Reflections 01: The Woman is a Virus

How does this read to you?  It's the first episode of a web series I'd really like to see made.  Feel free to be brutal.  I really want to do this, and if the letters suck, the show will suck, so I need to know what to change.

REFLECTION - EPISODE 01: THE WOMAN IS A VIRUS

FADE IN

INT. COMPUTER LAB / WORKSHOP

Camera explores the detritus of the shop.  WILLIAM GIBSON DECKER is working hard on something technical.  Parts are strewn all about the bench.

DECKER (VOICE-OVER)

I don't really understand people.

A doorbell sounds in the background.  Decker doesn't react.

DECKER (VOICE-OVER)

Too messy, too unpredictable.  With people,

you put in data - time, effort, direction - and 

you have no clue how they're going to react.

The doorbell sounds again, ringing three or four times, impatiently.  Decker continues to work.

DECKER (VOICE-OVER)

Take this jerk.  I tell everyone I know not to

bother me in my workshop.  "Don't bug me

in my workshop," I tell them.  There's a sign

on the door.  It says, "Go away, we don't 

fucking want any."

Doorbell sounds again, twice.

DECKER (VOICE-OVER RISING TO DIALOG)

Seems like a simple command.  But with people, you

lock yourself away with your work and some asshole

won't stop RINGING THE FUCKING DOOR-

BELL!

Silence.  Decker listens.  For a moment, there is nothing.  He returns to his work.

WOMAN'S VOICE (THROUGH DOOR)

William?

Decker winces.

DECKER

Women.  Women are worse than people.  At 

least with some guy you can be reasonably sure

he won't start crying at you or telling you, you

don't listen.  One day, you're having a nice chat,

and then BLAM! out of nowhere, here come the

wet-works and a fourteen-hundred dollar

peripheral flying at your head.

Decker gets up from his bench and opens the door.  Standing on his stoop is an attractive girl in last-night's waitress uniform.  This is MARLENE "MARLI" BARA.  She's been crying.

MARLI

He's gone.

DECKER

Uh... Who's gone?  Wait.  Marli?  What are you

doing here?  Go away; I'm working.

Marli pushes her way past Decker, into his lab.  She dislikes this room.

MARLI

Christian, my boyfriend, is missing.  He was

supposed to pick me up from work last night,

and he never showed up.  I took a taxi home.

He isn't returning my texts or answering his

phone.

As she speaks, Marli fiddles with some piece(s) of tech from Decker's shelves.

DECKER

Maybe he's drunk.

MARLI

No.  He's missing, I know it.  We have to

go to the police.

Decker takes something out of Marli's hands and puts it down, then leads her to the door.

DECKER

That's a good idea.  Why don't you go to the

police and let them deal with it.  Why are you 

even here?

MARLI

I can't go alone.  You had that thing that one

time.  You know how to talk to the police.

DECKER

That thing.  You mean when your boyfriend 

and his minions broke in here and stole 

thousands of dollars worth of computer equip-

ment?  And the police couldn't make a case

because of half of what they took was my

surveillance gear?

MARLI

He doesn't have minions.

DECKER

Sure he does.  Four of them.  Rich, privileged

frat-boys.  You know them.  You gave them an

alibi.  I lost everything.

MARLI

I wasn't the only one.  And they didn't take

your stuff.  We were all at the Crash House

playing beer pong - celebrating Brett's pro-

motion.  Come on, that was forever ago, I 

really need your help.

Marli collapses in Decker's arms.  He holds her, unhappy; but he melts a little.

DECKER (VOICE-OVER)

She came here because she knows I can't

say no to her.  It doesn't matter if she screws

me over a hundred times, I have to go with

her.  She needs my help.  She needs me.  How

can I turn that down.  Dammit.

Decker holds her at arms length and looks at her a moment; but then puts on his jacket.  Then turns to his workbench and retrieves a bulky smart-phone and starts to put it in his breast pocket.

MARLI

Is that an iPhone?

DECKER

(Laughs)  You know, there's more computing power

in your average smart-phone than was on

the early shuttle missions.  This?  This little

baby could tell you how to build a ship that

would take you to Mars.  Then you could

use it to fly the thing.  You'd be dead from

radiation exposure before you got half-way;

but it would get you there.

As he speaks, Decker places a metal and plastic device around the back of his neck.  It has two wires which he plugs into jacks hidden beneath his hair.

MARLI (KIND OF DISGUSTED)

What are you doing?

DECKER

I installed a few highly sensitive electrodes in my

head that let me interface remotely with my

mobile.  This picks up the signal from those 

electrodes and then connects with the glasses

and the phone.

He puts on the glasses - somewhat bulky, mirrored shades.

MARLI

You are not wearing those in public.

DECKER

Hell I'm not.  These are my lifeline.  They

figured out a way to use contact lenses; but

they can't do a full color spectrum yet; and I

don't have the equipment to make them re-

ceive the carrier signal.

What?  Okay, here.  Put them on.  Don't

worry, they're not going to do anything.  Hang

on.  It's not easy to do this without looking.

DISPLAY (IN THE GLASSES, MARLI'S VIEW): Facebook comes up in a simplified Smart-Phone App window. 

"Marli@Augnet.org" types itself into the email

 window then "*********" in the password.

Marli's page pops up.

MARLI

Hey! It's my Facebook page.  Wait.

What are you doing?

DISPLAY (NOW OVERLAID ON SCENE):

Marli's Status Update: I've been a real shit

to Decker, and I really should start treating

him better.

MARLI

How are you doing that?

DECKER

Your password sucks.  Get a better one.

