IMAGINATION, POWER, AND THE NECESSITY OF CREATIVE PLAY

Looking down on empty streets, all she can see
Are the dreams all made solid
Are the dreams all made real
All of the buildings, all of those cars
Were once just a dream
In somebody's head

Peter Gabriel, "Mercy Street"

THE ABILITY TO REASON, to draw conclusions from observation and experience, has been crucial to the success of the human species.  Of this there can be little doubt.  But the flip side of reason, the ability to see the world "as it is," is the ability to see the world "as it might be."  This power, imagination, is one of our most extraordinary gifts.  It is not merely the source of our arts and cultures, but our technologies as well.  It lies close to the heart of what makes us--for now, at least--the dominant species on the planet.

Despite its power (or perhaps because of it), imagination tends to make people a bit nervous.  Like magic, a word to which it is related, imagination is at turns dismissed, trivialized, and condemned.  There is a sense that it must be restrained, sanctioned, quarantined.  We chuckle at it in children, but expect them to bridle it in adolescence and enter the "real world" (something I have written about here). We could argue this is due to its mercurial nature; imagination is often erratic and unpredictable, acting as an external muse rather than something we switch on and off like a coffee maker.  Imaginative work is a sort of dance, where the imagination acts as an equal partner rather than a subordinate.  As any artist will tell you, imagination needs to be wined and dined.  It can be controlled, but doing so cripples and eventually withers it.  To really let imagination do its thing, you have to be willing to let go. But most people only feel comfortable engaging with imagination in a limited, controlled way--such as by reading a novel, playing a video game, or watching a television program.  Actually unleashing it and allowing oneself to be carried away is usually left to artists...widely considered an odd bunch to begin with.

It's unfortunate that such attitudes exist, that people are afraid of letting their imaginations "run away with them."  It is also completely understandable.  At issue here is the nature of "power," and of society's attitudes towards it.

The beginning of despair lies in being unable to imagine anything better.  That leads to surrender.

There is a deep misunderstanding of what "power" is.  The word comes to us via French from the Latin potis, "to be able, capable," and is cousin to the English words potential and possibile.  There is a hint to its identity in this.  While we are generally taught that power is synonymous with "control," as in power "over" something, true power is the capacity to do and more importantly to create.  On some level we all understand this; Abrahamic faiths often refer to God, the Supreme Power, as the "Creator," and few aspects of human existence are treated with as much awe and sanctity as the power to create new human life.  Paradoxically we look askew at imaginative power, the power to create new ideas.  Indeed, it has often been said that the tragedies of history all stem from a lack of imagination.  It goes back to the obsession with control, and the desire by societies to control, regulate, and dictate the ideas that make up that particular culture.  When we talk about dictators wanting to control what people think, what we are really saying is that authoritarians want to control what people can imagine.  The beginning of despair lies in being unable to imagine anything better.  That leads to surrender.  In the interest of keeping control, those at the top of a society must limit the populace's ability to dream.

So very few of us then allow ourselves the experience of imagination as creative play.  This is tragic, because the imagination--like a muscle--only grows stronger with use.  Many of the same activities that lead to weakness of the body simultaneously lead to weakness of the imagination.  Sitting passively watching the latest big budget superhero film, the new season of Game of Thrones, or playing the most recent release of a favorite video game all seem to be exercises in imagination, but in reality these are mediums where all the imagining has already been done for you.  This benefits both authority and the entertainment industry--which like a drug dealer makes the public dependent on its product for "escape"--but does little to benefit the individual.  This is especially pernicious for children.  Where once they went outside to run and play, making up their own adventures and stories, today they remain indoors spoon-fed someone else's.

We end up in a situation, then, where people require re-education to do what should be completely natural for them.  No, not everyone should have equal imaginative capabilities, any more than we should all be able to lift the same amount or run just as fast, but we should all know at least how to sit down and make up stories, close our eyes and visualize, or engage in creative play without feeling self conscious about it.  Even reading--which like sex or dance is a creative pairing between two individuals, one providing the words and the other painting the images in his or her head--is becoming less common these days.  I have no doubt that this deterioration of imagination lies at the heart of many of the political movements we see these days, and I feel strongly enough about this to write an entire blog about it. 

...the key to a better life, for oneself, one's family, one's society, lies first in the ability to imagine one.

The connective tissue in all that I discuss here is imagination as creative play, a guilty pleasure that so many people have been taught to keep away from.  But the key to a better life, for oneself, one's family, one's society, lies first in the ability to imagine one.  This is the Promethean theft of fire from the gods.  It is the mercurial and awe inspiring heart of true magic. The first step in attaining this power is to allow oneself to go against oppressive norms and prohibitions intended to stifle it.  The road to freedom begins with allowing oneself to engage in the simple magic of childhood, to give oneself time to play.        

    

NUMENERA: JIHAD, "THE WITCHES"

“I myself have seen this woman draw the stars from the sky; she diverts the course of a fast-flowing river with her incantations; her voice makes the earth gape, it lures the spirits from the tombs, send the bones tumbling from the dying pyre. At her behest, the sad clouds scatter; at her behest, snow falls from a summer's sky.” 

