 RSS-Feed from the website
|
|
|
Poetry, web comics, zombie movie reviews, artwork, and commentary on politics, fantasy football, and modern culture by Outsider poet Thomas L. Vaultonburg.
|
|
art publishing poetry zombies
|
|
added on 22.02.2015 - 20:13:09 from naveen1
|
|
|
|
http://zombielogicblog.blogspot.com/
|
|
|
|
Latest News
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
In late 2019, my life became much smaller.A ten-year relationship ended. I lost a home, daily contact with children I loved, longtime friendships, and a place within an arts community that had shaped much of my adult life. The future I had imagined for myself suddenly no longer existed. Before I could begin rebuilding, the world itself contracted. The COVID-19 pandemic closed doors for everyone, including many of the paths I might have taken to reconnect with the people, places, and opportunities I felt I had lost.Then, in 2020, I suffered a stroke.Looking back, it seems almost inevitable that I would find my way to haiku.At a time when everything around me appeared to be shrinking, I was drawn to a literary form built on economy, attention, and presence. I began studying Buddhism and, more specifically, Soto Zen. What started as curiosity gradually became practice. I found myself less interested in explaining the world and more interested in experiencing it directly. Haiku offered a way to do that.My earliest attempts were often little more than narrative poems wearing haiku clothing. I brought with me the habits I had developed over decades of writing lyric and narrative poetry. I wanted to tell stories, explain emotions, and make sure readers understood what I meant. Over time, however, the poems began teaching me something different. Instead of using haiku to express myself, I became interested in disappearing into the moment itself.The result was not merely a change in writing style. It was a change in how I moved through the world.Vanished Roads chronicles that journey.The collection begins in grief and disorientation. It acknowledges loss—the loss of loved ones, relationships, identities, expectations, and familiar ways of living. Yet it is not a book about remaining lost. It is a book about what happens when the old maps stop working.During this period, I reconnected with one of my oldest friends, Tré. Together we began a creative partnership that opened new possibilities in both art and life. In many ways, her presence marks the turning point of the collection. A door opens. A path appears where none seemed possible before.As the book progresses, the poems become less concerned with the self and more concerned with the world beyond it. Roads disappear. Rivers, mountains, forests, weather, and animals take their place as teachers. The journey becomes less about recovering what was lost and more about learning how to walk forward without needing to recover it.The title poem contains the image that best captures the spirit of the collection: a traveler asks for directions and is handed a map of vanished roads. That is the predicament many of us eventually face. The paths that once defined us disappear. The question then becomes whether we can continue the journey anyway.These haiku are my attempt to answer yes.Vanished Roads June 21st From Wolf Twin Books
|
|
13.06.2026 - 00:43:56
|
|
http://zombielogicblog.blogspot.com/2026/06/vanished-roads-thomas-l-vaultonburg. ...
