World of Darkness

2010-03-10T18:07:00.000-08:00

Vernacular and New Orleans Vocabulary

2010-03-10T18:06:00.000-08:00

bokor: A vodoun priest or magician who practices black magic. Houngans can be bokors, but such is not common.
Cajun: A Louisianan descended from French-speaking Acadia (a corruption of the word “Acadian”); also describes other rural settlers, as well as food or music.
Code Noir: The “Black Code” adopted by the French in 1724 governing the conduct of free people-of-color and under which conditions slaves were freed.
Creole: A free person of Spanish, French or African descent born in Spanish America; originally used in reference to whites alone, but grew to encompass others after the Civil War; also used to refer to food or music.
Grand Dérangement: Literally “forced migration”; the massive dispersal of over 10,000 Acadians following the 18th-century wars between England and France.
gris-gris: A term for all sorts of charms, talismans, and other mystical items of vodoun.
hounfour: Inner sanctuary or altar room for the practice of vodoun, sometimes dedicated to a specific loa. Alternately, a more general term for any vodoun temple.
houngan: A priest of vodoun, fully initiated in all the rites and mysteries of the religion.
krewe: A club that sponsors festivals and events (ersatz Old English “crew”); among the Damned, also a type of coterie composed entirely of local neonates.
lagniappe: Literally, “a little something extra”; any small gift from a local.
loa: Spirits of divine origin that serve Bondye (God). They expect to be worshiped and respected, but can be imposed upon to grant favors in return.
mambo: Initiated vodoun priestess; female equivalent of houngan.
mulatto: The child of a black parent and a white parent.
peristyle: The building or outdoor area where vodoun ceremonies are held; often, but not always, bordering or very near the hounfour.
quadroon: A term referring to a person who is one-quarter black.
veve: A symbolic design representing one of the loa. These are used as both the focus of rituals and as a temporary altar. They can be found written or inscribed on various surfaces but are usually constructed with flour that is poured on the ground during rituals.
vodouisant: A believer in vodoun; a worshipper of the loa.

City Rulers

2010-03-10T18:05:00.000-08:00

Vidal - Prince of the City / has been ruling for over 200 years / Ventrue / Lancea Sanctum
Savoy - Stewart of the French Quarter / Devea / Lancea Sanctum
Cimitiere - Spiritual leader in Voodoo and Hoodoo / Nosferatu / Circle of the Crone

There exists a three way split in political power in the Crescent City. Although Vidal is the Prince, of long standing power, he is beginning to feel the weight of his years. Rumors are spreading about his growing weakness and need to enter torpor. Leading up to this, power in New Orleans has held a three pronged balance. The lush and valuable French Quarter is currently held by the Prince’s rival, Savoy. Savoy is somewhat of an upstart in New Orleans. His presented background is most assuredly false, but few beyond his inner circle dare to challenge his assertions. Should balance tip in favor of Savoy, the rule of New Orleans would be similar to Vidal’s, but perhaps more opulent based on his Devea blood. The third tine in the power of New Orleans is Cimitiere, a Voodoo/Hoodoo leader. The religion is despised by Vidal, and has made the pair insufferable axis powers. In times past, Vidal has made efforts to eliminate Voodoo, as he is a devout Lancea Sanctum and sees this pagan belief as heresy. Together the trio holds divided the political power.

New Orleans at a Glance

2010-03-10T18:04:00.001-08:00

Climate: New Orleans is hot and humid, with summer temperatures reaching upward of 100 degrees. The Gulf of Mexico provides the region with a great deal of moisture, and the city receives more than five feet of rainfall annually. New Orleans has no “dry season,” and locals know to expect rain at any time of year. The city’s greatest natural threat comes from hurricanes, which buffet the Gulf of Mexico at regular intervals in the months between June to December.
Curfew: No person under the age of 18 is allowed on the streets after 11:00 PM.
Economy: In addition to tourism, which brings in millions every year, New Orleans trades extensively with Latin America. The city is strong in grain, steel and coffee beans, and it saw a boom in offshore oil rigging during the 1970s. Average wages lag behind all states but two, even with plenty of white-collar jobs and lucrative waterfront trades. One in four people lives below the poverty line.
Government: New Orleans has an elected mayor and a city council. Parishes (Louisiana’s version of counties) were geographically ordained by the Catholic Church and became political districts under Spanish rule.
Population: Just over one million in the Greater New Orleans Metro Area, but nearly twice that number visits from out of town each and every month.
Religion: Roman Catholicism predominates. Slaveholders were required by Bienville’s Code Noir of 1724 to baptize and instruct their slaves on Catholicism, but slaves and other immigrants brought vodoun to the city, where it has thrived. Protestants are slightly more common uptown, especially around St. Charles Avenue.

New Orleans Vharacter Creation

2010-03-10T18:00:00.000-08:00

Game System: Vampire: The Requiem (nWoD)
Setting: New Orleans (utilizing the "City of the Damned" – you should not read CotD as it will give spoilers)

Character Creation: Characters should be created according to the VtR rules. You should consult the “Entrances” section below as it gives some additional options and restrictions. The Word document character sheet has a space for background, description and storytelling which need to be completed. The background is just your character’s history. A few sentences is sufficient, but anything not “put in” will be either be fleshed out by the GM or assumed to be SO boring that it is worthless. The description is just what the character looks like. The storytelling section is for those notes that speak to your characters nature and psyche.

Entrances
Option 1 – Immigrants: The character was created elsewhere and has immigrated to New Orleans. This option is the most broad and general for creating a character. The player may create a character according to the rules provided. There are no restrictions on clan or covenant, but politics are politics. The player may not lower their humanity to gain experience points, or take any New Orleans specific options. These characters have only basic knowledge of New Orleans.
Option 2 - Ancient Young: The character was turned decades ago, but was also subject to the violence of a past era. The neonate suffered a dooming night, falling into torpor and failing to wake for many decades. To reflect the experiences the vampire had in the past the player may choose to trade dots of Humanity for experience points. This trade-in reflects some heinous past behavior the vampire engaged in and learned from (accounting for the added experience points), but which also scarred her deeply (explaining the loss in Humanity). Players may sacrifice one dot of Humanity for five experience points, dropping their characters’ Humanity scores to as low as five (for a maximum of 10 extra experience points). Characters with this background are unlikely to be Ordo Dracul, Circle of the Crone, Gangrel or Nosferatu. These characters have limited knowledge of New Orleans.
Option 3 – A New Night: The character was born into the night only a short time ago. They are still subject to the second tradition, specifically that of tutelage. The character receives the Mentor [sire] merit for free and receives the consequences of the second tradition as it is taken very seriously by the prince. Characters with this background are limited to the covenants of Lancea Sanctum and Invictus (or in very rare instances Carthian), based on the Prince’s restrictive policies on progeny. They are unlikely to be from the clans Gangrel or Nosferatu. Additionally, most of the kindred of New Orleans are already generated, thus a player must work within the selected NPCs as to who might be granted progeny (this is to say that, there are limits to the clan and covenant based on the already generated sires). These characters have more detailed knowledge of New Orleans.
Option 4 – A Nice Place to Visit: The character is an immigrant kindred (see option 1) who was first discovered by the Princes advisory, Antoine Savoy. The character, in the limited time within New Orleans, has come to be within the influences of Savoy and his French Quarter powers, drawing more sympathy from Savoy and falling from courtly favor. Kindred with this background are unlikely to be Circle of the Crone. These characters have only basic knowledge of New Orleans.
Option 5 – That Thing You Do: The character is a follower of Voodoo, and as such is closer to Baron Cimitiere, one of the prince’s advisories. The character is a native of Louisiana (or Haiti), but has moved from other parts to New Orleans. As the practice of Voodoo is despised by the prince, the character is likely to draw a cold reception from the prince and his supporters, but has the backing of those of similar faith (Baron Cimitiere). Characters of this background are members of the Circle of the Crone [Vodoun]. These characters have only basic knowledge of New Orleans.
Option 6 – The Darker Truth: The character has a darker history. This option has a greatly restricted creation process. Players wishing this option will be approaching it blindly, so be prepared.
Option 7 – Umm, I don’t know: This option is for those players who struggle with creating characters. Selecting this option is allowing the GM to create and field your character. You will be agreeing to play whatever mad schemes your GM dreams up and suffer whatever bizarre tortures are attached to the character. This is less work and could result in great characters, but you never know.

So We Are All Dead?

2010-03-10T17:59:00.001-08:00

It went for a nice long run, but it has now falled apart. 4 of the 8 players have dropped out (and all in the same round). There has to be something about that, but I am at a loss to tell you what. Jon said he just got too far behind, well that's not much help.