Here.  This is what they're really for.

Decker wipes the Facebook window away.

DISPLAY: DECKERSPHERE (Laid out like any generic search engine).

Search: William G. Decker. Go. Results:

[List of Results]

DECKER

Anytime I meet someone, if they have any

kind of internet presence, I'll know about

it.

MARLI (FIDGITING WITH GLASSES)

Okay, that's kind of cool; but do they have

to look so stupid?

Decker flips her the finger and takes the glasses from her.  Camera wipe to black as he does so (as though we're seeing scene through the lenses).

INT. MARLI'S CAR, DRIVING.

As they drive, the Display shows a GPS Map.

MARLI

Did you say you put wires in your brain?

DECKER

That's putting it pretty simply; but yeah - 

basically.

MARLI

But why?

DECKER

An experiment.  The tech is based on work

done at Brown University, with quadriplegics.

I improved on the basic design.  It's how I 

run the computer without taking it out of my

pocket.

Marli looks worriedly at Decker, then turns the car into the police station parking lot.

MARLI

You are weird.  We're here.

The duo exit the car and walk into the Police Station.

INT. POLICE STATION

Alone and bored, POLICE OFFICER FREEMAN sits at a desk reading a magazine.  He puts the magazine down and sits up when Decker and Marli enter.

FREEMAN

How can I help you today?  Wait, you're William

Decker, right?

DECKER

Yeah.  And you are (reading badge) Officer

Freeman?

DISPLAY: As he says it, SAPD Freeman appears in the search bar.  Results:

* Local law enforcement officer receives state's

highest honor.

*Decorated Officer charged in beating.

*Police Brutality Down Home. Ken Freeman:

"Actions appropriate to circumstance."

*Local police support neighborhood baseball.

*Record Abroad "Sexy Model Adrenne Freeman

likes Harry Potter."

DECKER

And this is Marlene Bara.  She's here to file

a missing person's report.

Freeman perks up.

FREEMAN

That sounds serious.  Sit down, then. Tell

me about who's missing.

FADE OUT.

My Most Ambition Campaign Project To Date

In the shadow of the Palace of Cleito, in the City built by a God to honor her beauty, we found ourselves enamoured of our own excess and subserviant to hubris. And then came war.

And soaked in blood, the Children of Poseidon raised up the blade in dire sacrifice, prepared to plunge us all into unending darkness for their own selfish designs.

In desperation, we allied ourselves with the princes of air and shadow, and rent the fabric of creation to steal for ourselves the immortality of the Gods; setting us forever in opposition to our former Lords and Masters.

There was a terrible price. -- The Prophecy of the Oracle of Evaemonis (7th Thargelion in the 42nd year of the reign of Cleito)

---

I am likely exceeding my grasp as a Storyteller and Game Master with this project; but it is something I have wanted to do (and have touched on briefly) since I began gaming again in the late 20th Century.

The intent is for the game to span no less than ten-thousand years, from the fall of Atlantis until the fall (or salvation) of man. The Campaign will center around a group of immortal heroes who have set themselves in opposition to the Gods - visitors to our World who seek to control and guide mankind.

In raising themselves above their fellow man, however, how are the heroes any different than those they seek to defy? And what are the far-reaching consequences of their actions.

---

Music uploaded via Creative Commons (and Jamendo.com):
The Conqueror by Conspiracy from the Album The Adventurer
Lord, Have Mercy performed by Dr. Emiliyan Stankov from the album Tebe Poem

7th-Day Stranger (One)

Ross is running a GURPS campaign set in a near future (2015) North America torn apart by civil war and suddenly invaded by Hell. For those who know what I'm talking about: It's the Earth of Obsidian, before it became [or "as it becomes"] the world of Obsidian.

Our characters are all members of a special unit of the U.M.F. (United Military Federation), a sort of corporate mercenary firm whose authority and jurisdiction crosses borders in the newly segregated North America.

I'm playing Mahdi "Captain Hadji" Qahira, a former Republican Guard turned military liaison turned mercenary for hire and now a Squad Commander (though I share rank with Edison). Mahdi is skinny and ugly; a devout (if progressive) Muslim who takes his duty to the U.M.F. only slightly less seriously than he takes his faith. He curses in Arabic, used to try to pass as Mexican by calling everyone gringo, and retains a great deal of the chauvinism (if not the bigotry) of his religion. Maddog is J.T. "the Iceman" Ickowski, a ginger gamer-turned soldier who volunteered eagerly for the burgeoning cybernetic augmentation program being tested by the U.M.F. He's a monster with an automatic rifle and really quite hideous with all the tech sticking out of his skull. Josh is running Professor Wesley Edison, an Egyptologist recruited by the U.M.F. intelligentsia who has since learned to handle a gun and obey orders. Edison's specialty might be in funerary rights, but I'm uncertain because the first session was a little combat-heavy and - though he killed 100% more baddies than Mahdi - he didn't really get his chance to shine.

Prologue
In a massive fire-fight between the New California Republic, the United State of Texas, and the UMF, combat was suddenly halted by an apocalyptic manifestation - the sudden appearance of the Visage of Death, astride a massive horse-like monstrosity. Being the only three whose stories corroborated the appearance of the demonic spectre, we were pulled from regular duty rotation with our combat battalion and put on "Freak Show Watch," with no real mandate other than what someone once called "investigation and containment - or eradication, if necessary - of the supernatural."