― Catullus

Click to enlarge

Meet the Witches

The Ninth World of the "Numenera: Jihad" campaign is very definitely a quasi-medieval fantasy setting.  Sure, there are strong elements of post-apocalyptic survival, space opera, and weird horror, but medieval fantasy tropes are front and center.  The Order of Truth, for example, is a bit more religious than it might be in other campaigns, with a pseudo-deity and Aeon Priests that come off a tad "Bene Gesserit."  The Magisters of the Convergence are very "wizardly," with secret handshakes and Masonic rituals and a whiff of the Renaissance alchemist about them.  There are nobles and serfs, plagues and superstition, and in episodes three and four...the curtain draws back (at last) on witches.

When I decided to introduce witches to the Ninth World, I was determined that they wouldn't just come off as just female Magisters but as something unique.  The Sisterhood, as they came to be called, needed to be bound to the depths of the wood, to ancient prehuman gods, to secret yearnings of the heart and dancing under the moon. These drives formed the core of episode three, "When the Woods are Made to Whisper," and its sequel, "The Sisterhood of Wyr."

When the Woods are Made to Whisper (Episode Three)

During her strange reign, Queen Whenith Sarromere had become convinced that by using a variety of numenera secrets, she could harness the power of dreams to control the minds of all who might oppose her, inside and outside her borders. Eventually, she gave up on this scheme, but only because she began to believe that within dreams lay an entirely different realm that she could rule instead of the corporeal land of Iscobal...

Numenera, p. 158

Having killed the lady Anatrea, the characters find their welcome in Draolis worn out.  They are fleeing south into Iscobal across the Wyr River, with city guards from Qi and one of the biomechanical peace-keeping Zhev in hot pursuit.  They are mounted on Lopers (my warm climate cousin of the Snow Loper), in an overland chase through a blinding storm.

The nano Emerson uses a cypher to slow time, and with a lucky roll of 20 manages to take the Zhev out.  After a few of the other pursuers are shot down, they give up the chase, leaving the PCs to continue south towards Mulen, Iscobal's capital.

The storm all but forces them to shelter at an inn they come across, the Queen's Rest.  Once called the Green Ghi-Bird, it was renamed forty years ago, when the young Queen Sarromere made the journey north from Mulen specifically to stay there.  Or so the landlord would have it.  A truer version of the story emerges that she came to investigate the Whisper...a strange wood nearby.  Rumor has it that after she entered the Whisper, she emerged alone, her retinue vanished, and from that day forward the Queen had a mad obsession with dreams.

There are weirder stories about the wood, which the characters discover passing through the neighboring village of Obeth the next morning.  Sleeping on its borders is said to grant strange dreams; a youth might catch the image of his or her future betrothed, while an elder might see himself young and hale again.  Those who enter the wood return dazed, as if drugged.  Some never emerge at all.  And one girl in the village, Ara, started entering he Whisper after her fiancée tragically drown.  Four months ago her belly began to show she was with child...a child she swears was fathered by her lost love, who now lingers in the wood...

Their visit to Obeth comes with a plea for help.  A young peasant boy known for a dangerous and unhealthy attraction to children has vanished, along with a little girl.  A mixture of curiosity, greed (who knows what numenera the Whisper might hold?), and heroic instinct pushes the group to go in pursuit of them.

Before entering the Whisper they stop at Chapel Green, an Order of Truth chantry on the edge the wood.  There they consult Sister Anass, who tells them what she knows of the wood.  It is, apparently, a near perfect circle three kilometers in diameter.  Legend holds it sprang up rapidly after a star fell from the sky.  It is said no bird or beast will enter it, and that a shadowy coven of witches worships there.  Armed only with this, the characters enter.

At this point they are actually in the belly of the beast...

The Njarshan Vkshii                                        Level 7

aka "Witchwoods," "Wood Gods," "Old Ones"

Each of the Njarshan Vkshii appears to be a small, circular forest, 2 to 6 kilometers in diameter. Closer inspection of the various "trees" and "underbrush" (Level 2) makes it apparent they are all a single species, and digging around (Level 3) beneath the soil reveals the truth...they are all connected, the entire forest in fact a single organism.  

A race of ultraterrestrial, they arrive in the Ninth World when one of their seed ships crashes to the earth.  A single massive "tree" sprouts up from the seed ship overnight, and in the nights that follow thousands of smaller "trees" spring up in a circular forest around it.  According to the Sisterhood (see below), the Njarshan Vkshii once ruled one of the previous worlds, and today still cover the entire surface of the Moon (in my campaign the moon is green, in yours, the Vkshii might come from blue-green Mars instead or elsewhere).

