by MillieCat

The Prince of a neighboring city had suffered the Final Death, and I missed him muchly. Since I missed him so much, I thought the Primogen and Prince in my city must surely miss him as much as I, so, well, the dead Prince kinda made an appearance. ‘Course, I did not get do see him, cause I was the one *appearing* him. ::grin:: Darn Torrie Primogen with that high Auspex. Sometimes, I have found, it pays to be wimpy and just too much of a bother to kill at the moment…

You know that oh-so-cool rumble that a Harley makes? Well, there finally came a time when I HAD to figure out what made that sound. So, I crept out of the club I was in, found one parked near the back, and began taking it apart. All Harelys look mostly alike to me, but as I was disassembling it I kept having the feeling that this one looked particularly familiar. Then, the dim yellow streetlight that I was working by became blocked out. I looked up and saw the silhouette of Ryk, the Brujah Primogen, looming over me, his eyes bright and his teeth flashing, pieces of the Harley all around. Oh ya, this is HIS Harley. After a moment of terror, I realized that he was laughing is ass off, rather than removing mine. He wandered off, shaking his head and cackling something about having to go steal another one.

After I had begged and begged, Joseph Tudor, the Tremere Primogen, PROMISED to give me a magic show at his mansion. He smiled at me, and said that it would be like a party. So, being kinda nice and stuff, I went up to the DJ at the Goth-club/Elysium where we were and told him to hand me the mic. (Told in that very special kinda *told* way :). He did, and I announced the Free Party at Joseph Tudor’s waaay kewl and HUGE mansion. Ah, the crowd loved it as much as I did. Well, for some reason, ol’ Joe turned even paler than usual, almost clear, it seemed. I of course, not wanting to leave such a gracious host in this odd turmoil, went over to see what was the matter. He told me that there would absolutely NOT be a party at his mansion. Doh. All sad, I went back and announced same. Hmmm… come to think of it, I have not seen Mr. Magicy at the club since. And I did sooo want to see the rabbit-hat thingy. :(

Primogen,
Primogen, everywhere,
And me a little neonate.
It seems that I put quite the scare,
For they always take the bait ::smile::

by Millie

Your haven,
A shrine,
Testament,
Tribute divine.

You loved long
dead
To life eternal;
Saved savants from
Ignominy infernal.

No gun cowes
Like thine adoration
Transmuting fear
To inspiration.

Poser is
love
By another name -
Immortality through
Your passion’s fame.

Blood of my blood

Cannot bestow
Your brand of forever -
Visions vitae you flow.

We mourn your passing
Wracked with pain.
In torment turned art
You will remain.

by Malcus Dorroga

First off, since this is the October issue, I’ll take this opportunity to wish all the readers a wonderful All Hallows Eve. It really is my favorite holiday, the one day of the year when all the pretentious masks we wear in society are cast aside in favor of something more in tune with ourselves. If only every day could be like that…

But all good things have their limits, and so it goes with mages as well. For all their will-working ability, for all their power to shape reality to their whims and desires, they are limited by the crushing will of the masses. And while this seems like a simple enough thing to understand, it makes presiding over a Mage game an absolute bitch. How do you decide whether an effect is vulgar or not? How do you decide when to invoke Paradox? How much control does a mage have over the appearance of magic?

The process of deciding such things can be daunting for any Storyteller,whether novice or expert. However, if one keeps the nature of the Mage universe in mind and makes a few defining decisions early on, vulgarity and paradox should not be such a major issue.

A mage gains all his power, and a good amount of his limitations, from a single defining statement about the Mage metaphysic: Belief is everything.

As I talked about in my first article, reality in the Mage universe is subjective and fluid. The Awakened avatar realizes this on some fundamental level and can will this meaningless mass into some definite shape. Belief,especially strong belief, has a lot of power in this reality, for belief gives it purpose, shape, and activity. Only two things give the universe any true shape of its own: natural laws that govern the basic shape this reality takes,and the Consensus.

The Consensus
So what the hell is the Consensus?

Well, if a single strong will is able to define a small part of the universe,then it follows that ALL the intelligent wills in the universe can affect the entire thing. The Consensus is exactly that: the combined belief of everyone with a rational thought in his or her head. In essence, if enough people believe something, it’s likely to become the truth.

The Order of Reason realized this early on. When the "enlightened" orders pulled together to protect the average person, the first thing they did was make their ways appealing to common men and women. They introduced medicines average people could make, machines average people could use, and ideas that seemed grounded in a more stable reality. The majority of people liked the idea of a seemingly random universe acting along set rules of cause an effect. This did far more than give the Order strong mortal backing; it stabilized and defined reality in one set way through the Consensus.

In the modern Mage game, the technocratic paradigm rules the majority of the Consensus. The power of other beliefs may ebb and flow in places, but the overarching paradigm is unarguably scientific in nature. Most natural processes have been defined and refined, and people can expect things to act in a certain way. The Union has done a good job of solidifying their vision of reality; every activity, every gadget, every theory has been copiously traced back through older theories to a basic, unarguable "law of nature." Even the Sleepers can take part in this process by building on what the Union has built. In fact, the universe has been so narrowly defined at this point that the very subjectivity of it is difficult to see.

