ROLEPLAYING TOLKIEN: RPGs IN MIDDLE-EARTH

In honour of his birthday, 3 January 1892

Despite the nearly ubiquitous presence of orcs, elves, dwarves, and halflings in fantasy gaming, there have been only three official, licensed Middle-earth RPGs; Iron Crown's Middle-earth Role Playing or "MERPS" (1984), Decipher's The Lord of the Rings Roleplaying Game (2002), and Cubicle 7's The One Ring: Adventures over the Edge of the Wild (2012).  Each has it's merits and adherents.  But "Tolkienesque" gaming is a bit like chasing the unicorn.  It isn't so much about mechanics, statistics, or spell lists as a certain spirit, or tone.  The reality is, with the wealth of Tolkien reference manuals out there (such as here), any popular game system could be adapted to Middle-earth with very little effort.  

In his letter to Milton Walman (1951), Tolkien provides a brief sketch of his Middle-earth works.  In it, he includes one of the most succinct descriptions of his themes; "...Anway, all this stuff is mainly concerned with Fall, Mortality, and the Machine" (p. xvii The Silmarillion, Harper Collins 1998). Using these three concerns, the following is a very brief summary of the steps a GM might take to make his or her favourite game system a Middle-earth game system.

FALL

Middle-earth is a lot more "Cthulhu" than you think.  Well no, not really, but the central mechanic of Chaosium's Call of Cthulhu, Sanity, is ideal for the first of Middle-earth's great themes, the "Fall."

The Fall essentially begins with Melkor, and through him, is a Shadow that infects all of Middle-earth.  The world is essentially a Fallen world; too much contact with it tempts and erodes the spirit.  This is why the Elves are so reluctant to intervene in it, this is why "death" is considered the Gift of Men (freeing them from it).  Constant exposure to loss, pain, hardship, and the forces of the Shadow (be it Morgoth or Sauron) leads to oppression and despair.  

What a good Middle-earth system needs then is a version of Cthulhu's Sanity mechanic, or the World of Darkness's Humanity.  Let's view it as a spectrum with "Hope" at the high end and "The Shadow" at the low end.  Using Cthulhu's Basic Roleplaying mechanics, Hope begins as the POW stat x 5.  Immoral acts, such as robbery or murder, trigger Hope Rolls--a percentage roll using your current Hope score as the base.  Failure results in a random loss of Hope points (a d6, d8, or d10 depending on the severity of the act).  Likewise, pain and suffering require Hope rolls, such as enduring a serious wounds, going without food or water for extensive periods of time, suffering torture, etc.  And, of course, encountering servants of the Shadow require rolls as well, with minor loses for things like Orcs (a d6 perhaps) and massive loses for something like the Nazgul (d12, d20, etc).  

Falling towards Shadow (0 Hope points) is a terrifying thing.  Quite simply, it removes you from the game.  At zero, humans, halflings, and possibly dwarves become servants of the Shadow.  Essentially, they lose all hope and surrender to the Enemy.  Elves surrender instead to the call of the Sea and must depart Middle-earth.  But the process of getting to 0 is painful too; any time a Hope roll is failed, in addition to the loss of Hope points the character temporarily enters a state of Despair.  During this time he or she suffers a penalty to all non-defensive skill rolls and activities.  In a Basic Roleplaying game, the Hope score temporarily becomes a skill roll cap; for example, if a warrior has 75% in his sword skill and enters Despair with a Hope score of 40%, his new sword skill percentage is 40%.  This state may last minutes, hours, or days depending on the situation.

Of course, there should be ways to recover Hope--resting at Imladris, stopping to eat lembas, drinking miruvor, defeating the agents of the Shadow, and so on.  But in keeping with the theme of the Fall these gains should be minor, perhaps a d4, d6, or d8 at most.  This keeps Middle-earth campaigns from being your typical fantasy RPG, where constant adventure makes you stronger and stronger.  Tackling the Shadow should be a terrible thing which demands sacrifice.

Fortunately, there are a number of variations of the Sanity system out there, from the d20 version in Monte Cook's Call of Cthulhu conversion to the Savage Worlds version in Realms of Cthulhu.  Likewise, the Humanity track from World of Darkness games can be converted over as well.  The main idea should be though one of nearly inevitable decline from adventuring.  Bilbo retired.  Frodo sailed into the West.     

