Blazeface

I would do anything for you.
Steal the moon, walk for days
Lose my friends and lose my ways
and we will see it through.
I would do anything for you,
you know that's true.

I will risk my life time and time again,
I will walk into the fire and not burn.
Peculiar, but the fire knows a friend
I'll smile and exhale and not return.
I would do anything for you,
you know that's true.

But you're not you.
You're not true.
And I am not in love anymore.
Therein, I think, the fatal flaw.
You're not you.
You're not true.
And through a fire I'd walk through
if you weren't new.

2012 Wrap-Up

Hoo, boy.

I honestly don't know how I'm going to do this post. I was thinking about compartmentalizing the year. That seems like a good way to do it, so perhaps we'll give that a go.

Relationships! They're a thing. I broke up with Pat, the first person I've ever been in love with and truly made a go of it. We've had long stretches of time where we don't talk to one another, and then we fall back into one another's lives and mess everything up, and it repeats ad nauseum. I can't bring myself to stop, though, because I still love him. That's no secret. I'm still in love with him and I'll probably subject myself to a lot of asshole-ish behaviour because of that, but that's been the running theme of this year so I'm okay with it.

God, this post is really boring already. Come on Jason, slog through it, it matters to future you.

Still on the subject of relationships, I'm in several at the moment. I've come to terms with the fact that you can feel love for a human being and not want to put it in them, and I've come to terms with the fact that not putting it in somebody immediately does not mean that you cannot love them. That's two big things for me out of this year - redefining love and what it means to me. I've embraced poly ideals and ideas, and I've started to work out what works for me in the field of romance and romantic needs, and I'm starting to have those needs met. Not bad for a twenty year old, really, especially considering that I'm such a mess a lot of the time. Anyway, to Ruth, Ollie, Isabelle, Sally, Tim, and Sav (though obviously Sav's in a slightly different catagory), you have my love, my gratitude and my deepest respect for this year. Ditto Jen and Brans, for very different reasons (you know why I need you).

Theatrical things! I was a tech person for Dogg's Hamlet, Cahoot's Macbeth, and I really enjoyed that. Met a lot of really cool first years, did some neat things with Dog's Breakfast with Ollie, and then I was the Fool in Wyrd Sisters, further cementing my love of the Monash Shakespeare Company. I'm the Treasurer of that company at the moment but I don't know if that's going to last because I don't think my mental health is suitable to that job - it's a lot of very difficult work and the theatrical world is a difficult one, especially when balancing multiple projects. On that note, this year with the help of many dear friends I launched Melbourne Masquerade, my theatre and role-playing organization, and in a few weeks that company is about to undergo some heavy administrative changes. I'm really nervous about them, but I created an awesome thing and I'm going to see that it goes places, so I'm feeling very passionate about our little theatrical baby. Theatre is something that I intend of doing less of next year. It drains me more than I would care to admit, and I think my priorities are shifting slightly.

What can I say about Vampire that isn't already ingrained irrevocably into my soul and into the words of this blog? This year I was part of building (a very important part of building) a creative world that I proceeded to immerse myself in. It wasn't perfect, far from it, but it was beautiful and amazing and educational and very fucking fun, and although there are hundreds of things I would do differently were I to have the chance again, those six months were one of the best things in my life and I'll never forget them. Special shout-out to Jacobson, Alfie, and Bacchus. You did your best, lads, and I understand.

I'm not going to do a whole paragraph, but I'm going to take a sentence or two to acknowledge that I am completely indebted to Savannah for everything that she has done and will do, just as I know she is bound to me for the same. I love you more than words can describe, dear, and this year in Melbourne with you has been something to remember.

Family matters! My mother abandoned me and cut off all support because I suspect she's off her medication, so that's something. I am no longer welcome to call the family that raised me, and I've had to come up with ways to contact my siblings that circumvent my mother as apparently the very mention of me sends her into a rage. I will never forgive the woman for abandoning me during a crucial time in my life, mental illness or no, and as far as I am concerned, her behaviour coupled with my father's behaviour over the years means that I have no family. I spent Christmas with Ollie's parents and it was wonderful beyond words, and showed me just how fucked my family dynamic is. Having said that my dad came around unexpectedly (from Canberra no less) to see me yesterday before the year ended, and he left behind nearly two hundred dollars and a big bag of...fun stuff, so my feelings towards him are a little bit more complex and conflicted. I'm very proud of my brother for dealing with what I consider to be an extremely difficult set of circumstances, and I'm very proud of my sisters for beginning that hellish road to adulthood this year. I love them all, but it's just too toxic for me there.

On that note, toxic things! I had a HIV scare this year, which wasn't great. I ran out of money, decided to try unofficial escort work and got sexually assaulted, which is worse. I self-harmed once or twice, I still have incredible difficulty sleeping, my social anxiety is growing and the anti-depressants I have been prescribed do very little to stabilize me. I'm self-medicating like nobody's business and I can't really remember the last time I was sober for a noticeable stretch of time. I write these words sober, but I'm going to change that as soon as I'm finished this post. In some ways that may make me weak. I think I have a perception of myself as a weak person who can be goaded into doing great things. I'm okay with that. It beats the blind arrogance of previous years. I passed uni with distinction and I have no fear that I will be able to survive whatever is thrown my way. Happiness is out of reach for the moment, but a narcotic haze isn't, and I'm staying safe until I can battle these demons.

I haven't given many specifics in this post, and for that I apologize. I'm sure Future Me would love to see specific events recorded, like memorable evenings on the balcony, or drunken unexpected kissing with a close friend, or dancing in a club where nobody knows your name. But I'm not going to be able to give myself specifics, because I'm in a frenetic mindset. I'm young - I'm so, so young. I'm twenty years of age and I have a tiny bit of disposable income to spend on fun things. I live in Melbourne, I have a roommate that loves me and a social circle that is varied and ever-shifting. I gotta look foward to my third year of uni (!) and perhaps a little bit of self-destruction and rebirth, because I don't have to be the strongest or the smartest or the best, I just have to be alive and hale and hearty, and I will be those things.

My name is Jason Drake, and here and now I am alive. Happy New Year to you all, and I hope that 2013 brings you joy.

New Year's Resolutions
Karate
Dance
Therapy
Role-playing
Love

.

This was written for me by Glittercunt from tumblr. 

To start a poem so many times, because your muse is ever changing. To start a thought and stop mid way, because your heart is ever mending. To look forward at the darkness and yet still see light. To shoot yourself down but still feel comfortable. To wring your lovers neck and then kiss an enemy goodnight. To do, and to do nothing all at once. And it's only been a moment.

Eld.

tell me a story
a perilous story
of creatures from on high
winding streets without names
faces and places i don't understand

it isn't a real danger
we're far too elusive
either the enemy is in our heads
or we are untouchable
if the former, nothing can be done
and if the latter,
we strike with glad hearts.

the sound of rain
is something to seek
but for now we gather
around your fire
and i insist

tell me a story
or i'll wander out
into the storm.

first

the first I write
with an empty belly
gnawing with the most delicate care
at my innards
never too much, never too much
just enough to make me feel alive
and eventually cause me
to double over
and unfurl.

we double and unfurl
and nobody will know
if we unfurl renewed
or if, like ghastly shades
of our former selves
we'll shuffle back into line
and are gnawed again.

i would not wish that fate upon you.
my nose is full of water and salt
and the stillness of the night air
chokes
but i do not thirst
i will not thirst
and elsewhere i know
neither do you

at our very cores, we are slaked.

