
(cw: trauma, dissociation)

Maichiru took forever to fall asleep.

Their conversation had long drifted into nonsense, her murmured replies crumbling into the shifting
sands of dreamland, but her body stayed tense, her breathing irregular. Occasional muscle twitches
in her shoulders and legs had startled him each time, made him go still, counting her breaths,
waiting for her to settle. Slowly, finally, her tension dropped, her breathing slowed, and she lay
against him on the couch, her crimson hair askew over her face, the three slashes on her cheek
darkening in the deep of night.

He'd lost track of time watching her, imagining her the hunter laying down her weapons, settling in
place, one watchful green eye slitted, keeping an eye out for whatever might sneak up on them. She
relaxed the way a cat might, tail twitching, ears flicking, not completely at ease. *Good enough,*
he thought, sinking into the couch. *Good enough.*

The knot of tension deep within him crawled to the surface, clawed up through his chest into his
throat, squeezed its way out his eyes, bitter tracks down his cheeks that he didn't know how to
fight, great spasms in his chest that he had to quash with everything in him. His hand clamped to
his mouth, his whole frame careful of the dear warrior in the crook of his other arm who'd trusted
him enough to let down her guard. That feeling burned in his throat, sending fresh streams as he
choked the sobs into silence as best he could, trying to keep a surface stillness at least.

*Fucking godammit Jesus Christ --*, the litany repeated in his head. The soft, settling sounds of
the house left so much goddamn room for the sound, the *fucking sound* of a vertebra crunching,
inside his head as though it were his own teeth that were cracking under the pressure of his
clenched jaw.

A shuddering breath. Tremors in his arms and chest.

Maichiru stirred, lifted her weight from him slightly, eyes twitching.

*No no no, no you don't, I just barely got you back,* he thought, holding his breath, pushing his
own body back into the couch, pushing everything down, down, down, compressing it into a thin layer
somewhere within him.

A couple of tense minutes. He forced his breath to slow, draw in, hold, let out, wait, repeat. She
shifted position slightly, and he wondered if she was actually awake now, aware of him. But he
couldn't show this to her, couldn't let her see, what would she say? He almost lost her over a
*goddamn kiss*, she'd assumed he'd leave her when he'd just found her, what kind of person does she
think he is?

A *fucking murderer*, that's who.

And he can't let it go, like a rock that he has to carry forever and ever, for the rest of his
*fucking life*.

Had The Mirror seen it? Did that mean Mary knew now? He couldn't hold his secret close and safe.
What about Chase? Anubis, surely she'd known. But Max? Fuck, what did Max think of him now?

The thin layer buckled and twisted within him, bending into sharp angles, crackling...

Those *fucking* death-worshippers, the *tlaloque*, they must have seen this in him when they picked
him for the *atlcahualo*, it wasn't really the shape of his *goddamn hair*, what the fuck was that
about, they'd known somehow, seen it in him, stolen him from the street where he'd finally felt safe
and free after all those families that knew nothing. They saw that death was in him, that it was
his destiny, his best purpose...

And he was back there, for just a moment, helpless upon the cold stone of the altar.

Then he was snapping the restraints, his vision gone blue, a roar in his ears, watching their eyes
widen in their hoods, hands up, but he's bolting for the wall, *through* the stone, running and
running, the temple crashing around him, he heard their screams of terror and pain but ignored
them, just pushing forward until he'd collapsed in the wilderness, his memory already going hazy...

And then, nothing. Everything washed away, tears dried, body calm, his insides all used up and
nothing left, squeezed into... nothing. It was almost like his body was floating above the ground
while still resting on the couch. He stared at the vaulted ceilings of the parlor and noted,
absently, how flat and discolored it looked, its color bleached away, like this was all a dream.

He was dreaming that he was on the couch with a beautiful girl. How could that possibly be true?
Surely, he was asleep.

***

The next morning Maichiru was full of a kind of bow-string energy, snapping around the room,
peeking at him from the corner of her eyes, seemingly measuring him with every sideways glance. A
thin layer of nerves was plastered over the delicate nothing inside him, a sore wound like an
only-recently healed pulled tooth, sore, empty, the sensation of a painful, unfamiliar space.

Better the nothing than the alternative, maybe.

Yet, into that space, a small whisper, one of the lessons those evil old men had drilled into him
before... before he left:

Tlaloc was a god of fertility. Tlaloc was a god of life.