Part One
Transported into the Unclaimed Territories lying between the N.C.R., Nova America (? - don't have map with me), and the U.S.T. Captain Hadji, Ickowski and the Professor (along with a possible 4th background-npc if Mark doesn't play the biker, Bill) were flown by helicopter to a drop-site somewhere in the ruin of Las Vegas. Our mission objectives were to 1) meet with our contacts (a biker gang that sent word for help), 2) discover the source of Vegas's power, as it was -up until recently, without electricity, and 3)recon the city and its environs.

We arrived to a smoke signal, marking our drop-point and saw the bikers as soon as the chopper dusted off. Almost immediately, we (and by we, I mean the bikers; I'm sorry to admit there were a few rounds of indecision mostly due to my inability to commit to any one course of action) were beset by a third party in a modified paddy-wagon (Mad-Max style), who opened fire on the bikers. In the ensuing fire-fight, 5 members of the Nomad Police were gunned down, along with a pair of bikers.

Bodies were loaded into the paddy wagon for looting, the surviving cop was treated and put in a rear seat, and we followed the bikers to their hideout, a pool-hall and garage a little ways from the drop-site. Along the drive, we saw a run-down city given over to hedonism and depravity (I'm somewhat disturbed that we didn't stop to do anything about some of the stuff we saw, but I was driving, so I only have myself to blame until that truck tried to run us off the road), as well as a strange obsidian pyramid jutting out of the pond in front of the Belagio, giving off sporadic rays of light and possibly powering the strip.

Mahdi crashed the paddy wagon into the front of the pool-hall, but the building was still intact. We stabilized the cop and entered the building to speak to the bikers, Bill and Ed(?) - the last two surviving members of this chapter of the Hell's Angels. Mahdi went out to get the cop and bring him in, once things seemed on the up-and-up; but as soon as he left...

A voice called down from upstairs, Bill and Ed relaxed immediately upon hearing their names, and adjourned upstairs, presumably to find the owner of the (feminine) voice. Mahdi was called back inside and the typical PC-paranoia found all of us spread out, with easy access to the door when they came back down with the "woman."

She was irrefutably beautiful, wearing what can only be described as an Italian fashion-designer's best interpretation of a biker's old-lady's outfit, cut low and slinky. I think she was a red-head? And much hotter than this second-life image I've posted. Mahdi recognized her immediately for what she was(n't), an American whore of some kind.

She turned out to be quite adept at mind-control, though a few lucky rolls and some massive firepower from J.T. put an end to her sorcerous ways. During the fracas, Mahdi radioed back to H.Q. not to send a chopper for them under any circumstances, he didn't know what was going on, but the situation was out of control; and that he recommended quarantining the entire Unclaimed Territories and to carpet-bomb Vegas.

As he was transmitting, he cleared the area of her influence and almost couldn't remember why he was saying what he was saying, he added absently, "why did this all seem so important just a second ago..." Right after that, J.T. did his fireworks thing and "Oh, right," Mahdi said and then clarified his recommendation that the area be quarantined, but to hold bombers on stand-by until further updates can be transmitted. He and his team would make it out of Vegas on their own if possible, but he reiterated that no pick-up was to be attempted.

This probably still seems like over-kill; but you don't realize how fucked we were against that mind-control shit if we hadn't lucked into some good dice rolls, and J.T. hadn't managed to break control long enough to perforate her with his assault rifle. She had, during conversation, expressed great interest in accompanying us back to UMF and meeting with our superiors.

As soon as she died, the surviving biker, Bill, broke down crying, but stopped fighting. Mahdi brought in the cop while the Professor and J.T. helped Bill and investigated the corpse of the woman - which didn't seem human, so much as "put together according to a third-person accounting of what a human would look like on the inside." J.T. failed the first Fright Check of the campaign and developed a new Mental Quirk.

When questioned, the cop couldn't remember why it was important to attack the Angels, only that "she ordered us to." He couldn't divulge anything further (including whether or not "she" was the same she we'd just liberated Bill from), and the session ended there.

Oh yeah, J.T. and the Professor are a little drunk due to the mind-control shtick, and the Prof probably has a helluva hang-over to look forward to in the morning. XP was doled out and fun was had by all, I believe. I'm looking forward to exploring this world some more, next time.

I have no doubt Captain Hadji (and all the rest) are doomed, though I hope they survive to see things through to the end (the beginning?). I also have no clue who I would play as a back-up character. I'm thinking some kind of military "ghost" character, a stealth specialist / augmented human sent in to investigate the disposition of the Alpha Team.

The Races of Hunter's Moon 1: T'sharg

[Images Pending]

Third Tel gripped the reigns of his mount. The loose scarves that marked him as an emissary of White Bone blew around him in the strong easterly wind.

“What's wrong with the horses,” the boy asked. He yanked hard on the reigns of his Moenian steed, larger than his companion's mount; though not as large as the brown behemoths of the Orucan. The beast whuffed and stomped its hooves on the dirt road beneath them.

His Pajens companion crossed himself with the local ward of evil and spit. “This is the Silva,” the round, little man said, reigning in his round, little horse. “There are elves in these woods.”

Everything that was jovial and pleasant in Third Tel went out of him. He wondered if he would ever feel safe again. Elves! Alchemer Darrow had said nothing about elves. “Futui,” he cursed. “You lie.” Even as he said the words, though, his eyes darted around and through the surrounding trees. The Pajens at least believed what he said was true.

“No,” the elder man, Kentir said, sneering. “They don't come to the road. Not when there's decent folk about; but they leave sign.” He pointed across Tel's still unruly mount at one of the low and twisted trees. Marks were carved into the bark – a chaotic, looping kind of scripted pictograph that Tel had no hope of reading.

“What does it say,” he asked.

