Category: Livejournal

I’m playing in a D&D game on Thursdays. The GM wanted to run something big, so he picked up NECROPOLIS and asked us all to make Egyptian characters. Well, the Gary Gygax version of Egypt, which is, if I recall AEgypt, or something equally silly. I asked him if I could play an Arabian character, and he said, “Sure.” Or maybe that’s AErAEbijjjan. (Don’t forget the silent q.)

And so, I get to play Ashalan’Ikalhu, “the needle pulls the thread.”

Speaks-With-Diaphram has a character who’s name means “Behold! The Power Arises.” That’s cool, and it fits as one of SWD’s characters. But my character had to be more subtle. After all, he’s a priest of the God of Murder, Ikalhu…

Back when the world was still mewling, the Gods divided their duties, each taking up a task, fulfilling their roles. They appealed to the Men, offering them gifts in exchange for their positions, and the Men assigned the Gods their places in the celestial order. Theanna offered men fire and tools, and so they called her Mistress of Wisdom, Crafter, and Maker. Jonan Ra gave them a code of laws, and so they called him the Maker of Justice, Keeper of Laws, Heaven’s Hammer . But when it came time to name the guardian of the gates of death, two Gods gave Man gifts, two brothers named Ulaki and Ikalhu.

Man told each brother to build a hall in the lands of the dead to show where he would spend the rest of his days. Both built a mighty fortress, filled with pleasures, treasures and delights for those who found their way to the hall. When Man saw what the Brothers had built, he was impressed and could not make a decision. “Show me the Gate,” he said, “and how I might enter.”
Ikalhu and Ulaki went to the gates and showed Man how he might enter. Nightmares and terrors guarded Ikalhu’s gate. The road leading to it was dark and filled with unspoken dangers. He said, “Only the worthy may enter my hall. Only those with the courage to find their way.”

Ulaki smiled and showed Man his Gate, open wide, without a single guardian, the road well lit and safe. “Any may pass the portal into my kingdom,” he said. “It is open to all who seek it.”
Man looked at both gates, and he chose the palace of Ulaki. “You shall keep the gate of death,” Man said. Then, he left with Ulaki to enjoy the pleasures of his palace.

Ikalhu stood and watched, his brow darkening. “Is that so?” he asked. “Man would rather have the pleasures of paradise available to any and all? Not to those who earn it, who have the courage to take it?” He nodded and slipped back into the darkness. “Very well,” he said, disappearing from the world. “We shall see how many visit my brother’s palace of heavenly delight.”

And so, Ashaval’Ikalhu is an assassin-priest (5th level cleric, 5th level assassin). When he commits murder, he steals the soul and sends it to Ikalhu. Then, he writes the name down in his holy book. When he dies, he goes before Ikalhu and shows him the book. “I sent these souls to you.” And, if he is worthy, he may sit at Ikalhu’s table.

Ashaval’s name means, “the needle pulls the thread.” Not as melodramatic as “Behold! The Power Arises,” but then, he doesn’t need to be…

So, I’ve been fiddling with this LiveJournal thing. Working with the different formats, different colors. I like this one most. Until I learn url-talk, I’m stuck with other people’s designs, but this one is pretty cool.

Also, with the new job, I get a new look. A haircut (sorry, ladies). New clothes (I’m still wearing shit I wore three years ago). New glasses (as soon as that paycheck and health insurance comes through). New everything. Already got a new car, and I’m very happy with my new apartment, thank you very much.

New day. Move forward. Can’t stop moving. Can’t look back.

I’ve got a chance to re-define myself. Completely. From scratch. Good John, Bad John, Discordian John. None of that. Just me.

New everything. Now, all I need is a new lady in my life…

… don’t I?…

… nah. Not yet. But soon. I’m too focused on myself to be any good to anybody. Get myself in shape (going to the gym again). I’ve already lost a few pounds just by cutting out Coke. Water, water, everywhere, and all of it, I drink. It was so strange. I forgot how much I liked water, and how much I missed it. I didn’t even know how much I missed it, my blood was so thick with caffeinated carmel. After a month of no Coke (okay, very little Coke), I’ve lost six pounds. And everything about my body has changed. It works different. Better. Such a change. I have a new Enemies List. Coke is #2.

