Decant Circles

I spent just over four hours running a game session. Had dinner, came back, and then spent just under five hours at a Storyteller meeting for the LARP.

I think that, in future, I may try to avoid putting nine hours of storyteller work into one day.

(Also, can you believe that Wikipedia's entry on literary references to blue roses involved neither Peter Straub's Blue Rose Trilogy nor his short story "Bunny is for Bread"? The oversight has been corrected.)

Shary Boyle paints and draws and does sculptures.


The sculpture isn't actually titled, but you can probably see where I'm getting it.

I actually really like the finer (more delicate, more detailed) porcelain sculptures and her black-and-white work. They're disturbing, and it's when the disturbing elements are subtle or reserved--like the foot on the first sculpture--it makes my skin crawl. Which is no bad thing, I figure.

Also, fourth sculpture? Scrubbing my skin off now. Will let you know if I need to send out for more carbolic acid. It's beautifully done.

So. Over the weekend, I've watched three or four Masters of Horror episodes. Generally, I would have to say "meh" (although it does occur to me that "I was married to a crazed survivalist" is an excellent WoD excuse to pick up Brawl, Melee, and Firearms without being a crazed survivalist yourself).

But overall, sadly, "meh". I confess to being especially disappointed with the "Pick Me Up" adaptation; Schow's story was a brutal little stab wound, and the movie was flatter than warm rootbeer.

Then I sat down and watched the "Blink" episode of Doctor Who.

Oh god so pleasantly creepy.

Right.

Anyone who, when discussing Dr. Henry Jekyll as presented by Mr. Stevenson, makes statements along the lines of "deliberately created the elixir so he could get away with horrible perverse things" or "didn't feel bad about it at all" (or "only stopped being Hyde because he was afraid Jekyll would be tried for murder", dear ghad that one especially annoyed me)?

No longer allowed to have the statement "I read the novella" carry *any damn weight whatsoever* when it issues from their mouth or keyboard.

*fume* *snort* *hmph*

Among the webcomics I read is something called Angels 2200. It's set about ten years after a disease wiped out the male half of the population, and follows one particular squad (Icebreaker) of the Terran Space Navy, which is out investigating a particular uprising. I won't call it space opera, it's a little grim for that, but it's generally fun stuff.

In addition to Icebreaker squad and assorted ranking personnel, there is Lance. Lance is an android--introduced here and on the next page--who was left on the ship for the emotional/physical/psychological well-being of the crew. His initial programming[1] has mostly been deleted, as the crew in general finds that if you have an android whose purpose is to keep you happy around, cooking decent teriyaki and providing an opponent for fencing practice is more useful than anything he was programmed for at the factory. He actually doesn't seem to mind this; Lance is a sweet guy.

The ship has recently been damaged very badly. Mary O'Reilly, who was (entirely deservedly) in the brig until it broke, is out wandering around looking for help.

She ran into Lance.

It's those little touches of horror that make me happy in the morning.
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[1] Male android. Named Lance. Did I mention the male half of the population was wiped out? Okay, we're good.

Robert E. Howard (yes, yes, he did the Conan stuff; that is not the bit that interests me) wrote a rather good short story, involving a poor traveller and a degenerate family and a spooky abandoned house and a not-properly-dead thing that lurked within. I really kind of liked it; at a point when I was feeling depressingly bogged down in by-the-numbers monsters, the zuvembie and especially its presentation were a welcome change.[1] However, even liking the story as I do, and liking the image from which the title is derived very much, I cannot deny that the title "Pigeons from Hell" makes me... well, "snicker" is too harsh a word, but it's hard to be entirely serious.

( Lovecraft's leg. )

Anyway. I have found something that goes beyond pigeons from hell.

In that instant, she completely understood the concept of a chicken that was not a chicken. This looked like a chicken, like most of the Mud People's chickens. But this was no chicken. This was evil manifest.

( More evil chicken quotes. Funny. IMHO. )

Evil chickens.

