A 20-year-old reminiscence

30 October, 2011

On the MGTOW sites, the talk about “the red pill”. Here’s one of mine. Please excuse the jargon.


J and I were in the church band. We shifted in together to share a flat. On a side note, It ended badly. There was a pattern in J’s life – when things got hard, he would simply quit. I lost my job, got depressed, got tough to live with. J simply walked out and left me with the lease. It’s not just women, you know.

J was, I think, an alpha-minus. Tall, good-looking. Son of a pastor, which counts for everything in christian circles. Church women are as relentlessly hypergamous as any you’ll ever meet. The all want to marry a pastor, and J was always going to be one.

(Why do they want to marry a pastor? Because the pastor’s wife gets to boss about all the other women, that that’s the most important thing in a woman’s life: their hierarchy among one another. They are not sweet and communal. They are rigidly hierarchical, more so than men understand.)

Lot of red pills. One in particular.

J married K. K is a career bitch, very much so. For her, J was a trophy husband, a pretty boy. His family reckoned that he married his mother, and they were probably right. He should have married L, but L was a smart cookie and married R, who was (*gasp*) barely even a real christian. R went on to own his own used-car business, and employed L’s brother as a used-car salesman when L’s brother’s church (by which I mean: the church that he was pastor of) collapsed. Smart cookie, as I said. She’s a country-western singer now, with a fan page, and sounds pretty good. Way better than the mousy post-adolescent squeak that she had when I knew her. Well done, L.

Anyway.

J played sax, danced. He had moves. I remember him doing one of our periodic church musical things, playing the sax, being on stage – performing. I was at the mixing desk. K was there, smugly smiling to me, nodding “Yes, and J does his little dance!”, her voice rippling with good-humoured amusement and disdain. Her man, her boy. I knew then, the contempt in which she held him. Probably still does. But there’s another red pill I had in mind when I sat down to write this.

J played sax. He was good – better than I ever was on guitar. After a year or two of marriage, wanted to be in a band. The friction! The drama! The issue was – simply – that K knew that J would cheat. And realistically, she was right. He was going to be having hot, nasty sex with groupies. Eventually, K put the foot down. No: J may not leave her alone in the house and play gigs till 5 in the morning. So K got a dog. A golden retriever. But no, no – not good enough. J may not leave her alone in the house with nothing but the dog for company, either. No sax playing for J.

Meh. Marriage: compromises and accommodations. Fair enough, perhaps. Maybe.

K, “career bitch”, got a very senior role at X. A role that required her often to work late. What an opportunity! What an advancement! She grabbed it with both hands and I’m sure did an excellent job. The job was legit – I don’t think she was having an affair with some man that she could respect more than she could ever respect J. The alpha-male of the site … well, he could do better than K.

Here’s the thing, though: I couldn’t help but notice that now J was alone at night with nothing but the dog for company, exactly what K said was simply not good enough for her.

And there it is. I think he understood, then, the life that he had chosen for himself.

Luckily for J, K’s brother was (probably is) a very skilled musician. They, and some other guys from church, formed a very good local band. He was permitted to gig again, with the brother-in-law there to hold his leash.

It was ages ago. K is a pastor. now – just as he was always going to be. He’s gray these days, and not just his hair. S, who I ran into the other night, told me that he looks so unhappy. He was at one of our gigs (I was in a local band for a year or two). He was so awkward! So out-of-place and uncomfortable, to be at a bar where people were drinking and hooking up and having a good time. A decade ago, he would have walked in and owned the scene.

The band he and K’s brother formed is long since a memory. But whenever I think of that song “The Sweetest Thing”, I always think of their version of it. Better than U2, IMO.


Commercial sex. The shame! The blogging!

24 October, 2011

So. Someone who I follow on facebook, linked to this – a post by one Lucy Blake about sex industry forums.

For a while, I was – ahh – active on certain blogs. Now at this point, permit me to say I’m kinda over it. I’m 45 – certifiably middle aged. Retired from the scene. I don’t know Ms Blake, have never met or booked her. But she and I are on opposite sides of a certain divide. A political one, for want of a better word.