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Flesh Wounds may be Thomas L. Vaultonburg's most autobiographical collection. Written between 1997 and 2004, the poems emerge directly from the years following his mother's death, a period spent working behind bars, in restaurants, strip clubs, country clubs, sports bars, warehouses, and eventually in a tavern he owned with his brother.Unlike many collections that spend years being revised and refined, Flesh Wounds feels immediate. These poems were not excavated from decades of notebooks and polished into literary artifacts. They were written close to the experiences that inspired them, preserving their rough edges, contradictions, and emotional honesty.The collection takes its title seriously. The wounds described here are rarely fatal. Instead, they are the daily injuries of ordinary life: failed relationships, dead-end jobs, bad judgment, loneliness, humiliation, lust, disappointment, and self-inflicted damage. Yet the poems refuse tragedy in its conventional form. Again and again, humor appears where despair ought to be. The speaker is frequently reckless, often cynical, occasionally self-destructive, but almost never self-pitying.Bukowski's influence is evident, particularly in the attention paid to working-class life, bars, sex, and failure. Yet Flesh Wounds is ultimately less interested in romanticizing excess than documenting it. The bartenders, waitresses, drunks, lovers, managers, hustlers, and dreamers who populate these pages are not literary archetypes. They are people observed at close range during long nights spent serving drinks and watching human beings unravel.What distinguishes the collection is its dual perspective. The narrator is both participant and witness. He is drinking with the crowd while simultaneously taking notes on it. He is implicated in the chaos he describes, but also detached enough to recognize its absurdity. The result is a voice that can be savage one moment and unexpectedly tender the next.Viewed alongside later books such as Submerged Structure, Flesh Wounds captures an earlier version of the author: angrier, less guarded, more reckless, and more willing to place himself directly at the center of the story. If Submerged Structure often observes the world from a distance, Flesh Wounds lives inside the collision.The lasting achievement of the collection is its refusal to separate beauty from damage. The poems recognize that some of the funniest stories, strongest attachments, and most revealing moments emerge from periods of profound disorder. Flesh Wounds is not a celebration of self-destruction, nor is it a warning against it. It is a record of survival written by someone who spent years standing close enough to the fire to know exactly how hot it was.Buy Flesh Wounds By Thomas L. Vaultonburg At Zombie Logic Press
|
|
08.06.2026 - 03:21:23
|
|
http://zombielogicblog.blogspot.com/2026/06/flesh-wounds-thomas-vaultonburg.html ...
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Every city has people who know where the bodies are buried.In Rockford, some of them still answer the phone.Necromancers Don’t Read Toe Tags follows drifters, addicts, exhausted cops, occult obsessives, failed artists, predators, survivors, and the few decent people left trying to navigate a city built on favors and selective memory.A woman disappears.A network closes ranks.The wrong people start asking questions.And somewhere beneath the bars, dead-end apartments, river fog, and old brick buildings, something ancient begins keeping score.Nobody in this story is clean.Some are just trying harder than others.Necromancers Don’t Read Toe Tags is part crime novel, part fever dream, part ghost story about what happens when a town mistakes silence for peace.The dead don’t stay quiet forever.Get Necromancers Don't Read Toe Tags
|
|
27.05.2026 - 21:08:19
|
|
http://zombielogicblog.blogspot.com/2026/05/epstein-files-rockford-edition.html
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Chapter Five — The Saint of No ConsequenceThe first time Elias Mort saw her face, it was three stories tall and haloed in soft yellow paint.Smiling.Gentle.Eyes slightly lifted, as if perpetually noticing the dignity in the world before anyone else did.Below her, in perfect block letters:“THE CITY OWES HER ITS BETTER DAYS.”Mort finished crossing the street and looked up at the mural for a long moment. He tilted his head. Squinted. Took in details.The paint was fresh.The wall under it wasn’t.Something had been covered.He didn’t sigh.He simply noted the ache behind his ribs and moved on.A block later, a man at a folding table in front of a community center held out a paper cup.