Chart found in the Wrecked Boat

2009-07-07T18:20:00.000-07:00

HELP WANTED

2009-05-22T16:10:00.000-07:00

A bounty of 20 gold coins is offered as reward for anyone finding Dr. Ernie Hamblin brass compass.
Wanted: ripe, plump, pig berries -- Dominique Brownoat.
A member of the Summer Court is wanted to deliver a message to Dr. Ernie Hamblin Regent of Summer for Lafourche Freehold.
Erik Feldenhoff, hedge guard of Summer, is currently taking applicants for a mission within the hedge. The group will be required to travel, deeply within the realm of brambles. Interested parties should apply at the yellow school bus in Lafayette Parish. All surviving party members will be handsomely compensated.
The despicable and extremely ugly troll, Wint of Suckled Marrow, is suspected of raiding trade caravans along Ravens Field. A bounty of 1200 gold coins will be paid to anyone claiming the head of this despicable troll.
Messengers needed! It's that time again Red Helix, the exile, is due his bounty. Hardy well armed changelings are needed to take payments to Red Helix. Apply in person at the Summer Court, be well armed, well prepared, and well a little crazy.

Illicit items of the summer court

2009-04-24T11:08:00.000-07:00

Illicit items:
The Goblin Fruits known as Pug Berries, Bristle Fruit, Purple Rinds, Covercobs, or Rootflakes
Buying, Selling, or Utilizing Poisons
Electrum Weapons (solid, coated, or plated)
Selling Animal Skins
Slaves of a Sentient Nature
Items stolen from another Changeling
Goblin Magic
Living Hedge-fare (taken or to be taken to the real world)
Human Books with hard or stiff bindings and/or covers with more than 199 pages
Items of any kind containing more than 25% electrum
Arcadian Loriandal Works and other Loriandal Devices
Any Hedge material sold to humans

2008-11-01T12:26:00.000-07:00

Eric and the Dread Gazebo

2008-10-28T20:35:00.000-07:00

THE CLASSIC MISADVENTURE

In someone's parents garage a game of D&D was going on. Eric plays something like a computer. When he games, he methodically considers each possibility before choosing his preferred option. If given time, he will invariably pick the optimal solution. It has been known to take weeks. He is otherwise, in all respects, a superior gamer. Eric was playing a Neutral Paladin in Ed’s game. He was on some lord’s lands when the following exchange occurred:
ED: You see a well groomed garden. In the middle, on a small hill, you see a gazebo.
ERIC: A gazebo? What color is it?
ED: [pause] It’s white, Eric.
ERIC: How far away is it?
ED: About 50 yards.
ERIC: How big is it?
ED: [pause] It’s about 30 ft across, 15 ft high, with a pointed top.
ERIC: I use my sword to detect good on it.
ED: It’s not good, Eric. It’s a gazebo.
ERIC: [pause] I call out to it.
ED: It won’t answer. It’s a gazebo.
ERIC: [pause] I sheathe my sword and draw my bow and arrows. Does it respond in any way?
ED: No, Eric, it’s a gazebo!
ERIC: I shoot it with my bow. [roll to hit] What happened?
ED: There is now a gazebo with an arrow sticking out of it.
ERIC: [pause] Wasn’t it wounded?
ED: OF COURSE NOT, ERIC! IT’S A GAZEBO!
ERIC: [whimper] But that was a +3 arrow!
ED: It’s a gazebo, Eric, a GAZEBO! If you really want to try to destroy it, you could try to chop it
with an axe, I suppose, or you could try to burn it, but I don’t know why anybody would even try. It’s a @#$%!! gazebo!
ERIC: [long pause. He has no axe or fire spells.] I run away.
ED: [thoroughly frustrated] It’s too late. You’ve awakened the gazebo. It catches you and eats you.
ERIC: [reaching for his dice] Maybe I’ll roll up a fireusing mage so I can avenge my Paladin.

At this point, the increasingly amused fellow party members restored a modicum of order by explaining to Eric what a gazebo is. Thus ends the tale of Eric and the Dread Gazebo. It could have been worse; at least the gazebo wasn’t on a grassy gnoll.

A little vocabulary is a dangerous thing.

Stolen from
Richard Aronson

DREAM #5

2008-10-23T06:14:00.000-07:00

“Careful concealment of the moon within the folds of the Archbishop’s robes could only be seen from the depths of the dungeon. Dark and harsh repression was the current of torment pressing on all our flesh. This dank hole has contained the desperate and the noble, all suffering at the hands of this religious charlatan. Yet I do have friends here.” It was the first time this prisoner had spoken, other than to maintain some degree of civility and humanity.

“Edmond’s words were hollow. He continues to preach hope and righteousness. He sings the hymns of God and he repeats the lessons from his youth. Every day he preys for those forced to exist in this dungeon, but it is just a lamentation. Never has his God appeared here. If His light reached into this squalor then Edmond’s soul must be judged stronger.”

“George has been here as long as any anybody else, he never preys, but yet he still lives. The dark presses in upon us all. The longer you live, no “live” is very wrong, EXIST, the more the darkness nibbles at your mind. How many have passed beyond the realm of sanity? Countless thousands have suffered at the whim of the Archbishop, few have ever been heard from again. This is where they come. This is the fate of those who stand up against the tyrannical forces.”

“Edmond’s Bible says that the weak are the progenitors of victory over tyranny, but that has never made any sense. That is nothing more than false hope.”

“’False Hope’ The idea that hope is ever true…all hope is false. Nothing can redeem a man’s mind once it has parted ways with his soul. Nothing can save a man’s soul once it has been tainted with evil. Edmond would explain that God, his righteous and good creator, will judge the Archbishop and damn his soul to an eternity of pain. That is too good for that man. Pain for all of time is half what he deserves.”

“Inflicted with the pain of branding irons, you can brace yourself against the fiery pain of red hot iron, even when it is thrust into your eye, but it’s the smell of charred flesh. The offal smell of burned flash is bad enough, but the knowledge that it is is your own body burning is torture beyond measure. When it boiled the water of my eye, I lost my sight. I could feel the water of my eye trickle along my cheek. I smelled the odor of blackened flesh and I felt the pain of my eye being burned from by skull. This was the Archbishops assigned penance for my sins.”

“What have I done you ask? Nothing! I was a faithful servant, coachmen for his Excellency and a poor humble man. My duties were simple and my labors consistent. I was just a man trying to feed his family. I did nothing to deserve the wrath of our villainous clergy.”

“The Archbishops personal guard had awoken me. It was sometime after moonrise, but the clouds cloaked the earth in shadow. When I was roused, I was told the Archbishop was going to have to make an urgent trip to Prague and we needed to leave within the hour. I sent the guard to rouse the stable staff and prepare the carriage as I hurried to gather my things and then joined the effort to ready the horses.”

“The carriage was made ready as the archbishop arrived. He was accompanied by two men in monk’s robes and his personal bodyguard. I directed my assistant, Pavel, to attend to the Archbishop and guests as I helped the guardsmen to the rear of the carriage. We set off for Prague just as a small storm settled in.”

“The storm was an omen, and ill omen! It followed us for the whole of the voyage. The roads were turned to rivers and the grim skies frowned upon our intentions to travel. We arrived in Prague before five bells the next day and I took the archbishop and his comrades to Strahov Monastery. Pavel and I took room and board with the initiates. It was more than three days before the Archbishop had need of us. We were to depart the monastery that night after 11 bells and we were going to the countryside. We were destine for Neratovice. I was instructed to pack for several days on the road; and even odder I was told to take the monastery wagon, not the archbishop’s carriage.”

“I made the preparations and we set off, but when we arrived at Neratovice we turned east and tripped to the Fenstal Forest and Prova Hill [Cemetery Hill]. I set up camp and the archbishop and his traveling friends went to the see the hill’s stones. As the sun began to rise, I became concerned. The three men had not returned and had not eaten, so I set off up the hill to find them.”

“Huge ancient oak trees stand as ever-vigilant sentinels to protect the rest of the dead. These great and venerable trees conceal Prova [Cemetery] Hill from the nearby village of Neratovice and even conceal it from the road that accesses it. The cemetery itself is a clearing atop Prova Hill. The soil of the hill cradles the long abandon flesh of the villagers and simple stones offer remembrance to the dead. Many of the markers have disappeared within growths of grass and weeds. Finding yourself walking in Prova you may suddenly be atop the only memory of a soul’s existence on Earth. At the center of the graveyard is a large flat stone that the clergy use to speak to the mourners.”