Maichiru extended a hand and he grasped it, his fingers sliding over the callouses on her fingers.


Diego is Awake


*Thump thump thump*. Diego's hands drum a staccato beat on the Anu-Bus seat in front of him. He grins, remembering the cool drizzle of electricity down his arms, the thunderous explosion of contact, the happy solidity of simple violence. He hadn't ever just let go like that, not when it mattered, not with so many people depending on him. And it had worked! They'd won!

*Thump thump, thump thump*. Leading with his fists, drawing the thunder, it had all worked out. He laughs along with the others at some joke that immediately melts from his brain, continues to tap on the seat.

*Thump thump thump*. Glancing around in the afterglow of the fight, Diego sees behind the big talk and sees pensive faces, hunched shoulders.

*What's up with them,* he thinks. *Didn't we just win?* Diabolox had gotten away, but that didn't mean they hadn't won.

*Thump thump thump*. Remembering The Mirror's awesome display, he turns to glance her way, beaming. Her "face" shines back, distorting his grin to something monstrous, too-wide mouth in a tiny head.

His grin fades.

*Thump, thump*. Fists and lightning and thunder and rain are clean, loud, fast, and simple. In and out. Over and done. Here and gone.

Glancing down, he sees the crabkin ichor splattered on his pants, staining his boots. Not clean, not over. Still here.

Sizzling quick from some well deep inside, the anger comes as a bolt, a roar, shooting up and billowing out, drowning out the sound from his ears, rendering their voices a buzzing left far below him.

The edges of his vision glow blue. His fingers squeeze the restored pleather of the seat. His knuckles creak.

A memory clouds his sight. Stone walls, stone altars, bulging eyes, fangs, the bronze skin revealed in firelight. The scent of marigolds. The roll of thunder.

*No.*

A deep breath. Two.

*Did anyone see?* A peek. *No.*

He relaxes his grip on the seat. The pleather is scorched where he was touching it.

He stares at his hands.


After the first big fight, and what have we learned, children?

Diego's Hands


Diego staggered up the narrow aisle between seats, clutching at the metal seat backs for support. *Can't let him see, can't let him see.* The mantra kept him upright until he made it to a seat near the front of the sub and could drop into it. He took a few deep breaths and surreptitiously massaged his shoulder where Timberwolf's jaws had closed on it before throwing him bodily into the side of a plane.

*"Nigh invulnerable" does **not** mean "cannot be hurt",* Diego reminded himself, drawing a shuddering breath. His skin was fine, but there was a deep ache in his chest on his left side, close to his heart. It was fading now, but brought the occasional swift stab when he shifted around.

Diego looked out the porthole into the dark sea beyond, the running lights of the sub illuminating passing fish. He didn't know how far down they were but little light filtered down from the surface above. Here they were, passing below the surface, bundles of nerves, recovering, all wrapped in their thoughts.

Except Stellar, his face lit from below by the blue glow of a phone. *Where the hell did he get a new phone down here? Does his body make them or something?* thought Diego, frowning. Stellar's eyes were wide with glee, his thumbs eagerly tapping, probably making some kind of mischief, inserting himself where he didn't belong. Diego shook his head.

His gaze shifted forward, to the pilot's seat, where Red Rogue lounged, heavy-lidded eyes staring forward, hands barely on the controls, the picture of indolent, deadly grace. *How did we let her get in control of where we're going again?* he thought, his frown deepening.

Diego looked back out the porthole. His eyes found his own reflection staring back at him. He made a face, eyes wide, pulling his lips down with his fingers and waggling his tongue. The *tlaloque* hated that face, knew exactly who he was apeing when he did it. Their lord and master.

The shopkeepers in the *mercado* hated that face too, especially when he'd just stolen from their shelves, maybe a mango or some *chicle*. On the street as a kid, Diego had scraped by, but he'd had his friends, some on the streets, some in the houses, some with goodies to share, some who never brought anything to share but needed the most help. And then he'd been found by his *tío*, his "Uncle", the one who looked at the cowlicks in his hair and smiled that ghastly smile, full of plans, whisked him away to the mountain, away from everything and everyone he'd ever known, down into the dark of the temples, surrounded by the shells and marigolds. Waiting for the *Atlcahualo*, not the yearly ritual, but a special one, the one written in the stars.

Alone in the dark.

