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.

—

Chronicles of Darkness—Marshall Barsoom

Poor Brandon didn't last long in the Contingent. He died after foolishly trying to help someone get out of a cursed iron maiden. It wasn't a particularly satisfy death, but it was probably an appropriate one since he had alienated himself from both hunter teams he had joined. 

After two sessions Chronicle of Darkness, I have a better feel for the system. Still got hung up on the breaking point questions. They should be answered first but is awkward to me. I prefer just start writing and let the character form as I write. Fortunately, the one of the GMs took the time to help with it all.

Breaking Points

What is the worst thing your character has ever done?

He killed a fellow soldier under his command in self-defense. He then claimed the man died from wounds sustained hours before when their aircraft crashed.

What is the worst thing your character can imagine himself doing?

Murdering someone in cold blood.

What is the worst thing your character can imagine someone else doing?

He finds torture aberrant but understands that success sometimes places the decisive action ahead of the best action.

What has your character forgotten? 

He has forgotten many of the details of what happened that evening Khafji. Marshall doesn't recall the creature that had attacked, that it was responsible for the death of the enlisted man or that the soldier had been dead for hours before rising to attack Marshall.

What is the most traumatic thing that has ever happened to your character?

The recent death of his daughter aboard a FedEx airplane. She was captain of the doomed Flight 508.Marshall’s most prized—and cursed—possession is his purple heart. He’d earned it while piloting a Spectre, the Lockheed AC-130. His aircraft had been shot down in Khafji during the Gulf war. Of the thirteen member aircrew, only he and one of his airman survived the crash; he was the only one to survive until rescued.

Background Story

The Spectre went down after a SAM exploded into the aircraft. Two men managed to escape the mangled wreckage, narrowly avoid Iraqi infantry. They located shelter against the cold desert night and attempted to patch up themselves while await rescue.

Though they elude enemy combatants, they’d gain the attention of something else. A creature came out of the Arabian night and attacked the two men huddled in an improvised shelter. The bipedal creature’s sharp teeth tore chunks out of the already enlisted man’ soldier before it could be driven back into the darkness.

The officer did his level best to keep his remaining crewmen alive, but the soldier had lost a lot of blood. He could only offer the comfort of kind words to the dying man as they waited for him to succumb to his numerous broken bones and lacerations. The pilot marked the soldier’s death late that evening.

Before dawn, the enlisted man’s eyes had snapped open suddenly. He seemed not only alive but completely mad. The soldier groaned violently and lunged at second his captain. Had it not been for dying soldiers assortment of injuries the officer would not have been able to fend the man off. As it were, a jagged piece of the Spectre’s fuselage had landed near their shelter. The airman saved himself at the cost of his subordinates life, dead, impaled on the sharp piece of metal. It would be the last and most unfortunate of the vessel’s..his vessel’s, list of confirmed kills.

—

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

Chronicles of Darkness—Brandon Smith

Created a character for the Contingent. I wasn't excited about my character concept going into the first week of season 3. However by the end session, I am surprisingly pleased with him.

Background Story

Hello,

You can call me Brandon Smith. Is it my real name? No. Though it was the name on my passport, and it serves its purpose. Lost the real one the day I lost everything.

I work for the Cloverleaf Corporation as a private accountant. Well, I use to anyway. I committed a dozen white collar crimes and helped keep crooks on the street. One day, those same crooks thought I was too much of a loose end. You know, when you worked for criminals then doing a good job is a clear sign of a lack of integrity.

They tried to kill me, no surprise; but they ended up getting my wife and my father instead; that one hurt. I had expected Cloverleaf to come after me, Maggie and Dad were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Fortunately, I got off the grid with the kids before they could finish the job. Already had money stashed away, burner phones, birth certificates, and passports; the whole works. Nothing to trace me and the kids. I could have been home free. I should have been home free.

Then I met Samantha Dahl. How I met her, your guess is as good as mine just another thing that I seemed to have lost along the way. One minute, I was getting the youngest out of the car seat, the next, I was mid-lecture at Starbucks in the BWI airport. She explained that Cloverleaf wouldn’t be looking for me, as long as I avoid drawing too much attention, that my two girls would be safe, and now I worked for her. That was the deal. 

Why I’d trust a woman I just met is one for the ages, so I protested; as you do. 

Sam said my kids would be safest with her, and she couldn’t just give two little girls to a man that doesn’t even know their names. I knew she was crazy because what kind of father doesn’t remember their kid's name. Right. This guy. 