“The archbishop was standing at the center of the clearing, the morning sunlight shinning off his brilliant blue robes. His eyes fixed upon me and he stretched out his hand. He was covered in blood and blood stained his face. I was paralyzed; the cold of the graves anchored my feet. He commanded the monks; they jumped at me with speed beyond belief.”

“I am now here. My story is my only shield. I know not what that soulless archbishop thing wants with me, nor do I know the actions that brought blood to his lips, but know that I tell you the truth and I shall continue to tell my tale.”

With that, Archabold, bastard son of Miriam Spooner, lay back against the bars of the cell and let out a long sigh. “For whatever it’s worth…”

DREAM #4

2008-10-22T15:27:00.001-07:00

The body of smoke and death is perfect. It was born of the hate harvested from ten thousand condemned souls. Something so dreadful is not an easy thing to birth. Armies of spawn sought out the souls of evil. Lucifer’s minions collected the vilest of the condemned, and gathered together those who rain flame upon man. These souls were forced into the pit and burned upon an altar of spikes and swords. Finally, the brain of an ordained man, cut live from him during an act of sinful lust, was cast to the smoke and ash. This is the way of the death smoke and the telling of its birth. None have come before it, and empty are the plains of Hades to be unfruitful.

This falls to the greatest of efforts in creation and so, in perfect symmetry, it must be as troublesome to raze.

DREAM #3

2008-10-22T15:19:00.001-07:00

The two monks were large men with arms strengthened to steel by years of labor and perhaps more insidious causes. She struggled hopelessly against their grip, pined to the cold flat stone. By the size of her belly, this girl would soon be a mother. These men had deprived her of any modesty as her simple peasant garments were carelessly discarded. A small girl, likely no more than 16, with curly hair the color of straw, she could have been pretty. Her eyes were red from tears and stark with terror. A thick leather strap was gagging her and her lungs labored with the effort of this ordeal.

The priest wore the long flowing blue robes of an archbishop. He had a narrow pitched nose that ended in a sharp point and his hair was black like pitch. His eyes were all together too close together and slightly tapered. Long fingers with well manicured nails curled around the hilt of a kris dagger.

The priest carefully drew back his sleeve away from the dagger, exposing his rather thin frail forearm. As the flesh was struck by the light of day, as hideous scar appeared, almost as if the light burned him. The nasty, puffed, and bloated mark took the form of a nude woman with a narrow waist, long hair, gripping the severed head of some animal.

Turning to his left he dipped the blade of the kris into a stone bowl filled with disgorged animal eyes floating in a think murky liquid. The agitation of the dagger caused the liquid to swirl about and the eyes appeared to look around. He withdrew the blade and raised it above the swollen belly of his terrorized prisoner. Droplets of the ichor ran down the curved blade and fell onto her stomach. Where they landed they darkened the flesh and caused grievous wounds to open up, like she was being burned by acid. The girl renewed her struggles as she felt the pain of her wounds.

With a practiced hand strengthened by Satan himself, the priest plunged the Moorish kris into the young girl. The tip of the blade entered her body at the base of her sternum and the curved nature of the kris made a wide ghastly wound. The priest then turned the knife 90 degrees and pulled it down through her stomach and out through her sex. His action spilled the girl like so much overturned crockery. The movement caused the body of the girl to nearly split in two as if it had exploded. The fluids from deep within were suddenly forced unnaturally free.

The life-water of the womb ran out of the dying girl. Her fluids flowed along the stone much like soup spilled upon a table. The monks bent low, bring their heads close to the table. They sipped of the ruptured womanhood, lapping at the moist stone with long forked tongues. They were filled with carnal excitement.

The priest cast away the blade and plunged his bare hand into the stomach of the dying girl. Grasping the child within, he quickly yanked the mutilated fetus from the flaps of its womb and cast it to the ground. The lost life did not fight or flail as fully 1/3 of its head was severed by the knife. As the priest returned to the grizzly scene before him, the fetus shivered for a moment and then fell still.

With more precise and cautious movements the priest re-inserted his hand into the girl’s body. Her last movements having left her, his search for the object of his attention resumed. Finding what he was searching for the priest grabbed at her liver, but the slippery organ was difficult to hold. After several failed attempts to clasp the organ, he resigned himself to embracing the gore and placed his other hand within the empty womb. With both hands he lifted the liver from her and drew it to his lips.

His pale narrow lips stretched thin and drew back off his gray teeth in a perverted smile. He opened his mouth and bit deeply into the warm dripping organ, taking in a large piece; the taste of which was reflected in a twinge of disgust on his face, but was quickly overshadowed by the jovial sparkle of emotion centered in dark power.

The monks tossed the lifeless corpse of the blond girl to the earth and returned their attention to the priest. The priest placed the remaining liver onto the flat stone in place of the whole body, then bent a knee to prey. The monks followed suit.

As the rays of full sunlight stretched through the chill morning air they struck the shinny organ, and it began to react. At first it appeared to be nothing more that a rapid drying, but the light soon desiccated the dark flesh into a dry lump. As it continued to beat down, the husk started to degenerate and collapse to dust.

The priest, rising again, withdrew a small crystal vial from his robes. The vial contained a milky white liquid. He removed the narrow glass stopper and dumped the contents onto the dry crumbled husk.

The priest spoke in a powerful projective voice and directed his words to the air, “I speak to the forgotten Sorority of Wyrms. I call to the lost Gods. May my voice resound to the faded temples, so my pleas are carried to the immortals. I am the servant of the Elder Goddess. My life is meaning in her divine will. Ereshkigal Goddess of Irkalla, I give you the life of this bearer, as tribute to your triumph over Ishtar and Tammuz. I willingly offer you my seed to symbolize the devotion of my life and the lives of my progeny, for all time.” He cast aside the vial and again fell to his knees. “Oh, most powerful one, please visit upon me the power to do your will and vanquish my enemies.”

The disgusting pile of dried and crumbled organ meat coated in body fluids then began to smoke. Wisps of blue smoke formed thin plumes and rose into the air, twisting in the chill morning air. The bizarre offering then began to burn. Flames sprouted from the liver and began to consume the fluids. Black smoke began to emanate from the reaction. The plumes of smoke did not rise into the sky and float away on the breeze, like any fire would, but rather the vapors coalesced and gathered. As the liver burned it formed a swirling snake of black smoke.

“I Izabolt Sinister command you. I, the servant of the Goddess of Irkalla, am your authority. You are bound to my will and this vital force is yours to taint, and I am eternal. I bind you to carry my will, spurred by my motives. Ereshkigal’s victory over the vile Ishtar shall be by my hand. We travel into darkness.” At those words the black swirling entity wrapped itself around the priest and vanished.

DREAM #2

2008-10-22T14:15:00.000-07:00

Acharon was the bravest of the rabbits. He had earned all five of the mantles of battle and the three badges of sorcery. He alone could confront the vile Fox Lord Sheldon. It was his courage that could free his kind from the tyrant Fox Lord. It was his sacred mission to protect them. Acharon stood against the armies of teeth and claws, and battled with warriors of cunning and skill. Sheldon’s mages and priests had united against him, but his faith in Oolong [The God protector of Burrows and the Giver of carrots] had deflected the spells of darkness; faith in Oolong and his magic sword Hyth.

Hyth was a sword of legend and a blade of power. Rabbit lore tells of the first great hero of the meadow, Bob. Bob was a noble hare who never wished fame or glory. He rejected the call to arms many times before the evil hound Milo enslaved his family. Once forced to take up arms, his willingness to offer his own life for the lives of his compatriots was recognized by The Lord Oolong.

Oolong gave Bob a weapon of power. He commanded the young hare to draw from the ground a carrot. This carrot was then transformed into an enchanted blade of pure silver. With his divine weapon, the hero Bob the Long Eared Hare protected the lands of Meadow and upheld the laws of the Rabbits.

This blade was passed down from noble hero to noble hero; each finding the blade at a time of great needs, each having resisted the temptations of fame and glory, each having demonstrated his willingness to give his life for the lives of other rabbits. So the Meadow was protected.

Acharon held the Blade of Oolong and knew the only action that would free the Meadow from tyranny. He had used the blade and laid waste to hundreds of hounds, foxes, hawks, coyotes, snakes, and even bunnies.

His mission was not to destroy the armies of the tyrant, but the tyrant himself. So, he rested upon the gifts of the gods and worked to execute his charge. He sought out each of the Seedcap family and destroyed them. The whole of a family fell to his hand and yet one task remained. He, Acharon the Brown Fur of the clan Seedcap, must spill his own blood.

Many sages thought that Sheldon, Lord of the Foxes, had grown powerful on the blood of the hares of the meadow. They argued at length the connection he had to the kind populations of rabbits. Many theories were developed and many divinations had been preformed. All were wrong. Through the guidance of Hyth and faith in Oolong, Acharon had discovered the truth behind the powers of the Fox Lord. He knew that Sheldon did not gather his strength from slaves or followers or any other subjugation, but rather he had tapped into the very blood of the hare.

