling became ice lodged in his innards as Eli recognized Gal’s blue eyes.

Gal’s face was a mask of confusion.  Eli could see tiny ridges left by the braids of the rope on the raw scar that encircled his misshapen head.  It looked like it might be infected.

Gal worked his mouth without sound for a moment and then uttered a series of choked, guttural stutters.  After a bit he seemed to give up and stared wordlessly into Eli’s face.  As Eli approached, something seemed to click in Gal’s brain and his eyes widened even as his brow creased.

By nightfall, Eli understood.  All the brilliance was gone.  Gal couldn’t make words.  He couldn’t dress himself without help.  All the courage was gone.  The steel within had been ravaged by the fangs of broken truth.  He flinched at everything which came near.  Gal seemed to know that something precious had been lost but was unable to recall what it was, or why it had been taken.  He was a vestige of the spirit that had once piloted his flesh, a nerve without thought that wept without understanding and knew only pain, confusion, and terror without surcease.

By the following morning, Eli had decided what he would do.  He left Gal alone and headed into the street to find pay.

 

* * * *

He found the entrance to the church pressed between two huge tenements, purple in the twilight and dark with rain.  A tiny, ramshackle door.  The place was as anonymous as he was.  He took a deep breath and entered.

He swept the interior with his eyes.  He remembered vaguely from the private sermons that the church floor plan was designed to echo the shape of the holy syringe.  He closed the door and stood in the funnel-shaped narthex, which symbolized the needle itself.  The nave was the barrel and the transept the flanges.  The apse represented the plunger.

The grey concrete floor stretched away in front of him.  Rows of hard pews filled the space.  Several of these were occupied by parishioners, and Eli knew there would be more and more of these in time.  A man held his hand motionless in midair as if stroking his beard, though his fingers were two or three inches away from his face.  His mouth was open and every few seconds his chin dropped fractionally towards his chest.  Another believer stretched across a pew in unbreathing slumber.  Suddenly, this congregant opened his mouth and took a huge, rattling breath, breaking the calm silence of the nave.

At the far end, Eli saw the priest, and though he was shrouded in shadow, Eli knew at once it was the same vulturine cleric who had given him what was called First Communion in the Orthodoxy, his first short of heroin.  The man sat on a richly appointed velvet chair in the chancel, surrounded by candles that cast the room in dim, flickering fire, darker even than the fading light outside.  To one side of the priest, the Font, the water reflecting the candles, pinpoints of light standing on the surface of the liquid as if captured in a mirror.  On the other side, the Altar of Addiction, on which rested silvery bags filled with the Eucharist itself.  Eli approached, walking quietly up the aisle.

“I require passage to Interzone,” he intoned, beginning the Sacrament of the Score.

“And passage you shall have,” came the cold, plainsong response.  The priest put forth his hand, palm up, expectantly.  Eli felt for the silver in his pocket and passed the man the coins.

“I need to administer viaticum,” Eli said, “twice.”

The priest nodded as if he had expected this request and took six small bags from the altar as Eli withdrew his outfit and uncapped the needle, checking it to ensure it was clean and straight.  Satisfied, he turned to the font and pulled water into the syringe.  He recapped the needle and turned to the priest who held the bags out in front of him. He took them, turned abruptly and walked out of the church and back onto the street, pursued by the priest’s mocking chuckle.

Later, Eli led Gal gently into an alley where there was shelter from the rain.  He shook all six bags into the spoon and filled it with the water from the Font.  He held the spoon carefully over a candle and both men watched.  After a few seconds there was a swirl of bubbles and he immediately took the spoon off the fire.  He placed it carefully on a nearby chunk of red rubble and dropped a small piece of cotton into the liquid.  He touched the tip of the needle to the cotton.  Smoothly and steadily, he pulled the solution through the filter until the cotton itself was dry.  He raised the rig to his face, point up, and flicked the base of it several times.  Air pockets rose to the surface and he squeezed these out, slowly depressing the plunger until these blisters disappeared.  He tapped again, but nothing further came to the surface.  He squeezed the plunger ever so slightly and noted the thin stream of fluid that arced out like a line of light.  He turned it over, point down, and flicked at it one last time.  He turned to Gal and removed his embroidered belt and wrapped it around Gal’s left bicep like a noose, pulling it tight.

Eli ran his hands over Gal’s arm, up the forearm until he found the raised vein in the crook of Gal’s elbow.  He stopped and tapped the vein.

He pierced the spot with the needle.  He pulled the plunger back gently and they both wordlessly watched dark blood flow into the golden elixir and form crimson clouds.  He pressed the plunger firmly and steadily down and both men observed the plunger seal as it rode down the barrel, passing line after graduated line.

Halfway down, Eli abruptly halted and withdrew the syringe.  A thick line of crimson blood crept down Gal’s forearm.  Then Eli repeated the ritual on himself.  Pierce the flesh.  Pull back, watch the blood.  Push down.

He felt relief flood him, a balm so intense that his legs buckled.  He had placed his hands on his friend’s shoulders for support but let them drift down Gal’s sides to his hips as he sank to his knees.  Once there, he fell forward onto Gal’s lap, hugging the man about the waist.  He let a moan escape his mouth, a short but open sound of pure pleasure.  After a moment he looked up into his friend’s face.

