Willard Buss: Re-Training

Willard exchanged greetings with his psychologist, Mrs. Marian Lopez-Floria. Today he decided to forgo the comfort of the sofa and instead chose one of the chairs that let him sit upright.

After getting settled, Marian asked, "How have you been, Willard?"

He took a moment to consider his answer, then he said, "Getting used to the new normal, I guess. How about yourself?"

"Fine. Thank you for asking." The psychologist paused to assess Mr. Buss. "The new normal? You've told me a little about the past few months but has something else happen since our last session?"

"Actually, yes.” He paused and offered the courtesy, “If you don't mind?"

 "Please."

"I was boarding a train with someone close to me."

The psychologist interrupted, "Sorry. Are you comfortable telling me who?"

"I...I honestly can’t say."

"It’s all right, Mr. Buss. Please, continue."

"Of course. We sat down together. Against my better judgment offered to take the aisle seat..."

—


Trains are one of the things that I have not got accustomed to staying in a large city. There a never-ending flow of people getting on and off them, and people pack themselves tightly into small spaces that already appears ready to burst. Then the train moves on only to stop once more and slide open its doors for even more people to press themselves in. I try to remind myself that I am not someone to so easily succumb to phobias. With the research I have been working on in the lab the past few months, one would think being surrounded by people would be the last of my worries. I had to admit that the crush of people around me had given me an uneasy feeling.  The feeling made me progressively less settled, yet more people crowded aboard from the subway platform.

Of course, my companion did not seem to give the first thought to the mass of people. At least, there was no outward display of concern. They sat and stared out through the paneled glass of the train car at nothing in particular. Having the familiar face beside me brought a little bit of needed comfort. If only I could be so divorced from the situation as they. At that moment I wished I'd taken Berg's advice about going to see a psychologist. He said on occasion if the work bothered me so damn much maybe I should see a shrink. Despite the unpleasant delivery of his counsel, it was, after all, sound advice. Instead, I have to resort to practicing guided meditation delivered to me by a recorded Australian voice on a subscription-based phone app. I'd feasibly be better off if I canceled the premium service, but it offered a distraction.


Just thinking about the ridiculous app offered its own distraction, but the uneasy feeling returned as the moment passed. It had been several minutes, but people were still boarding the train. The damn thing should have been full and moving by now. I looked out onto the platform. It was as crowded now as it was before we first stopped. People continued to board even though I could not understand how. The train was full, and no one had gotten off. To mollify my curiosity, I stood up to look. That is when I discover that the source of my uneasiness was not claustrophobia. It was something else entirely.  I can not describe it any better than it was darkness. I could only see the edges of the shadows forming beyond the mash of people. It sat barely outside of my vision, but I could perceive it moved closer and closer towards the two of us. The train's passengers simply meandered forward into its enveloping shadow. I tried to grab a nearby passenger, but they slipped through my grasp and continued steadily forward. I looked again at the front of the train; the darkness had moved closer. A notion began to tug at my mind to join the other passengers. I was able to compose myself enough to ignore the urge. Fighting the urge I sat down instead, but it did nothing to ease my panic. I could not stay here when it was all I could do to sit here and not run headlong to my fate. Doing so would certainly put an end to the pain of my fear.


I looked over to my companion who had joined me on the train. The man continued to stare off through the glass panel of the train oblivious to the danger. I reached out and shook his arm doing anything I could think of to get his attention. I was desperate because I knew that he had to leave before it was too late.

—


Willard winced from a headache he hadn’t noticed before.

The Psychologist cut in with a concern expression and said, "I can understand why you would find this upsetting. Are you okay to continue telling me about your dream?”

Willard took a moment to regain his composure as the pain passed. He said, “Sorry, where was I. Oh, right. I sat down and in the window seat...”

—


The thing that I have grown to love about living in New York is the train. For some odd reason, I find the lights of the subway relaxing. Watching the lights fell almost hypnotic in a way. I know I can send for a car and it'd probably be safer. Since I joined the Contingent, something like a robbery seems trivial. I guess I have become more adventures. There was only one other passenger on the train this morning anyway. And, there were the lights.

On queue with that though, my phone rang.