The Vksii feed on psychic energy, preying on those who come under their boughs.  They are known to recruit the service of women--and only women--by "seeding" them.  The exact mechanics of this act are unclear (the Sisters will not discuss it), but it always results in the Sister becoming pregnant and giving birth to one of the monstrous human/Vkshii hybrids known as Green Men.  Ever after, the Sister is psychically bound to the Vkshi and her other Sisters.  They can communicate through images and sensations (not actual words) over any distance and telepathically when in line of sight. The Sisters are also able to peer into the minds of others and cause hallucinations, like the Vkshi itself.  The Sisters age very slowly, living centuries, growing more twisted and bark-like as the centuries pass.

Motive: Feed on psychic energy, retake the world someday.

Environment: 13 are known to lay scattered around the Steadfast and the Beyond.

Health: 120

Damage Inflicted: 3 Intellect points in the outer ring, 5 in the middle ring, 7 in the center (see below).

Armor:  4

Movement: None

Combat: A Njarshan Vkshi (Vkshii is plural) attacks only those who enter it, and only to feed.  Attacks come in the form of hallucinations that increase in strength and intensity the closer to the center you go.  In the outer rim these are only level 3 (9) attacks, increasing to 5 (15) in the middle ring and 7 (21) at the center.  The player rolls Intellect to resist.  Failure means losing 3, 5, or 7 Intellect points and suffering a hallucination.  As the Njarshan Vkshii are telepathic, the hallucinations are drawn from the victim's own secret desires or worst fears.  Attacking the Njarshan Vkshi means going to the center, and striking at the core "tree."  The difficulty to hit the creature is actually 0, as it doesn't move, but with 4 points of armor and 120 health it is hard to destroy...especially as it continues making level 7 attacks on your psyche each turn.

Interaction: The Vkshii do not speak save through their Sisters.  For centuries, they seemed quasi dormant, seeding women living near them and preying on stragglers.  But over the last century, the Order of Truth has launched a Shadow Inquisition against the Sisterhood (for the false heresy of worship and impure relations with the alien) and the Vkshii are fighting back, seeding women in positions of power (such as the Order or the nobility) in pursuit of an agenda no one can yet be certain about...

Loot: Any number of cyphers, oddities, or artifacts may lay under the leaves of these witchwoods, left by unwary victims.  If the creature is killed, it will wither to dust and exposing the seed ship.  At least four to six cyphers should be found within, as well as an artifact.   

Intrusion: No escape.  Using its powers of hallucination, the forest keeps turning the characters around so that they can't find their way back out.  It might even appear to blot the sun and stars from the sky, or make them stand still.

It doesn't take the player characters long to know something is very wrong in the forest.  They are attacked by guards from the city of Qi, and later by Lady Anatrea herself...the woman they killed and Beatrix's mother,mseemingly alive and well.  As they figure out the forest is causing them to hallucinate and try desperately to leave, it becomes clear the wood will not let them, so they press on to its center.  Along the way they manage to find the boy they were hunting and the child he took captive.

The Whisper eventually turns them against themselves, sending Lugar into a berserker rage and forcing Emerson to paralyze him with a mass increasing cypher.  Eventually they realize the only way out is to go in...and they make for the center.  Fighting the "core tree," Beatrix contemplates using his dagger...an artifact that kills whatever it wounds and transfers its DNA back into the killer, healing his wounds but also mutating him.  Not certain he wants to attempt it against so massive a being, Emerson takes the blade and does it for him...his player rolling another 20.  The entire forest convulses and withers into a yellowed tangle of husks...and Emerson collapses into a coma, green tendrils starting to writhe beneath his skin...

The Sisterhood of Wyr (Episode Four)

With Emerson in a coma, they decide to avoid the village and make for Mulen as quickly as possible.  

Arriving at Isobal's capital, they take a room in an inn and fall into an exhausted sleep.  They had been lost in the Whisper for days, and after struggling against its psychic predations, are damaged physically and mentally.  

But it isn't over yet.

The miracle-working charismatic Nano in the party (as of yet he has not revealed his name to his comrades) decides to bathe before bed, and Myrna decides to keep watch.  They are spared then when the attack comes...

The sleepers suffer the same dream.  Lying beneath the boughs of the Whisper, the green moonlight bleeding through the shadowy leaves, they are paralyzed by the incoherent chants, hisses, and screeches of unseen women...or what at least sound vaguely like women.  One voice starts whispering to them through the dark.  "You have taken from us.  Now we take from you.  You have wounded us.  Now we wound you.  You have torn the heart from our breast, no we come for yours..."

A female figure, all in black, with a pale face and obsidian eyes, a crescent shaped mark on her forehead and a mass of wild, tangled hair, crawls slowly over the sleeper's prone body like a lover.  She kneels on the sleeper's chest, making it hard to breathe, and gripping him by the face bends to kiss him.  A slimy tendril, rough and hard as bark, slides down the sleeper's throat, strangling him.

The sleepers turn blue and start convulsing.  Myrna and the Nano leap into action, trying to rouse their comrades from slumber.  The hardest to awaken is Beatrix, who is nearly killed.  Once all are revived, they understand they suffered the same identical dream.

They go to the Order for help, and are put in contact with the blind Aeon Priestess Sister Yaevadra.

