"Not exactly sure why he drug politics into it...oh, wait, yes I do. My recollection of that guy, before I blocked him on G+ years ago, is that he drags politics/social issues into just about every damn thing. I just want to blather about D&D without hearing the loons from the right or left pushing their agendas, you know what I mean?
Having said that, it looks pretty accurate, from a particular OSR point of view, I suppose. "
Thursday, 14 March 2013
a dancing dwarf made me do this
Scrap Princess promised/threatened to send the dancing dwarf from twin peaks into my mind to get me to finish this. So this title actually does make sense.
Here are the first ten (of fifty) aesthetic cave qualities.
of desert stone. Sun-bright granular rock. Animal track patternings.
Preserved fingertip skittles of insect feet. Prey and ancient
predator converge, your pressed fingers trace the path.
forest baked by ferocious motionless fire. Single black empty-tracery
leaves spill from the decaying roof. Puff to charcol dust when they
hit. Loud sounds dislodge whole abandoned trunks. The tree-trunks
drift like leaves and shatter into weightless choking smoke, barbecue
ash and coal-black enfolding mist.
ANGEL OF DEATH
death scars. Hate marks killing and crawling, black cuneiform scars.
Exits are all 10 feet up or more. Walls and floor are stone but black
and gouged with finger tears. Rock floor is pounded and hammered
flat. A spray of eternal burning ash in a CSI bodyform lies twisted,
clavicle rocks and a linear nodular spine. Organic regularity. White
sails in stone. The skull is somewhere, unless a crab got it.
Deathwounds may be observed. Oreantation may be irregular depending
how the Titan fell.
stones to hold the dead-squid-swirl. Embroideries of slate or
anthracite gusts. It curls climbing overhead, centring on the
embossed trunk and breaching adamant beak. Like a fucked-up sunset.
The black ink beads and drips, to be released by blows.
whales breach the dying stone as if in flight. Floors of car-sized
scissor jaws and pulverised bone. Fist-sized fossilised orcateeth. A
radiator-grill krill-comb. Exposed bones sing in grave cave winds.
Low, slow songs that remind you of the sea. Sad and peaceful, weep
and return one hit point.
viscous sky-wash of oil, tainted ash and post-nuclear pigments in
ravenwing spectra. Bomb rupture cycle marks. A ceiling bow of very
particular black locked in eroded stone. We only see the outer lines.
The centre is visual static
fingernail can find the ridged steel under the oxidised scrape. The
cave pitted cavity within a great and rusted sword. A blade edge
cave. One steel wall between things. One exit a corroded gate of
rust. A keen climb and a whining wind. A bright horizon, slender,
silver and blood-sharp.
cave of compounded clay. Washing to mud if a river runs through. The
sunken library ruin of an ancient empires mind. The cave burrows
through the compressed clay books. Walls are tablets shattered and
squeezed, I-Pad-sized and pillow shaped. Time and blows loose chunks
of ancient script, unreadable and falling into dust.
low snoozing calcite men like sleepers covered with a sheet. White
and wet, running with vague pinks and discoloured sunset blues.
Stalactites are victim shrouds, ankle-hung like bad tarot. Oozing
pearly drops to birth their sleeping kin. (Chill, there are not dudes
inside. It's chance and flowing stone.)