“You look like coffee,” he said.Mort did not. He looked like exhaustion dressed in human posture. But people believed in coffee the way they believed in prayers—because it was something to offer when their hands couldn’t fix anything.He took it.It was terrible.He drank.The Universe did not send him to investigate saints.It didn’t like irony that much.Officially, the case was categorized as:DISTORTION OF MORAL GRAVITY – LEVEL BUNRESOLVED ACCOUNTABILITY WITH PUBLIC STABILIZATION FIELDSUBJECT: KIRA HALDEENThere was a folder. There were court transcripts. Newspaper features. Foundation photos. Smiling children. Grant ceremonies. Ribbons cut, plaques unveiled.She’d done good work.A lot of it.She’d fed neighborhoods when budgets didn’t.She’d built shelters where faith hadn’t.She’d created mentorship networks for girls who had been told again and again their safety was optional.Mort closed the file.Then opened the one beneath it.The quiet one.Victims’ statements never read into record.Complaints “resolved internally.”Reports closed “inconclusive.”And one sentence near the back, handwritten in tired ink:She knew. She just decided we were acceptable losses.Mort folded the page and slipped it into his pocket with the others that lived there.Outside the office window, the city held its breath.The second mural covered the side of a school.She stood in this one too, but not alone—surrounded by children painted larger than life, their faces bright with the kind of joy you only get when an adult hasn’t failed you yet.Mort tilted his head again.It was becoming a habit.There it was.Barely visible under the left edge of the wall.A faint line.A ghost of color that did not belong to the current smile.Murals are not just images.They are sedimentary layers of stories.This wall had been repainted three times.Once for her accomplishments.Once after she died.Once after someone had spray-painted a name across her face.He traced the outline of the sprayed letters in his mind:NOT A SAINTSomeone had tried to tell the truth.The city refused.Behind him, a teacher paused, recognizing the stare.“She was… important for us,” the teacher said, carefully.Mort didn’t turn.“She did a lot of good. That’s true,” the teacher continued. “We try to focus on that.”Mort finally looked at him.“How many girls did you bury under focusing on that?” he asked, softly.The man swallowed.He went back inside.Mort finished his coffee without liking it.He found her in one of her murals.Not literally—she was dead.But the dead are not gone where Elias works. They are kept at a polite distance from silenceThe mural faced a courtyard with benches worn into familiarity. Plaques listed donors. Her name appeared often. In bronze. In stone. Engraved into civic pride.Mort sat.He didn’t summon her.He didn’t have to.She appeared beside him as if stepping out of long weathered paint.Kira Haldeen still looked kind.That was what made this harder.“I was wondering when you were going to get to me,” she said lightly, voice like a teacher who believed kindness was always one well-timed smile away.“Cases don’t line up by importance,” Mort said. “Just… inevitability.”She smiled at that.“They made me bigger than I was,” she said, nodding to her mural. “It wasn’t my idea. People wanted someone to believe in. I let them.”“You cultivated it,” Mort replied.She considered that.“Yes,” she agreed. “I did.”He appreciated the honesty.It would not last, but he always appreciated it while it did.Mort folded his hands.“You did good,” he said.“Yes,” she said softly, grateful like someone being recognized in a way that mattered.“And you did terrible,” he added.The gratitude didn’t vanish.It just grew heavier.“I had to choose,” she said.Mort waited.“That man… the one you’re circling around in that folder… he was essential,” she continued. “He was brilliant. He brought resources, connections, legitimacy. He saved lives. Programs he built saved lives. We were right on the edge. If he fell, everything we’d built with him fell with him.”“And?” Mort asked.“And,” she said gently, “some girls didn’t get saved.”She didn’t flinch away from it.She said it like a surgeon describing a procedure that went wrong. Sad, yes. Tragic. But part of the reality of doing important work.Mort’s jaw tightened.“They told you,” he said. “They trusted you. They came to you.”“They did,” she whispered. “Because they believed I could fix it.”“Could you?” Mort asked.“Yes,” she said. “Of course I could.”Mort waited.There was no pleasure in watching truth arrive.She looked away.“But if I did,” she said, “everything else broke.”She drew in a breath and spoke the sentence like a creed.“I chose the world.”Mort was quiet a long time.Birds somewhere.Wind somewhere.Children laughing not far enough away for this conversation.“And them?” he asked.She closed her eyes.“They were… casualties of the good,” she said. “Do you understand how few people do good on the scale I did? If I failed, everything falls to people who will do less. Or worse. I weighted the scales. History needs some of us to make decisions with history in mind.”Mort looked at her mural.A city-sized lie smiling.“You rewrote the world around your comfort,” he said evenly.