Kentir shrugged and spurred his horse onward. “Who knows,” he said. “Probably just 'stay the fuut out.”

Tel laughed, despite himself. He didn't have to spur the Moenian on. It followed the smaller horse on its own.

“Have you ever seen one?”

“What, an elf?” Kentir snorted. “Likely the last thing you'll ever see. 'Les your soul gets stuck and you get to watch him eat you.”

Tel went white. He'd heard rumors that elves ate the flesh of men; but...

Kentir watched him, then burst out laughing. “I am sorry. Sore sorry, indeed. Them elves eat flesh, sure; but mostly rodents and birds and the like.” He reached across and pat the messenger on his shoulder. “I've never heard tell of anyone eaten by elves.”

It was little comfort to Tel, who had heard of whole tribes slaughtered for trespassing into elvish lands. One life, the saying went, for every twig trampled under foot. It was all rumor and conjecture, of course. No human, whether from White Bone or the Pajens or any of the lesser kingdoms had ever seen an elf and lived.

And ahead, the path curved and exited the woods, into the Ractus plains. Tel let himself breath a sigh of relief. Then a terrible thought occurred to him.

“There's another route back, yes?” He looked behind them in time to see the luminescent eyes of the Rashaim bearing silently down upon them. “I wouldn't-”

His sentence was cut off by a terrified sort of howling whimper that escaped unbidden from his throat. He was not a practised rider; he fell from his horse.

Kentir hadn't even noticed. He heard the vibratto cry of the foul beast and shouted, “ride,” whipping his horse to a gallop. Even if he had noticed Tel's horse unburdened beside him, he wouldn't be coming back without a contingent of rangers from Ager. This was the end. Tel's life was over.

The Rashaim towered over him as it approached. Rows of violet eyes traced from its tentacled head, up it's neck and over it's muscular shoulders, bordered on either side in thick, brown fur. Within those bizarre tentacles, Tel could hear the clicking of razor-sharp teeth. Something in that noise cast a spell over the young messenger.

“Alright, you hairy cania,” he growled, drawing his suddenly very small and light dagger. “Come get me!” He dropped low into the fire stance – the last resort of a cornered rat, his master had said. Aanai masters do not teach the fire stance, because the Aanai believe that you accept death with grace and a peaceful heart.

This was not the Moenian way. The White Bone did not rise from the sands of Solitu by rolling over and accepting defeat.

The rashaim paced around Tel, black claws raking the ground. It moved with feline grace, despite it's mammoth size – easily dwarfing the boy's runaway steed. Tel steeled himself for death, locking eyes with the wild monster. Dying with a weapon in your hand was the best way to die in Moenia, even if all he managed was a scratch in the thick hide of -

Casiu's Heart! Slime dripped from its open maw, coating the writhing tentacles. In response, tears stained Tel's cheeks.

“Come at me,” he shouted. Dropping lower into the water stance. Fuut this stupid beast. He gritted his teeth. It's going to try to bite, get those slimy things around his head or neck. Flow like the river. Drop prone, everything breathes. Be like the beasts. Go for the throat. He actually growled.

There was no other sound in the Silva, but the Easterly in the leaves. Tel felt cold, calm. He was young, but he'd led a good life. Now he would die a warrior. No one got to die that way anymore. Not really. Not in the city. This was a good death. He breathed a soft chuckle which triggered the Rashaim's charge.

He knew before he even began to move that it wasn't going to work. Somehow, the monster anticipated his plan; was catching him low as he fell to the ground. His dagger was going right into the rashaim's tooth-filled hole.

And then it rocked hard to the right, stumbled past him and fell to the ground.

Three tiny people-things in green and brown stood on the road, clutching the vines they'd used to throw themselves against the beast. Their strange, curved blades stuck out of a trio of eyes high on the rashaim's back. Violet puss and blood mixed together and ran into it's thick fur.
Wide eyed, Tel snapped back to the -

Oh gods.

They were inhuman. Or perhaps too human. Miniature, no taller than a man's leg (if even that), thin but strong, with chorded muscle and wild energy; but the horrible part was the mouth, that feral smile. Jagged canine teeth under keen hunter's eyes. Their oversized ears twitched and turned on their own, aimed at him and at the beast – which was stirring again behind him.

“Isilwanendasonke,” one of the elves said in a growling tone. Oh gods. They talk. What did it say?

The trio of mythical beasts were circling around him, each clutching a second of those sinister, curved blades – no more than a knife, really; but menacing swords in their tiny predator's hands. For one terrifying moment, Tel was sure the Pajens hadn't been telling the truth about the elven diet; but then he heard the snarling of the rashaim and realized he was standing in between two of the most feared predators in Panton.

He didn't know what to do; but the elf had spoken to him. It wasn't much, but he clutched his knife and turned to join their advance.

---

The elves of Panton (the name men give to the World), called T'sharg in their own tongue, fell to earth in the great falling cities of the Necron. They are short, with tightly packed short-endurance sprinting muscles. Their big, somewhat pointed ears, twist unconsciously in the direction of prey while large eyes (which have lost quite a bit of color vision in exchange for better night vision) quietly observe every nuance of their surroundings. The mouth of an elf is wide and smiling, with predator's teeth meant for ripping and tearing raw meat. Elves and men cannot interbreed, but children of T'Sharg and Dokkoren, though sterile, are known by the Dokkoren to exist. Such abominations are put to death by the fiercely xenocentric elves.

T'sharg are ambush predators, with a somewhat Celtic society that reveres the Treants, and tolerates men because of their ties with the Ancient Guardians.