Healing

Up here in the still night air
and the cool
Solitude, yes, that's the rule -
I can open my third eye
if I dare
to try.

Hello there, the steady lights
of concrete jungle mocking me.
Hello again the moonless nights
the absent sun I'll never see.
Hello, hello;
you turn about
and then you nod and go below
towards the chamber where we sleep
because you know.

I take a breath for habit's sake
and then I clasp my body close.
Risk's a thirst - and hard to slake
the heady scent of fear
the foes are drawing near
and I am unprotected.

I will meet ire with love.
I will meet spite with grace.
And when they flay the flesh
from my undefended face
my third eye will be fresh
and it will see the sun
and I might leave this place
if death comes from above.

We should all be so lucky, really.

take

taking pills
watching Skins
and everything is just lovely,
really lovely.

it's quiet here
buried in the sound
and i'm doing alright, yeah,
i'm feelin' fine.

be careful
not to touch me
i don't want to feel
like you're here

Stumble

Why don't you
stumble
for a little while?

One foot goes in front of the other.
Nothing else matters.
One foot goes in front of the other.
Left, right?

Why don't you
crawl
for a little while?

Everything's hazy.
In this place
we're all part ash
so don't fear the things that burn.

Jericho

Hello.
My name is Jericho.
Children have it all, you know?
They reach out and they
just get to take it.
So I took it
after somebody took me.

I'm hungry.
I'm hungry all the time.
No matter how much I eat
how many I eat
I'm hungry.

I want to drown my hunger.
I'll take that.
I want to cook my brain into growing
Fire my blood into flowing
I want to be a real boy.

Hello.
My name is Jericho.
I'm fifty and a half years old.
Would you like to fuck me?
Tear open the skin on my neck
and latch on?
Leave me a shattered wreck.
I might come out of it alive.

There's an angel in the street
and he won't stop screaming.
Slap-happy
isn't here, but won't stop screaming
none of them will stop
and I just want to drown my hunger.

Hello.

I hope we're friends.

Ramblings

Giggle,
snort,
cavort.

I'm a little lost, but that's alright, isn't it? Something I've noticed that's pretty universal to humankind is this penchant to walk everywhere as if they know where they're going. The stride varies but there's always this sense of purpose that I find kind of baffling, this vibe of right, when I get there I'm going to do this, and when that's done that frees up the time to do this other thing, and I have it all figured out and when we don't have that drive behind us we fake it.

Nobody just ambles around and smiles at the world and takes their time with things unless they're drunk or high, so why not be drunk and high? Is that drive to stride around the place really so essential? It gets a lot done, sure...
Sure. No, I accept that.

But you're not going to find yourself miles from home arm in arm with a stranger like that, are you? You're not going to see the walls close in and close off your breathing, you're not going to hear the clouds sing, you're not going to smell something so sweet and so pure that it reduces you to your knees, you're not going to shout out loud for the hell of it, your body pushed to a limit, your mind reeling in a thousand different directions. Follow the programming and you'll receive the programmed reward. What if I were programmed wrong? Or subverted somehow? What if everybody was? This is probably circular stoner logic, and the messed up thing is I'm not even high.

Giggle,
snort,
cavort.

I really like those three words. We all just want to be happy. For me, for now, happiness is rolled up and smoked. It's nights where I don't have to dream about the times other people's programming made them do things they didn't want to do. It's nights where I don't have to think about where my programming is taking me. It's nights where I can look at the stars and realize that I'm completely lost, and the wonderful thing about being lost, right, the really wonderful thing is that nobody can fucking find you when you're lost.

It'd be nice to not be found and to find something there. That'd belong to me and it wouldn't be tainted by anything.

Giggle,
snort,
cavort.

I should probably sleep.

Dirt

You speak of flame and fire
and similar motifs
quite a lot.
I don't know if you'd noticed.

I mean, I find that odd.
An obsession, perhaps.
You've immersed yourself
in a melodious stream
and fire just seems to match it
torrential
is that what it is?

It's strange.
You're chemical.
Inhale, exhale
squirreled up small
as you swing one leg up in front of the other.

Surcease.
You're barring the way.
Immovable - except on your axis.
As you turn, the world unlocks
and you sprawl in the dirt.

You speak of flame and fire
and similar motifs
quite a lot
with a mouth full of dirt.

staggering

Stagger,

Stagger,

Stagger.

On and on and on.

The ants are picking pieces away.

On and on and on.

The ants are picking pieces away.

You're standing in the way of control.

You're standing in the way of your soul.

You're a pyramid of flesh

You're the building blocks of life

and you're stacked to the sun

that will burn you to death.

So spark up.

It dwells in the fibrous membranes

in the acid taste on your tongue

in the smog and sweat in your hair

in the air that you breathe

and the laughter that bubbles

up from the hellish crucible.

So spark up.

Stagger,

Stagger,

Stagger.

Ever onward, ever onward.

The ants are picking pieces away.

On and on and on.

You're burning out in the heat,

but you stack the building blocks of life higher

and higher

and higher

as kindling

and you burn upon your pyre.

Farewell Alexisonfire

I want to go to heaven.

There's something that I need to write about while the feelings are still fresh from it. I'm pretty delirious from pain and illness and general dazed-confused-Jason behavior, but I'm still going to do my best to set this down in words, so bear with me. Also, I'm aware I haven't done real-life posting in forever, but I have an end-of-year wrap up post planned for the end of December to sum up all of the things that I've done if I can possibly do that, so look forward to that.

Two days ago I went to hospital for bacterial tonsillitis  my throat nearly closed over and then I went to the MUST wrap party, which was nice. I danced with Jen and Jamila and Savannah and I didn't collapse and die despite the morphine, which was good - and then yesterday I had the farewell gig for Alexisonfire.

There is nothing but anger burning inside of me.

How to describe the feeling of going to that gig? At the time it was all so crisp, so pure, so vibrant and so right, you know? Like, there was every conceivable obstacle to me being there. I ran out of money, I didn't get a ticket until very late, I'd been in fucking hospital, I'd had everything thrown at me to prevent my attending, and yet there was no possible way that I would not be there. And yet...there was something subtly wrong about being there. Lining up with the alt-rocker twenty-somethings with their angry expressions and their band t-shirts, smoking cigarettes in the line and listening to people talking about other bands they like - it all felt kind of jarring, like I wasn't a part of that world anymore. I am - was - a faded disciple, returning to the temple that I had forsaken so many years ago. My relationship with the music had changed, but I was there to honor what it had done for me, what I owed it. The gig was a sad one for me, but also one that I had to attend. Maybe I'm making a big deal out of nothing.

Your god is a two-door elevator.

And my relationship with the music has changed, that much I do know. When I was a kid of twelve, Alexisonfire was the first band I ever discovered for myself - just one track that found its way onto my stepsister's Itunes by mistake. She ignored it, but I stumbled upon it one night and I was instantly hooked. It spoke to me in a way that music has never spoken to me before or since - with a language of primal rage and eloquent destruction that is so ridiculously seductive to my personality that I was hopelessly enamored. In those early, formative years, I do not think I go too far to say that it kept me alive more than once, huddled in my caravan, hiding from my stepfather, shaking and cursing and muttering around a single speaker, a headphone, humming under my breath when I had to brave the house, singing at the top of my lungs out in the bush when it all got too much for me...

Oh, these hard-faced boys and soft-legged girls...

