Quincunx

Game over on the power of hunches. Villagers win. Katzaniel was your seer, Mynx your baner. I do realize that in-character accusations have to be made public if the accused wants to defend him/herself. Did writing in the first-person viewpoint make interaction more difficult? I confess--I put that requirement in as an opportunity to practice using first-person perspective, not only to see if it added a more active tone to the posts. From the game master's perspective of first-person, having two (or more) NPCs available helped greatly, especially when I needed someone on the scene, every scene, to talk about what was happening. If I had only one NPC, I would have picked a "potential wolf" type, under the same restrictions as the characters themselves. If the game had run to a second day, I would have forced Holly to become a rumor mill, carrying lynching opinions from one person to the next. All of the power, none of the peril of being a PC rumor mill. (Tzimfemme nudges Katzaniel re:WW XV and grins.) Although, now that I think about it, IS there any rule against bumping off the game master's minions?

(Duncan Clarke, 00:15) I could have opened that lock hours ago, if everyone would have just gone to sleep like good little murderers. Playing dead is quite boring. Still, they were fun, and I think I’ll leave them a parting gift. Now, how to get that window sheeting to fall inwards, so it doesn’t make noise? . . . (Brenda a.k.a. the Black Widow, 01:30) What a dear boy! He’s unlocked my room, and the doctor’s, and everyone’s! I knew the doctor couldn’t naturally sleep through all that, so I gave her an extra pill or two. Rubbed her throat like a cat, and down they went! All of us deserve a good night’s sleep after this terrible evening. (Brenda a.k.a. the Black Widow, 02:00) I’m certain the doctor won’t mind if I take a spare uniform with me. I do mind that Duncan took most of the non-perishable food, but he was kind enough to leave the can opener for me. I had to swallow my aspirin dry. My poor nose, I think Holly broke it! (Dispatcher, 15:45, two days later) “If you are calling for an ambulance, press one. If you are calling for a fire truck, press two. If you are calling for a police cruiser, press three. If you require immediate assistance, please stay on the line. Hello.” “Why haven’t the newspapers reported the Black Widow’s parole! I just saw her walking down the street, brazen as day and making eyes at my Rupert!!!!” “I’m sure the message was just lost in transit, ma’am. Let me check. . . .Oh my. When was this exactly?” “It’s happening right now!!! Get someone over here and make her stop!” “We’ll trace your address and send police over right away. Please stay on the line. –click- Dispatch two cars to the address on line one, and four to the Sand Harbor Rehabilitation Facility IMMEDIATELY.” (Duncan Clarke, 17:30) ”Breaking news. Eight bodies have been found at the old Starshine Motor Inn. Preliminary reports indicate all died of an overdose of sleeping pills—” “—possibly part of a suicide pact,” I grinned back at the television screen stuck in the corner of the bus terminal. It’s a crock and a cover-up, but it counts—I started it, after all. Puts me over the fifty mark, no matter how it’s counted. I wonder if the Guinness Book of World Records takes anonymous submissions.

(Holly Lin, 21:30) “I didn’t get the cancellation notice for ‘once a cop, always a cop’,” I heard Duncan say. He’d been talking for hours and the human herd had stopped taking notice, so I had also. Even Thomas had disengaged his brain and only nodded at the comments. “You didn’t get that notice either? Still a cop?” Even Tabatha felt that. She woke up in a hurry, crawled out from under the desk, and stared at Thomas, along with the rest of the herd. I looked at other people. Duncan is not looking at me. Jason is not looking at me. Audrey is not looking at me. Brenda might be looking at me. . .no, she is not. Thomas is not part of this herd any longer! “I am a cop,” he said to Duncan. Thomas walked over and told Jason, “I am also a family man. I love my wife.” He moved to Audrey and Jason followed him. “I have a son—” “I’d love to have him too! I’ll even share,” she screeched, and tried to rub up against him. Thomas stepped back; she stepped forward. He pivoted and spoke to me. I didn’t hear him. He was trying to pull me into his herd! I stepped back, back, back until I touched the wall, and then sat down, to show how much I would not join him. He unfolded a paper from his pocket and showed it to Brenda, then spoke to her. She shook her head, sat down; he looked at the picture, frowned. Duncan put his chin on his hand, grinned, and drawled out a rude phrase. Thomas turned away from me and the others crowded around his back; I slipped under Dr. Ligeia’s desk while their backs were turned. Thomas pointed at Duncan, spoke words, and seemed to grow. No. He did grow. He grew fur, claws, muscles. Duncan stopped grinning and vaulted over the back of the couch, ducking down. The—thing—tore through the couch after him, flinging stuffing, springs, and steel tubing behind it. Audrey grabbed a bent length of pipe and flung herself through the rip, shouting, while Tabatha knelt down and sorted through the springs. Brenda ran out of the ring of couches, tried to force her way into my hiding place, but I kept her out of it. I don’t know how. Brenda dripped blood back to her own hiding place. Tabatha stepped on one end of a spring, then stood up and pulled on the other. Jason crept along the edge of the carpet, closer to her. Wait—she just straightened that spring. No child has that kind of strength! She waited in the middle of the room and didn’t move: not when Duncan ran past her in a panic, not when Audrey swung at Duncan’s head, not even when the—thing—leaped and Duncan slipped and fell. All she did was reach out with the straightened length of spring and touch it to what used to be Thomas. (Thomas McKinston, 21:35) Wolf kills all prey! Little prey fights back! Dark angel swings sword? Dark angel talks loud. “I stop you.” (Holly Lin, 21:35) The thing—Tabatha touched it with the spring and it shrunk away. Thomas is lying there again, panting, whole, in a pool of hair and flesh, near Duncan who’s either unconscious or dead. Now she’s tilting her head to the side and reaching out the spring to touch him again. No. She’s going to stab him. Right eye. Left eye. Right shoulder. Left shoulder. Right hip. Left hip. His arm is twitching but I think she’s completely disabled him. She leans over, puts her ear next to his mouth. Audrey grabs Jason by the handle and starts dragging him over to Thomas. Jason tries to snatch Tabatha as she stands and raises the spring again, but she steps back and watches them instead. I do not think I will watch.

