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.

CofD:Willard Buss—"In the Spirit of Learning"

Willard Buss, Recorded Notes

With my continued research in the Contingent's R&D Laboratory, I have come up with a working theory, though, it will require additional data to confirm. I first thought of it when Junior was repairing that old car that had pinned Rebecca’s not so recently deceased spirit to a tree for 50+ years. The corsage that had anchored her to that place looked almost freshly picked. That made me think about the ghost flask which in turn led me to consider the Promethean arm. They were all remarkably well preserved; honestly, far better then they had any right to be. The arm could be somehow different, but the way it twitches so unnaturally of its own accord, I have yet to come up with another workable explanation. If what I hypothesize is true, then the small fragments of spirit imbued in, anchored to, these objects could be responsible for sustaining them.

Now if this theory of mine turns out to be true that brings me to a series of questions. Is death required for an anchor to exist? Could an anchor ever be reliably reproduced? Could this spiritual imbuement offer an explanation for why even the most compatible transplant organs get rejected? Could this lead to a solution?

The recent investigation in Eagle Bay, unfortunately, didn’t turn up any practical data. What it has done is demonstrate that materials of supernatural origin are not rejected as readily as tissue from other humans. More research is required, but potentially supernatural tissue may bypass rejection completely. More importantly, the introduction of supernatural elements to transplanted organs could have similar results.

[End of Recording]

Steadfast Campaign—Bloodwolves

History of the Bloodwolf Mercenary Guild

Fall of Aureny, 790gcy (Gods Calendar)

Three years ago Theron recruited mercenaries claiming to want to hunt orc. He formed a band of mercenaries, which including Warren and Marc. Successfully leading the group during an orc ambush, thanks in part to Father Dominick, a traveling Paladin who happened upon them.

In a bizarre set of circumstances, the band managed to rescued dwarven slaves, defeat the Frowning Mountain orcs, kill devils summoned by a dwarf warlock, and delivered a succubus back to the abyss. A chain of events started because of a cambion's wager over the soul of a girl who claimed to be Marc's long dead child.

He discussed with Dominick the idea of hunting demons which Dominick quickly shot down, so he declared that they would instead hunt gnolls and possibly some orcs near his intended destination, but in truth, he continued to planned for a demon hunt into the Winterwoods. The expedition got off to a rocky start when Father Dominic offered a cold-iron necklace to Marc's daughter, Sasha, as a gift. Secretly, he meant to confirm if the girl was human with the cold-iron, but a drug induced Marc mistakenly thought the paladin was showing interest in his ten-year-old daughter. Things turned further disastrous after the expedition got underway and they tracking gnolls into the Winterwoods. Winter witches.

Father Dominick attempted to speak with a group of three Winterwood hags. Unfortunately, Marc attacked as Dominick talked to the leader of the witches when a lesser demands the elder allow her to kill the men encroaching on their territory. They defeated the three, but in the brief struggle, their ranks were reduced from fifteen to seven. The expedition ended less than an hour after it started.

In 791gcy, a year after the failed expedition and the departure of Marc, Theron, Father Dominick, and Sasha formed a much more successful mercenary group, now lead by Dominick, that called themselves the Bloodwolves. Theron claimed they were demon hunters, but encounter neither demon nor devil since the chance meeting at Hope Village.

Not until 794gcy, when they joined forces with a group of Winter's Haven refugees fleeing towards safety lead by Erik Bennett and a band of former bounty hunters.

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

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