Jeff Mach's Blog, page 10

Bugbears & Butterwarts & Berserkers

Bugbears have many positive traits
For example, they’re not giant slugs.
They’ll infrequently make it into your home
And might not leave a mess on your rugs.

Bugbears have the sort of breath
Which is merely quite unpleasant
And if your bugbear grumps about
Just feed her a peasant.

* * *

The Giant Butterwart
Will happily eat an excess guest.
Do I like my plants decorous, or functional?
I find “carnivorous” is best.

* * *

Berserker

“Berserker? I hardly know ‘er!”
Those words I boldly spoke
The seven hundred stab wounds I suffered immediately thereafter
Remind me that Berserkers can’t take a joke.

* * *

The Cats of Ulthar do strange behaviors show
Don’t ask them why.
You’d rather not know.

~Jeff Mach

 

My name is Jeff Mach (“Dark Lord” is optional) and I build communities, put on events, and make stories come into being. I also tweet a lot over @darklordjournal.

I write books. You should read them!

 

The post Bugbears & Butterwarts & Berserkers appeared first on Jeff Mach Writes.

Stone Collosi

From the AD&D 2nd Edition Fandom Wiki:

“A colossus is an automaton, artificially created and under the direct control of whomever is able to manipulate the runes of its creation. Once it is activated, a colossus tries to destroy any edifices it discovers that were not constructed by its creators; this is part of its programming.”

___

Stone Colossi are very small
Compared to your average planetoid.
But they’re really large compared to you;
I recommend not making them annoyed.

They might destroy your barn,
Or your whole village square
Know how to tell where a Colossus has been?
…there’s nothing there.

Some unknown race of beings
Whom the Lizard People fought
Lived before our current history
And what wonders they wrought!

Icy massive Pyramids,
Fifty-foot-tall Sphynxes
Glyphs and runes of power vast;
Curses, cantrips, jinxes.

One doesn’t raise Colossi for vacation;
They fight wars of annihilation.
It’s hard to judge them for all that;
Those who judged have long been flat.

What kind of warfare did they wage?
In that long-gone, wyrding age?
Technology we cannot replicate,
Giant statues we can’t mate.

(Don’t, by the way, a Colossus date.
They don’t have current money,
and are always late.)

Why is it that these giant things
(Solid stone’s the opposite of wings)
Whenever they see structures not made by their makers
They send the structures to undertakers?

Who were their opponents in bygone days
To inspire a flattening of ways?
But they’ll smash a castle, a hovel, a jar;
That’s just how Colossi are.

…and now, just Colossi remain
Like the legs of Ozymandias
And the Dungeon Master in the sky
Pretends: “Oh, sure, I planned this.”

~Jeff Mach

 

My name is Jeff Mach (“Dark Lord” is optional) and I build communities, put on events, and make stories come into being. I also tweet a lot over @darklordjournal.

I write books. You should read them!

 

The post Stone Collosi appeared first on Jeff Mach Writes.

Animated Furniture

Animated furniture
is most assuredly de rigueur
for the home of any Necromancer
who knows hoof from claw.

If some madman with a fez
Comes into conflict with your chaise
Try to make his body hard to rez,
with a side of slaw.

Furniture that levitates,
Which flies and sings (and hopefully never mates)
Disturbs books, knocks down paintings, shatters plates..
Eminent divorce.

Clocks which tick off-key
Doorbells which self-ring merrily
Broomsticks which have joined the Kree
(for the benefits, of course.).

Big cups of “shut the fluck up”
Are nevertheless not too stuck up
To join flying saucers, and like oysters, shuck up
(If you’ve air currents, who needs a horse?)

How often do ones foes
Remove one’s fingers, heart, and toes
With attacks from couches, chair, pillows
And anything else they can find?

Angry Ottomans
Furious tins and cans
Telephones, pots and pans
To drive you out of your mind.

How many wandering beastinations
Depend, for their machinations
Upon the various cooking stations
Of your kitchen or barbecue?

Poltergeists? Amateurish
One thing of which I’m mostly sure-ish
A vacuum’s what nature must abhor-ish
When the crockery starts flying at you…

~Jeff Mach

 

My name is Jeff Mach (“Dark Lord” is optional) and I build communities, put on events, and make stories come into being. I also tweet a lot over @darklordjournal.

I write books. You should read them!

