Role Playing and story telling

Dread Role playing discription:

https://www.tiltingatwindmills.net/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/dreadstandardexcerpt.pdf

Quick rules explanation:

The game uses blocks from the familiar family game Jenga and the rules of Dread are quite simple, as shown below:

• Character creation: Dread uses a unique questionnaire method of character creation. The character questionnaire provides the skeleton of a character, while the player gets to add the flesh when they answer the questions, thus creating the character they want to play. In this way, characters are guaranteed to fit into the story, and yet players are invested in the characters, lending weight to the decisions they make.
• Game play: Throughout the game, the host describes what happens to and around the characters. Players contribute by declaring what their character is doing. The game ends when the story comes to a conclusion, or when all of the characters have been removed from play.
• Mechanics of play: Dice, cards, or other more-traditional randomizers are replaced by a tower of blocks. When a character attempts a task beyond their capabilities, the tower determines their success. They can succeed by successfully pulling a block, or choose to fail by not pulling. Tension builds as the tower becomes more and more precarious.

• If you knock over the tower during your turn, your character is removed from the game, never to return. Your character’s fate could be death, insanity, cowardice, imprisonment, possession, or some other horrible fate.
• If you knock over the tower by accident, the host decides the fate of your character, as the story dictates.
• If you knock over the tower on purpose, you can choose your own heroic or dramatic exit.

That’s pretty much it. Time to grab a Jenga and go scare your friends.

Dread themes:

Fairy tale

Steampunk

Mafia//werewolf

Fairy Tale story idea:

The king calls together a band of misfit adventurers to help him reclaim his forest from various forces of evil.

As the adventure goes on; the adventurers interact with various increasingly powerful creatures in what seems more and more like a suicide mission and struggle just to stay alive . . .

Act 1:

Adventurers meet at a royal tournament

They are called together and sent on a quest by the king to “reclaim the royal forest from various monsters terrorizing the forest”

If asked for detail, the king with describe malevolent magic beasts and unnatural spirits

Refusal could result in blackmailing, imprisonment, or the character(s) being run out of the kingdom into the forests

The characters are given an inaccurate map, and a set of camping materials including a poisoned water filter

The characters meet the princess--the king’s only child, beloved by the people and next in line for the throne. She warns them that there are unexpected danger in the forest and that not everything the face may be as it seems, but seems afraid and won’t tell them any more (if any character makes a particular impression--write this down for further use

Act 2:

The adventurers meet various forest monsters

In order of encounter:

• Bandits--hired by the king, the number of bandits should be n+1 more than the number of players, they were originally prisoners of the king and given the choice of death or this mission, if captured, unless stopped, they are instructed to commit suicide with the capsule of arsenic in their sleeves
• Griffins--the players, unless they successfully perceive the nest, come between the mated pair of griffins and their children and get attacked by the griffins, one of the griffins should have a sheep in its claws, if the players don’t make a note, they won’t see the baby griffins, there is a small chance of pet griffins (adult or baby)
• Will ‘o the wisps-- lights carried by more employees of the king (wizards), designed to lead the characters off the path and into quicksand, the characters will have to pull to resist the lure but if they’re successful, they skip the unicorn encounter, a sense magic will reveal if the wisps are human created but no more than that, if characters escape the quicksand they will find themselves in a ring of fire in the middle of the unicorn’s territory
• Unicorn-- pissed off by humans setting fire to its territory, its first few are designed to miss and scare off the humans, if humans attack the unicorn will then act in self defense and only kill if necessary, humans can successfully placate the unicorn by putting out the fire or through another show of good faith that puts their own life on the line--most of these actions would require a pull, if placated it will weep healing tears that will disable the poison in the water filter (the unicorn is not a possible ally)
• Encounter with the poisoned water filter--any character that drinks from it has to make a pull and loses strength, knowledge of nature can heal the poison or knowledge of magic can sense or heal the poison
• Werewolf--set in the adventures’ path by the king, the wolf form of the werewolf is a mindless beast that wants blood with no regard to its own safety, if the adventures can kill him, he turns into a naked dead man who looks “oddly vulnerable”, an investigation pull will and the adventurers will find the seal of the king freshly burnt into the wolf’s palm, if the adventures can successfully hide, trap, or in another way not kill the werewolf until morning, the werewolf will turn into a man again, be hostile and disoriented, he will complain of pain in his hand and his brand will be visible, when pressed for his story he will claim to have been kidnapped in man form, he remembers extreme pain and then being dropped in the forest as a wolf (the werewolf could be a possible ally)

Act 3:

At this point the party can turn back to the castle or go on to meet the goblin army

If they chose not to go back to the kingdom they’ll meet the goblin army more directly

If they chose to go back they might get lost, and they will encounter the goblin army but it might not be direct