Yaevadra knows what is happening to them; they have been marked for death by the Sisterhood of Wyr, the human women who made their pacts with the Njarshan Vkshi the party destroyed.  

Yaevadra knows the Sisterhood well, because she used to be one of them before repenting.

Emerson, meanwhile, has awoken, and everywhere he goes, a shadowy presence follows that only he can see.  She is the dark woman from the killing dream.  She whispers to him, and Yaevadra figures out the terrible truth.  The numenera he used to kill the Njarshan Vkshi has, by infecting him with its DNA, "seeded" him.  He is, for all intents and purposes, one of the Sisterhood now.  The only male in history.  Worse, he carries the nucleus of the witchwood in him.  If he returns and is planted in the ground, the Whisper will sprout up again.

The group explores several options.  Lugar suggests returning to his tribe and the Cloud Crystal Sky Fields, because there is a living god in the desert who might be able to purge this. The idea is rejected, and the only thing to be done, they determine, is to return to Obeth, hunt down the Sisterhood of Wyr, and eliminate them.  After that, they can concentrate on a way to extract the Njarshan Vkshi from him.

Yaevadra accompanies them to lend her expertise.

Along the way, she tells them all she knows.  

Iscobal is a land tearing itself apart from within. The palace intrigues start with the royal family led by King Noren tiKalloban. His father, Rabbar, seized the throne about forty years ago from Queen Whenith Sarromere whom most believed unfit to rule. She died in exile in the land of Ancuan.  Now her sons Bren and Kor want Iscobal back in the name of their house. They plot against the king both openly and in secret.

Numenera, p. 158

Queen Sarromere was not merely found unfit to rule.  When, as a young queen she went into the Whisper, she was Seeded, the beginning of her obsession with magic and dreams.  The Order of Truth supported tiKalloban against her; a witch could not sit upon the throne.  This is part of what they learn from Yaevadra.

They go first to the Chapel Green to speak with Yaevadra's fellow Aeon Priestess, Anass.  It is, of course, a trap.  Both Yaevadra and Anass are members of the coven, and they launch into an attack...

The Sisterhood

Sisterhood witches are levels 3 to 5.  Their main method of attack is the Hex; a psychic attack doing their own level in Intellect damage.  The victim suffers potent hallucinations, animating their darkest yearnings or most horrible fears.  It takes an Intellect roll to resist.

PROGENY: BEHIND THE SCENES

When I started this project, I never expected the Progeny story to run twenty chapters (nearly half a novel) or to get the feedback that it has.  It was, for me, just an experiment.  I love writing fiction.  I love roleplaying.  I wanted to see what would happen if I tried to combine the two.

From the start it proved trickier than I had expected.  Lachiel Vaher's Progeny is a game system, not a story, and I have had to take several liberties to translate it into an ongoing saga.  In the virtual world of Second Life, the Progeny "HUD" (head-up display) attaches to your avatar and makes you a vampire.  It gives you a "blood pool" and certain other stats, and like any good vampire requires you to prey upon the living as your blood slowly depletes.  But this is all it does, by design.  It doesn't grant any of the mythological powers of the Undead, it doesn't make you vulnerable to sunlight.  Unless the resident has put up ban lines around their property you can still get in without an invitation.  For a writer telling a story, this meant I had to embellish and, in fact, interpret.  Because there are certain things about Second Life that don't work in the real world.

For example, the Grid has its own islands, landmasses, and continents.  To translate it, I needed to think about real world locations to move the episodes to.  Another oddity is that avatars can speak either in private or local chat.  Obviously, in local chat everyone can hear, but you can be in the presence of two people deeply engaged in conversation but not know what they are saying.  Hence I needed to come up with my weird, ultra-sonic vampire speech.

Other liberties were also taken.  Every character appearing in the blog (with one notable exception) is a real Second Life resident.  Athena, Kit, Stefan, Lee, Alexa, Decem...these are all real people.  Obviously their names have been changed, but the real liberties I took were in sometimes putting words in their mouths (or taking words out!) to improve the story flow.  I appreciate the patience of all involved.

As a writer, I was able to do things in Progeny that I wouldn't normally allow myself.  As I mentioned in my review of Enter, Night (and as an aside am very pleased the author enjoyed it), I stay away from traditional vampires in my fiction because they have been, ahem, done to undeath.  Progeny gave me a chance to write about these archetypical bloodsuckers in a way I wouldn't in other stories (though I have come close...see "Unquiet Slumbers" on this blog).  For that I am grateful.

In addition, Progeny allowed me to play around a bit more with LGBT characters.  Though I have had gay and lesbian characters appear in other stories, I don't consider myself a writer of "LGBT fiction," and most of my characters are straight because statistically most people are straight.  But there is a strong tradition of the homoerotic in vampire fiction, from Sheridan Le Fanu's magnificent Carmilla (1871) through subtext in Stoker's Dracula (Harker's horror when the Count "rescues" him from the vampire ladies declaring "This man belongs to me") right into Anne Rice.  I have tried to stay true to the sexualities expressed by the real avatars involved.