 

 

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A Further Disclaimer From The Management

Management is not responsible for ill-considered budget cuts to Reality; Absurdity; Puck; the Third Wave; the Fourth Wall; tulips; the alignment of the Stars; the alinment of the Muffler; the Helm of Opposite Alignment; seeing stars; startling sights; all of the 1970s clothes in your closet leaping out and making you look embarrassingly good; your desire to enjoy yourself; your enjoyment of myself or themselves or any enjoyment which wants to be had; acts of Puck; Puckishness; the Axe of Puck +5; the Law of Fives; the Long Arm of the Law; the way it’s a lot cheaper to make a second Death Star than research and design an all-new galactic murder non-Moon; the Apocalypse; the Post-Apocalypse; the Lack of Apocalypse; the numerous challenges of awakening with a tail; existential crises; non-existential crises; crises of non-existence; every mighty oak tree was once tens of thousands of little acorns of which an incredibly tiny percentage survived to maturity; algebra is contagious; Hope is divided by zero [and if it happened, we didn’t do it]; any incidental taxes, duties, licenses, or fees laid upon you by the Department of David Bowie; flux capacitation; Soylent in any colors or flavors; dimensional rifts, dimensional Riff-Raffs; actions of the Mad God; actions of the merely Very Miffed God; smitings of the Actually Perfectly Fine But One Must Keep Up Appearances God…

…the Management can’t be held responsible, and doesn’t reside on this plane of existence if it could.

~Jeff Mach

 

My name is Jeff Mach (“Dark Lord” is optional) and I build communities, put on events, and make stories come into being. I also tweet a lot over @darklordjournal.

I write books. You should read them!

 

The post A Further Disclaimer From The Management appeared first on Jeff Mach Writes.

Wise Sayings of Mystical Creatures

Sayings of the Aerie of the Short-Tailed Griffins:

“Fly free as the East Wind. Or, if you want, the East Wind, which has a reasonable subscription rate. But don’t fly the North Wind, there’s a paywall.”

“Don’t mate with anything that has over 250% more claws, fangs, poison, and spiked tails than you do.”

“If it isn’t food, don’t eat it twice.”

Sayings of the Gelatinous Cube of the Undermountain

“SQUISH!”

Sayings of the Sumatran Rats Beneath the Great Palace of the Lost Kingdom:

“Trash? Sure. WITH A PEDIGREE!”

“Only we know why Sherlock Holmes is an honorary one of us; and we’re not telling. Your species is not ready.”

“If it’s food, eat it. If it’s not food, find out who cursed you, ascertain which species you have become, and figure out how to get yourself back to glorious normal rodenthood, as soon as possible.”

Sayings of the Black Knight of the Iron Sphere:

“Do you know how hard it is to unpolish armor?”

“You are what you are until whatever you aren’t eats you.”

Sayings of the Golem of the Temple of the North

(This is a surprisingly agile interpretive dance.)

Sayings of the Bard of Lankhmar

“Our misunderstanding is simple:
There’s no wives in the land where I’m from
And I’ve got some quite good directions
Spare my life, and I might give you some.”

and furthermore:

“A loaf of bread, a jug of wine,
I’ll drink all of yours,
You touch none of mine.”

Sayings of the Chaos Mage of the SouthNorth

“Absinthe is not technically a poison.”

“For I have dined on honeydew, and drank the milk of paradise, albeit not at the same time.”

Sayings of the Mad God

“That’s right, class, being ‘immune’ to holy symbols means that you don’t flee in terror when you see ’em. It doesn’t mean you’ve got a lot of leverage when someone puts one of ’em through your skull, especially the point ones, and trust me, they’re ALL pointy!”

“Develop your brain, and you’ll never go hungry. bbbrrrRAAAIIIIIIIIIIiiiinnnzzz!”

~Jeff Mach

 

My name is Jeff Mach (“Dark Lord” is optional) and I build communities, put on events, and make stories come into being. I also tweet a lot over @darklordjournal.

I write books. You should read them!

The post Wise Sayings of Mystical Creatures appeared first on Jeff Mach Writes.

The Hobbit And The Runesword

“What I’m trying to point out,” said Maelstrom, “is that you could at least wear me.”

“My thought on that,” said Erling, “is no, no, no thank you, certainly not, please, no, definitely not, absolutely not, under no possible circumstances and possibilities, no, no, no, no, also, just in case I am not clear, no.”

“You’re going to hurt my feelings,” the blade said. Its numerous and surprisingly unholy runes wiggled in a manner not quite insectile, not quite Draconic, and painful to human eyes. “I’m a sword, I want to be helpful.”

Erling kept his eyes on the road. It encouraged him to avoid smiting his forehead overmuch with his overburdened and blistered palm, which had been gripping the reins for hours, possibly a wee tiny bit more tightly than was helpful for anyone who wanted to be able to use their hands later. But all Erling really wanted was to finish this trip and be done with everything.