The elven diet can be disconcerting to some, particularly the more "civilized" tribes of White Bone. In particular, they prefer freshly killed rodents, eaten raw, though they are fond of larger prey (even - it is rumored - humans and, if they can bring one down, the Aanai). In truth, the T'sharg avoid these races for fear of interfering with what they call Umbusophefumula, the natural patterns of this world. More specifically, they fear that they might cause new Treants to die before they can be born; though this explaination makes no sense to all but the oldest of the Aanai.

---

On Language.

Called White Bone by most of its inhabitants and men of surrounding tribes, Moenia is perhaps the first city of men. Though still firmly in the stone age, White Bone rose up out of the sands of the Solitu desert when the desert tribes came together for the first time in peace under the shadow of the Falling Cities. Most of the alien words used here are Moenian, because it is told from Tel's vantage and Tel is a Moenian Emissary.

The intent is to provide players with the names of places and things in the language of their Character. Aanai, for instance, do not call the world Panton, but Ulagam. T'sharg use the word Umbuso. There are also a handful of phrases players can use to represent their character's ancestry or language, colloquialisms, simple "yes" and "no," things like that.

A common T'shargi (of the T'sharg) saying is "Isilwanendasonke." Which means roughly, "we all have to die," or "every beast dies," and is used as a sort of "what do you got to lose?" or "go for it," phrase among the Hidden Tribes.

Of the races presented here in the story: Tel is human, of course, as is Kentir, though they are from different parts of the world. Moenians are desert dwellers who have given up the nomadic life and built White Bone around trade and irrigation, though they have a violent history, and that violence seethes beneath the surface. Pajens are nomadic slavers, who try to match what they see as the oppulence and luxury of Moenia on the backs of their lessers. T'sharg are detailed above, diminutive, forest-dwelling, ambush-predator hippies. Kind of like Pini's Wolfriders but with bigger teeth.

Additionally, there are Aanai, ancient and mammoth wizard-monks from the Mountains to the East; which they share with the Iothun, the fearsome yeti-like Giants. Below the Mountains dwell the Dokkoren, Penton's answer to the dwarf.

Tel is not actually the first human to survive an encounter with the T'sharg, and both humans and elves are PC races, though T'sharg can expect to be shunned and feared or even attacked in the lands of men. Elves dwell deep in the "uncanny valley." They look wrong, to most men; and rightly so. Combined with their appetites and fearsome reputation, T'sharg are less liked than even the Giants or the Orucan.

The Elves of Panton

Third Tel gripped the reigns of his mount. The loose scarves that marked him as an emissary of White Bone blew around him in the strong easterly wind.

“What's wrong with the horses,” the boy asked. He yanked hard on the reigns of his Moenian steed, larger than his companion's mount; though not as large as the brown behemoths of the Orucan. The beast whuffed and stomped its hooves on the dirt road beneath them.

His Pajens companion crossed himself with the local ward of evil and spit. “This is the Silva,” the round, little man said, reigning in his round, little horse. “There are elves in these woods.”

Everything that was jovial and pleasant in Third Tel went out of him. He wondered if he would ever feel safe again. Elves! Alchemer Darrow had said nothing about elves. “Futui,” he cursed. “You lie.” Even as he said the words, though, his eyes darted around and through the surrounding trees. The Pajens at least believed what he said was true.

“No,” the elder man, Kentir said, sneering. “They don't come to the road. Not when there's decent folk about; but they leave sign.” He pointed across Tel's still unruly mount at one of the low and twisted trees. Marks were carved into the bark – a chaotic, looping kind of scripted pictograph that Tel had no hope of reading.

“What does it say,” he asked.

Kentir shrugged and spurred his horse onward. “Who knows,” he said. “Probably just 'stay the fuut out.”

Tel laughed, despite himself. He didn't have to spur the Moenian on. It followed the smaller horse on its own.

“Have you ever seen one?”

“What, an elf?” Kentir snorted. “Likely the last thing you'll see, ser. 'Les your soul gets stuck and you get to watch him eat you.”

Tel went white. He'd heard rumors that elves ate the flesh of men; but...

Kentir watched him, then burst out laughing. “I am sorry. Sore sorry, indeed. Them elves eat flesh, sure; but mostly rodents and birds and the like.” He reached across and pat the messenger on his shoulder. “I've never heard tell of anyone eaten by elves.”

It was little comfort to Tel, who had heard of whole tribes slaughtered for trespassing into elvish lands. One life, the saying went, for every twig trampled under foot. It was all rumor and conjecture, of course. No human, whether from White Bone or the Pajens or any of the lesser kingdoms had ever seen an elf and lived.

And ahead, the path curved and exited the woods, into the Ractus plains. Tel let himself breath a sigh of relief. Then a terrible thought occurred to him.

“There's another route back, yes?” He looked behind them in time to see the luminescent eyes of the Rashaim bearing silently down upon them. “I wouldn't-”

His sentence was cut off by a terrified sort of howling whimper that escaped unbidden from his throat. He was not a practised rider; he fell from his horse.

Kentir hadn't even noticed. He heard the vibratto cry of the foul beast and shouted, “ride,” whipping his horse to a gallop. Even if he had noticed Tel's horse unburdened beside him, he wouldn't be coming back without a contingent of rangers from Ager. This was the end. Tel's life was over.

The Rashaim towered over him as it approached. Rows of violet eyes traced from its tentacled head, up it's neck and over it's muscular shoulders, bordered on either side in thick, brown fur. Within those bizarre tentacles, Tel could hear the clicking of razor-sharp teeth. Something in that noise cast a spell over the young messenger.