From my side of the divide, Lucy Blake’s post in relation to punter blogs is notable in a few respects.

Firstly, the sense of entitlement. How dare these men, the “punters”, have forums! How dare they decide who does and does not post! Why: try being a worker on these forums these days! Perhaps. But try opening a mens-only health club these days, or a mens-only anything at all. Women seem to feel they have an automatic right to colonise male space – the very existence of it seems to affront them. Happily, the web is charmingly politically incorrect in this regard. Zionist or Nazi, Black Panther or KKK, punter or WL: anyone can set up a site and manage it as they see fit.

But what of the content? What dreadful discussions take place, that Ms Lucy is so excised about?

  • if we may or may not charge extras (and no we may not)
  • how much we may charge and if we have the right to charge is debated
  • threads are begun re: under what circumstances we must give refunds to clients just to make sure a bad review is pushed home to us and we feel the necessary pain if a review deemed us unworthy and our attempt to make it up to the client fell short in their opinion.
  • the color of our bagina’s is described in great detail in reviews, but people forget our height, the color of our eyes and our names
  • there are threads on how much do sex workers earn and do we have the right to earn that much considering there is no Uni Degree in hooking. Why pay someone more than $18 an hour if they don’t have a degree logic?

Awww! You’d be forgiven for missing that the WLs actually charge money for sex, that it is – in fact – a business. (Having said that: blackmail is a bad thing, and I agree that threatening a WL with a bad review in an attempt to get free extras is wrong – probably even illegal, strictly speaking. Extortion, you know.). Service providers complaining that their clients discuss money and rate: the hypocrisy leaves me speechless.

Are clients really not to discuss amongst themselves the services they pay for, and the providers that provide them? If a girl decides to charge a reasonable rate, is it wrong for the clients/punters/whatever to decide to go to her, rather than to someone more expensive? I’m sure that might be news to the few girls that do provide a fair service at a fair price, and pride themselves on doing so.

  • there are threads on how to get laid for free on adult dating sites on a site sex workers are paying to advertise on

The faux outrage! So many kinds of wrong, it is hard to keep track. Whinging about men trying to get laid for free on a dating site, and not a wisp of recognition that if a site is a dating site, then using it to hook clients for commercial sex is at least as morally wrong. (See Deuce Bigalow for a very fine explanation).

[ed: I misread this – yeah, that’s kinda in bad taste. Like talking up Holdens on a we love Fords site.]

[ed ed: But then again, if the outrage is “OMG, there people that take my money to advertise are turning around and undermining my business!”, you know what to do: stop giving them your money. Ms Blake’s concern is a little misplaced, anyway: men who are happy to pay for sex do not have the time or inclination to dip their toes into “Plenty of Fat”, or the others. Prostitutes provide something that is difficult to get elsewhere.]

Speaking of which:

I am constantly stunned how men on forums are so outraged that their rights blah blah blah are being impinged upon.

Jesus. There’s none so blind as they who will not see. Ms Blake’s post is one long rant on the moral rights and wrongs of how men conduct themselves by – you know – talking with one another online and how it impinges her rights.

Sigh. What else do we have? More of the same, I’m sure, but I’ll look though it:

our PMs and posts are taken across forums without our permission, twisted and used against us. If we try and defend ourselves or another worker, we have a new areshole kindly kicked open for us.

Shock horror! People quote your words back at you! Is nothing sacred? Although fair enough: PMs are a bit of a gray area. Almost as bad as a girl repeating apres-sex pillow talk to another girl (*cough* Tess Ryan *cough*. Why yes, I am still dirty over it.)

Most forums ONLY have male Mods who are not sex workers and if there are female Mods, they are treated as tokenistic at best.

Basically we are contained, we are denied access to information, sex workers have no space to organize within hidden forums like punters do, and we have no authority or decision making ability.

If you want to rip any community apart, if you want to disempower what do you do?
You form a cool group or ruling class and give them all the perceived and real power. Conditioning from the time we are born tells us we want to be a part of the cool group or ruling class – aka hidden punter only forums

A) Bawww! Mum! The boys won’t let me in the clubhouse! I been silenced! I been contained! I got no authoritah!

