Vampire book set + Mage corebook

Wraith: The Oblivion Book Set (Mint)

Do You Know What I know?

With a whoop and a yell, the raid on Kutchion’s Candy Counter began. Big Mikey and War-Horse Dan led the band, waving their six-shooters. Pistol Pete and Little Chief Waldo followed grimly behind. Gripping rifles in both hands, Pete and Waldo took up position on either side of the porch steps. Mikey and Dan pounded across the paint-peeled beams of the porch and sprang through the screen door which slapped shut behind them.

It was cool and dark inside after the aggressiveness of the summer day outside. The Coca-cola clock ticked the seconds away casually, as if brushing away flies. Cases and cases of delectable treats opened shiny glass eyes towards the two boys, beckoning: chocolates called from their crinkled foil nests, twisted coils of licorice whips hung tantalizingly within reach, gummy bears and jelly beans glistened in the flickering fluorescent light that hadn’t been fixed in years. Mikey and Dan’s eyes bulged with desire. They had entered their shrine - the Temple of the Sugar Gods. Between them, they fought the primal urge to prostrate themselves before the shimmering alter of candy. Mikey swallowed the saliva that had seeped into his mouth and looked back towards the door. The rest of the band had abandoned their positions by the steps and instead stood on either side of the door, noses mashed against the screen. Pete saw his gaze, and tried once again to talk Mikey out of the raid idea, but in was futile. Waldo hissed a “G’wan,” tough-guy like, out of the corner of his mouth.

Mikey looked back at the cases. He took a deep breath and did his best to swagger over to the counter. Placing both hands on the formica edge, he pulled himself up far enough to get his whole chin over the top. The fudge cutting board was within an inch from his chin. By looking cross-eyed down his nose, Mikey could see it was stained with the chocolately remains of past sacrifices. A long fudge knife lay next to the cutting board, as if it had been carelessly tossed aside after its most recent use. In fact, it had obviously been used in the near past, for the tip was smeared in dark brown. Mikey began to lose his grip on the counter top, so he quickly darted his eyes to the left and the right. No sign of Mrs. Kutchion, or the pimply teenage girl who filled in sometimes. No light shown under the curtain that sectioned off the entrance to the back room and staircase leading up to the Kutchion’s living quarters either. Mikey released his grip on the counter.

War Horse Dan stood in the center of the floor scratching absentmindedly at the permanent marker war paint he had applied to his face. He tore his gaze away from the marzipan carousel to see Mikey shrug his shoulders. Dan relayed the message to Waldo and Pete. Pete took the news happily, and stepped back from the door. Waldo however was not so easily defeated. He yanked the door open - colliding with Pete’s head in the process - and stomped inside. Snatching Mikey’s Hopalong six-shooter, Waldo let out a yell that caused an avalanche of pixie-sticks down the counter. From somewhere upstairs there was an identical shriek. Assumedly it was a woman, but since the pitch of the scream was nearly the same as Waldo’s, one never could tell. Then, again from upstairs a thud that shook the jell-o squares down in the candy case. Waldo snaked out a pudgy hand to the paper straws scattering across the formica. He snatched a handful and shoved them into his plastic holster, sliding Mikey’s gun in afterwards.

Mikey and Dan solemnly watched this maneuver. Yes, it was wrong . . . but after all, it was just booty from the raid, wasn’t it? Pete frowned and opened his mouth to speak, but just then, a terrific clattering came from upstairs, as if a tin of jawbreakers had been upset. That sound died away, and a new sound took its place. Someone came running down the stairs, and paused before the curtain. Dan began retreating to the door, a worried expression on his face. Mikey reached a hand out to pull him back. Pete took a threatening step towards Waldo, who put up his chubby hands innocently. All four were frozen in that tableau when Mrs. Kutchion stepped through the curtain.

“Well, well boys, what have we here?” she asked, a saccharine smile balanced precariously on here face.

The band was silent, staring at her wild appearance. Her usually calm eyes were wild and dilated - darting here and there across the room. Strands hung from her but, plastered to her pale face by the moisture. An apron had been thrown over her dress: one string hung below the back of her knees, and the bow had been tied with fudge stained fingers. Getting no response, she tried again.

“What are you boys doing?”

Waldo was the first to recover himself. He reached for the pistol on his holster, but thought better of it at the last second. Instead, he waved his fist and yelled, “This is a stick-up lady! We’re dangerous criminals here to steal your candy!”

Dan, Pete, and Mikey nodded mutely.

Mrs. Kutchion crossed to the counter and began tidying up the pixie sticks with shaking fingers. She smiled at the boys, obviously deciding to play along. “Oh my! Dangerous criminals you say? But you look so familiar!”

Waldo was delighted. “We should look familiar. Our faces are plastered on every wanted poster from here to Atlanta - or even further than that! This here’s Big Mikey, the bank robber that broke into Fort Knox. War Horse Dan did worse than that. He stuck up so many stagecoaches that even the Lone Ranger couldn’t keep up with him. And Pistol Pete, who stole 50 pounds of Yukon gold from the museum. And I’m Little Chief Waldo and I done the worst.”

His voice dropped to a dramatic level.

“I . . . killed a man. Hacked him to little bits.” He licked his lips maliciously.

Mrs. Kutchion’s smile slipped and hung very crookedly. “You what?”

Mikey unfroze and seized Waldo’s shoulder. His other hand fumbled near Waldo’s mouth, trying to cover it. Waldo spun away and yelled at the top of his lungs, “Killed a Man!!! I killed him dead, and his blood was spillin’ all over the place!”

The woman looked visibly shaken. “Waldo, hush. You shouldn’t even joke about it.” She passed a hand over her forehead and stared for the first time at the counter. Her eyes gazed upon the fudge cutting board and the knife beside it. In an explosion of movement, she seized the knife and thrust it into the sink basin behind her. Metal clattered eerily on porcelain, and then went silent as water poured onto basin. She turned back to find the boys’ eyes upon her. “Shouldn’t leave knives lying around . . . might hurt somebody . . . might cut them badly.” Her hands went to her apron and began tugging at the waist-band.

Pete hissed at Mikey. He leaned over and whispered hoarsely, “Call off the raid. She’s sick. She doesn’t want to play today.” Mikey nodded. He motioned to Dan and Waldo, and began edging towards the door. Dan followed, and a moment later, the screen door slammed behind the two retreating figures. Waldo was standing his ground though, waiting for an opportunity to snatch more of the pixie sticks lying tantalizingly within reach. Pete watched him carefully, but he was also very aware of Mrs. Kutchion’s staring at him.

Mrs. Kutchion tore her eyes away from Pete’s face finally, and looked at Waldo, who was drooling at the promise of more free candy.

“Can I help you, Waldo?” she asked abruptly. Waldo shook his head no. “Then please leave the store. I have a lot of work to do, and I may have to close the store for a while.”

Waldo stared rebelliously at her. “Don’wanna.”

The woman looked helplessly at Pete. Pete bounded forward and seized the pudgy boy in his arms. Lifting Waldo bodily off the ground, Pete removed the pixie sticks from the holster, placed them on the counter, and carried the howling figure out the door. Once down the porch stairs, Pete dropped the boy onto the dusty ground. Waldo dragged a hand across his snotty face, leaving slug tracks of mucus on his cheek. In a sniveling voice, he yelled, “I’m gonna tell Mom, Pete! She’s gonna whup the tar outta you!”

Pete shook his head slowly. “I’d like to see her try, little Bro. Now scram after your little friends and if I catch you around here again, I’ll slice your little yellow belly.”

Waldo scrambled off down the broken sidewalk.

The young man returned to the store. Mrs. Kutchion was leaning weakly against the counter. As Pete closed and locked the heavy wooden door behind the screen, Mrs. Kutchion asked softly, “Isn’t nineteen a little old to be playing cowboys?”

Pete drew close to her and nestled his face in her damp hair. “I heard what they were planning, and I didn’t know what to do. I . . came along to see if I could keep them from knowing.”

His hand went to the apron strings and drew them apart. The apron fell to her ankles, revealing a blood soaked dress underneath.

Mrs. Kutchion looked at him with shining eyes. “I killed him, Pete. Now we’re free.”

Amid the spilled pixie sticks, Pete kissed his lover passionately.

The Prophet

Mr Krane took another sip from his champagne. He stood on the terrace of his penthouse building in New York. The cool night air caressed his skin as a breeze brought in the acrid scent of smoke. The entire city was aglow, mesmerizing him. “Beautiful, Georgy,” a woman’s voice commented from behind him.

Krane came out his trance. “Isn’t it?” He gave the city one last glance, then turned to look at the beautiful woman in front of him. She was slender, her cascading blonde hair tied back in a pony tail. She wore an expensive white evening gown that fit her form nicely. Around her neck was a necklace of diamonds that matched her earrings.

“You were right… About everything,” she said after a pause.

“They wouldn’t listen. I tried to warn them. They just laughed. All of them… except you, Katherine.” The woman, too, held a glass of bubbling champagne in her delicate hands, the glass half full.

She walked over to the edge of the terrace. The building they were on was decorated with gargoyles snarling out at the rest of the glowing city. She gave a little laugh, “Oh, at first I thought you were crazy. I mean, why would anyone take all of their fortune out of the banks and stocks? Why would anyone stockpile on supplies? The thing that decided it was that you were my husband. Crazy or not, I loved you. And you were right.”

“I wasn’t sure at first,” the man said, almost to himself.

“Then crime began to rise and I knew that I was right. The stockmarket soon fell. That was followed quickly by civil war breaking out among the smaller countries. The collapse of our corrupt government was what surprised me. I knew it was inevitable, but it happened so quickly. It couldn’t stand tall against anarchy. All the political bickering caused it to weaken. Caused it to fall. The anarchy just pulled away the curtain. It fell long ago.”

He went over to his wife and put an arm around her. He drew a breath of air and his nostrils were filled with smoke again. Far in the distance he heard an explosion. It was nothing new, all it did was add to the glow that lit the city. The glow of the fires.

The man held up his glass and stared into the twinkling that the fire made off its surface. “After that pathetic government refused to believe me. I knew that there was no hope, I simply sat back and watched the world burn… And so it did.” And it continues…

Lord Byron’s The Destruction of Sennacherib

1
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

2
Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen: Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay withered and strewn.

3
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still!

4
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, But through it there rolled not a breath of his pride; And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

5
And there lay the rider distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail: And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

6
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal; And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

Starmartyr Allusion

It was a normal day when Micelle returned to her dorm room. But then the feeling came, the one that had been lingering slightly behind her for quite some time. Micelle pitched forward, flashes burning in her mind. She envisioned people slowly screaming as she stumbled into the table face first. Her head throbbed as she saw the refrigerator fly by; her feet went up and her head met the cold floor violently. She stood to grab a coat rack, but the treacherous thing moved quickly to her left and she embraced the wall. Her senses were bombarded by the existence of a chair behind her, and it took all of her concentration to sit in it. She slept well there.

“Who are you?” Micelle asked the man in the grey overalls. “The Dogs call me Starmaker dear.” His voice was sweet, which betrayed his scorched and dirty clothes perfectly. Micelle could see and feel more than before the sickness of the previous day. Starmaker was speaking again. “I felt your power and pulled my strings here. I have opened you up, dear.” She was so confused. “You opened me up?” He laughed and walked to the kitchen. “Yes Rainbringer, take your wings and fly.”

The Dogs rode their black bikes down the alley in a cloud of papers, glass dust and pebbles. “Yeah, look at her squirm.” Their bikes tore black legs into the road and the man went down with a sick thud in the middle of the road. Amid the flashing greens and pulsing violets she screamed and her hands went up. Starmaker had shown her how the fire came but she could not bring it for some reason. The dogs dismounted and strode up to her. “Hey baby, looking good! How bout some love?” Dirty leather and gas, she could smell it all over them. Starmaker left her three days ago, and she had immediately called Mark, her boyfriend of two years, who was now laying in a pool of his own blood. Micelle stood in stunned silence. “She aint givin it, Danny, we gonna haft to take it.” Then she heard something, a loud rough sound from far away. The Dogs didn’t notice it as they began to push her around the circle. She could feel the power coming and she was to scared to even cry out. Then the Dogs heard what she had, the bikes. “What the hell are those?” Then they came, the black and purple colors of their jackets and bikes striking the sky like the eyes and lips of gods. The Dogs scrambled for their bikes, but the Snakes came in too fast. Three loud cracks and they were down, with the blood of victim and predator mingling nicely. The head snake climbed from his dark red steed and extended his hand. “Would you like a ride on my Harley, mam. I can take you to a safe place.” She slipped behind him in a daze, the power leaving as fast as it came. Her eyes lingered only momentarily on the unmoving body of her old lover.

Her mind slipped into crazy cracks in her period of unconsciousness. Starmaker extended his hands, and then dropped her. She tried to reach up, but she saw the red snake instead of Starmaker. When she looked down she saw a thundercloud, so she screamed, and the power came. Then it was gone and she lay under the cloud, the red man was dead on his bike, burned and blasted, his skull opened to the air, his black and red rubber boots melting on his legs. Lighting struck her in the chest.

The sheets, when she woke, were damp with sweat. The man in purple leaned over her, a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. “Man, you were out for a while. You high or something?” Micelle sat up and put her hands on her forehead. “No man, I’m not high.” She said, “But you got something to fix that. I could sure use a hit of that reefer you’re smoking up there.” The purple man laughed. “You must be pretty far gone babe, this is just a normal smoke, but I got these.” He extended his pill laden hand, and she downed three of them without even a glass of water. The derms cleared her head and she took in her surroundings. “That bike you have is incredible. ” She said, admiring his black and red harley. “Thanks, rebuilt it myself, ” he said. Then he cocked his head to a strange angle and regarded her seriously. “This is a very strange way for a girl to act after being attacked and watching her boyfriend beaten, but I understand you, see, I am like you are, my name is Cloud Crimson.” She looked at him and felt the power of his strings.

The men had grabbed them in the night, beat them savagely and left them in the alley. Cloud Crimson was the first to rise, he shook his head and woke Rainbringer. The stones were cold, and the walls were too close to be friendly. The feeling came back and she felt nauseated, but it was quickly subdued by the reassurance of her power. She was glad Cloud Crimson was there, she would be terribly frightened if she was alone with her power. But she wasn’t even alone with Cloud Crimson, for soon the entire alley erupted with laughter. The wall shouted down and the floor came up quickly to meet her, but Cloud Crimson caught her. The voice was smooth and mocking. “Very good Cloud Crimson. So much work for one night in bed? That seems kind of crazy, but you always get your woman, don’t you? By the way, nice boots, rebellious and practical at the same time, you gotta love rubber.” The blast of lightning shattered the air and Cloud Crimson’s body. His head exploded with all the glory of a peniata, his boots formed multi-colored puddles around his scorched leg-bones. The man wearing the green and black suit looked at Rainbringer and smiled. “Now that we’re alone my pet I must comment on your beauty. Such should not go to waste. Wont you stand by my side, think of it, you’d be royalty.” Micelle looked around with the stunned silence of one who can not comprehend a single thing in her life.

“I’m so tired.” She managed to mumble. The dark green King smiled. “It is truly sad to see such intelligence and beauty go towards nothing. You are sure you cannot join me?” Rainbringer looked up at him dumbly ” what did you say again.” The man smiled. “Well then, I see you did not adjust to your new life very well. It is truly a sorry situation, but there is only one thing I can do.” He sighed heavily. “Off with her head.” Said the king of lightning.

by Kenji Bohlin

Science: process whose goal is to understand the natural world - Prentice Hall, Biology

I read this definition while sitting in Biology class listening to a lecture about the human nervous system. Immediately, the thought occurred to me that this definition is twisted from fact because there is no “natural world.” There is the perception of what mortals view reality as. Also, science’s goal is not to “understand,” but to force an understanding on to the public, in a sense, controlling them. After this passed through my mind, I tuned back into the lecture. “The nervous system uses electrical impulses sent through neurons to the central nervous system which processes these impulses, and then sends back another impulse.” So, the Technocracy has imposed the idea that the body is controlled by electrical impulses.

This is the way my mind now works; it automatically relates things to the World of Darkness, primarily Mage. The first paragraph might have over-emphasized my actual reactions, but essentially, that’s it. Contrary to what you are thinking now, I can distinguish the difference between truth and fantasy, I just use my imagination to distinguish how an idea might have come about in the World of Darkness.

For example, in history class, when learning about certain famous historical people, like Bismark of Willhem I, I think of what they would be in the World of Darkness, or who is behind them. Everyone who plays White Wolf must go through this; however, maybe not on the same level. Just in the act of pondering whether a rock star is a werewolf, or if someone you saw on television is a vampire, you are engaging in the same mind game I was.