I got older and my relationship with the sound changed. They released a new album, which I loved and adored, but it wasn't the same. Actually, my relationship with the music during the later years reminds me a lot of my relationship with Isabelle - they make me feel alive, and they remind me of what it is like to feel overwhelmingly angry and powerful, and those two are remarkably similar things and yet still distinct. It also reminds me of Tim Newport for some reason - maybe because the band is Canadian and they started my infatuation with that kind of thing (by which I mean Canadian boys). Anyway, now I'm rambling.

Poor little tin man, still swinging his axe!

So I went to the gig. I was sick. I was miserable. I could barely stand. I passed out in the mosh. And yet it was absolutely, 100% the right thing to do. I acknowledged what the band had done for me, and what they do for me. I gave myself over to the crucible of their music yet again. The set that they played was actually kind of mediocre. The opening band was frankly terrible. Despite that, I made the right call. I felt the beast stir - weakly, oh so weakly, as a beast will grow when you stop feeding it everything that you have, but still it stirred - and I felt powerful in that moment, even as my body collapsed around me and the only band ever played their final song.

Wait up for me...

Strife.

So I slept all day today.

I got so high the other night and was up until 5am roleplaying with Ryan, and that was great and fun and social and normal. Then I woke up this morning, by which I mean four in the afternoon, and I called Centrelink, and then I swallowed my pride and called my parents. Got abused, left in limbo and told they’d get back to me. Get back to me - as if making sure their child has enough to eat is the secondary consideration next to the name that he called me the other week, you know what he’s like, controlling little bastard. So they’re letting me stew, and look at my bank account, and sweat. They know about the new medication. They know why I need it. They just don’t care.

Dad stepped up to the plate, of all people. Finally agreed to send me a hundred bucks. It’s something.

I feel like a ghost in my own house. The weather was unseasonably cold and windy, and the cat has been hiding under the bed. Nobody else has come in and out all day aside from Sav - a breath of life for a small instant - and then she left again and I was alone. I keep walking the track between bathroom and bedroom, and the same fucking song keeps playing because I can’t bring myself to change it, and I feel like a ghost.

I think the meds might be starting to work though, so there’s that. It might be too soon, it might be a placebo effect, but I feel numb, and that’s something I’m thankful for regardless of the source.

The sun will come out tomorrow and I will fix things.

feasting

feasting
on your wasted moments
you know i gave

feasting
on your atrophy
you wither

feasting
made of dust
crumble to dust

gleaming bone-white
pearly-strong

feasting
on your wasted moments
you didn't try

feasting
on your breath
your bone, your blood
your extinguished seconds

gleaming bone-white
pearly-strong
don't look at me

Lightning

Lightning lances down and thunder rumbles.
He betrays nothing
as the sound breaks around him
and the flash blinds him
and the smoke from his cigarette pours into his lungs
insidious
the chemical symbols for iron and sulfur 
and his body crackles
with the elemental energy
heart hammers
I have labored all day over these hellish flames
the beast is afraid
but the boy is awed
and the body is in check
and everything bubbles
tick tick tick tick.

Balance

I clasp my hands together and the world sluices across my skin, roiling above the surface of my body and billowing past into the empty void that lies behind me. I have bound the shades of ages within my blood and bone, and my whispered word sets the wind to howling. I am the elemental fury, the rock of ages, the soft caress of long-dead lovers flickering endlessly across the skin on my ribs, the gap between arm and body, the blink of my eyes.

I can be slain so fucking quickly, like, lightning fast, y'know? The world is full of moving metal that could crush me in a heartbeat, the blood spurting forth from my delicate eyes, rupturing that skin that sluices the world, releasing the shades entombed within the confines of my head all over the rusted machinery - and it might even be piloted by another sack of meat, mingling with me in the offing. Or I might fall from a great height and allow it all to escape that way, or I might simply grow old and the paper-thin shell might falter for the briefest of instances but that's all it takes, that's all it would take because externally I am deceptively simple but the myriad of internal processes required to keep the Devil's fire and God's love and the endless atrophying weight of my own personal history at bay, let alone keep me fucking functional from day to day, well, they're so complex and so fucking dependent on one another that I could drop dead tomorrow simply from the wrong kind of chemical, or the right kind in the wrong place, or not enough of the right kind, or whatever. Imbalance. Imbalance will doom me, whether it is a fatal amount of my insides on my outsides, or a fatal amount of the outside inside.

I flex my fingers and the world pours out of the fingertips, bubbling and broiling it's way out as I force it out with the sheer amount of will I can pour into my hands. Internal processes shift and waver, continental drift is replicated within the human frame, and I harness all of that energy, all of that fucking instability, all of that uncertainty and certainty and blind optimism and spiritual awareness and I pour it into the world in front of me that sluices over my skin and energizes me. For the briefest of instances I fancy that the world that rolls gently over the contours of my body is improved by what I have poured out of myself into it, and then I realize that the only reason I do this is if the world ahead feels slightly different, the void behind me isn't as deep, isn't as dark, and isn't as distracting. And then all the colour, all the fire, all of the brightness drains out of the air that caresses my skin and I am left a creature of imbalance, of the void, of an internal process failed, of a memory unexpressed, a puppet to the shades of ages and prey to the emptiness that lies behind me.

I will have balance, and if I cannot have balance, I will fall. There is no two ways around this. I will have balance. There is a perilous drop behind me and a perilous flame in front of me, and I can't pour myself into one or the other. I will fade, or be consumed. I just have to find a way to stand between the two.

.

I have a death's grip on this torch
welded by torque,
by the bones that grind against my hip
as I push back against the tide
but the torch will never leave my side
I carry it around to burn things down.

And in the flowering,
the wounded walls
I bring about an empowering
even as I fall
and it spiderwebs out
from my fingertips
in the finest pattern
stronger than steel cables
it isn't that I'm unable
it isn't that I'm annoyed
it's just that I have no choice.

And in the flowering,
that is given voice,
I suppose it is empowering
to stand your ground
in the hot-sweat air
and state calm and clear
that it just isn't fair
and that you'll have your way
your pattern-fine way
in the insidious heat of the day.

I have a life's grasp on this torch.
Fused by stalks
by the vines that grow against my clasp
as I push back against the pattern.

Phelgm

I'm reading about a race
of creatures
who are so downtrodden
disgusting
walking refuse heaps
reviled as a religion
forlorn
accepting
who store their bodily fluids
their phelgm
their earwax
their toenail clippings
in jars
of pure beauty
made from nothing.

I relate.

Spasm

you might have escaped
but something came with you
and attempts to break free
and return you
unwilling and struggling
to the site of your shame.

knees buckle
lungs heave
eyes leak
- my, so human -
but so pathetic
and weak.

never heed the truth
it lends strength to the beast
you slaughter them with proof
but something was released.

my, my.

Rejoice

Rejoice! Rejoice!
You've destroyed nothing that cannot regenerate.
Aside from your pride.

Rejoice! Rejoice!
Let your madness fill your voice!
You rolled the dice
and scraped a pass.

Rejoice! Rejoice!
Hand to mouth, hand to mouth, chewed raw -
But hand and mouth are clean.

Dear Everybody

C'mon, guys! I was doing fine until you overloaded me with goddamn feelings. Stop being so beautiful and poignant and let me immerse myself in practicalities.

I have not.

I have not the time for words.
I have not the time for hurt.
I was bad enough
without the sword of Damocles
glinting in the firelight.

I have not the time for violence.
I have not the time for tears.
I was frenetic enough
in the early days
when bodies were fresh and clean.

I have not the time for regrets.
I have not the time for love.
I was disdainful enough
in my bitter shell
when I thought I had forever.