TV is still the Great Enemy. I don’t even miss watching West Wing anymore. I don’t miss TV at all. Whenever I go over to a friend’s house, they’ve got it on, and I hear its siren song, but it can’t lure me. I’ve seen its true face. Don’t even need wax to dodge her.

No TV. No Coke. Spartan. That’s my new middle name. John Spartan Wick. Hm. Demolition Man had a John Spartan. That’s too bad. Too bad for him. I’ll have to ask Trekhead to get me a good Greek nickname.

All right. Enough for tonight. Go turn off the TV.

So, my buddy Matt Colville and I are having a discussion over AIM and he says, “You know, the folks over at RPG.net may enjoy this.” I agreed, so we posted it there. Well, he posted it. Follow this link to our friendly tirade about games, game design and game mastering. And, if you’re all good little boys and girls, maybe Matt and I will have another one.

(See, Matt. “Matt and I.” Not “Me and Matt.” “Matt and I.” Geez. Some people.)

http://forum.rpg.net/showthread.php?s=&threadid=33047

Okay, nothing’s finalized just yet. I haven’t been offered a salary or anything. But, when the CEO says, “We’ve definately got a place for you here in our company,” I’ve got to shout to the heavens…

I’VE GOT THE JOB!!!

And, it’ll be a writing job. Not a marketing job, not a technical writing job. A plain, old fasioned writing job. Yeah!!!!

More later. Celebration now.
Drinks are on me.

How evil are you?

He don’t know me very well. Do he?

(Or, maybe it was Good John who took the quiz? Nah. Bad John would have answered them the same way. So, how did I come out so good? Guess that “Honest Scorpion” stuff really did mean something…)

Dirt in the Ground
(Tom Waits/K. Brennan)

What does it matter, a dream of love
Or a dream of lies
We’re all gonna be in the same place
When we die
Your spirit don’t leave knowing
Your face or your name
And the wind through your bones
Is all that remains
And we’re all gonna be
We’re all gonna be
Just dirt in the ground

The quill from a buzzard
The blood writes the word
I want to know am I the sky
Or a bird
‘Cause hell is boiling over
And heaven is full
We’re chained to the world
And we all gotta pull
And we’re all gonna be
Just dirt in the ground

Now the killer was smiling
With nerves made of stone
He climbed the stairs
And the gallows groaned
And the people’s hearts were pounding
They were throbbing, they were red
As he swung out ofver the crowd
I heard the hangman said
We’re all gonna be
Just dirt in the ground

Now Cain slew Abel
He killed him with a stone
The sky cracked open
And the thunder groaned
Along a river of flesh
Can these dry bones live?
Ask a king or a beggar
And the answer they’ll give
Is we’re all gonna be
Yea yeah
We’re all gonna be just
Dirt in the ground

I object! There is no Libertarian result!
(Stupid test. Lump me into someone else’s group. Probably run by the Conspiracy to get me to “think inside the box.” Well, fuck them!. I’m not a Conservative, I’m not a Liberal, I’m not a Moderate.

I don’t believe in politics. I just believe in me.

Liberal

Where do you fall on the liberal – conservative political spectrum? (United States)
brought to you by Quizilla

So, I got to play Marcus. It was interesting, because E. was there, and like she said, “Me and Marcus go way back.” She also asked how my wife was doing. I held up my left hand and said, “I don’t know.” That was followed by a very awkward and genuine moment. Not like the book store at all. More like a “That’s so awful, and I just don’t know what to say.” The kind of, “We used to be close, and we used to be real close, and now, I want to say something, but I’m not sure what’s appropriate.” Her eyes were kind and sad. I thanked her. Maybe not enough.

But, I got to play Marcus. Trekhead helped with the make-up. No, that ain’t right. We went into the little costume shop right next to Decipher and picked up what we needed. It was pretty cheap, all told. Cost me a dinner, but that’s okay. The effect would be worth it.

He put it all together, had me sit very still in a chair. Let me borrow his coat. I put the teeth in my mouth and went to the mirror. I looked awful. And I dispelled any notions of shaving my head.