Many argue that this is bad, it is “evil.” People say that White Wolf games and role-playing games in general are plaguing the youth with fantastic lies. At a dinner party, I argued with a man who was convinced that the very act of thinking about a fantasy world in satanic and sinful. He compared role-playing to “flipping though the pages of Playboy and saying that it is only art.” How wrong you are my friend, where ever you are right now.

Role-playing does something very important that we need to emphasize more or, it exercises the imagination. From the imagination comes forth ideas to solve dire problems such as hunger and poverty. If the whole world were to lose their imagination, we would spiral into the Dark Ages once again.

When I sit in history or Geometry, or English, or whatever, and think these thoughts, it is helping me break out of the mold that everyone is falling into. I don’t simply take everything for truth and let the media control me. In my questioning the very nature of science, I could do two things: find out that we are headed off into some completely wrong direction; or that science is what it presents itself as. I can recognize that technology is a good thing, but that it is also bad, and we, as a society, are starting to worship it over God. The book Technopoly by Neil Postman dedicates itself to the bad side of Technology. Postman is not living in a fantasy world, but is writing about things that he has uncovered in his questioning of the real world.

I will conclude with one thought and one question. If we really were living in a world of mages, vampires, and werewolvess, the White Wolf is not just a role-playing game, but a game that teaches and promotes the truth, and is a breakaway from the suppression of the Technocracy. The question is: Who controls White Wolf?

Paradigma: Building Allies, Part I

Paradigma is pleased to announce the beginning of a short series on one of the greatest feats possible through Science: the creation of allies. From the simplest automaton, to beings as completely complex as humans, Scientists have built, grown, or decanted a dazzling variety of beings throughout the ages. Now, Paradigma is able to provide details on a few of the more useful or interesting.

Ectoplasmic Empowerment of Automata

by Scientist Aaron Byers of the Emerald City Cabal

Automata, or machines capable of performing automatic movement, are often dismissed by those of our society as too simple and base to perform the tasks necessary of an assistant. Indeed, on their own, automata are little more than mobile clockwork, suitable for a Technocrat, but not a true Scientist.

However, these simple machines can be empowered with specific ectoplasmic emanations, causing them to become usable receptacles for what pre-technological Scientists might term “spirits.” My research has developed a method of putting the physical resources of an automaton at the control of an allied nonmaterial sentience.

Obviously, the first step in this process is the acquisition or construction of a suitable automaton. In theory, any mechanical device capable of motion could be effective. One might even use a diabled HIT Mark, although the reality-crystallizing effects of their Primium alloy would probably make this an unacceptably risky venture.

The automaton must then be prepared both etherically and ectoplasmically. That is, it must have a constant stream of etheric energy directed through it, in a manner similar to a Talisman. This ensures that the automaton will be able to interact with physical reality in a means more similar to a living thing that an inanimate object. It also grants the ectoplasmic effect permanence, without which the automaton would soon revert to inert matter.

The ectoplasmic empowerment is of equal or greater importance. The automaton must be attuned to a specific nonmaterial sentience, which both facilitates the interaction of mind and machine, and prevents possession of the automaton by other ectoplasmic entities.

Upon successful completion of the technique, the automaton can be automatically inhabited and controlled by the ectoplasmic intelligence. However, there are problems with the process. In particular, in all three of my trials, Paradox hindered my efforts.

The first automaton, a simple humanoid “skeleton” without even vocal capabilities, was prone to constant degeneration. It soon became clear that the mechanical problems were caused, not be physical forces, but by the static reality interfering with the experiment. The automaton was eventually abandoned.

My second attempt was far less humanoid, being of a hexapedal, radially-symmetrical construct attempting to closely imitate the inhabiting entity’s “spiritual” form. However, not only was degeneration more pronounced, but the sentience was quickly evicted and replaced by a Paradox entity, which attempted to destroy the laboratory. From this, we may deduce the Anthropomorphic Automatonic Principle: Reality finds humanoid robots more acceptable than nonhumanoid robots.

Keeping this in mind, the third automaton was constructed to resemble a “mannequin,” with a distinctly humanoid face and proportions. It is currently functioning ideally, with minimal Paradox-induced degeneration.

Ectoplasmically Empowered Automaton

(Matter 3 Prime 3 Spirit 2): As stated above, this Rote charges a mechanical device with a constant flow of Quintessence, and attunes it to a specific spirit. This process, unlike that of creating a Talisman, does not require that Quintessence be placed in the automaton. (It can be, but it will be usable only by the occupying spirit.) Possession by the attuned spirit is automatic, but other spirits must overcome the enchantment to use the automaton. GMs are encouraged to be creative and nasty with Paradox.
[If anybody else want to jump in on this series and post their own Etheric methods, please do so! I’ll be compiling the whole set of articles at my Web page.]
Brant Harvey http://www.io.com/user/chimera

- The Doctrine of Nolloth -

Part 1

The Beginning
In the beginning their was only Nolloth. He was very pleased, not to mention nefarious. All was happy and joyous, and there was much zucchini, not to mention pestilence. But you see, at that time pestilence was a good thing (not that it isn’t now). Nolloth the Nefarious danced among the zucchinis, which grew strong and healthy, in spite of the pestilence. Soon, however, with only zucchinis as company, he became extremely agitated, as many of you would even if you were a deity. The obvious answer to this was to grow bean sprouts, of course, only a fool grows bean sprouts, so Nolloth turned to pottery. He began with simple objects such as large planetary objects inhabited by sentient beings, and moving on to more difficult complex items, such as vases, ashtrays, and pretzels. He was now a master, not difficult considering, as mentioned before, his status as a deity.

Finding the sentient beings to be slightly more interesting than the ashtrays, he came back to those early projects, namely astronomical bodies and such, and began playing an active role in the affairs of these creatures. He, however, found these entities to be extraordinarily dense (and, by the way, he still does) and it was at this point that he realized that he was not alone in the great celestial field of zucchinis. From out of a large cabbage patch arose the Adversary, Helga. She was a lusty wench and more than a match for mighty Nolloth the Nefarious. Until, that is, she was afflicted with mammary tumors and other forms of disease which Nolloth had been practicing recently. These tumors she was extremely fond of before realizing that they were, in fact, intended to kill her. Which they did. This earned Nolloth the Nefarious two new titles, He Who Killed the Mighty and Horrible Helga with a REALLY Big Mammary Tumor That She Thought Was Some Kind of Pet, and Nolloth the Prince of Pestilence. Needless to say, the latter was by far the more popular of the two, especially considering his further exploits in the field of pestilence, plague, famine, unsanitary conditions, the general suffering of men, and unwholesome sugary snack items.

Somewhat After the Beginning
While Nolloth was busy battling Helga in the great celestial cabbage field, the people of his planets had developed a complex society based upon the worship of Utith, the Mighty God of Fluff and Stuff (the people were really dense). This infuriated Nolloth to no end, and so he decided to infiltrate their society in secret and tear it apart from the roots, which was particularly easy because, if you remember from just a few seconds ago, the society was indeed based on Fluff and Stuff. Nolloth’s plan was so immensely nefarious, as well as totally unnecessary that Utith fled the city long before Nolloth could tear all the stuffing out of his body. Nolloth’s disappointment was unending, and is suspected to be the cause of some recent plagues.. After realizing that the society that he had so nefariously infiltrated was in fact an extremely backwards, unprosperous, primitive, and in general, stupid group of people, he understood that his next target must be the great then prospering, metropolis of Cleveland.

The Taking of Cleveland and Several Small Street-side Cafes
Seeing the prosperity which belonged to Cleveland, Nolloth took upon himself the form of a highly starched bread product and descended among the people saying to himself, “The convenience marts are the key to this city.” This comment may seem irrelevant and nonsensical, and really it is, but one is not to question the thought process of a living god, especially since this very same strategy was later used by the Greeks in their conquest of the city.

Entering into a small cafe which was quite badly managed, Nolloth began to feel the thirst that one acquires when spreading pestilence through a dense urban center under the guise of a highly starched bread product. He ordered a soft drink and seeing the greenness of the nearby sandwiches, which were clearly unfit for human consumption, he ordered some of those too. These he devoured merrily until he was approached by a waiter who clearly expected him to tip. Him. Nolloth. Living God. Deity. Prince of Pestilence. Lord of Disease. Highly Starched Bread Product. This was entirely unacceptable. Nolloth was forced, in his divine unmercifulness, to convert the manager of the store into a pillar of salt and the waiter into a writhing heap of maggots. After infecting the rest of the store’s patrons with a disease which would only become apparent to them years later after having passed it onto all of their sexual partners, Nolloth left the cafe full of anger, and intent on destroying this Cleveland, den of lies, the temple of deceit, this land of the wicked and the damned.

As Nolloth prepared to ravage the city he was approached by a long time follower who prostrated himself before Nolloth and begged that the city be allowed to survive saying, “Oh mighty Nolloth, I am but a poor and humble servant who knoweth nothing, and wisheth only that you may forgive us for our sins and not rip the whole city down into nothing more than a seething pile of rubble filled with a thousand varieties of vermin.” Though this was the correct method of groveling, Nolloth hated (and still hates) those who prostrate themselves, gave the man a VICIOUS venereal disease, and put into his families gene pool a horribly disfiguring disorder, which, unlike many curses, would never be weeded out, not even after the seventh generation. However, Nolloth recognized the usefulness of Cleveland in his mission of Pestilence, especially considering the available potential for ecological damage, thus he spared it in the name of industrial urban filth and despair.

The moral of the story: Well, there is no moral, this is just another example of what Nolloth can do if you Really Piss Him Off!!

The Punishment Of the Cleveites
Soon after the sacking of Cleveland there was great civil unrest and general unpleasantness. This was very unnerving for Nolloth, because he didn’t appear to be the cause, though this seems highly unlikely. Soon, two clear factions arose among the Cleveites, the Nollothians and the Gametophytes. The Gametophytes however where generally disregarded in the political and religious life of the city, considering that they were, in fact, PLANT LIFE. Ted, the Nollothian high priest, came before Nolloth while rooting around in a garbage bin for an abandoned bottle of kitchen cleanser. Nolloth speaketh unto him, as deities are prone to do, saying unto him, “Go to your people, oh Ted, and have them bring forth to a me a giant golden canoe, sufficient for three maybe four deities to ride in at once, that I may be persuaded to look favorably upon this city of Cleveland and pass my blessing upon it.”

Ted returned to the people and told them of Nolloth’s demand. The people, however, considered themselves crafty, which they clearly were not, and desiring to preserve their precious reserve of golden canoes, they went into the forest and plucked a cheap wooden one from the tree. This they painted gold and presented to Nolloth with much gaudy display. Nolloth sighed, for he saw clearly through their petty deceit, this lie made wooden. The canoe was not even totally painted, the paint was not even close to being dry, and the Cleveites hadn’t even bothered to hide in the woods while they painted it. All these Nolloth took to be an extreme insult to his intelligence, which it basically was, and smiting half of their ranks down with tremendous mutant tapeworms he speaketh again unto them, saying “Stupid, stupid, stupid Cleveites! You have incurred my wrath and I am greatly displeased. All will be most unpleasant for you, unless I receive my golden canoe by tomorrow night, and it better be really big and really expensive. By ‘most unpleasant,’ I of course mean that you will all be liquified by rare African hemorhagic venereal illnesses.” Actually, he wasn’t all that upset about not getting a canoe because he didn’t need one anyway, him being a living god and all, but deities can have their tantrums when they want to, it is, after all, their right. This decree, Ted, being a terrible high priest at the best of times, interpreted as some kind of divine humor, which, needless to say, was entirely not the way to take it.

To tempt the wily Cleveites, Nolloth, in anger, placed a false tree of canoes, so large and so conveniently placed that they would be unable to resist its succulent fruits. No sooner had the Cleveites plucked a ripe canoe and begun painting “HAPPY BIRTHDAY NOLLOTH” in neon pink on the side, when they were trampled by a rampaging herd of 300 pound diseased goats, bleeding from the eyes, hooves, and udders. Following behind was Nolloth, in the form of a giant yellow zucchini. Screameth Nolloth, “Fools, its not even my birthday.” Nolloth now understood that if he gave the idiots another chance they would just bring him another stupid wooden canoe, which was even less useful than a big golden canoe would be, so he simply had them all broken like cheap toys one can buy out of a candy machine in the supermarket.

From this story can be gleaned several important morals: First, always know the correct birthday of your god; second, beware of overly tempting canoe trees; third, and most i mportantly, NEVER SCREW WITH NOLLOTH.

Bean Dip, Birthdays, and Pestilence
On Nolloth’s second 77638 birthday he was having a small but perfectly acceptable party in the company of a few loyal followers. He had a nice set of hors devours prepared, some nice cheese and crackers, vegetables, and dip. Suddenly Nolloth’s 50ft high double bronze doors, inscribed with the ancient sigils of Henyeanluoth, which entered into his classy Manhattan apartment, burst open and revealed some of His garish followers (whom he despised intensely and hadn’t invited) toting a giant dish of tasty bean dip, and a VERY large bright neon pink sign saying “HAPPY BIRTHDAY, NOLLOTH.” Nolloth nearly spewed his dry martini, which he was sipping with his 11th head, all over his loyal followers. All of Nolloth’s eyes, which burned with the light of a million suns, and the sight of which would drive any normal mortal insane, turned to glare at the newcomers. He promptly stomped them to death with his 1000 cloven hooves of destruction, and ground them into the bean dip. As he wiped up the carpet with a little club soda and munched on restaurant style tortilla chips with his 15th-19th heads (the ones with the horns), he speaketh casually, “I HATE pink.” There is, of course, a moral to be learned from this lovely story, however we appear to have forgotten it in the rush to publish. But if my intuition serves me correctly, it’s probably something along the lines of “DON’T SCREW WITH NOLLOTH”

Brendan Murphy, High Priest of Nolloth, Prince of Pestilence.

Encounter With the Doom Squads of Nolloth

I met Mr. Johanson in the jungles of Cambodia in 1979. He was part of a top secret unit of SEALS sent there to rescue a group of English ambassadors from a radical group of natives. The mission was a complete failure, with Johanson being the only survivor. There was a total of twenty-five dead, including all seven embassy officials. I expected a story of bad government planning and carelessness, but Johanson told me that the extraction team worked with the utmost precision and care. Nothing was wrong with their execution of the rescue. When I asked him why the mission had failed, he told me a grisly tale of paranormal horror. So terrible was his story that it struck me as one of those rare cases where the public does not have a right to be informed. However, I have since, upon learning how widespread the religion in question is, decided to reveal Colonel Johanson’s tale.

It all started with the kidnapping of the seven English dignitaries from their embassy in Phnom Penh. Since no British unit was familiar with the area as Johanson’s unit was, they were called in from the Philippines to rescue the ambassadors. It was a simple international favor; however, if American officials could have had any insight on the outcome, I don’t think they would have so generously lent the SEAL team.

The SEAL team was airlifted into a rice patty field ten miles from the target village where the captives were reportedly being held. Each SEAL carried only the bare necessities, their eighteen man unit packed a total of 400 lb. (barring weapons) of equipment, that was about 22 lb. a person. this lightweight packing provided for very quick movement through the dense rain forest. Each solider was armed with the standard M16-A1 assault rifle; in addition there was on long distance sharp shooter who carried a Berkeley .50 cal sniping rifle. The entire unit was outfitted to be the ultimate unit for quick rescues in “hot” areas, nothing, barring a fully outfitted military platoon, should have been able to stop them.

The mission went like clockwork from the time that the objective village came into sight. The sniper climbed the tallest tree and set up shot with the .50 cal. The other men left the and prepared to enter the village. They made a map of the target based on observations with a pair of military binoculars, using information give by intelligence reports they located what they thought to be the building where the prisoners were being held.

With this information they mounted their assault. According to Johanson the whole thing went perfectly. Every unfriendly was eliminated in a swift, silent manner, and the SEALS reached the suspected holding pen in less than 12 minutes, without being noticed. That is when the problems started. There were no dignitaries in the building. At this time the worst possible thing happened: they were discovered. What followed was a spectacular blazing gun fight that ended with one American casualty and all Kamar Rouge either dead of incapacitated. The operatives, no longer fearing discovery made a village-wide search for the Englishmen; they were not to be found.

At this point, a low, continuous drumbeat started to rise above the treetops. The SEALS became serious and started to talk of abandoning the mission. Even if they had wanted to it wouldn’t have been possible, for at this time the natives attacked. The following will at first seem unbelievable to the reader, so I will directly quote Johanson from the tapes of the interview.