“You’re a sentient sword which has belonged to a long line of famous heroes who have all died tragically. I don’t want to hear it.”

(Dear Reader:

There was a version of this story where the Sword (it really ought to be capitalized, but I don’t think Erling’s in the mood)—where the Sword gets into communication with a tribe of, oh, probably Orcs, although part of me thinks maybe Elves) and essentially arranges, how shall I put this? 

The Sword gets in contact with a bunch of, perhaps, Orcs. I’m pretty sure any wandering Bard would be delighted to carry a story on behalf of a magic sword. And, well, they, oh, slaughter Erling’s village, making him a tragic hero. There’s sort-of a sly little bit in there, where one implies that this is how quite a lot of fantasy heroes got started. I might write that up sometime, either here, or as an alternate version of the story.

But that’s not how it actually happened.)

“I thought you were in a hurry,” said Maelstrom.

“I am,” said Erling. “That’s why it makes sense to stop and relax.”

At first, Maelstrom thought this was an elaborate joke; it’s not as if swords can drink. The most they can do is get beer spilled on them, which happened in the first five minutes or so. But Erling seemed utterly serious. If slightly tipsy.

And then more tipsy, and more tipsy. Maelstrom stayed sober, but as was normal with soul-based weaponry, it was rather in touch with the morale and spirits of those around it. They were…what was it? Something that didn’t happen often in demon-controlled social systems.

Sword and Hobbit spent the night
Discussing nothing of wrong and right;
Making toasts, companionizing
Talking, storytelling, theorizing.
And in the end, the Sword realized:
There’s more than tragic heroism prized.
Sometimes all you really need
Are friends, and thievery,
and maybe pipe-weed.

~Jeff Mach

 

My name is Jeff Mach (“Dark Lord” is optional) and I build communities, put on events, and make stories come into being. I also tweet a lot over @darklordjournal.

I write books. You should read them!

The post The Hobbit And The Runesword appeared first on Jeff Mach Writes.

The Terribly Happy Storyteller

Once upon a time, there was a Storyteller who ran out of everything.
Well, not everything, perhaps, exactly, precisely. But close enough.

He ran, specifically, out of Villains.

Sure, it was quite predictable. Didn’t stop him, though. It was obvious, in retrospect, that his most colourful, his most interesting, his most engaging characters would not stand for being defeated almost every single time, while a bunch of nitwit Heroes beat then to bits, or, even worse, some young, pure, generally stupid and terribly lucky young idiot tended to foil every plan they made; why WOULD they stick around?

It’s not like the Kingdom (or Kingdoms, or Empires, or Assortments of Insufficiently Cantankerous Island Cirty-States Run By Shark-People, were going to miss them. Indeed, they were hated, feared, and seldom invited to the best brunches.

So they left.

And there was no story.

The en–

Hm?

“No story”, as in, “no story”, as in, “nothing to see here, I suggest you look away.”

Don’t look any closer at how the Villagers became strangely unmotivated. How they stopped singing as they worked (remember that singing during one’s work is not simply a conceit of the musical theatre, but a time-honored tradition for making the workday go faster, much like coffee breaks or heroin) and began to trudge more often. There’s nothing as demotivating as having your Villains give up on you.

The total lack of story was only the beginning of their punishment, but I recommend not otherwise looking too closely. No story, story over, look away. You don’t want to know what happens next.

Besides, didn’t your society recently drive out all of its Villains? I heard you’ve become ever so moral and appropriate and just terribly, excellently Good.

After all of human history, this is the moment when we’ve finally figured everything out. We know what’s Good, we know what’s Bad, and we’re going to tell you!

You get to experience the many joys thereof for yourself, you lucky, lucky thing.

And we’ll all live happily ever after and LIKE it, okay, bucko?

~Jeff Mach

 

My name is Jeff Mach (“Dark Lord” is optional) and I build communities, put on events, and make stories come into being. I also tweet a lot over @darklordjournal.

I write books. You should read them!

 

The post The Terribly Happy Storyteller appeared first on Jeff Mach Writes.

On The Virtues of Hobbit-Weed

This somehow managed not to get itself posted on 4/20. I blame Dark Magicks.

___

Like many who follow where the Road might lead,
I come in praise of Hobbit-Weed.
’tis the fire which spurs this deed:
each puff praises Hobbit-Weed.

Now when I speak of each puff’s praise –
The puff does the work. I just laze.
The ember’s path is its own sweet phrase.
Who needs words when you’ve merry blaze?

