Hey, so… Yeah, it’s been 4 years. Sorry. Some stuff came up. 4 years in a row.
I’ve been meaning to get back into this for a long while now. Because let me tell you, I got RPG hot takes coming out of every orifice right now, folks.
Okay that was gross. I apologize.
Anyways, here’s two things I’ll do:
- It might still take a couple of weeks, but I want to get back into the habit of blogging. The first few posts will be a mixture of general RPG stuff, systems I’ve been looking at or tried out myself, and just the usual stuff. In addition to that, I’m really itching to re-evaluate some of my older blog posts, because oh boy… I had no idea what I was talking about back then. D&D 5E, 7th Sea, worldbuilding stuff – let the idiot of the past be schooled by the idiot of the present (both me).
- I want to give you something to smooth things over right now. So why not enjoy some oh so juicy cringe…
This is a short thing I wrote 3 years ago. Back then, that was one of my first forays into writing fiction in English. Enjoy 2015-Jon in all his glory.
(Soundtrack for this: Carpenter Brut – TURBO KILLER)
[Neon lights, loud music and heavy air, barely breathable. A club with a view of the Atlantic coast. 1987.]
Man, this is so fucked up…
The girl’s blood hadn’t even dried yet, but already Malcolm felt his head get light, consciousness slowly slipping away like falling into a dream. There she was, young elvish girl, her limbs splayed out across the blue glass table as if frozen in some ecstatic dance move. But while the beat still thumped through the speakers and across the eerily abandoned dance floor, with some synthetic semblance of a melody occasionally poking holes in the bass-heavy soundscape, the battered and beaten body of the girl remained rigid. Her eyes were still open, a wide stare, euphoria meeting utter terror.
Malcolm felt dizzy, and that red leather couch suddenly seemed really inviting. Before starting to ask questions, before tackling the puzzle, before even trying to figure out what brought him here in the first place, Malcolm needed to sit down.
Focus, man, focus…
His head snapped up, like he was waking from a split-second dream. How long had he been out? A quick glance through the room – he was still alone, with only the dancing shadows of neon colors keeping him company. That, and the girl, of course. She was already slightly cold to the touch. He wouldn’t get any smarter just sitting there, slumped between an unknown corpse and the frantic lights of a disco ball. He knew that much. He needed some help. He needed his juice, and fast.
Crimson-baked fingers began fumbling through the many pockets of the greasy olive trench coat. Quickly, Malcolm produced a small package from the coat’s innards – a clear bag, filled with sweet, alluring white. Had Herris been there with him, Malcolm would have heard nothing but protest. That stubborn dwarf was just too clean for this line of work. They knew, though, that Malcolm needed the juice to function. Didn’t mean they liked it.
But the dwarf wasn’t there, and neither were their work ethics, so Malcolm’s fingers began their dirty work. In a matter of seconds, the powder from the bag had been separated into three short lanes, like scratch marks in the glass surface of the table. There was a beauty in their alignment, geometric, precise. Malcolm used his trusty ornate straw – engraved silver, almost a ceremonial tool – and made quick work of line one, two… three.
He cocked his head back and let the visions take control of his senses.
They say the Seers are the most powerful of the remaining mages. As pictures of blood and anger rushed past his eyes and sounds of murder filled his ears, Malcolm didn’t feel very powerful.
Mostly, he just felt sad.
Oh, by the way: Best way to reach me in the meantime is via Twitter: @QforQuijote