I thought to never know the agony and elation of giving birth being I am barren. No longer Maiden, approaching Crone, fertility escaped me leaving in its place a womb grown cold.
What a fractured incomplete framing of reality I’d been sold.
I’m blessed with riddles buried in folds of flesh awaiting recovery by shovel and pen strewn amongst my archeologist tools.
I dig, chip, reveal. There is agony followed by elation. Then comes a period of rest before I return to the site.
My creations Fathers are mostly fables I’ve spun. Tales whispered in darkness to lull myself to sleep. Once upon a time, I wanted Gods in my bed. Mortal men stood no chance balancing on pedestals built on sinking sand. I worshipped them as they glowed in the sun even if for only a moment.
Our children know Mother in ways their Fathers were never allowed. Seeing through glamours to ugly truths, they gift forgiveness for all that I cannot let roll off my tongue in casual conversation.
I have birthed hundreds thousands millions of youth nurtured in utero bricked up behind ribs caged with other unnamable beasts hidden in the temple of my chest.
I am forever heavy with child. Agony. Elation. Birth. Rest. Life continues on waiting for my next contraction.
Content Guidance: Abduction, Blood Consumption, Drug Use, General Gore, Homelessness, Mental Illness, Murder, Police Brutality, Power Dynamics, Profanity, Religious Trauma, Sexual Situations, Violence.
Game: Blood Borg written by Adam Vass of World Champ Game Co. & illustrated by Mitchell Van Dyke.
Brief Game Overview: Direct from the creator, Adam Vass, “Blood Borg is a gutter punk vampiric tabletop rpg for 2+ players including a gamemaster. Run through the sewers, copy your magic zines, and drain all the human sheep around you in the decrepit city of Scab.”
Main Quest: To find the members of the pack who are scattered around the city.
Where the fuck are they?
Cordelia- in deep shit needing help in Crofton
Dominique- hanging with a clique Iris hates in Crimson Hills
Screech- pissed off at Iris skulking around somewhere in Sextonville
Starting Time & Date: 11:11 pm, 198Xish
Weather & Moon Phase: Heavy rain continues, the wet amplifies the stink of the gutters. Waxing Crescent Moon.
Starting Location:City of Scab, Sextonville, The All Seeing Eye Metaphysical Shop.
Squat Inventory: 4 coffins, single twin bed, boombox & cassette tape collection, first aid kit, fire extinguisher, wind up alarm clock, batteries, mini fridge with 2 human meals, locked community stash box & smoking accessories, Grim’s cage, & special bird seed mix. Part of the squat is used as storage for The All Seeing Eye which consists of a few shelves of inventory and cleaning supplies.
Session 0 Tarot Reading: Interpretation will be recorded in Session 1.
Who – Queen of Grails
What – Six of Skulls
When – Ace of Scepters
Why – The Empress
Short Term Goal(s):
Retrieve all missing pack members in one piece if possible.
Make it through one fucking concert without incident!
Long Term Goal(s):
To expose, successfully evade, & kill the hunter.
Fortify The All Seeing Eye.
Main PC Details: Iris XO
STATS: Vamp Type – Black Heart, HP=9, Strength +1, Agility -1, Presence +2, Toughness 0, Armor– Studded Leather Jacket d3, Weapon– Brass Knuckles d4, Powers & Abilities – Personal Space & Familiar
Physical Description – Iris is 5’7” with a voluptuous figure, milk chocolate colored skin, deep brown almond shaped eyes, pouty lips, and a natural afro she often dyes jet black or a rich shade of purple. She appears to be in her late 30s to early 40s.
Familiar – Grim, a rotting corvid, mocks her sadness, quotes poetry and song lyrics, and hovers just above Iris’s shoulder at all times unless commanded otherwise.
HP=8, Weapon– Talon d4
Specialty– Sound mimicry d4.
Inventory: Punishment & Pause Spell Zines, deck of Tarot cards wrapped in a silk scarf, keys on a rabbit foot keychain, Zippo engraved with her name, 3 joints, $45 cash, tube of MAC’s Russian Red lipstick, bag of bird treats, & small black leather sling bag.
Owns The All Seeing Eye Metaphysical Shop. The pack squat is located in the back storage room.
Iris was turned by an artist she posed for to make quick cash. He attempted to make her his eternal muse.
Iris misses the soft kiss of her beloved Thomas (deceased) more than anything.
She was institutionalized as a danger to herself when she refused to marry the man picked by her domineering father.
Iris is devoutly faithful to those she considers kin which are few and far between.
Pack Details: (Using provided pregens with slight modifications)
Cordelia Samson (Vamp Type– Blood Bath), black widow serial killer, expert with blades (worked circus sideshows), first member invited to live with Iris. Their relationship is like that of siblings where Cordy is the little sister.