Last but not least, Progeny is a lot more stream of consciousness than my usual finished work.  My rule in writing it was "no rewrites."  I wrote each chapter and posted at a whirlwind pace.

This story, now, is over.  Progeny always in my mind was a way to get Damien from A to B; in other Second Life role-plays, I usually play a "Harrow" type character, whether as my cruel and exiled Dark Elf in Taure Ru  or my obsessed and sinister rebel Time Lord in New Gallifrey.  Entering Progeny was a challenge because I had to start as a new and fledgling vampire (even though I own quite a bit of land and have all these ridiculous castles and palaces I live in).  What I decided to do then was take my fledgling and slowly make him into something else.  Now that he is there, it is time for a new chapter.

Here's the good part.

I have been kindly invited by Lachiel in helping his team put together new LARP style storylines for Progeny.  What this means, I think, is that Damien's adventures will continue here, but they will be less one author spinning a tale and more several collaborative players doing so.  

And so, gentle reader, au revoir for now.  Sleep tight, don't let the vampires bite, and see you very soon.  

      

 

  

PROGENY, PART TWENTY

KATSUYAMA

Draegonne looked past me, walking slowly towards his boy Friday.  He reached his hand up, fingers on the kid's cheek.  "It's me, Stefan.  You have nothing to fear."

The boy's eyes welled with tears, and he lowered the Molotov.    Draegonne opened his arms and the kid embraced him, weeping.  Closing his arms around the boy, Draegonne looked over at me.  "You came all this way to save me."

I narrowed my eyes.  The spectre I had seen hovering behind him was gone, but I still felt it, coiled invisibly around Damien.  "Too bad I was too late."

Draegonne closed his eyes and kissed the boy on his forehead before releasing him.  His eyes went to the cowering girl.  She was backed into the corner, eyes wide and empty.  Her mouth worked but no sounds came out, her entire body shivering.  Damien waved his hand at the Shades in the kitchen, and they faded like smoke.  He smiled at the girl.  "Lee Harper," he said, his voice low and soothing.  "Sleep and forget."

The girl's eyes rolled back into her skull, eyelids fluttering and closing.  She slid down the wall to the floor, suddenly in a deep slumber.  Terrific.  He's commanding ghosts now and his hypnosis is on fucking steroids.

"It's not what you think, Kit."  He still had his back to me, looking down on the girl.  

"It isn't?  I was there at the Night Palace.  You haven't been the same since."

He turned and put his arm around the boy, stroking his hair.  "I would think you of all people would understand what has happened to me, Bastet."

With that last word, he looked straight at me.  I felt my mouth go dry.  "How long have you known?"

"Since I first met you, and tasted your blood."  He replied.  "Though at the time I didn't have access to the knowledge I have now.  I knew you were not entirely human, but only now is your nature clear to me."

I bristled.  "Oh yeah?  And where does this 'knowledge' suddenly come..."  The words died on my lips.

I felt him, his mind sliding smoothly into my own, sifting through my memories.  It was like getting fucked, and not in a good way.  I opened my mouth to protest, but Draegonne found what he was looking for, activating the memory.  It exploded in my brain in full colour and stereo surround sound.  I saw the nursery, the half-Asian infant sleeping in his crib.  It was a hot summer night, and I could feel the heat on my skin...the baby's skin.  My mother had left the window open, to let in the night air.  That was all the invitation it needed.

The cat was little more than a black shadow on the windowsill, except for the glow in its green eyes.  It slid easily through the opening, landing softly on the floor.  It purred soothingly as it padded across the carpet.  With a single, graceful leap it landed inside the crib, inches from the baby.  Ears pressed back against its skull, tail lashing behind it, it placed its paws on the baby's chest, and brought its snout right to the infant's lips.  Its tongue darted out, licking the baby's face.  The child stirred and opened its mouth.

And the cat...it began to dissolve, fading into a swirling black smoke.  As I watched the vapour formed a funnel, and the child sucked it all into its lungs.  The small body shuddered, tiny limbs thrashing.  Then seconds later it fell still, calmly opening its eyes...

I shook my head to clear it, gritting my teeth.  I glared at Damien.  "You ever fuck around in my head again and I will end you, you son of a bitch."

He nodded.  "Fair enough, Kit.  Fair enough."  Damien let go of his Familiar and stepped towards me.  "But I am going to need you with me Kit.  You, with your fused souls, understand better than anyone in the world what has happened to me.  I need you to guide me through this."

I narrowed my eyes, trembling slightly, and mostly because I was pissed off.  The rest was fear.  "How much of you is him?"  When I asked the question, I wasn't sure if I was addressing the Harrow part or the Draegonne part.

"I don't know for certain, and that's partially why I need you. I need you to make sure Harrow doesn't overshadow Damien."

I looked over at Stefan.  No good deed goes unpunished.  I stuck my nose in to help out the kid, and now I was a hostage to whatever chess match the vampires were playing.  This is not the way I rolled.  But I thought of the Nikolea in Geneva, and the red-haired twink I got killed.  I was in this game for real.