MORTALITY

This one is related to the concept of the Fall.  A Middle-earth game needs to be about death.  Nothing is permanent.  Everything fades. The immortality of the Elves is not the gift it seems to be...it chains them to a world that constantly crumbles around them despite their best efforts.  Men are fortunate that they die.  

Now, there are a few simple ways to incorporate this.  Most game systems have some sort of rules for ageing.  Use them.  Second, take a page from King Arthur Pendragon or The One Ring and space out your adventures; put a year or two (or even a decade) between them.  Obviously, this doesn't happen between chapters in a single quest, but when one concludes leave some time before the next begins.  Have the players talk about what they did between adventures.  Did they marry?  Have children?  How did they spend their loot?  This is Middle-earth so you don't need to obsess too much about gaining experience between tales.  It isn't about that.  Tolkien is the "slow food" of fantasy gaming.  Leave "fast food" to other worlds.

Please note, it isn't necessarily important that your Middle-earth game be lethal.  It doesn't have to be "gritty."  If you focus on the passage of time and the inevitability of death, you are closer to Tolkien than a game system that chews up character after character.  If your game likes the fast-paced cinematic action of something like Savage Worlds, that's just fine.  Just make sure that after twenty or so adventures the characters are all ageing.  Encourage the idea of having children, watching them grow, and then taking them over perhaps as fresh characters.  There are some advantages to this.  True, long-lived dwarves and elves will be more powerful, but they will also have more fragile Hope scores than the younger, fresher heroes who replace their forebears.

THE MACHINE

Here is the Big One, the Sticky One.  In a word, "magic."

"...I have not used 'magic' consistently, and indeed the Elven-queen Galadriel is obliged to remonstrate the Hobbits on their confused use of the word both for the devices and operations of the Enemy, and for those of the Elves...(b)ut the Elves are there (in my tales) to demonstrate the difference.  Their 'magic' is Art, delivered from many of its human limitations: more effortless, more quick, more complete...(a)nd its object is Art not Power, sub-creation not domination and tyrannous re-forming of Creation...The Enemy in successive forms is always 'naturally' concerned with sheer Domination, and so the Lord of magic and machines..." (ibid, p. xviii)

Middle-earth is of course a highly magical place, but it is not magical in the way that most D&D settings are.  Both of the first two licensed Middle-earth RPGs were a bit too magic-heavy; The One Ring neatly avoids the problem by not including any magic-using character types.  How much magic you include in your Middle-earth campaign is a matter of taste, but to keep it Tolkienesque you should bear the distinction between Elven magic and the devices of the Enemy in mind.

At the heart of Middle-earth is this notion of the world as Creation; it is the work of Eru, the One (God).  Elven magic is sub-creation, it works inside the boundaries established by Eru and it does not seek to change the essential nature of thing.  Usually it just enhances.  The nature of a sword is to defend against an enemy, so naturally an Elvish sword is sharper, stronger, and possibly even glows blue when the enemy is near.  The nature of a cloak is to protect against the elements and to conceal, so naturally an Elven cloak keeps you warmer and makes it easier for you to hide.  It is not the nature of a sword to shoot lightning bolts or of a cloak to give you the power to fly.  These things go against the nature of the object, and thus are devices of the Enemy.

A very simple way to handle Elvish magic is that it grants bonuses.  A cloak gives bonuses to stealth rolls, a sword gives  bonuses to hit and to damage, lembas bread gives bonuses to rest and recovery, etc. If you stick to this, you are safely within the bounds of sub-creation.  Additionally, Elvish magic is primary passive; Rivendell, for example, is hidden from intruders...it doesn't have a force field around it that blasts intruders to bits.  Further, Rivendell is not hidden in plain sight, it's not invisible.  Again, in keeping with sub-creation, hidden Elven communities simply enhance the power of nature to conceal them; they are usually in hidden valleys or woods and the Elvish magic simply gives bonuses to that concealment.  Actual invisibility, as we all well know, is a device of the Enemy.

As a final note, Elvish magic originates from within.  The Elves are, after all, inherently magical.  Elvish wine and bread is not necessarily enchanted by spells...it is simply magical because the Elves who made it are magical.  Why are the Elves magical?  Because they are meant to be magical.  This is also the case of Maiar spirits like Tom Bombadil or the Istari (Gandalf and his fellow Wizards).  They don't command an external power, their magic comes from their natures.   

