From: theslin@mail.utexas.edu (Theslin Wanders-through-Bramble) Newsgroups: rec.games.frp.storyteller Subject: Just One Point: Meditations on the "Spendable Attributes" Date: 14 Nov 1996 15:48:34 GMT Organization: The Nuwisha Nation NNTP-Posting-Host: smf-i11.facsmf.utexas.edu Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: Text/Plain X-Newsreader: WinVN 0.92.6 Just One Point: Meditations on the "Spendable attributes" by Theslin Wanders-through-Bramble theslin@mail.utexas.edu (11/10/96) Clipped from the Journals of Richard Whitfield, Arcanus Willpower 3/6/96 I do not remember ever feeling as old as I did last night. For three long days I have been tracing the creature known as "Pavanne." I believe I am being deliberately misled. The office files were in horrid disarray on Monday, papers strewn across the floor and desks. Any hope of finding useful information seemed utterly in vain, but I gritted my teeth (near biting through my tongue) and grappled the hydra. By the end of the day I had found a very few useful facts; the creature (or one very like her) had been sighted by our operatives in the University of Seattle, O'Tolley's Playworld in Florida, and "Eeyore's Birthday" in Texas. On the same day, no less. I forced funding from my superiors, and "burned the midnight oil" for two full days--though I confess the triumph of discovering the creature's lair (Richmond, Virginia of all places) was worth the whole gauntlet. The rewards of the thrill of the hunt, perhaps, or merely an illicit thrill for this old obsessive personality. Still, the effort of testing my limits (ah, for the stamina of youth!) is taxing. Only my religious devotion to my diary allows me to move my pen, habit and ritual strengthen my lines. Perhaps in the morning I will be able to muster my resources once again, and I shall take the plane trip to Virginia. Now, I only want to sleep. Blood Points (from a report on vampiric feeding habits, 8/16/90) "...contains approximately 5 quarts of blood. Individuals who donate plasma to community centers give up to 900 grams, very nearly a full quart, and though the liquid and red blood cells are replenished or replaced, donators complain of dizziness, dehydration, anemia, symptoms which may persist a day or more. "Obviously, a feeding vampire does not replace the fluid he steals, and rarely will he limit himself to a paltry 900 grams. Many of the self-styled 'damned' claim to merely sip from their victims, but analysis indicates that such a 'sip' rarely amounts to less than a pint of blood. One anonymous source adds that an active vampire (and being creatures in a state of continuous conflict all are at least somewhat active) requires greater amounts of blood to sustain its unlife. A study of the faction of vampires known as 'brujah,' known to be violent in the extreme, indicates that in a week of exceptional activity a single vampire may consume up to 14 quarts of blood or more, a quantity which would kill three humans..." [game note: The above assumes a single brujah having a very bad week, spending 3 blood points per day on Disciplines, plus 1 point per day for simple survival--a total of 28 points, or 14 quarts of blood--this is, of course, a -very- bad week, but not an altogether unreasonable one for a player character Kindred.] Rage 8/10/83 "Questions!" The werewolf threw his hands up in the air. "More of them. Doc, you like to live dangerously, don't you?" "I merely asked you to explicate your thoughts on this mother- goddess. She is a created entity -- yet is she greater or lesser in power than her creators?" "You do have a death wish." Embers sat heavily in his chair, nearly upsetting the table. A very animated character. "Okay, Doc, picture this. Your boss tells you that you're not doing enough work, because the computer's down and he can't see the big stack of long-hand reports you've got waiting for the secretary to get off her ass and type them like she's paid to do. The vending machine eats your last dollar, and it's not even noon. When you get out the door, five-thirty, you've sold your soul to the office and got kicked for it again, it's raining, you left your windows down, and it's a long, wet ride home. You get out of your car, and walk to your cookie-cutter suburb castle, and step in dogshit. Worst part is, you don't even own a dog. You're mad -- right through 'stress headache,' out the other side -- anger, frustration, feels like a blood clot in the back of your brain -- solid. Crowding out dinner, home, everything but the dull red haze in your vision. Your wife opens the door and steps backward -- you look like you're going to explode. Nobody talks at the table, 'cause they're afraid of finding that last button, the one that sends you