"What's the plan?"

Draegonne smiled slightly, and I couldn't make out if he was relieved or just gloating that I was bending to his will.  "Thank you, Kit."  He paused a moment, glancing around the hall.  "We return to Europe now."

I nodded.  "The Night Palace, I suppose?"

He shook his head.  "No, bitch."

Three emotions went through my head at light-speed; surprised, offended, and fucking ticked off.  "Fine, bastard."

Damiend stared at me, and then suddenly let out a laugh.  "No, Kit, no."  He grinned at me.  "Bitche.  A small town in the Lorraine region of France.  Le Pays de Bitche in French or Bitscherland in German.  It's just across the border, less than one hundred kilometres from the Night Palace."

"Why?  What's there?"

"Home," he replied softly, and there was a wistful nostalgia in his voice that I was pretty sure came from Harrow.  "Château Harrotte.  The Night Palace was the home of the House Draegonne.  The chateau is where I...where Harrow resided the last three centuries he was in Europe.  It belonged originally to his Sire."

I scowled a bit at this new twist.  "Why there?"

"Pragmatism.  The Night Palace is still in Dragon territory.  But as per the terms of a truce between the Order of the Dragon and the French Carolingian bloodline, the Lorraine is a sort of demilitarised zone.  It's less likely they will launch an assault against me there, attacking not only a Raven but also breaking their Carolingian truce.  It will be safer until we consolidate our position."

So okay now...everything he says is 'we.'  Is he speaking for Harrow and himself, or like, 'we' as in 'you, Stefan, and me?'

Draegonne smiled slowly.  "Besides, Harrow has hidden something there.  Something we need to reclaim."

"And something tells me you aren't inclined to share what that is."

He put both his hands on my shoulders.  "Patience, Kit Kat.  Put your faith in me.  Trust me.  The game is about to change."

PROGENY, PART NINETEEN

KATSUYAMA

It was time to go in after them.

The kid--Stefan, his name was--scrabbled over the wall first and then helped the girl over it.  From my vantage point I was high enough to see over it, and a minute later watched the two of them make a beeline for the front entrance.  I cursed under my breath.  They couldn't seriously be that stupid, could they?  But then he kind of redeemed himself in my eyes, changing his mind at the base of the steps and signalling for her to follow him around the side of the house.  Maybe he was thinking they could find a window, or a back door.  Either way they disappeared from sight, and scowling, I went after them.

I raced down the wooded hill towards the edge of the road, looking both ways as I emerged from the tree line.  Between the road and the wall was a narrow ditch, no more than a meter wide, and the wall itself was less than three meters tall.  I didn't think it would present much of a problem.  Taking a running start I leapt, springing from the yellow line in the middle of the road and landing on the top of the wall, crouching there.

Yeah, I know.  I've got some mad skills you haven't seen yet.

I scanned the yard and then slipped down into it without a sound, heading after them.  Whoever was doing Harrow's landscaping, I decided, needed to be fired in a big way.  The front yard was a high tangle of dead, yellowed grass and black briars, and the few trees scattered around hadn't put forth any leaves in a decade.  The soil itself was a wet, sucking mud that stank...well, I preferred not to think about what it stank like.  Let's just say I had some vivid ideas about what was buried beneath my feet.

The worst thing though, was the whispering.

I am not quite as tuned into the world of the Dead as the vamps are, but I know a Shade when I feel one.  The air around me hummed with them, a tangle of weeping and screams and pleas.  It's an unmistakable sound, really, something that hovers right on the lowest edge of your hearing range, making the hairs on your arms and the back of your neck prick straight up.  The last time I heard it this bad was Chelmno (fun fact; the Third Reich had been crawling with vampires).  Harrow had to be a motherfucking butcher.

I glanced uneasily around me, and up at the black windows of the house.  I had a clear image in my head of a ring of shuffling ghosts around me, inches away but invisible to my eyes.  It was almost enough to make my balls of steel crawl right back up into my body.  Swallowing, I forced myself to move on ahead.

I really didn't want to be there.  Harrow scared the shit out of me.

See, here's the thing about vamps; the young ones?  Not so bad really.  I mean most of them are basically idiots.  You can spot them coming a mile away.  Give "Eugene Blatz" or "Mary Sue Smitty" a pair of fangs and suddenly they are calling themselves "Lord Venger Nocturnus" and "Countess Carmilla deVille" or some bullshit like that.  They strut around in black leather pouting in goth clubs, looking around for Blood Dolls to bite.  Because they haven't let go of their humanity yet they call their Clans "their Family," refer to their Sires as "Mummy" or "Daddy," and their fellow Get as "brother" and "sister."  It's some pretty sad Emo shit, really.  If they weren't out to drink your blood you could feel sorry for them.  

But the Old Ones?  They are a whole other fucking story.

