[Mage 2: The Dethroned Queen] Inspirations

 ((Out of Character (OOC):

Chronicle: Mage 2: The Dethroned Queen
Venue: Mage: The Awakening
Chronicle Storyteller: Jerad Sayler))

Here is another great short by favorite aspiring writer Hannah Nyland, staring some of my favorite characters: Chimera, Psychonaut of the Guardians of the Veil, and Eos,a Sin-Eater, a Reaper who makes her first kill.  And at the end the short introduces a new Fetish item for Chimera, a test of our new Fetish creation system.

Inspirations

By Hannah Nyland

Aisha King was the wide-eyed one, the wary one who was about as talkative as her mutt, who didn’t have a name. A frail, dirty wisp of a thing with matted hair and a will to survive; the description applied to the girl just as well as the dog. Both creatures of the streets, the dirty backstage out of sight of the human conscience. The real only difference between the two, as far as he’s concerned, was their weapon of choice. The dogs snapping jaws versus the broken shard of glass in Aisha’s hand, her movements raw and untrained.

Bonnie, the old woman with a bite meaner than Aisha’s dog. More properly known as “Fucking Bonnie” by the residents of her street, who were sick of her rambling stories, sick of her temper and her little makeshift tent in the alleyway, sick of every last damn thing about her. There were whispers of a tragedy in her past, a mental illness, a dead son or a husband maybe, but none of them ever seemed to dwell on it for long. Too much effort for someone that they all would have preferred to just forget. He has mixed feelings about that. It made things easy, almost too easy.

The last one called herself Lisa. Just Lisa. A young runaway with the wrong type of delusions and the right type of body. She told every client that would listen about the strange things she saw in her dreams, the beautiful and horrible things – a queen with fire in her eyes and the skeleton of her city. The sound it makes when the axe falls on them both. Sometimes, she told him that she caught glimpses the future. He wonders if she saw it coming.

Their ribcages make satisfying sounds as he hollows them out. Carter likes to know their stories before he gets to this part. It takes longer, all the watching and waiting and talking, but it breathes a certain life into his work. Besides, he prides himself on being a good listener; even Bonnie said he was, right before she lost the ability to say anything at all.  

The last batch didn’t live up to his hopes, unfortunately. Too much on his mind that day, too much pus churning and oozing out of his brain matter. Too many half buried ideas. But today is a good day for Carter. Things are as they should be. Outside, the world is still an ugly place, full of all manner of disorder and depravities. It disgusts him. But here, down in his makeshift workshop, he is the master of all he surveys. He may as well be a god.

The news hasn’t been talking about him though. Frankly, it’s disheartening. What does he get for all the hard work, all the toil and strain of perfectionist that comes part and parcel with being an artist? They haven’t even seen it fit to give him an alias. He deserves far more than a few murmurs on the streets, handfuls of people scurrying into hiding like rats, while the world turns on, oblivious to his creations.  

He will make them see. One day, he will make them see.

Carter adjusts the light on the table, giving himself a better look at his work in progress, and shifts his grip on the knife on his hand.

“I would say ‘nice work’ but I don’t appreciate false flattery,” a female voice says, right next to his ear. Carter is turning faster than he can think, thoughts flayed and scattered as he drives the knife into her gut.

Well, he tries. Pain tears through his wrist as the tip of the blade violently jars off of something harder than stone, leaving only a small tear in the woman’s black blouse. No crying out from her. Not even a trace of blood.

She looks at him with contempt written plainly on her face, and says, “I liked this shirt, asshole.”

And all he can think, beyond the shock and buzzing anxiety, is: I could make a beautiful piece out of her.

Bright blue eyes bore a hole through him, full of loathing as he raises the knife again, admiring the symmetry and roundness of her face.

A different voice, rough and contralto, drawls, “Nuh-uh. Sit, puppy.”

He does. Not gently, either; he can feel the bones in his hips pop as he hits the concrete hard, and the knife falls to the ground with a clatter. Why? He doesn’t recall the thought of obeying entering his mind, but here he is, and he can’t summon up the will to rise to his feet. Can’t even make his hands twitch.

With Blue Eyes standing over him, he can’t see the new arrival; only her silhouette is visible, cast in the backlight of his standing lamp. A tall, blocky figure, twirling a triangular knife in one hand; her movements are languid, almost lazy. A moment passes and, the silence that was so comfortable a moment ago leaving Carter feeling stripped bare now that he has company.

