More Personal BS

Posted by Dorian Dawes on

I don’t think people realize how truly close to the breaking point I actually am. Every day is a literal struggle for me. I’m struggling to do anything besides sit in the dark for hours staring at the ceiling. I’m struggling to live. Every part in me is craving for darkness, total oblivion. 

Some people have everything together. Some people have it all. They get to live their lives normally, they get to make things without fear. They get to pass down judgement on all of us for not being like them.

Bully for them. Good job for them, the ones who are sane. Right now though, I’m coming apart at the seams. I feel the threads loosening and soon like a ragdoll I’m going to collapse into a billion pieces of rags and stuffing.

I can’t handle things anymore. I need help. But where is it going to come from? Who is going to be there for me? The minute I collapse is the second all those around me will. There are so many people depending on me to always be there to always be the one they can cry to.

I’m not like my mother. I don’t have an invisible man in the sky who always talks to me. He was never there in my teenage years, and he won’t be there now. He doesn’t exist, he’s a pretty lie some people make up to feel good about themselves and the world. It’s a nice thought really, the concept of a loving deity who has a plan for everything and that even the worst things in our lives will move us towards a wonderful endgame.

For the rest of us there are only the endless days forwards. There are the nights spent staring at darkness. There are the days when the noise is too great and nights when the silence is deafening.

Somewhere, sometime, I need to a rest from it all. I need a respite from this nightmare. When, though? When do I get to be the one that has a spat has a breakdown? When do I get to start screaming at everyone and everything who has ever hurt me?

The answer is: never. Because the world doesn’t stop, their pain doesn’t stop and I’m the only one with the ability to push everything away just long enough to be that shoulder to cry on, to be that force of stability in someone else’s life. 

The well is drying up. The volcano is about to burst. I pray to god nobody has to see the corpses left in my wake when the monster in me breaks loose.

The Nightmare

Posted by Dorian Dawes on

Had a dream last night where there was this beautiful evil man who consistently would stalk and torment me. He would come up to me, break down my barriers, kiss me, then humiliate me and do things to sabotage my work. And I kept falling for it, over and over and over again.

Fortunately it was only a dream because if it were real I would have probably killed him before I let any man manipulate me that way. I am nobody’s puppet. It was a horrifying dream, the idea that I would be once again weak where someone else could play on my that way.

Through the past two years, I took strength in my relationship. I could laugh off anyone’s attempts to hit on me by throwing that in their face. My dedication and love was my foundation.

Now…well, that’s kind of gone and I don’t know if I’ll have the strength to resist someone that way now. The idea of being put once more in a situation I was in two and a half years ago with someone who manipulated me, sought to control my every action and belittle me, someone who raped me…that’s the most horrible thought ever.

I don’t drink or take any substance for the very reason that the idea of losing control is terrifying. The idea of once more being vulnerable in the presence of another human being is scarier than any monster that lives inside my head (of which there are many).

Basically, I am never looking for any relationship ever because of how fucked up I’ve been the last half decade of my life.

The Mindset of Sexist Game Developers

Posted by Dorian Dawes on

Normally, when bringing up the topic of sexism in gaming, I’m loathe to actually refer to any of the developers as sexist, as usually these are mistakes committed out of pure ignorance. Nobody wants to think of themselves as sexist or chauvinist, and when addressing these issues, it’s much easier to create a dialogue by not throwing out accusatory words and terms. Yet there are some moments when the behavior of certain developers is so outrageous that it’s officially time to dust off the boots and make them wear it (if you’ll pardon the mangled colloquialism).

Recently Jason Schreier over at Kotaku criticized the character design of Dragon’s Crown Sorceress, saying she looked like she was pulled out of a 14 year-old boy’s doodle-pad. This was not only a commentary on the over-the-top sexualization of the character, but also on the poor quality of the design in general.

In response to the article, Dragon’s Crown artist George Kamitani, president of Vanillaware shared this on his facebook.

Image

Cue, slow-clapping sounds. Very, very tasteful Mr. Kamitani. Very tasteful, indeed.

Obviously by the selection of large, naked dwarf men embracing one another you mean to imply that the only reason anyone would find your busty female character designs in poor taste are that they must be gay! Not only is this a juvenile retort one might actually expect of a 14 year-old but is also slightly homophobic. It’s using homosexuality to belittle another person. Bad form, Mr. Kamitani!