But I have time for thought.
I have time for thought.
I have all the time left
in the universe
for thought.

Please, let this not be.

Vampire Obituaries

Name: James Jacobson
Clan: Ventrue
Sired: 264 BC. Final Death: 2012 AD. 
"Regere sanguine, regere in veritatem est."

James Jacobson was sired almost three centuries before the birth of Christ, in order to assist the Clan of Kings in their warfare against the Brujah city of Carthage. Against all expectations, he survived those tumultuous nights (and developed a rarefied taste after feeding from sleep-deprived sentries), but fled that part of the world after making several enemies in that area - including many powerful wandering Gangrel. He spent the past two thousand years more or less in and out of torpor constantly, preserved only by a fascination with the world's continued turning. He served for a time on the Board of Directors, but voluntarily left in disgrace after a dispute involving a competitor's ghoul arose. He was the first Kindred in Melbourne (after a change of name and identity), and together with the Sheriff he helped spread the Ivory Tower to Australia, earning him much distinction under his new identity. 

Jacobson was diablerized voluntarily by Marlene after it became apparent that he would never be able to repair the damage he had wrought with his substance addiction. After getting his revenge on Giacomo Acerbi, he had nothing left to live for, but he wanted his power to serve the Clan of Kings, and so he allowed Marlene to consume him and his soul was destroyed utterly.

Jacobson was a strong Ventrue up until the end, where the pressure of the centuries proved to be too much for him and he succumbed to vice. He went to his Final Death a resigned, broken individual, with a proud lineage crushing him under the weight of expectation. Oblivion was probably a release for him


Name: Alfie Chance
Clan: Ventrue
Sired: 1952. Final Death: 2012. 
"This is going to hurt a lot."

Alfie Chance was born in Chicago and embraced by his brother, Paul Chance. They were in the service of a Ventrue mobster named Strongarm, who used the brothers to run several illicit operations out of the Americas. Alfie was indoctrinated into the ways of the Path of Cathari along with his brother between the 60s and 70s, after being forced to kill his entire mortal family. He was spared from killing his sister, however, by the heroic actions of his brother. Sadly, Paul met the Final Death during an ill-planned assault on a Setite temple, from which Alfie emerged with a head full of phobias and a Setite curse on his head. In grief, Alfie went temporarily insane, diablerized Strongarm and travelled the world, spreading the ways of the Cathari and eventually becoming the third-best bartender in the world by reputation. His travels eventually took him to Sydney, where he met Angie, a mortal who would change his life. Alfie believed that Angie could redeem him, but the tenants of his path forbade him from siring her. They maintained a tenous relationship for many years.

Alfie met his Final Death in a fire during the tumultuous events of Gehenna, and through the actions of Evelyn Lockett managed to sire Angie from beyond the grave. However, this chained his spirit to Angie and he was denied the rebirth that the Path of Cathari promised him. When Ventrue arose and began devouring his children, Alfie began to torment Angie, whispering suicide to her in her final days. With her passing, Alfie was returned to the cycle and reborn into a human body - without his 'true love'.

Alfie never really loved Angie, but he had convinced himself that if he could fool her, he could fool himself. He was a fundamentally weak human being, but he had the tools to survive in a world that so often wanted him destroyed utterly. He had his honor of a sort, but that was the only thing that could be said to be truly Ventrue about him. He was immensely complex and gave me the most out of all my characters.

Name: Bacchus
Clan: Son of Discord
Sired: 1503. Final Death: 2012. 
"Through your blood, our god will return to us."

There are many Bacchus throughout the world, all working towards the same end goal - the resurrection of Dionysus. Using their signature discipline to incite bacchic frenzies in crowds of awe-stricken mortals, the Sons of Discord worked tirelessly to bring about their god's return, even as their bloodline faded into obscurity. This particular Bacchus travelled to Melbourne on the eve of Gehenna to spread chaos and indoctrinate as many mortals as possible, where he ran afoul of Evelyn Lockett and Crazy Jane. The encounter ended peaceably, and Bacchus fostered relationships with the two, even helping to raise Evelyn's child Levi. 

Disaster struck when Bacchus was destroyed by a witch-hunter - but the ways of the Blood are strange indeed, and Bacchus was returned to his physical body with the help of Malkav. Suspecting mental manipulation at the hands of Malkav, Bacchus rushed with Evelyn to join the others of their bloodline in Sydney - only to be sent spiralling into Wassail when Arikel consumed the Song of Harmony, the music that binds all Sons and Daughters together. 

Bacchus was fun. He was very, very stupid, but he meant well, and I got a great deal of satisfaction out of playing him. He truly, fervently believed in the cause of his sires, and believed that Dionysus would return to them if they were diligent enough. He never shied away from his task, even when it earned the displeasure of his 'wife'. His end was very saddening - mostly because his final act was to break Evelyn's hand. Every time I sing Feeling Good, I'll think of him.

I want, I want...

I want, I want, I want...

You shatter into a thousand pieces
that fall, screaming with velocity
towards the ground
and all cry out with the
multifaceted voice of the multitude
deep-throated with newly discovered
distance
keeping the cadence
blood-rich timbre
the unceasing thump-thump-thump
of your deliberate, head-strong heart
struggling for fresh life.

I want, I want, I want...

Wear a Helmet

Their words fall upon me
like a deluge
lent false weight by the
repetition
as their hollow mouths form the words
their fathers said to them.

It coils around
the cavity
that moment of doubt
uncertainty
and then I see them for what they are.

best/ride

i stand bestride the world
like a behemoth
like a fucking nightmare
the blood of the dead
flows in my veins
and i eat red threads
with my sole gaping mouth
like an open wound
in my bellowing face

Godsong

Goodbye, Bacchus.

God didn't come.
The song went unsung.
If he's not here, what then?
What now?
If not then, then how?

Faltering.
So much blood,
like a red, red wine.
There wasn't time,
and that should have been fine
because we had all eternities before us.

I have seen the legions,
they tore at their flesh,
and each wound was fresh
upon my back
and my voice was raised
and constantly on the attack.

God didn't come.
The song went unsung.
We have no purpose here,
my brothers fall to fear
and from their lips tear cries
that fall upon deaf ears.

I broke the fingers of your hand,
that delicate hand
that flayed my back.
I knew you'd understand.
We were wrong.
There is no place for us
without the song
and as the red star glows
we cannot stay.

And so I went away.

Not the Sun

Posting this here because it is everything that I feel right now, even if I didn't write it.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8HEhtN-653A

Please make the technology
So I can turn up your love like some cold machine
Don't feed me scraps from your bed
I won't be the stray coming back just to be fed

Don't be waves
Come to seal my fate marine
Just pretend that you want me
To be my bait
To be my

Well don't be that note I can't hold
Well don't be that joke that I told and told 'til it got old
Don't be that hand 'round my throat so I can't breath
Say you're my friend but why won't you be my family?

And if you break
Just don't tell me
To be my bait

To be my dream
Tell me you know what I mean
(Prove me wrong)
You set on me but you are not the sun
You are not the sun

Outside your cold lips again
You set on me but you are not the sun
You are not the sun
You are not the sun

Just pretend that you love me
And be my bait
To be my bait

cave in the spigots

cave in the spigots

and let it flow

a tide, a tide, a tide

of filth.

the vulgar argot imbibed

piss

shit

retching excess

cave in the spigots

the tyranny of the clean

the writhing joy

of the obscene

this is only wrong

among your betters

close up your shutters

even the scum of the earth goes green

only in filth will you learn what you mean. 