(Lissa Tuttle, 18:00, day room) That does it! “So you’re all superior to everyone else, hm?! Well, there’s seven of you here claiming to be the best, and I am amused that none of you regret that. You’re all not good enough, smart enough, powerful enough to live free, and I am astonished that none of you regret that. Only one of you has been powerful enough to kill since you went to prison, and I cannot believe that none of you regret THAT!” I stormed out of there and locked myself into our. . .no. . .my quarters. Jon, I’m so sorry. . .I didn’t have time to dig a grave yet, but the freezer isn’t forever. . . (Holly Lin, 19:30, day room) Dr. Ligeia left some time ago but she has not brought dinner in to us. Duncan has fixed upon Thomas as the nearest thing to an authority figure; it’s a comedy duet, wise aleck and straight man. (20:30) Has she forgotten us? (21:00) Tabatha has curled up and gone to sleep under one of the tables. I believe we should have been put in our cells by now. I wish I were away from this crowd! (Lissa Tuttle, 21:00) I swallowed those sleeping pills ninety minutes ago and they are finally starting to take effect. . . .

(Holly Lin, group therapy, "Regret") The human herd is restless. Brenda is the only one not feeling the restlessness, and wills her pheromones at Duncan. Thomas conceals his wariness well; Tabatha shows more signs of emotion than he. Audrey and Jason are feeding off of each other's restlessness and Dr. Ligeia also. I should leave. Now. "MISS Lin!" Her voice whiplashes. It's only one person but it provokes the herd's temper. "Sit down and contribute!" I sink down. It's only one person and I remembered to compose my reply before the herd's eyes--no! it's only one person who cares-- “Communal, Dynamic, Therapeutic: These are today’s buzzwords. Somewhere at the core of this transfer, a doctoral candidate has said: Let these people be picked from the state’s various social services and placed together to learn from one another. I regret the hours that will be wasted in this approach. My family meant well by placing me here, but I would rather have worked out my grief while completing my field work. Untold gallons of oil per day are leaking into the Gulf of Guinea undocumented, while I sit here and listen to today’s buzzwords. Shameful. Greenpeace needs me more than those buzzing postgraduate flies need their practical credits.” Dr. Ligeia glared at me even after I sat down. This must be her pet project! Her fury is easy to bear, the human herd does not share it. It's only one person. . .Wait. Only one person? Where's the guard from yesterday? No matter how many corners the state may cut, they would never leave us with only one supervisor. She has lied. I imagine that she has already put the guard's body in Jeremy's uniform.

Day Phase begins. Please remember to place OOC votes in this thread. Votes will be tallied and. . .executed 48 hours from this post's time-stamp.