We went to the game, met up with the St. Claire crowd. Trekhead got whacked with a stupid discipline from an assistant storyteller that knocked him out of the game. Five minutes after the bell sounded, he’s sitting in a chair for four hours. And some NPC did it to him. A storyteller. That ain’t right.

Marcus had Rose with him, and that made the night fun. Behind all those black curls and brown eyes, she’s a pretty smart cookie. And she knows how and when to say the right things, and when and how to say the wrong things — when she can get away with it.

Sigh. All the good ones are taken.

(Actually, that doesn’t really bother me much. It’s that all the good ones have boyfriends that could kick my ass all the way to Sunday that bothers me. And when their boyfriends are actually pretty cool Joes, that’s a good stopper, too.)

Marcus killed my voice. Knocked it right out. Didn’t even get up after the ten count, had to get pulled up off the canvas. Got a costume nod. Trekhead deserved the xp for that, not me. “Yeah, but you played him,” he says. “He’s the best Nos ever!” Yeah, well. Maybe. But he can be better.

And the next time he shows up, he won’t be so pretty. I can assure you of that.

(He wanted to hear the Daughter of Cacophony sing. He loves music. It’s the only thing he loves in his black little heart. Well, maybe someday.)

I’m wearing my Miskatonic University graduation ring. I picked it up at Gen-Con a few years ago, just as a joke. My Cam character — William Walker — has his father’s “orikalchum ring.” Actually, it’s a generational ring, delivered to the first Lord Strange, all the way down to poor William Walker — the Last Strange. He’s #33. Auspicious number.

I keep the ring to myself and Trekhead. I mean, I try to explain it to Storytellers. “I don’t know what it does. I don’t even know if it does anything at all. He just has it.”

They ask, “Do you mean you don’t know what it does, or Strange doesn’t know what it does?”

I say, “No, I mean neither of us knows. It’s a thing. A hook. Use it. Go ahead. I don’t care.”

It’s like when Walker got a Ward without getting any points for it. I mean, her. Great. It gives the character focus. Before that little girl came along, I had no idea what he was going to do in Los Angeles. He doesn’t like and/or trust his Clan superiors, and it looks like the Elders have everything in hand when it comes to solving problems. What’s a li’l ol’ neonate to do? Even if he is a Tremere?

Okay, so here comes this little girl. This little girl.

“I lost a daughter, too,” he told that old voodoo woman. Then, before he got in the grave, he whispered, “I’m not doing this for them.” I’m sure that didn’t make the other Tremere happy.

I was ready to ditch the character. I mean, I was having fun and all, but being a Tremere in LA just wasn’t any fun. I was having a great time with the other clans, and even had a great talk with an anarch (who went and got himself killed shortly thereafter), but… well, it just wasn’t going well. Might as well head back to England and…

… and one of the Tremere gets hit with a curse. There’s a “blood rose” in the middle of the Getty Center. Nobody can touch it but him. I saw the curse, saw the old voodoo woman who put it on him. I heard the cryptic words that I just didn’t have enough knowledge to understand.

All right. One of the Tremere who doesn’t like me very much just got hit with a curse. Great. Tell me why I care. I mean, I’ll go talk to the Brujah and…

… there’s a little girl involved. A little girl buried alive. The woman says this to the Tremere Primogen. She appears out of nowhere, starts saying all those riddles again. He seems to know what she’s talking about, or he’s faking it. But, a little girl. A little girl.

She starts walking away, and Walker rushes forward. “She was your daughter?” he asks.

The woman stops. “My daughter,” she says.

Walker nods. “I lost a daughter, too,” he says to her. His fingers trembling. Remembering. He was a cop, then. Not a vampire, not a warlock. Just a cop.

“She’s gone. But she can be brought back,” she says.

“Let me help,” Walker tells her. He remembers her laughter, her tears. Taken. Stolen. Throttled. Murdered. His lips mumble something. Then, he says it louder. “I need to help.”

And now, Walker can touch the rose, too.

Three graves. One for a little girl, one for a mortal, and one for a vampire. Three roses, one for each.

The Tremere look skeptical. They Dominate a ghoul to get into the second grave. The little girl gets into the first one, her eyes red, her heart still, her skin cold.

“Now,” the woman says, not entirely there. “Who shall go in the third?”

The Tremere balk. Without even thinking, Walker says, “I will.”