Sheldon lived not off the souls of those he sought to dominate and rule, but rather he live because they lived. His life force was intimately tied to the lives of the hares. Sheldon concealed his very life force in that of the rabbits he now sought to imprison. The Fox Lord could only be defeated by spilling the blood of the very creatures Acharon was trying to protect. A true horror.

Acharon had taken up the mantle of responsibility to destroy this tyrant. He had preformed the holy quest and destroyed his own people. Countless innocent rabbits, some just bunnies, had been destroyed in the name of Oolong. The whole of the bloodline had ended, except one.

The irony of being the last and the perfectly fitted justice was almost more than he could absorb, being only a simple rabbit. He had to die. He was the last. Only by his blood spilled upon the ground would Sheldon’s life be ended, and thus end the tyranny.
The sword tip was so sharp it was strange to feel. Not as much pain as he had anticipated. The smell of blood was nothing any rabbit could ever get used to, but this smell was somehow pleasing. He only wished that he could hear the echoes of The Fox Lord’s screams die away. He strained his ear to the air only to hear the chatter of vultures soon to be fed.

DREAM #1

2008-10-22T14:13:00.000-07:00

Darkness still blanked the small farmhouse, but Alysica was awake. This was her third trip to the latrine this night, but that was the fate of any woman soon to bear a child. Her husband was still snoring, “good” she thought, best not to wake him, as tomorrow was going to be a long day. She slipped out from under the wool blanket and rose. Wrapped in a thick shall, she thought she would be protected from the damp chill of the night air. She stepped into her shoes and, as quietly as she could, headed for the door.

A nearly full moon was more than enough light to make it to the potty, and as the urgency was significant she didn’t want to waste time lighting a candle. The rain of the last two days had made the fields and the farm wet, too wet to finish the planting and in her current condition she was of little help, so she would have to be careful along the muddy path. Delay and she was going to wet herself; hurry to slip and she might harm her child. “An acceptable risk” she thought.

Alysica was nearly 9 months pregnant. Just a few more weeks and she would be a mother. It was perhaps too long; already simple things like bending over in the fields and carrying the wash were becoming difficult. The worst part had to be the constant need to pee.

She had tripped to the latrine more than seven times today, and that many interruptions made her life more stressful. Oh so many times did she have to halt her labors to trip to the latrine. Today she had over baked the rolls on just such an issue.

The latrine was becoming an old friend. Alysica took her cleansing rag from its drying hook and closed the door. The small building was little more than a bench seat with walls for privacy and a roof for shelter, but it represented the relief she desperately needed. She lifted her nightdress, pushed down her under-things, and was able to answer the depressingly frequent call of nature.

The door to the latrine opened with a jerk and banged against the wall. Alysica was startled at the sudden movement, but not alarmed. She and Derrick lived far enough from town or any other neighbors that she never considered a strange person to be here. It must be Derrick, she just didn’t hear him.

The fact that there were two figures somehow played fowl in her mind. She thought, “A shadow from the full moon, or a trick of the chill night air.” She would not understand the consequences of her mistake until too late.

They were dressed in dark robes. Their hands were impossibly strong and their grip felt like a vice. The flesh of their hands was scaly but dry, similar to the snakes her younger brother was always catching. Their movements made no noise. It was this fact coupled with the jerky unearthly speed of which they tendered their actions that made her flesh crawl.

The men violently pulled her from the latrine. They pinned her forearms to their midsection and dragged her away from her farm. Alysica knew she could not break free, but she still tried. It must be instinct that causes someone to persist when failure is obvious; this drive was why she never attracted the eye of Petrove Oliander, but yet she spent most of her childhood perusing him.

Her bed, her husband, her haven were all growing farther and farther away and yet her actions could not even slow her abductors. It was then she realized she could scream. Motivated by the brutality of the situation, she forced air into the only noise that could convey her terror.

The scream was piercing. She poured her fear and terror into the sound with the desperate hope of rescue. A cry in the night directed at her Derrick, she screamed and screamed. The night air became hot and stale in her chest, but yet she screamed. She would have screamed to the very end, but for the burning of her throat. The volume of emotion inflamed her throat and parched her voice; her sounds became horse as the reverberation of desperation disappeared into the chill night.

As her assailants forced her along, their snakeskin hands pulled at her nightdress. The impossible strength of these things tore her cloths and rended her dress, the force of which abraded her skin and turned it raw.

Once stripped of her garments the hands of these things fondled her flesh. The grip on her arms made it impossible for her to be free, but she resisted by kicking her legs and thrashing her head. To thwart this, one of the “men” tore out a handful of her soft yellow hair. The sharp pain quenched her resistance, allowing these things to perform further unsavory acts. Sharp claw-like nails poked her skin, rough cold hands groped at her; fingers explored her body. She bled from the abuse, her intimate areas scraped and torn. She was violated brutally.

Her head drooped, her vision was blurred with tears, and her voice muted by a leather gag they placed in her mouth. They were fully within the clearing before she realized these creatures had dragged her to Prova Hill. A cemetery her husband’s family was buried in. She had been here many times tending the graves of her mother-in-law and father-in-law. Many of the grave markers were hidden within deep grass, but Alysica recognized them and wondered if Derrick would have enough money to purchase a nice stone for her.

2008-09-09T10:40:00.001-07:00

As requested the Map of the Ballroom - Hope it helps

What does Alms mean?

2007-11-09T06:15:00.000-08:00

Alms or almsgiving exists in a number of religions. In general, it involves giving materially to another as an act of religious virtue. In Abrahamic religions, alms are given as charity to benefit the poor. In Buddhism, alms are given by lay people to monks to nurture laic virtue, merit and blessings and to ensure monastic continuity. The word comes from Old English ælmesse, ælmes, from Late Latin eleemosyna, from Greek eleEmosynE pity, alms, from eleEmOn merciful, from eleos pity.

Buddhism
Almsbowl as used by bhikkhus for going on almsround.In Buddhism, alms or almsgiving is the respect given by a lay Buddhist to a Buddhist monk. The monk will then pray for the giver's family or requested others. It is not charity as presumed by Western interpreters. It is closer to a symbolic connection to the spiritual and to show humbleness and respect in the presence of normal society.[1] The visible presence of monks is a stabilizing influence. The act of alms giving assists in connecting the human to the monk and what he represents. As the Buddha has stated:

"Householders & the homeless [monastics]

in mutual dependence

both reach the true Dhamma...." (Itivuttaka 4.7)[2]

In Theravada Buddhism, many monks (Pāli: bhikkhus) go on a daily almsround (or pindabat) to collect food. This is often perceived as giving the laypeople the opportunity to make merit (Pāli: puñña). Money should not be accepted by a Buddhist monk, although nowadays not many monks keep to this rule (the exception being the monks of the Thai Forest Tradition and other Theravada traditions which focus on vinaya and meditation practice). In countries that follow Mahayana Buddhism, it has been impractical for monks to go on a daily almsround. In China, Korea and Japan, monasteries were situated in remote mountain areas where it could take days to reach the nearest town, thus making the daily almsround impossible. In the Himalayan countries, the large number of bikshus would have made an almsround a heavy burden on families. Competition with other religions for support also made daily almsrounds difficult and even dangerous; the first monks in the Shilla dynasty of Korea were said to be beaten due to the Buddhist minority at the time.

In Buddhism, both "almsgiving" and, more generally, "giving" are called "dāna" (Pāli).[3] Such giving is one of the three elements of the path of practice as formulated by the Buddha for laypeople. This path of practice for laypeople is: dāna, sīla, bhāvanā.[4]

Generosity is also expressed towards other sentient beings as both a cause for merit and to aid the receiver of the gift. It is accepted that although the three jewels of refuge are the basis of the greatest merit, by seeing other sentient beings as having Buddhanature and making offerings towards the aspirational Buddha to be wihtin them is of equal benefit. Generosity towards other sentient beings is greatly emphasised in Mahayana as one of the perfections (paramita) as shown in Lama Tsong Khapa's 'The Abbreviated Points of the Graded Path' (Tibetan: lam-rim bsdus-don):

"Total willingness to give is the wish-granting gem for fulfilling the hopes of wandering beings.
It is the sharpest weapon to sever the knot of stinginess.
It leads to bodhisattva conduct that enhances self-confidence and courage,
And is the basis for universal proclamation of your fame and repute.
Realizing this, the wise rely, in a healthy manner, on the outstanding path
Of (being ever-willing) to offer completely their bodies, possessions, and positive potentials.
The ever-vigilant lama has practiced like that.
If you too would seek liberation,
Please cultivate yourself in the same way."[5]
In Buddhism, giving of alms, is the beginning of one's journey to Nirvana (Pali: nibbana). In practice, one can give anything with or without thought for Nibbana. This would lead to faith (Pali: saddha), one key power (Pali: bala) that one should generate within oneself for the Buddha, Dhamma and Sangha.