(Lissa Tuttle, 19:00, dispensary) I touched up my makeup before leaving the office, but I’m so disgusted I can barely hold my head upright. It shows, I know it. I’ve spent the last hour hiding in here, unpacking the boxes of medications; we received enough medication for a month for twelve people. Somewhere, four people are going to be without their pills, and a state pharmacist will be audited and fired for something he couldn’t prevent. We’ll scoop that in the next Rhadamanthus. I called Jon over the motel’s intercom. “Please bring everyone here, one by one, and get them into their rooms,” I told him, then dropped my voice, “They’re already posing and preening after matching wits with the doctor and we need to cut that short.” He nodded and I opened up the first set of bottles, then reached for the pill crusher. This patient, luckily, had a prescription necessary for his health, and I could crush the anti-psychotics into that and know he was taking them. If they wanted to know what drugs they were taking, patients have to send a self-addressed stamped envelope and signature to the state—their idea, not mine—and guess what part of the facility always controls access to stamps! (Jon Tuttle, 22:00, perimeter check) I start in the kitchen, cut up meat for the dogs. If they didn’t get meat, they’d get me. But if anyone got out, dogs would get them. Through the secure doors, into the lockdown. Smells like dogs whizzed in here. Where are the dogs? Shine the light, not at this end, not—ROOM ONE IS OPEN! Hinges twisted! Careful. Careful. I have to be extremely careful. Shine the light, nothing, nothing, dead dog. Footprints in the blood and those were not there before. Turn around, nothing. I know how to track, Door Number One left running. Don’t blame him. Hope he didn’t stop. Back to the kitchen, slowly—dogs are growling— Kill it or die. Kill it or die. KILL IT OR DIE. (. . .later. . .) “Lissa? . . .Hurts to. . .breathe. . .Jeremy’s. . .in the freezer. . .I think the freezer’s on me. . .Say something, Lissa. . .Lissa? . . .Werewolves are. . .real. . .” (Lissa Tuttle, 7:00) I can’t face them alone. I can’t face anyone after seeing what died in that freezer. My God, my God. . .Jon! What will I do??? (7:15) If I call the police, either they’ll lock me up for running this place, or they’ll call in the CIA or whoever handles alien autopsies and that sort of thing, and—they’ll lock me up! I can’t let anyone know. (7:30) I ran back to the kitchen and dared to take a closer look at the freezer. There’s one messy footprint in the blood, and half of another, leading away. (7:45) They can have boxed cereal for breakfast. I’m not going back in there. (9:00) Each one wanted to ask questions when the doctor herself let them out of their rooms, but I couldn’t say anything, not until they were all assembled in the day room. I had to put on Dr. Ligeia like a costume. “Jeremy told me yesterday that he felt his life was in danger. I dismissed his concerns and said that I had faith in your sincere desire to reform. I was WRONG.” Yes, I shouted! “We are not SAFE! Jeremy is dead! Someone has taken it into their heads to kill HERE, at THIS facility!” Some heads whipped around at that—good paranoiacs, lap it up! “We will be holding double group therapy today, on Regret and on Recognizing the Standards of Society,” that’ll chafe them, “with later role-play and diagnosis of the standards of THIS society.” I sat down and they didn’t scatter. Hostility is binding them together—good! Go tear each other to pieces, you damned murderers! “Group therapy on Regret will be available from now until noon. I will remain here for group leadership and grief counseling.”

(Jeremy LaVaughn, group therapy, “Distinguishing the Real?”) Tonight, the full moon’s tonight, coming to take my life tonight. I shouldn’t say that out loud, the doctors tell me it’s not true so I know no one will believe me. . .they’re staring. . .I did say it out loud. Oh hell, you all don’t believe me, and you shouldn’t have to either. The doctor nodded. Now, what did she say was the next step? Present evidence. Life is one big ongoing trial but here you always speak to the jury. All I know is that when I gave the moon what it wanted, I was a free man, and now I’ve been caged up for years. I’ve been getting sicker lately, my hair is starting to fall out. You see the spot on top of my head, right? Now I bend my neck and show them. Yeah. That’s real. Now for the passionate appeal. The moon’s sucking the life right out of my head. What happened to the good old days, when some people were too evil to live? Why can’t I use them?!?! Why! Why! What the—Stop that!—Let me go!— Oops. I’d better spit that out. I’ve seen lawyers foam and rave but trials are touch football. No tackling allowed. I’m sorry, I can’t help myself. When I get frustrated, I chew stuff. If they let me have gum, I wouldn’t have gnawed on you.

That was swift, Patrick. I was trying to arrange it so you wouldn't have to post 'til week's end. *knocks on wood, for luck on your finals* I promise to give you no more excuses to not study. You can interview with Dr. Tuttle or mingle in the day room. There won't be time to have everyone interview and have Dr. Tuttle respond so be sure to transport yourself out of the room after you're done.