“Alright, you hairy cania,” he growled, drawing his suddenly very small and light dagger. “Come get me!” He dropped low into the fire stance – the last resort of a cornered rat, his master had said. Aanai masters do not teach the fire stance, because the Aanai believe that you accept death with grace and a peaceful heart.

This was not the Moenian way. The White Bone did not rise from the sands of Solitu by rolling over and accepting defeat.

The rashaim paced around Tel, black claws raking the ground. It moved with feline grace, despite it's mammoth size – easily dwarfing the boy's runaway steed. Tel steeled himself for death, locking eyes with the wild monster. Dying with a weapon in your hand was the best way to die in Moenia, even if all he managed was a scratch in the thick hide of -

Casiu's Heart! Slime dripped from its open maw, coating the writhing tentacles. In response, tears stained Tel's cheeks.

“Come at me,” he shouted. Dropping lower into the water stance. Fuut this stupid beast. He gritted his teeth. It's going to try to bite, get those slimy things around his head or neck. Flow like the river. Drop prone, everything breathes. Be like the beasts. Go for the throat. He actually growled.

There was no other sound in the Silva, but the Easterly in the leaves. Tel felt cold, calm. He was young, but he'd led a good life. Now he would die a warrior. No one got to die that way anymore. Not really. Not in the city. This was a good death. He breathed a soft chuckle which triggered the Rashaim's charge.

He knew before he even began to move that it wasn't going to work. Somehow, the monster anticipated his plan; was catching him low as he fell to the ground. His dagger was going right into the rashaim's tooth-filled hole.

And then it rocked hard to the right, stumbled past him and fell to the ground.

Three tiny people-things in green and brown stood on the road, clutching the vines they'd used to throw themselves against the beast. Their strange, curved blades stuck out of a trio of eyes high on the rashaim's back. Violet puss and blood mixed together and ran into it's thick fur.
Wide eyed, Tel snapped back to the -

Oh gods.

They were inhuman. Or perhaps too human. Miniature, no taller than a man's leg (if even that), thin but strong, with chorded muscle and wild energy; but the horrible part was the mouth, that feral smile. Jagged canine teeth under keen hunter's eyes. Their oversized ears twitched and turned on their own, aimed at him and at the beast – which was stirring again behind him.

“Isilwanendasonke,” one of the elves said in a growling tone. Oh gods. They talk. What did it say?

The trio of mythical beasts were circling around him, each clutching a second of those sinister, curved blades – no more than a knife, really; but menacing swords in their tiny predator's hands. For one terrifying moment, Tel was sure the Pajens hadn't been telling the truth about the elven diet; but then he heard the snarling of the rashaim and realized he was standing in between two of the most feared predators in Panton.

He didn't know what to do; but the elf had spoken to him. It wasn't much, but he clutched his knife and turned to join their advance.

---

The elves of Panton (the name given to the World by men), called T'sharg in their own tongue, fell to earth with the Necron and in their falling cities.

Grand Designs

So I've got this blog, right? It sits here, out in cyberspace; declaring to the world all sorts of things I'm not entirely comfortable with. And I'm not referring to the content, but to what's not in it.

When I first started this thing, I had such grand designs. I always have such grand designs. That, maybe, is my problem. I get an idea in my head, and it's so big – so wonderful – I have to work on it, I have to make it happen. Almost always to the exclusion of all the big, wonderful ideas that have come before it; but I do work on these things. A lot. It's sort of my hobby; creating shit.

So I have - in my hard drive, written (and drawn) on reams of paper, and floating around my mess of a room on napkins and cardboard and filling who knows how many cds – a veritable copper mine of art, fiction, and gaming material. All of it's “unfinished,” but it's also what you would call, works in progress.

I'd like to start making some of that progress. And because I'm always trying to work an angle, I'd also like to begin putting that work here, where it might generate page impressions and maybe bring my AdSense revenue up over a hundred dollars so I can make a little dough.

So I'm changing the direction of this blog. Or, rather, I'm refining it. I'm turning it into my gaming blog; where I intend to publish every campaign world, every NPC, every game note for – well, not every, but – a great many of my ongoing gaming projects. For the four of you who read my blog, let me know if one of these interests you more than the others, and I'll work more on that game until one of the others (or, Cthulhu eat my soul – something new) captures my imagination.

Here's a not-so-short list of the material I feel belongs here:

167 Subscribers (World of Darkness horror on YouTube).

Balefire (The Zombie Apocalypse in the World of Darkness - from another angle).

Clone (A series of Star Wars d6 Adventures concerning a squad of Troopers declared MIA toward the end of the Clone Wars – not sure if this can be translated into SAGA, but willing to try).

Coruscant Rising (A Closer look at Imperial City for any System and Game Notes for a Star Wars d6 Campaign that explores the Rebellion in the shadow of the Emperor himself [perhaps with SAGA Edition Conversions as well).

Council of Wyrms (Mutants & Masterminds. Dragons in the Modern Age).

Eternal Sun (a D&D4e Campaign Setting & a Campaign in which that setting is overrun with a terrible plague of Undead).

First Year (Mutants & Masterminds in the foremost School of Witchcraft & Wizardry).

Gamma World: Los Augustine (Setting and Adventures on the Last Coast)

Hunter's Moon (Gurps Paleolithic Fantasy).

Man's Reach (Lovecraft in Spaaaaaace! - and Gurps).

Quantum Jack (Originally d20 Modern, but probably better suited for World of Darkness. I may post both. Your name is Jack Logan. You've been ripped out of your reality and brought to this one by an evil mastermind who happens to be named Jack Logan. As it turns out, Jack Logan is kind of a dick in most of the multiverse; and now you're all here and it's up to you to stop them, er, yourself).