“The drums that night… were… horrible. They tore at our souls, we were all ready to scrap the whole mission and return home, but we couldn’t, we would’ve but, we couldn’t. The bushes all around the empty settlement started to shake, and this horrible shrieking joined the drums. Carlson on my left was the first to crack, he ran for the tree where Smith was perched, but he never got there. This huge seven foot Zucchini burst from the undergrowth, man, it was terrible. The beast was armed only with a SHMAW, which he raised to waist level and fired. Carlson never had a chance, man, he was blown to sludge, arms and legs flying in every direction. His left thumb hit me in the chest, it was horrible. I immediately ordered by men to hose down the unfriendly, which they did, but it was no use. The vegetable was blown to little particles, but upon its explosion around twenty more jumped from the undergrowth, all armed with SHMAWs. Three of our groups laid down suppression fire with the assault rifles as the rest of us tried to file out in groups of two, but it was too crazy, for every Zucchini we splattered, two more popped out of the jungle. Then we seemed to gain the upper hand. Smith came down from the tree and was standing in the middle of the village with Berkeley, taking out Zucchini after Zucchini. The green monsters tried to get him, but he was too fast; their SHMAWs just couldn’t hit their mark for some reason. One lucky Zucchini finally got him right in the chest, he was instantly vaporized by the blast, but not before splattering that one last Zucchini. What followed was an uneasy silence. For a while we though we had won, it was, however, an inaccurate feeling, for without warning one final Zucchini burst from the undergrowth. The 14 remaining men raised their guns, ready to take him without a second thought. But when I saw that he was unarmed I signaled them to hold fire. The Zucchini opened its mouth, and in an ungodly voice that could only come from a Zucchini he said, ‘You are all dead, your God has no power in the land of Nolloth! Now infidel, feel the power of his cavalry!’ With that he headed at Jones, who fired as quickly as possible, but it was too late. The incredibly strong steel jaws of the plant locked down on my man, crushing his spine. However, his insides were turned to soup as Jones continued to fire, even after his shoulders were separated from his chest. Then hordes of Causuaries burst from the jungle, on their backs rode inhuman vegetables of all kinds, beets, cauliflowers, chilies, garbanzo beans, pimentos, artichokes, avocados, broccoli, squash, and, of course, zucchinis. They were wielding wickedly sharp doom bringing thingies. Our unit broke for the trees, but the horrid birds and their terrible riders followed mercilessly. I ran blindly for about two miles before I was hit in the back by a wildly screeching turnip. When I fell I feigned my death, and that is the only thing that saved me. I stayed there for twelve hours listening to the screams of my colleagues. When I finally found the courage to pick myself up I saw no trace of any struggle. I wandered for three days that way until I came upon a peace corp outpost, and from there I was airlifted home. I have not forgotten my friends, mister reporter, I plan to one day lead a team into those forbidden jungles to retrieve any men that might be alive.”

That was the end of my interview with Mr. Johanson. I tell you this as a warning, for my investigations have found that members of the esoteric following of Nolloth have migrated to the U.S.. I plead with you, do everything you can to ferret out those monsters, and whatever you do, stay away from over-large vegetables.

by Ken Conley

The man stumbled down the dark streets. It was late, how late he wasn’t sure. The tall and brooding tenements seemed alive with hidden life. The moon was barely visible through the smog filled with night sky and the air was cool, not too cold nor hot.

The man quickened to his pace and pulled his jacket tight around him, not providing any heat, but giving him a false sense of security. He wasn’t sure how he stumbled into this run-down part of the city, all he knew was that he had to get out. A scream filled the air, originating from somewhere in the distance. Sirens danced in the distant air, but the man couldn’t discern the direction.

He looked again at the tenements. Was that movement in the corner of my eye? Then, he noticed them…footsteps. They were soft but brisk, faster than his own. He quickened his pace again, and the footsteps perfectly followed his accelerated rhythm. They were getting louder and more numerous. The man broke into a run and looked back to scan for a source. Nothing. There was only darkness. He ran faster and faster, the footsteps became quicker and quicker. He tripped on something, a rock or trash, it didn’t matter. He looked back to see three men emerge from the darkness. Their black silhouettes against the whitish glow of phosphorescent lights.

That is what the World of Darkness is. In short, it is a world of extremes. “The bureaucrats are all corrupt, the rich are filthy rich, and the homeless clog the streets.” That quote from Mage gives a very basic view of the world.

What we as Sleepers of Kine or the Quick view as true is not, it is all just a facade. The government is controlled by the supernatural, whether it be Vampires or Garou or Mages, all are pawns all the way up to the highest position, the President.

Gothic is the part of the world that is most used and integrated into the game. In Vampire, this is very easy to distinguish. Political manipulations and power struggles, payoffs in darkened backstreets, and a sense that everyone, even most trusted friends, are conspiring against you, are all part of the game. In Werewolf, the Gothic sense is a little harder to see, but it surely is there. Just the idea of huge, hulking beasts who rule the untamed wilderness gives off the sense of ominous foreboding. The end is coming and only the greatest warriors will remain to fight in the final battle against the very essence of evil and corruption, the Wyrm. Mage is the least Gothic of all the games if you look at the way it is presented in the main book. With a little readjusting, however, you can make that Gothic as well. A mad scientist desperately trying to find the problem with his most bizarre “invention” in a basement labratory, rituals at midnight resound in the ancient forest, large scale magickal battles push the unsuspecting peasants further into their beliefs in superstition and witchcraft. So with a change of perspective, even Mage can be Gothic.

Punk is a very important part of the world, too. Punk deals with the ways of life in the World of Darkness. In the labryinth-like cities, gangs rebel against the aristocratic suppressors. Clothes, music, and attitudes reflect the Punk world, but it is more than that. The Anarchs rebel for a purpose and not just to cause anarchy as their name implies. The Punk Movement was not created for people solely to act strange or look strange, but to fight against the status-quo, to keep from being catagorized. Werewolf puts it nicely when saying,

The counterculture of the cities, sick of the oppresive physical and social tableau, rebel with words, dress, music, and often violence.

The World of Darkness exists everywhere, in all parts of the world. It is not just linked to the Western culture, but is found in Jerusalem, Cairo, and even China.

How does one achieve this atmosphere of dread and oppression? First of all, you must follow certain guidelines. Play in places that are quiet. If someone is sitting in the same room talking to someoneelse about how great her day was, then the atmosphere is shattered. Playing at night is also a good tool to use. Music does a lot, as well. If the scene deals with the huge, maze-like cities, then Industrial music like Thrill Kill Kult or Front Line Assembly is appropriate. Finally, the players have as much of an active role as the Storyteller in conveying the dark mook. If the players crack jokes or act rowdy, then it destroys the atmosphere.

In conclusion, the World of Darkness is a world of extremes. Everything is not what it seems and the air always tinges with excitement mixed with shear dread. Here is a passage from the back of the World of Darkness sourcebook to end this person’s thoughts on what exactly is the setting of the Storyteller system.

Throughout the world mortals walk, believing themselves in the light of civilization. But what happens when the darkness does not recede but stays, refusing to yield to the penetrating rays of light?

Voodoo cults in the Caribbean, lost tribes in the Middle East, hidden castles of Europe and Germany, in the boardrooms of Hong Kong. Everywhere the shadows flicker, but here they rule. From the Americas to Asia, from Jordan to Ireland, there are those places where light of reason and hope has never intruded. And here even the dark forces of night may meet their end.

This is an old WoD article which was published in a sadly defunct Irish RPG magazine a VERY long time ago.

Introduction

What is it about the unknown that attracts mortals so? Mages are not the only magicians in the Gothic Punk World; and although they dismiss the others as Hedge Magicians and Orphans, the occultists of the World of Darkness are there, some aspiring to Magedom, others pursuing the dark arts for power, still others to ease that aching in their soul.

The way of magic is a fraught one, even the mighty, disciplined, trained Mages know that. But without that training, the risks are even higher. Even so, there are far more occultists than there are Mages, sometimes members of the various guilds and secret societies that exist in all the world, other times psychic investigators, working on the cases others refuse to believe in. Hunters and dreamers, mediums and mystics, searchers on the hidden path all.

This article is an edit (a radical overhaul, actually,) of an older one which appeared in Vigilante magazine in Ireland in 1995 – long before WoD Sorcerer was released.

The rules on Hedge Magic in the Hunter’s Hunted were a little ambiguous, so this article offers an alternate view on their workings, as well as expanding on them, with notes on how to create individualised occultists such as Witches, Sciomancers, Hermetic Thaumaturgists, Houngans and Alchemists.

One thing to note, however, is these rules are not for creating Sorcerers – i.e. “static” magicians associated with the Traditions, or members of the Fenians, Zolondordere, Seven Thunders, Mogen Ha Chav, Pythians, Uzoma, Nephites, Balamob, AOAR, or whomever else. This is for creating characters of the occult underground of the World of Darkness.

The night-time World of Darkness is dominated by powerful, mysterious forces; the conflicts of the mages, the wars amongst the ghosts, the intrigues of the Vampires, and the strange and terrible crusades of the werewolves. These forces little care for the lives of mortals.

But they are just part of a whole; small figments of a horrible imagination which humans dismissively refer to as the occult. These are things that haunt the night, the monsters that eat flesh and souls and blood, and wait for you after death. They haunt humanity, feed off humanity, and use humanity.

Some people seek to destroy these things.
Others seek to use them.

There are a great many mortal occultists – those who wish to delve into the secrets of the hidden world, of the night. Some are scholars, some are hunters, and many are magicians, after a fashion. They are thieves, murderers, seekers, and adrenaline junkies scratching away at the surface of a terrible truth.

Theirs is not the cosmic power of the Awakened Mages, or the immortality of the Damned, or the ephemeral enchantment of the Faerie folk. Theirs are stolen secrets; sorceries, spells, rituals; things chipped loose from that deep, oceanic truth of the world that comes to life when the sun sets.

*

Forget everything you know. It doesn’t mean anything anyway, and it’s mostly lies.

*

Though they may be many, and spread across the entire world, and each different, their stories are remarkably similar.

Intelligent, hungry, and disbelieving, the occultists all realised that something was missing, something was hidden. The explanations were too pat. They reassurances rang hollow. So they went and looked where they should not. And in seeing the truth, the horror, pain and despair awaiting them, they knew they could never, ever look away again.

The occultists are young; few survive very long. The old ones are clever, merciless and almost inhuman. The magic has eaten away at their bones, at their souls. They have the thousand-yard stare of murderers and soldiers. Even when they are young, they have the unhealthy pallor of the addict. Their addiction is to knowledge and secrets. Many are drug addicts, or mad, or over indulgent – be it drink, food or sex. Despite this, few are homeless, or destitute. Those who dwell in the depths of the underworld of the great cities do so by choice. When you live for secrets, you always learn enough to survive, and live well. But comfort and money pale, as they get a little older. When their bodies start betraying them, they all turn to the search for the greatest secret of all – immortality.

But nothing is free.

To be an occultist means you are not a priest tending to a flock, or a transcendentalist seeking ultimate enlightenment. Like a criminal, you are seeking power, fortune and survival, in a forbidden world. Your currency is not drugs or money. Your currency is information, secrets, little magic tricks, rituals, and copies of the ancient magical writings. People kill and die every day for such things. It is a cut-throat, dangerous world, where few trust anyone, but themselves. There is no structure, no grand organisations, and no secret societies, down here, in the real world. The secret societies, be they the scholarly Arcanum, or the priestly Uzoma, or the Order of Hermes have the money, the power, to accumulate huge libraries. Their tomes are safe, hidden in high security libraries, with access to the best translators, the best preservation techniques, and laboratories to test their theories. They have admirers, benefactors, even worshippers, to protect them, and many other tricks of the trade to insulate them from reality. You have only yourself, your wits, and your intellect. Every drop of knowledge you own you stole, or fought for, or earned with terrible stress. You hate them.

Not only do you hate their luxuries, you also know that they don’t get it. They are playing with pebbles on the beach while a vast ocean of knowledge lies behind them, to paraphrase Newton. The ocean is vast, and seething, and terrible, but you at least steal your pebbles from beyond the shore.

Magicians, Scholars, Investigators, Dilettantes.

Occultists tend to fall into four broad categories. They are either magicians, obsessed individuals, seeking personal power to some end – they claim many ends, but those ends are lies; or Scholars, who seek the possession of, and the transmission of knowledge; or Investigators, who are hired brains sent to find, record and solve issues of a strange natures; or dilettantes, who search in the darkness for some new high, some new turn on, or anything to ease the boredom and numbness of your life. These categories are vague and blurred. One can become the other, but they are useful tools for understanding the nature of the people who make up the occult underworld.

These are the most common. At least, those who claim to be magicians are the most common. The magicians delve into the occult for personal power. But they are also experimentalists. They do these things to see if they can. While they may work spells to save themselves, or to seduce a lover, or kill an enemy, they know that there is a huge acreage of writings on magic, with lists of spells, hidden ingredients and various forbidden practices. Someone has to find out if they work.

The scholars tend to be academics who stumbled onto the secrets of the hidden world through some accident, and now consider themselves to be academics in a new field – just one that no one approves of. And they are academics. They are bookish, learned, and somewhat obsessive, as a group. They intrigue and fight one another as much as the professors and teachers of other disciplines. Some have ties – vague, weak and never trusted ties, but ties nonetheless – to such institutions as the Arcanum or the Society of Leopold. But these organisations they see as rivals. Theirs is not the pursuit of personal power – at least they will not claim so openly – but rather the accumulation of knowledge, the intellectual dissection and absorption of a vast body of writing, study and theory.

In every cop’s life there is that one case, that one story, that one thing that happened, which you cannot truly explain. The pale hooker who ran away so fast; or that drunken tramp who did something weird, which neither you nor your buddies can quite remember; or the strange, haunting sensation of anger and sadness around some murder sites. Trying to make sense of these things becomes an obsession. But unlike policework, these investigations do not reveal answers – they reveal further questions. Rather than solve cases, you just find more and more that is strange. As your work goes on, you find yourself undertaking private cases; perhaps for your buddies, perhaps for the gangsters, or perhaps for rich patrons or academic institutions. It’s not just cops you are out there, in the night, searching. The end of the cold war saw lots of former spies and “security types” with far more time on their hands, and access to huge databases which contain odd, odd, references to things which should not be.

You are rich, and you are bored. OR you are a club kiddie who saw something when you took that dodgy E, or you are a member of some subculture which hold no more intrigue or secrets. Suddenly, you find that new high, that new perversion, that new intoxication – the hidden world. Suddenly there is no limit, no ultimate “in-crowd” who are just like everyone else, no ultimate high, no utter perversion that will finally shock you into life. No, here there is no end, just more and more, frightening and shocking and arousing secrets, experiences, and people. Though the obsession will destroy you one day – isn’t it better to burn out than to fade away?

No one is counting, but some estimates say that there are upwards of 250,000 participants in what is loosely and somewhat falsely described as the Occult Underground. It’s called the Underground because it makes those involved sound more connected, cooler, and more interesting, and because this shit is incredibly illegal. While witchcraft does not exist on statute books anymore, murder is still forbidden. Graverobbing is forbidden. Theft is forbidden.

While there is no form of organisation or order – only a mere few belong to the secret societies and those are regarded unflatteringly – the occultists choose to associate with each other. Though they may be rivals and enemies, they also understand each other. Besides, though you may wish to see an enemy dead, you can always do business with him in the meantime. This gives all their meetings a weird, fatalistic and somewhat artificial air. Everyone wants something, and everything must be paid for. But everyone remains cordial.

That being said, the underground is a young person’s game, and the nature of the sub-culture changes with fashion, society and time. In the 1890s, the occultists drank absinthe and smoked opium and discussed the works of Yeats, Crowley and McGregor Mathers; now they take designer drugs, pierce their bodies and use the internet to trade information. But there is no substitute for meeting others, either for companionship or to know if someone is lying to you or not. There is too much chance of something going wrong, for getting out of your league, and ending up dead or mad or worse.