I don't think even Kay could've pulled that one off.[3]
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[1] Somewhere I'm sure someone has statted that poor monster in a way that uses a variation of the phrase "can animate the corpse of a PC or NPC killed within X range as per Y spell for 1 round per level of the PC or NPC at time of death". That person can go straight to hell and let those poor corpses cool into rigor mortis at their own damn pace.
EDIT: Grit, Drama Dice, or Inspiration, OTOH, is a perfectly fine way of handling it.
[2] For those not familiar with "Houseplants of Gor", it's here. For those not familiar with Gor, I will just say I honestly do think Norman wrote them as an exercise in sarcasm, and you can probably find adequate explanations via Google.
[3] You. Yes, you. *Do not mention that bird Kay describes*.

At any rate, they make *me* happy.

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I shall plan my cousin’s escape from that Canton madhouse, and together we shall go to marvel–shadowed Innsmouth. We shall swim out to that brooding reef in the sea and dive down through black abysses to Cyclopean and many–columned Y’ha–nthlei, and in that lair of the Deep Ones we shall dwell amidst wonder and glory forever.
- H.P. Lovecraft, "The Shadow Over Innsmouth"

There were faces at the window and words written in blood; deep in the crypt a lonely ghoul crunched on something that might once have been alive; forked lightning slashed the ebony night; the faceless were walking; all was right with the world.
- Neil Gaiman, "Forbidden Brides of the Faceless Slaves in the Nameless House of the Night of Dread Desire"

For now, they had simpler concerns. Keeping the children from the roofs at night; the bereaved from crying out too loud; the young in summer from falling in love with the human.
It was a life.
- Clive Barker, Cabal

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I needed that.

Today's bit from 365 Tomorrows made me smile. At least part of that is what they named the mighty artifact in question.

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Need to clear space to start A Feast of Crows. Am quite sure that's all I need to do; after a good start, Martin's stuff tends to clear its own space. It's odd. I am very sure Armageddon Rag and Fevre Dream weren't nearly as engaging as his fantasy stuff. (I feel a little odd calling it fantasy--the word has been so strongly associated with fireballs and amulets and other tropes outlined in the Tough Guide to FantasyLand that I feel odd actually applying it to something good that isn't going for humour[1]. Still. Frozen zombies on the first two pages: fantasy. Or horror. Actually, probably horror. But I am not going there right now.)

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Thursday. How the hell did I survive to make it to Thursday? I'm so confused.

Lots of low-people-contact, detail-heavy, numbers-and-finance work to do today. Yay.

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Darkest of the Hillside Thickets--the folks who brought you "The Innsmouth Look" (yes, that's a link to an mp3; yes, it's the one freely available on their website, bless their fishy little hearts) is releasing a CD to promote the d20 Call of Cthulhu. Won't touch the d20 version, but the CD might be worth grabbing. No order information on the site yet.

(Found my copy of Call of Cthulhu. Actually, theweaselking found it. On my shelf of favourite RPGs. I *swear* it wasn't there when I looked earlier.)

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ObWhateley: Apparently Nicodemus from Doomtown had rather more in common with Wilbur than Nicodemus from Deadlands. Let's hear it for fraternal twins.

Also, a remarkably high incidence of black jokers in my hand led to questions, and thence to the very important fact that perhaps, yes, one should be cutting the deck as well as shuffling the cards.

Good to know. I foresee less of the manitou handing my huckster her own guts on Sunday.

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I'm on a huge Lovecraft kick this morning. One of those rambling weird headspaces where I'm wondering how many athletic scholarships people on Innsmouth's high school swim team get, and thinking the ending of "The Shadow Over Innsmouth" is just beautiful.

( The aforementioned ending. )

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[1]ObRefPratchett.

It's being one of those mornings. You know. The ones where you wander around very slowly pulling breakfast together, responding to your cats' pleas for attention by saying "Lost Carcosa! Does kitty know what they do in lost Carcosa?"

...what, you mean everybody doesn't have those?

Strange is the night where black stars rise
And strange moons circle through the skies
But stranger still is
      Lost Carcosa.

Apparently I'm on a Lovecraft kick.

I need to read more humour.

Unfortunately, I like horror with my humour, and Robert Bloch is dead.

Which has unaccountably slowed his output some.