I answered and said hello. There was a lot of static, but I was surprised I had a signal at all. It was hard to understand what they were trying to say. It made sense with the train being underground. I tried to cope with the static in case it was important. I struggled to understand and responded, "No. I'm not Steve." The caller sounded persistent. I tried to explain that I couldn't understand.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something move. Not the corner of my eye; words were scrawled all over the inside of the train. They were unintelligible and the harder I focus on them less sense they made. I was starting to panic because I was seeing ghosts. We've been having these sessions regularly which helped, and I’ve been practicing my meditation at the behest of Gabrielle. I closed my eyes and started my breathing technique.

No sooner than I got them closed someone or some grabbed hold of my arm. It startled me something serious considering the only other person onboard was sound asleep at the opposite end of the compartment. Then I remembered I hadn’t boarded the train alone. I opened my eyes and saw a face etched with panic sitting. I saw my face. It was only then that I recognized the voice on the phone was mine. The person wearing my face started speaking in the same panicked voice from my phone.

"Listen. The Silver Ibis project was created to keep me...you safe." the voice pause, "You need to stand up. You need to head to the nearest exit. You have to leave this place. You have to forget." Their voice broke as they said, "You have to forget what happened here and never look back." They recovered their composure and finished, "Willard Buss, you have an appointment to keep."

—


A puzzled look crossed the Psychologist's face. The expression replaced her usual pleasant blandly expression. She waited a moment to give Willard a chance to continue before finally saying, "That, uh, there is a lot to unpack. Let us start with how you felt after having the dream?"

Willard stood suddenly. He said, "I have to go. I'm sorry.” In a very mechanical sounding voice, he said, “I have an appointment to keep."

Despite his psychologist's protests Willard got up from his seat and left her office.

Morgan Roberts—"Digging Your own Grave"

Journal Entry for Mysterious Tavern Campaign

After a few months break, the mysterious tavern has started up once again. A lot changed at the end of the last arc. and a lot has stayed the same. The Lich was defeated by the makeshift party, we freed lady Aimee from her centuries-old imprisonment in the ruby ring. Unfortunately, The lich wasn't destroyed completely and she escaped with little Lucy. Morgan reveals his feelings to Ichabod but not long into their journey they are separated after she was caught up in a magical portal. The remainder of the party has to continue on its journey with few clues and fewer options.

He had been digging for a while in the spot where the woman had been before she disappeared. The soil was cold and damp as it clung to Morgan's hands, face and the tunic he wore over his chain shirt.  Most of the grime that covered his muscular form were provided by the oversized fox that had recently joined them on their fool's errand. The smell of the musty unearthed soil put Morgan on edge because of his recent dreams, but desperation had a hold of him, and he couldn't imagine that he could stop knowing this was the last place she was before she disappeared. Even in the pirate's innermost thoughts, it was difficult to form the syllables of the sorceress's name. He had spent a great deal of his life cultivating his disdain for people who possessed magic. It pained him that he couldn't rid himself of his old animosity for the people he cared for; not Antoinette; not Lucy; and not her. He asked himself was his current efforts because he cared about them or an attempt to compensate for the guilt.

In short order—or maybe after a very long time, he was unable to recall just now—the little hole had become a small burrow in the corner of the cave room. The shaft descended beneath the floor at a sharp angle, still far enough to leave Morgan turban deep into the pit. As the hole expanded, Morgan tried to chase off the thought that his concern for Antoinette and Aimee were afterthoughts, a deception to convince himself that it wasn't insanity over the dark haired woman that gripped him.

He paused a moment mindlessly mixing the dirt on his hands with that on his leather leggings in a futile attempt to clean away the worse of the mud. His thoughts nagged at him as he again busied himself with his task. That the task was his duty wasn't at all true, wasn't even a worthwhile endeavor. Morgan figured if he thought it long enough it might become true enough for him to believe. It was a pleasant lie to himself as opposed to considering the similarities of his situation to his fathers.

Creeping up from its hiding place in the back of Morgan's mind came one of Ghalib sharp barbs delivered in his father's annoyingly amused raspy voice. "O'course it be an idjut like ye t'be diggin' y'own grave pursuin' a witch cunt ye sweet on."

Before he could start in on dear old dad's imaginary voice, he was thrown suddenly backward. Snapped out of his reverie, he realized he was being pulled by the scruff of his neck up and out of his recent excavation. Too exhausted to fend off whatever had likely made a snack of the halfling before sneaking up on him, he was dragged helplessly up and out of the small pit by the creature. The beast panted quietly, despite what appeared to be little effort on its part. His own breathing was still labored from his previous efforts, and he lay helpless and weary on his back awaiting his fate.