His chest twinged again, a quick flash of pain. Timberwolf, pursued by admirers. Mary, twinned with The Mirror, a normal life outside her door when she needed it. Mack, with a whole family to support her. Stellar, his aunt and his social media followers validating him whenever he needed it.

But not Diego. Diego lived in a mansion, an investment by a Halcyon hero who kept him as a hedge against villains, like she kept her labs full of inventions and scientists, who thought his favorite drink in the world was chocolate milk. A mansion far from the city, with soft beds, soft towels, acres away from any other person he might connect with on any kind of deeper level...

...except Timberwolf. He turned, grimacing with pain, to glance back at his brother, still crouched at the back of the sub, panting, eyes on the floor. They understood each other in a way the others didn't, couldn't even. He knew, sitting in that cold metal seat, that he would defend his brother to his own death. Who else would say that?

Diego settled back down, staring at the porthole again. This time, his reflection's eyes were a lambent blue, the grin below feral. In his head, the echoing roll of thunder, of stone cracking before his fist. The pain in his chest was almost gone now.

"Oh my god, what is that horrible stench?" Red Rogue said. Diego saw that she'd spun around in her seat, was staring into sub's confines at the three of them, an accusation in her eyes for the three teenagers in the back.

"Marigolds," Diego whispered.


Diego's Pain


1. Before you met this crew, who did you hang out with?

When Diego was younger, he lived on the streets of Mexico City among a small herd of street kids doing whatever they wanted and whatever they had to. He was probably closest to Chico, a small guy who was great at looking helpless when he needed to. They use to lie on different roofs at night and watch the stars, make big plans about when they were grown and off the streets. Chico watched him get herded away by his _tios_ from behind a stall, a terrified look plastered all over his face. At night, he sometimes wondered what happened to him.

At his new school he's floated from social group to group, not really settling down with any of them. He watches the other kids and doubts they have serious problems at all, like maybe the most serious thing they worry about is homework or who they're going on a date with on Friday.

2. What's your character's favourite place in the city?

The public answer is a particular ironwork bench that has somehow managed to escape destruction in the past few dustups downtown. It has a great view of the General Hydrodynamics Memorial Fountain, built by the city to honor the Wave after she managed to save the Red Bay Bridge from crashing into the ocean, destroying a Bay Tours charter. The leaping orcas make a pretty shape that he likes.

The private answer is that one spot on the underside of the Red Bay Bridge. He can reach it by climbing the steel beams sunk into the concrete on the city side, a nearly hundred foot vertical climb that is relatively easy for him, and then a quick scoot a few yards until the ocean is below him. Up there he's closer to the sky and the water, away from anyone who might see, but still close to the action and the thrum of cars zooming by above.

3. What's something about your character that they haven't shared with the group yet?

Diego is, at most, 14 years old. He's lost track of time during his stay with the _tlaloque_, but at the time of the ritual he was maybe 11 years old. Physically, he looks older because of the ritual, but his time on this planet does not match his outer appearance. Anubis knows, hence some of the childishness of the "clubhouse". But, also, y'know... Anubis.

I'm not sure about this one yet, but it could be fun. He hasn't talked about his past much except to maybe say "ritual gone wrong" and change the subject. That's its own big deal for him.

4. Who was your character's first crush (if any)?

Is it Mary or Maichiru? He's pretty sure he's hetero, and he's lately been leaning towards Maichiru... but he might have a crush on her family, mostly? Totally open to a surprise crush on Stellar, though -- an emotional life on the outside despite being "fragile" is something he respects but doesn't know how to express.

He (seems) like a late bloomer but has a sense that he should've already had a crush on someone by now.

5. When's your character's birthday?

Atlcahualo is Tlaloc's month. That's roughly, kinda, sometime around February or March. How about March 1st? He probably had to pick at some point when Anubis took him in and picked this date without realizing its significance.

6. Which school subjects are your character's most and least favorite?

He's surprisingly good at math, but has a head for tales and characters and poetry, so is doing very well in English Lit. Science goes right over his head (ha ha). He's been banned from the computer labs at Halcyon High, whose normal shielding repels anything incidental he puts out as long as he's not inside the actual room. He hates history and social studies. He wishes he were better at art.

He's signed up for tutoring math at school, but hasn't had a chance to attend a session yet. He's helped Timberwolf at home.

7. What are your character's favourite foods?

Enchiladas are the test he uses for any Mexican restaurant, and chorizo and eggs are his comfort food. He adores sushi and dim sum. He likes noodly dishes, but has steered clear of anything too "weird" in Asian cuisine. He doesn't know what he's missing.