“No,” she said. “Around reality. Around impact. Around what would save the most.”He didn’t raise his voice.He didn’t need to.“You gave yourself permission to decide whose pain was worth keeping,” he said. “Who deserved to be heard. Who didn’t. You weren’t weighing moral dilemmas. You were choosing who counted.”She stiffened.“You think I wanted to?” she asked, heat breaking through calm. “Do you think it didn’t cost me anything? I didn’t sleep. I cried in bathrooms. I prayed. And then I walked out, smiled, and built something that helped thousands.”“And helped him keep hurting,” Mort said quietly.Her face broke then—not in remorse.In frustration.“Do you want to know what really terrifies me?” she said. “If I’d sacrificed him, the city would cheer me for my purity. A martyr of righteousness. Meanwhile the programs close. Girls starve. Kids lose roofs. Schools collapse. Everyone would feel morally clean—while drowning in consequences.”“Instead,” Mort replied, “you built a city that feels safe because it refuses to see the bodies it stands on.”She didn’t deny it.That was worse.She just nodded.“Yes,” she said. “Because something gets built that way.”Mort let the quiet settle.Finally, he asked:“Do you regret it?”Her answer was immediate.“Yes,” she whispered.Then a second too long passed.Mort waited.And then, very softly, she finished:“But I’d do it again.”There it was.There was the sin.Not that she failed.That she believed she was allowed to fail others on purposeand crown herself necessary enough that morality became optional.She wanted forgiveness without altering truth.She wanted absolution without confession.She wanted sainthood and secrecy in the same breath.“That’s why I’m here,” Mort said.She laughed once, sad.“To punish me?”“No,” he said. “To end the lie.”Her eyes flicked to her mural.“You don’t get to erase what I did,” she said. “You don’t get to dismantle the good.”“I don’t want to,” Mort replied.She blinked.He gestured to the painted children. To the buildings she funded. To the scholarships. To the foundations still running.“These things exist,” he said. “They mattered. They matter. Lives were made better. That’s the truth. I won’t take that from them. The Universe won’t either.”She breathed out. For a moment, she looked relieved.“But,” Mort continued gently, “neither do you get to escape the rest of the truth.”He turned back to her.“You broke sacred trust. You sacrificed the vulnerable and called it strategy. You chose what was easy to save rather than what was right to protect. That sits with you. Not them. You don’t get to hide behind murals forever.”Her face hardened.“So what happens then, Elias?” she asked quietly. “Do you drag my memory into the street and let them tear me apart? Do you undo everything I built?”Mort shook his head.“No,” he said.He gestured to the city.“You will remain complicated. Your name will remain argued. In some homes, you’ll still be a blessing. In others, a curse. That’s true. That’s honest. That’s what humans are.”He took something from his pocket. Unfolded it.A small paper scrap.Good done on the back of harm is still harm that screams to be heard.He folded it again.“Your murals will fade,” he said. “Not erased. Weathered. Arguments will stay. Conversations will start again. And the girls who were asked to be invisible will get their names back.”She looked at him helplessly.“That isn’t justice,” she whispered.“No,” Mort agreed. “It’s consequence. Justice is a fairy tale. Consequence is work.”She swallowed.“And me?”Mort looked at her—not unkindly.“You will carry it,” he said.Not torment.Not damnation.Just truth.Heavy.Permanent.Not negotiable.He stood.She looked tired.Human for the first time.“I tried,” she said softly.“I know,” Mort said.“I failed,” she added.“I know,” he repeated.“And I still believe I chose right,” she breathed.Mort nodded once.“That,” he said, “is why you don’t get to be a saint.”She closed her eyes.When she opened them again,she was gone.The mural remained.But for the first time since the paint dried,it looked less certain of itself.Someone had already spray-painted a small word near the bottom corner.WHY?No one had painted over it yet.Maybe they wouldn’t.Maybe someone else would read it tomorrowand remember questioning is not blasphemy.Hours later,Mort sat in another community center lobbystaring at another photograph of her smiling.Someone handed him coffee.Of course.He took it.It tasted sincere.He drank.Outside, a girl who had once been told to forget herselfwalked past one of the muralsand did not look away this time.She didn’t spit at it.She didn’t pray to it.She simply refused to treat it like god.It was a start.The Universe does not always get justice right.But sometimes it manages to returna heartbeat of dignity.Mort folded another note,slid it into his pocket,and went back to work.Buy Necromancers Don't Read Toe Tags Here
|
|
01.05.2026 - 03:11:00
|
|
http://zombielogicblog.blogspot.com/2026/04/necromancers-dont-read-toe-tags-chap ...