Moments later, two heads crowded his vision, one of a halfling, Vira or something like that, other of a fox, it had a silly name he'd failed to remember. They started telling him something, but it was drowned out by the sound of falling dirt and stone collapsing nearby and the gravelly mound of dirt he was pulled onto was distractingly comfortable as well.

SW Age of Rebellion—Taraest Marlov

Character created for the quarterly Semi-Organized Play Starwars Firestorm.

Species: Human	Gender: Female
Age: 28	Height: 180 cm	Build: Bulky
Hair: Blond	Eyes: Green
Notable Feature: Speaks with a heavy accented
Career: Engineer	Specializations: Saboteur
Duty: Support
Motivation: Quest
Thrill. PC seeks out thrills and dangers, and war has it in great supply.

Background

Taraest Marlov was born on her families farm on Lathol, one of two daughters and the youngest of all six siblings. She enjoyed helping her father when he repaired the equipment around the farm when she wasn’t rough-housing with the boys or other choirs around the farm. When her father heard news of the Empire seizing farmland, he sold their land to a neighbor who thought to ride it out. Their neighbor had been eyeing the property for years and paid enough for one of them to relocate to Garel. Her father made the decision to stay, sending off with the promise he would earn the money and soon re-join them. It was a promise he would never keep, soon after they left, he was shipped off to a resettlement camp where he would later die.

Despite being a frequented spaceport, Garel suffered economically under the Empire. In Taraest time on Garel, she demonstrated that what lacked in formal education she more than made up for with natural talent, tenacity, and questionable behavior. The aging spaceports became a nearly endless supply of old and broken electronic equipment for Taraest to hone her skills with computers and other mechanical equipment. Within several years she became proficient at creating and repairing things out of spare as well as dismantling valuable bits of technology. Unfortunately, the owners of said equipment were less than approving. Her crimes eventually caught up with her after she fell in with a group of thugs claiming they acted in support of the rebellion. She didn’t particularly care if they were or not; they were stealing, causing wanton destruction, and managing to stay one step ahead of trouble. That suited her just fine.

The gang eventual stirred up a loth-rat nest after rigging a transport ship to explode. It galled the local Imperial forces; they hunted down the entire group, and the survivors hauled in for questioning. The Empire likely intended to coerce a confession out of the would-be freedom fighters before putting put them to death. They would have if they hadn’t also drawn the attention of the actual rebel forces operating in the sector. A rebel agent aided their escape and then offered them the opportunity to truly join the rebellion against the Empire. That suited Taraest just fine.

—

CofD:Marshall Barsoom—"Tough Call"

Marshall picked up his phone. He recognized the number; answered it anyway.

(on phone)
Hello, This is Marshall with…(sigh.) Hi, Maya…No, I can talk now…Yeah, I took a few weeks leave…Yeah, Paris. I know I’m not in the Airforce anymore. You spoke to Matt..? I know he is your son-in-law too, that’s not the point…He didn’t need to tell you…I know he isn’t one of my airmen…What command voice?! (deep breath.)…Do you mind if I put you on speaker..?

Marshall tapped an icon on his phone. “Okay. I’m sure you didn’t call to have this argument again, so why did you call..?”

Maya answered, “No I didn’t. Matt sounded concern when he talked to you a few days ago. He said you were planning to go to Saudi Arabia after you left France.”

“That’s right,” he said crisply.

“Our son-in-law thought you sounded like you didn’t plan on coming back.” She spoke as if he’d already confirmed the notion. It was one of the things the aggravated him when they were married.

Marshall offered an explanation in a guileless voice, “I’ve taken a few language courses online, and I figured this would be an excellent opportunity to immerse myself.” He could sense his ex’s expression tighten after his lame attempt at levity. The corner of his lip uncurled from its smirk as his voice took on a serious tone, “I’m just looking for closure.”

In disbelief, Maya returned, “Closure? We lost our daughter, Marshall. Now you’re intent on wallowing in self-pity and wandering into the desert to die.” He couldn’t dispute what her words; Maya was right. She had a habit of being right more often than was absolutely necessary.

He spoke in a somber tone, “You don’t understand. That night, I lost everything. I saw…I did something terrible and haven’t been able to move on from that night in Khafji. I grasped a few of the crumbling pieces for a while, but everything else, everyone else…” he paused, “continued on without me.”

“You’re right,” the frustration evident in her voice. “I can’t understand. You wouldn’t tell me, remember? You just put on a brave face and tortured yourself for the last twenty-five years because of a lapse in judgment that got you a medal.”

