A Hundred Years of Rain [Dream]

The sky is in that state of extended twilight you only get with heavy cloud cover - the grey has steadily darkened, but it's not dark enough yet for the sodium lights to come on and make everything that surreal shade of orange. I'm in my dream city - a gothic metropolis that combines elements of all the places I've lived as well as a few places I've only seen in this parallel life. Or in games. A lot of it looks like how I'd imagine Metropolis would look in _Kult_, only without all the aforementioned inside-out monsters, and because of the rain it feels a lot like The City in _A/State_. Huge, glittering skyscrapers of glass and steel and black marble are standing right next to disintegrating brick warehouses. The streets are a foot deep in water, and at the right angle you can see swirls of oilslick drifting across the surface.

I'm wading down an alley with six people. I don't know them, because we're all wearing helmets with mirrored faceplates and heavy rubber suits. I suspect the rain might be the reason for all the protective gear. There's nobody else outside, but I can see a few people looking out of darkened windows or moving behind lit ones. We're carrying long metal staffs with flashing lights on them. They seem to be something between a weapon and a metal detector, because the one the guy (?) at the front of the line is carrying starts strobing, and we all stop. Someone else turns on a light attached to her (?) helmet and shines it down through the water. There's a trap door in the middle of the street. It has a lock holding it in place, but when I poke at the lock with my staff it crumbles. I reach down and grab the edge of the door, but it's heavy and the hinges aren't in the best of shape. So we stand there and pound on the thing with the staffs. Each time they connect, sparks briefly flash under the greasy water.

When it finally breaks, all the water in the street rushes to fill the hole. One of the others gets swept over the edge, but the rest of us brace our feet and manage to stay upright. The person with the light cautiously looks into the hole. Apart from the guy lying at the bottom and the water we let in, the shaft is pristine - the walls are white tile and the floor of the tunnel at the bottom looks like brushed steel. It's really brightly lit, too, although the water broke all the light fixtures in the shaft itself, we can see the tunnel clearly. The guy at the bottom struggles to his feet and beckons for the rest of us to come down. There's a ladder attached to the wall opposite the broken light fixtures. So we go down.

Dramatis Personae

So... I'm working on a batch of pre-gen characters for a Kult/WoD crossover one-(and possibly more)-off I'd like to run sometime when one of our regular Thursday night crew is at his monthly writers' circle whatsit. After a good long think, I decided to pretty much run with the WoD mechanics system, because I know it reasonably well, all the players know it probably more than reasonably well, and I simply can't be arsed to memorize the Kult system or keep looking things up every time someone picks a fight. In any case, on the rare occasions I actually run games, I tend to play pretty loosely around the rules anyway, because a lot of times rules get in the way of a good story.

The main changes are going to be that I'll be bringing back nature and demeanour from the old WoD system in addition to the new virtue/vice pair. Virtue and vice will still be used for regaining willpower, but I think nature and demeanour are much more useful for describing what a character is actually like as a person. I'm also turfing morality in favour of the mental balance system from Kult. Think of it this way - in this game, a mental balance of zero is roughly equivalent to a standard morality of seven. A lower mental balance generally goes with a lower morality, but it's possible to have a pretty low mental balance and not actually do anything to anyone else. Having a twisted, fucked-up soul doesn't necessarily entail acting like a fucking psycho, but it does mean that your motivations for even straightforward acts are increasingly less comprehensible to "normal" people the further the balance drops. Positive mental balance works the same way, although it takes a proportionately higher mental balance before the character is no longer able to pass as "normal". Even so, just because someone has a high mental balance, it doesn't mean they're necessarily a more compassionate or charitable person. They might just be so detached from the muck and filth of "the world" that they can witness atrocities with supreme detachment. I think it's a little more interesting and considerable less limiting than just having a straight ten-point scale based on conventional western moral/legal codes. Realistically though, unless someone makes a concentrated effort (yeah, Mal, I'm looking at you) to tip themselves over the edge one way or the other, I don't see characters going any farther from zero than plus or minus 10. At least not in the first session, anyway.