Gal beamed down at him, the pain and confusion finally gone from his eyes.  For a moment, they were just as clear as he remembered them.  Bombardier’s eyes.  Gunner’s eyes.  Knight’s eyes.  Then they closed halfway and glazed over.

Eli’s emotion faded, replaced by the glow.  The horses and motorcars no longer mattered.  The slaves no longer mattered.  The woman no longer mattered.  His heart knew that all of it would be alright, that all of it was alright.  He understood in his body that this was simply the way the world worked.  One thing happening after another.  Stones three million years old.  Horses are replaced by motorcars. Slaves are pummeled on the street by their captors.

Rebels are broken on the altar of expediency.

Junkies overdose.

It would all work out in the end.

He watched as Gal’s head drooped forward and he rested his chin on his chest.  Watched as the half-lidded eyes closed and the breathing slowed, then stopped.  Then he hugged his friend tight and closed his eyes too.

In the Great Dark, two small pinpoints of brightness flared briefly as they were joined by threads of light to each other and to the rest of the universal network.  Then they slowly faded away, forever.

The rain fell like ruin on the scarlet city.

Propheticum Somnium Hallucinationes - Canto the Second

CANTO II


Of the Demon HAR XELAZAL:

First, the odor of old, unopened rooms, a fetor that coats the throat,
A growing groan like the drone of cicadas, overlapping notes,
Hypnotic acoustics that overwhelm in a transfixing din,
Only then does it approach, a thing of insensate skin.
It comes swamped in rotten jonquils, browning yellow petals,
A collar of dying flowers brush against its ashen mandibles.


It casts its ghastly gaze against the fundamental,
It denies time, nullifies light like a cannibal,
Works its pallid hands to make shadow animals.
Unnatural, they arrive to vile life and bite like tangible
Lies from the lips of quisling lovers,
Leaving gruesome wounds, unspeakable flutters
Of blood as the pierced heart thumps,
An idiotic automatic contraction each time it pumps.


A made thing, mounds of dead flesh from the fallen
Stitched and quivering together, draped in rotting pollen.
Golden blooms coat its pale shoulders like saffron light.
It is the fangs of broken truth in the smiling night.
A cyber-ghoul, its face swarming with electronics,
Its giant central eye shines like a shard of onyx.


It scorns the swords of warriors,
Derides the teeth of beasts,
Mocks and laughs at magic,
sneers at prayers and priests.


It chuckles long and hard at charms,
Regards archers with sarcastic laughter.
It knows it cannot be brought to harm,
Not then, nor now, nor hereafter.


It is invincible insanity,
Irrefutable profanity,
Vanity personified
Without honor or humanity.



- from the Propheticum Somnium Hallucinationes AKA The Lasting Death, attributed to Theran Var, High Priest of the Burning Shadow, circa 147 AA (Ante Apocalypsi)

Special acknowledgements: James Thurber and Tomoyasu Hotei

Propheticum Somnium Hallucinationes - Canto the First

CANTO I


The Shadow of famine’s wing shall fall over the fields

    And the wheat shall blacken and die
    And the rice and the corn shall blacken and die
    And the oats and all the grain shall blacken and die.
    The Gaunt Death shall walk, THUNZIEL
    who is Hunger, the Lord of Starvation and Night.


The Rebel XOTADAX will climb from his hole and cause
    The dust of the earth to reject the foot of mankind.
    At his command the very water shall awaken
    And cry out against those that drink it
    Stone shall rebel against those who would build with it
    Saying “our compact with you is at an end.”


The Unfortunate Undead from TLAKOVA will hate all.
    Revolted by their residence in rotting flesh,
    They will onerously exfoliate their own bones.
    Hopeless crows who groom to remove grisly plumage,
    Morosely unrooting meat from ossein, brides of debridement
    Obsessives compelled to unfasten the fat from all.


From ZÖURIG come the Prismatic Thinkers
    With colorful, contagious concepts that mere men cannot bear,
    Memes that burst skulls from within.
    They are black outlines lacking inside complexion
    Gray like sodden paper except where polychromatic premeditation
    Explodes the encephalon and ideas pour forth from their foreheads like liquid rainbows.


A Woman will arrive armored in bitter song
    The Demoness VORN, her face a mask floating above her shoulders
    Poetry her impenetrable palisade,
    Sour music her ruthless weapon,
    Every sound a rapier thrust, her lips shape the words
    And disembodied mouths appear, encircle her and join the refrain.


The Editors of THOILTAAN erase an existence they despise,
    Altering actuality for their cruel amusement.
    They correct the chaos of canorous laughter,
    Revise open smiles into corrosive tears -
    They prefer the order of drops of sorrow
    Following one after another single file down the face.


Yea, the Star of Murder, cruel GANAZIL will tarry in the air above
    Surrounded by the ruthless dusk it radiates ruby on all
    Dust, beast, babe, bush, water, woman, man
    It shines on the trees and they are crowned with flame
    Blackened leaves falling from their boughs like dead moths
    Its ruddy light touches birds and fish alike, annihilating the entirety.

- from the Propheticum Somnium Hallucinationes AKA The Lasting Death, attributed to Theran Var, High Priest of the Burning Shadow, circa 147 AA (Ante Apocalypsi)