(Jon Tuttle, 12:30) They arrived early. Lissa sent me out to the van. I'm putting them all in the day room first, isn't in the script but it's too hot to keep people in the van during interviews. That's what we say. The real reason is we have to get them inside while we have the extra guards handy. Two men first, both in the prison grays but wearing them like opposites. Mr. Uniform stares at me like I'm staring at him, cool and collected, but Mr. Undershirt and Sweatpants says "Good eeevehening, Igor" and bows to me. Then a woman alone, laughing like a hyena and with enough guards for two. I smell hot vomit, sweat when the guards swing her out of the van. The first guards come back out, fetch--a kid? Lissa's going to be angry. The second guards come back out and bring out two more women. One of them smiles at the other's guard, but he scowls back at her; I smell that stink again. The other woman stares at the boarded-up windows and I can see the complaint letter forming in her head. The first guards come back out and empty the van, two more men, both middle-aged and half-bald. Mr. Clean-shaven is walking as far away as he can get from Mr. Bearded, who's got a long wet streak going down one pants leg. New stink. I follow them all inside. Lissa speaks over the intercom: Thomas McKinston! She's starting with the easy one. I pick out Mr. Uniform and guide him to what used to be the manager's office.

Start arriving as you wish, in your own vans or with others. If there's time in the free RP phase, I'll toss in the first group therapy topic, but until then you will have a brief interview, then be escorted into the day room to mingle (under Jon's supervision).

(Lissa Tuttle, 10:00, waiting for the inmates to arrive) I wish we’d gotten the handymen out of here sooner, we’ve only got three hours before the van arrives! One of the lamps shattered when Jon tried to wrench it off the table! The base stayed in place, because we superglued it, but all of those plastic chips and wires—probably would look like a thousand knives to those murderers. Thank God that he wanted to check one last time to see that everything was secure! I vacuumed three times while he glued a coffee can over the base and soldered the light bulb fixture into place; I’ll have to sit by this lamp while I interview the psychos, there’s no way that glue will have set by then. Put the case files in front of it so they can’t see the broken base, that’ll buy us some time—My God, it’ll be just me and Jon in the room with one of them; he’ll be too far away to help if one of them decides to just reach over and snap my neck! (Jon Tuttle, 10:00, waiting for the inmates to arrive) Perimeter check. Think professional. That sheet’s solid, I could hit it full-force and it wouldn’t come loose. I cut them out of old station wagons, they didn’t crumple in rollovers so they should hold here. We’ll get written up for boarding up the windows, Lissa said, but no glass! I agree. They don’t need windows. Go inside, to the kitchen. Couldn’t secure it so we moved ourselves into the conference hall—shame we couldn’t use that for the day room though. Through our rooms, through the secure doors, into the lockdown. Dogs angry. Don’t like being cooped up indoors, tough luck fellas, even Old Yeller’s kid woulda shot you by now. Odd-numbered doors on the right, even on the left. This is it. This is the murderer’s row. Lissa’s got the front end of the motel under control, the day room and dispensary—that was convenient, check-in desk already had a safe. Think professional. Look professional. Put these cards up over the doors, nobody ever looks that high unless they want to. . . Room 1: Jeremy LaVaughn (NPC) – ignore all night-time requests Room 3: Audrey DeLance (Celes Crusader) – spoons only, always supervise with others Room 5: Thomas McKinston (Patrick Durham) – receives visitors, search afterwards Room 7: Tabatha Johnson (Mynx) – spoons only, check hourly at night Room 9: Duncan Clarke (Venefyxatu) – no outside communications Room 11: Brenda X (Sweetcherrie) – supervise her medication, search frequently Room 15: Jason Ulmer (Katzaniel) – no outside communications, separate from Tabatha Room 17: Holly Lin (NPC) – supervise her medication, always supervise with others (10:45, Lissa Tuttle) "I know it should be a patch and not a badge," I told him while I pinned it on, "but the embroidery shop didn't have anything appropriate in stock. It's soft metal though, they can't make anything out of it." He knew I was lying--Rhadamanthus summer '90, Artificial Keys, was our first success--but he nodded and said, "Makes me look more menacing?" "Completely," and it did, not nearly so much as not shaving for five days had, but it was the right finishing touch; Dr. Tuttle always wears soft colors and fabrics to treat the patients as equals, but her security guard looks like a bruiser for whom pay is an afterthought--even his wrinkles scowled. "You don't have to use the Me Tarzan voice just yet, though!" "Me Tarzan. Me professional. Me smash heads together!" he rumbled, waving his nightstick. I couldn't help laughing! He grabbed hold of my shoulders and dear God, that was a frightening grip, I stopped laughing right away. Then he smiled, "This is good. You can still laugh, and I can frighten you out of it. We'll be fine. The state will send extra personnel after two weeks, and then we can settle back and be. . .administrators. Dr. Tuttle, you always were an administrator. If they get unruly, that's when they'll have to answer to me."