These guys are the real deal.  They're not going to walk up and ask to bite you, they're just going to take what they want and most of the time you will never know what hit you.  If they leave you alive.  The Old Ones don't walk around trying to look like vampires--they're not seeking attention.  They are well-groomed predators who slide smooth as silk through crowds of their prey, charming and deadly.  Or, on the other side of the spectrum, there are the ones that just completely slide into madness and monstrosity.  They don't bother seducing, they just come out of nowhere and leave drained husks behind.  

And looking around this place, I was pretty sure which category Harrow fit in to.  Come nightfall I didn't want to be within twenty kilometres of that hell hole.

So I ignored the army of ghosts whispering in my ear, pretended I couldn't feel the thin, wispy chill of them reaching out for my skin, and concentrated on catching up with the kid.

It was easier than I thought.

The place had a back porch of sorts, and I say "of sorts" because the wood was mostly rotted away.  The kid was on his knees at the back door, and to my surprise he had lock picking tools and was working on getting in.  I guess he had some mad skills I hadn't seen yet.

The girl had her back to me, but the kid spotted me right away.  And you know, the kid didn't even stop what he was doing.  His eyes widened a fraction in involuntary surprise, but a split second later he was back at his task, concentrating.  There was no "Kit! What are you doing here" or "Thank God, Kit!  You came all the way from fucking Europe to save our sorry asses!"  Nothing.  Instead, he waited for the lock to click, before nodding in my direction.

"Kit."

The girl, on the other hand, whirled around and nearly screamed.  I started to spring forward but the kid beat me to it.  In a blink he had his hand covering her mouth, lips pressed to her ear.  "It's alright.  He's on our side."

She nodded, seeming to relax.  "Kit Katsuyama," he said.  "Lee Harper."

I raised an eyebrow.  "Like the To Kill a Mockingbird chick in reverse."

The girl flushed and nodded.  "Yeah.  Dad was a fan."

My eyes went to Stefan's face.  "You don't seem surprised to see me."

He shrugged.  "My Master is easy to love."

My mouth opened, and I was about to say something exceptionally witty and deeply scathing...but I thought better of it.  We were still in Harrow's backyard.  Banter could wait.

Instead, I narrowed my eyes.  "Please tell me you've got some sort of plan."

The kid grew stiff, glaring defiantly at me.  "He has taken my Master.  I am going to kill Harrow and get him back."

I sighed.  "Wow.  What a relief.  For a minute there I was afraid you were going off half-cocked or something."

The kid frowned at my sarcasm, and opened the tote bag he had slung over his shoulder.  He had whipped up some Molotov cocktails.  "We will go in there, find my Master, and get him out while Harrow sleeps.  Then I will burn the house down around the monster."

I frowned.  "What if he wakes up?"

The kid shook his head.  "He will not.  My Master's generation is much higher than Harrow's.  His blood is stronger.  He can resist the Daysleep better."

"How do you know?"

"My Mistress told me."

"Your what?"  I was genuinely puzzled at this.  Unless Damien had done an amazing job of fooling me, I was pretty damn sure he had the wrong equipment for the title of "Mistress."

"We do not have time for this, Katsuyama.  Either help us or stay out of my way."

This last bit got my temper up.  The fucking kid had no idea what he was doing, and he was going to get himself killed.  Seriously, who did he think he was?  

But then I saw his eyes.

The kid was fighting back tears, as terrified as he had ever been...but not for himself.  For Damien.  He knew it was a suicide mission, but he didn't care.  He was going to get his Master out no matter what the cost was.  I had joked about him being a puppy before, but realised now I was wrong.  He was a guard dog, and something about his determination made me bite my tongue.  "Ok boss," I nodded.  "I've got your back."

The relief behind his eyes was gratitude enough.

I took up the rear--hey, I heard that, mind out of the gutter!--and followed the pair in.  I still didn't know the girl's story, and from the way she was shaking like a leaf it was clear she had never done anything like this before.  Where did the kid find her?  But the backstory had to wait.  We we inside.

I thought Lee Harper was going to scream again.

We were in the kitchen...or what passed for it.  There was an old Victorian ice box in the corner, and a wood-burning cook stove.  It stank, really stank...reeking of filth and rot and roadkill.  Even I gagged a little.  There were rat droppings everywhere, and the black and white tile floor was smeared and spattered with brown streaks and spots.  It was obviously dried blood...we could still see bloody handprints, even a face print from someone whose throat must have been torn open while Harrow held him (her?) pinned to the floor.  The girl's eyes bulged.  She was close to freaking.

"I don't know," I said, my voice shaky.  I swallowed and continued, stronger.  "With a coat of paint and some floor polish, Damien could turn this place into a charming bed and breakfast."

The girl stared at me, baffled, but the kid knew right away what I was trying to do.  To my surprise, he nodded at the ancient kitchen appliances.  "Yes.  My Master will make a fortune.  Pretentious Americans love antiques."

We moved on.

The dining room was, well, let's just say Harrow hadn't entertained in a long while.  We moved through it quickly, opening a pair of double doors into a dark hall.  A staircase swept upwards, and another door, leading towards the cellar, plunged down.