I'm also going to be borrowing heavily from the magic system in Kult, although again, I don't see this being relevant in the first session. Everyone's going to start off as just regular people, because in order to practice magic in Kult, you have to be pretty fucked in the head to start with, and in order to learn the techniques you have to a) find, and b) interact with people who are even crazier than you. This isn't just waking up to something that was there all along - this is deliberately becoming something more (or frequently less) than human.

One of the things I'm going to seriously tone down from the Kult material is all the multiple-legged, organs-on-the-outside, asymmetrical monstrosities populating the supplementary materials. I think the monsters kind of detract from the central theme of Kult, which is that every single person has the potential to become a god or a demon. Considering the heights (and depths) of himan behaviour in real life, holding out this possibility of godhood and then dumping in a bunch of drooling things with claws and mandibles seems to be seriously missing the point. So no goddamn monsters. Or at least not many, and if there are monsters, they're there because some human was evil enough (or stupid and unlucky enough) to attract their attention.

So... on with the character descriptions. You'll note that there are no stats provided. I want players to choose their character based entirely on the persona they want to play, rather than considering strategic advantages like skill in firearms, strength, ass-kicking ability and so on. You should know by now that I don't like killing characters. Think of it as Feng Shui (no, you don't get Gun Fu) - it'd be a pretty crap movie if the protagonists got ganked. Unless they did something outrageously stupid that would require a karmic boot-fucking by way of bloody violent death. Nice thing about Kult is, even if you die, you're not necessarily our of the game.

The Psychiatrist

Virtue: Justice
Vice: Lust
Nature: Autocrat
Demeanor: Caregiver
[Mechanism: Denial]
Mental Balance = -6

This isn't the sort of therapist you'd want to see if you had serious mental health problems. Or any sort of mental health problems. Doesn't provide therapy so much as exhaust his clients over a period of months or years, then gives them a prescription for mood stabilizers so they don't notice that their underlying non-chemical problems are still there. Has recurring nightmares about his reflection coming out of the mirror and eviscerating him, but thinks it indicates he's got some unresolved issues with his mother. Is romantically involved with a former patient. Despite being seriously fucked in the head, he's got a very good professional reputation, mainly for his expertise in treating "difficult" adolescents.

The Artist

Virtue: Charity
Vice: Sloth
Nature: Visionary
Demeanor: Gallant
[Mechanism: Sublimation]
Mental Balance = +6

The Artist has gained local (and to some extent, national) fame/notoreity for his paintings, which have been compared to the works of Francis Bacon, Salvador Dali, and Attila Richard Lukacs, generally followed by "only creepier". Most people whose first exposure to him is through his art are terribly surprised at how generally decent and well-adjusted he turns out to be in person. In fact, he attracts would-be lovers of both sexes like honey attracts flies, but most end up being put off by his lifestyle, which allows time for very little other than painting and as little promotion as his agent lets him get away with. Reportedly only sleeps four hours a night.

The Priest

Virtue: Faith (surprise!)
Vice: Pride
Nature: Martyr
Demeanor: Pedagogue
[Mechanism: Confrontation]
Mental Balance = +6

If his friends (see other characters) are to be believed, the Priest has not raised his voice since he was 14. Ministers to the few regular parishoners at a once-beautiful stone church in the downtown core, but mainly keeps it open at night for the local homeless population. Is currently in the third year of his novitiate to the S.J. The Priest is honest, honourable, decent, and the sort of guy who (were he not celibate) you'd want to take home to meet the folks. For all that, he's constantly surprised, in light of past events, that he doesn't burst into flames from the inside whenever he takes communion. Quite probably the only priest in Calgary who has the exorcism rite memorized.