“Well?” Blue Eyes demands. She’s not looking at him now, instead focusing her gaze on the works of art behind him. His inspirations. He swears that there’s something growing behind her eyes as she stares at them; a blooming nuclear warhead, barely contained.

“He’s not the most well-adjusted guy, I can tell you that much. Narcissistic, god-complex, definitely sociopathic,” The Silhouette says. “But completely lucid, fully in control and aware of his actions. Thinks this is him doing the world some kind of service.”

Blue Eyes takes a deep, deep breath. Then she smiles at him, but the fires are still burning behind her eyes. “Carter, have you ever wanted to see what real justice looks like? I promise, it won’t hurt."

He doesn’t respond, and it doesn’t make a difference; the room falls away from him.

Carter is walking down the streets of San Diego with the women by his side; Aisha, Bonnie, Lisa, Skyler, Sarah, and the rest, too complete to be ghosts and too cold to be alive. There’s a weight pressing down on his mind and chest that he can’t quite manage to think about, only to think around. Whatever it is, it’s getting harder and harder to breathe.

Rain comes down in waves, leaving him dripping and shivering. His home. He has to get home and finish . . .

But he has no home. Not even a gap or empty ruin where it should be. Carter walks through a labyrinth that used to be a familiar place - people, streets, buildings - and in a million little ways, finds no proof of his existence.

How long has it been? Hours? Days? Carter recognizes one of his neighbors, a wiry, balding middle aged man. He always secretly thought that the man was a bit of a loser, a nobody with no potential. Nothing like himself. Now it doesn’t matter; he reaches out in relief, tries to shout out for his help. But the breath catches in his lungs and he chokes on the dust in his mouth, wheezing and retching. The man walks right past him, not so much as sparing him a glance.

The women smell the blood in the water; they’re on him, clawing him to the ground, whispering poison in his ears. They tell him that his art is hollow, petty, flawed. They tell him the funeral has only just ended, but that everyone has already forgotten his name.

He realizes then, that he himself can’t quite recall it.

Blue Eyes lied. By the time the weight becomes too much and he finally stops breathing, he’s hurting a hell of a lot. The pain just isn’t physical.

****

“Pathetic,” the Good Death spits. She raises her hand, letting the magic flow out of her imbued gloves; a Life and Matter spell that will erase any trace evidence of their presence from the scene. It’s probably a good thing that Jack never questioned her too closely on why she wanted that particular imbuement, Eos thinks.

“Didn’t know you could feel so strongly about something,” Eos, still looking down at the body. Her first human kill.

Facing the freshly made corpse and the trio of his mutilated victims, she should be screaming, in shock, or breaking down. And in the past she would have, but the funny thing about dying is that it gives you a whole new perspective. It’s almost foreign to her now, how much of a fuss people kick up over their mortalities.  

“Usually I don’t, but I had a look inside his brain. He thought a lot of himself for this. And hey, I get that; killing is the best rush on the planet. Can’t blame the guy for wanting a few trophies for his trouble, either. Except he went after the weakest links he could find, and yet still had the gall to think like that made him a god. He didn’t have a clue what real Scourging is, real power. Fucking coward.”

Weakest links. Something sparks in her mind for a half second; a scalpel burying itself in her cheek, the liquid pain as she thrashed uselessly in her restraints, shouting obscenities; not strong enough to make a difference. But then, she never was. Always the pet, the damsel, the first one everyone counted out or forgot. Even Chimera, sometimes.

It’s different now, she forces herself to remember.

“Go away,” Eos says, too evenly. “I like the other you better.”

 An odd look crosses the Good Death’s face, and Chimera emerges again, frowning. “I’m sorry, Eos, that was awful. I got too into the part for a second there.”

 “So, did you mean it? Your only problem with what this guy did was that he wasn’t hardcore enough?”

 “No! You know that I wouldn’t really - it’s complicated. I mean, I did, but I definitely don’t now. Does that make sense?”

“Uh, no.”

The mage drags a hand over her face, tracing at the hairline. Her expression is controlled, but Eos catches the telltale sign of worry.

“Think of it this way: my Masques are like an actress playing a character. It’s still me in there, but my behavior and perceptions of the world are colored heavily by the archetype I’m portraying. My inhibitions get raised or lowered accordingly, but I can still force the Masque to act out of character. They don’t make me do anything I don’t want to, and they’re not real people. I know they can seem sapient sometimes, but even the Good Death’s desire for freedom from me is just a product of her archetype. There’s no real self-awareness behind it.”