Holly Lin, Asiatic female, 26, widowed. Admitted February 2005. On four separate occasions, murdered people with her bare hands in the midst of a crowd (marriage, two funerals, shopping mall). Family paid blood-money to hush up the first three incidents but she was arrested at the fourth, public venue. Plea bargained for 10 years’ imprisonment. Assessment of the state: Patient suffers from a peculiarly violent panic disorder. In her interview, professed a love of large social gatherings but nonverbal signals did not agree. Further questions revealed that at such gatherings she initially had panic attacks but felt suddenly “free” and enjoyed the euphoria. She appears to have no memory of attacking other people or latent hostility towards them, perhaps a fugue state? Strongly recommend that she be sedated before initial group therapy sessions; re-evaluate at six months.

Jeremy LaVaughn, Caucasian male, 44, separated. Admitted November 1999. 27 murders, of no particular group, spread out in clusters of three to four murders in a week, over twenty-one years. Turned himself in after triple slaying of an 8-year-old girl and her parents, claiming that the girl was “impure” and the parents ought to have been monitored by the law. Convicted and sentenced to more-than-life imprisonment. Assessment of the state: Patient suffers from schizophreniform disorder. Complains of delusions (mark: patient realizes these are delusions but feels “powerless” to resist) of paranormal powers and a compulsion to ‘feed’ these powers by human sacrifice. Has had one schizophrenic episode while in this facility, three years and one month after admission—bent ½” thick metal reinforcement bars and assaulted another patient with his filed incisors. Patient has since had his teeth capped.

From the ‘Rhadamanthus’ newsletter, Summer 2004, by Harold Hanrahan: Spotlight on--Dr. Ligeia Tuttle B.S. Health Administration, Penn State, 1977; Doctor of Psychology, Penn State, 1985. Dr. Tuttle is a twelve-year veteran of the Sand Harbor Rehabilitation Facility, and has served as supervising psychiatrist for seven years. Under her leadership, Sand Harbor’s release rate skyrocketed from under 10 percent to over 40 percent within five years, while re-admissions decreased by half. She pioneered the Executive Interface medical management program and travels around the tri-state region teaching the method, as well as continuing to perform entrance and exit interviews with all patients. Among her most prestigious awards are the Liebniz fellowship (1998) and nomination for the Everburning Candle lifetime achievement award (2003). She and her husband, Jon, have no children. Lissa and Jon Tuttle were successful copy-writers and small publishers, but they were best at writing fiction. Jon, a.k.a. Harold Hanrahan, began printing ‘Rhadamanthus: Today’s Correctional Outlook’ in 1989 and distributed it free of charge to minor bureaucrats in the state’s prison system. After a few years, Lissa put on a three-piece suit and a ‘classical’ name with title, then lectured to the not-so-minor bureaucrats and secured small grants for the new, as-yet-unbuilt Sand Harbor Rehabilitation Facility. They lived comfortably on grant money until earlier this year, when the state decided to transfer several of its most dangerous, unresponsive inmates to Sand Harbor. The Tuttles quickly rented a run-down motel, reversed and reinforced the door locks, bolted all the motel furniture to the floor, and made every possible preparation to avoid telling the truth.

—WARNING—This thread contains pseudo-psychological babble, inaccuracies, generalizations, and other elements which will offend you if you are sensitive to psychological labeling. If you are inclined to judge horror flicks as documentaries, don’t read this either. Welcome to Werewolf XXI - Serial Killers! The prison system is a mite overcrowded, so the lodgings are unconventional. . . For this OOC thread, provide name and description, timetable and outline of convictions (and crimes you concealed from the authorities, if you like), and pseudo-psychiatric assessment. A reminder—serial killers have reasons. Some of you might want to kill everyone and everything—others may have no reason to slay anyone within the facility. Some of you might be convinced of your own innocence. . .but that should not go in “my character believes” in OOC, unlike most threads, because. . . . . .in-character posts will be in the first person! Sample sentences/grammar refresher: “I lifted the file cabinet off of my foot but I never felt pain.” “She laughed at me!” “What we say should happen, happens.” “Someone took our tablets and gave us different ones, but in the same bottle.” “Nothing is ours.” This frees us all to make monologues from our individual, insane viewpoints without awkward writing. (Third-person omniscient view, when you’re supposed to be controlling only one character, stretches credibility and the pace of the thread.) NO OOC in IC thread. This includes OOC accusations—accusations will be excised and placed in OOC thread. I foresee some intense posting in the IC thread and nothing would spoil the atmosphere quicker than a matter-of-fact OOC line. I’ll announce the turning of phases here, also. You will be assigned rooms in the order in which you sign up, and can have PM alliances with the person before and after your post, as your rooms will be adjacent and you can drum on the walls, shove notes into the vents, etc. Anything else that occurs will happen in the ‘day room’ and will be visible to all, hence in the IC thread. Monday and Tuesday: Day. Wednesday: Night. Thursday and Friday: Day. Saturday and Sunday: Night. Katzaniel perfected this timeline and I like it. IC thread opens on Monday, June 6; characters accepted until Wednesday, June 8.