The Criminal

Virtue: Fortitude
Vice: Envy
Nature: Penitent
Demeanor: Competitor
[Mechanism: Denial]
Mental Balance = -7

Apart from the nightmares about co-workers suddenly metamorphosing into Kafkaesque insect entites, he's fine. Really. And that accounting glitch last month? He's talked to IT about that several times now and they always swear they've got it straightened out. He'll look into it ASAP. Thinks he's a lot better adjusted than his former classmates, who keep talking about that thing they did one summer like it was some sort of sanity-shattering thing. It was just a stupid game, right?

That's Just Sad...

When X. let Hobbes (one of our cats) out into the yard for a wander on Saturday, he got into a scuffle with a squirrel and lost. X. claimed it was more of a draw, as both parties eventually fled in opposite directions, but I'm inclined to agree with Mal's assessment of the situation.

"You've got a predator, you've got a prey animal. Only one of them should be running away, and not the one with the sharp teeth and claws."

I'm just glad he's never been afforded the opportunity to chase after one of the local rabbits, which are even bigger and probably a lot nastier.

Ah, it is to laugh...

Man... the things you miss when battling the Western Mongolian Hacking Death. I only just heard about this yesterday - to think I could have been basking in the warm fuzzy glow of some major schadenfreude all week. Still, better late than never.

Let me be clear - I am well aware that university is the last place where you can indulge in serious binge drinking without suffering any more significant consequences than the simultaneous precipitous decline of your GPA and your bank balance. I majored in philosophy, after all. But philosophers, engineers, political science majors, and nurses (just to name a few faculties infamous for party-animal tendencies) generally don't engage in this sort of behaviour at a $300.00/night hotel where you're supposed to dress up for dinner. Considering these people have to wear suits to class, you'd think they could be relied upon to behave a little more decorously in public.

Mind you, given what I've seen of the private sector (especially anyone involved in sales, and especially during Stampede), I suppose I shouldn't really be all that surprised. I'm sure a lot of business deals are negotiated in favour of whichever party is better able to hold their liquor. Honestly, the people I feel most sorry for are the police, who really have better things to do than chase down a bunch of drunken idiots; the other hotel guests, who were probably having a nice quiet mountain holiday before the management students showed up; and the hotel staff, who are in all likelihood still cleaning vomit out of the carpet and steaming pot smoke out of the drapes.

And then people wonder why the service sector is chronically understaffed?

Lesser of Two Evils

Is it just me, or does anyone else think there's something fundamentally (no pun intended) fucked about the fact that Ted Haggard (president of the U.S. National Association of Evangelicals) would prefer to have people think he's a tweaker than think he's gay?

Firene: Precipitation

"It'll be all right, 'Rine. I'll look after you."

His mother smiles at her in a manner which is probably meant to be supportive but just looks strained. She's barely spoken five words since they discharged her from the hospital.

"You're welcome in our house, Firene. Valeri has told us so much about you. Is there anything we can do to help?"

She frowns slightly. Her gaze sharpens and focuses on Mrs. Oslawski's face.

"I want to go to Longshore University."

* * * * * * *

"Omberwell? As in Drake Omberwell's daughter?"

She nods, startled by the old herrprofessor's sudden show of interest.

"Well, this does cast things in a different light, does it not? Your father was something of a celebrity among chemists. Almost an alchemist, one might say, hmm?"

Firene has no idea what he's talking about, and it evidently shows on her face.

"From the last few articles he submitted and the preliminary results he shared with some of our mutual colleagues... Drake Omberwell was on the verge of doing some truly spectacular things with metals. I cannot, you understand, share many details with you... walls having ears and so forth, you know... But then perhaps you could tell me what it was he was doing better than I could tell you anyway."

"No, Herrprofessor. I regret that my education was somewhat curtailed by events beyond my control. I have some knowledge of chemistry and metallurgy, but I was not privy to..."

She trails off, blinking hard and biting down on her tongue to keep from crying.