• Goblin army--the goblins are eager for bloodshed and can definitely kill any or all adventurers unless they are stupidly good at jenga, the army is around 300 individuals and careful observation will reveal a mixture of goblins, orcs, werewolves, vampires, and other hulking creatures. Their leader is a giant and misshapen orc named Grunt near the front middle of the pack. If the leader is defeated the battle isn’t over but will pretty quickly resolve after only a few more pulls. If the band approaches the goblins in a friendly way, the goblins will be initially aggressive but if the adventures continue to be non-threatening and agree to putting down their weapons, the band will reveal the purpose is to overthrow the king and invite the adventurers to join them
• King--the king has an army of about 500 folks but only about 150 are well armored and well armed, assassins could also off the king, and the king’s people will be convinced by the sight of the king’s dead body or if the king’s flags were lowered over the castle, the king will beg for mercy and the adventurers could also switch to his side at the last moment for money or power or whatever reward the king offers, Grunt may try to install himself as a new king, the adventurers can install themselves as the new king, or they can install a democratic government. The princess can be killed, seduced, convinced to join the rebellion, bribed, or forced to join the rebellion (she will commit suicide shortly after being forced to do anything)

Characters:

• Highborn fighter--Your character has strong morals; what are they? Which of these morals has your character broken in the past and why? In what way does this still haunt them?
• Scholar (magical)--Why is your character so driven to discover knowledge? What knowledge did they discover that should have stayed a secret?
• Con man OR pickpocket--Who holds some big secret over your character’s head? What is that secret? What was the first illegal thing your character ever did?
• Lowborn fighter--Where does your character come from? Why is it such a deep secret? Why does your character want to socially climb so desperately?
• Healer--Why are is your character so deeply afraid of the king? What keeps them up at night? How do they cope with that fear?
• Wizard-- Why was your character so driven to master magic? What sacrifice did they make to get closer to mastering magic? What still stands in their way of mastering magic?

All my poems are about me

Your world is manufactured; made of forevers.
Of smaller countability infinities

Manufactured neatly on an endless assembly line to fold inside a single human life
Your forevers are pieces on a chaotic spice shelf or budding needles on a pine tree
You use phrases like "In ten years" and "mentor my children"

But you see, my world is made too
Made in broad sweeping strokes of the sound of the word 'wanderlust'
I know that my butterfly wings are beautiful, but I also know that they will crumble beating fruitlessly against the glass jar of mundanity.

How could a butterfly explain to a rock the infinite nature of now?
When I land on your solidity, how can I explain how the knowledge that I will one day take off is not the wind under my fragile wings but warmth in my tiny butterfly heart, keeping me for a minute longer?

How can I explain the vastness of now?
The vastness of all the water in the ocean,
All the air around my wings, all the colors of the sky when the sun dips below the last horizon

How can I tell you the true enormity of my "now" is vast enough to encompass any of "the rest of our lives"
How can I tell you that your forevers are as cryptic to me as tectonic plates are to a butterfly, able only to rest upon a rock, resting upon countless miles of dirt, unable to fathom the the earth shaking movements below.

My poetry teacher told me never to write in absolutes.
"Start small," he said, "avoid *eternity* and *love* and *forevers*"
I think he would have found your attitude disturbing.
I would like to see you and him go head to head.

Perhaps this poem isn't fair to you.
Probably, there are things you would like to tell me
About the power of eternity
About the beautiful mundanity of alphabetizing a never ending spice cabinet
About the joys of discovering turmeric and oregano and that last bit of cinnamon you thought you finished
Probably you'd like to tell me about how there's always another spice to be found behind the last one and the job seems less intimidating when you break it into sections.
Probably, something like that

But not at all.
Don't expect a butterfly to be fluent in geology.

I'd like to offer some exposition, please
Because when you were celebrating weekly shabbos dinners with your family, I was leaving high school behind for college.
By the time you got to college, the wanderlust took me over again.
For a year and a half I roamed, never in the same place for more than two months.
I snapped up facebook friends like berries on the side of a trail.
I left "keep in touch"s behind like dust on a gravel road.

I heard “forever”s burnt up like matches in a wind.

Your friends have stayed since freshman year of your high school,
Before, even.
Since freshman year I've worn through more pairs of hiking boots than I can count.
I've changed my hair, my clothes, my hobbies, my friends, and even my name.
No bed is more familiar than another to me and I fall asleep every time I sit down because I've had less comfortable places to lay my head than this plastic school chair, more times than I can count.

Do you remember what the bed in your parents’ house feels like?
I don't even remember where the bed I slept in last night was.
I just know my back is getting sore.
And when I arrive, aching and disheveled at your doorstep, you offer me a shoulder rub.
And then you use words like "forever".

I don't know how to tell you that my "now" doesn't exclude "tomorrow" or "next week" or "next decade".
But when I don't know who I'll be "tomorrow" I can't say if that person will love you.
I can't say if that person won't love you either.

I imagine you build to last.
I think that in all likelihood, when the earth has boiled and the stars have flamed and died, your love will be left alongside the ancient pyramids and the towering skyscrapers of manhattan.
For you must take love brick by brick and lovingly lay each one into a tower of babylon, soaring until you can reach out with your fingers and touch the sky.