She hesitates, then adds: “You know the saying ‘bad guys do the dirty work’? Normal people have the Guardians for that. I have her. Because there’s dirty work, and then there are the things that go beyond that. Doesn’t matter; someone still has to do them. Better for that side of me to have an easy off switch.”

Even as she laps up the new information, Eos is intensely aware that she’s not supposed to have it, that Chimera shouldn’t be telling her. Masques are a closely guarded Order secret, and with Guardians, secrets tend to involve an even mixture of paranoid vigilance and deadly force. Sure, she’s still technically a Guardian agent, but her status is tenuous at best. Simmons wasn’t happy about the potential of her spilling intel to The Harvest, and the whole thing’s put a damper on their professional relationship. She’s on a need to know only basis now, and this is not need to know.

Given that, it clicks almost immediately; this, in Chimera’s typically awkward fashion, was meant to be a show of trust. She relaxes a little. “Okay. That makes sense, I guess. I can understand.”

Chimera nods, a small knot of tension releasing in her shoulders. The two work together in amiable silence, repositioning the body to best resemble a man collapsed from a heart attack. Then Eos cusps her hands over his chest, the plasm flowing between her fingers cold enough to make her shiver a little. As she works the Ceremony, eyes squeezed close in concentration, she swears she hears a low keening come slithering out from the dead man’s skin; a self-made dirge.

By the time she’s done, even an expert coroner would be fooled into thinking this man died from natural causes. Pr. Saddler would be proud of the skillful execution of the ritual, if most definitely not the reason for it.

She opens her eyes; Chimera has her back to her, having turned instead towards the desecrated corpses of the three women, still laid out across the workroom’s bare metal table. Now that she thinks Eos isn’t looking, there’s a strange look on her face, something indecipherable. Sadness? Pity? Rage? Fascination? She’s used to her friend being hard to read when she wants to be, but this is the first time she can remember that she doesn’t have so much as a clue what’s going on in her head right now.

It scares her.

More to break that moment, she asks, as casually as she can, “Hey, are you planning to keep that thing?”

“What?” Chimera’s head whips back toward her so fast that it’s a wonder she doesn’t break her neck.

“The belt you picked up from this guy.” Eos gestures to the body on the floor next to her. Chimera just stares at her blankly. “That you’re holding right now?”

The mage looks down at the belt in her hands, as though seeing it for the first time. It’s an ugly beast, its surface a haphazard patchwork of mismatched fur and bare patches of leather, barely held together by a series of square metal buckles that are spotted with rust and age. The more fashion conscious chunk of Eos’ brain (a significant majority) is tempted to run screaming in the opposite direction at the mere sight of it.

“. . . right. I think I will hold onto it, at least for a while. Remember those cannibal cults in New England we’ve been hearing rumors about? I have my suspicions that this guy had at least some connection, and it might be useful to have a physical link for Post-cogging and Scrying if we ever need to investigate that in more detail.

A small pause, then: “Besides, this could come in handy for another project of mine. Didn’t have it fleshed out until we came across this, but it’s given me a sort of . . .” she shrugs vaguely.

“Inspiration?” Eos suggests.

“You could call it that.”                     

                                            The Wendigo Skin

                                     (Rank 5 Fetish, 9 Dot Item)

Medicine Bag O: Stores 10/10 Essence                  

            

Rank 5 Spirit Fetish

Size: 3

Durability: 8

Structure: 8

Spirit: 

Mingan (“Gray Wolf”) – Rank 4 spirit of Degeneration and Hunger (more specifically, cannibalism). In her spirit form, she bears a resemblance to one of the traditional depictions of wendigo: a gaunt and only vaguely humanoid creature so emaciated that her ribs jut out and her bones break through the skin in places. Her limbs appear gnawed on, and while she has human feet and hands, the have long fingers and toes as well as bestial claws. Below her ragged fur, her complexion is a corpselike gray, her eyes are withered and sunk back in their sockets, and she has jagged, elongated teeth.