“And, I still can’t tell you.” Marshall knew she would take it the wrong way, she always had, but he preferred her anger over whatever potential reaction she’d have to the truth. “I need to confront my demons, and I need closure.”

After a long silence, Maya replied in a flat voice, “Fine. Don’t talk to me, but think about our foundation, Whatever you think you did or didn’t do, there are others that have gone through what you have.” After a brief silence she added, “Marshall, talk to someone.”

“Yeah. I will. Say hello to Bill for me,” he said sounding exhausted.

—

He sat thinking about the last thing his ex-wife said; he’d met people who had also survived a similar experience. Unfortunately, He helped destroy a book they were after and was sure he had burned that bridge. The image of Shandi pop into his mind; he cringed visibly at the dark thought.

Marshall tapped the red hang up button on his cell then uncocked his sidearm before placing it on the desk in his hotel room. He looked down at the gun which now lay between the phone, his passport and the one-way ticket to Saudi Arabia. He thought, “Maybe I should iron the shirt for the flight in the morning.”

—

Marshall was halfway through ironing his clothes when his cell started buzzing. Unknown number; answered it anyway.

(on phone)
Hello, this is Marshall Barsoom with the Homefront Foundation…Oh! Hi,Natalie. No, I can talk now. I’m just doing a little ironing…

Morgan Roberts—"Hate & Hypocrisy"

Journal Entry for Mysterious Tavern Campaign

In the last few weeks of the Mysterious Tavern, The lich had former members of the party killed and turned into vampires. Having just won a battle against former allies, Morgan was forced to question his beliefs; a collapsing house of cards made of his prejudices against magic and an impractical chivalrous-pirate code.

It was at that moment that I realized the depth of my hatred of magic. Not because of Lucy's deception, though it was that which hurt the most; not because we were forced to battle former allies taken by vampirism; Not even because the Lich, that seems to delight in our misery. What made apparent the truth of my depravity of my hatred was what I was unable to do. 

I charged past Lady Triton, a woman that was as surely deserving of her fate as Lord Triton himself. I couldn't raise my sword to attack Arowyn, though she was the most capable warrior amongst the vampirelings. Tassalia. I had cut down without any hesitation. 

The fight had left little time to think. It was afterward, after defeating the lich, when once more we stood stymied by god forsaken magic; when it felt there was nothing but time. I spent all my litany of curses, cast all my accusatory stares; now there was nothing left that would defer my reflections. 

I surely regretted my decision to stopped drinking so heavily.

I had attack Tassalia because she was a magic user. I hadn't seen her as a person or a woman. I had effortlessly cast aside my personal code because of my hatred; because of my fear. Then my thoughts drifted to Lucy, whom I held dear since the moment I met the child. She had suffered. Once I learned she wielded magic, all I could offer was additional suffering. As for Ichabod...My soul was as warped as the derro of Ichabod's tales. The hate I felt had corrupted me as readily as any magic.

At that moment, and long after, I believed myself to be a monster; now consider it the moment when I stopped.

—

Memoirs of the Scarlet Corsair, Morgan Roberts

Morgan Roberts—"Conflict of Interest"

Journal Entry for Mysterious Tavern Campaign

The story of my life; destined to be dragged in the undertow of witch-women and their dark sorcery. Each time, I was sure I had escaped to a mundane life free of their machinations; each time, I learned they had simply gotten better at how they hid their strings.

A sharpened mind and allies dealt with swordsmen and scoundrels easily enough, and a capable religious man who warded off all but the darkest magic. I thought through all the possibilities and took every reasonable precaution.

No. I hadn't. No consideration was given over to the possibility of the little queen possessing the aberrant powers of sorcery; no contingency available for dealing with the pain of seeing the little redhead's tears when she recognized my look of revolution and heard my angry reproach. Couldn't I look past the curse of magic? Couldn't I instead just forget the feelings for the queen..and her older sister?

No. I could do neither. I know in my heart that I have been fooled and manipulated by both the child and the adult; they dragged me unwillingly into the struggles of their families' coven.

Despite what they have done and all that I now know, it did little to diminish the love for the little queen, or.. or the feelings I have for Ichabod. The sadness I've caused Little Lucy to suffer has stolen any possible comfort that remained in this bottle. Nothing to pull me from the repeated study of my many and various flaws.

The story of my life...