The Enemy, however, is "the Lord of magic and machines."  Note that Tolkien does not see a distinction between the two.  This is because the Enemy's magic does not originate inside its user but is always an external device, a "machine."  The power of the Nazgul comes from their rings, not their inherent natures.  The Enemy's magic is not about enhancing the natural properties of an object, but artificially conferring powers it is not supposed to have.  The most common example is granting immortality, or at least longevity, to those not meant to possess it.

Please note when we use the term "devices of the Enemy" here we do not necessarily mean they come from Sauron or Morgoth directly.  Rather, they ultimately derive from the corruption Melkor wove into Creation, a lust for power that is not rightfully yours. Whether or not they come from the Enemy directly, they always fall under his dominion.  

Feanor's Silmarils are a good example, because they possessed a light that properly belonged only to the Two Trees.  It is the nature of jewels to sparkle and be beautiful, but their light was a stolen one that properly belonged to something else.  Not surprisingly, then, the Silmarils led directly to the Fall and Exile of the Noldor and the destruction of much of the West.  Likewise, the palantiri are a sticky case; it is not the proper nature of stones to convey messages or grant clairvoyance...so again they eventually fall under the power of the Shadow.

The magic of the Enemy is always meant to dominate or change the essential nature of a being or object.  It is an external power the user is not meant to have.  Because of this, using a device of the Enemy always requires a Hope roll with the threat of losing points and sliding closer to the Shadow.

Now, there are of course blurry cases.  The Mirror of Galadriel seems dangerously close to a device of the Enemy, but Galadriel is, after all, a High Elf from the West.  We are told that she possesses the inherent gift of seeing into the hearts and minds of others, and her mirror really just seems to be an outward extension of her power.  Likewise, Gandalf often stretches the case; pine-cones are meant to burn, but turning them into flaming missiles is a bit extreme.  Again, he is a Maiar, and he is rightly imbued with power to challenge the Shadow.   

In summary, here is a checklist of Tolkienesque magic;

Elvish Magic

- Enhances natural properties

- Grants bonuses

- Is passive rather than aggressive

- Inspires hope and wonder

- Doesn't require a Hope roll

The Devices of the Enemy

- Comes from an external source (a device or spell)

- Grants powers the user would not normally have

- Is meant to dominate or transform

- Inspires despair and terror 

- Requires a Hope roll

So long as you stay within these bounds, you are free to make your Middle-earth campaign as magical as you like, or to use whatever system for it you desire, and it will feel more or less Tolkeinesque.

AND A FINAL WORD ON ELVES

With these three things you are well on your way to making your favourite game system suitable for Middle-earth.  But there is an issue we probably should touch on; what to do with the Elves.

There is a tendency to think of the Elves as super-human, and why not?  They are immune to disease and ageing, they are able so see partially into the spirit world, they seem highly resistant to extremes of weather, they don't require sleep but rather spend an hour or so meditating, and everything they make is magical.  And this is just the Elves who stayed in Middle-earth; the High Elves that returned from the West are even greater.  When you add to this the fact that they also tend to be more beautiful, more graceful, taller, more resilient, etc, you end up with a play balance nightmare.

Make it work for you.

If you are using a game in which stats are rolled, require would-be Elf players to roll just like everyone else, but in order to actually be one you need to roll high.  For example, in a 3d6 stat system, require Elves to have 12 or higher across the board.  With High Elves, go ahead and demand 14 or higher.  The trick is to remember that there are humans who are more beautiful than some Elves, or taller than some Elves, or more graceful.  The Quendi simply tend to be better.

In point buy systems, require the player to purchase high minimum stats, leaving less for skills.  A beginner character Elf need not be a supremely skilled member of his race; it is very likely he isn't.

Also, remember to use Hope against them.  Instead of ageing rolls, Elves must make annual Hope rolls.  They are a fading race.  Their time is nearly done.  They are meant to go into the West.  Making them more susceptible to the weariness the world inspires than other races is not only very Tolkien, it helps to balance the scales a little.

Beyond that, don't worry so much about it.  The Lord of the Rings has a party composed of a Maiar Wizard, a King, a Dwarf warrior, a Human warrior, an Elf prince...and four inexperienced Hobbits.  Play balance is not that much of an issue.