right through the god-damn roof. " He stopped, staring into my eyes. "Every day. Every hour. Every minute, every second. You can't know what it's like to have that burning in your mind every moment of the day. Even the densest of you people can't miss it. I'm a Ragabash, a joker -- I can't hold down a job, my boss is afraid of me -- and I'm the most emotionally stable of my pack. Don't try to hide it, you're as scared as a caged rabbit. I can smell the garlic you ate yesterday, I can smell the terror in your sweat now. Boo!" He grinned, enjoying seeing me rattled. "And you'll want to change your pants, too. Think about it -- by Garou standards, I'm calm. I can't work myself into a killing frenzy like my pack-brothers can. But you think -- everybody, all of you, you're like sheep -- you all think I'm going to explode. Any second. You're sure of it. And I'm only a Ragabash. I can't even imagine what it's like to be an Ahroun." Gnosis 12/20/86 The shaman's hut looked like a souvenir-vendor's stall, it was so crowded by fetishes and baubles, feathers bound to stones and pouches of ground herbs. And the persistent smell of rank urine had begun to burn my nose an hour ago; despite all the rumors I had heard of olfactory paralysis, its blessed fog had not settled over my sinuses. The shaman -- No-teeth, he was called, though his dental weaponry was impressive enough -- grinned at me. He had said nothing, nothing for a quarter of an hour. From all of my dealings with the Garou, it was evident that they delighted in making academics uncomfortable. But at last he moved. "Balance. The essence of our power is in balance. We call our abilities Gifts, given to us by spirits, but they give us the strength to use them, as well. Yes, I could pick you up and throw you through this world, into the next -- twice, three times if I chose to. But then I would spend many hours arguing with the moon-spirits, explaining to them the value of that little game -- don't let the Theurges fool you, it's not meditation. It's begging, pure and simple. The humans have already pushed the balance -- their changing children aren't allowed to push much further. You have a word for it -- ah. Credit. The wolf- children have much more credit than the humans -- they know more of balance than you ever will. Hoy, even my kind, the cursed breed, even we've got more freedom than the Homids. You want to push? You want to use the spirit's gifts for your own? Go ahead, but you'll have to fight to get their graces back again. It's all got a price, and you've already spent most of your money. Just see how far they'll let you go." He stopped talking and scratched himself reflectively a moment. "Silver -- youcarry silver, you carry a big silver knife, you're up to something, you bet. They know. It don't matter. if you're an Uktena wolf-pup never spent a day of your life in the city, or if you're a Glass Walker ape who knows more about motorcars than caerns -- if you mess with your balance, you're gonna come crying to momma all the quicker." He went silent, completely silent, staring at me with that demented rictus-grin. After thirty minutes, I bid him a polite good-bye. As far as I have found there is no group as deliberately maddening as the lupines. Except, perhaps, for the Hollow Ones. Quintessence 1/12/78 "What is it?" the Alchemist held the flask up to the lamp -- the phial caught the light of the fluorescent tube, somehow splintering it into rainbows. "Believe it or not, this is the distilled energy of creation. We call it 'Tass.' I found a unicorn's horn in an old woman's junk sale. Ironically, her husband had labeled it a narwhal tusk, but I could feel the power within it. I dissolved it in acid distilled from the fumes of burning brimstone -- not sulfur, mind you, brimstone. Difficult to get ahold of these days. And from that unicorn's horn -- two hundred fifty years old, if a day -- I drew five of these vials. The first I gave to the Umbrood Lord Raksasha in exchange for safe passage through his realm. The Men in Black could not follow me there. The second, the second I shattered, using its power to pierce the veil in a shopping mall, to escape from a cabal of hermetic magi, and the third I used to heal myself of the damage to my system wrought by the Paradox of that same spell. A most costly shopping trip, that one. The fourth is held in trust by the Knotted Twine Chantry in Montana, who lend me access to their libraries for my research. The fifth," he placed the phial in a wooden rack, beside a very few others of similar size. "Here is the fifth. And you ask me if I would sell it to the Arcanum? I doubt very much that your organization could afford my prices." Pathos 10/9/95 (5:30 AM) U are the present. We