Physical Description: Cordy is 5’9” with an athletic build and permanently suntanned skin. She has blonde shoulder length hair, ocean blue eyes, is heavily tattooed, and appears to be in her mid to late twenties.
Dominique Trudeau (Vamp Type – Bottom Feeder), a sex worker with a trail of broken hearts following behind her, the vamp got into trouble with a sick freak Pig. She was getting the shit kicked out of her as Cordy happened upon the scene. Cordelia saved her ass and brought home the bacon for breakfast. The pair quickly became an item. Iris let her into the pack out of respect for Cordelia. She doesn’t trust Dominique, but tolerates her for now. *I Will be using Soloist Venture’s NPC Trust Tracker for Iris & Dominique’s relationship.
Physical Description: Dominique is a 5’5”, petite, porcelain skinned beauty with eyes the color of a shifting grey sky. Her auburn hair flows past her shoulders to her waist in loose curls. She appears to be in her early 20s and is very waif like – fragile, delicate in appearance as if a strong wind could blow her away.
Inventory: Pet (Death Scream in a mason jar), Urn with Relative’s ashes, deck of Oracle Cards, $11 cash, key on a necklace worn round her neck, pink shoulder bag full of drug store cosmetics, condoms, & gum.
Screech Beckinsale (Vamp Type – Junk Lord), an ecoterrorist no stranger to surviving under cover of darkness, he was turned by a houseless person in exchange for assistance. He uses his powers to deal out justice to rich fucks who cheat the system. Screech is Iris’s on and off lover. He wants a committed relationship, but she ain’t down with that shit. He makes the fourth in the pack.
Physical Description: Screech is 6’1”, muscular with a bit of meat on his bones, but very agile for a larger guy. His eyes are an ebony shade that appears to have deep greens and browns shimmering in them. Screech flashes his bright white teeth, which sets off his olive skin beautifully, at every opportunity he gets. He keeps his beard and goatee neatly trimmed and black hair is styled in a short mohawk. Screech also has multiple piercings in his ears and face and several tattoos. His largest and most intricate tat is a portrait of Ivy squeezing a heart in her palm across his back. Screech appears to be in his mid 30s.
Inventory: 4 batteries, unidentified bones for osteomancy (bone casting/divination), a can of spray paint, wallet on chain with $90 cash & keys, Hippie Crystals in a pouch, & book of waterproof matches all hidden in one of the many pockets of his black trench coat.
Thrall Details:
Zero (Manager of The All Seeing Eye) pledged fealty to Iris XO, is a soft spoken, baby faced, 24 year old male. He is 6’3” with a wiry frame. Zero has flaming red hair, emerald eyes with flecks of amber, and a splattering of freckles across his cheeks.
He is a lonely outcast that keeps a standing therapy appointment on Thursday evenings.
Iris felt a strange unexplainable pull towards Zero when she bumped into him at a local club event. Curious, she followed Zero home watching him from a distance. She left without turning or draining him, though unsure why. One evening a few days later, he opened the door to The All Seeing Eye and shyly asked for a tarot reading. Iris happily complied taking his appearance as a good omen. She invited him to return. And he did never leaving.
Inventory: Skateboard, busted handheld video game, Instill Fear Spell Zine, wallet with $160 cash, keys, & 1 joint.
Hunter Details: Their hunter is a desperate feral freak who is obsessed with collecting their heads as trophies to complete an unholy ritual.
Hunter Tracker: d20
Faction Standings:
4th St Coven in Croften +3
River Boys in Black Grove +1
Chameleon in Down Town -2
Holy Riders in Greenfaire +3
Shrine Keepers in Greenfaire +1
Cold Hands in Crimson Hills -3
Homebrew Rules:
Tarot Reading: Iris will be doing a reading at the start of each game session either for herself or another character. I will use this for creative writing inspiration.
Stats: Borg games are notoriously deadly and though Blood Borg seems to be more forgiving, I want to have fun with these characters for a longer campaign. I’ve adjusted stats to give them a better chance of survival and reserve the right to rebalance them as I see fit. There will still be plenty of blood, guts, and death.
Hunters: To simplify my game play and reduce things to track, instead of each vampire having their own Hunter, all pack members will be sharing one.
I will roll as per the rules each session to see how close the Hunter is to finding our squat. I am still mulling over how I will approach final confrontations. Hopefully, that is a ways off.
Factions: I’ll update faction standings at the end of each session depending on interactions during any encounters between characters.
A fistful of trust issues and brain stained purple by midnight blooms makes for an interesting partner in the coliseum.
How does trident and net fare against the gladius? Shall we see after Praeco departs? When Trumpeter horn announces impending doom or victory? While being reborn veiled in vernix caseosa, dripping amniotic fluid before a raving mad crowd?