8. What kind of music does your character listen to?

Whole ranges of classical fascinate him -- he finds it powerful and delicate, emotional and refined, overall very moving. He's self-concious of his taste, there. He appreciates pop music. He's a little suspicious of anything that gets too "dancy" or too "oontz oontz oontz"-y, claims that if it doesn't have strings in it (guitar or fiddle or whatever) then how can it pull on your heart?

9. Describe a hero (not one we've seen yet) that your character admires or respects.

He admires the hell out of The Wave. The level of control she has for elemental water amazes him (she's more knife to his sledgehammer), and the way she reaches out to the community (bypassing local government or corporate middlemen) is an approach he admires, bottom-up. He had a poster of hers up in his room until Anubis teased him about liking her for her outfit, so he took it down.

He thinks he admires Shadow Ash because of how "strong" they seem, how they work alone and get the job done, but that's more projection 'cuz Shadow Ash is actually an insufferable jerk in person.

10. What does your character fear? What do they love?

He fears that he's "only" a really strong punchy hero, that he's a shallow pool. He fears being vulnerable and asking for help from anyone. He's scared to let people down. He's deathly afraid that the _tlaloque_ will find him and find some way to pull him back and complete the ritual -- what will happen to his self when that happens?

He loves his powers, though: he never gets tired of the scorching purity of lightning or the simplicity of a thunderous punch. He also loves being a part of a team, a family, with people who depend on him and wants that more than nearly anything.


Diego's Questionnaire


Shards of glass tumbled through the air, shattering upon impact on the broken tile of the floor. First, an echoing crash in the abandoned food court. Then, a shaky silence.

Diego turned to Max. He didn't know when he'd learned to read Max's feelings through all that fur,
but his brother's anguish was scrawled across his whole body. His liquid eyes were staring at the
skylight into the dark night beyond, through the hole where Malcolm had been taken by that *thing*.
It had cackled as it rose from the ground, stealing Malcolm away into the night, a prisoner in his
own body.

Diego had never been jealous of the attention Max paid Mal. Why would he be? *Does a candle's light
dim for shining out of two windows?* Where had he heard that? Regardless, he knew his brother, he
knew Max's heart was large enough for everyone in his life, except maybe for himself. And in this
moment, Max was blaming himself for what that *fucking thing* had done. Castigating himself in that
cavernous space he'd carved into his own heart, the space he reserved for himself, a special chamber
he'd made where there was no mercy or forgiveness.

Max made a strangled sound. Diego watched his brother crumple, that awful tension leaking out of him
as he dropped to his haunches. Diego rushed to his side, hands reaching to Max's shaggy shoulders.

"We'll get him, bro," Diego said. "Wherever he is, we'll find him, and we'll help Mal."

Max stared at Diego for a beat, his eyes empty and hopeless, searching Diego's face for answers.
"How, Diego? How are we gonna get him back?"

The comforting words died on his lips. In that moment, Diego felt a matching helplessness. He'd
always known he would defend Max to his own death, but how could he defend him from this? How could
they find that thing? Even if they found it, how could they wrest it out of Mal without killing him
in the process? And if they did, how could they defeat it? Could it even be killed? He had no
answers. What the fuck were they going to do now? Diego met Max's eyes, struggling to keep fear out
of his eyes.

Max, who'd been through so much. Max, who had nothing but kindness for this world, a world that
seemed determined to tear into him and shred his heart. And now, it was attacking his brother. His
*fucking* family.

Diego reached within himself, seeking answers -- and something whispered back.

Diego leaped back away from Max, eyes wide, staggering away from the others as they came together to
comfort their friend, drawing a startled look from Mack.

*What the fuck was that?*

His breath came in shallow gulps, like he'd just run half a mile.

*What the fuck?*

***

Kneeling besides Mack, fingertips brushing her leg as she laid out the coupons on the floor, each
inscribed with a runic geometry that made his head ache, Diego's thoughts weren't on his work.

There was a plan now (of sorts), a destination. But Max was still stalking around in the darkness of
the food court, pacing back and forth, a picture of worry. And Diego wasn't by his side, he didn't
know how to comfort him.

Maichiru huffed in frustration. "Diego, *come on*, help me, we have to get this done." She pointed
at one of the coupons, inscribed with a glyph that didn't hurt his head quite so much. "Look, this
one's declensions aren't in correspondence with its numina."

