By Seth Troyer
Property of Boris
I’m thinking of Kantaria Rache.
I’m thinking of Kantaria Rache.
I’m thinking of Kantaria Rache.
First and foremost, the amount of players is completely in your court. You know what I am saying? Many of the rules I will describe in the following are (in many cases) meant to be broken. This “roleplaying game” I am developing is not constricted or bogged down by the dogmatic idealism. This is not ruled by the vague philosophies our parents injected into the Dungeons and Dragons universe. It is not the electronic lobotomy that is the video game generation. There are no buttons or subscriptions involved in this crusade. Our more jock-like peers would prefer to be tied to a chair and TV screen and, in doing so, nail their brains to their asses. They are not welcome here.
They cannot understand this. This is not based around any horrid abortions produced by writers like George R.R. Martin, Piers Anthony or Terry Brooks. Tolkien’s laws are clear and unquestionable.
I’m thinking of Kantaria Rache. I will not compromise. I will not create a dream world. I will create truth with my every word. This is my great work.
Dear Boris:
I know you don't want me writing notes for you on your computer anymore but it seems to be the only way to get your attention lol Just pick these up for me pleez:]!
3 two liters of soda
5 cans of cream of chicken soup
Your choice of lunch meats
Eggs
6 frozen dinners (whatever)
Bleach
Tampons (lol)
Pine apple
Kool aide
Shoe polish for dad!:]
Thanks! Love you!:]
Ma!:]
This is my great work. This is real. This is true. I'm hungry. I hate my mother and her notes. I am distracted.
Let’s return to business.
This is my great work. My great crusade. This journal is filled with shopping lists. So many lists.
First and foremost all players hail from one of the four provinces of Perlandreta. Here is what you must do. Choose your: race, class, upbringing, religious views.
Answer the following questions: What is the true definition of masculinity? Am I going to ride a big armored horse? Why or why not? Are you some kind of bastard who thinks they have some kind of reputation to uphold by not riding a big armored horse? Are you some kind of faggot?
What province of the Perlandreta midlands do you hail from? Don't give me any bullshit about you being from the southern wastelands (organic life cannot exist out there, only Troglodytes and Moth Eaters). What is your sexual orientation? Who are you? What are you? Why are you?
These are all questions you should know the answers to before you become a player in this game. I refuse to waste time with mongrels that have never seen themselves in a mirror. A figurative mirror, of course.
Be sure of yourself. I should eat something. I have no food. I am done with this. Another failed attempt. I am no game master. I am a worm in this basement. Worthless.
Answer the following questions: What is the true definition of masculinity? Am I going to ride a big armored horse? Why or why not? Are you some kind of bastard who thinks they have some kind of reputation to uphold by not riding a big armored horse? Are you some kind of faggot?
What province of the Perlandreta midlands do you hail from? Don't give me any bullshit about you being from the southern wastelands (organic life cannot exist out there, only Troglodytes and Moth Eaters). What is your sexual orientation? Who are you? What are you? Why are you?
These are all questions you should know the answers to before you become a player in this game. I refuse to waste time with mongrels that have never seen themselves in a mirror. A figurative mirror, of course.
Be sure of yourself. I should eat something. I have no food. I am done with this. Another failed attempt. I am no game master. I am a worm in this basement. Worthless.
I have no patience, no technique. This journal is filled with shopping lists. It will be weeks before I write again! I'm sure of it! I'm slime. I loath my impatience. I loathe my failure.
My mom is my land lord.
I hate you. You.
Grocery List:
Potatoes
2 gallons of milk
3 cartons of eggs
Cake mix
Special tooth paste for dad's stupid special teeth
Bleach (any kind)
Fruit (any kind)
Tampons (lol :])
Flowers for grandma (any kind)
A card for Grandma (any kind):]
Carrots (three bags)
Toilet paper
Medication (everybody's)
Canned soup
6 TV dinners
Thanks, be good lol:]
I hate you and I hate being here. Back to work. The game. Now to explain the world you will be thrust into.