Though the underground may be anarchic and ill organised, they know a lot. And they know who to be afraid of. These are generally referred to as “the others.” The others are some of the “serious” forces of the night, whom the occultist cross paths with far more than is healthy. The others are the most dangerous features in the lives of the occultists. Three distinct groups are noted: the Tremere, the Vampires and the Order of Hermes. Almost everyone has heard of the Tremere, and they all know they are vampires, but they know enough to know that there is something very different about the Tremere. The Tremere are obsessed with the same bodies of hidden lore as the occultists are, which brings them into frequent contact and conflict. Though the Tremere may be few, they tend to win. Worse, the Tremere have a habit of using the occultists as a feeding stock and breeding ground for themselves. Many, many occultists have disappeared in the dead of night, only to turn up the next night, dead, walking and hungry. That being said, being on good terms with the Tremere is a must. Their memories are long, and they only get stronger as they get older. The vampires, as in the vampires other than the Tremere, are also known and feared for a different reason. The occultists are young, depraved and hungry, and this leads to the waiting arms of the vampires. Many occultists are addicted to the rush that comes from a vampire’s “kiss,” others are addicted to the blood itself, and not a few have been killed outright by some gorgeous undead thing. The magicians also whisper about a group known as the Sabbat, who are vampires, only far more dangerous. Traditionally, the Sabbat would just kill any annoying mortal magician who interfered with them, or even just looked at them funny, but now, the Sabbat are all too interested in finding out what the magicians know. The Order of Hermes tend to be regarded as a vague group, and no one knows quite how powerful they are, but it is too powerful for many’s liking. The Order can do things that no magician can, and that is worrisome.

The occultists are quite knowledgeable in the ways and obsessions of the supernaturals. Just as many rabbinical scholars can list off the names of the ten orders of angels, the average mortal supernaturalist knows that there are a number of traditions amongst the “big” mages, and a number of “bloodlines” amongst the Vampires. It’s just that they really don’t, in general, give a damn about such divisions. The information is only useful when trying to bluff something powerful into doing something, and even then its not necessary. One blood drinking dead thing is pretty much the same as another. Avoid them if possible, and watch your back if not. But in general, an occultist’s speech patterns will be peppered with phrases familiar to the players of other World of Darkness games. It’s just these phrases do not have the same (if any) true significance to the magician.

One group whom the occultists are having increasing, and uncomfortable contact with, are these new, strange, saintly hunters. Neither likes the other. The hunters see the occultists as dabblers and traitors. The occultists see the hunters as blundering nuisances destroying incredibly important wisdom and lore. “Great, you went and killed that vampire elder. Well guess what, had I been allowed do my job, I would have tortured the knowledge of those ancient German ritual practices out of him, and then killed him.”

The occultists barely exist, on paper. They pay no taxes, receive no social welfare, barely keep bank accounts and tend to duck away from the mores of normal life. They withdraw from family and friends who “do no get it.” They sleep odd hours, and have a casualness to keeping appointments that is infuriating. They live every day – even the bookish scholastic types – as if it were their last. And it sometimes is. Drug taking is frequent. Each has a string of broken relationships to their name.

But, the occultists are still human. That’s the important fact. Though they shun societal convention, they are part of their societies. For an interesting view of the “real” lives of mortals in the world of Darkness, check out Mortal: The Living on ELN. This is the life that these occultists are, one way or another, reacting against, and rebelling from.

But despite this, they are definitely products of their environment.

Money flows like water around them. They provide services none other can. Their “occupation” is incredibly dangerous, but the rewards are immense. But few care for these financial rewards. True wealth to a magician is in the accumulation of secrets, artefacts and magic. One magician is worth several million dollars – spread through dozens of foreign currency bank accounts, in Zurich, New York and Vienna – but dresses in cast off clothes.

When the authorities do take notice of them, it is widely assumed that they are minor scions of some organised crime gang or other. But most occultists know how to hide themselves, and avoid attention.

There is, however, a certain vanity amongst them. Life fast, die young, and leave a beautiful corpse. Actually, some amend this to live fast, die young and leave an interesting corpse. Tattoos – of mystic sigils, typically – piercings, body modifications, scarification, are all common. The magic doesn’t help. It takes a decidedly physical toll, eating away at bone, skin and muscle. The result is a compelling, but definitely fearful visage. They have that lean and hungry look, a sharp hardness to their features that distinguishes them.

Many are frequent world travellers – with the almost semi-permanent jet lag that results. Learning languages is a must – to communicate with others, and to read the ancient texts. Many do not have formal qualifications such as university degrees, but they could argue the finer points of Roman history with any classical scholar.

They are incredibly cosmopolitan. They can argue for hours about the finer points of the house wine in a Prague nightclub, or the beauty of the dancing at certain Central American festivals. These things are interesting, but not important. The real issue is magic. The rest is mere detail. This leads to a deeply unimpressed world-weariness.

Some joke about the sight of a occultist sitting in front of the Forbidden City in Beijing, surrounded by children flying kites, the scene lit by a beautiful sunset, fretting about the fact that their piercing is infected. When the beauty of the scene around them is pointed out, the response is: “whatever…”

This merely highlights their distraction and detachment from the rest of the throng around them. Its easy to see why they go to one another for company, at the expense of “normal” wives, husbands, family and friends. And that essential loneliness drives them ever further from the borders of sanity.

However, one scholar of the secrets of ancient Egyptian magic, a former psychologist, has claimed more than once that it is this disconnection that drives the often-desperate pursuit of relationships, comforts and pleasures. Desperation to restore some sense of humanity to their lives, they follow paths that lead them further into perversion and despair.

The Factions:

Though they have no organisation, no order, the occultists are still human, and competitive. This means that factions have arisen; some are vague schools of opinion; others are philosophical dogmas; still others are political intrigues.

The two most important of such factions are:

The Loa have plans, and they wish to use the practitioners of their secret ways to fulfil those plans. Many who use the Haitian magic or rituals have found themselves asked for “favours” by the Baron Samedi or by others of the terrible and powerful old elemental spirits of East Africa. This loyalty alienates them from the others in the underground, and makes them objects of ridicule and fear. Mostly fear, though, in recent years. They grow powerful in such service.

Some time ago, something happened in the underworld, and things changed amongst the ghosts. There seems to be some terrible chaos sweeping through the lands of the dead, and such chaos has lead to fractures amongst the necromancers and sciomancers who have dealings with them. The necromancers seem to have broken into strange factions based on their dealings with the Restless Dead. But many seem to have become powerful due to their interactions with things the other ghosts call “Spectres.” They have become more powerful of late, summoning some vile spirits to inhabit old corpses. These “Walking Dead” are feared by other occultists, who suspect that the necromancers are not in as much control as they imagine themselves to be.

See Zombie: The Coil for more information on necromantic activities and obsessions.

These two groups are like big stones dropped into a relatively calm pool. Rivalries and alliances and made and destroyed depending on your reaction to these practitioners.

David grew up in New York, in Brooklyn. His childhood was a short, sad experience. When he was five, he started seeing the ghosts. He could see past the shadows and into their world. His parents dismissed his stories, saying he had an over active imagination. This was to be the cause of many problems over the years. He grew into a quiet, intelligent young man, who read voraciously. He haunted second hand bookstores like a spectre, searching for something else to read. And that’s how he found out how to talk to the ghosts and make them obey him. Ho found it in a book. David is what some would describe as a sciomancer.

Creating an occultist character is simple:

Attributes: 6/4/3
Abilities: 11/7/4
Backgrounds: 5
Virtues: 7
Freebie Points: 21
“Magic”: These are the powers that the character has: 3

The following stats are important: Art (a Skill), Gift (Background), Mental Attributes, Occult (Knowledge), and Willpower.

These optional rules are an extension of the Hedge Magic rules in the Player’s Guide and The Hunters Hunted. Use them as you see fit. To work magic in this system, one needs Intelligence, Wits, and Perception, Occult knowledge, and Willpower.

Allies - Friends, or people who will look out for you such as a family member, or possibly another organisation.
Artefact - The generic magical item background. This item can take any form from a weapon to jewellery, and can have any number of powers.
Contacts - Someone who has information or services and is willing to share with you.
Influence - How much authority your character has over sections of society. This can be City Hall, or an industry, (i.e. Steve Jobs has a lot of influence in computing, despite being way down the feeding chain than Bill Gates), or even a sub culture. (Your character makes a desire known, and lots of candy ravers fall over themselves backwards in an effort to satisfy the desire.)
Gift: You’re innate magical talent. See below.
Mentor - A person who teaches you your skills in whatever organisation they belong to.
Library - You have access to a library that may contain information on the occult or other interesting facts. However, you can be certain that most of the library contains – well, junk.
Rank - Your place in an official capacity that will allow you access to specific information, or items depending on your organisation’s jurisdiction. Think the army, police, and intelligence services…
Resources - How much money your character has.
Status - Your characters place amongst the occult underworld; who has heard of them, and who thinks well of them. Low status means you are a nobody, high status means you are notorious.

Art.

This is how good the character is at using magic. It is the level of magic, which can be used by the character.

* You are young and inexperienced. Your spell casting is erratic, at best. You are still a threat to yourself.
** You are less of a threat to yourself, but you are still not powerful or experienced enough to be taken seriously.
*** An “Initiate,” you are competent at casting spells.
**** You are something of an expert and Mages will worry about you. So too will demons and vampires…
***** You are a master and have the spell casting ability to rank with the Tremere, the Order of Hermes and the greatest among the Rosicrucians.

Gift.

This is your magical potential. There is a little magic in everyone, but not really quantifiable. This is magic above and beyond the norm. When you are learning new spells, this stat adds to your dice pool. When you are trying to make spells last longer, this is the ability you use. When you start the game, this is the amount of magical power, manna, Vis, ketheric force, quintessence, kia or whatever.

* Your power is more a curse than a blessing. You can feel things going on around you, but you are not strong enough to affect them. Sometimes you have to use drugs to keep them all out.

** You have enough power to make something of a difference. You probably have psychic, rather than magical power.

*** You are now worth training in some magical manner. You have a knack of learning spells and you can make the spells you do cast fairly effective.

**** Your powers are at such a level that makes animals afraid and make people around you testy. With training, you have the power to stand up against some of the greater powers and maybe survive.

***** In you is the potential to be a master magician. You may well be head hunted by various interested groups, from the Tradition Mages to the Rosicrucians, to the Tremere or Sabbat.

Extend, Ritual and Duration:

The Duration of the spell is determined by a roll of Wits + Gift, with each success increasing the length of effect from two turns (one success) to potentially one month (five successes). The Extension of a spell is determined by a roll of Art and as many Willpower points as the caster wants to spend. The spell effect can be spread from a ten-foot radius from the caster or target (at one success) to the entire city (at five successes). Willpower is regained afterwards as normal. Knowing a Ritual is a little more complex: to actually understand a ritual needs a roll of Intelligence + Gift, with a difficulty set by the Storyteller, The character needs to accumulate at least as many successes as there are levels of the spell. Each time the ritual is to be performed, this roll needs to be made. Magic is a funny old thing, and what may work once may not do so again. Besides, there is always the opportunity to forget something, mispronounce a mystical phrase or whatever. But that’s not all. Once the ritual has been performed, it must work too. That’s where the Art skill comes in. The successes above the level of the ritual are added to the Art score and that is the casting dice pool. The difficulty is normally the spell’s level + 4. This difficulty holds true for all usage of that spell at that time (this includes extending the effect and duration) At the Storyteller’s discretion, the character can subtract his Gift from that total; indeed the storyteller can make the difficulty higher, if she so desires.

If the spell fails, the same can be rolled again, with the expenditure of a willpower point.

A list of rituals is provided in The Vampire Player’s Guide. Note the requirement to perform them.

Example: David wants to contact the spirit of his dead grandfather. He finds a ritual delineated in an old book in his collection. The Storyteller deems it to be a level four spell. David’s player rolls his Intelligence + Gift stats (Int:5; Gift:4) and scores five successes, He is capable of performing the ritual. He then rolls his Art, which is three, and adds the extra successes. He is capable of performing the ritual. He then rolls his Art, which is three, and adds the extra success, which give him a dice pool of four. The Storyteller, feeling generous, decides to make the difficulty five (8-4, +1, due to stress). He fails, but grits his teeth and decides to try again. He spends a willpower point. This time he has four successes. The spell is cast. If David wants to have a long conversation, he will have to make a roll of Wits + Gift (3+4), at the same difficulty. If he wants to extend the effect, he spends some more willpower and adds his Art to that total. This is his dice pool for extension.

Each time a spell is cast, a ritual, or a practice effect, the character must make a resisted roll, Willpower Vs Spell level and any modifiers the Storyteller desires (examples, a spell considered evil, raising a demon, or entrapping an Angel, would be +3 to the spell level for that roll). If the character botches, i.e., the Spell gets more successes, the character gets either: A derangement for each success above the character’s; health level drainage, one for each success over the character’s.

Magical Theory

Presented here is a brief overview of a few Occult practices and traditions. You may have as many practices as you have Occult points, over two. At Occult three, you have one, at Occult four, you have two and so on. Using these practices is a wide and varied subject, which there is no space to deal with. Each practice is like a skill. The level of practice is the addition the character makes to their Dice pools, when they are attempting to cast spells, which fall into the domain of these practices. Level one to three are simple spells, which can be cast with ease, without a full performance of a ritual. Level four and five are rituals. This has no effect on the rules, except for time..

Each “tradition” has, a set practices involved in it. Voodoo has necromancy, invocation and cognition involved it. A tradition costs five freebie points to have in depth knowledge of. If the practices are chosen as part of a tradition, the character may have as many practices as she has levels of Occult knowledge. The character also has three points to allocate as extras to her levels in whichever practices she chooses.

Exempla Gratia: Laura is a witch, i.e. a follower of the tradition of witchcraft. She has an Occult of four, which allows her, in this case to choose four practices from the list. She chooses: healing, divination, fatuus and summoning. Magical Practices are Numina, which cost one freebie point per level. Her player decides to spend five freebie points on Magical Practices (having already spent five in Tradition). She also has three further points to spend, giving her a total of eight levels to share among her magical practices.

Traditions:

Note: These are informal concepts amongst the occultists, at best. They are ways of doing things, and perhaps groups of spirits or powers to deal with. Half of the terms a mortal occultist will use will have come out of a book someplace, or from a friend of a friend. They are not theological dogmas. But having some association with such things does make life a little easier in terms of knowing people who know stuff.

Voodoo: The spiritualism of the African slaves transplanted to Latin America. It deals with the supplication to and satiation of a number of powerful spirits, the seven Loa, being the most powerful. There are others, lesser Loa, Christian Saints, tribal gods and such, all part of one large pantheon.
Practices: Spiritualism, Necromancy, Summoning and Cognition. Practitioners are called Houngans.

The Kabballah: The philosophy of the Hebrew mystics and scholars of the Torah. This is not, sorry to say, the weird Californian craze involving red ribbons and some other gibberish. This is the closest an occultist will get to the Spheres of the Tradition Mages. It deals with knowledge of the nature of God and His connection to the universe. Invoking certain aspects of God (Sepphiroth), magic can be made.
Practices: Healing, Summoning, Talisman usage, Elemental Control.

Witchcraft: A vast number of traditions from around the world, mostly associated with the feminine principle and the worship of nature deities. Sometimes little different to shamanism.
Practices: Healing, Divination, Summoning, Fatuue, and Sex magic.

Alchemy: The magical discipline, which inspired the science of chemistry. It was semi-scientific in nature as its practitioners examined all aspects of their universe, in the hope of discovering the key to enlightenment, the metaphorical Philosopher’s Stone.
Practices: Elemental Control, Enchantment, Cognition, Healing, and Divination.

Shamanism: A wide range of primitive magical practices, traditionally associated with tribal cultures. It is associated with dealing with the spirits to ensure good fortune. The “shaman” is a tribal figure, there to protect the tribe from seen and unseen threats, and to interpret the signs and to heal illness. It is not that good a role for a modern occultist, but many swear by the utility of the rituals. That being said, the Great Spirits are not particularly impressed. (And just to tell you, the plural is “shamans” not the name of a dodgy British dance outfit from the early 90s, and the name itself is a christianised slur – “Sham-Man”) Practices: Elemental Control, Cognition, Summoning, Evil Eye, Fascination, and Talisman Usage.
Practices: Sex magic, Cognition, Healing, Fascination, Enchantment.

Magick: The form of occultism set down by Aleister Crowley and his Ordo Templis Otis. It is a vast mix of magic, formed from one philosophy. Someone with knowledge of this form could use just about all of the practices listed below. Chaos Magick: A post-modern magical tradition, set down during the punk era. It concerns itself with post-Crowley magick and dealing with the universe through the scientific chaos theory. Indeed, it is very difficult to say exactly what it is. A good tradition for a Goth or punk character. All practices are involved, but there is a difference in attitude, if not detail, between it and Magick.

Theurgy: The ancient Christian Art of magic, by which priests used their powers to harry demons to serve God. Needless to remark, those using this power were frequently corrupted. Books on the subject still exist, and in the World of Darkness, so do its practitioners. The old theurgists and demonologists wrote long and detailed and sometimes even correct analyses of the spirits and creatures of the Other Side.
Practices: Summoning, Cognition, and Sciomancy.