He steps up to the grave and looks in. He turns to the old woman. “I’m not doing this for them,” he says.

“I know.” She motions to the grave. Walker climbs in.

The grave is cold and still. The sky is red. If he had a heartbeat, it’d be in his ears. He’s afraid. But it doesn’t matter. She’ll find rest. That’s what matters. That’s what matte…

… daddy?

He hears his breath catch. Habit. Not need. His eyes red, his heart still, his skin cold.

daddy. i’m here daddy.

A white mist lifts him, and she’s there, her little hand lifting his weight from the cold ground.

it’s okay daddy. i’m okay.

He wants to say something. Anything. He can’t move.

why are you so sad. did i do something wrong?

(And, at this point, John almost loses it. Right there.)

Walker can barely whisper. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

there’s another little girl. the bad man hurt her, too. and she needs a daddy.

He nods softly. Barely.

i love you, daddy.

His throat tightens, his tears choking him. She holds him for a moment, and before he can say a word, she’s gone. And he’s standing there, still feeling her little embrace. No, not an embrace. Just a hug. A big, warm, hug. Sometimes, the little word is bigger.

And he’s there, at the edge of the grave. Everyone is still there, still watching. How long did…

And the old woman is there, pulling something from the grave. Pulling her daughter from the grave. And the girl’s eyes are chocolate brown. Her heart is strong. And her skin is soft and warm.

The girl and her daughter disappear. The Tremere bosses tell him it was an illusion. “Don’t say a word of this,” they tell him. He nods quietly.

“What’s wrong, Mr. Walker?” they ask him.

“Nothing,” he says.

“What did you see?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing.”

And, for a moment, he realizes they could smell him lying. If they wanted to. He watches them.

“Very well,” they say. “Remember what we said.” They leave. He looks back at the three graves.

i love you, daddy.

“You couldn’t tell her,” he says. “You couldn’t save her.”

i love you, daddy.

All the way home, the words are in his head. Chandler drives him back to his home. He doesn’t stay in the chantry. Outside, the dawn is sneaking up on the sky. They’re late. Chandler drives fast.

A break in the silence. “I failed you,” he whispers, his eyes thick.

“What’s that?” Chandler asks.

“Nothing.” You couldn’t tell her. Even then, you had your chance. And you couldn’t tell her.

Long, dark road, the headlights staring far ahead, but his eyes stare farther. Those magic eyes of his. All the good they did him tonight. She was there. You said if you had one more chance, you’d tell her everything you never had the chance to say. You swore you would. And there she was. Right there. In your arms and you couldn’t tell her.

“Did you say something, Walker?” Chandler asks.

“No,” he says, his eyes looking out the window, out to the distant stars. Little lights, so far away. “But I should have.”

(for R)

I’m running a Vampire table-top game tonight. Listening to music for inspiration. Got an idea, but I need to sort it out. Once again, the cat-gargling muse, comes on the iTunes and shows me the way…

House Where Nobody Lives
(Tom Waits and Kathleen Brennan)

There’s a house on my block
That’s abandoned and cold
Folks moved out of it a
Long time ago
And they took all their things
And they never came back
Looks like it’s haunted
With the windows all cracked
And everyone call it
The house, the house where
Nobody lives

Once it held laughter
Once it held dreams
Did they throw it away
Did they know what it means
Did someone’s heart break
Or did someone do somebody wrong?

Well the paint was all cracked
It was peeled off of the wood
Papers were stacked on the porch
Where I stood
And the weeds had grown up
Just as high as the door
There were birds in the chimney
And an old chest of drawers
Looks like no one will ever
Come back to the
House were nobody lives

Once it held laughter
Once it held dreams
Did they throw it away
Did they know what it means
Did someone’s heart break
Or did someone do someone wrong?
So if you find someone
Someone to have, someone to hold
Don’t trade it for silver
Don’t trade it for gold
I have all of life’s treasures
And they are fine and they are good
They remind me that houses
Are just made of wood
What makes a house grand
Ain’t the roof or the doors
If there’s love in a house
It’s a palace for sure
Without love…
It ain’t nothin but a house
A house where nobody lives
Without love it ain’t nothin
But a house, a house where
Nobody lives.