are the past. One can never quite predict with what a used computer will be infected. I had guessed -- rightly -- about this one's unique virus. We had established quite a relationship. Tell me more. What's to tell? I'm dead, I don't exist. U bought this computer because U remembered me. Keep it up. It's good to be remembered. ? L00k, Time happens. There's a dead guy with 1000 at the funeral, he's stronger here, if he's here at all. They forget, he's weak. They put up a memorial fund? He's strong again. Like this: U say my name, I remember I'm alive (whateverz!) Nobody remembers me? Who's left? Me. I gotta remember, 'cause you won't. Is that why you will talk with me? Bingo! Keep the faith! I used to spend 36 hrs/day on the chat boards. Talking to you, it's like being in the present again. Keeps me in the real world, out of the past. + U reading my old TXTs, remembering the me that I used 2 be, that was great. U mind posting them on the Net again? They cut my home page back in December. Of course. If they'd formatted my HD, I'd be screwed. There'd be nothing left. If I find out who cut my HTML I'll...do something real bad to their credit ratings. Hey, RW, the sun's up, my connection's fading. Tomorrow night? Certainly. Glamour and Banality 3/22/96 Pavanne sat before me. Dressed in what appeared to be a single length of silk, shimmering blue where it draped near her bare feet, a deep glowing green where it was bound by a garish golden clasp on her shoulder. How it moved vertically through the cold spectrum while still passing through asmany artful folds as it did I shall never know. Though her skin was of an exotic, olive tone, she reminded me of every storybook princess I had ever known. "Well, Lord Acedemia. You wish to learn about my kind. Like the Genie, I suppose I am bound to grant your wish. After all, you found my home, I owe you that much. Three facts, then, that you may write in your little book. "First, you are the dreamer, we are the dream. Humanity created us out of stories and sing-song catches. We were given sustenance by the tales then, formed and shaped, and even now our kind is changed as myths are retold. Now that the old stories are forgotten, we must make do with the seeds and stems of modern dreams. John Donne -- I'd guess that less than a tenth of the humans on this planet remember old Donne. Yes, I know you do, but you're the exception. you actually read. Well, as it happens, I've one of his portfolios. Never published, in fact -- 'Meditations on That Upon Which our Senses Cannot Prevail.' I stole it from him. That portfolio could start a thousand literary careers, end a thousand more. If you brought it to the Universities, you'd be a hero among academics for years to come. But nobody shall see those papers -- their glow has kept me young and beautiful for centuries; when I cannot find dreams enough to sustain me, I have that book. Is it worth it? Is the joy of a legion of professors too great or too small a price to keep this old Eshu alive? I could not say. "Donne's torch is fading. Time kills the memory, of course, but it's more than simple time working. The Great Unread simply cannot be bothered with old Donne. Why do they need some musty old Anglican's poetry when they have their own perfectly good entertainment, two hundred channels of it? Of course the dreams are fading. The bards of your day produce nothing, only chew and spit up what their competitors have likewise regurgitated. I speak of television, of course -- if there were no true dreamers, we would have passed away long ago." She leaned toward me, eyes like some form of deep brown opal. In a conspiratorial whisper, she added "Don't tell anyone -- I adore Eric Clapton." Pavanne resumed her position, a sort of full-bodied relaxed sigh. "But much of the world revels in affirming the here-and-now, not the maybe-there and everwhen, and so, like the memories of John Donne, we fade. "But here's the big secret. I said that you, the human, are the dreamer, and I the dream. But I am as much a human as you -- or more. I, at least, eat well. We create our own internal fires, and we douse them. Every broken word, every denial of what we know to be true, brings us closer to forgetting ourselves. If I had refused to speak with you after you so obviously were on an Epic Quest to find me, I would be denying myself, taking my own soul by its throat and squeezing the joy from her. If the power of a new sonnet could keep and sustain me, crying out against the author, affirming the opinions of the gross unwashed, would surely kill me. "There you are, Lord Academia. Three facts. Where each begins and ends, you must find for yourself. Thank you for the merry chase -- we are both happier people for it."