Practices:

These magical skills can either be learned alone, as skills, or chosen from Tradition lists. Like the traditions, this is a very short list, a few selections from a longer one. Practices are additions to the Dice pool. Thus, when the character is attempting to cast a spell that involves a practice he knows, then he has the level of practice, in dice to add to his attempt. Thus at level one, these powers are not effective. At level five they are very much so. Exempla Gratia: Charley is an illusionist. He has powers, which distract and befuddle. For Charley this practice is at level four. He is trying to make himself invisible, so he casts a ritual to do so. His Gift is three; his intelligence is four. Thus to ascertain whether he can use that spell on this occasion, he rolls Intelligence (4) and Gift (3), and adds four to that dice pool. He has a dice pool of eleven dice. The ritual is level three. He gets five successes. Now he rolls his Art, which is five, and adds four (again), as this is his practice, and adds the two dice of his “profit” from the first dice roll. His Casting Dice pool is eleven (again, coincidentally; perhaps this is an omen?).

Advancement: To advance a path as an independent knowledge, it costs the current rating x7. To advance a path as a tradition practice (i.e., if you are a voodoo Houngan, and you know someone who will teach you) the cost is the current rating x5.

Full details of these practices of paths can be found in World of Darkness: Sorcerer and Sorcerer Revised. A LARP rules conversion can be found here. http://www.darknexus.com/WWLarp/hedgmage.html

Conjuration - Character may move pre prepared objects from one place to another.
Conveyance - Move objects through will.
Cursing - Place some bad wish on offending party.
Fascination - Affect or control peoples through will.
Fortune - Change ones future for better or worse. Similar to Cursing.
Oneiromancy - The ability to walk among, and affect dreams.
Shadows - Affect shadows and light. Aka Shadowcasting.
Shapeshifting - Alter your body to that of an animal.
Sciomancy: The ability to deal with spirits, usually ghosts and forcing them to communicate if they will not. See Below.
Necromancy: A number of methods of dealing with the animation of dead bodies, and the trapping of spirits.
Divination: The ability to discover things, such as the future, or where something is through the usage of various media. Choose one. If you wish, many different forms can be chosen each skill unto its own (e.g. Astrology, Dowsing, Cartomancy…).
Summoning: Either calling the power of divine or spiritual beings to oneself to achieve an end, (e.g. calling on an aspect of God to deal with an enemy. The calling of beings to do one’s bidding physically, (e.g. summoning demons.) This is the business of summoning creatures from the Other Side.
Healing: Healing wounds, physical or spiritual, magically.
Sex Magick Using sexual power to achieve an end.
Fatuus: The art of illusions. This can mean anything from altering, reality” to invisibility. Really powerful illusionists can make solid images, such as a chair, which is sat upon. But mostly this is the art of lying, of fooling others, and making falsehood into a convincing truth.
Elemental control: The control of the four elements. Each element is a different skill. A more profound version of these arts is practised by some Sorcerers – they use Paths named: Weather Control, Hellfire, Alchemy and the Ways of the Sea. And yes, that does mean that those mortal magicians using the element of fire are using an Infernal thing. Life sucks, doesn’t it?
Cognition: The art of seeing things as they are, by their auras. Useful for seeing through Fatuus illusions. Cognition is also used to interpret dreams.
Fascination: The powers of making others do your bidding.
Evil Eye: The ability to cause pain, pestilence and death at just a look.
Talisman usage: The ability to use magical items to their full effect.
Enchantment: The ability to make a mundane item magical, creating talismans, or other magical items.

Conversion

Mage Rotes and Kindred Rituals are important to this magic system. For Mage, each Sphere Point is one point of Spell level; therefore a rote which requires Life 4, Prime 2, and Entropy 1 would be a 7th
Level ritual. (This is because a lot of Rotes are old magical rituals, adapted by the Tradition Mages for their own purposes. A clever magician can adapt them back) For Vampire, each Blood Point is a HEALTH LEVEL. Why? Because Vampire magic is nasty, bloody, cursed stuff, and if they have to spend Blood points to activate this aspect of the curse of Caine, then to use the ritual…ya gotta bleed. A lot. Worse, most of the Tremere rituals were stolen from mortal occultists are some time or other, and many mortals would like their magics stolen back. But even finding out how to use any of these forgotten rituals is a massive task in itself.

The Other Paths:

Sciomancy is, in essence, ritualistic mediumship. It is the art of using magic to look beyond the veil. It is however, based on an intrinsic mediumship – if you cannot normally see through the veil to the lands of the dead, then you will not succeed using these magics.

As a semi-intrinsic thing, Sciomancy also comes with a raft of other concerns: See Mediums Revised in the Wraith section of ELN. Once the door is open, it is not easily closed.

* Speaking Across the Veil.
You may hear – and speak to – the Restless Dead, beyond the veil of life and death. You cannot see the ghosts – unless they force themselves into visibility. But you can hear them. The ghosts are under no obligation to respond. However, they will frequently seek you out, roaming around their haunts, just talking, to see who can hear.

System: Roll your Wits + Charisma. The Difficulty is the wraith’s willpower, and the successes needed are 10 minus the target wraith’s pathos.

** Seeing Across the Veil
You can now see into the Shadowlands. Like much else about Sciomancy, this is a mixed blessing. See Mediums Revised for more information why.
System: Roll your Perception + Alertness. Difficulty is 8 minus your Gift score, and you need 3 successes. Yes, that does mean that you will automatically see in most of the time, once you know how. The problem then becomes – how do I stop?

*** Deathsight:
This allows you to see the fate of those around you, as a ghost would. See Mediums Revised.

System: Roll your Perception + Alertness. The difficulty is 8, minus your Gift and you need 4 successes. Again, the more powerful you become, the less effort this takes. And eventually…you won’t NOT be able to see.

**** The lands of the dead.
You can now “walk” into the Shadowlands. You can physically cross the veil and walk, for a short time amongst the ghosts. You have no protection here, you are completely vulnerable, but you can walk around and communicate with the restless dead. This ritual needs the occultist to bring himself very close to death, by spending three health levels, and three willpower points (to ensure he does not get sucked into “real” death.)

Roll your Perception + Alertness. Difficulty is 9, and you need 6 successes. Once you have done this, you can get up, and walk around – in the land of the dead. Anyone looking from this side of the veil will think you are sleep walking, or mad. And you are probably bleeding everywhere. You can stay in the Shadowlands for 15 minutes per remaining Willpower level. So unless you have a lot of willpower, then you will wake up pretty soon, so hurry up. And you will be very ill for a long time afterwards.

***** Summoning
This ritual is the nastiest available to the Sciomancer. It drags one – or more – ghosts out of the Shadowlands and can be used to inflict on an enemy. The Sciomancer has to prepare for this – by cutting his wrists – enough to bleed copiously, but not enough to kill themselves. It costs a health level, and a willpower point. The blood is to be collected on a dusty floor (sand also works) and then placed in a leather bag. The dust can then be thrown at the victim – whoever you want to inflict the ghosts on – or poured on the ground where you want the ghost to arrive, and then draw your name into the dust. You may summon a Doppelganger or a Spectre.

System: Roll your Charisma + Subterfuge. The Difficulty is 7, and you need 4 successes.

The Ways of the Sea:

The Ways of the Sea is a very similar magical path to the Vampiric one, Neptune’s might. But there are essential differences, but there is no doubt whatsoever that they have a common root. For these magics to work, the magician must have access to a source of water – be it indoor plumbing, the sea, a river, a flood. The storyteller must decide how much water is available – trying to make a wall of water from Neptune’s Arms from a mud puddle on a city street is not going to work.

Worse, these magics are maddeningly ritualistic. It depends on the tradition of course.
A Houngan might call Damballah to aid him, while an Alchemist may try to manipulate the essence of the water. But the rituals must be prepared.

LEVEL 1 - Memory of the Sea:
By looking into a standing body of water, the magician may see past occurrences in that body of water. The magician must meditate for an hour near the body of water, for each dice throw.

LEVEL 2 - Immersion
The magician can go without breathing underwater for a time equal to the number of successes. Note: this is just without breathing. The magician processes oxygen from the water. It does not prevent him or her being crushed by depth pressure. The magician must concentrate for at least five minutes to force himself into the mindset needed to actually willingly drown oneself. If the magician spends an hour meditating, he gains another dice for his dice pool.

One success: five minutes.
Two Successes: fifteen minutes.
Three successes: Thirty minutes.
Four successes: an hour.
Five successes: a day.

LEVEL 3 - Dehydrate
The magician may pull water out of a target, leaving exit wounds. Remember 90% of your body is water.

System: Each success represents a health level of damage. The magician must touch the victim in order for this to succeed. The magician must maintain contact for one minute per health level of damage required.

Level 4: - Desiccate:
The magician can, with but a gesture, pull all the water, instantly out of a victim. Unlike “Dehydrate” the magician merely needs to concentrate – spending a temporary willpower point per health level. The victim loses a health level every twenty seconds. The water comes out of her pores like sweat. After two health levels are lost, it comes out as blood. Another health level it starts coming out as greasy fat…and then they are dead. And yes, it’s really sick.

LEVEL 5 - Neptune’s Arms:

The magician may actually control the water itself, as a physical thing. He may use someone’s internal water to actually control his or her body. He may summon waves of water in large waves to block and enemy, or to trap one.

System: The physical strength of the thing is the magician’s own Strength score, added to his Art and Gift score. To control the physical water, one must roll Dexterity + Art to use it as a weapon.

There are many different varieties of weather control. This is one of the more effective.

* Immunity. This power allows the sorcerer to remain unaffected by weather. Rain does not wet him, heat does not tire him, cold does not harm him. This is an ancient, ancient hedge magic ritual worthy of the name. Old farmers worked this ritual close to planting and harvest.

System: The character is immune from weather extremes from –25C to +35C. Beyond that, the character must spend one willpower point per hour and roll Stamina + Survival to remain unaffected.
Two successes are required. A failure means that the character is exposed to the elements. A botch means that the character loses three health levels as nature gets her own back.

** Fog
The character can summon a thick, dense fog in the area, which obscures vision to some degree.
System: The character must spend one willpower point and roll Manipulation + Stealth. Creating fog on a clear night, in an area with normal humidity, is difficulty 7. On a damp, chilly night, it would be difficulty 4. If fog is already present, the base difficulty is 2. This is for regular fog, which limits vision to about 30 yards. Thick fog, which limits vision to about 5 yards, would be +2 difficulty. Pea soup, which barely lets you see your hand in front of your face, would be +4 difficulty. It is also possible to summon fog inside a building or other enclosed area, at +2 difficulty. The area affected depends on the successes achieved; use the one before the slash outdoors, and the one after the slash indoors (at the higher levels, the fog creeps into all affected buildings).
1 success 20 yard radius/one room
2 successes 80 yard radius/one floor
3 successes 200 yard radius/one building
4 successes 1/2 mile radius/one block
5 successes 1 mile radius/neighbourhood

** Rain
The magician can command the clouds overhead to rain.
System: The character must spend one willpower point and roll Manipulation + Survival. Making rain with few clouds in the sky, in an area with normal humidity, is difficulty 7. Partially cloudy would be 6, cloudy would be 5, and overcast would be 4. For +4 difficulty, you can summon torrential rain that (in some areas) threatens to cause flooding. The radius affected depends on the successes achieved.
1 success 100 yards
2 successes 300 yards
3 successes 1/2 mile
4 successes 1 mile
5 successes 5 miles

*** Wind
The character can summon a violent gale, which pushes over, and batters about all within it. The character has no control over the winds, but is not as affected by them as others.
System: The character must spend one willpower point and roll Strength + Survival. Summoning winds is fairly easy to do anywhere; your minimum difficulty is only 4. More violent winds have higher difficulties (maximum 9). Every turn, all those in the area must roll Strength against the same difficulty to keep their feet and act normally (you roll against half the original difficulty, rounded up). Potence does not add successes, but each level reduces the difficulty by 1 (to a minimum of 2). The radius affected depends on the successes achieved.
1 success 20 yards
2 successes 80 yards
3 successes 200 yards
4 successes 1/2 mile
5 successes 1 mile

*** Hailstorm
The character can cause a storm of hail to rain down, which can result in anything from a nuisance to a serious threat.

System: The character must spend one willpower point and roll Stamina + Survival. If a storm is already in progress, the difficulty for regular hail is 4. In potential storm conditions, refer to Rain, above, adding +1 difficulty. Golfball-sized hail can be summoned, at +2 difficulty; this inflicts one health level of damage per turn. Baseball-sized hail can be summoned, at +4 difficulty; this inflicts two health levels of damage per turn. Adequate cover can prevent this damage completely. The radius affected is the same as for Wind, above.

**** Summon Darkness.
This allows the magician to call down clouds of such density, and containing so much water that it shadows the entire area with thick, black and purple rain cloud, so as it appears to be almost night time.
The magician can use this to cover an escape, or even to prevent a Vampire from being fried. The bright day will seem murky and dank, and depressing. For most encounters, treat this as night-time.

System: the magician rolls manipulation + occult against a difficulty of seven. The resulting successes are the number of hours the effect can last.

***** The Storm
The storm is nature at its most furious, and to even attempt to interfere is a dangerous and powerful task. A storm will alter weather patterns over half the hemisphere, and there will be consequences everywhere. These things will not be directly visited on the magician – after all, it is not really his problem that his summoning in Vancouver brings drought to the entire Midwest. But a wise storyteller will remind the character of this in future sessions. Summoning a storm is essentially bringing chaos on an area – it gets an enemy’s attention, it can sink an enemy’s ship, or slow down a pursuit.

System: The character must spend one blood point and roll Intelligence + Survival. Trying to call a storm from a clear sky is difficulty 10. The difficulty a storm ranges from 8 (light clouds and rain) to 4 (overcast clouds with high atmosphere winds). Tracking rolls (by an enemy) suffer from a difficulty modifier of the number of successes the magician has. Anyone on a ship in the vicinity must roll stamina + survival in a resisted roll against the magician’s perception + survival. A botch means the ship sinks. Power lines go down everywhere. Bad stuff happens.

This is a seriously bad-shit, Left Hand Path, honest-to-god Black Magic. Which would explain why it is so popular.

There are two essential elements to the evil eye: harming some victim, and bringing bad luck.

Both require the magician to name the potential victim. The victim must be looked straight at. And there is no chance that the victim will miss the significance of what just happened. She’ll know something bad just happened.

The magician must spend a willpower point to set things in motion.

Add Art + Gift + the level of the Evil Eye. This is the length of time (in days) the victim will suffer ill luck. The ill luck manifests itself as a +3 difficulty on EVERYTHING she does.

By directly harming the victim, the magician takes one point of health levels away from the victim per success on a roll of art + gift + evil eye. The difficulty is the victim’s willpower.

If the magician is killed or seriously harmed in the meantime, before the bad luck has run its course, or before the victim is killed, the spell is broken.

Fatuus is the magical art is lies and deception, illusions and falsehood.

A magician creates a reality, either by creating a lie, or by visualising a scene, and manipulates the victim into thinking that it is real.

This power in not dangerous, and harm done to a target is only illusory, and not permanent, but it is a huge abuse of trust. Some would liken it to rape. Lying ain’t nice.

Level One: Convincing Liar.
With this initial level, the magician can lie to a target utterly convincingly. The magician does not betray, or the target does not note, any of the tell tales of a liar. The lie sounds utterly convincing, and the target should have no reason to consider otherwise.

System: The magician spends one point of willpower to make an Art + Gift + Manipulation roll in a resisted roll against the victim’s wits + intuition. A botch indicates that this victim will never believe a word out of the magician’s mouth again. Anything above two successes means the lie worked.

Level Two: Truth?
This power enables the magician to tell the victim something about himself or herself, which the victim will believe for a time. This can be anything, such as they are suffering from a serious illness, or that they are madly in love with someone.

System: this involves the magician making an Art + Gift + Manipulation resisted roll against the victim’s wits + intuition + willpower.

One success: the effect lasts for one day.
Five successes: the effect lasts for a year.

Level Three: Pretty pictures.
The magician can create, from a visualise scene, a magical tableau in front of the “mark.” This vision will not be particularly convincing – something like a hologram, but it is useful for illustrating something, or impressing the fools.

Level Four: Hard pictures.
The magician reaches into the victim’s head and makes her believe the illusion conjured is real.

System: This requires an intelligence + expression roll against the difficulty of the victim’s willpower.

One success means the victim is distracted for a moment, but will soon shake her head and wonder why she was day dreaming.
Five successes means she completely, and utterly believes what she sees.