The dining room at Harrow House

I looked at the kid.  "Which way?  It looked to me like this place had three stories, plus an attic.  Are you thinking up or down?"

Stefan looked back at me, frowning.  "Umm...down, I think.  This is a a wooden house.  If there was a fire, Harrow would not want to be sleeping on top of the blaze.  That is a mistake only the young ones would make."

I nodded.  It made perfect sense to me.  Of course, that meant going into the cellar.  The idea didn't thrill me.

The kid went first.  He was prepared, pulling a flashlight out of the bag.  The girl stopped in he doorway, shaking her head.  "No.  No, I can't do this."

The boy looked at her, hard.  "We agreed, Lee Harper.  We made a deal.  You assist me and I will make sure my Master knows you helped him.  He will be grateful.  But if you don't..."

I watched him, guessing a little bit of what had gone before.  You manipulative little bastard.  I kind of liked him.

She swallowed, nodding.  "I know, I know...but I just can't..."

The boy nodded, and then quick as a flash had a knife pressed against her throat.  "I should kill you right now, Lee Harper, to ensure you do not run off and tell others about my Master..."

Okay kid, that's a little too far.  I started to move towards him, but stopped when he spoke again.

"...but you have aided us, so I will release you."

Lee swallowed, shaking badly.

"But you will give your car keys to me.  I have need of your vehicle."

Mental note; teach the kid to stop talking like a bad movie villain.

She agreed, turning over her keys before giving me a wild-eyed look and racing for the back door.  The kid slid them into his pocket and nodded at me.  "We should hurry.  There are only a few hours of daylight left."

"I couldn't agree mo..."

The scream sounded impossibly loud in the narrow hall, like a steam train blasting its whistle in a tunnel.  My hands actually went to cover my ears.  The kid looked at me, then turned away from the basement in the direction the girl went.  he was chasing after the scream.  Everything was happening so fast.  I started to go after him, but standing there at the top of the cellar stairs my psychic whiskers twinged.  I froze, staring down into the inky blackness, until I was was positive my nerves were not playing tricks on me.

Something was coming up the stairs.

"Kit!"  The kid shouted.  "Kit!"

Fuck, I thought blackly, slamming the cellar door closed and turning towards the hall.  This pretty much smells like a trap.

The girl was in the kitchen doorway, and the kid was right behind her.  I came up behind them.  It's not often that I have the height advantage, but in this case I was tall enough to see over both their heads.

Kind of wish that wasn't the case.

The way out was blocked.  Between us and the door was a line of extras from The Walking Dead.  I knew what they were right away, even though, like I said, I never actually saw them before.  They were Shades, the restless dead greedy vamps leave behind.  But this...this was different.  They were aware of us.  They saw us.  Somehow, Harrow was controlling them.

"Have you ever seen one that could do this before?"  I hissed in the Kid's ear.  Eyes wide, he shook his head.

There were three of them...what looked to me like a father in a plaid sports coat and matching trousers, all very 70s.  His wife stood beside him, and a young son.  They were all bled white, their eyes like black glass marbles, lips twitching over badly stained teeth.  I had a flash in my mind of a Pinto station wagon driving by this place sometime around forty years ago.  Poor bastard probably took a wrong turn.  Harrow fell on the car out of the sky, draining the father instantly before dragging the screaming mother and son off to his larder.

How sweet that they were all together now.

To our left something moved.  There on the floor, where just the hand and face prints had been before, was a young man, peeling himself up.  His head was on backwards, twisted all around.  

The girl screamed again, but the kid had the presence of mind to rummage through his bag.  He tugged out one of his Molotovs and a lighter, raising his voice.  "Harrow!  Call them off!  Call them off or I burn this place down!  There are still hours left before the sun goes!"   

He flicked the lighter and held the flame inches from the makeshift fuse.  The Dead, meanwhile, just kept coming.

"I will do it Harrow!  I will do it!"

"I know you will, Stefan..."

This time, I was the one who shrieked.  I kind of hate admitting that.  I whirled around and jumped back against the wall.  The cellar door was open, and the figure I had seen climbing the steps was there in the shadows of the hall.  He looked past me at Stefan, smiling.

"...but I would appreciate it if you didn't.  You have nothing to fear."

The boy let out a strangled gasp, bursting into tears of joy.  "Master!  Master!"

Damien Draegonne stood in the cellar doorway, a faint smile on his pale face.  At the sight of him, Stefan started to lower the cocktail.   But I threw up my hand, warning him.  "No!  Wait, Stefan. Don't."

Stefan stared at me.

But my eyes were on Damien...sort of.  See, I was also looking behind him.  There was a shadow there, a tall, spindly thing, barely visible, with clawed hands and a face like a skull.  I didn't normally see Shades, not really...but I have been to the Lands of the Dead before.  I picked up a few tricks in my travels there.  I wasn't sure what I was seeing, but my instincts told me it was Harrow.  He seemed bound to Damien somehow...they seemed horribly connected.

"Don't put that down Stefan.  I'm not sure it's really him."