Dunaria: in the heart of the nine woods of the Veil Mountains. Within a dark canyon, a single vomit-like growth in the center of the most beautiful meadow. This is where the gods spilled blood of their own accord. This is where the ground shakes. Monks study the vomit-like mass that pusses and spews in the beautiful grove. The mass is believed to be a sort of holy site.
The mass is an alternative to logic. The mass is a gateway. A pathway to the great unexplained “More.” The mass is to be gazed upon. To see it is to see the universe naked before you. It ingests you.
All who wish to have greatness must first perform a great worshiping. A great task. This game you shall play is your great task. The mass has remained and will always remain. The monks know. The growth is a gateway to something animal. A gateway beyond the gods. A gateway to something beyond reason.
It sticks into you. An almost sexual longing will be gained through the worship.
I'm so tired.
To the west, in the mountains, exist warrior races. These are the Perlandretans of the four provinces. These are your brothers and sisters. They are dying.
Nomadic outlaws in a desert, forever banished. Some are rogue monks of the vomit mass. Some say they didn't want to learn anymore. Some say the knowledge was worthless.
Some say they learned too much.
I went to college once. Those worthless beings. Those whores. A nomadic race.
A race so completely out of touch with the rest of the world in which they inhabit. They are a starving people. A very empty and lonely existence on a barren planet, much of which, has been deemed uninhabitable.
My dad came into my room today. It's my room. My room! I was typing as usual. My dad said, “Son.”
“Yes, father?”
“Boris, my boy!”
“What?”
“I had a dream.”
“Can I go back to work, dad?”
“In my dream I died.”
“Dad, I have a lot of work to do.
“You were there. You didn't care much at all. Silly boy!”
“Dad!”
“I was reincarnated, son, as a termite. Do you wanna know what I did? You’ll laugh, but I thought it was beautiful. I consumed our coffee table. The whole gosh-darn thing, son! Even those photo books and the Cosmopolitans your mother always has lying around! Everything.”
“Dad, I need to write.”
“And then...”
“Dad, I don’t care.”
“You know what I did next? You don’t obviously! You weren’t there! You should’ve seen it! I took the most wonderful nap, in my dream. I just slept...in my dream. It's like I was dead. A dead termite! Speaking of which, son, there are bugs crawling onto bugs in this bedroom. I better get some insecticide.”
“Dad, I don’t want you to do anything to my room.”
“I'm on top of the world, son! I hit a par 4 this morning and I'm on top of the world!”
“Dad...”
“I'm on top of the world! On top of this great wide world!”
Robotic drones wander and battle in the Southern Wastes. The few struggling organic life forms, so scattered, leaderless, forced to hide as the sophisticated machine drones wage senseless war. Your brothers and sisters fend off tribes of their own species all while in the shadow of the drone wars.
No women. Women are sold as slaves. Male masculine beliefs ring to true stature. The monks are the only ones that respect the woman's place.Women being completely submissive to their warrior husbands. The women will look upon you. The women will respect you. The women will not leave you. The women will notice you.
A race so completely out of touch with the rest of the world in which they inhabit. They are a starving people. A very empty and lonely existence on a barren planet, much of which, has been deemed uninhabitable.
My dad came into my room today. It's my room. My room! I was typing as usual. My dad said, “Son.”
“Yes, father?”
“Boris, my boy!”
“What?”
“I had a dream.”
“Can I go back to work, dad?”
“In my dream I died.”
“Dad, I have a lot of work to do.
“You were there. You didn't care much at all. Silly boy!”
“Dad!”
“I was reincarnated, son, as a termite. Do you wanna know what I did? You’ll laugh, but I thought it was beautiful. I consumed our coffee table. The whole gosh-darn thing, son! Even those photo books and the Cosmopolitans your mother always has lying around! Everything.”
“Dad, I need to write.”
“And then...”
“Dad, I don’t care.”