Level Five: Reality?
With this success, the magician creates a huge masterpiece – in vision, sound, lies and illusion that a scene exists. This scene can be anything from a torture chamber to a cosy bedroom. The effect does not expand much beyond the confines of a room, but it is utterly convincing. The bed will be warm, and the knives will be sharp, and can draw blood. The victim cannot really be hurt, but will feel illusory pain.

System: The magician makes a manipulation + expression + willpower roll against the victim’s wits + intuition + willpower.

One success means the victim has this very strange and distracting experience of being somewhere else, than opens her eyes and sees the real world.
Three successes means she is convinced, but if she continually tests the illusion, it will require the magician to spend one willpower point per five-minute period.
Five successes means that the victim is there, and will remain there for an hour per willpower point spent.

The Left and Right Hand Paths.

This is the rather high-handed and overly ornate saying that magic can be used for good and evil ends, and some magic is inherently nastier than others. Left Hand magicians, serve a selfish, sometimes corrupt, and sometimes plain old Infernal class of magic. Right hand magicians don’t. They, apparently, attempt to work at healing, creativity and some other lovey-dovey stuff.

In reality however, magic is magic, and its pretty damn bad all the time. Magicians use magic because it makes life easier for them, and they are addicted to it. Worth considering next time someone tries to spin you a line about how computer virus makers are merely “waging electronic war against oppressive capitalist influences online,” or how some drugs “are for exploring yourself, and some are just for escaping.”

Storytelling.

The world of the occultist in the Gothic Punk milieu is one of constant peril and danger. They know too much, but not enough to save themselves. They are doomed, wandering on the threshold between the mundane and the supernatural. They are all shady characters, dealing with suspicious sorts, in order to survive. The underworld, of drugs and crime is their home. In the Gothic Punk world, there is good money to be made, dealing with the gangsters and the mobs; the assassinations no one else can manage, keeping the Anarchs off a gang’s turf. A pistol is most often their constant companion. But remember, they are human. It might only take one bullet.

Presenting an adventure or even a Chronicle using mortal characters has its own challenges and rewards. Occultists are humans with a glimpse behind the veil. In the Gothic Punk world, that veil conceals many things both terrifying and wonderful.

Theirs is a strange role in the scheme of things. They are ignored by the Mages, and despised by the Tremere, scorned and feared by mundane humanity, haunted by the Wraiths and hunted by many of the Witch Hunters.

Still, though, a human can become powerful enough to take on the Mages and win, or be considered one of them; and it is not unheard of for a mortal to be manipulating the Awakened. Indeed, many occultists believe that the Mages have inserted their heads so far up their asses that they should do the world a favour and disappear. Occultists are the ones who use the debris and cast-offs from the Ascension War and the Jyhad to further their own goals.

The politics of these humans usually revolves around power, in the form of knowledge, or artefacts or information. That means magical book, talismans, rituals, or Society of Leopold files on the Kindred of the Chronicle city. Money is used, sometimes in vast quantities to achieve these ends, so that ensures that most of these characters will spend a lot of time doing something to get that money. No, that doesn’t mean they have a day job…

One advantage to all this, is that all the adversaries the characters could ask for are detailed in depth in the Storyteller games. Vampires, Mages, Fay, Wraiths, Mummies, Spirits, demons, witch hunters, and, of course, the humans.

Types of Chronicles

These are a set of suggestions for playing out a full chronicle with mortal occultists as heroes.

Sorcery by Night: The standard idea; seedy underworld setting, dark haunted alleys, doorways that lead to Hell, the conflicts of the major supernatural powers all around them. Tom Waits in the background, low lights, and whiskey. A film noir dark fantasy, featuring magicians instead of P.I.s. Read lots of crime novels – for example John Farrow’s “City of Ice” and “Ice Lake” and populate your chronicle with such characters.

Orphans: The characters are actually trying to be considered Mages looking in on the Ascension War from the outside. Of course, our heroes will find something out that will endanger them, something the other Mages have been too grand to notice…

Scavengers: A Raiders of the Lost Ark style Chronicle, wherein our heroes travel the world trying to find magical artefacts and lore to sell, or to keep for themselves. Of course, very soon, our heroes will probably upset the Garou, the Mummies, the Fay, the Vampires and eventually, the Mages themselves. What’s more, the world is filled with secret societies, who don’t want to pay for the character’s goodies. Not to mention those damn neo-Nazis…

Magic Realist: This is a very difficult concept to sustain, but it might be fun to try. The magic manifests itself in some very sublime, ways, such as food, which reflects the cook’s state of mind, or love, which lights fires. Tales of kindly grandmothers who never really die, ghosts and vengeful parents, and family curses. This would be a pod choice for a group of jaded, mature role-players who don’t want to kill anything anymore, Stories of this nature could also be used as one-offs within the framework of the Sorcery by Night or Orphans chronicle. Even Mage stories could benefit from the usage of some of these story styles. Go out and see movies like “Like Water for Chocolate”; “House of Spirits”; and even “Local Hero)”. It is, however possible to set such a Chronicle against a very gothic and horrific background, such as Central America or Iraq, where the wonder is tempered by the pure human evil all around.

Historical: Set at the turn of the century, or in the Haiti of Duvalier, or the Baghdad of Haroun al Raschid, or the 1960s, or at the birth of the spiritualist movement in the US, or Germany during the Cold War or, or, or…

Post-Modern: Ten minutes into the future, a world of big corporations, and hi-tech data processors, versus the wits, streetsmarts and magic of a few magicians. (In this setting, don’t allow the characters to use technomancy. No magic computers.)

Gothic: The town in which the characters live is under a curse, and has done for centuries. The people are inbred, incestuous, but somehow, the Gift is rife. Now some terrible prophecy is coming to pass as the town degenerates into madness and violence.

Settings

Mexico, Ireland, Brazil, Russia (especially Gothic Punk Russia), Japan, Egypt, Bosnia, Hungary, Romania, Turkey, and cities such as San Francisco, Chicago, New York, New Orleans, London and others which have been dealt with in World of Darkness supplements.

I once ran a reasonably successful series of stories about a group of British Army peacekeepers in Bosnia. The characters – there were three of them – were normal squaddies, facing off against racial hatred on one hand, official indifference on the other, and dealing with the psychic and spiritual fall out of some of the worst atrocities since the second world war. Only one character started out with any “powers” – the rest learned little spells as it was required. And then the Tzimisce showed up. Think Blackhawk Down meets The Others. (Only not quite as good)

Books

Anything by: Jonathon Carroll, Isabelle Allende, Salman Rushdie, Italo Calvino, William Burroughs, Umberto Eco, Keri Hulme, Aleister Crowley, Joseph Campbell, Edgar Allen Poe and Thomas Pynchon; The Witching Hour and Lasher by Anne Rice, Lost Souls by Poppy Z. Brite, the Comedians by Graham Greene. Read a few New Age guides o magic, as well as book on Anthropology and Philosophy, (which deal with the Cabbalah or similar).
Movies:

Any horror movie involving sorcerers and the like. Horror movies are usually rubbish, but some have a grain of idea at the centre, which can be stolen. Naked Lunch; House of Spirits; Like Water for Chocolate; Local Hero; Faraway, So Close.

Each night he watches her go to sleep
Each night he’s in her dreams
She wonder who is this man that stalk her in her dreams
He whisper in her ear every night
She and still she wonder who is this man that stalk my dreams
He love he smell of her hair
And she doesn’t know who is this mystery man
He can’t stand the thought of losing her
But deep in his cold dead heart he know
He can’t be with her, but that won’t stop him from loving her forever

‘Pon my tortured soul
Light shines, cover my eyes
‘Fraid to loose the whole

Oh, this damned blood
Cursing in my heart-vein
Call’t mad, call’t wise
Mad, may be free reign

A thousand fractures
and the dance of the fool
Mind covered in damp cold
Covered in the softest wool

“What do you see”
Is all you ask
Answer naught
T’is my task

Remember now, and remember then
We are the Family
Family Malkavian
And should I struck down be
I know this, then
That my Embrace
Will
In
The
Family
Malkavian
… be.

The cute little girl looked at me for a second, and flinched away from me at the very moment I made a move towards her. She huddled in her bed, hugging an old, well-loved teddy bear with a missing eye. I put a finger to my lips and made a shushing sound. She nodded, and whispered to me.

“You’re not gonna hurt me, mister ?”
I smiled. “Don’t worry, sweetie. I only hurt bad people”, I whispered back, winking at her. She giggled at the wink, then her face fell into a sort of frown-like pout as she thought about my answer.

“You mean, like my new daddy ?”, she asked, and I thought I saw something in her eyes, something that didn’t belong in the eyes of an eight-year-old girl.

I took a step towards her, and this time she didn’t flinch. She eyed me curiously, and I could only guess at what she was seeing when she looked at me. Certainly not a tall, dark and handsome young man draped in a black leather duster and carrying a big knife in his hand.
My gaze caught hers, and everything became clear to me in that second. Her ‘new daddy’, her mother’s latest in a long series of partners, was a monster only slightly less frightening than anything that ever came out of a Hollywood studio. Forget Jason Voorhees or Freddy Krueger, this man was exactly the kind of man who made up my annual body count, and I sighed in disgust at the realization that I had been right once again.

With a second thought, I caught the girl’s name, Lisa, and her mother’s, Ellen. The monster masquerading as Ellen’s ‘boyfriend’ was unknown to me. From Lisa’s thoughts, I picked out his name. Jeffrey Manson. I smiled briefly, but the smile was quickly gone as I reminded myself of why I was here. Lisa looked at me with an out-of-place, oddly satisfied expression, watched as I slid my knife back in the sheath at my waist and walked towards the door.

From further down the hall, I could hear the sounds coming from the TV. I was more or less certain that Manson would be sprawled on the couch with a beer or a joint, and I sensed that Lisa’s mother was in the kitchen. Smiling grimly to myself, I whispered “Dull eyes, closed ears, deaf minds, let no one see that which is not here”. From now on, no one in the house would see me or otherwise notice my presence unless I wanted them to. I wasn’t sure the spell would work with the little girl, for my magick had a strange habit of failing me when it came to hiding from the eyes of children.

Moving as silently as the air itself, I walked down the hall until I saw the pale glow of the TV. I had been right. Manson was sprawled in front of the TV with a beer. Still invisible to his eyes, I sent him a thought. “Good night, Jeffrey. Valentine says die”. Melodramatic, OK, but I liked to help the actual killing with a good dose of fear.

The effect on Manson was rather comical, would have been if the circumstances had been different. The man fairly jumped from the couch, spilling half his beer in the process. To his credit, he didn’t cry out, or say anything. He just looked around the living room, his eyes flickering wildly back and forth. While he was still desperately trying to see where the voice had come from, I stepped into the kitchen.

Ellen had her back to me. She was sobbing quietly, and for a second I almost didn’t notice the bread knife in her hands. Her intentions were obvious even to a novice mind-reader like me, but I could already tell that she wouldn’t see it through. She was too afraid of missing, and of his reaction to the attempted murder.

“Well, that’s why I’m here, Ellen”, I thought. With another thought, I reached out with my mind, back into the living room, where Manson was draining yet another beer. It was child’s play to seize control of his trachea and esophagus during the split-second when he swallowed. Immediately, the distinctive sounds of someone choking came from the living room, and I could sense that the kill was as good as done.

He was choking to death, and no one could help him. He would be dead or dying when Ellen would reach him. I saw to it that she didn’t move for just the right length of time, and I heard the sound of 180 pounds of dead flesh hitting the floor in the living room. This sound was music to my ears, and I allowed myself another smile. Another night, another worthless, victimizing asshole wiped from the face of the Earth.

I left the house the same way I had entered it: through the window in Lisa’s bedroom. I already knew the little girl would say nothing to her mother or to the cops. She had been waiting for me or someone like me, and I had done what she wanted. The source of hurt in her life was gone. That was why I was here. That was my job. The children had always come first, however, and if Ellen had turned out ’sour’ as well, she would have died in the same instant. But without pain. I am not a monster, even though the newspapers call me the Angel of Death. Funny how close to the truth they were without even knowing it.

This is a piece of old World of Darkness fiction, a possibly apocryphal, possibly not tale of how the situation in Berlin resolved itself (created for a proposal for a Berlin By Night Revised)

There is ice on the ground; lumpen, crusted, deceptive. In the moonlight, the dirty ice glows white. The air is hard, chill, static, waiting. There is no wind. The Siberian air that chilled the city is gone; the air belongs to Berlin now – stagnant and smoky. The temperature has drifted above freezing, but it is still desperately cold.

The Spree River is still. Hard, brown lumps of sheet ice float on the oily waters. The lights of the streetlamps, pale yellow, gentle and civilised, shimmer across the almost still waters. In the dark, the river is a whispering, greasy black hole, stealing light, save that reflected by the diesel-rotted ice. Sometimes, here, it gets quiet. The S-Bahn does not pass away on the bridge; the angry murmur of cars seems to fade, far away. But there is no silence. The boats, a few lonely, cheap riverboats, past their prime, lie moored besides tourist craft, waiting for the summer. The boats groan, eased against their jetties by the slow, slow, sleeping shoulders of the river. The groan is deep, bass, and painful; the sound carries across the park.

Look north, in the chill smoggy haze, the blue devilish gleam from the insurance company’s new skyscraper, an ugly thing, a Western building thrown willy-nilly into the heart of the old, Communist city. Progress, someone must have thought. There is an S-Bahn station close to that tower, but it cannot be seen, obscured by the trees. Even closed, even now, long before dawn, the building seems to watch, a sentinel of the capitalist world frowning down on the remnants of what once was.

The water boils, a little, as the body goes under. There was still some air in his lungs. It floats back up again. The boy’s stupid, adolescent face, a frozen mask of surprise, betrayal, perhaps. The body is forced down again, and this time it does not re-emerge. Soon the water, rippling against the filthy wads of ice, subsides, and the body is gone, forgotten.

The creature on the bank chides himself for his carelessness. Hunger got the better of him. He promises himself that he will do better next time. He always does. Hunger, he thinks, yes. Nothing else. Not the sharp ecstasy of that last sip of a dead child’s blood. No, not that. Hunger, mere need, mere need for sustenance got the better of him. Yes.

He says a prayer. It is an old prayer, whispered to him by the one who made him, as they lay, naked in a Baghdad cellar a decade ago, while the mortals died above him. An old prayer, recited in a moment of love and weakness; an old prayer, which gave her face such peace, such sanctity. Eyes closed, humming to herself, touched by some distant grace of God or Satan. Weak. His claws sliced her throat; her blood, her stolen, black, brackish blood arced across him, making him strong, making him angry and wild. She was stronger. She was so much older. But she was taken by surprise. She had forgotten what it meant to be one of the creatures. As he stole her stolen blood, and her soul rippled across his, he loved her. He had always loved her, even after she had killed him, and made him alive again. As her body faded away to dust, he wept, missing her.

He opens his eyes. He checks his watch. Dawn is still another two hours away. Even now, a strange weariness steals across him. He forces himself to focus.

It is a long walk home.

He moves away from the river, closes his eyes, whispers again, another prayer, perhaps, but of a different sort. There is a sudden, screaming hiss, from the river, and something echoes around the park. The mist draws in closer, for a moment, and then, all is still. There, he thinks, it is done.

He crosses the empty road that cuts through the park, lights from the Treptow shops burns down at him from the railway bridge. He crosses the road, and disappears into the dark, icy embrace of the woody path on the far side.

The path leads into the night, away from the streetlights. The open lawns of the park give way to old, gnarled trees, their branches arcing across the path, shading everything, blocking even the moon. There is little light, save the treacherous, glistening reflections from the ice. He walks slower now, his footing unsteady, fearful of slipping.

He has been here before; he knows the way. But still he watches, pays attention, following the path. The trees give way a little further on, and the hazy moonlight washes down over the scene below. The clearing is acres long, a rectangular place, cleared from the trees. The moonlight reflects hard and white from the frozen old snow on the ground. Fives great squares are arranged in a long line, away to the south, rising a little from the dirty ice of the path. Five great shapes, each blanketed by old, almost virgin snow. Few walk there. Each of the squares is bounded by a small hedge, perhaps two feet high. In the centre of each, a large iron circle, fashioned into a laurel leaf. On either side of each square, a marble wall, eight feet long, perpendicular to the path, sentinels to the square pavilions in the middle. At the far end, looming out of the dark, a massive, perfect shape of an iron Russian soldier, stationed forever, looking down on the graves of his comrades, where thousands lie interned, under the hard ice of the squares. In each square, a thousand men lie rotting. On each of the walls, some forgotten sculptor has carved heroic murals of Communist struggle and German evil. Here a Belarussian peasant woman cries, there a Luftwaffe bomber leaves death in its wake. Everywhere, carved into the cold granite, the handsome, strong, powerful faces, of the Great Soviet Man, leading the resistance against Hitler. On each wall, facing towards the grave squares, a message from Comrade Stalin, praising the epic heroism of the Red Army and its unasked-for war against German fascism.