I had those passports made and even been saying those names to get comfortable with them. No matter how hard I tried to remember, the names eluded me. I’m good at finding things that wanted to stay hidden. Excellent in fact. But the two most precious people left in this world were gone, fake passports and all. Like they never existed. I know they existed. I have to believe they existed. There are too many fragmented memories of my girls; too much pain from losing them. 

The saddest part of this whole deal? At this point, I’m not sure that I work for Samantha because that’s the only way to keep my daughters safe, or because it lets me continue to believe they existed in the first place.

—Brandon

• Character Sheet
• The Contingent
• Chronicles of Darkness

Note

I decide to write this character's background in the first person. I love to read stories with unreliable narration, but I'm not good at that sort of thing. This year, I want to make a concerted effort to write more. In the past, I let my desire to avoid the perception of being incompetent to overwhelm my desire to get better at writing. 

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."

Smallville RPG: Stanley Leonard, "Foundry"

Pathways: Early Years

Origin—Ordinary

Stanley was born and raised in Mediocris City and growing up there wasn’t much special about Stanley. He had good grades, an interest in role-playing games, LARPing, tinkering and two parents that loved him. Stanley was considered an oddball by his friends, but his enthusiasm endeared him to most. He loved dressing up and going to the MC Renn Fair with his mom and dad and spent much of his free time playing board games with his friends.

Youth—"Geek"

When he was still in middle school, he went on a tour of the Barsoom research facility. When the tour brought them to one of Barsoom’s machine labs, a man named Maximillian Powers demonstrated how they could create an authentic arming sword used one of the facilities 3D printers. Stan’s budding interest in tinkering blossomed was now in full bloom.

Focus—"Tech"

As a young man, Stanley took an interest in a wide range of artisanry and engineering. Dr. Powers became his mentor and on occasion would let him over to share in his blacksmithing hobby using the Iron Keep’s Zero Foot Print Forge, called such because it near zero carbon emissions. Max would say, “We are cheating a bit, however, the environment would thank us.”

Thanks to Maximillian, Stanley was drawing blueprints before he could legally drive a car. He chanced upon meeting Sam Sornell; Stan gushing over Dr. Sornell likely didn’t make for a good first impression.

Road—"Ethical"

By his freshmen year at San Francisco University, Stanley’s interest in technology and artisanry was followed closely by his interest in Barsoom Corp. He was a complete geek when it came to anything related to Barsoom. He read every magazine articles, newspaper clipping, tabloid, blog, etc. If it had anything to do with the company, he knew about it. So after being offered an internship after dinner with Max and his wife, Salina, he leaped (literally) at the opportunity.

Stanley didn’t squander the opportunity provided by Max and spent every waking moment in Iron Keep. Stan meet Sam once again, but this time, Stanley curbed his enthusiasm far more than their first meeting. Sam wasn’t the only person he met during his internship, however.

Event—"First Contact"

Early into his internship, Stan was approached by Power Surge, the superheroine. She’d asked him about Max, which he lied not thinking it was in any one’s best interest to have legitimate super like Power Surge meet with a hammered Max. He had just left a Max drunk and complaining about his marriage, yet again. To his surprise, she gave him a weird piece of tech and instructions to find out what it was.

He was excited to have the opportunity but surprised that she trusted him with something like this. Stan studied the alien device and apparently provided some bit of information that Power Surge need. She still seemed oddly interested in Max, but when Stan avoids the topic she thanked him and suggested working together in the future (To which Stanley excitedly agreed.)

Whatever the alien tech was it seemed to have set off a few red flags and when Stan returned to the lab the next day Sam was waiting to say they need to talk. A conversation that changed just about everything for Stan; more so than meeting a “Super” had just a day before.

Pathways: After the Event

Priority—"Moving Forward"

The conversation with Sam, the time he spent studying the alien technology and the resources afforded him during the internship changed everything for Stanley Leonard. In finishing his internship, he had created a working prototype of Personal Gravity Generator, in the likeness of gantlets, and disks that absorbed kinetic force, working to a very limited degree. 

Modus Operandi—"Outside Normal Channels"

He had somehow become the confidant to a Power Surge Heroine and Sam; not altogether sure which one was the most daunting.

Motive—"The Cause"

Regardless, Stan believes the last few months allowed him the opportunity to make the world a better place. No matter how small a part he played he would make whatever contribution he could.

Identity—"The Specialist"

Stanley specialty is researching and development of technology. He improved upon his Gravity Gauntlets and Force Fields, but he prefers to limit his involvement to a supporting role for Power Surge. He provides intel for the superheroine and is the source of the majority of her tech; for the latter reason, Surge has taken to calling him Foundry.