According to the Pali canon:

Of all gifts [alms], the gift of Dhamma is the highest. (Dhp. XXIV v. 354)[6]

Christianity
Whereas the principle of almsgiving in Christianity is not a legal concept as in Islam, giving to the poor is regarded as one of the highest duties for any Christian. The offertory is the traditional moment in every Roman Catholic Mass, when alms are collected. In all Christian forms of worship, a collection is made of "tithes and offerings" given for the support of the church and for the relief of the poor, as a central act of Christian worship. In addition, private acts of charity, considered virtuous only if not done for others to admire, are a Christian duty.
Be careful not to do your 'acts of righteousness' in front of others, to be seen by them. If you do, you will have no reward from your Father in heaven. - (Matthew 6:1)
The outward and an inward giving of alms: Here Jesus places the primary focus on the motives behind such acts, which should be love.
Rather, give as alms what is inside, and then everything will be clean for you!-
(Luke 11:41)
Giving of the rich verses the poor: Here Jesus contrasts the giving of the rich and the poor
He looked up and saw the rich putting their gifts into the treasury. And He saw a poor widow putting in two small copper coins. And He said, "Truly I say to you, this poor widow put in more than all of them; for they all out of their surplus put into the offering; but she out of her poverty put in all that she had to live on."- (Luke 21:1-4)

1) Indicative of the mutual nature of the almsgiving exchange, in some Theravada countries, if a monk were to refuse alms from someone — a gesture known as "turning over the rice bowl" — this would be interpreted as an act of excommunication. An example of such a refusal has occurred at times as a form of protest by Buddhist monks in response to offerings by military personnel in military-occupied Myanmar (Mydans, 20 Sept 2007, NYT).
2) Thanissaro (2001).[1] Almsgiving is also commended by the Buddha in a less prominent way in various other canonical texts such as the Dighajanu Sutta.
3) Nyanatiloka (1980), entry for "dāna"[2].
4) Nyanatiloka (1980), entry for "dāna"[3]; and, PTS (1921-25), entry for "Puñña" (merit)[4].
5) Tsongkhapa & Berzin (2001), verse 15.
6) In Pali, this line is: "Sabba danam, Dhamma danam jinati." This line can be found in the Dhammapada, Chapter 24, verse 354. Thanissaro (1997)[5] translates this entire verse as:
A gift of Dhamma conquers all gifts;
the taste of Dhamma, all tastes;
a delight in Dhamma, all delights;
the ending of craving, all suffering
& stress.

Rumor of Pirate Killian McBlarney

2007-10-09T13:15:00.000-07:00

As the rumor goes, Killian McBlarny was a born pirate. He was the son of a known African Pirate, Captain Kroomwell. Kroomwell was a giant man with giant greed. He commanded a sailing vessel between 1770 and 1780, where he plundered sailing vessels around the horn of Africa. His greed kept the vessel at sea longer and his crew working harder, but the benefits were considerable. Kroomwell was known for his ruthless execution of prisoners, and his resale of captured vessels and arms to anyone. A number of pirates were supplied by his methods.

In 1780 it is rumored that he took an Irish woman as a concubine, and sired a son. Fleeing her pirate capture she took young Killian McBlarney and raised him in her native Ireland. Killian inherited his fathers temperament and nature, as at 16 he signed on as pirate crew.

Many accounts of his life indicate that he assassinated his captain and assumed control, but more likely is that he simply stole enough treasure to purchase and crew his own vessel. In either event, Killian’s first recorded act of piracy was against a merchant vessel of Britain in 1897. In this act, he executed all of the crew and discharged their bodies to the sea.

Killian was soon forced away from European waters to the West Indies [Caribbean]. Apparently, without motive other than greed, Killian attacked and plundered 11 merchant vessels. It is popularly reported that anyone captured in these raids was set free, thus breaking the cycle of murder that his father faithfully upheld. In 1800, Napoleon signed a letter of marquee with Killian. He was charged with the destruction of British shipping and the capture of any cargo bound for British ports.

From 1800 to 1804, Killian raided, plundered, and pirated in the name of France. He was so successful that the British Navy dispatched 10 ships of the line to hunt down and destroy him. This was a very significant move, as the impending war with France would require all the ships the British could muster. Killian was so embolden by the hunt that he is reported to have snuck aboard one of the vessels and scuttled it.

As reward for services to the French Empire was a huge land grant within the Louisiana territory. No record exists as to the nature of the land grant, nor is there any record that Killian ever received compensation for his activities, but local rumors about his vast treasures and activities near New Orleans are stuff of [albeit bar room] legend.

The small town of Thibodaux Louisiana claims that the famous pirate founded the town. Several tourist traps offer Killian McBlarney souvenirs and memorabilia. Modern historians have little factual testimony as to the accuracy of this claim, but the residents still proclaim it as truthful history.

True scholarly work on Killian and his piracy has little on the later portions of his career, as lands of the Louisiana Purchase were transferred to the Americans actions against piracy increased. Killian’s last known act of piracy was off the coast of Key West where Captain Killian attacked a British merchant ship [1805]. He plundered the cargo and left the crew marooned on a tropical island. Many other acts of piracy were attributed to Killian after 1805, but none has been substantiated.

The rumor of the famed pirate runs rampant within Thibodaux. Most commonly, it is told to attract tourists, but it is a frequent bar rail legend. In both cases, the telling is the real purpose. If the town gets people to visit, they gain the needed tourist income that local New Orleans seems to hoard. Anyone who is town and not living under a rock [and it would have to be a pretty big rock] have heard of the Killian stories. Most know the drunken exaggerations that come with the telling and pay them little mind. Some pay closer attention.

Dreams Again

2007-10-02T11:52:00.000-07:00

The dreams had abated for nearly 4 weeks, and not without noted relief to your psyche. But last night the dream of the solder returned.

The woods were thick and obscured the field before you. The drooping branches and dense foliage prevents you from seeing anything more than 100 feet away. Add to that the dimming sunlight of the rapidly approaching evening and the visibility continues to drop. You know that a mist will soon begin to rise. The muggy heavy air, just after sun down will form swirling mists and banks of fog. When that happens you know you will not be able to see anything past 15 feet, but yet you have to press on.

What is waiting for you in these dark woods? Where is it? Is their danger? All these questions blend to a chaotic pronouncement of fear.

The walk seems indefinite, but somehow with each step much more foreboding. The thin gossamer stands of moonlight filtering through the canopy cast a bizarre pattern of dots upon the forest floor. Where the light strikes water the tendrils of illumination dance and play upon the ground. This image is nearly serene until the mists begin to rise.

The fog slips between trees and gives form to the light beams. The mists play flowing by and through the forest gives these moonbeams near substance and perverse form. They diffuse the light almost like a natural lantern, slowly pulsing as the breeze pushes the fogs around the trees. It is then you see them, three figures among the trees. Each fills you with a sense of doom.

The first is a grotesquely tall and thin man. He is wearing a dark suit and broad brimmed hat. His skin is pale and his eyes are powerful points of amber light. In his left hand, he is carrying a leather attaché case and in his right hand, a wooden yardstick. He simply stands among the trees silently mouthing words to some imperceptible lecture. The second figure is that of a giant tin solder. This gigantic child toy is roughly painted in the colors of the British army. The metal man is armed with a musket and wears a large bedroll on its back. The third figure is a naked girl. She is light skinned and delicate in both form and feature. Her long flowing brown hair seems to flow and dance beyond what can be explained by the mild breeze. She stands upon the forest floor, but looks as if she could simply float away. With cat-like grace she dances within the forest.

Your musket is readied and aimed downrange before you even think about the possibility of firing. Looking along the sights you could easily dispatch any one of the figures…With no need for careful aim you fire your weapon into the overgrown toy. The shot strikes the metal body with a dull metallic thud and creates a shower of atomized paint that resembles a cloud of blood. The metal figure is undisturbed. Only the small black blemish of your shot serves are testament to your actions. The darkness of the forest begins to press in around you. Whatever is out there has found you. Your soul is claimed…

The woods were thick and obscured the field before you. The drooping branches and dense foliage prevents you from seeing anything more than 100 feet away. Add to that the dimming sunlight of the rapidly approaching evening and the visibility continues to drop. You know that a mist will soon begin to rise. The muggy heavy air, just after sun down will form swirling mists and banks of fog. When that happens you know you will not be able to see anything past 15 feet, but yet you have to press on.

