[PBF][Recruitment Closed] A Horror Game


#81

For sure! :grinning: I think we’ll be able to avoid the easy pitfalls that other horror media falls into concerning the mentally ill. Thanks again for your input!

Again, the list of limits and boundaries isn’t static, so if anything comes up that someone isn’t comfortable with, let us know and we’ll make it work.

The next step is Questions.

I have some questions for our characters, which I’m currently organizing and will post later on today. These are meant to flesh out the characters and the world. I’ll ask my round of questions first, and once they’ve been answered the players can also ask questions of each other. When we’re done with questions, we’ll be ready to begin.

Nearly there! :smile:


#82

Excited to get going!


#83

Questions

For Hancock (@Lassemomme):
-How did you hurt the person your cherished most when you hit rock bottom as an alcoholic?
-What moment do you remember that most convinces you to never come out of your shell?
-The officer–yes, that one–shows up in your dreams in the same way, but the same thing is always wrong about the scene. What is it?

For Molly (@NoCoastGaming):
-Which rumors surrounding your family do you refuse to think about for fear they might be true?
-Which of your photographs is your favorite? Which do you keep hidden in your closet?
-The mugger said something very odd to your just before he cut your face. What was it?

For the Viscount (@Foofaraw):

  • As a independent musician, you have fans of all kinds. What was the strangest experience you had with a fan / group of fans?
    -You’ve been searching for one very rare item in particular to contribute to your persona and art. What is it, and why do occultists scowl when you mention it?
    -There’s a song you’ve been working on for a while, but it’s not ready. Who’s it for? What’s missing?

For Riley (@Mike):
-What event caused your mother’s disfigurement? Why do you feel responsible?
-What period of history interests you the most?
-Which of your childhood pets did you connect with most? How did they save you?

For Murphy (@chainsaw):
-When you were at home, your mother read your comatose father the same book, a book you hate, over and over. What was it?
-Your mother sends you letters every other day, even while you’re at Princeton. The envelope always contains something, in addition to a letter. What is it? What do you do with it?
-What was the one thing you could never quite put back together, despite years of trying?


#84
  • My mother was disfigured in an operation gone wrong, a small lump being removed from her cheek resulted in accidental nerve damage that causes that side of her face to droop. I’ve never felt responsible but would lash out at kids who teased me about it, and have always been fiercely protective over my mother.

  • The Romans interest me the most, the backstabbing, the intrigue, the culture. Particularly in the years before, during and after the birth, rise and fall of Julius Ceaser

  • I’ve always been more of a cat person than a dog person. Don’t get me wrong I’ll pet a dog and have never been afraid of them but cats seem more at my speed, I’ve always loved the way affection from them feels special, like they could take it away at any second if they wanted to. They always gave me something to love when I had nothing else.


#85

Love it:

1.) I’ve always known something was wrong with my family, aside from the terse dinners and the shouting that came from my parent’s room at night. Sometimes as I slunk out of class I’d hear whispers, rumors that my family didn’t just own a pharmaceutical company, but that they were purposefully letting certain chemical compounds slip out. At the time of the rumors, new designer drugs began to pop up at parties and in the newspaper.

2.) I lived in Japan briefly in my mid-twenties. It was a bittersweet time. I lived there with my last long term partner who taught English as a second language, however I never found work myself. I’d just wander around the sleepy streets of Toyama, Chu-Hi in hand, and take photographs. Our relationship began to crumble after six months and I decided to come home to the states and start over. On the Shinkansen to Narita airport, I passed Mt. Fuji. Just like in ancient paintings of it, a single ring of fog encircled the peak. Even though we were traveling at 100+ mph, I managed to catch a single frame of it. Though the photo is blurred, smeared, a rough facsimile of Mt. Fuji’s truth.

3.) When it happened, I had had a few to drink. I sort of didn’t care that I was being robbed and told him what a tiny little man he was. He said nothing, and that’s the worst part. He didn’t need to cut my face, I willingly gave him everything I had. It was like he needed a way to feel more powerful than me, that the contents of my wallet wasn’t enough. That he couldn’t stand the thought of a woman telling him he was small.


#86

-How did you hurt the person your cherished most when you hit rock bottom as an alcoholic?

I didn’t, because I had no one left to cherish. My parents are dead, I never married, never owned a dog. My squad mates were my family. The only person suffering from my alcoholism was my own damn self, and I decided that if all I had left from those departed friendships was hurting and drinking and crying, then I would rather be without friends at all. If I don’t have to care I don’t have to deal with my bullshit either.