“You know what I did next? You don’t obviously! You weren’t there! You should’ve seen it! I took the most wonderful nap, in my dream. I just slept...in my dream. It's like I was dead. A dead termite! Speaking of which, son, there are bugs crawling onto bugs in this bedroom. I better get some insecticide.”
“Dad, I don’t want you to do anything to my room.”
“I'm on top of the world, son! I hit a par 4 this morning and I'm on top of the world!”
“Dad...”
“I'm on top of the world! On top of this great wide world!”
Robotic drones wander and battle in the Southern Wastes. The few struggling organic life forms, so scattered, leaderless, forced to hide as the sophisticated machine drones wage senseless war. Your brothers and sisters fend off tribes of their own species all while in the shadow of the drone wars.
No women. Women are sold as slaves. Male masculine beliefs ring to true stature. The monks are the only ones that respect the woman's place.Women being completely submissive to their warrior husbands. The women will look upon you. The women will respect you. The women will not leave you. The women will notice you.
I am a virgin.
The great giants: Not available as a playable race. Don't get any ideas. I wont tell you again. I will not budge.
I am unashamed. These great giant gods, giant pondering professors in lab coats of impregnated wisdom. They are a force against absurdity and random drones.
Are you paying attention? Are you listening to me? Action. Reaction.
Tinkering away and trying to at last make some viable sense of this world created by a grown man who lives in a basement with his parents.
I created them. Like all these beasts I breathed life into them. The great god giants cannot know my unemployed pain. They ponder the sky, all lost in a great renaissance of confusion. The human warrior races work hard to survive in their shadow.
I knew a girl once. We almost kissed. She moved to Connecticut and, for the life of me, I cannot remember where in Connecticut. Her dog always bit me whenever I came over. I'm still afraid of dogs. I think I have always been afraid of dogs, to be honest.
In the beginning, these giant professors created the man beasts. They raised them from the dust to wield the spear and the human heart. In the beginning the man was the experiment. The man beast was foolish. The giant professors have always existed. In the beginning this planet was a desert.
Are you paying attention? I am trying to teach you. Listen to me. Submit.
The professors come from a dark Beyond of endless haven and mystery. All things are studied by these great giants. While their creations writhe to form culture, they wage strategic battle with their far off brothers. This is a battle in the vast network of connected dimensions of the great sphere.
The sphere is all that is known. Therefore, it is all that can be. This is important.
The drone. The obvious opposition. The woman. Lacking in status. You are in control. She is hopeless. Vicious.
She will not sleep with me.
You will play this game. So much work to be done. I am getting tired again. My head hurts. My writing is over-dramatic.
These are words you must know to play this game.
The Great Weathering: An eternal molding and meshing. A great endless struggle of evolution. Term used most often by the professors and high-ranking monks who defy them.
The Civil Strengthening: The thousand year devouring, perpetual death and perpetual rebirth (like heavenly cows in unrest to share the same space.)
Forget not the great vomit mass they fuse to as the great alternative. It forsakes all the logic the professor legion can offer and looks to a third plane, beyond belief and reason. The third may not exist.
I hate my mother. I hate my father. I hate Pizza Hut. I hate you.
My porn intake is disappointing at best. I sometimes wonder if there is something wrong with me.
I'm thinking of Kantaria Rache.
I'm thinking of Kantaria Rache.
Ah, yes, her name was Kantaria Rache, surely of some house unknown. Her eyes sparkled like twin sapphires from beyond the lonely seas. She was no daughter of poor descent. Surely of royal holy blood. Of some house unknown. Her slender elvish form bathed in a scent of queen and spring rain that pierced the veil of the social happening.
She looked cute. A pop song was playing softly in the background. We were at a pizza parlor. It was 1978. It wasn't 1978. It felt like it should have been 1978.
What a holy memory. One I hold so close and yet so far from me. Kantaria Rache of a house unknown. Surely a treasure amongst the higher races of which I have little knowledge.