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Chapter
TenThe
Man Everyone Needed to Believe In
They
called him Mercy.
Not
his real name, of course.
He
had gone by other names before.
He
had been other men before.
But
when a man comes back from prison with language like recovery, like
growth, like I’ve done the work, people who need hope will build
altars out of him.
He
didn’t ask them to.
He
never had to.
People
want to believe beautiful stories.
Mercy
told beautiful stories.
He
told them in bars, in rehab meetings, in soft-lit art spaces with
exposed brick walls and community grants taped invisibly to the
ceiling.
He
talked about the dark places he’d been.
He
talked about the demon bargain he almost made.
He
talked about the ritual magic he used to chase love like power.
He
talked about sex like it was a kind of prayer
and
women like they were cathedral doors
that
opened to let him get better.
He
talked with the candor of a confessional
and
the charm of a wolf who had learned to smile.
He
was never ashamed in the right places.
That’s
what made him convincing.
Shame
would imply responsibility.
Mercy
preferred redemption narratives that never required repair.
Communities
built on kindness are the easiest to con.
That’s
not cynicism.
That’s
architecture.
People
who believe in healing
want
healing to be real so badly
that
sometimes
they
forget healing isn’t magic.
It’s
debt.
It’s
blood and work and humility.
It’s
showing up to people who were hurt and saying:
“I
did this.
I
will listen.
I
will not require you to love me afterward.”
Mercy
skipped the hard verbs.
He
moved in.
He
was given keys.
He
was given microphones.
He
was given rooms full of people
who
bent their heads softly toward him
when
he spoke.
He
even worked with women who’d been broken by men like him.
And
the town applauded
like
watching him speak healing words
was
the same thing
as
him never having been a knife.
Mort
came because the numbers didn’t add up.
It
wasn’t Mercy that lit the cosmic alarm.
It
was the people around him.
Too
many fogged souls.
Too
many half-closed hearts.
Too
many women whose stories tilted —
not
invalidated
not
erased
just
gently, firmly redirected into forgiveness they didn’t choose.
The
universe tolerates cruelty longer than it tolerates fraud.
Fraud
breaks the rules of motion.
It
tells suffering:
“Stop
moving.
You
don’t get to decide how this story ends.”
That’s
when Mort gets called.
He
found Mercy reading poetry in a hall someone else had paid for.
People
cried.
People
held hands.
Mercy
described making a pact with darkness
like
it was a romantic anecdote.
People
laughed because it sounded like theater,
and
because laughing forgives pre-emptively.
Mort
watched.
Not
Mercy.
The
room.
He
saw women smiling politely with their hands in their laps.
He
saw a girl pretending not to shrink when he walked past her row.
He
saw love
doing
the ugliest thing love can do:
protecting
the wrong thing.
He
didn’t stop the event.
He
waited.
When
Mercy left the building
to
stand under the mural painted in his honor,
Mort
joined him.
Mercy
saw him and smiled like a man used to admiration.
“Brother,”
he said warmly. “Are you here to hear the good news or share it?”
Mort
didn’t answer.
He
watched the mural:
Mercy
painted like a saint.
Hands
open.
Eyes
upward.
Benevolent.
Paint
forgives easier than people do.
Mort
finally asked,
quiet
as winter:
“Who
have you actually apologized to?”
Mercy
grinned.
“I’ve
apologized to the universe,” he said. “That counts for everyone.”