Now there are those who’ve given grief
(On the morals of Mary Jane blown by a thief)
They hold up notes in heavy sheaf:
Tolkien said Nicotiana leaf.

Well, what if he did? I apologize:
I didn’t know you spoke for the Wise
Just what authority can you devise
To speak on behalf of giant flaming Eyes?

So you’re saying a World lit by two giant trees,
Where were-bears barter honey with bees
Might have unrealistic chemistries
In the pipes of its various imaginaries?

Perhaps. Believe what you think best;
But of Wizards, Gandalf’s subtlest.
In medicinal herb he might invest
To say calm at Orcish ram and arbalest.

Consider. Did Aulë the Smith
Forge the first Dwarves from flint and myth
In order that their kin and kith
Might reap stress of being xenolith?

(This Hobbit-Weed is heavensent
And mellows words of harsh intent.
And many a pleasant day I’ve spent,
Thinking good thoughts, and smoking an Ent).

In a World of Tom Bombadiling,
Where magic’s nature’s oft-concealing
Where Rings of Magic need quick stealing,
Hobbit-Weed puffs peace unreeling.

Now, of the Mirkwood, smoke no part,
If valued are your beats of heart.
Caliginous from first spark of start,
Trollishness does its fume impart.

And Cirith Gorgor, The Black Gate,
Avoid the herbs, at any rate
(Though if you’re hearing this too late
You probably should have guessed it, mate.)

But the remarkable plans of the Shire
When rolled with care and touched by fire
Soothe the brow and ease hot ire
Before tea, and time to retire.

Hobbit-Weed, o Hobbit-Weed
Ember, light! Day, recede.
Sometimes I think all I might need
Is the One Ring,
and Hobbit-Weed.

_

“It’s a little-known fact, but Unicorns are something like 20% paint, and their horns are stolen exclusively from endangered species.”
― Jeff Mach, There and Never, Ever Back Again

You could go here to join my mailing list.

You could find more of my books and other work here on Amazon.

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Giving Candy To Villains

The As-Yet Unnamed Villainous Dinner, Sweets Course: 12,000 Scovill Peppermint Sticks

Wilbur Scovill is an extraordinarily young man with a very fertile mind. Crowley suggests that he won’t go on to formalize his current researches until the future; and Crowley is eerily accurate at predicting the future, for a man who cheats at Tarot cards.

He has perfected a method of measuring spice using a variant of some of the philtre we use in the transmutation of metals; Professor Challenger’s knowledge, as always, was invaluable, and this time he did not end engaging in fisticuffs with hardly anyone.

Now, amongst our injurious company of glorious rapscallions, it’s hard to miss Clovis; not unless he wants to be missed, in which case, he’s exactly wherever you least want to be, and vice-versa. Clovis has been whispering conspiratorially with Chef Anatole, who fortunately is a simply terrible liar. But now that the whole secret’s out, it’s perfectly fine. Almost all of us remember peppermint sticks from our school days, and whilst we really oughtn’t be indulging in the candy of youth, the nostalgia is tangible. Or that might be the spice particles; Wilbur predicts this will be fatal for nearly anyone who attempts it.

Unless they are well-prepared, of course. Wilbur is famously one of the first utilizers of milk to alleviate alimentary difficulties related to overpiquancy. Cow’s milk is good; goat’s milk is better; the milk of the Great God Pan is best, although it is essential to remember to invite him to the proper milking on the proper night.

At any rate, many of our more dextrous members believe they can follow the penny-candies with the priceless-elixirs with sufficient speed to retain their tongues. At any rate, the combination of the rare Royal cane sugar, the pure fresh-harvested peppermint, the Sphynx’s tears which will be providing the incendiary force (Dragon’s blood having proven sadly insufficient)—all of them together ought cleanse our palates; indeed, after such a combination, one’s palate might beg for a little despoiling.

Does the sense of taste really matter if you’re not willing to risk it completely on an incredibly painful but slightly delicious and utterly distinctive experience?

Yes. Yes, it does. I think we’re all mad. Or it might be the absinthe.

Honestly, if there’s a functional difference between insanity and wormwood-intoxication, I’ve yet to discover it.

 

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Appropriate Menu Design For The Felonious

At the risk of seeming a curmudgeon, I’ve felt an increasing concern that we may be losing the revered fine art of designing a menu for a fête of persons of natures purloinious and felonarial.

In this fast-moving age of bi-cycles and tri-cycles and even carriages whose horses have mysteriously vanished (and yet, somehow, they move; do not the simple see the devilish machinations here? …but that’s another story. We shall leave the discussion of “internal combustion” and “phlogiston” and other such phantasms.