A.1) It isn’t my fault I’m petty! I’m not responsible for my own attitudes – I been conditioned! Conditioned like a lab rat – a lab rat I say! – to want to be cool!

A.2) And incidentally, when the men do anything it’s automatically a “ruling class”. Because they are men. (Thanks for the backhanded compliment. Or is it simply that Ms Blake feels that anything women do is automatically shit?)

B) Yeeees – I’m sure it’s only fair that if men get together to discuss WLs, then WLs must be allowed to monitor and censor their conversations. Yes, censor is the correct word to use. Ms Blake wants girls to be mods – not simply to be able to read posts, but able to close and delete them. That’s what being a mod, as opposed to a regular user, is about. Her complaint is precisely that she is “slienced” by not having the power to silence others. There’s a lot of that kind of thinking on the web and elsewhere.

(Oh Encyclopaedia Dramatica! How I miss you! Only you would dare say “Jews” at this juncture, although here in Oz we have other prejudices. How I miss your opinions on Aboriginals, and pretty much everything else.)

Again, the hypocrisy. And the stupid. How stupid? “sex workers have no space to organize within hidden forums like punters do” Well: start your own bloody website, then, Ms Incapable, Ms “I been silenced unless the big, strong men-folk make space for me on their forums, and let me mod their threads”. You need a) a domain name, b) an internet connection, c) a ‘puter, and d) some free software.

Or just compare and discuss clients in the back room. Like you always have done. Are you seriously suggesting that there isn’t an “ugly mug” list? Of course there is! And fair enough! I can’t recall ever a client saying that it was unfair that you have your own space. I cant ever recall a client suggesting that WLs having private conversations meant that they were disempowered, or contained, or denied access to information.

ed: Speaking of which – “sex workers have no space to organize within hidden forums like punters do” is just an outright falsehood. FIA, for one, did have a WL-only forum. It’s that straightforward – they bloody did. There’s yer space to organise: as if you actually needed one on these punter-centric discussion sites. The only difference is that “The Shed” was hidden and invite-only. Why was that? Because if it weren’t, people like Ms Blake would have started up a never-ending whinge and bitchfest about its very existence. As you see here. How did they know that? Well, a lot of the guys were married.

Of course, some of the guys wanted to see what was going on in the girls room, too. They were never taken seriously – guys can respect other people’s space (and you just already know Ms Blake’s response to that, don’t you? “But, but that’s different!” – “But Mrs Mortiboy, you drank and cheated on your husband, too” “But that was different!”)

How hypocritical?

Organise, come together – join NAUWU, join Scarlet Alliance, join Vixen, join SIN, join whoever or whatever your local sex worker org is

God, do I even need to spell it out? WLs have had forums for years and years. Before there was an online world, even, they had their journals. Am I to believe that al these organisations don’t have web forums of their own? Am I to imagine that security on them is not far tighter than the punter’s forums ever were? Some guys exchange experiences on a website and suddenly the world is ending.

Accept punters are NOT your friends they are your client base and it is only going to lead to tears treating them as your friends. It’s unfair on both the sex worker and the punter to maintain the illusion of bestie bestie friends friendship.

True. I like to use the hairdresser analogy. Why do women pay hundreds of bucks for a hair job? It’s not to get differently-shaped hair at the end of it. It’s to be fussed over, to feel good for a little while. They pay for their hairdresser’s time and attention. That’s what a WL sells – she doesn’t “sell her body”. Her time and attention. A counselor or pastor sells the same. Now, you can chat to your hairdresser and be on good terms, but at the end of the day she sees you because you are paying her. Sorry guys. She probably would not be hanging out with you otherwise. And you would not be seeing her except that you can get sex without all those pesky other things that women usually require: you know – a relationship of some description.

As a parting shot:

YOU DO HAVE THE RIGHT TO EXIST AND YOU DO HAVE THE RESPONSIBILITY TO DICTATE THE TERMS OF YOUR SERVICE AND HOW OTHERS SHOULD TREAT YOU!