Demand for blood geysers drowns all reason. Instinct, adrenaline, fear fuels our choreography. We are dancing the dance for Lady Death yet, hesitating attempting to avoid the finality of her grasp.
She erases lines drawn in sand as if to say, “Hey you, look to me one last time and let us entertain them.”
Throat chewed out displayed in light of day sugar crystals ground into split lip from the beating I’ve been blessed with.
Always the favorite, I’m punished as reward because sweetness drips from my wounded heart acting as insulation to comfort a cold body.
My bruised arms cover the little boy’s pain hidden in plain sight. It lurks behind his grown man eyes. It bores black holes straight through the wreck of me.
Damn bloody work being sacrificial lamb. Over playing victim, I tire of being served as a God’s offering. Oh, my Goddess, won’t the slayer be surprised upon returning to the scene of the crime finding me transformed into the altar?
Ward ignites via candle flame to protect the sanctuary of my habitat bedroom. Heady jasmine incense curls around invisible barriers. I scry. Nothing appears in the obsidian mirror.
I shed skin as the sun goes down on me. Warmth radiates from brain stem, along snaking spine, to end at my rattler tail.
Sticky with humidity, tonight’s July air hugs my curves as sweat glistens on flesh. Petrichor arrives- an omen. Late night summer rain threatens to spill across the threshold of an open window.
Pen in hand, blank paper beneath. Blood thickens, serves as ink. Hisses. Puffs. Rumbles. Growls. A spell compels falling away of scales.
Suddenly, you appear in my mirror. I knew I’d find you. You’re always near. Now I write.
Sitting at the kitchen table fingering grocery store flowers three days old, weeping over a mason jar glass while your seat’s gone cold again.
Head hanging low, I am an angry bitter being. Tongue rebelling, stomach curdling from the aftertaste- a spoonful of overdone heart.
There’s more than one cook stirring this dinner pot. She’s licking pink lips while dipping painted fingertips into the brew.
My fraying dirty apron hanging crooked on the hook is sauce splattered, stained by our reincarnations each ending badly.
Yet, here I go again, thumbing through grandma’s recipe box. Scrawling handwriting noting, “the secret to a man’s heart is pleasing him, filling up his gut.” But, I’m finished going hungry choking on crumbs, snatching stolen bites as he dines on wildflower honey spread thick across warm homemade bread.
I’d soften my body, mind, and behavior to melt into you. I’ll comb out the knots to let down my hair from this tower room, then blossom as you climb the length to me. I want to be your soft girl, perfumed pillow, secret heart lover. I want you to be my only man, sacred space, sun and moon lover. Carve your mark into my bones with your antlers to set me free.
Everything I scrawl across the page is a soundtrack bass bumping in my head. I wish I could sketch each note onto your chest for safekeeping. Our song plays behind my eyelids. It’s the flipping of comic book pages in the hands of a child.
This is the chorus. I’ll passive aggressively hint this poem is about you. You and Me. Repeat times three.
I can’t compose music or hold a tune, but I can string words together by the handful to make jewelry from diamonds and pearls to remember you by.
This is the chorus. I’ll passive aggressively hint this poem is about you. You and Me. Repeat times three.
Are you okay with pebbles and sand I will inevitably shake onto your rug? Can’t promise I’ll clean the mess up because I’m already whistling a brand new song.
This is the chorus. I’ll passive aggressively hint this poem is about you. You and Me. Repeat times three.
One day my teeth will betray me. I’ll bite clean through meat, gristle, fat. Vegetarianism falls flat when your demon is splayed out on the kitchen table.
I’m a liar. I’m a truth teller. Know this about me. I do not crave veg, fruit, bread. I’m no honeybee. It’s always been about flesh with little desire for the flower. The more my palms manipulate between these two warm lips the better.
I want an overfilled larder, an organized walk-in pantry, lined with rows of specimens. I am a greedy needy girl. Ignore me lover at your peril. I will stage a hunger strike requiring a forced feeding.
Oh, my unending appetite! I can’t be bothered to tame it. The devil is always ready. It’ll claw itself up and out my pitted heart and esophagus, tickle the epiglottis until I spew stew onto the dinner plate.
I want to slip a knife through its rolls and fucking end me.
Gravity leaves us swimming in the weeds Queen Anne’s lace floral refuse left behind reveals an alternative state of being in my divination tea.
Would you chase me if I was a bun bun? We could nibble wild carrots root, leaf, all. Would you catch me? Steal my lucky paw? So many questions, so few answers emerge at the bottom of my teacup.
I’d be an astronaut on another planet in a different timeline with you Comrade. As I close my eyes, we meet in a myriad of multiverses orbiting each other time after time.