"A pity, a pity. Truly. Still, if you'd managed to salvage any of his research notes, anything at all... You'd find yourself in quite an advantageous position. And I would be more than willing to act as a broker so you would not be forced to deal with... unsavoury characters who might think to put undue pressure on you in your current delicate state."

She stares at him blankly again.

"Forgive me, my dear. Allow me to speak more plainly. According to corporate protocol, your father's research materials, had they survived the fire, would revert to Arclight. And I am certain that if you assisted them, Arclight would make sure you, as Drake Omberwell's only surviving heir, would be well looked after. They might even be willing to pay your tuition at Longshore. But there might be other parties who would be willing to offer more. Gorunna, for instance..."

She stands suddenly.

"Sir, if I were in possession of my father's notes, which I assure you I am not, there would be no question whatsoever regarding their disposal. I would not dream to betray The Company and my father's memory by selling his work to the highest bidder. But this is a futile discussion, because as I have already stated, I do not have them."

"Ah. Well, then, do forgive my indelicacy, Miss Omberwell. I am sure that the Registrar will be able to assist you with the application process and payment of tuition. Perhaps I shall see you in some of my classes. Good day."

* * * * * * *

"You must be joking."

"What? Why?"

"Your application is in order, and you passed the entrance exams, which - no disrespect intended - somewhat surprised me, considering your lack of formal education. In fact, you scored higher than many applicants who have attended school. But you appear to be unable to afford even a single semester's tuition."

"That can't be right. Please, check again."

He types in the codes on the filthy banknotes with exaggerated care.

"Nothing. In fact, your parents appear to be in a spot of trouble with their bank - the account is overdrawn for a significant amount."

Firene makes a conscious effort to slow her breathing.

"All right. I'm sure this is just a misunderstanding. Would you be so good as to provide me with directions to the bank, sir?"

* * * * * * *

"Ooh - innit pretty?"

A painfully thin boy steps out of the alley to her left, and when she turns to face him she hears scuffling behind her. The edge of his rusty knife is the only thing that shines.

"You lost or somefing, sweetmeat? Or you looking for someone, eh?"

She feels something behind her catch at her skirts, hears fabric tearing.

"Sweetmeat's slumming, Chaz! And she brung prezzies, see?"

Hands snatch at the jewelry box. She pulls back sharply and trips over the torn edges of her skirts.

"Well well well... Prezzies first, or playtime? Whatchu think, lads?"

He lowers the knife and pretends to be lost in thought. He's somewhat surprised when Firene screams, kicks him in the shins, and starts running. But only for a moment.

"Ey - no fair! We din't call a hunt!"

She keeps running and tosses a couple of the now-worthless banknotes behind her to distract them. A couple of them stop, but the remainder, including Chaz, seem to find the pursuit much more entertaining. Still, she's better fed and healthier than they are, so she manages to outdistance them. Then she rounds a corner into another alley and finds the other end choked with debris. She hears shouts and catcalls and the pounding of their feet as they approach, and then decides to try to climb the pile of rubbish at the end of the alley.

She tumbles down a few seconds later, opens her mouth to scream...

And realizes she can't hear anything.

In a way, the silence is almost more terrifying. She turns around and sees a man standing in the alley mouth. He's taller than the young toughs were, thin, but wiry-looking. He's covered in blood. She releases her breath, which comes out as a startled but disappointingly decorous shriek.

"Five on one. Tha's hardly a fair go, especially when you're just a little thing."

She stares at him, frozen in shock.

"You should go have y'self a drink. Steady your nerves, like."

He turns to walk away, clearly not expecting any thanks.

"Be seeing you."

"Wait!"

He stops and stares at her as she stumbles over.

"Please... will you help me?"

She opens the charred box. Her mother's jewels glitter in the dim light. He looks at them, then looks back at her, appraisingly.

"Reckon we ought to talk about this somewhere a little more private. And you still look like you could stand a drink. Come on, then."