Tales of Adventure (a D&D4e Campaign based on conversions of some of the top 30 adventure modules of all time (of all time!).

Urge (Originally written for D&D4e but easily [and logically] converted to Star Wars SAGA, Urge follows a war-torn tribe of Sandpeople as they try to rebuild and survive their pilgrimage across the Dune Sea).

Where Liberty Dwells (Gurps Spies and Soldiers in American Revolution).

World's End (Just what happens to all those missing ships and planes and civilizations? My take on the Bermuda Triangle – Gurps, but I think something similar has been done in one of their splatbooks. I'll have to look).

In addition to all this mess, I'll also be blogging about gaming, discussing (even if only one-sided) the pros and cons of different systems, and writing short pieces about the continuing adventures of the Saint Augustine Flaming Dragons of Death, as well as the odd bit of raw fiction (when I get a wild hair up my ass). Also, some of (a lot of?) this material will be cross-posted to Obsidian Portal; but I'm unsure about advertising there, and I am a greedy bastard, so we'll see.

And if you're one of the illustrious and want me to run one of these that I haven't, let me know and I'll get on that.

Ouchr

This pain in my head right now is the most powerful thing I've ever experienced. It's like a fucking kidney stone in my mouth. If you've never experienced a kidney stone, they say it's the closest a man will ever come to the pain of child birth. Now imagine delivering a 9-pound baby through a hole in your fucking tooth.

It hurts like a sonufabitch.

Now imagine you've been in labor for eight hours - trying to push that little shit out of your mouth. I felt the first twinges of pain around ten. I took a 500mg Ibuprofen and put another in my pocket, just in case.

Then the pain flared up - and I'm talking wrath of god shit here - around noon and I took the second. Neither really helped; or else, god help me because I don't want to know what it would have felt like without them.

I managed to keep my wits about me. I didn't tell anyone to "fuck off" who needed it. I didn't punch anyone who really wanted punching.

There were a lot of people who really wanted me to punch them in their bitch faces today.

I got off work and came home, where I took a pill for nerve pain. I don't know what it was. It just says "nerve pain" on the side of the bottle, in hand-written letters, with "3xDay" and "No Alcohol" written below that.

Motherfucker, it didn't work. At all.

Since then, I've added another 1000mg of Ibuprofen and I just took my very last Oxycontin.

If I die of pain killer overdose it was most certainly not suicide. My life sucks the shit right now, but I know I can do better. Son of a bitch, I'm trying.

Still no improvement. I'm waiting for the Oxy to kick in, but it's taking so long...

I tried salt. Sea salt and black pepper, ground and mixed and applied to the site, often helps relieve tooth pain. I tried chewing gum. I tried Listerine (usually helps). I ran around the block to get my heart rate up. That helped a little. I did push-ups when the pain came back. I even tried stuffing some over-the-counter temporary filling repair stuffed into the offending hole. It just wouldn't stay put. Then there's the half-tube of Sever-Pain Orajel.

The only thing that helps so far is resting my head on a soft blanket in a sort of lazy "child's pose" from yoga, with my mouth open, drooling on the carpet. I don't know how important the drooling part is. Once I get up, though, it only lasts about a minute. Then I have to go back to the floor.

Okay, I'm back. Maybe it will stick this time. If I don't die from this, I promise: I'll go looking for a dentist who'll let me pay-over-time in the morning. That can be step two of my "make Dave a better person" list instead of whatever it is (down after "get medical & dental insurance").

On a slightly brighter note, I'm about 15-16,000 words into the book. I don't know exactly, because I'm writing it long-hand and then transferring it to the PC. I was meant to be writing now; but I'm preoccupied.

I just don't want to hurt.

Gamma World: Los Augustine

The oldest continual settlement in the whole of Gamma Terra, the small town of Los Augustine sits on the East coast of Old Floridia, where its people make their living as fishermen and brewers of fine alcohol.

The village proper - surrounded by a high wall of cochina, stone and the ancient husks of pre-oops automobiles - sits in the center of an overgrown ruin of an old-world city, which itself once sat atop the ruin of an even older town, founded by the conquerors from the Ancient Worlde who devastated the inhabitants and took the land. Even they weren't the first to settle there, however, they took the land from-

Well, you get the idea. Los Augustine stands atop ages of history - mostly in the form of husked-out old buildings, an ancient aqueduct and flooded subterranean tunnels, which now serve as the town's sewer works.


The village (as it stands today) was built in the aftermath of the Spaniel-American War, when the Spaniels were driven south, and the former American settlers took over the land. The new wall was erected and refugees from the war were joined by immigrants from Jack's Beach and other, less hospitable areas to the north.

GOVERNMENT
Los Augustine is ruled over by a democratically elected Mayor-For-Life. The current "Lord Mayor" is Juan Marco Polo DeLeon, descendent of the DeLeon family of pizza makers who built Los Augustine and Saint Marco - the mythic ancient who built everything that stood on the land before the Spaniel invasion.

He lives and hold court in the Castle of his ancestor, the only keep in the history of Gamma Terra that has never fallen to an invading force (when the Spaniels first occupied the area, the castle is the only thing they couldn't conquor. The inhabitants, however, moved away after the first time they spied one of their neighbors licking himself out on the front lawn).

The Lord Mayor is assisted and advised by a council of business owners, guild-masters, and busybodies. Though the council has no true law-making power, per se, each councilman is eligible for election should the Lord Mayor be killed. Such an obvious invitation to foul play keeps the Lord Mayor honest, and amenable to the council's input.