Morgan Roberts—"Child's Play"

Journal Entry for Mysterious Tavern Campaign

From the nearby field, Morgan stood with the two nobles while the sounds of combat continued from in the tavern. A crash followed by something or someone hitting the ground with a thud from a side of the building not visible to Morgan. Whatever it was that made so sudden an exit out of the dilapidated building allowed the sounds of conflict to reach the three outside more clearly. The shouts suggested a grand melee indeed. (It seemed that such things broke out often in Morgan's absents.)

Moments passed, and Morgan took a single step towards the cursed inn, his impatient getting the better of him. He stops himself and looks back at the infuriating and endearing little girl. Whatever trouble his allies had gotten themselves into, they would have to fend for themselves; the little red-headed moppet most certainly could not.

The big man received a puzzled look from Antoinette as he sheathed his scimitar and took the staff in both hands. Morgan looked around for a moment and after seeing something, the other two did not, he walked to a soft spot of dirt. He then raised the staff high and plunged it into the soft soil. Dropping all pretense of his regular pirate-cant, he asked, "Lucy. Would you like to play a game?" The older woman expression turned to bewilderment as the younger to an excited affirmative.

Morgan waved her over and had her hold Ichabod's quarterstaff as took off his mantle and hung it over the implement. He removed his turban, shook it out and folded it neatly, before wrapping the red cloth around Lucy's strawberry blonde hair as a bandana. He returned to his regular mode of speaking and said, "I be far too much of a scoundrel to have me swear me-self to the Queen o' France, but to me beautiful pirate queen…? Surely."

Lucy with a grin from port to starboard and replied, "Of course, Sir pirate!"

Morgan knelt down before his pirate queen and explained, "The scarf is the symbol of a pirate, The mantle a pirate reputation, the stick be the main mast and ye be me queen." the captain asked, "Savy?"

"Savy!"

Morgan paused for a moment closing his eyes and placing his hand on the staff. He opened them offering a serious look, but a jolly voice said, "Well, me queen. Ere stands most all I be hold'n dear," dropping the pirate speak and the jovial tone, "I will not abandon it." A statement likely missed by the younger of the two nobles.

Morgan then completes the moment of waxing theatrical by releasing the staff; the stone at its end flared brightly for a time before return to its dull coloring. In as loud and booming voice as he could muster he shouted, "If'n ye aren't too busy like. Rally to ye pirate queen!"

Morgan checked to make sure that the child queen's daisy chain crown was secure on his head. He looked back and asked the little queen, "Me queen, I shan't suppose ye be still carry'n that old fancy dagger? I'm need'n it post haste."

Letter to Grand Master Rabin

Letter to Grand Master Rabin

Responding to correspondence found here.

Greetings Grand Master Rabin,

I am pleased to inform you that Alessa has been defeated by doppelgangers. It would have been unfortunate if such an easily defeated member of our order had failed to offer Grand Master Kibbe an honorable death.

At this time I am assisting a priest at the Temple of the Five with repairs needed for the earth goddess altar in Shadowleaf Bay. Also, I have already pledged to drive the Marazzer from Greth and as such can not fulfill my obligations.

Despite my obligations as killer of Alessa’s killer, I am going to have to turn down the Grand Master title. I will of course give Grandmaster Kibbe the honorable death he richly deserves if he proves too cunning for the would be doppelganger assassins. I have faced doppelgangers in battle, so I doubt that his ailments will be much of a hindrance.

With Great Respect,

Master Sakhr Qasim

PS: I have include a second tablet of my exploits and a prayer that was given to me at the Temple of the Five.

Second Tablet

… itemized list of mostly marazzer and changelings...

Pray to Runan

Man pilfer grains of Earth Goddess power,
and from those pilfered grains man gained life.
We all are worthy of the Earth Goddess wrath.

Runan is swayed from her wrath, because we are of her own image.
Man covets his domain; the blazing hearth, a declaration of his power.
In the chaos of battles and storms man’s home fire blazes bright;
leaving smoky plums to rises, mocking the goddess of air,

Runan is swayed from her wrath, because we are of her own image.
With her hatred man makes war upon her enemies,
With her cunning man hunts her enemies and becomes stronger,
With her power man forces stability onto the maelstrom.

Runan is swayed from her wrath, because she is cunning.
When man’s battle has ended the goddess offers them her home,
When man returns her power she is made stronger,
from the stolen grains, the Goddess gains ten fold.

Sakhr Qasim