.

I draw breath and rot from within.
I blink my eyes and the lava flows.
I sweep a hand across my face
and draw you in
nobody has to know.

I'm alive.

Drabbler

Three words in glaring red:

Subject appears disturbed.

I do not deserve this treatment. 

Another storm that you're left to fight alone.
Remember that you brought this on yourself.
Another excuse to curl up at home.
I'm sorry, but you brought this on yourself.

You're reaping what you sow,
and nobody has to know,
but everybody raises their heads
at the just the wrong time.

Hope is difficult in this time.
Stability shifts with every step
and you're frenetic again
clutching at your face
perfectly still
growing like a vine
like a flower
like a flame
stability shifts with every movement
so don't move.

Subject appears disturbed.

You did this to me.

I'm writing in character
or I'm saying nothing
but trite complaints.
The machinery in my head
rusts away.
The harshness of the day
strips me clean.
The administrations of strangers
fail to soothe
my fevered form.

Who am I, and why do you matter?

Baelor

Dear Sir,

I am writing to inform you that as of this moment, I am tendering my resignation as Justicar of the Ivory Tower. I understand that my term has not been completed, but there are a great many other considerations to account for, considering the recent instabilities. My representatives will of course continue to advise the Directorate, and my retinue will be at your disposal, but my own personal movements and resources will no longer be beholden to the Inner Circle. These are dangerous times, and the call of blood is strong. I must honor an agreement made many years ago, when a life was ended. I do not expect you to understand.

B.

P.S - I am to understand that your haven is currently besieged by Sabbat forces, and that at time of writing you have most likely already fallen to your attackers. I find this regrettable, but I have observed proper protocol by sending this message, and consider my duties discharged. If, by some miracle, my messenger reaches you and you are still in good health, know that any attempt to thwart my resignation will be met with extreme disapproval.

Dear Madam,

I regret to inform you that as of time of writing, our liaison must immediately halt. It is no longer politically expedient for us to associate. With the recent developments, we must look to our own - you are no doubt consolidating the borders of your haven as we speak, and gathering your underlings to you to prepare for the coming storm, and I must do the same.
I wished for you to know, however, before we both entered the hurricane with teeth bared, that you have given me no small amount of pleasure over the last century. It is uncommon for those of my blood to have a 'shameful secret', as it were, and I confess that you caused my blood to stir in a manner it has not seen since my mortal days. I would consider it a great shame if we were never to meet again, but times and troubles being as they are, I believe it unlikely that we shall. 
We will always have the Red Diamond - I bought it and preserved it, and the door is always open to you, if you manage to escape what lies in wait for you.

Your undying lord,

B.

P.S - I will ensue that my successor, whoever he may be (and assuming that one is appointed) does not meddle in your affairs. The sword is drawn, and you hold it sure and true. It may yet save us all before our heads are severed entirely. Wield it well, my love.

My daughter,

You have done we 

I remember with fondness the night of your

I regret that circumstances have caused our

There comes a time in every father's

I am coming for you. Stay alive. Heed this command. It may be my last.

Father.

Something from Nothing

I've eked out something from nothing.
I suppose it began with my parents
combining biological material
and infusing me with life
and bringing me into the world.
But my mother was a poor wife,
my father was a bad man
and they fell apart.
From nothing, something, and then nothing.
It wasn't that they had a plan.
But I think that they were doomed right from the start.

I've made something from nothing.
I suppose it began when I left
that horrible, ill-fitting nest
and chose a place to lair.
I was adrift; bereft
of all the sensible things a soul should have.
But my leaning on others to get where I needed
fell on deaf ears
and I wasn't heeded.
From nothing, something, and then nothing.
It wasn't that my new home lacked flair.
It was quite the castle
but built on empty air.

I've fabricated something from nothing.
I suppose it began when I flooded
my biological casing with fluids and fogs
to confound and confuse
I try and be hot-blooded,
but I know that I can't lose.
Even if this all falls to pieces,
the shards on the ground will slice
and my blood will flow again
and I'll use it to entice another empire.
From nothing, something, and then nothing.
It's not that I'm uncertain.
It's just that I know to expect fire.
And eventually the day will come
and it will be my pyre.

Bacchus

One, 
One two,
One two three four,
two three four,
two three four one.

Head back and sing.
Eyes shut and sing.
Fists clenched and sing.

You are as old as the earth.
You are the son of
the son of
the son of
the son of God.
They are as ants before you.

Head back and sing.
Fists swing and sing.
Blood flows and sing.

You are as strong as the bull.
You are pouring forth
and they are full.
You will drink your fill.

Head back and sing.
Chest out and sing.
Life fades and sing.

She took you to bed.
Her words were as honey.
You're wrong in your head.
This isn't right.

Lie with kin.
The baby cries.
Steep her in sin
and her words will humble him.

Take him and sing.
Stop them and sing.
Reborn a thing.

Head back and sing.
Eyes shut and sing.
Fists clenched and sing.

Slow them with song.
Their touch is wrong.
It is too late.

Bones break and sing.
Flesh fails and sing.
Soul wails and sing.

My Lord?

Taste of Blood

taste of blood
it's murder
was it worth it?
this is your fault
you - you chose this path.

take your orders
it's working
are you worth it?
this is their fault
they - they earned your wrath.

Malkwoman

prim
still
crushed ice in a murky drink
untouched.
frozen chips in her eyes
my, she's a tough one
but brittle, too
like she's about to break
and we don't
want to be
in the blast zone

.

i kissed.

it was soft
and powerful
and everything before
poured into it
and everything after
ceased to matter
and
that should have been enough.

A World of Good

it would do you
a world of good
to throw your head back
and laugh
until you feel
something shift.

you're better than this.

i know
that you feel
that the world
doesn't deserve your
footfall.

i would do you
a world of good
to hold your head back
as you threw up
and the bile spills
on the earth.

this is right
this is proper.

do me
a world of good.
give me this
and change

or don't.

this isn't right.

Onward

my eyes are streaming

in the darkness

perhaps this is how it feels to cry

but i will raise a hand

to my unfamiliar face

no care, not anymore

and dash that away

because there isn't room 

that space was claimed

and we'll trudge forward

and the road will fork

i smell like months ago

and we won't break 

and we won't break

and we won't break

because nothing 

has 

changed

and nothing will

change

because we're free

it'll keep hurting

but you owe

nothing

and you won't

thirst for it.

.

Encircle the
world with a
sweep
of your arm
with your
power
that you've wrested
from hands
undeserving.

reach.

reach.
I can't bring myself to.
reach.

I am adrift

I am adrift.

No, stop that.

I'm lighting incense and resisting cigarettes because I know that one would be one too many.
I'm refusing to write down the details of my life because I know that I would become lost
lost
in these ridiculous spirals of breakdown and build-up
breakdown and build-up
breakdown
and
build
break
down.
Around and around and around.
Seven months?
Five?
Four?
Too many.

No, stop that.
You can't have it both ways.

I go around and around and I am adrift.
I spurn the flesh that bore me.
Cradle, creator, desecrater.
Mother or friend, not both.
Blood or mud.

Not both.

I'd rather have mud.
Blood binds.

I'm refusing to remember the details of my life because I know that I would become lost.
Tangled up in the endless broken bonds
that have become a web
that cloud my sight
that snare me
that knock me to the ground
that strangle
that define
that keep.
Give a little half-sigh in the cold grey light
with your belly empty.
You've been breaking all your life.