-What moment do you remember that most convinces you to never come out of your shell?

I remember my second in command telling me about going hunting in alaska, how the wolves would howl at the moon and how the snow would crackle under your feet. I remember another soldier describing the ball games at yankee stadium in the humid New York summer and how the human masses would shift to and fro between the innings. I then remember both of them dead in my arms under a bloody sun.

-The officer–yes, that one–shows up in your dreams in the same way, but the same thing is always wrong about the scene. What is it?

The son of a bitch is everywhere. On the hill where my squad was slaughtered, at the military court, even in my own god damn bar I can’t be rid of him. But for some reason he’s always crying. It doesn’t make a lick of sense, because that bastard never cried about anything. not once. I want to hit him. I want to hit him and kick him, and rip and bite and tear at his very existence. I want to shoot him dead in the middle of the street, but he won’t stop crying, and I just can’t do it


#87
  1. After shows that I’ve felt particularly proud of, they seem to be there. A group of five, maybe six, individuals dressed in black robes. The clothes themselves are not that abnormal. It’s their faces. I can’t see them. I look where their eyes should be, and I can’t make anything out. I talk to them, and I understand their meaning, but I never remember their words. I can’t tell if their appearance is because of an exceptional performance, or if they are the reason that the show feels so cathartic. I never see them at the start of a show, and, even though they seem to mean things are going well, I always feel uneasy at their presence.

  2. The Talisman of Al’Kah’Zaket. I went through an Egyptology phase, and something about this ornamental necklace struck me. A spiritual guiding talisman used by the High Priest of Pharaoh Senedj of the Second Dynasty, this relic is said to hold the songs of Anubis. I think these songs are meant to guide us through the underworld and to enlightenment. Most of those I share secrets with disagree. The more optimistic say that it doesn’t exist, and the text surrounding it are limited and made by known charlatans. Others, speaking only when alone, and even then with the most hushed tones, say it is the song to call down Ra to guide the sun to its end.

  3. I’m writing a song for my parents. I want to thank them for all the support they have given me, but sadness keeps slipping in between the chords. Everytime I try to push away from the melancholy, it appears to get stronger. Deeper. There have been times when I’m writing that I become overwhelmed, and I can do nothing but weep for hours. Am I driving myself away from happiness. Is there some force keeping me showing how I feel toward them. Am I just finding excuses for writer’s block to a song that is too hard to write?


#88

-When you were at home, your mother read your comatose father the same book, a book you hate, over and over. What was it?
That awful, awful Charles Dickens mess of a novel, A Tale of Two Cities. It’s entire premise hinges on a series of ludicrous coincidences and mechanisms that make no sense, serve no purpose other than shallow sentimentality. Even just the prose makes my skin crawl, the language, the endless sentences. Mother read it so flatly, like the words were just pouring out of her like sludge. The nights that she read it and didn’t make me listen I would shove cotton in my ears and wrap a pillow around my head.

-Your mother sends you letters every other day, even while you’re at Princeton. The envelope always contains something, in addition to a letter. What is it? What do you do with it?
I’ve only ever opened one. It was heavier than the rest - I received it my first Christmas at Princeton. It had a pendant in it, a locket. I opened it, but the hinge was slightly broken so I ended up just pulling it all apart, each ring of the necklace chain as well until it was all in pieces. I shut the mess of it in the bottom drawer of my desk.

-What was the one thing you could never quite put back together, despite years of trying?
My mother’s left headlight of her 1981 Honda Accord just would not stay fixed. I must have replaced a thousand bulbs, wires, connections. It’d be fixed when I went to bed and by the time I got home from school or work, not a single crack in the covering plastic, but the lights inside would be dead. I couldn’t fathom it. She would get so angry at me. I was lucky I could scrape parts from the garage otherwise it would’ve cost me a fortune.


#89

Excellent answers, everyone!

Now let’s open it up to the players. You can answer a question or ask for some clarification about a character or their past, similar to the way I did with my questions. Once all those questions have been answered, we’ll have everything we need! I’ll draft the opening scene, create the new thread, and begin the game.


#90

@chainsaw Murphy - did your mom ever let on why she chose A Tale of Two Cities? I can’t think of something I’d rather hear read ad nauseum less than that. Maybe The Scarlet Letter.


#91

It was my dad’s favourite book. Before he got sick, my mother worked at the local library - it was where they met. She recommended it to him and he loved it, he used to talk about how reading it made him realise how smart my mother was.

If you ask me, it’s a book no sane smart person would enjoy.


#92

The game thread is live! You can find it here.

Thanks everyone! Enjoy!