Of course, the universe remains rather fluid underneath this thick crust of science, and, much like the crust of our dear Earth, this layer of science is thinner in some places than others. Some Storytellers make the mistake of believing that the universe is NOT subjective, that it has always worked the way the Technocrats say it does. This is simply not so; if things were that way,then why is there an Ascension War? The Technocratic paradigm is simply one of an infinite number of ways to explain how reality works, and in places where a lot of people believe in other possibilities, those possibilities become accessible again. This is why a faith healer can get away with so much; people believe he can do it, so he just might be able to.

At some point, however, all mages, even a Technocrat, can push the envelope just a bit too far. Like creating a bubble underwater, a mage pushes aside the Consensus to form his own effects; when that bubble breaks, the water that rushes in is usually very unpleasant.

While no one is sure where it comes from or how it comes to be, everyone can agree on one thing: Paradox is reality’s police force, punishing those who violate the laws of the Consensus.

The most puzzling thing about it is that Paradox often responds to vulgar magic with spectacularly vulgar effects of its own. The only rule seems to be "an eye for an eye." Perhaps Paradox is merely inflicting upon the mage the same violation it feels the mage caused to the universe. Theories abound as to why Paradox acts the way it does, but no one has a definite answer.

Looking at the abstract metaphysics behind it is all well and good, but we still have the more concrete issue of running this damned game fairly. How does a Storyteller decide what is vulgar and coincidental? How should a Storyteller run a Paradox backlash? These are things a Storyteller needs to decide in advance, before the first session of the game.

The first thing a Storyteller should decide is how strong consensual reality is in her game. Is the game in a city, where the technocratic paradigm has a lot of hold, or is it in a far-off place where other possibilities are viable? Are there exceptions to the norm, such as a highly superstitious Chinatown or are search facility in the middle of the woods? In essence, ask yourself how"weird" you want your game to be and stick with it.

Next, do your players a favor and let them know how much control they have over how their magic looks. Seems like a simple thing to decide, but a thorough read of various Mage books reveals two completely different schools of thought on the topic - a "hard" way and a "soft" way. It’s a touchy topic for Mage players and Storytellers alike, one that will hopefully be clarified in the future. (Jess,are you getting this?)

The "soft" school holds that a mage need only will an effect to look a certain way, and reality will compensate… to a certain degree. Coincidental magic is far easier to pull off in this system, but the Storyteller has to keep a tight rein on the players. For example, a mage wishing to teleport across town using the "soft" school can simply invoke the Correspondence 3 effect… and have a taxi pick them up and whisk them across town.

The "hard" school holds that magic only creates an effect, and that the environment must be directly manipulated by the will-worker in order to shape the effect a certain way. In this school, it is far more difficult to create a coincidental effect, meaning the Storyteller deals with Paradox a bit more, but adjudicating the effects are much easier. Under this school, pulling off a teleport across town would be damned difficult.

Once you’ve decided and told your players how it’s all going to work, you have to make sure you follow through on it. When players declare a magical effect,always make sure you ask, "How does that look?" Make sure you factor in paradigm and foci as well; that fireball’s going to be a whole lot more believable coming out of a bazooka than it is out of an oak staff. It might be a good idea to keep a notebook of a few of your rulings so you can keep track.

When a mage accumulates five or more points of Paradox, it is customary to begin checking for backlash. However, in matters of backlash, it is always wise to follow the Golden Rule: if it doesn’t work, don’t do it. Paradox can throw an entire session off-course, especially the larger backlashes, so a Storyteller is encouraged to be creative and keep the mood. If having Wrinkle show up screws up your story, don’t have him show up. Rolling for backlash in the middle of a big fight is damned inconvenient for everyone involved, so hold of and roll when the action slows down.

When you do decide to roll, however, don’t pull punches. Remember that Paradox is supposed to discourage the use of vulgar magic, and your use of Paradox should reflect that. If you have a player gleefully flinging fireballs around,and he’s accumulated 15 points of Paradox in 2 game sessions, feel free to slap him.

As a rule, never walk into a game unprepared to deal with the larger backlashes. Come up with a few Paradox spirits ahead of time and keep them on hand. Create at least one Paradox Realm, one which you can throw almost any player into, and keep that on hand has well. Being prepared allows you to move into the event seamlessly, without killing the mood.

If you don’t want to deal with large backlashes, consider staging multiple small backlashes over a period of days or weeks to get rid of the accumulated Paradox. A fun thing to do is "bleed" the points off one by one by having some small, random, and totally strange events happen to the character. Maybe a frog jumps out of his wineglass at a weird time - one point down. Maybe he trips and finds his shoelaces tied for no reason - another one down. Later on, maybe he finds he understands Japanese perfectly for about an hour, but cannot remember English for the life of him the entire time - yet another point gone.

Finally, remember that Paradox works under an "punishment meets the crime" rule. A mage’s first backlash should be small, a warning shot of sorts. A mage who gets Paradox infrequently will get lighter punishments, whereas a mage who regularly stocks up on Paradox will eventually burn out. If you use Paradox fairly and evenly, your games should run all the more smoothly.

And if they don’t, just throw empty Mountain Dew bottles at your players.

Always works for me….

NEXT MONTH: On suggestions I received after my first article, I’ll be turning to something more concrete. I hope to return to my favorite subject - paradigm -and I will show how to create one for your characters. There are as many potential paradigms as there are beliefs, so how do you pull one together for your character?

by Lars Strobaek

The Risen are wraiths who have mastered the ultimate art of crossing the Shroud, and have reclaimed their earthly bodies. The art of Rising is a closely guarded secret of the Guild of Puppeteers, and the Hierarchy tries to stamp out all rumors of its existence. But the rumors persist, and there will always be wraiths who are willing to pay any price to once again walk in the lands of the living.