I thought I’d start with the subject of dress. This is one of the most misunderstood areas, and I wanted to jot down just a note or two of encouragement and (I most dearly hope) a dollop of whatever slim wisdom I might be able to add to your existing busy lives of adventure and malcontentment.

This is one of the most misunderstood areas of merrymaking malodorous society, and no wonder. There’s not an immediate, visible difference between formal dress worn for pleasure and formal dress worn for spite. I refer to the fact that formal dress, as a reflection of ability to clothe one’s self in a specific manner involving considerable expense, is an excellent way to brag. That’s not a negative in and of itself; did not Anne Bonney’s ghost put on the most extraordinary fashion show before kidnapping an apparently-willing Queen Victoria? Of course she did. It’s not the fact of the brag but the nature of the braggart. Some scoundrels make you fall in love with their naughty bold ways; others will never provide more than the idle amusement of whether one ought put the fish-fork or the salad-fork through their left eye.

Dress is an enhancement, not a restriction. Certainly, it can be tedious to take a vestry-brush to the marrowbones embedded in the heels of your boots, or to soak the bloodstains from your favorite vestment. And the very few people who wear cloaks for their physical efficiency are called ‘matadors’; for those of us who are dealing with dining-rooms and China, not stadia and nettled kine, they are inconvenient at best, disastrous at worst.

(Who’ll forget the time Harry Flashman accidentally tripped over his and upset Dr. Manchu’s Sui vase, letting loose that Babylonian plague-demon and destroying all of civilization? That was rather the dust-up, eh?)

Those in conventional society are hardly immune from the ability to enjoy themselves. It’s merely that, living in circumstances where the ability to bring about change in accordance with will are frustrated by the constrictions of societal norms, they are often particularly guilty of treating the sartorial requirements of these soirees as if they were obligations alone, and not also opportunities.

We dress up, not because we wish to engage in puffery, nor because we are stuffed shirts (although, most certainly, after The Straw Man turned to transgression, we ought reconsider the disapprobrium associated with that now-elevated phrase). No, we dress to engage in the complicated art of arraying one’s self in a manner designed to utilize dress and fashion to bring pleasure and amusement to one’s self or others. Certainly, there will always be some whose response to fashion is rote; I, myself, shall always be one of those far more comfortable with a garrote than a neck-tie, and, were it not for the splendid company and fine refreshments I’ve known at certain tables, I should go so far as to say I’ve had more enjoyable times wearing the former than the latter.

But, while the imposition of fashion on one such as myself is no joy, I gain the civilized pleasure of knowing that though I have no skill for the thing, I can contribute by following rules, just as I can, were I to somehow gain skill, contribute by bending rules, or creating my own. Dinner parties are an excellent place to practice this philosophy, since, should the noble words start to wear thin, you can always dive into the sherry with both feet.

(Bear in mind that, ultimately, a dinner party ought be a pleasure. There are more than a few individuals who don’t know this particular etiquette, but whose sheer force of personality means we are particularly forgiving of transgression in dress. After all, the idea of a party is to party. If you’re throwing an event purely to look down on others, that’s called “normal society”, and we don’t engage in such practices here.)

You’ll note that, though I have already declaimed both my concerns and my desire to provide useful knowledge for practical application, I have not given a single word of advice on which boutonnière best compliments this season’s look, or whether the half-Windsor is really appropriate after seven p.m.

Rather, what I hope you will take away from this miniscule missive is a note that if you truly want guests who enjoy a marvelous dinner, cuisine in and of itself is not enough. The anxious revenant of Chef Anatole often quotes Escoffier: “So long as people don’t know how to eat they will not have good cooks.” This is a deep truth, although not, I suppose, as deep as Dagon in his watery lair (and wasn’t THAT just the prize dish at Tom Ramsay’s table this New Year’s Eve!) People need to learn how to eat in order to appreciate, understand, co-create with chefs. Likewise, they need to learn that each part of a dinner party is not some noisome test of how many mannerisms and customs one might memorize; but a living, breathing exercise of some of the skills obtained whilst those memorizations (and adding to them, one hopes, pleasant and devilish memories.)

Do stay tuned, dear readers. We’ve many more notes for the aspirant Villain.

Villainy is always best with a dash of flair, a joint of mutton, and a great deal of alcohol. Cheers, my friends!

_

“It’s a little-known fact, but Unicorns are something like 20% paint, and their horns are stolen exclusively from endangered species.”
― Jeff Mach, There and Never, Ever Back Again

You could go here to join my mailing list.

You could find more of my books and other work here on Amazon.

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