This is exemplary of this boy’s club mindset that’s currently plaguing the game’s industry. This total disregard for quality control and marginalization of anyone who isn’t a slovenly neckbearded guy jacking off over fanservice T&A.

There are many heterosexual gamers who are put off by this creepy objectification of women, mature adults who don’t want to even touch Dragon’s Crown because frankly they don’t want to be seen as endorsing that kind of behavior. Then you have the gay men who are going to be put off by your homophobic implications, Mr. Kamitani, myself included. And then of course, there is the vast majority of female gamers who are going to feel uncomfortable and put-off by this attitude, because it’s the same one they face every time they have to go into a gamestop and are treated like an object by those within, who have to sit there and endure the uncomfortable cat-calls and inappropriate grabs if they decide to cosplay at a convention.

Kamitani tries to point that each of the characters in Dragon’s Crown are hyper-sexualized, but the difference is that when a man undergoes this kind of fetishization, he doesn’t encounter this same kind of treatment. When a man takes his shirt off for a cosplay at a convention, the most he’ll get are some pictures of his cosplay…not women grabbing his junk inappropriately ((Redacted)). He also won’t be called into question for any of his other talents, or ever reduced to solely that of his physical appearance.

Finally, I’d like to add that the character design of some of the female characters of Dragon’s Crown are just all around bland and uninteresting. None of them particularly stand out and merely fade into the background of every other hyper-boobed anime female video game character. I don’t necessarily see a problem with characters that are sexy or titillating, but when fan-service gets in the way of crafting unique and interesting characters that serve to enrich the world you’re building and the story you’re telling, the product is hurt as a whole, and nobody wants to see that.

Don’t Rest Your Head: The Growth – Session 1 Pt. 2 Oliver

Posted by Dorian Dawes on

In Don’t Rest Your Head, as opposed to the opening scene being narrated by the Game Master, this is given to the player. Again, DRYH emphasizes player agency, which is why the rulebook refers to them as protagonists.

Scene #1

For his opening scene, after a few hours at work, trying to distract himself from his thoughts with a book, Oliver found that he wasn’t alone in the junkyard. There was a loud clattering noise when a pile of metal scraps fell, and then louder disturbances as if someone he couldn’t see was running around knocking things over and causing chaos. The calling got louder, screams that only he could hear with the ground melting beneath his feet until everything went black. The black faded to a haze of unfamiliar surroundings and he opened his eyes to find himself in his bedroom with his shirt and hands covered in someone else’s blood. (as written by Bastian)

He stares in shock and confusion at his bloody reflection only to hear footsteps coming up the stairs. He can see red and blue flashing lights out the window of his apartment. Oliver makes a mad dash out the building only to black out once more.

When he comes to, he’s standing outside in utter darkness. The only source of light is an odd street-lamp at the end of the corner, but he has no time to observe it with any detail. The red and blue lights are coming for him again, this time accompanied by a shrieking siren. He books it, hands and feet flying. He can’t outrun this car forever.

Immediately, he begins looking around for a hiding spot. There is something that looks like an alley near him. He dives into the darkness, only to find that the further he goes down the narrower the alley becomes as if the buildings are melting together. He can only get so far before he has to duck down into the darkness and pray for the best.

He’s sweating bullets as he hears the cop car come to a shrieking stop just outside the alley. The flashing lights create a dizzying spectacle against the walls of the alley Oliver’s chosen to hide in. He can see bricks of various textures and ages of decay and styles of architecture haphazardly smashed together, like a child put this city together out of mismatched Lego bricks from different decades. He hears footsteps but can’t see the policemen yet, only four blue flames flickering in the dark.

A hand reaches for him and grabs him by the scruff of his collar jerking him out of the alleyway. For the first time he can look into the face of those chasing him. It’s what appears to be a man only his eyes are empty blank sockets and only flickering blue flames fill them. His skin is oddly textured with little bumps and raised edges and then Oliver realizes the man grabbing him his made of wax.

“Who are you, and what are you doing out alone in the streets?” The wax-man screams.

The other one, who’s wax has dripped over his clothes and of seemingly larger bulk comes to join him. “What my brother means to ask is, are you okay? You’re covered in blood!”