The ‘walking corpse’, or zombie, is a gruesome idea, and one that suits the horror of the World of Darkness. I, however, do not much care for most of the rules in the book about the Risen, and so have changed them as I saw fit for my own use. All the needed rules are collected here, with additions and alterations by yours truly.

- Rules -
The first and most important part of becoming Risen is that both the Psyche and Shadow must agree to the transition. Without this pact, the Psyche cannot make the final step and must limit himself to standard Puppetry or Embody. However, the Shadow Rises separately from the Psyche. It is still able to manipulate and influence the Psyche, which is inhabiting its old body, but instead of being a part of that body it takes up residence in one of the Psyche’s Fetters – the Conduit. The strenuous relationship between this object (or creature) and the Risen is the source of much of the energy that allows the dead to walk among the living. For every hour the Risen has no physical contact with his conduit he loses one Pathos. As long as the Risen has no line of sight to his conduit, he cannot regain Pathos.

The other requirements are that the former body of the wraith must be reasonably intact – the shriveled remains of the heart and brain must exist in the Skinlands. Finally, the Risen-to-be must possess at least the first level of Puppetry, as he must Skinride his body in order to claim it.

- Risen and Pathos -
The driving force behind the Risen is their burning desire. The energy derived from that desire, Pathos, is what keeps their dead bodies animated and relatively lifelike. As you can imagine, this requires tremendous effort on the part of the restless spirit.

The walking dead gain Pathos in the same way as wraiths, when experiencing their core Passions. But they need it more desperately than wraiths do, for it is what keeps their dead bodies from decomposing. When a wraith first attempts to Rise, he can try to rejuvenate his physical shell by spending Pathos, 1 Pathos spent equals three months of reversed decay. So a wraith dead for 8 months would have to spend 3 Pathos when crossing the Shroud to arise looking like he did when alive. The killing wound, if one is present, requires 1 additional Pathos to heal, all other damage is healed along with the rejuvenation. If this Pathos is not spent, the Risen is animated but is visible as being in the normal state of decay. This Pathos does not have to be spent all at once, the corpse can rise in a state of putrefaction but resume its former state with time.

After the resurrection, Pathos has to be continuously expended in order to keep the body fresh. 1 Pathos has to be expended every 24 hours, or the body will start to decay once more. Each day Pathos is not spent, the body ages 3 months, up to its original state.

If the Risen runs out of Pathos, his Shadow automatically assumes control. The Psyche is forced into the Conduit, otherwise it functions just like Catharsis. When the Psyche resumes control the Risen has one Pathos, and probably a lot of things to do.

- Risen and Health -
Since the body of a Risen and a human differs very little in construction, all Risen have the normal seven health levels connected with mortals. They do not suffer dice pool modifiers, however, as they do not feel pain, and they are able to heal one health level per turn by spending 1 Pathos. Aggravated damage does cause dice pool modifiers, and can be healed only through a successful 8 hour Slumber and the expenditure of 3 Pathos. The Risen can obviously not fade into a Fetter, but his Conduit counts as one, so Slumbering is essentially just a period of total inactivity, during which he must be in physical contact with his Conduit. Risen cannot soak the effects of fire, but can soak claws, teeth and most other sources of aggravated damage (not true Faith). They also halve all bashing damage, like vampires.

If the Risen loses all his health levels, but still has Pathos, he falls unconscious. The length of unconsciousness is determined by a Stamina roll (difficulty 10 minus the amount of Pathos he has):

- Successes Duration -

A botch means the Risen falls into a Destruction Harrowing, see below.

If the Risen finds itself without any health levels or Pathos, his journey is over. He falls into a Destruction Harrowing - if he succeeds he returns in the Shadowlands, with one permanent and temporary Corpus, and can never again try to Rise. If he fails, he is dragged screaming to Oblivion. In any case, the dead body is once again inanimate and probably pretty decomposed.

- Risen and Arcanoi -
The Risen are initially lost regarding how to use their arcane powers, but through experimentation they soon learn which of their Arcanoi they are able to use to affect the living world. Castigate and Usury are usually highly prized by those Risen who possess them, as well as Keening and Pandemonium. After becoming Risen it is usually very difficult to learn new Arcanoi, with the notable exception of Necrologia. The only likely possibility for learning is from other Risen, Puppeteers and Proctors.

At a point some Kindred thought the Risen could learn Disciplines like Potence and Fortitude, but this was a misapprehension.

- NECROLOGIA -
The Arcanos developed exclusively by the Risen gives them the power to use their reclaimed body to the best effect. Since few Risen meet others of their kind, this Arcanos is usually developed individually and nearly all Risen seem to have the potential to learn it.

Basic Abilities:

Sense Conduit
If ever Pathos is lost from being separated from his conduit, a Risen with this ability may simultaneously spend a willpower point to receive a general idea of where his conduit is currently residing. A roll of Wits + Awareness is needed to activate Sense Conduit.

Necroempathy
The Risen can determine the approximate time of death of a corpse simply by looking at it. A simple Perception + Medicine roll determines how much information can be gleaned. Note that this only works on bodies where aging has actually set in, so not on vampires.