Christ! Someone posting on a blog is actually infringing your “right to exist”? For fuck’s sake, get over yourself.

And God, you are claiming that your clients – your clients – don’t want you to exist? Go speak to someone who has studied – for instance – law, and learn the difference between an adversarial negotiation and a hostile one. They are not the same thing.

Now as to “dictating the terms of your service”: yes. Absolutely. Not a hint of disagreement from here. This is the essence of consensual commercial sex. But remember: consent in meaningless if it is not mutual. Do a role-reversal on that sentence. That’s all that the punters are tying to achieve.


GG Week 8 – Salty, but good!

18 October, 2011

Capital city, and before us, the ivory tower. At last I can be rid of this pestilent burden. I have some curiosity, of course, but my people are not without prudence. To pry unasked into the affairs of the six – I have no idea how this packet might be warded, and I do not intend to find out.

Securing an audience will, as always, be tricky for me. I make my quest known to Kriv, our dragonborn, and he of course announces it to all and sundry. Curse him. All of our unit elect to accompany me on my mission save the beast and his handler, who decide to pursue other business. Drat. Still, perhaps it is for the best. I would not get far, wandering about on my own.

Kriv tels the guards that he seeks to report to the local captain. He then, in some fit of propriety, elects to tell the captain that he has a message from the fort we came from, said message being that here we are. That line of subtlety exhausted, he simply spills the beans and states that we have a message from Veritas for the generals.

We are conveyed onward and admitted. The generals are seven gold dragons who directly serve Bahamut. We are not searched and prodded – the general needs no bodyguards. The one we meet is in the form of an elf. He is … impressive, his draconic might evident even through his chosen form.

I relive myself of my burden, handing him the package. He seems – shocked, if anything. In response to being ask why Veritas entrusted this item to a drow, I reply that I do not know, but clearly he chose wisely, for here we are. The habits of home do not fade in a few short months: never show weakness. Deference, perhaps, but never weakness or uncertainty.

He asks after the circumstances under which I was given the item, and we tell him of the battle between the red and the gold dragon. His grief is evident. He then goes on to tell us what this package contains.

Within is a mithril flask, and within that is a small amount of the blood of Io.

Io! Io the progenitor! Curse it, if only I had known. I carried it, I kept it, I bore it for days and never suspected. Such a relic – there can be no equal to it anywhere on earth. With such a prize, I could be forever proof against the wiles of the spider priestesses. Yet it lies beyond my grasp, now, not ten feet away and in the claws of a great gold dragon.

And while I regret my caution, I also am uneasy. Why tell us these things? Surely he is not so far gone in grief as to forget himself entirely. These things I do not wish to know – must fame dog our footsteps? In an attempt to cut him short, I ask what orders we have. He tells us to report back in two days.

We have liberty for two days. We shop, we drink. I catch a pickpocket in the act, a halfling. In exchange for not carrying out a series of gruesome threats (exaggerating only a little), I receive a little training in certain arts of civilisation.

Yeah, it’s weak. I wanted to take martial training “Thorough Search” – Azroth has a damn good perception so it synergises well. We wanted an in-game excuse, and this will have to do.

Two days later, we report again.


There is no escape. We return to the general’s quarters. He seems to have reached a decision. We have a mission.

We are to go to one of the hidden cities in the underdark – one I know of. I am: lost for words. After risking so much to leave it, I am to be sent back. But there is more: the key to this city (whatever form such a think might take) lies with a certain orium dragon, Malus. The very same who sent us to protect that diabolist, against whom I have – as far as I am able – been plotting. We are to kill him.

A grim jest indeed, one worthy of the Lolth herself. That the end of my plotting to have him killed should be that I am ordered to do it.

We are no match for him, and certainly this band will not survive an hour in the underdark. The general … hesitates, but his decision is made, it seems. We will each take a sip of the blood of Io.

Astounding! How mad or desperate must they be? Such a thing … such a thing could not possibly be done except at the express command of the platinum one himself. A sip of the blood of Io! Armies would raze cities – no – continents for such a prize. And yet our band of eight is chosen, by Bahamut himself, to be given such.