Oliver looks to both of them. Throughout his life he’s become accustomed to passing himself off as someone else, lying about who he actually is to trick other people into believing his own constructed fantasies. He can make anyone think he’s what he wants to be, whether that’s a married man with a wife and kids, or a vicious and powerful tycoon, or someone just charming and suave. He’s none of these things, he’s just Oliver Jr, the broke son of a writer. He immediately begins to think of a yarn to spin for these two gentlemen.

He can’t tell them the truth. It sounds too shady. A man blacking out and waking up with blood on his clothes, blood that is decidedly not his. Anyone would bring him in for questioning, and if he wants to know what happened during those hours of darkness, he’ll need to be a free man to do it, even when faced with such impossible absurdities.

Oliver tells the candle-cops that he’s been in a terrible car accident and that he may need to get to a hospital. There’s a moment of hesitation and he wonders if even such strange creatures could buy such an obvious falsehood. They look back and forth to each other and the moment taxes him. For the first time Oliver feels the pangs of sleep calling for his eyelids, and then the second one grabs his brother’s hands and forces him to release Oliver.

“We gotta get this man to a hospital! Quick!” They grab Oliver and throw him into the back of the police car and race off speeding into the night.

Oliver looks out the windows, seeing the bizarre rooftops and buildings all squished too closely together. This is not the city he left. He can’t tell if he’s dreaming or if he’s simply gone insane. He shrugs his shoulders and lies down in the back of the car, resigning himself to let whatever happens come.

End scene.

Don’t Rest Your Head: The Growth Session 1 Pt. 1 Introduction and Characters

Posted by Dorian Dawes on

Don’t Rest Your Head is an indie tabletop RPG where players take on the role of insomniacs, sleepless men and women who for whatever reason can no longer fall asleep. One night, at a pivotal point in their life, be it mundane or supernatural, they find themselves in a strange city, full of the anachronisms of times collapsed upon each other in a dizzying amalgamation. This is the Mad City, and they have become the Awake, a place where sadness and memories can be purchased, and order is kept by a man with a pocket-watch for his head. The Awake have discovered special powers, talents that tax their sanity and their sleepless bodies; however, they will be stalked and tormented by the vicious nightmares that populate the city, eagerly hunting them down. Every action will bring the Awake one step closer to perilous sleep, or to falling into madness and becoming nightmares themselves.

The game has essentially one goal, in the words of Nancy Thompson, “Don’t. Fall. Asleep.”

Don’t Rest Your Head remains fairly character-driven as the nightmares and the situations the characters find themselves in will be determined by the personal stories and the paths the players set out for their characters. Their special abilities usually come from their own inner struggles and real-world talents. Plot is usually determined based off of the player’s chosen path for their character, example what the character is hoping to achieve in their life, or in the Mad City.

Because of the character-driven nature of the game, as opposed to setting up a natural plot, I merely introduced a new adversary into the mix and built upon the world based off the events of the previous campaign I’d run. In the last game, a young girl Marceline and a runaway gay youth named Ryan were tasked by the Wax King to destroy the factory of flamethrowers run by Officer Tock and Mr. Tack that were being used against is candlewick army. They succeeded, and in exchange he was able to send them home to the slumbering city.

Now, the Wax King has taken over the Mad City, ousting Officer Tock and Mr. Tack from their positions of power and replacing all members of authority with his loyal candlewicks. He has also blotted out the sun with his special machines, for the candle army thrives best in the dark where only they can see. Yet something has stirred since his people have abandoned the sewers, and without the coming of the dawn there is nothing left now to hold it back from spreading its terrible filth across the land.

I didn’t want there to be too much emphasis on the plot and setting as I wanted to leave the direction of the story primarily in the player’s hands; however, I needed very much to create for them a terrible adversary. It needed something to be enigmatic and terrible for them to overcome or succumb to depending upon their chosen stories.

Without further ado, I give you the player-characters I’m going to torment.

Oliver Lennox Jr. played by Bastian, my boyfriend

The son of an experimental genre author most well known for a surreal novel that has achieved moderate cult status. His son however has spent all of his father’s money and now in his 40′s, has taken work guarding a junkyard. Voices in his head calling to his darkest desires and cruelest intentions keep him awake at night. He has a talent for obfuscation, lying to others about who he is, deceiving them into thinking he’s a much more interesting person than what they think. In the Mad City, he dips into the pools of insanity to bring the surreal visions of his father’s book to life in terrible ways. Oliver will either try to suppress his dark urges, or give into them and embrace his newfound power.