1 Fear of Death
By a combination of his faint odor of death and subtle body language the Risen can make the living feel uncomfortable, nervous and self-conscious. Without knowing why, the target(s) will have a strong urge to go home and crawl under the bed, feeling only dread and ill omen. It generally requires the expenditure of a willpower point to continue what they were doing undisturbed.

System: This art can be directed either at a specific person or all targets in the user’s vicinity. The feeling of uneasiness disappears when no longer in the revenant’s presence. This art gives the user 1 Angst, automatically doubled to 2.

2 Death’s Resilience The dead flesh of a revenant is no longer bound by mortal hindrances, but can be taken far beyond the scope of any living creature. With this art the Risen’s body becomes supernaturally solid and enduring.

System: The art can be invoked instantly at any time, and costs one Pathos. Make a permanent willpower roll, difficulty 8. A point of temporary willpower can be spent to decrease the difficulty by 1, down to a minimum of 6. The number of successes gained are added to the character’s stamina score for the duration of one scene.

3 Sepulchral Potency
Just as the flesh of the Risen can be enduring, it can be powerful. This art works exactly as Death’s Resilience, except that the attribute increased is strength rather than stamina.

4 Mortal Remains
This horrid art allows increased flexibility with the undead form of the Risen. When used, it allows the character to rapidly decompose, turning into a pile of soil, bone dust and ashes in a matter of seconds. Not only can it be handy for avoiding detection, but using the art in front of an audience can be most disturbing for the onlookers.

System: It costs nothing to decompose, and can take from one turn to five minutes depending what the user wants. Reforming one’s body, however, costs 1 Pathos and takes at least five minutes. While ashen, the Risen need not spend Pathos to sustain his mortal form, however he cannot see what goes on around him. If activating Heightened Senses, he can discern whether there are people nearby with a successful Perception + Awareness roll.

5 Tearing the Shroud
Using their basic powers of Heightened Senses, the Risen are able to detect wraiths nearby in the Shadowlands. When Tearing the Shroud, they can affect them physically. This impressive art stems from a psychic merging of the psyche with the reclaimed corpse. This insight gives new proportions to the worlds of living and dead. Few Risen are able to reach this level of acceptance, being preoccupied with whatever Passion brought them across the Shroud in the first place. To Heretic Risen this art is usually one of their goals, as it is believed to be first step toward Transcendence. Many Risen are wary of this power, as their Shadows gain way too much power when in control.

System: The expenditure of a point of willpower allows the user to take an action that affects the Shadowlands, like an attack, an embrace or an inscription. If used to attack a wraith, the user gains 1 Angst, doubled to 2.

by Falcon of Lugh

Watching.

Waiting. I must have stooped there on that fire escape for hours before he entered the Song of Hellfire. The night air was wet from the winter rain falling. It was odd how I no longer felt the cold. Rather more was, how I welcomed it.

The girl smelt of weed mixed with the other poisons she put in her body, covered haphazardly by a bouquet of perfume. She moved inside the cage like a flame against the wind. Her body clad in as little as possible. An advertisement for all to see. "Who will take me home?"

He watched her with a predator look in his eyes. His lusts were making him whole. A dark decay that could be brightened by a swim in the carnal pool of lust. He was reading the writing on the wall as he approached her. He knew how to approach such a bold statement that was youth.

His hand reached out and held the railing of the cage, slowing its movement. Stopping hers.

"A caged beast within the confines of dance. Does the music not soothe the savage anymore?" His lips parted in a half grin as he spoke.

Her attention was on him like that of a child with a doll. His face was of purest porcelain, the flush in his cheeks as if a painters brush had placed it there. He wasn’t like the others in the club. He kept his hair neat, cut at a middle length with no dye killing its luster. She wanted to touch this toy to see if were real.

"Music is my only escape now. In this cage I am free to breath," she replied, her eyes still dulled in the gaze of him.

His hand stretched out to her, palm open and out flat. A beckon for her without words. Her own hands reached for the cage door and opened it, placing herself in front of him. She couldn’t have been a month over 16 he thought. Another child with the means to lie her way into a place such as this.

Her face turned to reflect an innocence immersed in lust as she looked up to him. His own scent now billowing over her. Or rather, the lack of scent.

"I can offer you as escape that needs no restraint. One that is yours to receive. All you need do. Is ask."

The music still blaring around them, stirring the masses in rhythmic waves. Here though, there was no sound. Only his eyes upon her could have possibly made a sound.

Then the silence broke when her eye shed a single tear. He could hear tears. Hers called to him in no other way but asking for salvation. His arm fell about her shoulder as he led her out the way he came. Away from the sound Song of Hellfire. And into Hell

The fire escaped creaked as I watch him return from the club. A new friend in his company. The demon sought to add another consort to his harem. Not this night he wouldn’t. Nor any night after this.

He led her down the street, away from the lines of people waiting to enter the Song. No matter to him though, they would dismiss their ever seeing him, or her, after this night was through. A calm alleyway gave passage to them as they descended into the shadows of the street.

A single red light bulb provided illumination. The misting rain drowning its attempt to allow sight. Red rain. His hand encircled hers as he opened the door that stood near the light. Holding it opened he spoke no word as she entered.

No longer did I wait as I fell upon him from the sky. My body crashed into his, throwing us both into the pavement of the alley. My bones ached as I knew I had broken a few. No matter. He would die as I healed. My hand reached inside my coat to pull forth my instrument of pain. Tonight it would sing most beautifully.