Just once more and you'll be free.
Adrift.
Free.
Perhaps you'll be able to build in this wasteland.
One would be too many.
You can't have both.
Blood or mud.
Around and around.
Around and around.

No, stop that.
You can't have it both ways.

I am adrift.

Sewer Rat

Nah, man, there's no denying that we're straight up evil fuckers, but this guy was talking some shit even Hugh wouldn't listen to, and you know what he's like when the twitches get on him. Kept talking about some 'dark master' like some fucking kine satanist, or some goddamn preacher. I would have kicked his head in, but he had this look in his eye and ol' Fido told me in no uncertain terms that kicking his head in would have been a bad idea, a bad fucking idea. So I told him we weren't in the market for a new religion and Lewie gave him the old strong-arm treatment and he laughed in his face - laughed, in Lewie's face, like he wasn't a Sewer Rat! Didn't even flinch at the boils, and Lewie was in the leaking stage, you know what he's like. So Lewie unfolds that pigeon frame of his and goes to take a swing - his Fido wasn't paying close attention, that I know, he'd been getting the shakes for a few days now - and this guy shadowsteps out without missing a beat. I dunno if the local Keepers know about him, but we're keeping our goddamn mouths shut. I've seen some straight up evil shit, but I can't shake the feeling I'm being watched. Fido ain't happy, I ain't happy, and we're gunning for the horizon as soon as we can steal a car. Watch Evie for me, will ya? And if you got any sense, you'll be wingin' it too. I know you Rockheads don't think the same way we do, but...

Well, just look after yourself.

Fever Dreams

I feel at home in this
sleep-steeped sickness of
troubles
And this place reeks of
fustian delights
and pursuits of esoteric and ethereal
ideals.

You flicker under the lights
with the folds of your shirt
sliding upwards to display
a piece
of tantalizing flesh the world does
not
acknowledge
but that which I cannot possess
or caress
or own.

They melted away under the halogen lamps.
Don't speak too loudly or they'll return.
I'd hate to see them
especially after they burned.

I feel at home in this
fever-fucked fervor of
hatreds
And this place sweats out
primal desires
and pursuits of physical and earthly
ideals.

You flicker under the lights
with the words from your lips
floating forward to display
a piece
of tantalizing mind the world does
not
acknowledge
but that which I cannot return
or understand
or know.

They melted away under the halogen lamps.
Don't touch me here or they'll return.
I'd hate to see them
especially after they burned.

They're on their way.

Light-Blasted

Bide your time in the light places.
Soak it into your marrow.
You've had a harrowing time of it,
but now you're in good graces.

Believe that we didn't know,
It's too much to let slip away.
From the earth a shoot will grow,
and infuse itself with the day.

Drums, drums, drums on your skin.
What do you hear?
What do you seek?
The destruction of the weak,
the scourging of the self.

Bide your time in the light places.
Soak it into your bones.
You've had a blasted time of it,
but now you're headed home.

Dragon

I rise up from the cold softness.
Smoke coils from my nostrils,
and I devour the unhallowed.

Something Nice

Maybe something nice will happen WHY THE FUCK WOULD ANYTHING NICE HAPPEN.

Blood beats on blood while blood sits by and watches and yes he's a wayward child but he'll grow out of it and meanwhile you're in hell, you're all hell and you're just sitting there watching why the fuck are you watching there's soot and smoke and ash boiling out of your beloved blood's mouth and you all just sit and watch as he melts away before you why the hell, why, why.

It's all about the money these days they say but why the fuck would you have any money you insignificant peasant you can't hold a job you can't hold a life down you can't even stay in the right fucking place when you need to be there for somebody else I've never been all that convinced, really, although I do my best to keep abreast of that situation.

It's just a rain of salt through your fingers but don't lick it, you see, you'll taint the purity of the drink, because this is high class stuff, you know, not like that orange shit that you buy in bottles at your local supermarket and the streets are so fucking quiet that a rustling in the bushes will send you flying out of your skin, because this place is so hostile that the only noises you hear have to belong to something that wants you dead so you just have a sip of this, my brother, and you'll be feeling alright after that.

But you're back, that's what matters. You're back and we can all be together again because after all we're a little family, aren't we, just a little family, a clan, a brood, a FUCKING BLOODLINE and everything spirals, doesn't it, everything in on itself until you're quiet and shut in and surrounded by those that care about you and their hands reach up towards you and you have to suppress the urge to spit because it reminds you of home and home is sick and wrong.

Maybe something nice will happen. 

Why the fuck won't something nice happen?

Research Notes

Four ampules of the transhermative substitute,
Seven drops of delirious blood.
A scraping of bone.

There has to be a scientific explanation.
There has to be a scientific explanation.
There has to be a scientific explanation.

Re: patient screaming - severing the vocal chords somehow? Too much blood to legibly write. Nancy too useful to scribe notes and tape recorder cluttered with constant sound. Investigate.

Incision C closed. Attempt treatment of Incision D with transhermative substitute.

Specimen six unusable. Remind Nancy to hose out the sub-basement. 

Specimen seven returned for reanalysis. Perhaps more to be learned underneath the retinas. Re-admitted.

[illegible] 

[several pages torn out]

Specimen seven released. Nancy's memories altered. All relevant notes collated and sent to [removed] and the weirdlings. Matter closed until transhermative substitute yields more positive results.

There has to be a scientific explanation.

Five ampules next time.

An Open Book

N,

I sincerely apologize for disturbing you with this inelegant method of communication, but I simply must request that you loan me those discourses as soon as possible. I'm happy to pass on Netchurch's results in fair exchange; truth be told, I'd value your opinion on them. The results are...unsettling. Certain parallels are drawn that you may find objectionable, and in truth I would appreciate a voice willing to debunk them. The doctor is...meticulous, and thus far I haven't managed to find a loophole. Pay particular attention to his second experiment and you'll know why I'm so uncharacteristically eager to get my hands on those discourses.

Let us descend into the blind world,

V.

P.S - Malcolm went back, the fool. Hargraven must be spinning in his sepulcher. 

Thoughts on Masquerade

Hello there!

I really should have done this earlier (like, at the start of the game) but I didn't, and now I'm doing it. I think it's very important for me to write a post that lets you all know how I'm feeling about the game and address some of the issues that have cropped up over the course of all the really amazing story that we've been doing - because there are a few issues, and a lot of those issues are my responsibility, and I don't often take the time out to express how I'm feeling and what I'm doing in a way that everybody can read. So, this is me doing that! Hopefully I can show over the course of this post that I'm actually doing a lot of thinking and putting a lot of effort into making this game great for everybody, and not just in it for my own selfish reasons - and hopefully I can put some people's concerns to rest. Today I met with our Grievance Officers and they brought a lot of things to my attention, so this is me trying to put into words how I plan on dealing with those things.
So, without any further ado, let's launch into it!

1) Railroading - "I don't get to do the things that I want to do!"

So this is a thing that's been an issue in the game for a while now, and it's something that I really don't like. The DMs have a plan for the storyline and sometimes we push people towards certain story elements that we've invented - and sometimes that's fine, because our story is kinda cool and people enjoy participating in it. One of the problems that we face, however, is time limitations. There are an awful lot of you, and nearly all of you have things that you want to do. Occasionally  when pressed for time, I've been forced to make some snap decisions that have screwed people out of really cool plans that they've had - and sometimes that's been really unfortunate. One of my biggest regrets is the way that Senestre's death was handled in the Blood Hunt - we had to rush towards the end of that and he didn't get as much of a chance to show off his creativity as much as he should have. Another regret of mine is Marija's situation - lots of people had plans to deal with her, and in an effort to resolve that situation as quickly as possible, we skimmed over a lot of people's really creative plans to get a resolution.