Diego shook his head, trying to center his thoughts on the here and now. This. He could do this to
help his brother. Maybe. He squinted at the coupon. "Okay, yeah, I mean -- obviously. But, um... how
do we declench its... nummies?"

Mack frowned at him, then giggled, then stifled it, all in rapid succession. "Fine, let's take a
break." She found a bottle of water she'd scored from the fridge earlier, drank a couple of
swallows, offered it to him. He made sure to draw his fingers across hers in a lingering, completely
unnecessary touch, briefly grinning at the touch of a blush that spread across her cheeks.

As he took a swig, she poked him in the ribs, making him choke. He glared at her, sputtering. She
glanced back, all cat-like innocence. He swallowed before coughing a couple more times. "Thanks a
lot." Mack grinned, but it faded, a thoughtful look passing over her face.

"What was that, earlier? When you were first talking to Max and then you jumped away?" she asked.

Diego sighed. "Can't we pretend nothing happened and focus on Max?"

"I mean, yeah, *you* could," Mack said. "But I'm not going to." She leaned closer. "What happened,
Diego? Talk to me."

Diego frowned. Mack was tenacious and never seemed content to let him handle his problems himself.
Sometimes it felt nice that she had his back. Other times it could be stifling, intrusive. Right
now, he wanted to focus on finding Mal and stopping that demon. But his thoughts drifted back to
that feeling. He glanced at Mack, then sighed, defeated.

"I was watching Max, and he was so fucking sad," Diego said. "And then he looked at me, and I swear,
it was like my heart broke." He looked down at his hands, fingers curled, wanting so badly to make
fists but with nothing to punch. "And... it was like I -- I don't know, it was..." He squeezed his
eyes shut, the delicate eggshell of his emotional control cracking.

Mack's fingers slid over his, twining with his own. He brushed his thumb over the calluses of her
right hand, marveling at their shape, relaxing in the warmth of her trust.

The words came, stilted and halting. "It was like... I was looking down, like *into* myself, and...
I dunno, like I asked a question? Something like 'what are we gonna do' -- wait, no, not that," he
said, remembering. "It was 'what can I do'." He opened his eyes and looked at her, seeking
comprehension. She stared back at him. "And I swear to fucking god, something *answered*."

Mack looked him in the eyes for a beat. "Diego --" she began, then stopped. Another beat. "What did
it say?"

Diego drew in a shuddering breath, feeling that fear and hopelessness gnaw on his heart, remembering
the gloating face of the demon as it catapulted through the skylight, remembering Max's expression
as he tracked it. "It wasn't... words, exactly. It was like... like a sense, this *deep* sense, like
it was inviting me to dive down and... pull something up." His words ground to a halt, mired in
anger and hopelessness. None of this made sense. None of this helped his brother.

Only then did he look up and register her expression. "What? What are you staring at?"

Mack's face was neutral, her voice calm, a hunter's voice. "Your eyes."

Diego jerked his hand back, seeing the ready tension in her body, like she was preparing to... what,
exactly? Mack's face remained neutral as she slowly, deliberately, reached into her nearby bag
and produced her phone, her gaze never leaving his. She unlocked it with her finger, and her eyes
flicked away for a moment, then back. She held the phone out to him, the camera app foremost. "See
for yourself."

Diego's heartbeat quickened, and he took the phone, raising it to his face.

Each of his eyes was entirely white, a blank, glowing orb. Even as he stared, trickles of lightning
played across their surfaces and squeezed past the outside edges and onto his temples before
fizzling out.

Lowering the phone, he stared at Mack. She sat next to him, still, not coming closer but not moving
away, ready to... to what? Catch him if he fell? Stop him? Stop him from doing what?

He stared at his now empty hands, the phone forgotten, almost seeing through them... to the jungle,
always the jungle, the dark stone of the temple rising from the ground, the fetid air of its
chambers, *how could you do this to me?* and *what did I do to deserve this?* and always the fear,
every day, squeezing him, pressing him against an unyielding wall -- no, wait, an altar stone, rough
and cold, already crumbling, cracking, a growing fissure... into a cavern, a cavern with a pool, and
that encompassing, whispering voice, susurations in the moist air, a smell of ozone and
flowers... whispering of life and death, or Suns past and present, of water... and of the
lightning and thunder.