What is waiting for you in these dark woods? Where is it? Is their danger? All these questions blend together to a chaotic pronouncement of fear.

The walk seems indefinite, but somehow with each step much more foreboding. The thin gossamer stands of moonlight filtering through the canopy cast a bizarre pattern of dots upon the forest floor. Where the light strikes water the tendrils of illumination dance and play upon the ground. This image is nearly serene until the mists begin to rise.

The fog slips between trees and gives form to the light beams. The mists play flowing by and through the forest gives these moonbeams near substance and perverse form. They diffuse the light almost like a natural lantern, slowly pulsing as the breeze pushes the fogs around the trees. It is then you see them, three figures among the trees. Each fills you with a sense of doom.

The first is a grotesquely tall and thin man. He is wearing a dark suit and broad brimmed hat. His skin is pale and his eyes are powerful points of amber light. In his left hand, he is carrying a leather attaché case and in his right hand, a wooden yardstick. He simply stands among the trees silently mouthing words to some imperceptible lecture. The second figure is that of a giant tin solder. This gigantic child toy is roughly painted in the colors of the British army. The metal man is armed with a musket and wears a large bedroll on its back. The third figure is a naked girl. She is light skinned and delicate in both form and feature. Her long flowing brown hair seems to flow and dance beyond what can be explained by the mild breeze. She stands upon the forest floor, but looks as if she could simply float away. With cat-like grace she dances within the forest.

Your musket is readied and aimed downrange before you even think about the possibility of firing. Looking along the sights you could easily dispatch any one of the figures…With careful aim you discharge you rifle at the naked girl. Her rapid and random movements confound the shot and she dances behind a tree just as the mini-ball flees downrange. You are sure to have missed, were it not for a perfect deflection from an old oak. The speeding metal struck the dancing girl and crumpled her fragile body…

The woods were thick and obscured the field before you. The drooping branches and dense foliage prevents you from seeing anything more than 100 feet away. Add to that the dimming sunlight of the rapidly approaching evening and the visibility continues to drop. You know that a mist will soon begin to rise. The muggy heavy air, just after sun down will form swirling mists and banks of fog. When that happens you know you will not be able to see anything past 15 feet, but yet you have to press on.

What is waiting for you in these dark woods? Where is it? Is their danger? All these questions blend together to a chaotic pronouncement of fear.

The walk seems indefinite, but somehow with each step much more foreboding. The thin gossamer stands of moonlight filtering through the canopy cast a bizarre pattern of dots upon the forest floor. Where the light strikes water the tendrils of illumination dance and play upon the ground. This image is nearly serene until the mists begin to rise.

The fog slips between trees and gives form to the light beams. The mists play flowing by and through the forest gives these moonbeams near substance and perverse form. They diffuse the light almost like a natural lantern, slowly pulsing as the breeze pushes the fogs around the trees. It is then you see them, three figures among the trees. Each fills you with a sense of doom.

The first is a grotesquely tall and thin man. He is wearing a dark suit and broad brimmed hat. His skin is pale and his eyes are powerful points of amber light. In his left hand, he is carrying a leather attaché case and in his right hand, a wooden yardstick. He simply stands among the trees silently mouthing words to some imperceptible lecture. The second figure is that of a giant tin solder. This gigantic child toy is roughly painted in the colors of the British army. The metal man is armed with a musket and wears a large bedroll on its back. The third figure is a naked girl. She is light skinned and delicate in both form and feature. Her long flowing brown hair seems to flow and dance beyond what can be explained by the mild breeze. She stands upon the forest floor, but looks as if she could simply float away. With cat-like grace she dances within the forest.

Your musket is readied and aimed downrange before you even think about the possibility of firing. Looking along the sights you could easily dispatch any one of the figures…Placing the iron sights directly in-line with the head of the tall man in the suit, you fire. The bullet races to the gangly man and strikes him fully in the mouth. The shot tears into his flesh and pulps his face, but somehow he is not harmed. He simply keeps on presenting his lecture, adding the lack of a mouth to the noiseless speech…

You wake in fear, cold and dire beads of sweat flowing down your body.

Maps of Thibodaux

2007-09-26T07:03:00.000-07:00

…another job

2007-09-21T08:36:00.000-07:00

“How many times have I been right here?” Tim asked himself this question over and over. He couldn’t even keep track anymore. Sweat beaded on his skin and glistened in the moonlight. The tall grass around him rustled in an almost imperceptible breeze. The air was humid and carried just a touch of ocean salt. The breeze also carried the smell of people and an intimation of passion.

He knew his targets were just past this thicket, lounging in the old abandon Tylor House. The breeze brought him all the information he needed. They are three of them and they are sweating. They had Chinese food, something deep fried and the fryer grease was not new. The air told him that the house was rotting away, mold and rot mixed with colonies of insects; it would soon be nothing more than debris. The wind that whispered all this or was it something else; in any case it didn’t matter he was going to kill them.

He tightened his grip on his weapons. In his right hand was a gladius. The whole of the blade was coated in a black pitch. He had learned a hard lesson in Florida that many things in the night can see much better than he can and the glint of metal, even in starlight, was enough to get you killed.

In his left hand he held the custom build hand-crossbow that he had grown to love. This little toy had saved his life more times than he could remember. It fired a small dart, but when loaded with neurotoxin it was deadly. Tim knew that not everything out there was affected by poison, but the snake venom he utilized has never found any resistance.

Of course he carried his silenced pistol and several other useful items. Experience is a brutal and nasty teacher, but the lessons are valuable. The grenade, pepper spray, duct tape, and fishing line are all results of these lessons. He carried the totem of the pointed nose woman for other reasons. The little clay sculpture gifted him with the ability to see smells. Its powers had brought him here tonight, that and the $500,000 contract.

The breeze washed yet another scent to him; it was the smell of sex. They were having sex. This was going to be easier than he had planned. If they were distracted and making noise, the approach would be simple. Easy money and no complications, he might even be able to get back to that little dinner on Route 10 for a steak-n-eggs breakfast.

Tim’s movements were fluid and elegant, like a practiced predator. He rose from the thicket and began to approach the dilapidated house. He was silent and graceful. The open space between the door and the thicket was nearly 200 yards, but Tim moved with swift confidence. The mixed aromas of passion, sweat, and carnal friction were so strong. He was swept up by it. They would never even realize what happened; they would simply die within the sin of lust.

The house was only dimly lit from a room on the second floor, and the front door yielded all too easily. Tim found the stairs and was nearly to the landing when the hair on his neck began to prickle. Prickle is the wrong word. They would have prickled if there would have been an unexpected noise, or an object out of place. This was a stabbing blade of ice right into his brain, and Tim froze.

The feeling was so abrupt that he stopped with his left foot amid stride. He slowly lowered it to the next step, making sure it didn’t make any noise. It was then that it hit him. Like a bat to the head it was upon him, the smell of blood and gut. The pungent smell of shit and freshly spilled blood were so strong. How could he not have sensed it before?

A need for urgent escape began to creep into his brain, but a professional never abandons a job, not when he was this close. Two months of tracking and a very long trip to Louisiana were compelling reasons to continue. Those reasons and the cash spurred him on. The door to the little room at the top of the stairs was open. The lantern light weakly spilled out of the door. Tim cautiously, very cautiously, approached the room.

Death had just arrived. The blood was still slick and wet, running from the tissues and soaking into the mattress, pooling on the floor. The splintered bones oozed pink marrow and the tattered organ meat was still glistening. He noted that an eye had been disgorged from its socket and was leaking a clear fluid into a small puddle just at his feet. The room had only an old mattress; a couple of upside-down cardboard boxes to serve as tables; and a battered Coleman lantern, but the whole of it was covered in blood, tissue and gore.

He was able to identify three skulls, or at least fragments from three skulls. All of his targets were here, but how could be he sure? There was nothing left that truly identified the remains even as human. Clothing was strewn around the room, but strangely enough it all appeared to be intact. There were two bras at the end of the mattress. Tim reached down to examine one. He turned it over with his blade. It was a lacy garment, once white, now turned red with blood. Perhaps he could discern identities from the cloths.

There it was again! That frost-knife slicing into his neck. Tim wheeled around, sure to see whoever or whatever had done this, but there was nothing. Only the quiet darkness of the house and the hissing sound of the gas lantern came to him.