She was leaning against a soda pop machine. She was perfection. I was staring at her. I can't remember if she noticed me at that point. Her back against the soda pop machine. I felt myself sweat inside my clothes.
Forget not the great vomit mass they fuse to as the great alternative. It forsakes all the logic the professor legion can offer and looks to a third plane, beyond belief and reason. The third may not exist.
I hate my mother. I hate my father. I hate Pizza Hut. I hate you.
My porn intake is disappointing at best. I sometimes wonder if there is something wrong with me.
I'm thinking of Kantaria Rache.
I'm thinking of Kantaria Rache.
Ah, yes, her name was Kantaria Rache, surely of some house unknown. Her eyes sparkled like twin sapphires from beyond the lonely seas. She was no daughter of poor descent. Surely of royal holy blood. Of some house unknown. Her slender elvish form bathed in a scent of queen and spring rain that pierced the veil of the social happening.
She looked cute. A pop song was playing softly in the background. We were at a pizza parlor. It was 1978. It wasn't 1978. It felt like it should have been 1978.
What a holy memory. One I hold so close and yet so far from me. Kantaria Rache of a house unknown. Surely a treasure amongst the higher races of which I have little knowledge.
She was leaning against a soda pop machine. She was perfection. I was staring at her. I can't remember if she noticed me at that point. Her back against the soda pop machine. I felt myself sweat inside my clothes.
She moved. I sweat inside my clothes.
She turned ever so slowly about lifting her back from the derelict beverage device. In mid-motion her face was in line with mine. I met her eyes. Her eyes were closed, blinking, in that instant.
Kantaria Rache turned from me to face the soda pop machine. She procured a few quarters from an odd-looking, frilly hand bag. She put the grimy quarters into the machine. A song by the Canadian band, Rush, begins to play over the radio. More kids file in laughing and cursing. When the teenagers pass I can see her once again. She is bending down now, extending her hand. She extracts a soda pop can. A cold Pepsi. A cold, cold Pepsi. Kantaria Rache cracks open the beverage and takes a sip, ignoring the fizz and bubbles that erupt from it as she does. She lowers the can to her side. She dabs at her mouth and slowly turns away. She walks out of the pizza parlor and into the Saturday night air.
I hate Kantaria Rache.
She turned ever so slowly about lifting her back from the derelict beverage device. In mid-motion her face was in line with mine. I met her eyes. Her eyes were closed, blinking, in that instant.
Kantaria Rache turned from me to face the soda pop machine. She procured a few quarters from an odd-looking, frilly hand bag. She put the grimy quarters into the machine. A song by the Canadian band, Rush, begins to play over the radio. More kids file in laughing and cursing. When the teenagers pass I can see her once again. She is bending down now, extending her hand. She extracts a soda pop can. A cold Pepsi. A cold, cold Pepsi. Kantaria Rache cracks open the beverage and takes a sip, ignoring the fizz and bubbles that erupt from it as she does. She lowers the can to her side. She dabs at her mouth and slowly turns away. She walks out of the pizza parlor and into the Saturday night air.
I hate Kantaria Rache.
She never spoke to me. I may never see her again. I'm bitter perhaps. I am angry.
You aren’t listening anymore. Are you listening? This is important. This is the work. My work.
Perhaps we both need a break. Breaks are important. I'll write more soon. Yes. Perhaps.
Dear Boris:
Shopping list:]
3 two liters of soda
5 cans of cream of chicken soup
Medication
Eggs
6 frozen dinners (whatever)
Bleach
Tampons (lol)
Bucket of chicken
Two tubs of vanilla ice cream
Thanks!:]
About the Author
Seth Troyer is a 22-year-old student at the University of Akron where he is currently studying electronic media and creative writing. He lives in North Canton, Ohio, and works at the Akron Public Library. Troyer is currently in the process of writing and creating the artwork for two graphic novels.
In addition to having an interest in writing he also has a great passion for music and film. He is one half of the two-man band, Valley Girls and is working on an ongoing short film series called the "Seed Cycle."
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