  

     

  

  

     

PROGENY, PART SIXTEEN

DAMIEN

Marion Draegonne sat up straight in bed, staring blankly at the wall ahead of her as if no one else was in the room.  She didn't look like a woman who had just been startled awake by a pair of intruders in her motel room.  Instead, she looked like someone on a massive dose of Thorazine.  Her eyes were open but glassy, her face locked in a dull, moronic smile.  A slight trickle of spittle ran from the corner of her mouth down her chin.  With her grey hair sticking up wiry from her head, she looked vaguely like one of those troll dolls popular when I was a kid.

It had been three years since I last saw her.  She looked like she had aged a hundred.

I turned my eyes to him.

Had I been Quick, had the lump of dead flesh in my chest still been capable of it, my heart would have been pounding.  But it had been too long since I Fed.  The thin stream of living blood in my veins was half-depleted, and I was half dead.  My body was cold and numb, and the terror I felt remained confined to my head.  I neither extended my claws nor my fangs, watching mutely as he emerged from the corner of the room.  

There was no way he could pass for human.  Not any longer.    I thought immediately of that urban legend, the Slender Man.  He seemed to unfold from the darkness in the corner of the room like a spider, all limbs. The centuries had stretched him, like an image imprinted on Silly Putty, until everything about him was wrong.  His arms and legs, his spindly white fingers, even his thin tapering ears seemed elongated.  He had to be at least seven feet tall, but the way he stooped over lowered him to six and a half.  There was no hair on his skull, not even eyelashes, and the flesh had gone a diseased grey.  Worst of all, his two inch-long fangs extended over his lower lip like a rat.  I doubted he ever bothered to sheath them any more.

"Harrow," I whispered.

Simon Harrow.  Click to enlarge.

I have been waiting such a long time for you, young Master Draegonne.

I glanced over at my mother, considering my options.  Could I move fast enough to get her from the room?  I didn't think so.  Harrow was at least a thousand years old, and I had no idea what powers were his to command.  Despite his decayed appearance, he very likely had terrible strength and tremendous speed.  I would never make the door.

Oh come now, Master Draegonne.  The night is young and we have so much to discuss, you and I.  You mustn't dream of leaving the party so soon.

I turned an stared hard at him.  "What have you done to her?"

It was a valid question.  I knew the numbing, hypnotic effect we could induce in the living, and I knew some Progeny could even exert enough force to issue commands...but this?  When I reached out to touch her thoughts there was nothing there.  It was as if she barely existed.  

Marion is going to wait here, Master Draegonne, while you enjoy the hospitality of Harrow House.

I frowned.  "And if I refuse?  With her in the room you have leverage.  You must know I will attempt to flee as soon as she isn't in immediate danger."

The thing's face twitched.  He might have been trying to smile.  How charming that you think my influence extends to but a single room.  He turned towards her.  Marion, attend.

Her head jerked towards him like a dog straining for the voice of its master.

Your son and I shall be leaving.  You will remain here.  Tomorrow night, if you do not hear from me, you will go into the bath and open your wrists with a razor.  Understood?

My mother nodded mutely.

Now, Young Master, let us be off.  Your mother will remain intact so long as you refrain from any unpleasantness.

I thought of Stefan in our room, and wondered if I could signal him.  But really...what was the point?  What could he possibly do?  The fact is I had come all this way to confront the Dragon.  There was no point in delaying my fate.  Nodding, I followed him from the room.

Follow.

Stepping out into the dark, his body twitched, bones snapping and reforming.  His fingers extended out several yards, veined flesh stretched between them.  With a sound like canvas snapping in a strong wind, Harrow took to the air, his arms now massive, bat-like wings.  All I could do was race after him like a hound, following below as he beat his way across the night sky.  

Of course, I really didn't need to chase him.  I knew the way.

It had been a cold Sunday afternoon, the air wet with drizzle and fog, when I climbed the wall surrounding the house and snuck across the weed-choked yard.  I was ten, and it was a dare.  I went around the side to one of the windows, but could barely see anything as I pressed my face against the filthy glass.  Suddenly, something moved just inches from my face, and I let out a shriek.  It had been a rat, I think, scurrying across the inside of the window.  Still, I turned and ran as fast as my legs could carry me.

And here I was again.

Harrow House loomed before me, and to my Un-Dead eyes it was far worse than I was capable of seeing it alive.  It was the same grey, rotting heap, but now I understood fully why everyone whispered it was haunted.  Living, when you pass by the gates you feel a chill in the air, the whisper of breath on the back of your neck.  Maybe you imagine a moan or hiss in your ear.  But Un-Dead, half between this world and the next, you see everything.