If I sought escape from the spider goddess, what greater power could I ask? Ha! An easy question to answer: the power to remain hidden. I should have stayed in the forest and hid as best I could. I am enmeshed in the affairs of gods, now. Such rarely turns out well for mortals caught in the mill.

We are to drink, then swiftly enter a telportation circle.

My turn comes. I drink. A sip, a decent swig. It is blood, yet so much more. I feel a change, like the change into my form, but very different. Through the circle and back to our fort. I change, grow wings and copper scales. I am a dragon. A dragon! Not for long, and yet – who of my people has ever approached such might? I fear we shall become legends, if the fates mock us much further.

My companions appear, and each assumes his form: blue and iron, cobalt and green. Our time is short. We take wing and fly to assault the tower of Malus.

We got a bit further than this on the night, but this seems a good spot to finish this blog entry.

SS Week 9 – watch your step

13 October, 2011

A full table last night. Great game – went late, but didn’t feel late. Mind you, that may be because my sleeping cycles are shot to hell at the moment. Oh, and its the first week of daylight savings.

God dammit! I am still a virgin. Nearly killed two characters but they just slipped away – one with the aid of these utterly bogus “action points”. Not that I’m complaining about them when I’m playing.

Anyway. Nearly killed two characters, and forced Tim to burn all of Joseph’s action points.

Oh – last week totally forgot to mention M’Bongo’s prehensile hair. Andrew is getting a little jack of his character, so the good doctor may be copping it soon.

Our heroes continue to debate and discuss the four strange monoliths and their clue.

They discuss it at amazing length, really kicking back and discussing it over their meal – a strange dish of flatbread, cheese, and sea creatures. Eventually Alison (the bigot) leaves, and they get down to business. Mephisto’s holy water bottle will serve as a “container of purest metal”. M’Bongo can summon a viper to provide the serpent’s kiss. The blood of a thinking creature is provided by Barmy, who harvests some from Joshua. And the final bit … shit, is everyone going to have to traipse back to the caves of the mother? No! Vick has written it down! The lord’s sacred name is “Ydersius”.

Boom! Flash! Kapow! Everyone is deafened for a minute, and the entire inlet drains, leaving some pools and some rocks conveniently placed for to jump between. And a ship. And some doors.

The “purest metal” threw them. The serpentfolk, it seems, were all about bone, stone, leather and wood – metal being this strange alien stuff. That’s my impression, anyway. A metal helmet would have sufficed. A pot made of tin.

Exposed Rocks
Seaweed, sea urchins of all colors, bright green anemones, scuttling kelp crabs, and bare rock glisten here, laid bare to the sky by the unnaturally low tide.
The Salty Strumpet
The front two-thirds of a wrecked ship lies upon the rocks here, its bow mostly submerged but its ruined midsection propped up on a ridge of slimy rock. The sides of the wreck are thick with seaweed and barnacles, and dozens of crabs clatter around on deck.

They head to the ship, to start with. It’s inhabited by an odd creature. Ekubus, who styles himself captain of his sunken ship. He had been there for many tides, many moons. But tides this low! There was one only a few days ago. A strange person walked across to the doors – she had a snake’s head and tail. Ekubus left her alone.

He has one of his crew – a starfish – pipe them ashore. As they leave, he is flogging one of the sea-urchins for insubordination, using a strip of seaweed.

And so to the doors.


Temple Doors
Two stone doors stand open at the base of this cliff above a curling spur of rock. Seaweed covers the doors, hanging down in thick green and black sheets, just obscuring some sort of carvings on their surface.

The heavily carved doors are wide open, and as the party waits for Alison to get a clue and rejoin them, they remove some of the seaweed and barnacles on the outside of the doors to reveal images of vampiric demons feeding on serpent people. Inside is stairs leading upward.

Alison arrives and they head inward, passing a water mark on the stone. Even if the inlet refloods, they will not drown in here. Of course, getting out may be another matter.