Strange he thinks, for the hundredth time, strange how fascist and communist statuary always look the same, praise the same values. Militaristic, Romantic, heroic, and its heroes are always frozen in handsome perfection. How very unlike the statues of the British, with their sad faces, and grim ironies – a soldier marching to war, his face looking away into the distance, perhaps scared, perhaps excited, but doomed; or the Americans, whose sculptures capture moments: raising flags on Iwo Jima, sitting on a rearing horse, grim and determined. But in Berlin, no such artistry; in what remains of the old city, great houses, government buildings, the Brandenburg gate, the Victory statue, all look back, yearningly, to mythical, classical times. But those things are few. What is left is the hard, grim, futurism and perfection of the Nazis and the Communists.

He stands in the centre of the tableau, now. Behind him, looming up against the sky, a crying Mother Russia. Moved out of the way, behind construction worker’s fences, two giant figures of Russian soldiers; a bearded officer holding a machine gun, his expression grim and blank and inhuman, the other an infantryman, holding a rifle, crushing a swastika under his foot.

The dead lie underfoot. But many, many thousands more died in the death camps in Siberia, considered too westernised or corrupted by immoral Nazi influences or the victims of some obscure party politics. Though they died later, away in the frozen wastes, and perhaps decades after the war ended, they are still the dead of Berlin.

He stops himself, forces his eyes away, forces himself to keep walking. He had become entranced, beguiled by the work, the strange artistry. Such is the curse of his kind of monster.

He walks on.

“The dead are restless here,” a voice says. He freezes, listens, and plans. He reaches inside his coat, slowly, slowly, trying to let his senses guide him. Behind me, he thinks, listening again.

Time stops. He twists around; the scimitar is out in his hand, slicing behind him. There is no one there.

“Stop that,” the voice says again, closer this time. “Put away your sword, I do not wish to harm you tonight.”

He looks around, eyes flashing red in the darkness. There. A woman, her voice muffled by a mink scarf worn over an old greatcoat. He looks harder, watches her cold, pale skin, notices the sharp, spiky hair, punkish, young… she has not been dead more than twenty years, he thinks. She lifts her head, smiles; a pretty face. A ruby glints in the ring in her left nostril.

“So,” he says, coolly, “to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”
She laughs. It’s a girl’s laugh; she died younger than she appears.
“Do you always dump your leavings there?”
“Yes.”

They stand a good twenty feet apart, on the path between little, ordered lawns planted over the mass graves.

“You used magic,” she says, matter-of-factly. “Odd little ritual that. Not the sort of thing I’d imagine someone like you would use.” Her German comes from the Southwest; from the rich country close to the Black Forest. Her parents would have driven the latest BMW, he imagines, lived in a small, sleepy hamlet, and drove the twenty miles to some fancy Western company.
“One does as one must. Though Allah forbids it. I am not fool enough to imagine that Allah does not also forbid our existence.”

She steps closer. She is shorter than he is, but not much. Thin, lithe, graceful. He admires her easy grace.
“Inshallah,” she says, and he resents her for it.
“Did you follow me?” he asks, pointedly.
“Yes.” She stares at him. Her eyes are black and distant and empty. There is nothing to be seen there. “I watched you in the club, watched you take that impressionable boy away, heard you whispering about the eternal night. You have such poetry. I was impressed. I was tempted to join you. But I watched.”
She is goading him, he knows. Goading him with the truth. Goading him with the petty knowledge of his seduction techniques. It angers him, but he will not show it.
“My name is,” he breaths – a mortal habit, filling cold, dead lungs, “Gibreel Al Aqaq.” It is not a true name, rather one stolen from the one who killed him, but it suffices.
“Mascha,” she says, bowing a little, mockingly. She waves.
“Tell me Gibreel,” she says. “Where did you learn our sorcery?”
“From the one who made me,” he says, lying again. She grins, amused.
“Well, it has been pleasant meeting you,” she says, with finality, “but the sun will rise very shortly. I would suggest you go to your bed.” She smiles again. “After all, it will take at least 40 minutes for you to get home on the S-Bahn.”

He walks away. She watches him closely as he leaves. He is handsome…beautiful perhaps. His blood is old, and powerful. But he is young. He has not been dead long. Perhaps he has slept for some time. Yes, she thinks, that is it. Intriguing, she thinks. Yes. He will do. She watches him a little longer – watches his tall graceful form walk slowly, gingerly away. He has Berber blood, she thinks. The darker skin makes him seem so much more human, so much younger, but in the harsh moonlight, it makes him seem so alien, so distant.

He will do.

The S-Bahn – the elevated train system that threads through the city from the central hub of Zoo Station, to the early suburbs, encircling the city centre and wending its way through many of Berlin’s scattered districts – runs all night. The carriages come in two flavours – the modern, electronic, almost sleek, newer trains, built for the Western tracks, or built in the 1990s; or the older, Eastern rolling stock, wood and Formica and ill-lit, whose lights flicker randomly, plunging the carriage into darkness, rattling through the city. Gibreel sits on the furthest bench from the door, staring out into the slowly, inexorably lightening gloom. It’s not bright enough to harm him yet, but soon, soon, the sun will seep over the horizon, and bleach the sky. This is his favourite time to be awake. The monochrome world of the night is about to give way to the technicolour of day, and now, in this brief time before dawn, the night is alive with the possibility of colour.

The carriage in one of the old Ossie – eastern – stock. The doors are wooden. Stopping at Ostbahnhof, a young woman forces the wooden doors apart. He watches her, dimly, wrestling with the temptation, deciding if she would be worth killing or not. She looks towards him, catches his gaze, stares. The hunger rises, a fever. He pushes it away, pushes the lust deep down inside. No, not again. Not tonight. She is pretty in the way Berliner women are always pretty, Germanic faces, their hard bones sharp underneath their pale chilled skin. She is tall, her dark hair clipped awkwardly and hurriedly to one side. Her clothes are too bright for this early in the morning; a red party dress, a long fake fur coat. He closes his eyes, tries to lose himself in memory, but he can still smell her. She has been with a lover this night; he can smell the salt on her skin. He imagines her evening, dancing in some underground club; there is cigarette smoke lingering in her hair, and her breath still smells of some sweet cocktail. He wonders how her blood would taste. He looks back at her; she is staring at him, frankly. Her eyes shine a little too brightly – drugs he thinks. Her heart skips little beats, occasionally. Yes, drugs.

The light goes out in the carriage at Warsaw Street. Her curiosity is gone, replaced by fear. But even as he feels himself about to rise, about to move across the carriage, about to sup from her – he looks out, out from the carriage, across the city, framed in the deep indigo of this hour before dawn, out across the distant lights of the offices, of the towers and spires of Berlin. He weeps at the sight. He feels a single blood tear trickle down his face. The lights flickered again, on then off. Then they come to life again, blanking out the world around, and once more they are staring at each other on the train. But she has seen the blood.

Her mouth is open. He stands up. Curiosity turns to fear. Before she can react, he is upon her. He kisses her, holds her fearful struggling arms still, and involuntarily, his fangs pierce her lip. Eyes closed he drinks from her. She cried out once, in pain, then her cries subside.

“You are a vampire,” she whispers. Her eyes are wide, pupils stretched out, mouth open, breath short. Ah yes, they all react like that. They all fall in love with their killers.
“Yes,” he says. He slides down to her neck and nips her, draws blood, drinks deeply.
“Make me one of you,” she whispers.
A lick, and the wound is gone.
“No,” he says. She bares her neck again.
“Please,” she says.
He shakes his head, stares into her eyes.
“Forget,” he says.

He cannot sleep, in the day. Instead, he paces the blackened loft he calls home. His sleep belongs to ghosts, ghosts of those he has killed, and those he has betrayed. The mortals- they are terrible, their voices, their pathetic screams, echoes in his soul. “We loved you,” they say, “you destroyed us,” they say. But the worst, the ones who cannot be ignored, are the vampires. The two whose heart’s blood he stole the ones he staked and left out for the morning sun. Their voices are black, whispery, and cold, like ice water. “We are waiting,” they say. “We are part of you now,” they say.

*

It is raining in Berlin.
Black sheets of filthy rain sweeps in out of the west, from the North Sea. The water streams down on the icy streets, melting and smoothing, making the way treacherous. The clouds sink lower onto the city, obscuring the tops of the Berlin towers, glowing a little, from within.

Look: the city’s scarred, smog blackened spires, struggle into the night. The city’s modern heart of Potsdamerplatz shivers out in its neon colours, purple and white and yellow, the great electrical signs on the corporate buildings shining out into the night. The modern heart of Berlin is new, built in faint echo of the old, but that is a lie. Closer to the river, the new dome of the Reichstag pours its arc lights into the night sky tracing its white fingers into the rainclouds. A brief wind makes the drapes covering the renovation of the Brandenburg gate shift uncomfortably. Across the park, the Victory column is lost in the murk, spotlight haloing the violent angel in sodium orange.

The rain falls down onto the Spree, falling in amongst the dirty ice floes, washing across the bones of all the people the vampires have killed, washing on the riverboats and the ultramodern apartment buildings, built by westerners to colonise the east. The rain falls on the scarred cathedrals, where you can still see where Russian bullets impacted, and Russian tanks tore holes. It falls on the insular Turkish communities, where they defiantly still hate the Kurds, and refuse to teach their children German.

Listen: As the rain stops, the sky sounds like a radio tuned to a closed channel, humming, static and distant. Trains rumble past in the distance, heading east to Warsaw and Budapest and Moscow, sidling west to Paris and Amsterdam, and all the other far-flung outposts of a new German Empire, an Empire build by German production and German trains and German money.

The conspirators stand in a rooftop café, closed for the season, in Mitte, the pretentious artistic quarter. They sip wine that they cannot taste, and breathe air that they do not need. There are five of them. One, a tall, middle aged man, dressed in a Brooks Brothers suit, bespectacled, dignified, his hair grey and swept heroically back, stands a little apart. The others defer to him. He speaks English – he refuses to speak German. Perhaps he cannot. He looks out into the rain, out at the city. A little away, another man leans against a wall. His suit is a hand tailored Armani. His accent is faintly Dutch, but deeply foreign. His English is perfect and clipped, but he cannot – and does not attempt to – disguise his differences. He wears expensive Calvin Klein glasses. His face is bland and handsome and aristocratic; he has an ease of authority that the Englishman does not have.
“What does Vienna say, George?” he asks, in an overfamiliarity borne of much contact.
“Vienna has not said much, Van Tongeren,” the Englishman replies, stuffily. There is a private joke between them. But they do not share it. Both remain cool to the other. “Suffice it to say, Vienna would appreciate a friendly – and unified – Berlin. I would doubt that if Prince Willhelm were to have ambitions to the East, Vienna would not be displeased.”
Another man paces restlessly by the windows of the café, listening, commenting, but uninvolved. There is violence in his walk, suppressed aggressiveness, but no less than real. He wears loose fitting clothing – an old British Army jacket thrown over a T-shirt and jeans. His Nike sneakers are tattered and torn. He smiles. His teeth are feral and sharp.
“I assume,” he says, his Belfast accent softened by travel and tempered by sarcasm, “that we cannot just shoot the fucker? Blow his head off with a big enough gun and just set what’s left on fire?”
“No, Fergus,” Van Tongeren says, “We cannot just shoot Gustav. There are rules. There are those we do not wish to antagonise. And we do not wish to jeopardise future contracts by acting like some – Knave Column.” He gesticulates, frowning. “Dumbass,” Van Tongeren sneers; when he sneers he uses Americanisms.
“What about the Sabbat,” one of the others asks, a small, punkish girl.
“What about them, Mascha?” Fergus says. His posture is cocky, insolent.
“The Sabbat,” the last conspirator says, softly, “is in disarray. That attack on Bonn left them in disarray. They have been killing one another quite happily in Berlin for years now. If we are to move boldly, then they may not even notice that Gustav is floundering.”
“If Gustav flounders,” Mascha says, quietly.
“If Gustav flounders,” Van Tongeren repeats. “Did you find one?”
“Yes,” Mascha says. “Toreador, I think – he moves so fast, and can sense things, gets distracted easily. Pretty too.”
“Enough to tempt Gustav?”
“Perhaps,” she says, agreeing, smiling. She shakes her head. “So,” she looks at the Englishman. “Do I have Vienna’s permission?”
“You do,” the English conspirator says. He smiles, to himself, amused at his own arrogance. He does not speak for Vienna, but he knows they approve. Of course, he imagines he knows they approve. Had they not approved, he would have been summoned to appear before his betters a long time before.
Mascha lifts out a cellphone, dials, speaks, utters an address into the phone, rings off. “There,” she says, “it is done.”

*

They come for him two nights later, at sunset. He only has time to open his eyes, when the stake rams its way through his heart, and then all sense leaves him.

When he comes too, he is nailed, Christ-like to a wooden scaffold. Underground, no light, but he knows it is daytime, and he cannot sleep.

Everything is pain.

Time passes.

Sometimes they hurt him more.

But in the day, hanging, sleepless, weeping, the ghosts come again, and this time, their voices are louder, more insistent. He knows why. He is close to them now.

*

“Gibreel?”
“Yes,” he says, through pain, but no sound emerges. They have nailed his tongue to something.

*

“I know who you are,” the voice says. They have cut his eyes; he cannot see. He doesn’t have the blood to heal himself. A long metal spike has been threaded through muscle and bone of his arms and back, holding him helpless. Something kicks him to the ground; hard concrete, dead, dank smell of petrol, distant sounds of cars passing. His nose breaks, again, and what little blood he has left, oozes out, onto the cold, unyielding ground.

He feels himself falling, falling, into the black murk of the long sleep.

“No,” the voice says again, and some horrible fire tears through him. He screams, awake, frenzied, uncaring, lunging at his unseen tormentor. But they hold him tight.
“Why?” the voice, again. Gibreel opens his mouth, pushing broken teeth out.
He shakes his head. He does not know the answer. He has asked himself that question many times. The ghosts have always answered.
“Because you are a sin against God,” the ghosts say, as unseen hands pour pig’s blood down his throat, enough that me may live another night.
They hurt him again. He looks up, forces sound into his voice, forces speech.
“Who are you?” he asks, screaming.
“I ask the questions here,” the voice whispers.
“Stop hurting me,” he says, whimpering. Someone touches his face, caressing him, almost. Then the hand is gone, and its loss hurts too.
More pain, as he is hauled to his feet. They let him go, but he is still on his feet. He is suspended on something, he thinks.
“Why?” the voice whispers again, intimately, now, a man’s voice, old and cruel and tender.
“I don’t know.”
“They put you up to it, did they?”
Gibreel says nothing, confused.
“Ah,” the voice whispers. “Ah.”
Someone kisses him, open-mouthed. Gibreel’s lips are forced open by the other’s tongue, and then his mouth is awash with blood. He drinks greedily, grasping for more.
“No,” the voice says, softly, now.
Inside, Gibreel is screaming; it’s not enough. He cried out for blood. The lust comes upon him again, a maddening, wild thing. Tears, weak, watery blood tears roll down his face. But the tears seem to wash away the pain a little. Dimly, he can see now, his eyes a little healed.
“Ah, seeing now?” the voice says. Gibreel looks up, into the handsome, almost noble face. The voice belongs to a man, a tall, Saxon man, dressed in a new Italian suit; hand tailored, but somehow ill fitting. The man’s face is haughty and cruel, and perhaps a little afraid. Gibreel closes his eyes, succumbing to the pain.
“Who where they?” the man whispers.
“I don’t know,” Gibreel whispers. “I don’t know. Please.”
Something cold touches itself to his neck and the fire begins again. Gibreel screams. A rough hand grabs his throat; ice cold talons tear his flesh.
“Of course you know,” a new voice says, its accent rough and foreign. Gibreel opens his eyes, moves his head as far as the skewer allows, looks into the face of this other tormentor. The face is utterly hideous; worse are the horrid, mocking eyes, staring at him. There is nothing there, in those eyes, absolutely nothing. “Do you know who I am?” the man with the horrible face says.
“No,” Gibreel mouths.
“My name is Sergei Voshkov. I know everything that happens on this side of the river. Do you understand? I know everything that happens on the other side of the river too. Do not imagine that I do not.”
Gibreel nods, says nothing.
“Now,” Voshkov says, “Now, let us start again. You know what will happen when you lie to us. You know what will happen when you are silent.”
Gibreel whispers: yes.
“Now then,” Voshkov says, his voice, low and insinuating. “My Prince is willing to be merciful. I am not. I like nothing more than to destroy those who would work against any whom I owe my loyalty. Does that make sense to you?”
Yes.
“Good. Now. What is your name?”
They ask the same questions for hours. They hurt him again, and again, and again. But they leave him his eyes. When they are finished, Voshkov sighs exhaustedly.
“A patsy.”
Someone takes the skewer out. That hurt more than anything. Gibreel falls to the floor, and fades from consciousness.