That's bad. I didn't like that. If I could do it again differently, I would.

What I (and the DM team) might have lost sight of a little bit over the course of the game is that our job is not to devise stories and force people to act them out. Our job is to provide hooks into a story, and then let the players muddle their way through those stories however they like. Part of the problem is that a lot of our DMs are very heavily invested in their own personal stories right now, and they don't have the time that they had before to roll with the punches and come up with fresh ways to handle player actions. This makes you guys feel like you're on traintracks, going in a direction that you have no control over - and nobody likes that. I'm going to make an effort to be better at that, and one of the ways I'm going to do that is drop my player character entirely, so that I can devote all of my game time to rolling with your ideas and letting you play out your stories, not the DM's. Another way I'm going to fix it is that the DMs have several story elements like the trip to Sydney that we're really pushing for - and we're going to stop pushing. We're going to devise a few hooks to entice you guys into the idea of going, but if your character doesn't take the bait, then the DMs will work with whatever your characters decide to do - that's our job, not forcing you into a trip that you don't want to take.

And hey, if the world falls apart around you because you missed a hook or the Antediluvians wake up somewhere, that's fine too - you gotta roll with our punches, same as we gotta roll with yours. That's what we all want - a shifting, interesting story line that's creatively controlled by all of us, not just the DM team. So that's what we're gonna try and do more from this point on. Hopefully that'll make you guys - and us, bluntly - feel a lot more comfortable about things.

2) Language - "That was rude, get f**cked."

This is actually a personal problem of mine, not really a problem across the whole group. Remember those snap decisions I mentioned I have to make? Sometimes I'm not great at delivering those decisions. Sometimes I can be blunt, or rude, or a little bit cruel. This isn't a huge problem in actual games - that I know of - but it can be a huge, huge problem on Facebook. The problem with Facebook is that sometimes it isn't clear whether I'm talking as DM or whether I'm talking as Jason - I have two different hats to wear and it can get a bit muddled as to what hat I'm wearing. When I have my DM hat on, I should be professional at all times, and sometimes I haven't been, which is bad.

In the same vein, however, when I have my DM hat on, people have to treat me with respect too. I'm doing a very difficult job and if people are accusing me of being inconsiderate or implying that I don't know what I'm doing when I have my DM hat on, that's really not on. I need a certain amount of respect and authority to actually do my job, and that has to go both ways.

"But Jason," I hear you ask. "How do I tell if you're DM Jason or friend Jason? It's so hard to tell!" Well, the solution to that is simple. We're probably going to be moving the group off Facebook soon, because Facebook is kinda terrible. We're going to have our own website with forums and things, and when we move there it will be a lot easier to tell if I'm DM Jason or friend Jason - and hopefully things won't get so confused. Another plus is that it won't muddle up character separation for you guys, too - you'll have places on the forum where you can talk in-character, and places where you can talk as yourselves. I think that'll really help solve the language problem and everybody can treat each other with professionalism and respect where it matters, and then talk smack and casually insult one another where it doesn't. Sounds good, right? I think so, anyway.

3) Grey Areas - "Jason won't want to work with me."

This is a difficult problem for me to address, but I'll do my best. There might come a time when I'm having personal issues with somebody - we're all friends most of the time, but I fully admit that sometimes I can be a difficult person to like, and there can sometimes be tension. There might come a time when you think to yourself, "I don't want to take this to Jason, he's sick about hearing about this clan and my plans, maybe I should just shut up and not take this to him." Even worse, you might think to yourself, "I'm not going to take this to Jason, he doesn't like me, it'll never get approved." The absolute worst case scenario is me thinking "God, I wish this person would bugger off, I'm so sick of listening to them blather on about this plan!" Yes, sometimes that does happen, although very, very rarely. I love all of you quite a lot (eww) and I want this environment to be one in which we're all comfortable expressing ourselves, and sometimes I'm not the right person to talk to (hopefully not often!).

I want to fix any concerns that I'm going to shelve somebody just because I'm not feeling kindly disposed to somebody, and in an effort to do that, I'm going to be a bit more obvious about bringing in other DMs to assist me on issues that I find tricky to deal with, and I'm going to make make more of an effort to talk to our GOs if ever I think I need the extra support - that should stop me from getting snippy with anybody and make everybody feel a lot more comfortable.

In the same vein, I might have to send players to other DMs if I'm not feeling equipped to deal with a specific problem right at that moment. If I send you off to somebody else with your plans or ideas, don't panic! I'm still very interested in incorporating your ideas, I just may not have the time or be in the right head space to give you the attention you deserve.

4) Power Levels - "My character can't do anything!"

This is something that has been mentioned quite a few times from quite a few corners, and this is the one issue that I'm going to address a little bit more bluntly than all of the other ones. A few people have been unhappy with their character sheets - they don't think they have enough Strength to be of any use, for example, or they don't have enough showy disciplines. I'm going to respond to those complaints very simply. On Tuesday I launched a fresh Sabbat tabletop, and rolled up six character sheets using neonate statistics, and the absolute bare minimum of powers and abilities were handed out.

We got seven hours of play out of those baby vampires.

There is no character - no character - that does not have the tools to do awesome things. Look at our independent ghoul players, for example. The nature of the game is social, and so any character can suddenly find themselves in a very interesting position at the drop of a hat. If you're feeling powerless and feeling like you can't do anything, here's a handy checklist:

• Have you researched what exactly you can do with the character sheet you have?
• Have you sat down and talked to a DM about the long-term goals of your character?
• Have you considered presenting yourself to another player's character for training in new powers?
• Is there anything your clan or faction is doing that you could assist with?

Those four points should give you oodles of things to do, regardless of whether or not you have huge character sheets with nine dots in every discipline and Cain getting you out of trouble. We can't all be elders, and when Gehenna comes the powers of elders are going to start fading anyway. Don't get bogged down in the numbers on your sheet - play the game for fun, not for huge dice pools. We're here to help you make it interesting regardless of your statistics.

5) Tabletop Rules - "How does Celerity work again?"

To finish off, here's a very minor issue. When we run tabletops, each DM has a slightly different way of running things. Tyson runs things very by the book and uses blood pools and health levels, Zorro tends to oscillate wildly between rules-heavy and pure storytelling game play  and I like to think I sit comfortably somewhere in the middle. I'm sure when James starts running tabletops, he'll have his own way of running things, as will Ollie. This can be confusing for the players, though, if everybody has a different way of approaching things.

To try and fix this issue, I'm going to be reminding DMs to tell their players before they start how they run things - how they will handle things like Celerity, blood pools, health levels, and skill rolling for that particular tabletop. They'll make sure that the way they want to run things is alright with you guys, and then you can skip merrily into the World of Darkness and destroy something fun.

Wrap-up.

So, those are five issues that were brought to my attention this morning, and I hope that I've shown you how I'm going to address them. To finish this whole spiel off, I'd just like to remind everybody that I'm not some sort of unfeeling ogre who wants to show up at Elysiums and make you all dance for his amusement - I'm heavily invested in your enjoyment of the game, and I want to create an experience that you'll all want to come back to. Hopefully me dealing with all of these issues will make you feel better about the game, and about me as head DM. I do so love this job. 

Much love,

Jason.

.

It's five o'clock and the sunlight filters through onto my bleeding stomach.
I'm thinking of all the swear words that I know in blinding succession.
My body is resisting and the air is crisp and everything is going to keep on trying.