Sanctum
Over a dozen stone pillars support this cavernous chamber’s sixty-foot-high vaulted ceiling. To the north, four empty alcoves sit in the walls, their edges carved to resemble yawning, fanged mouths. To the south, a pair of bronze doors that seem to drip with blood sit under a stone bridge that passes through the upper portion of the room from east to west forty feet above. The walls are decorated with unsettling carvings of bats, human sacrifice, and the walking dead. The dismembered, skeletal bodies of three humans lie scattered on the floor of this chamber.

They enter a large chgamber, 80′ high.There is much to see, but no time to see it, because something is throwing javelins at them! On an overhead walkway 40′ above, a pair of skeletal serpentfolk – ancient guardians (and what ancient temple does not have such?) are attacking. Vick throws bombs. Barmy runs forward to the pillars supporting the walkway and attempts to climb them, with amusing results. After a few moments, everyone is either hiding under the walkway or behind a pillar. The skeletons – mindless undead – simply step off the walkway. Injured but not destroyed by the fall, they continue to attack, and the party dismembers them.

With six characters, I ought to pump up the numbers by 1/2. I should have made it three skeletons. Meh.

They explore. The walkway above has doors at either end. Behind the east one is a corridor – at least 50′. Behind the other is a room, its walls covered with indecipherable writing.

The chamber has a similar door at ground level. The one at ground level seems to be dripping with blood. Vick determines that the blood is a conjuration, not simply some illusion. It’s real … but evaporates a few moments after it is conjured. But still …

Naaaaah – his arcana check was not good enough for me to tell him the other thing.

There are four alcoves, which Joshua investigates. One has a trapdoor, which he is unable to open. One has a lever which, in an unusual display of good judgment, he does not pull.

Barmy opens the trapdoor. It was stuck, but moves more freely now. Below is … some odd rock formation: something covered with cavey rock accretions. And briefly … the sound of bones (!). He calls for more light, but they can determine little more. The sound – whatever it was – is no longer there.

They elect not to descend. Instead, they decide to climb to the walkway and head west to the room with the writing, leaving poor Dr M’Bongo and spiky (who does not climb rope, sadly) to fend for themselves and deal with the rear door.

Oh: and Joshua does pull the lever. But nothing appears to happen.

Scriptorium
Bits of bone and fragments of wood lie scattered through this room. The walls are carved with hundreds, perhaps thousands, of strange runes interspersed with the periodic image of a stylized rune that looks like a fanged skull.
Priest Cells
Bare alcoves line the walls of this hallway, each containing a scattering of wood and cloth fragments. A larger empty chamber lies ahead.

The party begin to assemble and investigate, but in a few moments skeletons begin coming out of doors to the north of the room they are in. There’s a fight. M’Bongo discovers that behind the lower door is a passage that leads up to the scriptorum, so it’s all in. These skeletons are not nearly as tough as the serpentfolk warriors, and are quickly dealt with.

One of the party – Mephisto or Vick, probably – recognises this odd fanged-skull rune. It’s a symbol of Azura: ancient demon god of vampirism and cannibalism. But they are not able to make much sense of the writings. The passages where the skeletons came out from – the priest cells – are bare and empty.


This horrid mass of eyes, mouths, and formless flesh stares in all directions, its countless maws yammering ceaselessly.

And so to the west. A long east-west corridor to the south is interrupted by a pit trap, which no-one is caught by. A fifteen-foot wide, 30′ deep interruption in the corridor. Vick cunningly notes that the rough stonework of the pit is very much like the space under the trapdoor in the alcove. They discuss what to do. As they stand around discussing, something oozes out of a passage – a living nightmare.

So, naturally Barmy jumps straight into the pit. The fight goes badly.

Six attacks per round. Grab. Con damage. Swallow whole. A free ranged touch once per round that blinds.

I told Tim: if Barmy dies, he deserves it.

I screwed up playing a monster with multiple attacks that grapples. It should have gotten all of it’s natural attacks per round. One to maintain the grapple. And five to attempt to swallow.