~Tanaquil~ –OUT OF PLAY– A splinter of Rosemary, a proud and aristocratic druid with liquid brown eyes. She seized power from another green mage and intended to take her lands also until the Armageddon hunters discovered why the first mage was so weak. Furious, she fled with only a fig from her treant-numina hidden in her pocket. Tanaquil is an animist and a haggler who will give anything to the numinae, the world’s spirits, so long as she doesn’t have to give of herself. Anthem, RP’d Backstory Fun!, collaborative story

~Sossity~ –OUT OF PLAY– An untraceable splinter, partially a gift from Orlan. She lived in a repressive era, and while her town knew nothing, they suspected much: What happened to lonely Sossity, When she went for a walk in the wood? By day she takes tea with the Unicorn Queen, By night she cries ‘neath her hood. What happened to wicked Sossity, When the beast drank her baby’s blood? She was swept from the earth and was not again seen, Remember, young girls, to be good. It wasn’t true. She had miscarried, and buried the illegitimate corpse where it had been conceived, when the wood burst into flame. How that brought her to here, she never knew, but knew that the exchange had cost her any chance at husband and children. Sossity dressed in loose-fitting white shifts, gloves, and shoes, and hid her red hair under a broad-brimmed white hat; she eked out a living raising chimeras, war falcons, and other unruly flying creatures. Secretly, she trained her prize chimeras to shadow Archmage widows and other people not meant to stumble into this hazardous world, ‘unicorns’ as she called them. Sossity’s voice was rough, quiet, and riddled with uneducated grammar and dropped letters; she directed the creatures with a whirling device made from a unicorn’s horn and a length of pink ribbon. As the unicorns lost their purity, Sossity became more and more still with grief; to this day she is fossilized in white marble, a statue at the border between the Pen and reality. If I may. . ., Pen application

~Serafima~ / ~Serafima Vassilivna~ A splinter of Rosemary, a falcon shape-shifter (pyeryem in her own language). Daughter of a respected but failing pyeryem and a business-savvy social climber, she introduced trained Eastern falcons into the courts of Théa, giving them to royalty, and amassed a fortune when everyone rushed to copy their rulers’ newest hobby. Serafima herself is ugly, tiny with a beaklike nose and close-set eyes, but offsets her looks with aristocratic bearing and expensive furs; she dines well but eats little, mostly meat and wine, rises before the sun and only owns lamps, never candles. Among the courts of the West, she does not reveal her magical blood and pretends to be merely a dissolute, bored breeder of falcons; her favorite trick is to shape-shift, be delivered to someone as a gift, eavesdrop for a few days, then swap a true falcon in for herself and make use of the recipient’s secrets. At home, she is partly reviled for being newly rich, and partly revered for her mastery of the art; the overseers are careful to be kind for the months she stays home, never dare to steal a single pelt from her hunts, and abuse her peasantry and lands for the rest of the year—yet anyone who kills a falcon, she slays. That is the law. Inheritance, short story Seranil, the Lyre of Deception, contest entry

~Eveline~ –OUT OF PLAY– A splinter of Rydia, a modern-day pyrokinetic descended from the boy who brought Sossity to grief. Shy and humble, she had been biking home from the day college through the wood—yes, that wood—and the magical fire claimed her. She hopes to return to Gravel Hill someday, but for now studies her new magical textbooks quietly, living in the middle floor of a tenement. Eveline is so unskilled that she needs to use a portable tin magic circle to focus her powers, even to light so little as a candle, unless she is somewhere where a misplaced fire won’t hurt anything. Turi’s Application, collaborative story

~Dr Tzimfemmestien~ A splinter of Tzimfemme, a gift from alphabet. Pronounced “Zim-fem-steen” and with many other references to every bad mad scientist movie ever made, the mad Doctor operated the MPD-O-Matic, the cloning tanks on IRC, and any switch she could lay her hands on during the Archmage era. She made five clones from celebrities of the channels, which clung to life/operation for awhile (Starlight’s clone hatched as a ‘bot) until Minta zombified the lot during the TAG! Game of 2004. Dr. Tzimfemmestien wore a cocktail-dress-cut lab coat—just the lab coat—and she styled her hair by sticking her finger in the nearest electrical outlet. After the grand mess at Challenge X, where the Pen stormed and held the stage at the Tavern of the Morning Rose, the MPD-O-Matic broke down past fixing. Nowadays Dr. Tzimfemmestien rarely asserts herself out of Tzimfemme. Pretty Purple X, collaborative story Someone tell the damn Loremaster, short story (Orlan)