*But I'm scared of this,* he thought. *I don't want this! Please!*

*But this is you,* it answered. *It always has been.*

He looked at the crumpled coupon with its stubborn glyph. He reached out one hand and brushed it.
The glyph *righted* before his eyes, one of its strokes nudging into place. It looked correct now,
complete.

At that, something drained from him. He let out a breath. He glanced back at Mack.

The hunter was gone, in its place only concern. She searched his face, her gaze flicking back and
forth between his eyes. "Diego?" she asked.

Inside of him, whatever he'd grasped didn't let go. The scent of marigolds floated on the air.

***

*Click.* *Brrrrrr.*

The car window slid into place.

*Click.* *Brrrrrr.*

The car window retreated downward.

*Click--*

The Mirror reached over and slapped his hand away from the controls. Or was it Mary?

He glared at her. No, it was definitely the Mirror. *Of course.* He rolled his eyes. Even Anubis
couldn't make him feel like a kid as quickly as The Mirror could.

Leaving the window alone, Diego probed within himself again. His awareness of the night air, of Mack
next to him, of Stellar's chatter with the Jacbos, of Max silent and dark, all clear, all present.
But this new awareness was within him, some new space deep inside.

Mack was gazing at him, her expression neutral, her eyes flat. He nodded, squeezed her hand. She
squeezed back, hard. An anchor, not letting go. Good.

He squinted into the wind spilling in from the open window, inhaling deeply. The night had been clear before, but clouds were rushing in. There was a smell of water out there.

It looked like rain.


Diego's Touch

> My first rule of role-playing games is to care more about the people at the table than the story.
>
> The players matter more than the fiction. The danger is getting caught up in the wonderful story and forgetting that.
>
> -- Ben Robbins, http://arsludi.lamemage.com/index.php/2003/first-rule-of-gaming/


First Rule of Gaming


What if?

I'm not going to define precisely what I mean by spell here, but it might not be what you think. [Or
it might][sass].

There's this great-game-I-haven't-played-yet (there are a lot of those) called
[Sleepaway][sleepaway] written by the improbably named Jay Dragon. I'm sure he and Jason Morningstar
have a lot to talk about. It is based on "Dream Askew & Dream Apart", another member of the
great-game-I-haven't-played-yet club.

I was listening to an episode of the [Oneshot podcast where they played Sleepaway][oneshotpod].
After making characters, just as they were starting to play, they sort of... *invoked* the Lindworm,
the monstrous enemy of the game. From the rules text:

> At the beginning of each session, someone must ask the space you're in if the Lindworm is there,
> and if it would like to play. Give it around thirty seconds to reply.
>
> -- Sleepaway, by Jay Dragon

This struck me as an invocation, an invitation, an opening. Metaphors are powerful things, and
conceiving of a monstrous being from your childhood and *inviting it to sit down with you and play*
is powerful stuff. Even if it doesn't always respond.

I'll quote a quote here, from [Wikipedia's page on Chaos magic][chaosmagicwikipedia]: "...The
central defining tenet of chaos magic is arguably the 'meta-belief' that 'belief is a tool for
achieving effects'". This procedure echoes some of that for me.

It also echoes a bit of [sand tray therapy][sandtraytherapy] for me, the clearing away of a space
and putting symbols in there to communicate something to others.

I'm thinking about writing a ((solo-rpg)) right now, and I want to borrow some of this, I think. I
think spelunking into your own head could do with a little magical protection borrowed from these
other traditions.

[sass]: https://www.reddit.com/r/SASSWitches/
[sleepaway]: https://possumcreekgames.itch.io/sleepaway
[oneshotpod]: http://oneshotpodcast.com/one-shot/369-sleepaway-part-1/
[chaosmagicwikipedia]: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chaos_magic
[sandtraytherapy]: https://www.goodtherapy.org/learn-about-therapy/types/sand-tray-sand-play-therapy


RPGs as Spells


Thinking about solo RPGs. Seems a natural extension of where I am now: I like RPGs, I like writing
short bits of fiction, I can't play with other people enough: why not give it a try?

Collected [some links about the subject][solorpgtag] for deeper reading.

I think the [Cortex system][cortexrpg] would be a good fit for what I'm thinking about currently.
The dice tricks can push the story in interesting ways without creating a hole where a GM and a
table of other players should be.

[solorpgtag]: https://pinboard.in/u:drhayes/t:solorpg/
[cortexrpg]: https://www.cortexrpg.com/


#rpg