It's five thirty and the sun has slipped behind a cloud but the bleeding has stopped.
I'm thinking of Hell and Heaven and Agreements with slow, torpid thoughts.
My body is still and the air is slowly changing and everything is falling by the wayside by trying.

It's six. The sun is gone. The angry red marks across my belly are slightly raised.
I'm thinking that there is still so very much to do but it sears painfully across my eyes.
My body is itching and the air is heady with smoke and everything isn't moving.

It's six-thirty. There's a pale white light. I can't make out the marks on my stomach.
I'm reading somebody else's infinite, somebody else's memories, and they twist to fit mine.
My body is twitching signals to my fingers, the air is dim and dark, and everything is here.

Tethered

You keep having to leave.
Tethered to the bar.
You don't want to travel far.
But she'll wind up in trouble again.

You're rushing red-wroth
when you see him behind the bar.
Keep a civil tongue
for you'll run together under streetlamp suns
and you'll not think, and she won't have
to wash the blood out of your suit
in the morning.

Priscus

Let's just stop and think before I lose face.
Muscles spasm, neck twitches.
Held tilts.
Arms akimbo.
Let's just stop and think before I lose face.

I'm dripping with gold.
Royalty or horse piss.
Sell it with your eyes.
Drink in their lies.
Yours is a brow that they will stoop to kiss.

You will never see the world as they do.
They will cut it into pieces and offer it to you.

Go. I cannot bear to look at you.
You will never see the world as I do.

Dripping with gold.
The cold is at your back.
I'm coiled to attack.
It's true; I crave you.

Let's just stop and think.

hIm

Tattered jeans and dirt-stained knees.
A face full of untold fabrications.
A body of planes, lines and curvature.
A wingspan bold and beautiful.

Chelonia

I've too much mind and not enough head.

And the little self-control that I have is red

and mean and crippled.

It remembers a time when my mind

was confined to the waters of the blind.

The surface rippled.

Enemy mine,

beautiful and evil,

fill your cup and I'll find mine,

and we'll leave well enough alone.

I'm out and about now anyway.

Ice-Sleep

lock it all away

in the deep-dark-pack-ice

lock it all away.

This is not the way forward.

You can't play on those terms.

The board isn't fair.

You'll only get burned.

in the deep-dark-pack-ice

lock it all away.

sleep with me.

there, in the cold.

We can smother this.

You can grow old.

in the deep-dark-pack-ice

and not want.

lock it all away.

you're afraid.

Sensible.

You're so sick of being sensible.

There's no stopping that juggernaut.

but hush, hush

in the deep-dark-pack-ice

lock it all away.

the thinning line between that place

and your sanity

is quickly fading away

so lock yourself in

lock it all away

lock it all away

the devil has no sway

in the deep-dark-pack-ice

lock it all away.

and your fury means nothing

in the dark.

Hands of Fire

I have hands of fire.
It's what I wanted.
Just don't incur my ire.

I travel in a little bubble
of warmth, that preserves
the simple heartbeats all around.

I bring light to every room
I heat water, rooms, loins.
I do the best I can.

He disrobed before me
such a crass way of putting it
but his skin was on display.

I couldn't touch it.
(not that I did not want to
but for fear of consuming)

He said
"I will be an inferno."

I will be an inferno.

The fire began to spread.
Racing up my arms,
searing my flesh.

I did not scream.
I had enough control for that.
I did not scream.

I have a mind of fire.
I let this happen.
It stopped my eyes from blazing.

See all wreathed,
or desire all ash.
I have a mind of fire.

His bare skin before me.
I howl within
and burn away their sin.

"I will be an inferno."

I cannot touch.
It isn't you!
But I have hands of fire.

Searing-hot.

Searing-hot liquid.
It floods into the internal cavity.
Swills about your innards.
Burns them away.

You contort and double over.
You unfurl and something breaks.
The fumes of bile-seared body.
Floats up to your brain.

You're going insane.
There's not much left of you.
The searing-hot liquid.
Floods into the eternal cavity.
You won't live forever.
You'll just burn away.

Do you have anything else to say?
You upended it into your bones.
In the blood-flecked foam
that bubbles from your lips
there is an absolution.

Bury your head in the sand.
Twist and turn in your body
convoluted.
It floods into the diurnal cavity.
Swills about your innards.
Burns them away.

Work to be Done

You were mid-pour when it hit you.
I mean, for chrissakes, strong arm didn't prepare you for shit like this.
That head warlock with his sword stuck in that religious nut.
The boss sprouting wings for some fucked-up reason;
that's gonna make business a hell of a lot harder
and then there's the kid. Everybody's gonna be looking for him
and you owe him a shitload of money
but it'll all be fine
if it wasn't for the kid.
The warlock has no eyes.

Bit of a pity that she burned up.
She was pretty in her own way.
Completely wrong, of course.
There's no salvation after death for the likes of us.
There's just this.
We were made in the image of our Maker.
You've never showed any mercy before.
Why should he?

You're glad that she couldn't see.
Might get some ideas in her head.
Something you can't give her.
She'll settle for dogs and the occasional friend.
But that's a vice you can't indulge.
That primal, reproductive urge -
but you feel it too, don't you?
Everything that lives strives to make more of itself.
Even in unlife.
Procreate.

Your Maker won't allow it.
She's not right.
She's too right.
She's too used to you.
It wouldn't be a curse.
And anyway, Paul wouldn't approve.
She doesn't deserve -
she hasn't earned -
she's not right.

You come out of it.
You've poured elder's heartblood all over the counter.
Better go fetch a rag.
There's work to be done.

Sun Cult

We live in a sun cult.
The obelisks have been uprooted.
The mummies burned away or buried.
The pharoahs dead, the high priests gone.
And yet the sun still rises.

The stunted men will writhe and cry.
The sun god turns a baleful eye.
We mime the rites of ages past.
And no one has to die.

We live in a sun cult.
The trappings have faded.
The world worships in private.
The moon recieves more screen time.
And yet the sun still rises.

The stunted women ask us why.
The sun goes down and races by.
We mime the sickness of the day.
And no one has to cry.

Packed

You pack away the lines and lies that you wore upon your face.

You pack away the comforting toxins that screen you from the dark.

You pack away the ability to hide away 'neath the yoke of hard work.

You've packed it all away.

Head up high, now.

The Smell of Resistance

The smell of resistance is a thick one.

The thought of defeat is a sick-sick-slick one.

I am fighting through.

You can get some sleep when you are dead.

Ignore that clock-tick-tick inside your head.

Get out while you're new.

This really is quite laugh-out-funny.

You're only poor for want of money.

You've never had a dime.

Wait! There is no such thing as crime.

Do what you must to survive,

It's only wrong if somebody sees.

So drink deep and close-lock the doors.

Nothing gets in.

You were told that you were a god-sent-miracle.

The world will twist-turn-turn at your footfall.

You poured yourself into life.

What a joke that turned into.

Nothing got in.

The smell of resistance is a thick one.

The thought of defeat is a sick-sick-slick one.

I'm not fighting through.

I can get some sleep before I'm dead.

The clock goes tick-tick-tick inside of my head.

I fell into the depths when I was new.

This isn't at all laugh-out funny.

I'm dying poor from lack of honey.

I only have a rhyme.

Don't wait. I'm a wrong-bad-crime.

Get out so you can survive.

It was so wrong that they all saw.

So spit it out and break-smash the doors.

Let them all in.