“No,”
Mort said gently. “It doesn’t."
Mercy’s
smile tightened just a fraction.
“I’m
doing good now,” he said. “I’m helping people. I’m proof
healing is real.”
Mort
nodded.
“You
are proof that performing healing pays very well.”
Mercy’s
eyes cooled.
“People
need me,” he said simply.
Mort
didn’t argue.
Predators
always think they are necessary.
He
found the woman later.
Not
The Woman;
not
the only one.
There’s
never only one.
She
didn’t tell him everything.
She
didn’t have to.
She
said she got messages she never asked for.
She
said she was told to be flattered.
She
said when she withdrew,
she
was called ungrateful.
She
said she was told he had suffered enough,
that
she should “practice compassion.”
She
said forgiveness didn’t feel like a gift.
It
felt like pressure applied gently to her throat.
Mort
listened.
He
did not write anything down.
He
didn’t ask her to forgive him.
He
didn’t ask her for evidence.
He
just let her tell the truth,
and
watched the air around her
move
again.
Sometimes
the kindest thing you can do for someone
is
agree, silently,
that
what hurt them
did.
The
thing living around Mercy
wasn’t
inside him.
That
would have made this easier.
It
hovered above him like a halo made of debt.
A
shimmering thing made entirely of borrowed belief.
Power
from applause.
Power
from hope.
Power
from people who wanted to heal so badly
they
outsourced their courage to a man who spoke confidently about demons.
Mort
had seen worse entities.
He
had rarely seen a more popular one.
He
stood beneath the halo
and
spoke like a clerk tired of being polite.
“He
doesn’t get to keep what doesn’t belong to him,” Mort said
quietly.
The
halo pulsed,
confused.
Mort
continued.
“The
forgiveness he didn’t earn?
The
absolution he never asked properly for?
The
wholeness he convinced people they owed him?”
He
looked at the sky.
“I
need it back.”
Cosmic
things rarely speak.
This
one screamed.
Bright
civility peeled back like paper soaked through with rain.
Everything
Mercy had stolen without admitting to stealing
came
loose.
Not
to punish him.
Just
to return balance.
Women
felt anger again.
Men
who adored him started to wonder why.
A
mural that had looked holy
now
just looked like a man.
Mercy
staggered
like
a drunk whose charisma had been poured out onto the floor.
He
laughed weakly when the room no longer adored him by default.
“Why
are you doing this?” he croaked.
Mort
looked almost kind.
“Because
forgiveness is not your right,” he said softly.
“It
is not a currency.
You
do not get to take it without being invited.”
Mercy
snarled.
“You’re
destroying the work I’ve done!”
Mort
shook his head.
“I’m
letting reality exist again.”
The
town did not burst into righteous violence.
That
would have been easy.
Instead,
something
far more terrifying happened.
People
had to think again.
Women
decided what they actually felt.
Some
left the room.
Some
confronted him.
Some
did neither.
Some
forgave him —
and
this time
it
counted
because
no one told them to.
Some
never would.
He
had to live with that.
Which
meant he had to live with something real
for
the first time in years.
Later,
Mort
sat on a curb.
Someone
walked by
and,
out of reflex,
offered
him coffee.
He
held it.
He
didn’t drink.
Janelle
appeared beside him like gravity.
She
already knew.
She
watched the town adjusting to having feelings again.
“Did
you break him?” she asked.
Mort
shook his head.
“No,”
he said. “I broke the shelter he hid in.”
She
nodded slowly.
They
sat in the new weather,
listening
to a man realizing he wasn’t adored anymore
and
women remembering that their boundaries were not cruelty.
Janelle
finally exhaled.
“Forcing
someone to forgive,” she said quietly,
“is
a kind of assault.”
Mort
nodded.
“Yes,”
he said.
They
didn’t feel triumphant.