This particular wendigo spirit is older and mellower than most of her kind; while still relentless, hungry, and savage by nature, she has developed a peculiar sort of temperance, even wisdom as a result of long years and hard experience. If she can be defined as one thing other than hunger, it’s her will to be a survivor. Most similar spirits are short-lived, either ripping each other apart in feeding frenzies and territory disputes, or attracting the wrong sort of attention as a result of the activities they inspire in the mundane world and the negative resonance they generate.

But even Mingan is not immune from such problems. Recently driven from her territory and left crippled by a series of skirmishes with a particularly zealous Hunter, she is in dire need of a safe place to lay low. Chimera approached her with the intent of taking down a spirit who was dangerous to the populace, but was taken aback by Mingan’s complexity and intelligence, unusual for a spirit of her type. Mingan, in turn, sensed the cannibalism aspect of the mage’s Legacy, and interpreted her as a junior and particularly unusual fellow Wendigo. In time, they developed an odd sort of friendship, greatly strained by the fact that by her nature, Mingan was unable to stop perceiving her new friend as food, and had no problem with that fact. While by Chimera’s preference, Mingan tried to hold back in her company unless driven beyond reason beyond hunger, she could see no better way to honor her friend than to make her a part of her.

Eventually, Chimera presented a deal of mutual benefit to both of them: by binding Mingan into a fetish, the spirit would have a much safer life free of bloodbaths with her own kind as well as pursuing hunters, Chimera would gain a powerful magical item, and the two would be able to continue to be around each other without one of them inevitably killing or eating the other. Mingan accepted.

Description:
A large, thick leather and fur girdle that covers the full waist up to mid-stomach when worn, providing minor protection to the lower vital organs. The girdle is rather ugly, the outer leather a haphazard patchwork of fur from various animals and exposed leather, broken up by square metal buckles and chunks of metal. Disturbingly, the flipside of the girdle is lined with dried and withered human skin taken from half a dozen different people.

The fur girdle has been passed around by a long string of serial killers over the decades; the theory is that it originated from a cannibalistic cult somewhere in New England, but that’s currently unsubstantiated. Chimera obtained it while helping Eos and Niko hunt down a serial killer preying on the homeless in San Diego.

Quirks: 

*Minor Quirk: Occasionally inspires feelings of intense hunger in the wearer at certain triggers: raw meat, roadkill, large amounts of blood, badly injured people and creatures, etc., possibly causing the wearer to drool or froth at the mouth. It is not enough to make them actually act on the impulse to eat, but can be unsettling to the user and others who notice.

*Minor Quirk: Reacts with gluttony when touched or handled by someone other than its binder (Chimera), rousing briefly from sleep with the instinctual desire to devour the person; luckily, the fetish greatly restricts the spirit’s ability to actually harm them and mostly just causes psychological discomfort – at first. Examples include noticing the fur bristle as they touch it or sensing a primal “raising of hackles”, as though a predator is fixing its gaze on them.

*Major Quirk:  Linked to the minor quirk above, while the pouch can still technically be used by other people, doing so is likely to frustrate the spirit and cause her to lash out against them unless her hunger is sated by immediate subsequent Chiminages. Mechanically, the spirit becomes outright rebellious much more quickly than normal when handled or used by excessively by people other than Chimera.

Chiminages: Fresh blood and/or flesh from a recent kill (the spirit especially appreciates human meat, but animal or monster meat is also acceptable), being buried in snow or buffeted by cold winds, causing the severe degeneration of a living thing.

Properties: 

*Fast Activation: The fetish is woken reflexively, meaning that you can wake it and use its powers in the same turn. +10

*Influence: Degeneration 3. Strengthen, Manipulate, Control. “Degeneration” here refers to a descent into a worse state of being, mentally or physically, but especially morally. Primarily affects living beings. This influence was chosen for Mingan because of the obvious ties to cannibalism and shedding of moral taboos, and also because the wendigo itself is a physically degenerating being; perpetually starving down to skin and bones no matter how much it eats. +20 (niche influence)

*3 Dot Gift: Predator (Savage Hunt) +30

*3 Dot Gift: Stealth (Running Shadow) +30

Total: +90 points

Restrictions: 

*Extra Cost: Activating the item’s powers costs an Essence. -5

*Chiminage: Fresh blood or blood equivalent once every few weeks - ideally from the target of one of the fetish’s offensive powers, but the perpetually hungry spirit isn’t too picky. -5

Final Cost: Rank 5 fetish. +80 points, or OOO OOO OOO (one for making the item a medicine bag). 3XP.