Homicide crawled over the scene they had decorated in yellow tape. The flash of a camera bouncing off the still wet street. Reporters arguing with patrolmen for access to the scene.

"What do you make of it captain? Another chalked up for our mystery man?" The obese cop questioned the one he stood near.

"All I know it that who ever he is, we aren’t finding him."

The coroners laid the sacks within the body bag. The first people on the scene had already covered the body of a Jane Doe. Her bloodless body on its way to the city morgue for identification. Another foot tag to be collected.

The captain looked at the alley wall and shook his head. Once again whomever was responsible had left his calling card. Graffiti was one thing, but this was something that made the captain shake every time he read it.

"If I had a hammer"

by Player of Ian

Just as the delicate fingers moved towards the hair, they were slapped away. Gregory looked at Ian with the pain of rejection in his round eyes. As the sire’s red lips parted, he filled his lungs with un-needed air and blew on the childe’s neck. The air was cold and Ian’s dead heart trembled with disgust.

"No," Ian said softly. Laden with disgust, the words slipped from his mouth weakly.

"You were great last night," Gregory susurated, his mouth touching the younger Vampire’s earlobe, the tongue a whip of lust, slashing the flesh. "You were beautiful." His voice was throaty, passion taking control of him, the feeling an expensive and costly drug. Sliding closer on the leather couch, he gently took the guitar in Ian’s hands away.

Ian watched as the guitar was slowly pulled away, his fingers languid, his mouth unable to protest. When the guitar was delicatly placed on the floor, Gregory stared up at Ian, his master peice. His eyes were filled with unrequitted love and the desire there seemed to ooze across his handsome face, spoiling his cherubic smile, wetting it with his carnal intentions. Again, Gregory lifted his hand and ran them towards the chaotic hair. This time they met no barrier and caressed the mane, the touch throwing him into a stirring calenture, his freezing body now calescent.

Torment. A line drawn and crossed. With all his will Ian swallowed his own dark emotions like a pill, choking on them. Heknew he wanted to scream, but the violation continued, the marionette mastering the strings of the puppet with each passing second. In the cavity of his morals Ian could feel the molding and it’s sickly effects. Beaten, he was passive at first, not responding to the osculation. The kiss was like a poison fruit, the touch on his sanity like water warping wood. Soon enough, Ian was reactive, unable to fight at all.

Hands pressed against his chest, lowering him to the couch. Gregory kneeled above him, the feelings he unnaturally inflicted upon his child aberrant. Tediously, he undid the botton to his sleeve. The eyes down he used to look down at Ian were glowing. Almost mad, Ian couldn’t decifer if they were pits that could barely hold down sadistic emotions, or truly caring.

The wrist was being lowered. There was no escape. Skin so close, so tempting, just a taste away. Ian could have turned away, but he would have been shattered. Instead he chose to be broken aprt slowly. His will capsized as his fangs extended…

His eyes bled purple that night.

by D.H.Irving

"The bitch BIT me!" came the bellowed cry of rage and disbelief as mugger bent over in pain clutching his hand between his legs. Straightening he spun in a slight circle and held his injured hand to the alley’s single flickering light, assessing the wound. His partner in crime laughed sharply, holding the frightened woman tight to the dark, filth encrusted wall.

"Serves you right. I told you to be careful." He chided callously before turning back to his captured prey.

"And you.." His words trailed off as his beady eyes assessed her. She was a pretty young woman, early twenties he had guessed, dressed to kill, and most importantly she had been alone. Her eyes darted frantically, like a trapped mouse as her body trembled with each wracking wave of fear. The contents of her purse lay scattered upon the alley’s trash coated floor, cruelly discarded and cast away.

"How is it, a fine young woman such as yourself, of obvious wealth, has no money or even a credit card in her purse." He leaned in whispering. Her heart slammed itself against her chest as if trying to escape it’s fleshy cage. His breath was fetid upon her, each exhale brought the scent of whiskey and decay. The scent of death. Fear held her weak, and as her stomach knotted in icy needles, she could feel her legs wavering, threatening to give out. The injured man turned to them, still clutching his bleeding hand.

"Maybe she keeps it somewhere else man." He grinned despite his pain, leering suggestively at her. Fear gripped her tightly as she shook her head, every drop of willpower surging, forcing the frantic, desperate words from her lips.

"N-no…I don’t have anyth-thing….please…d-don’t hurt me." She stammered, her voice no more than a whisper. Tears ran her face in warm streams, tainted gray by her mascara. She begged sobbing for mercy, and somewhere deep inside she prayed. She prayed to a God she had forgotten, she prayed for forgiveness, and she prayed that her tears would somehow sear through these cold men, touching something dead inside them, causing them to release her.

The man with the beady eyes reached up, stroking her cheek gently, the gesture causing her to flinch under his touch.
"Shhhh…it’s okay Princess.." His voice dripped with sugar-sweet insincerity.
"We aren’t going to hurt you." An evil, almost inhuman smile parted his lips revealing broken, decayed teeth.
"In fact, you may even like it."

These last words burned inside her, igniting her fear like a blaze of hellfire as energy washed her anew. Screaming and kicking she struggled against them as the two men easily overpowered her, pulling her to the alley’s filthy floor. Somewhere dimly she heard the two men laughing cruelly as they tore away her blouse and bra with a single rough motion. The collar of her blouse burned her skin as it lurched against her neck before finally ripping. Her mind went numb to the lips on her neck, the hands that crushed her breasts with a feral desire absent of all love or tenderness. She was being raped, and there was nothing she could do. She felt helpless and dirty as he mounted her, his hands struggling at his own waistband and the length of dingy rope that held up his pants. She wanted it over, she wanted to die, she wanted out, but was helpless against them. They were stronger and set on their evil task.