They
felt like they had torn gauze off a wound
|
|
12.01.2026 - 00:32:00
|
|
http://zombielogicblog.blogspot.com/2026/01/necromancers-dont-read-toe-tags-chap ...
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Six years ago photographer Ryan Davis and poet Thomas L. Vaultonburg began a weekly urban hike always beginning in the exact same place in the virtual geographical center of Rockford and radiating out in a different direction each time.What happens when a poet and a photographer take the same steps on the same streets in the same town so many times that all of the places and things that seemed so familiar in the beginning became new and mysterious... and magical. From iconic Rockford landmarks like the Faust, Midway, and Times Theatre, to long-forgotten ghost murals and infinite susprises discovered in places rarely accessed except on foot, Davis and Vaultonburg documented in photographs and haiku a version of Rockford few ever experience. "Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery that mediocrity can pay greatness." -Oscar Wilde
|
|
23.11.2025 - 01:47:00
|
|
http://zombielogicblog.blogspot.com/2025/11/rockford-haiku-historic-faust-hotel- ...
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
For a whole year my partner Tré and I wrote a book in haiku form about the phases of the moon and where we were individually and together on our journey during those moon phases. Then Tré took the haiku pairings we had created and drew an illustration for each one. Seventy separate illustrations. It only took Tré three months to do the illustrations, which is an incredible pace when you see how intricate and full of nuance they are. I remember how much fun it was as Tré unveiled each new illustration. Now after almost a whole year of editing our book is finished! Moonscape Haiku Phase I is the first of a trilogy of haiku books we will be doing together. Treescape and Dreamscape will be the second and third.After the Solstice/The Longest Night is page 69 from that book.The entire book is this incredibly lush and intricate, and the printer did an impeccable job of capturing the subtle gradients of Tré's shading. I've never been more fulfilled and excited to show others what we've been working on for over two years now. You can see the video about how Moonscape came to be and how it all turned out here at our Kickstarter. Order Moonscape
|
|
13.02.2024 - 03:40:00
|
|
http://zombielogicblog.blogspot.com/2024/02/an-amazing-illustration-by-tre-from- ...
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
I started our year-long Tal Dorei campaign last May as Large Silent Friend, a Firbolg Druid who had been banished from his village as an adolescent for unwittingly smothering a miraculous creature he was bringing back to his village to show everyone. He followed the Blood Hunters Banlys and Trogg into the city of Tal Dorei having no idea what would happen next. My reasoning with this character was that he could be a fish out of water, sort of like a Crocodile Dundee, and present a counterpoint to everyone else's reaction to the city. This never manifested in our campaign at all.
Large Silent Friend
Our campaign ended this Tuesday after I took the Dungeon Master seat three months ago and drove it home with a fairly cliched storyline where Asmodeus used the vacuum of power inherent in the Tal Dorei system to reunite with his son Graz'zt, and manipulate the party into destroying anyone who could have stopped him, culminating in a final battle where the party decimated Vox Machina.
They made it fairly easy by snagging the Hand and Eye of Vecna, then all separately agreeing to deals that would have them killing off Asmodeus' only real competitor, the Mother of Ravens. The player who portrayed Pliz'skin, who was the one who took the Hand of Vecna at a black mass, then bargained with Iggwilv for the Eye, was a real joy to watch play, because he just bulled forward at every opportunity, and never asked or cared if anyone was going to follow. It was a damn lot of fun to watch someone play it that way, and really fit in perfectly to how I wanted to finish this campaign.
Which dovetails into my review of Tal Dorei. I start by saying I didn't read the sourcebook. It just wasn't very interesting, but I did assimilate the part about how the gods of Exandria had been banished. This story point led to what seems like the obvious end to any Tal Dorei campaign. Once any godlike entity anywhere in the Multiverse gets wind that there are no gods in Exandria, they are naturally going to want to fill that vacuum and seize power. When our original DM, the magnificent Travis Legge, allowed the campaign to veer into Waterdeep: Dragon Heist, then The Dungeon of the Mad Mage, the die was really cast. The gate to the Forgotten Realms was opened, and the party actually moved Trollskull Alley into The Cloudtop District of Tal Dorei, and opened Trollskull Manor, renaming it Trogskull Sporksbar, after two characters who had died in battle. For the second half of our campaign it could be said we were always in the Forgotten Realms.