The local constibulary consists entirely of militiamen from the Fisher's Guild, who share the responsibilities of town security and order on a rotating basis, with each militiaman serving one week in seven as a town guard or constable. The only permanent position is that of Chief Constable, appointed by the Lord Mayor and currently held by a one-armed Badder named Gatorbait.

Guilds
There are three guilds represented on the council. An unofficial fourth guild exists, technically, but calls itself "the Thieves' Guild," and is made up of 13-year old Bucky Crisp and his two friends Sammy and Slughorn. For obvious reasons, the Thieves' Guild remains unacknowledged by the council (and, for the most part, by Los Augustine as a whole).

The three official guilds are the Farmer's Guild, which helps member farms with staffing and security, runs the Farmer's Market on Hump Days - and sets the prices on all food items sold in Los Augustine; the Fisher's Guild, which maintains the Marina and the Lion's Fishing Pier, and helps its members maintain their boats and equipment, while running the Fish Market and the militia; and the Sewermonger's Guild, which maintains all public works (including the care and feeding of the Gigabunny), keeps the sewers from backing up, and sponsors occasional expeditions into the tunnels and ruins below the town. Almost all Alpha-Positives and other adventuring sorts end up with a charter from or membership in the Sewermonger's Guild.

The Town
Los Augustine is open to visitation and welcoming of new citizens wishing to settle in the area, but it also a very isolated community. With the exception of the occasional trade between the Cathedral Bassilica and Menarl Island, the village is almost completely independent from outside trade. Every so often, a wandering merchant or a traveling show will appear on the old highway, but that's about all the import/export Los Augustine does.

The Cathedral
One temple of worship still stands in Los Augustine, held over from the World Before. The Cathedral Bassilica of the Unconquerable Sun, was subverted from its original purpose to sun-worship shortly after the roof was stolen by the Bermuda Roc in Five Monkey Fist-Bump.

The Ordo Bassilica, or "the Dudes of the Temple," are an order of surfing monks who maintain the cathedral, conduct services (which often consist of surf reports, beach fashion tips, and Tales of Awesome in the Light of the Sun), and brew the Bassilica Mead so loved in the two local taverns (with the exception of Craek, Bassilica is the favored alcoholic beverage in Los Augustine).

The surfing monks are the only villagers who regularly travel unmolested across the intracoastal to Menarl Island. They go there to surf, and they often bring mead to buy passage.

Commerce
Two shops vie for the right to sell wares produced in Los Augustine. The Wooden Indian Store and Willmart sell almost everything produced in the small town. The exceptions to this are Metal Tony's - the metalsmith and electrician (Metal Tony designed and monitors the Gigabunny Hutch), and the various goods and services available in the Spaniel Quarter.

The only gunsmith in town, Lucky Dan, operates out of his home, but he don't like visitors.

What Is It?

GeoTagged, [N29.89810, E81.30031]

What the hell is this bright ball of Fire in the sky? Oh shit, we're all gonna die!

What?

Oh. Sun? Right. That's supposed to be there.

---

It's the first day of the new year. If the nutcases are to be believed, it's the last full year we're ever going to experience. Here's a hint: it's not. The Mayans or the Aztecs or whatever hadn't even worked out that dead virgins aren't the currency of the Universe. They sure as hell didn't know jack-shit about it's end (or our end in it).

But what if they were right? I don't want this to turn into one of those what if you only had a year to live things; but what if you only had a year to live? What if humanity only had a year to live?

This is the more important question, to me, because it begins to encroach into the realm of morality and accountability. Since I gave up my illusions about afterlife and the notion of judgement on a grand, divine cosmic scale, I've spent a lot of time thinking about morality, about meaning and purpose.

If I only had a year. If we only had a year (and you can extrapolate this out to 70 or a hundred, later), what would I want to do? What would I consider important? If there is nothing after that year, how should I conduct myself?

A great many of the Christians I talk at (I don't think they hear me), would have me believe that the only thing to do in this scenario is whatever the fuck I want. Pillage, rape, murder (they don't actually say "pillage," but how awesome would it be if they did?).

But the truth is this: my life has no meaning or purpose beyond what I give it. My morality comes into play only in what meaning and purpose I choose to ascribe to life (Curly's "one thing" from the movie City Slickers).

The only thing I can come up with, the only purpose I can fathom, is to make the lives of those around me as pleasant and enjoyable and HOLY-FUCKSHIT-AWESOME as I possibly can. There is no way to live on after this life, except in the memories of our fellow humans, and in the stories we tell and that are told about us.

I feel that I have been somewhat remiss in these duties, of late.

My friends and family might tell a story of me to their children after I'm gone. Perhaps stories of my own will outlive my all too short life. What will they say about me? What impact will I make on the next generation? The one after that? If any, it can only be a small one. There's already been a Santa Claus, I don't think my life story could reach such epic exaggeration and lasting influence.

So I (we) really can't rely on doing right by others in order to live on through them. Not overtly, at any rate. The only reason to be, then, that I can see, is to experience as much of life as possible. To do everything that there is to do and to share it with as many people as I can.

I don't murder or rape or even pillage. Not because there's some all-seeing sky daddy out there who's going to spank me, but because I recognize in those around me, in you, that same predicament. What right have I to take your stuff, your life? No more right than you have to mine.

It may be only our mutual agreement that this is a bad thing that keeps us from each other's throats, but so long as we can agree to it, we can share in the only thing there is to live for.

One another. The shared accumulation of fourteen billion lifetimes all crammed into the last year of humanity.

I guess it's a good thing we've got more than just a year left.