How can I explain, bricklayer, that my love is like the air in my lungs?
There one second, gone the next, and completely vital to my existence.
How can I explain I learned the futility of holding my breath?
That I tried and my face turned blue as the slow seconds ticked away and my lungs cried out for oxygen.
How can I explain that for every exhale, the next inhale tastes just as sweet, sweeter, even?

But I would have you know, if you read no other of my labored ramblings

That a shoulder rub from you feels as close to home as I've come in three years.

That your face has been one of my only constants for the past four months.

The easiest “solve for x” since basic algebra.

I know the curve of your smile better than the curve of any road I drive.

That terrifies me.

That delights me.

That I looked upon a rock, beat my wings in the warm sun, and that here is where I landed.

Some beautiful nonsense

The sweetest feeling in the world,

Better than the best meal I've ever had,

Better than the best orgasm I've ever had,

Is a drink of cool water

After a long run.

I reside at a crossroads of truth and beauty.
If you find yourself wand’ring on a lonely Thursday, you may find me, sitting among the daffodils.

It is always Thursday in this place.

This crossroads is sometimes the winter tundra,

No features on the land but endless white plains of snow,

Perfect flakes lost in infinite copies of themselves.

If you visit my crossroads when they are tundra, make sure to wear thick socks,

Too many people have lost fingers and toes to my crossroads.

Sometime it is summer at the crossroads

And the sun is warm and the grass is soft

And there are flowers and birdsong.

Wear a swirly skirt if you visit

And we can dance under the sun.

Mixed Metaphors

Sorry my loves, that I have been gone for so long. I'm going to try to go back to twice a week, although expect more irregular updates due to spending long periods of time in a park.

She tells me she "treats her body like a temple" and I know

What she intends to say. She means to say

Her body is exclusive. Not just anyone can wander in.

She’s a peaceful mountain retreat and the snow falling

Leaves her body a blank and barren landscape.

On the most worthy of intrepid hikers are allowed a glance

At her holy spaces.

I agree; "my body is a temple too." But I mean

That to me my body is a holy space

Pleasure is my worship and anyone of pure

Intention is welcome.

I tend my body through worship

Soft hands polishing spires

Candles sending gentle aromas and curling smoke to the domed ceilings

I plant flowers every spring and place plush cushions on the many pews.

I would be only too happy

To offer any pilgrim who kneels before me

A temporary salvation.

My body is a temple and it cannot be made less holy.

No matter how many times

The grand doors swing open to admit a new spiritual quest seeker.

My body is a spiritual experience

No matter the atheist or evil-doer inside

I clean the stained glass windows carefully every day. Bad intention

Will not tarnish them.

My body is holy because my legs can run half a marathon

My body is holy because my mouth can taste the sweetness of chocolate

My body is holy because my arms can lift and my lungs can breathe and my heart can beat

I mean literally beat,

With all the violence and rhythm and anguish and joy and abandon the word implies.

My body is holy because my uterus demands blood and suffering

But my body is holy because my vulva gifts the most exquisite joy.

My body is not a temple because it feels

To hit me is not to smash a stained glass window.

I will bleed.

My body is not a temple because I live in it.

When hands caress my spires I feel it.

The hands must be welcome hands.

My body is not a temple because temples are not afraid

Temples do not walk down streets at night looking over their shoulder.

My body is not a temple because it lives and breathes and feels and

I will treat my body like it is holy,

But more importantly

I will treat my body like it is mine.

Boys who love Bukowski

Inspired by Ashe Vernon’s “Redefining the classics”

He invokes Kerouac and it hits me like a falling rock.

His poem is all heavy handed metaphors and dulled cliches

And it leaves blunt force trauma in its wake.

If my poems are lipstick stains

Smeared, imperfect and gone after a good drink

Than his poems are a hickey

Bruised, painful, and not much fun after the initial rush.

Hickeys are an archaic mark of ownership:

This neck is mine

I have held this jugular tenderly in my powerful jaws

And through my mercy I have spared it.

His mercy is a frozen rain in March.

He tells me it will bring flowers but on the days I need the sunlight most

There is only cold wet ground and dead grass.

He tells me I speak too much in absolutes

But moderation is easy for him.

He has never been cornered against a wall, spitting and clawing for breath.

He is holding the torch,

Not cowering away from the flame, hiding in the bushes.

When survival is the single objective

Everything is in absolutes.

He likes my wildfire but in bite sized pieces.

Pieces he can season with his heavy handed chauvinism

And fit neatly into his poetry.

I am an experience to him.

Look, in this poem I am wowed by the beauty of a dear

Watch closely in this next poem as I tame the wild woman

And in this poem I examine the splendor of the grand canyon.

Does he remember that little fires spread?

If I am wildfire than I will spread up the curtains, and lick the walls

If I am wildfire than I will touch the open sky.

If I’m wildfire then I’m going to die as soon as I run out of things to burn

Might as well take him down with me.

He’ll probably dismiss this as another absolute

But

If he writes another god-damn poem about Kerouac

I’m going the burn this whole place to the ground.