The man was tore off her with such unbelievable speed and force that her body still registered his presence. Free from her human bonds she scrambled backwards against the alley’s wall, tears streaming her face. Huddled between two large bags of rotted refuse she watched the scene unfold before her. A third man had appeared, tackling her attacker, and rolling to his feet. Before the beady eyed rapist could move her savior was upon him, and for one brief glimpse the alley’s flickering light illuminated him. Her heart froze within her chest as her mind’s scream echoed through the stillness in her. His porcelain skin was drawn tightly again his face, his eyes those of a beast focused upon pray. But his teeth. His teeth were what froze her blood within her veins and clutched her in an ice cold grip. In that once brief second of clarity she had seen him, seen him perfectly. His mouth was set in a growling snarl of rage, exposing two long, dagger like canines that gleamed death white in the artificial light.

Then the scene snapped back to reality, and unfolded with unbelievable speed. The new man’s teeth ripped through her attacker’s throat, rending the flesh and sending a hailstorm of crimson spray through the night air. The man’s eyes went wide, with both realization and fear as he staggered back, dropping to the alley floor. His injured partner screamed as the man beast turned to him. She could see the look in his eyes and knew the ice that tore icy shards through him as she watched a large spot of wetness appear at his groin almost comically. He turned to run, the only movement his alcohol dimmed instincts would allow, but the monster was too fast. Leaping upon his back the beast sunk his mandibles into the fleeing man’s neck as they both crashed to the hard floor with a sickening thud. Never making a sound except a low, constant growl she watched in revolting fascination as it bent over the struggling man, drinking from the blood that gushed like a river from the wound at his neck. Slowly, inevitably, the mugger’s struggling weakened and ultimately stopped as his life pour from him. The manbeast stood, his face, although wet with crimson life, appeared in all aspects normal, even serene.

Wordlessly he turned from the grisly scene, moving towards the mouth of the alley, never once glancing to her or in anyway acknowledging her presence. Struggling she tried to stand, knocking over a heaping garbage can, sending it’s contents to join the pooling blood at her feet.

"W-wait." she squeaked desperately, calling after the man, the thing, that had delivered her salvation. The man stopped and slowly turned, his face an emotionless mask of drying blood. Wolfen eyes of a predatory beast regarded her as she staggered towards him, dried tears still staining her cheeks, her undergarments gathered at her ankles, impeding her every step. Quietly she approached, timidly and looked up into his face.

"I..kn-know what you are…" she admitted to him the obvious in a shaking voice, her desperate eyes meeting his lifeless orbs. Her voice a pleading whisper she continued.

"P-please….I….I want to l-live f-forever…I.." Her words were cut off as a tallied hand tore across her throat. Her widening eyes watched her as warm blood spattered across his face, mingling with the clotting vitae of her attackers. His expression never changed as she grasped at him, his hands clenching his shirt as she sunk, dying, to her knees. Her mind screamed in desperate disbelief and confusion. This didn’t make sense, she told herself as she sunk to the alley floor, now slick once again with fresh blood. It doesn’t end like this, her mind frantically reasoned as she felt her body cooling, her eyelids growing heavy with sleep.

He watched as she collapsed at his feet, still weakly maintaining a hold on the hem of his jeans. Slowly her breathing stopped as she joined her attackers in death. Wordlessly he turned from the scene before him and walked calmly out of the alley’s mouth, the night once again swallowing him.

by MillieCat

Suffer the little children…
I loathe this world of nothing magpies and farthing dreams.
Suffer the little children…
"I hear god. He speaks to me."
Suffer the little children…
"Give to me your holy offering of blood,
and I will give you GOD!"

The children come to the one, offering their blood as he intones: "et erat in deserto quadraginta diebus et quadraginta noctibus et temptabatur a Satana eratque cum bestiis et angeli ministrabant illi"
…
"postquam autem traditus est Iohannes venit Iesus in Galilaeam praedicans evangelium regni Dei"
…
"et dicens quoniam impletum est tempus et adpropinquavit regnum Dei paenitemini et credite evangelio"
…
"et praeteriens secus mare Galilaeae vidit Simonem et Andream fratrem eius mittentes retia in mare erant enim piscatores"

Soft, small, innocent bodies, some motionless, some quivering at his feet, exalt in his words. "Spread your religion, your dictates, your sincerity, and all that you perceive in a vain attempt to have a shared reality. This is impossible. Cease your attempts to confine reality to a single interpretation. We know the answer. Bring back the land east of paradise, the land of dreams. It is the land of the Bride of our Father. She bore Enoch well for him, and she shall bear that son/city once more, and remake this place into the city of the Father." The vessel is brought forth, an empty, broken shell, waiting to be filled.