*

Prince Gustav stares at his prisoner, lying in the small empty office. Seven days, they have been torturing him, keeping him from sleep, tormenting him with a lack of blood. But even Voshkov cannot extract the answers he needs from him. Gustav has let the prisoner’s face heal. He is beautiful that one. Foreign, African. A Berber, Voshkov said. Touched by a little madness, Voshkov had noted; the prisoner spoke to unseen, ghostly things, in the few moments they would let him sleep.

But this one is an assassin, Gustav thinks, this one has been sent to destroy me. Sent by the Wessie, or by the Sabbat, or by the Oradea League, or by one of the other Princes. It does not matter. Voshkov paid well for the information that led to the assassin’s capture. Paid the others of his sewer dwelling kind very dearly. Such information cannot be wrong, can it?

Gustav allows himself to imagine that he had made a mistake. But the assassin’s aura carries the black stains of Amaranth – of a Vampire who would drink another’s soul. More than once, this assassin murdered another vampire for its blood. But there is something about this one, Gustav says to himself. Perhaps it is the assassin’s beauty, his honey-coloured skin, and dark, dark eyes. Perhaps it is the exoticism – Voshkov had claimed that this one’s blood is old, that the assassin was made in another age of the world, but somehow had managed to survive in a modern Berlin. How long had he lived here? Not even Voshkov knew.

Voshkov had come to Gustav from the east, two years ago, fleeing some nameless terror. In return for sanctuary, Gustav made him a spymaster. Voshkov had old blood too. Truly old blood. But he was afraid. He was terrified of some nameless terror that had made his creator simply…die. Voshkov would never say who had turned him. Gustav had neither the time nor the resources to find out. He remembered the rumours from the east – that the Hag had risen.

Gustav paces, wondering. Once he was the Prince of a city, the capital of a nation, a capital of a nation where the mortals lived in utter fear of one another, and no one would ask too many questions when their children or lovers disappeared. Such a place was a small paradise for the Vampires, and ruling such a hunting ground made Gustav a powerful, and popular, ruler. But the Wall had come down, and that other state had been trampled on, and made yield up its secrets.

Across the river, the other, the adversary, Willhelm, held court. And little by little, Willhelm’s city – West Berlin, stole a little of Gustav’s. But still the Vampires of East Berlin stood by Gustav, partly from respect, and partly – mostly – from fear. Gustav was not weak, and he was not idle. He had a long reach – for three long, horrid years, he had reached out across the rivers, bringing death to his adversaries. Mostly, though, he killed the neutrals, the Caitiff, the Thin Blooded, the forgotten and uncared for. This was deliberate. Through the fear of the Westerners, he bought time.

With Voshkov bound to him, he had an even longer reach. Vampires in Gustav’s claimed domain were cowed into silence. None tried to flee. A young neonate, newly made, fled to Paris. She died, a slow, horrific, cruel death. What was left of her was shipped back to her sire.

Gustav stopped pacing, looked around the room. He enjoyed this place. Willhelm’s money owned corporations, building firms, high-technology firms. Those companies had poured money into East Berlin, as the mortals tried to re-imagine their city as something new, something without the shadows, something without the monsters, and something without history. One of Willhelm’s companies had built this place, with its broadband Internet and its fierce modernity. The effort had bankrupted that company, and no tenants were to be found. A common story in Berlin; no one, not even Willhelm, must have noted its passing. Gustav had made it his haven. Voshkov had signed the forms, created a rich Russian company to own the building, to be investing in the infrastructure of the area, to bribe and threaten the government, and the mortals of nearby streets.

He enjoyed the irony, but knew, more than anyone, the true significance of the construction. There were no longer two Berlins. The west had swallowed the east whole, the tattered remnants of communism were being bulldozed; the ugly architecture demolished; things destroyed in the name of socialist progress were being rebuilt – so long as they fit into this new, re-imagined Berlin. In a unified city, there could be no room for two Princes of the Vampires. Sooner or later, Gustav knew, the Camarilla would wish the issue to be properly resolved. After all the authority of the Camarilla was enforced by the Prince, and to have two Princes in a city was at best unseemly, and at worst, a sign of weakness.

Time was passing, and things moved too slowly, but Gustav was as yet too weak to challenge his rival outright for the Princedom, to enforce his will on all the Damned of Berlin. Voshkov had told him that such preparations would take another year. Voshkov’s sometime ally, a creature known as Erasmus, who had dwelled in the desolate, irradiated wastes of southern Belarus, has assembled various stragglers from whatever strange cult they had all seemed to belong to in the East, and was slowly, slowly, smuggling them to Berlin.

But Willhelm must have divined this, Gustav thought, obsessed with the thought of that other creature across the river. Somehow, he knew. Somehow. This youngling would be merely the first. He suspected that this assassin, was somehow brainwashed – Tremere trickery, he thought – and no amount of torture would loosen his secrets.

He stared at his prisoner, handcuffed to a thick iron hoop, embedded deep into the concrete, as he shifted in his sleep. It wasn’t sleep; it was the semi-comatose of despair and pain. Vaguely, in his dead, grey heart, Gustav regretted the pain. Vaguely, he wondered what those on the other side of the river had offered this youth. He ruffled Gibreel’s hair, matted with blood sweat, and kissed Gibreel’s cheek. Gibreel’s eyes tried to open, but he could not rouse himself out of the murk of his pain. Again, for the second time, Gustav took his prized, old, Prussian dagger, and sliced his own wrist, and watched, coldly, as the black blood welled, slowly from the wound. The blood fell thick and heavy, like old rotten honey on Gibreel’s lips. And, involuntarily, Gibreel drank.

“I should kill him,” Gustav whispered to himself. “I should stake him and leave him for the sunrise.”
But he shook his head, and touched Gibreel’s cold forehead, and left the room.

*

“There,” Mascha said. Mascha and the soldier, Fergus, sat in an all night café in Charlottenburg, staring out into the darkness, watching the people pass in their fancy new cars. They sat at a table strewn with newspapers from Europe and North America, written in eight different languages.
“There, what?” Fergus replies, belatedly, swilling the hot coffee on his tongue, imagining that he loved it now as he did when he was alive.
“It’s done,” Mascha said, smiling.
Fergus grinned. He pointed to a strange article in a Montreal newspaper about a series of arson attacks.
“You know,” he said, almost wistfully, “when I was newly made, I used to sit up, in the daytime, scouring newspapers, looking for evidence of the Jyhad playing out, evidence of the hidden hand of the elders.”
“And?”
“Then I realised that Vampires do not control, they merely interfere. This,” he said, pointing to the article again, “is likely two very boring, very mortal, organised crime gangs killing one another. Probably of the hairy and smelly and much tattooed variety.”
Mascha grinned.
“I think they all just feed us that line to impress us. Remember school, when the teacher would say “I have eyes in the back of my head?” Like that.”
“Aye,” Fergus grinned. He liked the strange little German witch. It would be a shame if he had to kill her; but Van Tongeren was obsessed about ensuring that no mistakes were tolerated. If she did well, then she would be well rewarded. If not, then it was nothing personal, was it?

*

This time, they do not hurt him. They merely bind him, and take him away from his tiny prison. The faces are different, this time. They have young, handsome faces; they stare at him resentfully, but they do not harm him. They drag him inexorably up a long, long spiral staircase, lit by footlights.

At last, he is pushed into a dark room. It feels huge, Gibreel thinks, listening to the sounds, and feeling the way the air moves, sniffing the scent of leather upholstery. They chain him, again, to a hoop in the corner. Dimly, Gibreel notes that these things are everywhere. He tugs at it a little, but he is held fast. He slumps down onto the floor, defeated. How long has he been here? The wounds have healed – mostly, but he is barely strong enough to keep his head up.

Inside, the hunger rises, a sharp, painful thing, clawing its way into his soul. He jerks at his chains, harder now.

A light comes on, a dim faint light in the far corner.

Gustav stares at him, with pale satisfaction.

Slowly, slowly, Gustav comes towards him, staring, oblivious. Gibreel cowers back, the hunger inside him fades, and he is weak again, broken again.

“Hush,” Gustav says. He takes Gibreel’s hand, kisses it.
Gibreel opens his mouth, tries to say something. Gustav kisses him, then places a cold finger on Gibreel’s lips. “Hush, beautiful one,” Gustav says, “there is nothing to fear.”
Gibreel says nothing. Gustav kisses him again, and Gibreel can taste blood in his mouth, tasting some strange, horrible love for the other.

But then he remembers the pain.
And then the hunger awakens inside him, and surges into his soul, into his limbs, and then he can see no more.

*

Gibreel awakes to pain. Gustav stands before him, torn, bloody, an eye gouged out, pale dead skin hanging in flaps. But in that one good eye, Gibreel can see pain, see betrayal.
“Why?” Gustav whispers.
Gibreel is still chained to the hoop, but his shoulder has dislocated, and one arm is free. He stares, blankly at his free hand, shattered, bloody, and twisted. There is so much blood.
“Why?” Gustav whispers, again, louder now, fear and anger and pain in his voice.
“Why did you do this to me?” Gibreel says at last.
“Because you betrayed me. Because you are sent to kill me…” Gustav’s voice, at first firm, and haughty, fades out to a sob. “Because I loved you.”
Gibreel closes his eyes, uncomprehending, Gustav is screaming now. “I loved you! I could have made you perfect!”
“Nah,” says another voice, and a sharp stake seems to grow from Gustav’s chest, as he watches. Gustav screams, for a moment, and then falls silent, forever. The dim light is gone, and Gibreel fades into his own darkness. Rough, clawed hands take Gibreel, and chain him back to the hoop.
“It’s done,” the voice says. “Suitably gory.”

When Gibreel awakes, he can see Mascha standing over him, smiling, apologetically.
“Sorry,” she whispers.
There are others in the room. Gibreel tries to make them out. He recognises the one who re-chained him, a tall, violent looking man, a military jacket thrown loosely over his shoulders.
“So,” someone says, his voice cold and English, “how shall this look?”
“Hmm, well, George, here is how I think it should look,” another says. There is silence for a moment. “OK, the Sabbat recruit an Autarkis,” the man waves at Gibreel, “and send him to kill the Prince. Probably some sort of initiation thing. Hmm. Now, he is caught, dragged down into Gustav’s house of horrors downstairs, and then, I dunno, Gustav drags him up here for a final interrogation. A bit of an ego trip, big mistake, an egotistical thing, and wham, the devious assassin kills him.”
“With a stake?” the English voice says again.
“I’m going to cut his head off, and pour the ashes in the river,” the soldier says. “No worries about a stake. We could keep the assassin here for interrogation, or just to let the Justicar see him.”
“Nicely done, Mascha,” the third voice says. “Making the Prince fall in love with our Judas goat. Beautiful. Consider yourself hired.”
“It wasn’t love,” Mascha said, staring, sadly, at Gibreel. “There isn’t a magic on this earth that can do that. Obsession, we can do, lust we can do, desire we can do. Not love.”

Gibreel howls then. He cannot take it. These people stole into his life, and just…killed him. He screams. Maybe he is screaming “don’t hurt me again.”
“Hungry, are ya?” the soldier says.
“Fergus, let him feed on Gustav.”
“Yessir, Van Tongeren,” the soldier says, “three bags full, sir.”
“Oh get on with it,” Van Tongeren commands.
Fergus hauls Gustav’s inert form to Gibreel. Vaguely, through the pain, through the despair, Gibreel tries to reason; this is wrong, they have set me up before, and they will do so again. He fails. The hunger takes him. He drinks Gustav’s blood until, at last, he drinks Gustav’s soul.
Gibreel does not even notice when Fergus wrenches the stake from Gustav’s chest, and Gustav tries, desperately to stir, to escape. But it is too late. Gibreel swallows Gustav’s soul, even as Gustav awakes, and then, slowly at first, Gustav’s corpse falls to ashes.

The Prince of the Vampires of East Berlin is dead.

Gibreel lies in satiated ecstasy, free from pain for the first time in so long, clear headed, free happy. He looks at the others in the room, stares at them. They are so cold, he thinks, so efficient, so ruthless. But he realises, horribly, belatedly, that they are so young. None are more than a decade amongst the damned. He is Gibreel Al Aqaq, of the Ray’een Al Fen; he was made in a desert kingdom so very long ago. He has never played politics, never interfered, just struggled to survive; he has slept, many times. He did not seek power, nor redemption. He merely strove to survive, to exist, and to appease the hunger inside. Why must he suffer like this?

The one called Fergus pounds the stake into Gibreel’s heart.

*

There are stories. The stake may paralyse, may steal all control of limb and body, but sometimes, sometimes it doesn’t steal consciousness. Sometimes it leaves you awake, life in death, helpless. Gibreel sleeps, mostly, sleeping the deep, horrible sleep of the undead. But sometimes, he awakes, a little.
“One of the Assamites,” an unfamiliar voice is saying, “obviously.”
“Yes,” another voice. “I hear that some of that brood have offered allegiance to the Black Hand. Yes, it makes sense.”
Gibreel falters again, falls into unconsciousness.
When he awakes, he hears Van Tongeren speaking.
“Well, Prince Willhelm, the rest is up to you.”
“Thank you,” the Prince says, grandly. “Tell me. Who among Gustav’s loyalists still operate?”
“His spies,” Van Tongeren says, “that Russian. Some others. What should I do with them?”
“Hunt them down,” the Prince says. “Hunt them down, and kill them all.”
“And the Sabbat?”
“Make an example of them. Gustav may have been a fool, but we cannot be seen to be allowing them to murder brother Princes.” The two share a laugh.
“This will, of course,” Van Tongeren begins, “require a re-negotiation of our contract.”
“Of course,” the Prince says. “Now, what shall we do with this assassin?”

The stake is removed once, and replaced. Gibreel surfaces, for one blessed moment of life and freedom. Then another is forced back into his chest. He screams as it runs in. He screams for the pain, and screams for the loss.

The stake was carved in Vienna. It is made of hardwood, and treated, with blood, so that time may not age it, and water not rot away with it. Someone whispered something about this being a favoured method of dealing with prisoners in Vienna. The Danube, they said, is littered with those who have fallen foul of the lords of Vienna, lying, for eternity, rotting in the black waters.

But as an assassin, an example must be made. They cut out his tongue, and place a single, live, hot coal in his mouth. In his soul, Gibreel screams.

They take him to Treptow Park, one night, when winter ended, when the ice had gone, and they cast his form into the river. They have chained his hands and feet together, and the coal, someone whispered, will burn for eternity. Lead weights are hung from the chains. As a last gesture, they take his eyes again.

They chose his resting-place well. They cast him amongst the broken skeletons of his victims, the ones burned by his stolen magic; the magic stripped their flesh off, and aged their bones.

When his body settled into the thick mud of the riverbed, and the others had gone, the ghosts came for him again. They whispered to him, welcoming him.

“We have all eternity to talk,” they said.

Then the sun rose and the dim, refracted light burned at him, teasing him with the agony of death. In the day, the single hot, endlessly burning coal burned less, but at night, when the moon rose, it flared again into new life.

But those pains were easily forgotten. Somehow he could now see into the world of the dead. Somehow, he could see the ghosts, as clear as clear, and they could see him, and they clustered about him, whispering to him their sorrows, about how he had killed them, or about how others of the damned had killed them.

Worst, though, were the three forms of the vampires whose souls he had stolen. His sire, one he had loved, and stronger than them all, his voice louder, his whispers the most painful. Gustav. What remained of his soul burned like acid in Gibreel’s head. All whispered: “why?” in the chill, singsong voices of the dead.

Gibreel has no answer.

Above him, Berlin continues on as before, loud and rude, dirty and beautiful, reaching out into the heart of Europe, tormented by history, teased by the future. And ever, the Spree flowed ever onwards, as it had when humanity was young, and would when the Final Night came.

Perhaps Gibreel should content himself with the knowledge that the end was not long off. Perhaps he should find solace in the fact that each night, Mascha would come to Gibreel’s spot by the river and whisper an apology. And although the dead would torture him with their stories and their guilt, he should content himself to know that no matter how many the Vampires had killed, the mortals had killed so many, many millions more.

But Gibreel just lay there, trapped, another dead soul in a graveyard city built on bones.