Marceline “Mara” Myers played by Owl

Years ago as a child, she found herself wandering around the Mad City, tormented by Mother When, the nightmarish school marm, and her vicious Ladies in Hating relying on her only friend to protect her, a dog named Casey. Marceline survived the encounter and returned to her mother safe and sound. Unfortunately, this happiness was not too last as crime gradually overtook her neighborhood and the gangs grew more violent and more powerful. Casey was the first casualty, and then they came after her mother. Marceline has now joined the rival gang of those responsible for the death of her loved ones and now calls herself Mara. Their war is coming to a bloody conclusion and she’s been losing sleep over it. Normally, Mara has a talent for manipulating others into doing what she wants them to do. Now that she’s awake, she can summon any weapon she needs out of thin air to blast away her enemies.  Her one goal is revenge, to take out the gang who killed her mother.

These characters are smart and resourceful and seemingly well empowered to deal with whatever the Mad City has to throw their way. Perhaps if things were simply as they had been when Ryan and Marceline had first chanced upon it some years ago, it would be enough to survive, but now that the Growth has awakened and the disease has begun to spread these new nightmares, death may be preferable to the horror that is to come.

Oliver, Mara, welcome to the Mad City.

Don’t. Fall. Asleep.

More to come later…

Nightmares

Posted by Dorian Dawes on

I’ve come to believe lately that I have no true enemies in the world, at least none with the power to harm me that my own mind can not match in spades. Even in dreams I know how to torture myself better than anyone around me. I know all the wounds across my spirit, every place I can pick at the scars and open them up, pour salt across them, etc.

People usually ask me if my horror stories and love of the genre ever gives me nightmares. It doesn’t. Nothing I write is ever as scary as what it’s like inside my own head. The nightmare I had last night is proof of that. There are no monsters chasing me in my dreams, not anymore. In my dreams, the monster is me.

I’m 23 years-old and I’ve not graduated school, because I’ve been out of school for the past three years. The current stress of my living situation at the time caused me to want to take a break and re-examine my life and get things started again. Then my life went through several major changes. Now, I’m back home and the prospect keeps coming up. There were a few close calls, but unfortunately the state of Florida insists that it still needs my parents tax information and when a few papers arrived too late, that was it.

I’m actually glad I couldn’t get the financial aid I needed though. With the current state of affairs, I couldn’t concentrate on my studies. Not when I spend literal hours staring into space because of how much pain I’m in. With everything that’s going on and my inability to get treatment for my condition due to funds my GPA would plummet and that would be that. I don’t need another prospective failure so there’s no sense in putting myself in a situation where I know I would flounder around.

My terror of this every time it’s brought up by those around me turned itself into one of the most vicious and cruel nightmares I’ve ever had. My family and I, taking a tour of a campus, and every time I asked, “What about students with mental illnesses?” People just laughed. I don’t know why I kept asking.

There were all these activities for students. Plays, track-team, some weird thing where everyone held hands and ran around in a circle that I didn’t even understand. It was a bizarre amalgamation of school activities I’ve seen throughout my life, but all presented in a way that was alien, incomprehensible. It was all so that everyone looked happy and normal, and I was the outsider watching people live their lives and being utterly unable to function.

My parents were there, and Mom wanted me to sign up immediately. Because it’d be good for me, she said. That was when I lost it. I started screaming about how it felt to be raped, how someone had terrified me into acquiescing to their every will, how my mind and soul is in pieces still two years after the fact.

And her response, though it was only a dream is going to haunt me for the rest of my life, “I liked you so much better when you were a kid. You were more open to things. More fun.”

I was crushed by that. Everything fell into despair and agony. I woke up and had to wipe my tears as my mother actually had come to wake me up then. She wants me to watch the kids when they get out of school today. I told her I would.

That’s it, that’s the nightmare. The nightmare that I am dysfunctional, hated, alien; where everyone has moved on with their lives but me. School is no longer just a scary institution where I will see myself fail, it’s a place where all of my broken pieces will be put on display for the whole world to watch and laugh at.

If I could channel all of that into a story, I’d be the greatest horror writer there ever was.