The mass of red bodies, washed in blood and gore, heed the words of the prophet/mage: "dixitque ei Dominus nequaquam ita fiet sed omnis qui occiderit Cain septuplum punietur posuitque Dominus Cain signum ut non eum interficeret omnis qui invenisset eum"
…
"egressusque Cain a facie Domini habitavit in terra profugus ad orientalem plagam Eden"
…
"cognovit autem Cain uxorem suam quae concepit et peperit Enoch et aedificavit civitatem vocavitque nomen eius ex nomine filii sui Enoch"

Thusly annointed, the night goes on…

[Mark 1:13] et erat in deserto quadraginta diebus et quadraginta noctibus et temptabatur a Satana eratque cum bestiis et angeli ministrabant illi
[Mark 1:14] postquam autem traditus est Iohannes venit Iesus in Galilaeam praedicans evangelium regni Dei
[Mark 1:15] et dicens quoniam impletum est tempus et adpropinquavit regnum Dei paenitemini et credite evangelio
[Mark 1:16] et praeteriens secus mare Galilaeae vidit Simonem et Andream fratrem eius mittentes retia in mare erant enim piscatores

[Mark 1:13] And they brought young children to him, that he should touch them: and his disciples rebuked those that brought them.
[Mark 1:14] But when Jesus saw it, he was much displeased, and said unto them, Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God.
[Mark 1:15] Verily I say unto you, Whosoever shall not receive the kingdom of God as a little child, he shall not enter therein.
[Mark 1:16] And he took them up in his arms, put his hands upon them, and blessed them.

[Gen 4:15] dixitque ei Dominus nequaquam ita fiet sed omnis qui occiderit Cain septuplum punietur posuitque Dominus Cain signum ut non eum interficeret omnis qui invenisset eum
[Gen 4:16] egressusque Cain a facie Domini habitavit in terra profugus ad orientalem plagam Eden
[Gen 4:17] cognovit autem Cain uxorem suam quae concepit et peperit Enoch et aedificavit civitatem vocavitque nomen eius ex nomine filii sui Enoch

[Gen 4:15] Then the LORD said to him, "Not so! If any one slays Cain, vengeance shall be taken on him sevenfold." And the LORD put a mark on Cain, lest any who came upon him should kill him.
[Gen 4:16] Then Cain went away from the presence of the LORD, and dwelt in the land of Nod, east of Eden.
[Gen 4:17] Cain knew his wife, and she conceived and bore Enoch; and he built a city, and called the name of the city after the name of his son, Enoch.

by Simon Kiasyd

Condemned to death everlasting am I,"
Exiled by the sun, banished from the flames,
To choke on the blood of man
to slake the thirst of the monster I have become.

My world is now composed of nightfall,
shadows and bloodshed in dark places,
Unfeeling members of my kind, who now
do as I do, act as I act.

The nights are cold to me, now,
I miss the sunrises took for granted,
and the daylight that was once mine
now gone forever from my eyes.

And yet I rise each night to witness
the moon, the only light I know,
as I fall farther from the man I was
into the beast I have become.

by Lars Strobaek

The mummies of Egypt are creatures shrouded in mystery. They are halfway between life and undeath, but they are also torn by this very distinction.

The Shemsu-heru were the first of the Reborn to be created, and the Great Rite practiced by the Cult of Isis reinserted the ba and ka into the khat, thereby reviving it and returning it to its former glory. But at some point in time, the Rite was changed. The original Rite only worked on those bodies that were still warm, and had only been dead for a few hours. By changing the Rite the priests of Isis overcame that obstruction - the Rite would work as long as the heart and brain were intact and untainted by decay. But the mummies created by this Rite were different. Their flesh was cold, and they did not eat or breathe. Horus saw these creatures as tainted and drove them away, as he had done Ishmael, and they were seen as bastards by their living brethren. The Spell of Undeath, as opposed to the Spell of Life, was abandoned by the Cult of Isis, and was partly forgotten about. However, some members of the Cult, who did not have the same puritan standards as their fellows, still considered the tainted Rite superior. And so when Set attained the Spell, it was partly an attempt by the nameless one to keep the knowledge of the variant Rite alive. When the Spell of Undeath was combined with the dark sorcery of the minions of Set, the tragic result was the Children of Apophis.

The Secret Writings of Cabirus have also been based on the tainted Rite, and cannot create true mummies - only through some sort of reconstructive research could the true Spell of Life be replicated. Therefore almost all Cabiri are Thenemi, those of the dead flesh.

Those mummies that are created while their bodies are still warm, and their Corpora unhooded, return to the body of their mortal self. These are the most exalted of awakened beings, as their immortality is virtually ensured. All 42 recognized Shemsu-heru are Seshet, as Horus sees the Thenemi as unworthy to carry out his holy crusade. Despite having lived through several millennia, they retain their human nature. It can be eroded, however, and exposure to both death and Oblivion can drive his Humanity, along with his human morality and outlook, to a minimum. His Humanity cannot disappear completely, however, as he is essentially still human. If a Seshet, ever drops from Humanity 1 to 0, he gains an appropriate derangement, and has his Humanity restored to 1.

Mummies created through the Spell of Undeath are very different from their living brethren. The soul of such a being has been unhooded, and his Shadow has manifested itself, albeit briefly. When the soul rejoins the body the Shadow is subsumed into the Psyche, but the mummy’s soul has been permanently changed by the seed of Oblivion (the nascent Shadow, or Khaibit) that has been planted. The most immediate effect of this is that the body doesn’t revive upon the soul’s return - it remains a husk, now inhabited by the mummy’s almost human spirit. This "undead" mummy, or Thenemi, has all the powers and limitations of a Seshet, except his body is dead, an unaging shell. What keeps the body animated is the enduring magic of the Rite. The disadvantages of this state is that the mummy is pale and slightly cold to the touch, and the closer his Khaibit is to the surface the more twisted and deathlike he appears. The Thenemi cannot use more dice in a social situation involving mortals than their Humanity score. Animals are uncomfortable around them. In addition, Thenemi cannot use potions or essences - Alchemical preparations must be applied as salves to have any effect. The advantages are that the mummy need not breathe, eat or sleep, and halves all received bashing damage like vampires. A problem for most Thenemi is that they do not heal naturally. Still, with a successful Stamina + Medicine roll (difficulty 7) and intense concentration, a Thenemi is able to heal one health level of damage at the cost of one Sekhem. This can be done once per hour of concentration. A botch means the mummy loses a point of Stamina permanently.

