Character Concepts

Bloodrage is an orc who looks like your father.
Big meaty boi and double thicc, two c’s
across chest, gang sign
because Bog End Boys do dirty dirty 187
(also his hitpoints).
Take daddy’s disappointed look,
forehead lines drawn from
meandering narratives relating sour days with low test grades of
C plus or minus in Math comma remedial
cause fuck 1d20
anyway when every good boy deserves Fudge.
Crossbreed in some ghostface because most orcs
are stupid as hell
or selectively buffoonish.
Face is drooping in a way
where it’s not clear
if it’s par or another stroke.
Picture your mother, but
throw her against the wall—
just for a minute,
you’ll come back to that window—
then re-live an argument you’ve had with Dad 
(he’s still an orc).
At this point in time,
rate your humanity:
0 thru 10.
0 is wight,
10 is the other white.
I’ll wait, since, well, comma
remedial.
. . .
If for some reason,
you said 5,
refocus Mom.
Was it jungle fever?
Or was Dad that guy
from the “I’m the Juggernaut” video
Youtube, 2009ish,
saying “You can make a choice.
I can take this shit, or you can give it to me
willingly.”
4 minus?
Taint Mom green,
apply warpaint,
diminutive tusks.
Welcome to the Horde,
you should
feel out what it means
to be full-blooded—
“strenth”, martial prowess,
hypertension—
but temper those feels with some audience-tickling zinger
from “Welcome Back, Kotter” playing in the background
of your minds eye
all fucking night.  
No orcs can count past 5
so
if you said 6 or higher,
maybe Bloodrage isn’t your father.
Do you have a coach, 
a big shouldered mentor,
a male model 3D printed from
your own smart devices
that you’d like to sub in?

---

Caramine Dourcloak is the effigy of a
“close” girl-cousin,
whatever that means
to you.
Shake her hand,
or hug,
then step backwards
out of frame.
Author stance.
Move the pointer that trails 
brightly glowing thoughts
top right
so she gazes that way.
Grab, then twist her existing earlobes into hook shapes, and 
introduce a defect inside her inner ear.
Recall her birth, 
even if you weren’t there.
Sound off
about some embarrassing
trespass
while she’s buck naked
in your aunt’s arms.
She won’t hear you.
In the pre-present, toy around with her hair.
Pull and twist
as if
it’s a catfight,
forming some unsustainable,
glorious mound
or erection,
whichever seems
chiller.
In your unstable region
of the shared imaginary space,
she’s standing somewhere 
you’ve been
where a relative,
pet,
or dream
expired
but like, with more clockwork
instruments
and she’s you somehow
or you’re her.
Lament the fact
that her hood always seems to be up
after you’ve done all that
needless fiddling,
then
take it down,
part the cloak
and reveal
the cringey way 
in which you’ve weaponized your starting gold,
reverse-Rumplestiltskinning it into
a whole lot of
something that is 
innocuous, harmless, inert
if used in a sensible way familiar to most human beings.
Behold:
a bandolier of 
exploding bangs
for every other player,
grinding the aforementioned clockworks
to a halt
and “goddamnit
that was some kind of lax interpretation
of the laws of physicality vaguely 
established by the—and can we please get a peek 
at the breakdown of causality here ...—notes of an autistic bureaucrat
who’s about 12 years underground as of the Year of Our Lord, 2020.”
Haha, player agency go “brrrr.”
Dourcloak hears nothing.
Not because of her ornamental deafness,
but because she is dead,
slain horribly
with gratuitous details 
provided by you
mostly.
Imagine another female cousin.