Morgan Roberts: "A Flash of Insight"

Written for Mysterious Tavern

The last thing Morgan remember was a flash of light. Slowly his sight returned. The stars from the bright flash replaced by the stars over the ocean overlook of the cemetery. He though it another dream. The same dream.

Exasperated he spoke, "What an insightful bit of belated insight do you have for me tonight Ghalid," not bothering to maintain his drawl.

"Ahoy! But tain't none ye needin' from me," Ghalid replied. "Seems ye kept faithful to Rubirt's name."

"You've taken to referring to yourself in the third person have you," his father just laugh.

"tain't been called that name in some years boy. Don't seem right pretending I still be that fellow." He continued, "Well boy, have you finally come to take your rest with old Pa?"

That sounded new, thought Morgan. "No, I'll be waking up soon enough." He turned and looked at his father to his surprise he wasn't the withered corpse he regularly saw in his dream. His father looked much as he did in life save for the eerie looking aura that surrounded him and the pendant around his neck. The pendant once belongs to that fool witch that sealed his father's fate. His father's face momentarily wore concern, an unusual expression. Before Ghalid could respond Morgan spit out, "Why do you still have that anchor around your neck?"

"'Twas love that brought me low, but me Sadia ain't to blamed," he said with a little heat before relaxing. "'Twas the corrupted Marki and his dogs."

"That's why you shouldn't get involved with…" he realized his own hypocrisy, "...with nobles and their games."

"Ah well," his father attempted to steer the conversation elsewhere, "Ye know love be why me have this here amulet. Mightn't you mind sharing the story for that there fancy dagger and fancier stick?" Morgan replied with silence and slack-jawed look of surprise. "Well now…, it seems the High and Might Whelp has lost a bit o' swagger. Might've he been brought low like his papa? Savvy?" Ghalid offered no quarter as he spoke mockingly as if in fear he had discovered Morgan's secret.

Morgan look down at the two weapons; one the dagger given to little Lucy; the other the staff given to him by the sorceress, Ichabod. He wanted to toss the two away if only to prove a point, but his hands held firm to them both.

The specter's laughter boomed out in the night. Ghalid chortled, "And put ye a shirt on before ye catch yer death!" Even more amused, he returned to his rancorous laughter.

A glow began to envelop the woeful Murghan ibn Rubirt. At least, this one doesn't seem as painful as the first two the pirate thought.

D&D 5e Character: Hi-Ghrock the Clanless

Bio

• Race: Goliath 
• Class: 1 Fighter / 2 Warlock
• Background: Outlander(Outcast of the Hungry Sky Clan)
• Gender: Male
• Age: 62
• Eyes: White (originally Dark Grey)
• Hair: Grey 
• Height: 7' 2"
• Weight: 350

Ability Scores

Strength          17
Dexterity         10
Constitution      14
Intelligence      13
Wisdom            14
Charisma          16

Traits

• Personality.  I watch over my friends as if they were my herd. I place no stock in wealthy or well-mannered folk. Money and manners are poor substitutes for power.
• Ideal. I must prove that age hasn't caught up with me, and I will survive in spite of my former tribe.
• Bond. I suffer awful visions of a coming disaster, and I must find the strength to claim victory.
• Flaw. I remember every insult I've received and nurse a silent resentment towards anyone who's ever wronged me.

Hi-Ghrock was always selfish. He looked upon his Hungry Sky clan as his possessions. To his benefit, his zealous protection of what was his was mistaken for true concern for his tribesmen. Thought the years started to catch up to Hi-Ghrock, he was cunning and used his winters of experience to thrive while all who shared a similar name-day went into exile or perished.  His place in the clan endured.

Tens of winters ago, Hi-Ghrock discovered a temple hidden in the side of the mountain. He knew it was a place of corruption, but he was driven to claim what was rightfully his. He had slowly taught himself to read and write using the ancient secrets contained in the mountain temple. Secrets that allowed him the edge he needed over would-be competitors.

During his 60th winter Hi-Ghrock's eyes began to cloud, and time of his exile would soon follow.

The corrupt temple had rituals that could help, but they required unspeakable things that gave even the ruthless Hi-Ghrock pause. His sight diminished, and whispers of his exile grew. Desperation and his own ego wore away at his reservations. He performed the rituals, summoned a fiend and made what he deemed a small but reasonable bargain...

Hi-Ghrock found himself blind, starved and without a clan.  He mused about how the treacherous creature proved wiser and more ruthless than he. The demon stood over his pathetic form and had a hearty laugh at the old goliath's expense. He was infuriated. Hi-Ghrock met the attractive creatures gaze as it curled up next to him, only then realizing that it had finally fulfilled its end of the bargain. 