~Other Characters~ With the move to the Pen and the subsequent stability post-Four of the Quincunx, the quincunx stopped its feverish generation of new personae. Only a few of the previous dozens, all human females, had gained enough detail to be classified. (The only non-humanoid, The Shrike, is on permanent loan to Degenero Angelus--part of an experiment in playing other people's characters.)

The body in the cart brushed the white powder from most of herself, then rose slowly to her feet. She had left powder enough to conceal her nakedness, but not by much. Her only adornment was a long strip of fabric knotted around her head. From the ends of this strip she untied a transparent flask and a scroll, reading the one and presenting the other to the goggle-eyed Rydia. "Tzimfemme!" Rydia gasped, diverting her concentration from the Statis Field, "what happened to you--what happened to your clothes?!" Tzimfemme ignored the question, tilting her head towards her former apprentice. She stepped down from the vehicle and began walking slowly along the street, pausing to chat with peasants, knights, and research mages. Knight Squadrons S-A, S-L, I-C, and Z-D, all male, simply gawped at her, so she moved on to speak to the female squadrons. The amazons, young girls of Squadron S-T, nodded and chirped answers to her questions. "Yes, yes, here, she's here, she had it, in here, mirror in here, she's mirrored, she is!" they said severally, pushing Rosemary forward. Minta bullied her way through the amazons and caught up with Rosemary as Tzimfemme questioned her. "Now, then," Tzimfemme began, "how did you know that moonlight would break through the cocoon?" Rydia shrieked, "You! Purple-haired one! I told you to stay away!" She ran up to Minta and seized her by the arm. "I really don't have time for this!" As she mentioned 'time', the Temporal Statis Field wavered. Minta's dodge occurred doubly quickly, and she broke free. "I am as the moon is, as you are--pale," explained Rosemary, tracing around Tzimfemme's head with both hands. Rydia gritted her teeth and set the Statis Field back in place, then slowly advanced on Minta, who stared her down with chubby hands firmly placed on her hips. Tzimfemme inquired, "Auras? Archmages can't see auras. Sometimes I almost can. . ." Minta stepped slowly backwards, bumping into Rosemary, as Rydia advanced. Rydia looked at the cornered girl and said, "You are far, far too stubborn for your own good." "Much like yourself, when you were mortal," Tzimfemme interjected. She turned her attention to Minta. "Persistence pays off, especially in an archmage. Tell me what was so important that you would disrupt this entire ceremony." "I wanted to know if you knew anything about her," replied Minta, pointing at Rosemary. Rosemary tried hard to melt into the crowd, but Tzimfemme watched her too persistently. "Of course I do," said Tzimfemme, "she and I are of similar stock. Mind you, I was an archmage before I became a night creature. She can't ever be an archmage now, although she would be a good assistant. "Now this girl here, this wild talent, could be. In fact, I think she should be. Take her on as an apprentice, Rydia, and you shall graduate from having that title. As as for you. . ." "Minta," supplied Minta. "Minta, you are now the apprentice of the archmage Rydia. I want you to take this girl Rosemary as your assistant; her innate kindness will balance your aggressiveness. I must add, though, that she will only be able to help you with one sort of magic." Rydia denied, "There's no way that I can train her to be a nether mage! I don't even know the spells myself!" Rosemary cut into Rydia's protests. "Dark is as we are, as we are as they. This is dark, this is dark, this is dark (pointing at everything in turn). You want to be dark as dark is, or dark so dark will not be?" She took out her wooden disks and rearranged them as the others watched, spelling out "BRIGHT" one one side and "DARK" on the other. Taking Minta's hands in her own, she placed one between the words and the other near "DARK", adding, "Contain it." Minta clapped her hands together, distorting the row and destroying the word. The End