Unlike a human mummy, a Thenemi has the Shadow-like Khaibit gnawing at his soul. This part of his mind wants only to cause destruction and punish itself for being sentient. That is not to say that a human (and Seshet) cannot feel hate or despair, but they are his feelings, not those of an alien part of his mind he cannot control. The Khaibit is quite similar to the Beast of the Kindred - the difference is that the Beast is born from the vampire’s thirst for blood, where the Khaibit is the manifestation of Oblivion’s pull. A pull that, most likely, will never be completed.

When a Thenemi feels angst or despair, when eternal life is more a curse than a blessing, his Khaibit may take momentary control. The Storyteller may call for a Joy roll in such a situation (remember that neither Seshet nor Thenemi can roll more dice for a Virtue roll than their Humanity score). The difficulty should be about 5, but may vary according to the situation. One or more successes means the character does not give in, and can act as he pleases. Failure results in his Khaibit sending him into a frenzy aimed at destruction, in which the mummy is immune to wound penalties and attacks all in sight. A botch also subtracts a Joy point and inflicts a derangement, as normal. Only the expenditure of Willpower can end a frenzy in progress. Humanity rolls are often required after frenzies, during which the Thenemi blazes with the black light of Oblivion.

If a Thenemi’s Humanity reaches zero, his Khaibit assumes full control and devours the mummy’s soul, and with it his ba. Such a creature is an undead horror controlled by the Storyteller. If the twisted killing machine is slain in the Skinlands, or if the Khaibit assumes control in the Underworld, it becomes a malignant and insane ka-spirit, that lasts until it runs out of ka points or is destroyed. Nearly all the Thenemi that have met Final Death fell to their Khaibits first.

Note: Mummies cannot follow a Path of Enlightenment. Their sanity is too reliant on their memory for them to be able to completely abandon their mortal sensibilities and still function in either the Shadowlands or the Skinlands.

While dead, the viewpoint of the Reborn is drastically changed. One part of their soul, the ka, is charged with protecting the khat, while the ba must secure future rebirth by attaining sufficient spiritual vigor to reemerge into the world of the living.

For the Thenemi, however, an additional dilemma presents itself. The ba is the seat of intelligence and memory, where the ka represents instincts and passion. While the ba seeks fulfillment in Amenti or the Tempest, it is close to the reason for its Khaibit - The Void. But the Khaibit can assert itself not through the cool reason of the ba, but only the impulsive and physical nature of the ka. Thus, when the ba feels the force of Oblivion, it must make a Joy roll to avoid frenzy as normal, usually at a higher difficulty than in the Skinlands. If the roll is failed, the ka, not the ba, flies into a frenzy on the closest object, human or wraith. If the mummy has a ka vessel, the effects can be quite devastating.

When Set stole the secret of Rebirth, it was inherently flawed. In addition, dark mages in Set’s employ tried to strengthen his new warriors by invoking spirits of Apophis. The subjects came back from death stronger than anyone expected, but their souls had been devoured - not by their Khaibits, but by powerful bane-spirits. They chose to serve Apophis, their true master, rather than Set, and have wandered the earth spreading corruption in the name of the Wyrm ever since.

Humanity has never existed in these creatures. Instead of a real soul, they are ruled by two factors - their Khaibit and their Bane-spirit. The Khaibit is their drive and mindless ferocity, a pure vessel of Oblivion. The bane-spirit is temper and cruel intelligence. In effect, the Children of Apophis are fallen mummies enslaved by a higher force - Apophis, in the form of his bane servitors. Instead of the standard Virtue of Integrity, they posses Unity, which represents how well the two parts of their soul act together. In order start or end a frenzy, a Bane mummy must roll Unity. Otherwise, their Humanity count as zero for all purposes.

In the land of the dead, the two parts of a Bane mummy’s soul completely separate. In fact, only one part of it remains in the Underworld. That which would be a mummy’s ka becomes the bane mummy’s Khaibit. It still remains with his khat, but it is a mindless beast just like the last part of a fallen Khaibit-mummy, and cares only for destruction. The Bane-spirit retains its original evil sentience, and is detached and cynical. Most Bane-spirits travel not to the Underworld to collect ba energy, but rather to Malfeas. The only one who normally goes to the Underworld is Saatet-ta, who travels the Labyrinth and is rumored to be connected to the Hive-mind of the spectres. The other Children of Apophis are still able to enter the Tempest, and will do so if they have sufficient purpose. Most of them have twisted, demonic forms in the spirit worlds, and will be recognized for what they are: vessels of entropy and corruption.

Seshet Only Merits & Flaws:
Light Sleeper/Sleepless, Offensive to Animals

Thenemi Only Merits & Flaws:
Smell of the Grave, Monstrous, Flesh of the Corpse