The monster glorps all over him. His companions attempt to help, but the thing shoots acid at their faces, blinding them. The alchemist gets a shot in, but is quickly blinded and unable to lob mossiles at it without hitting Barmy. M’Bongo has Alison lower him down the pit – she, being blinded, can just hang onto the rope and hope that he knows what he is doing. But the thing soon blinds him, too.

Joseph bolts off full tilt onto the dark alone, down unexplored corridors in a dungeon that we have already established is trapped, hoping to find that the corridors go all the way around to the back edge of the pit. In his haste, he falls down another pit! And at the bottom of this one are a pair of tiny doll-like monsters made of bones.

So Joseph, the halfling, decides to run full tilt, alone, . Perception check? Nope. Reflex save? Oops.

Another “dude, if your character dies, he totally deserves it”.

Joseph yells as he hits the floor of the pit, the sound communicated to his comrades by small passages in the rock. Some of them bolt after him.

One of the dolls hits him with a Cause Serious Wounds spell, nearly killing him. The other fumbles the attack, but is still holding the spell ready. Joseph falls unconscious as his companions round the corner. The doll holding the spell levitates out of the pit to deal with them, as the first doll attempts to cut Joseph’s throat. But, drawing on that strange reserve of luck that the gods give to particulary brave and talented individuals, Joseph is not killed outright.

A bit of a mix-up: we retconned Joseph’s will save against the Cause Serious Wounds. Without that, he would be dead a couple of times over. But he was knocked unconscious eventually, alone at the bottom of a 30′ pit, with a hostile construct attempting to CDG him.

Around this time, Vick regains the use of his sight and sets the monster in the first pit on fire. The creature, tempted as it is to attack Barmy again, flees to find water to quench the flame. As it squeezes into a small passage in the rock, Barmy gets a final swing at it and this time it’s good. The thing is scattered into fragments and the fragments cease moving.

Barmy climbs out of the pit, and elects to jump it to run to Joseph’s aid – running full-tilt, alone, along unexplored passages in a dungeon which we have already established is trapped.

For fuck’s sake.

Bit he gets lucky – the passage between himself and the pit in which Joseph has gotten himself into a predicament is mercifully untrapped. It’s a narrow thing, but the party manage to kill both dolls before either dispatches Joseph.

Vick determines, on inspection, that these things were constructs. Inside each is a biggish ruby that is clearly magical.


The party elect to rest a few hours and recuperate in an ancient trapped an occupied dungeon. During the “night”,

Oh, right. We haven’t played that bit yet.

Very fun.

Dealing with captain Ekubus – 800
Serpentfolk skeletons – 1200
Regular skels – 810
Pit traps – 800
Soulbound dolls – 1200
Gibbering mouther – 1600

5610/6 = 935. A nice chunk of change.

Vick: 4141
M’Bongo: 4626
Joseph: 4408
Barmy: 4031
Mephisto: 4376
Kate: 3768

Everyone is level 3


Vajazzle – a new way to fill that aching void of irrelevance

11 October, 2011

Just found out about Vajazzle.

They do a similar service for men, believe it or not. If you really feel like pampering yourself, I’ll tell you: there’s nothing quite like a five hundred dollar back, crack and sack wax and scrotazzle. You’ll leave feeling different, I promise you that.

“Flies Eyes” is very popular. Two hundred individual crystals. Expensive, but worth it and something of a status symbol among those in the know. Alternatively, you can go the “Disco Ball”. To be frank, it’s exactly the same thing. They just call it something different for the gay guys.

And, of course, “Spiderman”. You supply the web fluid.

Drop ’em, tuck em, and bend over – a real traffic stopper. A popular thing is for a group of mates to have it done, and then go play laser tag. Mate of mine – we all call him “sparkles” on account of he keeps getting hit.

I could go on. Don’t you just love the gunt crease in that left-hand image? The tramp stamp in the center one?

It difficult to not be contemptuous of the inane things people spend their money on to make themselves feel special, and I’m just not that strong.


SS Week 8 – wet feet and bigots in Mexico

6 October, 2011

It’s all a little hazy, I’m afraid, because of the D&D overload.