The next night, Rydia rode the circuit of the realm one last time, making sure that the dryads' Double Time still held. They giggled maniacally, the spell driving them to hyperactivity. Yet it would be needed to secure the borders while the Field was in effect. She spurred her pegasus, which rose and deposited her in the center of her realm. Never before had she tried to envelop the entire realm in a single spell outside her specialty. Rydia wanted to make sure, however, that her mentor should find the place as homelike as possible. If that meant slowing down the entire realm for a night, so be it. She twitched her whip at the twelve points of the clock-face, and the Temporal Statis Field settled upon the lands. Feet lifted slowly, words blurred, blinks took an eternity; only the dryads were keyed to the time the rest of Terra still used. The young girl who had been dashing into Rydia's court could not handle the change of pace; she stumbled and slowly tumbled to the floor nose-first. Rydia's earrings rose and fell like waves as she turned her head to address the distraction. "Ryyydddiiaaa," said Minta, then stopped and assessed her lengthened words with surprise. She thought for a few seconds, brightened, and blurted out the rest of her speech. It came at normal talking speed. "There's a weird new girl here. She came when Dora moved away, and now I don't know what to tell her. Can you help us?" "No," snapped Rydia, "I don't have the time! My mentor is coming here tonight and I have enough to handle. Now hurry! You're supposed to be at the welcoming ceremony." "But--" Minta began, but the archangel Cecil hustled her out and into a squadron of cheering peasants. She wriggled her way free of the crowd and ran back to the sheepfold. Rosemary had already awakened; three sheep had mangled ears. She finished off the fourth and explained, "I am not as I was, so I will be where bright is and not be pale as pale is." "You are not. . .what were you before?" decoded Minta. "Hungry, I guess? Doesn't matter. Rydia agreed to show us," she lied, "to another mage who knows a lot." They had much more difficulty getting through the crowd than before. From the harbor towns of Terra came a large white cocoon on a wagon. It filed past the peasants, who gaped at it while Minta and Rosemary joined the honor guard of young amazons. Rydia stepped forward to greet the procession, then looked with puzzlement at the cocoon. She rapped on it with the butt of her whip, but nothing responded. She tried casting Holy Light on it, but the spell rebounded and burned the nearby knights of Squadron S-A. Rosemary took out her mirror and held it high above her head. Turning it this way and that, she caught the moonlight and reflected it onto the cocoon. She held the light steady as the white substance disintegrated, and the powdery form within stretched and awakened. To Be Continued. . .

Rosemary collected the disks and replaced them in her pouch, wrist bells tinkling. She stood up and looked at the sky, then at the setting moon. "It is dark," she observed, "but that like this (pulling out a silver mirror) there (pointing at the sky) is going. This is as that is." Finally Minta understood. "Yeah, it's nighttime. . .Uh-oh!" she said, looking at the moon and yawning. "I stayed up way too late! Mom's really going to be angry! How come you're not tired?" "I am as dark is, not as bright is. I am pale. Pale is bright in the dark, but pale is not as bright is. You are bright. Bright in bright, bright in dark. You see bright and don't hurt." Rosemary smiled sadly, exposing the overlong canine teeth set in her upper jaw. The mage guilds had trained religion out of Maralinda, but she jumped anyway. "You're a vampire!" she gasped. "Don't hurt me! Go away!" "I don't hurt," explained Rosemary, suddenly taking Minta's arm and gesturing wildly with her free hand. "Those that hurt, those like I am doing, those. . .those. . ." Minta blurted "Words!" while trying to free herself from Rosemary's powerful grip. "Those. Those that hurt have been eaten. They are not mine. I am not theirs. They are dark, and I am not dark. Pale is not as dark is," Rosemary emphasized. "They who are as pale is, are as dark is; they who are of mine are not." Minta took a deep breath, then sighed forcefully. "Okay. Okay. You're not dark, whatever that is. I don't think you want to remember. Okay," she repeated, as Rosemary released her arm and sniffed her way over to the sheepfold. She sat on the fence again and wrinkled up her brow in thought. "So we have to find you someplace to sleep during the day. . .and we better ask whatshername, the mage who rules here, what to do--" She broke off abruptly and stared at the sleeping sheep. Four now had slight bloody wounds on their ears, and Rosemary was calming a fifth. It looked even more confused than usual as she nipped its earlobe and licked off the welling blood. "They walk. They are as they were," she told Minta, slapping the rump of one of the wounded sheep. Aside from its puzzled expression, it moved normally. Minta got off the fence and began walking towards the cottage, but Rosemary halted her. "Don't tell them, they aren't pale," she cried. "One hundred moons, and bright can't think as pale thinks." She looked toward the roofed section of the sheepfold, where the lambs were kept. Minta nodded, and Rosemary climbed up the poles and nestled in the thatch. "Tomorrow night," Minta told her, "I'll get the mage to do something, okay?" She turned her back and went back to her own bed. In sleep, she dreamed of capricious mage rulers, voracious wild beasts, corrupted undead, and the young vampire who walked fearlessly among all of them. To Be Continued. . .