And if you're in the Forgotten Realms, the gods, devils, and demons are NOT banished. Halaster Blackcloak found a way to open a portal and invite Graz'zt and Iggwilv through, and from that point on it was a ll a matter of corrupting the players for three months into doing their dirty work until they brought through the Lords of Hell, a convoy of Hellfire Engines, and legions of lower devils to take over the entirety of Exandria.
It is natural the final battle would be with Vox Machina, the previous heroes of Tal Dorei, who remained Chaotic Good for the most part, and played a prominent role early in the campaign, even lending the party their vestments. I haven't watched the Critical Role podcasts, but the Vox Machina had several tactical weaknesses in the composition of their party, not the least of which was some confusing multi-classing, and they after four rounds of combat really presented no resistance to our Planescape Tuesday's party.
I think they may have been more composed for entertainment than actual D and D playing.
One of my interesting takeaways is that even after having killed Vox Machina, a group of celestials playing a Stryper song in their bar at a battle of the bands, and having plunged the city into the iron fist of Asmodeus, the party didn't consider themselves evil at all.
I'll admit after one character foisted the Hand and Eye of Vecna there really wasn't any going back, and all they could have really done was confront and overwhelm him. Otherwise, they just had to go along and get along, which they did. It presented some real difficulties for me as a DM because I had four characters who were either leaning Neutral Good, or at most Neutral, and one character who was now literally the Hands of the Devil.
I also broke one of the cardinal rules of being a Game Manager and asked if I could play my own character, Large Silent Friend, as I really just wanted to join in the fun. They agreed. It wasn't as much of a burden as I would have thought. Mostly he just hung out and wild shaped so he could absorb tons of damage.
On a personal level, getting to sit in the Dungeon Master's seat right as I turned fifty was a bucket list item. The first week I was so overwhelmed and nervous all I could think to do was have have Halaster compel the party into an auditorium where they fought an identical party composed of simulacrums of themselves created by the lich Trobriand. This was a fun battle and allowed me to play them against them, so I learned a good deal about their abilities and weaknesses. The next week they went to Trobriand's Graveyard and tracked down Trobriand, played by Doobie Brothers singer, Michael McDonald, and almost managed to kill him aboard his prime creation, The Shockerstomper. I say almost because Trobriand cast a Meteor Storm at the end of the battle and killed everyone but Pliz'skin and Zox Clammersham, who brought them back with a Wish spell.
Shockerstomper, helmed by the Lich Michael McDonald, er, Trobriand, designed by Jack Mathews
I remember my first foray into Dungeons and Dragons took place at the height of the Satanic Panic, and we were banned from playing at school, then one by one, in the basements of our friend's houses. In the end all I had was the books, and no one to play with, until I came home one day and mother had burned the books.
I'd have to say waiting over thirty years to play again, then getting to Dungeon Master a campaign, was damn sweet.
Tal Dorei is fine. I'm not looking to bash it. The city is a totally solid place to base a campaign. But you'll probably end up somewhere else before it ends. Of course, that's almost always true in the Multiverse that is Dungeons and Dragons. Can't wait to sit in the DM seat again.
|
|
03.05.2019 - 02:58:00
|
|
http://zombielogicblog.blogspot.com/2019/05/dungeons-and-dragons-end-of-our-tal. ...
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Our RSS-Feed
Naturally we could subscribe also their own RSS Feed you…
|
|
|
|
Search
|
|
Login
|
|
|
|
|
|
Categories
|
|
interesting Web Pages
|
|
Top Topics Tags
|
|
|