Perhaps it was the smell of death that prevented him from sensing it, or perhaps it had no smell at all. Alert and attuned his senses did him no good. It was like it made no noise, had not smell, and could not be seen. Tim felt the life drain from him, his weapons and training were useless. A desperate hand slashed at…nothing. He could feel his muscles becoming weak and everything appeared dull. His brain was begging for sleep and his body was all too willingly capitulating.

The short trip the floor resulted in a muted thud, probably the most noise he had made all night. It was that sound that jolted his mind back from its black wandering. His body was unwilling to move, but his eyes were partially closed and he could still see.

…

The quiet of the house was then pierced by an oily clam voice, “There were only supposed to be three, a man and two women. You make four.“ He moved from the shadows towards the newly fallen addition to tonight’s work. He had only moments before the tissues were so badly damages that his identity would be lost forever. “This one looks military.” he thought as he gazed upon the doomed thing.

…

With the wave of his hand he cast off the gloom like a traveling cloak. Tim only saw him after he stepped from these shadows. This man took a step towards Tim and looked down at him, a quizzical look upon his angular face. He wore a long leather duster, far too warm for this climate. His boots and broad brimmed hat were also leather, perhaps ostrich or some other exotic skin. It was at that moment that Tim became critically aware of the overwhelming numbness.

The cloaked figure bent down, placed his hand around Tim’s head, and gently lifted. There was no feeling, but as the stranger lifted him off the ground Tim saw his body below him. Almost whimsically Tim noted how strange a sight it is to gaze at one’s own decapitated self, but he could see the added crunches were worth it. Afforded only a brief glimpse he was rapidly turned over to stare into the eyes of this figure.

His cold eyes were alien and lifeless. The pure black almost cat-like pupils, were perfectly framed in pumpkin orange and examined Tim’s head with disdain. Their eyes locked for the briefest of moments, the gaze broken as Tim lost focus. The world had drifted away from clarity and was rapidly disappearing. “That is not a human” was the last thought that pushed its way into Tim’s mind.

Character Bonus

2007-09-12T10:37:00.000-07:00

Characters that are finalized by 9/21/07 will be awarded 1 point of morality. This point may be used to recover from a point exchange; morality for experience points.

Please submit your characters via email. Best results are to my handheld device.

Billy Ray Thockmortin

2007-09-04T09:13:00.000-07:00

Quote: “Now that story does not seem to match your husbands, would you like to try telling the truth?”
Background: Billy Ray Thockmortin is a sheriff’s deputy in Lafourche Parish, Louisiana and he has been since 2000. Billy Ray has had a troubled relationship with the Sheriff Reginald Haysues. Because of this he is frequently given assignments that Sheriff Haysues does not want to bother with. They tend to be assignments where the victim is black. Other common cases have been socially malignant disputes [trespassing, loitering, vandalism]. He graduated second in his class, and should have been first. His instructors criticize him for self-defeating behaviors, and his performance seems to reflect these assessments.
Description: Billy Ray has always been tall and skinny. His father affectionately called him beanpole, but this nickname was tainted by childhood torments. Billy Ray is of French and German descent. His farmer tan often betrays the inherited light skin of his mother. His hair is light brown and rarely well kept. When he is not wearing his required uniform hat, his hat hair bears witness to his profession devotion. He has powerful brown eyes that reflect his keen intellect. In the winter Billy Ray prefers to grow a beard, but by March he rediscovers his razor.
Storytelling: Billy Ray is a diligent peace officer. He is very good at his job, but he is not an ethical man. His endeavors into the realms of illicit dealings and illegal work are known to some, but the general public sees a proficient Johnny Law. The mayor of Thibodaux [Charles Caillouet] has exploited Billy Ray’s weakness to smooth over many legal transgressions. His frequent conflicts with Sheriff Haysues has left him somewhat “out of place” to assist many people. Office gossip is that he is seeing Deputy Jenny Walker: The Voice of Lafourche Parish Police Radio

Apparent Age: Twenty Eight
Mental Attributes: Intelligence 4, Wits 4, Resolve 1
Physical Attributes: Strength 2, Dexterity 3, Stamina 2
Social Attributes: Presence 2, Manipulation 2, Composure 2

Mental Skills: Academics 2, Crafts 1, Computer 0, Investigation 4 [Body Language], Medicine 0, Occult 0, Politics 0, Science 0
Physical Skills: Athletics 1, Brawl 3, Drive 2, Firearms 3 [Pistol], Larceny 0, Stealth 1, Survival 0, Weaponry 1
Social Skills: Animal Ken 0, Empathy 1, Expression 0, Intimidation 2 [interrogation], Persuasion 0, Socialize 0, Streetwise 1, Subterfuge 0

Merits: Encyclopedic Knowledge (••••), Eidetic Memory (••), Unseen Sense (•••), Fighting Style: Police Tactics (•••)
Willpower: 3
Morality: 4
Virtue: Temperance
Vice: Gluttony
Health: 7
Initiative: 5
Defense: 3
Speed: 9

Notes: Billy Ray Thockmortin is a three dot retainer for the party PCs. He will have some tangent connections in his history for most (if not all) of the characters – More to come on this.

Equipment:
Anti-ballistic vest [Kevlar] ½
Glock 17 9mm automatic light pistol Dam:20/40/80 17+1 STR:2
Shotgun Remington 12 gauge Dam:4 20/40/80 5+1 STR:3
Handcuffs
Police Radio
Knight Stick
Tazer / stungun
Chemical Mace
Note Pad & Pencil
Cell Phone

Police Cruiser - Crown Victoria
Ford F150 Extended Cab truck – Black

Character Info

2007-08-31T12:44:00.000-07:00

Starting Location: Lafourche Parish, Louisiana – Thibodaux
Create characters that are human.
This is a rather poor area (avg. income $26K/y).
If you create a character that originates from this area you may not have more than 2 dots in resources.
Nobody can be a member of the local government
No characters can be associated with or members of law enforcement.
(a free contact with the sheriffs department is automatic and free – more later).

The Party Hook:
Three weeks ago [8/6/07], a mysterious statue appeared in front of the Jean Lafitte Center, Thibodaux, LA. The statue depicted a civil war era soldier. He is holding a rifle and peers auspiciously into the distance. The statue is cast in bronze and set atop a marble base. A gold plaque on the base reads

“Will carry the weary
and spur the woeful.
Triumph shall be found
top the souls of the tyrannical.
That is where the
sons of the South
must venture.”

Nobody in town saw who or how it was delivered, but it is a nice statue so the town has decided to simply keep it. Your character has seen this statue before. For many months now (if not years) you have dreamt of a soldier, walking in trepidation. He carries a rifle and is adorned in the uniform of a confederate rebel. The dream generally take the form of watching the soldier move through a dark wooded area, but occasionally you are the soldier and the palpable fear of death was terrifying. The air itself is wet and haunting. You distinctly remember a black oppressive force stealing your breath.

Awaking in a cold sweat, these images haunt you. The dreams may have become a serious problem; they were becoming more frequent and more intense. The interruption to your sleep and the anxiety they inflicted was beginning to affect your sanity. That is until they abruptly ended [8/27/07]. Only recently did the relatively insignificant news article come to your attention; that of a strange and anonymous gift appearing in Thibodaux - a statue of the soldier in your dreams.

The Date

2007-08-31T09:41:00.000-07:00

The chill of the night air had grown since they had gone into the theater. Sam had always felt disoriented at the cinema. You go in and its light out, but when you come out the night has blanketed the city. Perhaps it was something more to do with Sam. Beth never seemed to have the unsettled feelings he did. Sam had always passed it off to the entertainment of the cinema. He is easily engrossed in movies and time seems to flow differently while a film is playing. This had to be the case. Titanic, a huge bore of a flick, didn’t feel to Sam the way his friends described it. They felt tortured and trapped in endless drivel. Sam barely noticed the three hours.

Tonight should not have been any different. The movie experience was swift, and this film was even something good. “I’ll add that one to the DVD collection,” was his thought. SO why did this night feel different?

Beth was the same, he was sure of that. She was already picking apart the plot and complaining about the way people flew through the air. It was a martial arts movie and those special effects were why a crowd gathered to see the flick. It sure a hell wasn’t the choppy doubed-over English, or the “realism” of Ancient China. People see Kung-fu movies for the Kung-fu. They want a nasty ugly evil villain, who is killed by a righteous hero, who gets the girl, and refuses reward. It was what Sam and every other poor slob wanted.

Sam looked around. Beth was droning on about blunt force trauma and how no human cold withstand that kind of impact. Her medical training kept her from enjoying so many things in life. She was always either studying medicine or talking about it. Sam didn’t really mind, as that kind of passion is a rare and beautiful thing. Her mind was so engaging and needful of knowledge, how else could it be described, beautiful. That was why he kept taking her to movies. Yes the prattle about taking a kick to the head was boarder-line psychotic, but it did reveal her truly wonderful mind.