That day, the goliath met the too pretty gaze of the creature, unable to look away. It looked into his now white eyes and told him, "If you're not quite ready to die, I'm sure we can come to some form of arrangement." At that moment, and many of night since, he wished for blindness to not have seen that horrifyingly satisfied smile.

Serenity Character: Steven Sanders-Ziering

Bio

Home World: Beaumonde, Industrial world.

Occupation: Employee of the Silver Salvage Corp.
Age: 42
Height: 1.83m

Background:

I know it pains you to make the hard choices, but I know my Good Little Soldier will make the right decision.

–Colonel Harley Sanders

Steven was brought up in a military family, and when he joined the Alliance, he became tenth generation military, on his mother's side. He rarely loses his cool and prefers to keep things by the book, but the rules come second to his loyalties.

Steven Sanders-Ziering was born in Beaumonde to Colonel Harley Sanders and Squad Leader David Ziering. He grew up in a military family. During The Unifications War, Steven served as a Lieutenant for a demolitions platoon and became highly decorated by the end. His father died during the Battle of Sturges, and his mother earn a promotion to Colonel short before the brown coats surrendered.

Steve retiring from the military with a bad taste in his mouth. That is when he met Erin and was hired by the Silver Salvage Corp. He had a professionalism and a specialized skill set that was valuable to Ms. Silver and her company. He received the task of dealing with fluid situations to protect SSCs interests, Erin's interest.

During most of the war, his mother served as a lieutenant colonel heading a demolitions battalion. Harley know the right things to get under his skin or manipulative him into doing what she wants. Near the end of the war, she sent an encrypted communication personally ordering him to resume artillery fire. When he questioned the command, she used his father's death to guilt him into issuing the order. He later learned of the Brown Coats surrender was declared six hours earlier. The renewed violence lead to the deaths of over one hundred Independence troops. Steve's Battalion lost twenty men and woman. Harley was thrilled with her son's success and smug about the violation of protocol. She knew he might protest in private, but wouldn't put her career in danger.

ATTRIBUTES ·        Agility d8 ·        Strength d8 ·        Vitality d8 ·        Alertness d8 ·        Intelligence d8 ·        Willpower d8	SKILLS Athletics d6 ·        Dodge d8 Covert d6 ·        Stealth d8 ·        Sabotage d8 Discipline d6 Resistance d8 Heavy Weapons d6 ·        Demolitions d8 ·        Mounted Guns d8 Influence d6 ·        – Guns d6 ·        Assault Rifle d8 Perception d6 ·        Tracking d8 ·        Search d8 Unarmed Combat d6 ·        Wrestling d8
ASSETS ·        Brawler d6 ·        Combat Ready d10 ·        *Contact (Erin Silver) d8 ·        Shadow d2 ·        Steady Calm d10 ·        Talented (Sabotage, Demo.)
COMPLICATIONS ·        Duty d8 ·        Infamy d6 ·        Hooked (Alcohol) d6 ·        Paranoid d6 ·        Rival d12

D&D 3.5e Character: Morgan Roberts

Written for Mysterious Tavern

Morgan Roberts is a former privateer hailing from Fascia. He ran a mostly legal export business that was usually profitable. He had trade deals from the Shimmering Coast to the Sea of Knives. During the lean times, a bit of privateering and smuggling with Red Sabers. The Red Sabers were a band of corsairs led by his father, Captain Ghalib Roberts.

After a particularly success run, he drew the attention of a wealth Pasha. Kamran Redwater, a greedy enforce for the Sultan made a play on Morgan’s trade company. Morgan wasn't surprise when Kamran's lackeys approached him about his business. However, the privateer, didn't expect Kamran to demanded his enterprise and his freedom to pay off his father’s debt. Kamran left the Pasha's request along with a deed pinned to the door of his business. The deed a small plot of land in the Fascia cemetery.  Located there were two open graves; one already filled with his father dead body.

After learning of his father’s murder, Morgan decided it was time to flee his childhood home. He swindled a ship captain into purchasing a small piece of scenic Fascia. (The Fascia Cemetery is nice this time of year.) The earnings paid for Morgan's trip on the first boat out Fascia. His father had lived like a star, but crashed like a meteor directly on top of Morgan’s small fortune.

Morgan, however, treated the problem as a he did all of Life's misfortunes; a minor setback and needed push away from complacency. He wishes to put both Fascia and his pirating days behind him. Maybe see a few of the drier parts of the world. Maybe set a safer course. Maybe profit a bit from the experience.

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