The party left behind the NPCs to work on the lighthouse (except for Gelik, who insisted on coming) and went to investigate the red mountain.

They found a gorge with a structure matching the place described in that ancient temple thingy.

Encountered and killed a giant, winged chucacabra.

The trail down into the gorge sort of petered out at the waters edge. The new hire – Alison – is adamant that this ancient ritual not be spoken.

They summon a dolphin, or something. Under the water is a ship, a big shark, and some kind of non-natural stone structure.


GG Week 7 – a slight derailment

5 October, 2011

We were missing our cleric and our paladin for the session.

I took care of an item or two of business yesterday. In relation to my mission, I prepared a note for Nyx for him to carry on if I should fall. Of all of us, I think he is most likely to get away alive should some sort of disaster strike. He also will be best able to deal with the people at the other end of the mission. I may have to ask for his assistance anyway, and so there is not much loss of secrecy. Of course, I did not tell him anything more.

Didn’t tell Jamie OOC, either. But he didn’t bite.

The second item involved Veritas and that Orium dragonborn back at the other camp. I grabbed Gabriel and Warryn to back up my story and we described the events surrounding the assassination of that warlock. Like the assassin, Veritas knew who we spoke of, but stated that he was “slippery” – meaning “acting with ordinary prudence when scheming” – and that no-one had yet had concrete evidence enough to do something about him. Our own testimony, by implication, being worthless. I would guess that only that of a dragon or dragonborn would be enough. A pity that ours was drunk that morning.

Nothing could give me better satisfaction than hearing that that officer had been hanged for treachery, except to speak to him beforehand and explain that the reason that he was going to hang was that he had dragged me into his schemes. I remain alert for the opportunity to arrange it.


Eventually, we arrive at our destination – the dwarven fort of insert name here. It is worse than I imagined. I had supposed we would be shunned, assigned a barracks little better than a cell, and that our superiors would do their best to forget us or to assign us missions that would get us killed quickly.

Instead, we are fêted and celebrated everywhere – the mighty dragonslayers. Strangers know my name – I could cheerfully strangle Nyx (our bard), but it’s too late now. While the reactions of many of the dwarves are what I should expect, some of the younger ones attempt to engage me in conversation. I avoid them all as well as I can – a difficult task.

Having handed off our cargo and being given no orders, we inevitably arrive at a bar. I accompany. Much as I dislike it, I would dislike being alone in a dwarven city even more. There are passages to deeper caverns, but they seem well guarded. Still, I cannot help but be nervous – both about the guards, and about what they ward against. I can never return home.

My companions drink and make merry. The bugbear is permitted to drink, but no disaster ensues. Our half-orc attempts to procure a whore. I advise him that he would find better satisfaction boring a hole into a boulder and fucking it. The advantages of sex with a dwarven female are only two: firstly, she is a good height for servicing you while you stand; and secondly, you can hang onto her beard while she does it. We do not have sex with dwarves, except as a gambling forfeit or a punishment. And not for the dwarf.

The surfacers, of course, are thrown awry without the sun overhead to tell them when they should wake and when they should sleep. Without orders, they look for trouble. I suggest to Gabriel that we should look to moving on to the capital. There are a variety of good reasons – it is safer and we can lose ourselves there – besides my mission.

I also …

I also need to find an in-game justification for getting training in “Thorough Search”. The druid has plenty of perception and the ritual is 5th level, but it’s not really something that Azroth would look for. The DM ruled that there was no-one in town (that we could find) whoul could provide the training.

In any event – success. We find hire with another caravan heading in the direction I wish to go.

This actually de-railed the night pretty badly. There was game in town and we missed it. The DMs scrambled to put something together.

And here we are. There was a fight last night – giant centipedes. I ward our campsite each night, of course, and it proved prudent. While most of us dealt with the centipedes, I attacked a wolf-man of some description that appeared to be controlling them. But I was overmatched. I returned to the wagon and joined the fight. Once the centipedes were dead, our assailant ran off.

I am not entirely sure how far ahead capital city might be.