And there it was again, that feeling that something was out of place. The humid Louisiana air was a think warm blanket, but none different than the past three weeks. The streets were the correct palel sodium orange and the people were the same. Everything looked correct, but it didn’t feel right. If it had been an extra long movie, then maybe the feeling would be justified, but this movie was barely 90 minutes. Sam listened to the city. New Orleans was a major metropolis, despite the storm. This area was close enough to the French Quarter that it stayed dry, so life went on pretty much the same as it had in August of 2005. The fact that everything looked normal made the disjointed feeling that much more troubling.

Beth guided them to the far end of the parking lot where the bus stop was. A sizable crowd had already collect around the plaxiglass shelter. Few people were inside, as the heat was doubled once you were isolated from the summer breeze, but there was one man. He would have stood out to Sam even if he weren’t in the heating bubble of the bus stop. He was in a leather duster and wore a broad brimmed hat. His face was angular and his shin was dark. Sam thought that if he met this man in a dark ally he would have turned on his heals and bolted. The crowd obviously had drawn the same conclusion, because as Sam and Beth approached the bus stop they could see those gathered were allowing a wide birth to this figure.

This is when Beth pinched him; well more like stabbed her fingernails into the palm of his hand. Sam stopped and was about to curse Beth when he saw the look in her eyes. She was frightened. Her pale blue eyes were fixed and a medical term hung impotently on her open mouth.

Sam followed her gaze to the cloaked figure. He was just standing there, granted he was looking at them, but it’s not like he was staring. He looked back to his girlfriend. She had stopped, frozen to the spot, her nails still pressing painfully into Sam’s hand.

“Beth…BETH! What’s wrong?” but she had no answer. She was transfixed, staring in horror at the bus stop. Her fear wrapped his uncomfortable disjointed feeling and made the bottom of his stomach lurch. “Come on. Let go back to the theater and call a cab.” He tugged on her hand. As she followed Sam’s lead and she turned away from the bus stop the color returned to her face, but tears started streaming down her face. Sam wrapped his arm around her and pulled her close. The sweltering souther summer made it difficult to hold her, but something had obviously frightened her and they would be cooler once back in the theater.

As they put some space between them and the bus stop Beth turned and asked, “What the hell was that?” Sam was confounded.

“A man in a long coat?” he questions in response. It obviously was not the stranger she was talking about, but he didn’t see anything else.

“No.” she replied coldly. “Next to him. Did you see that mist?”

Sam turned to look back, checking for a mist. He knew he hadn’t seen anything, but wanted to just be sure. Unfortunately they had walked past quite a few cars and could no longer see the bus stop. “Sorry sweety, but I don’t think I saw any mist.”

Beth turned to him flabbergasted. “What do you mean you didn’t see any mist.” Her tone was sharp and her pitch was elevated.

In an apologetic a tone as possible Sam tried to make sense of this “Beth, lovely, I didn’t see anything.”

Sam allowed her to move outside of his embrace and she turned on him with an accusing voice, “Were your eyes shut? How could you have missed that…that…stuff swirling around?”

Sam didn’t know what to say. He had not seen anything unusual about the man. Sure he felt "off", but dragging his cinema experience into the conversation just felt like he might be throwing gasoline on a fire. “I didn’t see anything.” They paused as Sam continued, “What did it look like?”

This comment was perhaps as innocent as possible, but Beth was incensed. “Are you trying to piss me off? If you were, you are a perfect success!” she snapped.

“No, no, not at all. I just, well…” he left the sentence trail off as he looked at her. There was no recovering from this one. What ever had happened Sam was not catching on.

“What are you playing at?” her words stabbed at him.

“Beth, what the hell is wrong with you? I didn’t see any mist. All I saw was the same old bus stop we use every time we see a show.” Sam worked hard to keep the edge out of his voice, but he knew he was failing. “I mean, we have been here like a thousand times. We even arrived at that stop, but lets just call a cab.” And at that Sam began to search for his cell.

“You have got to be kidding. If you think I am going home with you, with the way you are acting, you have got something else coming.” Her tone was downright hostel and people were starting to notice. “I am not going to take this kind of abuse from a sniveling turd like you.” She wheeled on him, “My mother was right, you are just garbage.”

“Beth, I…”

She sliced through his stammering, “And keep your ‘yellow toping’ covered paws off of me. I am not going to let you grease stain another $85 blouse.” Walking with purpose Beth headed straight for the dark edge of the parking lot. Sam was left speechless.

He had never heard her speak like that. She was hostile and vicious. The Beth he knew was always talking about medicine and studying. She was never unkind and certainly never a public spectacle. On top of that he had never met her mother, how on earth could she have any idea what he was like. “Abuse? Sniveling turd? Garbage?” her words echoed in his head. It was like a scene from a bad melodrama. It was all so surreal. As he watched her disappear into the night Sam was left to sort out the occurrence and try to make some sense of it.

“I had better go after her.” He had no idea why she had fired upon him like that, but without some sort of a life-line this may never make sense. With a brisk pace that he thought would catch up to Beth in short order, Sam headed off towards the edge of the parking lot.

The lights from the parking lot did not reach around the building so Sam had no idea where the smell was coming from, but it was sharp on his nose. He knew that acrid metal smell of fresh blood. From childhood he remembered the smell, after his father had hit that deer. Here it was again, someone had hit a deer, or something.

Cloaked in the moonless night and blanked in the wet heat, Sam suddenly lost his step. He slipped and rapidly met the earth.

Other than the slight pain in his knee and wrists he was fine. He quickly looked around to see if anyone had watched him fall, and might now be laughing. Of course there wasn’t, but the reaction is perfectly instinctual. It was then that Sam discovered that the ground was wet…and warm. He pulled his hand up off the ground and pressed his fingers together. They are wet and sticky.

He pressed his thumbs to his palms. There was dirt, and wet, and something soft and rubbery. The smell was stronger. It was even worse on his hands. He couldn’t help but remember the deer. The old Ford had killed the creature almost instantly, but in doing so had torn open its underside and spilled out the contents. The road was stained red and random bits of dark and light tissues were scattered across the scene.

The creature’s limbs were all bent in impossible ways and its tongue, separated from its body, was somehow adhered to the headlight. Sam watched his father curse and stomp as he assessed the damaged truck. All that the 7-year-old Sam could is take in his surroundings. In the fading light of dusk, it was not so much the sights of the accident, but the smells. It was this smell that Sam now recognized. He was inhaling the fumes, the smell that is trapped inside every living thing, only to be released by violence.

It was choking him. He could feel the pressure of the air and it was hard to breath. The memory of the deer and the smell of the wet dark brought the images back to him like a weight on his chest. It was so hard to breath.

The night air was thick and hard. It seemed to press against him like an unwelcome intruder. The air itself was vicious and it attacked. He didn’t want to breath. That would let it in like an open door. He was not going to invite this intruder, but the fire was building. At first just warmth, but it soon grew to fire.

Refusing to breath is not just an act of will, it is a conscious effort to accept pain. Sam was inviting the fire into his lungs in order to keep the dark night out, but how long could he resist? He remembered Beth once telling him that children are sometimes so determined that they hold their breath until they pass out. This may frighten their parents, but the moment they loose consciousness they begin to breath again. Was this what was going to happen to Sam?

...burning...

Now at the end, why did it seem to be taking so long? All of his life Sam had seemed to skip fast forward. Every movie he saw sped by like lightning; so beautiful, but yet so fleeting. Why now during the greatest of dramas was everything so slow? The good passed by in haste and horror with overwhelming malaise.

Sam pondered the situation for what felt like hours. The black mist was fully inside his lungs. Breathing was useless and worse yet painful. Why was it that he kept trying? Perhaps it was just habit, after all everybody does it all the time. Was it so automatic that even at the very end, you could not stop? How could he get control over his body and stop his breathing? So many questions, all this time, but no answers. What kind of way is this to die?

...

The incantation recalled the entity to its master and with it the life-breath of this geeky looking man. The breath could be seen as silver moieties pulsing within the black vaporous body. As it coiled around its master's head and chest, the sparkling sliver spots flowed to his body.

The enchanter could feel them sliding into his skin. A feeling like the touch of a perfect lover, the breath passed to him. He was filled with the vital force, satiated and full. He would not need to do this again for several days, but for the feeling.

He had grown to love the feeling. It was life and he loved it. The pretty one had provided more than enough for him, but when this pathetic thing walked into his grasp, what was one more? He didn’t need it, but that did not stop him. It would never stop him; it was the feeling that drove him – perhaps forever.