As I have explained before, gentle reader, when the Progeny take a life, draining our prey to death, some of our Curse passes into them.  They do not, as legends say, rise as vampires themselves.  Instead, their bodies die and rot naturally, but their spirit, their Shade, remains earthbound, rooted to the spot where it died.  These blind, empty things can remained trapped for years, or decades, slowly fading until only a vague image remains, or the echo of their voices.  Harrow House...the yard, the windows...was filled with Shades, and the air hummed with their pleading cries, their terrified screams, their dying.  They were everywhere.

And Harrow landed in the middle of the yard, surrounded by them, like a king reigning over the dead.  They shrieked, and grovelled, and cringed.  Horror filled me.  How was this possible?  Shades were never aware of others.  How is it they saw him?

Come, Master Draegonne.  Surely you are not afraid of the Dead.

But I was.  I was terrified.  Harrow seemed to bend or break all the Laws of my condition.

Summoning my courage I passed the gate, and followed him into Harrow House.

Harrow House.  Click to enlarge.

  

   

    

PROGENY, PART FIFTEEN

STEFAN BARTAK

When an hour had passed, and you had not yet returned, I started to grow afraid.

I am not very good on my own, Master.  Thinking for myself, making my own decisions...these are skills I have never really had opportunity to develop.  As a young child I watched my mother follow orders, from the men she pleasured for money, from the pimp who collected her earnings, from the Prague syndicate who noticed her son was 'pretty' and took him to make illicit movies.  She didn't even argue with them.  They told her to turn me over and she did.

And then it was my turn to follow orders.  I understood implicitly that my body did not belong to me.  It was theirs to use.  If I ever had my own will, my own volition, I discarded it very early on.

Except for that one time.  

When adolescence started to erase my boyishness, when the drugs started to take their toll and I was no longer wanted for the cameras, I made my way as my mother had.  Down on my knees in filthy bathroom stalls, down on all fours in alleyways.  Just so long as the men could pay.  I think maybe I was dying when she found me, I think maybe I didn't care.  But when I saw her, suddenly I did.

She looks like a statue come to life, like one of those angels you see in churches.  "Your blood is diseased," she told me, staring unblinking through eyes that had watched centuries flow past.  "Luckily it is a disease that can be cured, but next time you won't be so fortunate."

I said nothing.  It had been awhile since I had scored, and the need was very strong.  I was lying in a pool of my own filth, shuddering.  "I too understand addiction," she whispered gently, stroking my cheek.  "My kind understands it as the Quick never could.  But I can save you, child.  Come with me, and I will take care of you.  You will never need to serve these men again."

I remember staring up at her, shaking.  Her golden hair looked like a halo.  "Why?  Why would you help me?"

"The addiction, of course," she replied softly.  "My kind needs what flows in your veins."

That was the one time, Master.  The one time I decided.  I decided to serve her, to serve you, to serve the Progeny.  And I became what now I am.

And being what I am, I need you more than you can possibly understand.  I need to serve you.  And when you did not return, it was like someone had stolen the sun from my sky.

As the hours went by it grew worse, terror gnawing at my insides.  This was my fault.  Mine.  Because you are so gentle with me, Master, because you are so kind, you would not Feed from me after the attack in Geneva.  So you went out to hunt.  You went out into danger because your servant had failed you.  And as I watched the sky start to lighten, dawn drawing near, I hated myself so intensely I could have slit my own throat.

No, I could never do that.  My blood is not mine to spill.  It is yours.

I spent the entire night by the window, watching for you.  That was how I saw the girl, the one from the lobby.  I hid myself carefully, peering out through the narrow slit between the drapes so she couldn't see me.  And I watched her.

She sat in her car, staring up at our room sucking smoke from some bizarre apparatus.  I felt my jaw clench, my hands ball into fists.  Why did she spy on us?  Was she in league with Harrow?  Had she hurt you?  The anger this raised in me was so hot it felt like acid in the back of my throat.  If she had somehow hurt you, Master, I would do things to her far worse than any of the tortures I saw back in Prague.  She would scream for death.

I armed myself, and I waited for an opportunity.  It was morning now, and wherever you were, you were not coming back to tell me what to do.  I needed to act on my own, for you.  Always for you.

She finally gave me all the chance I needed, getting up out of her car and stretching in the daylight.  Then she approached the motel and vanished from my sight.

I moved as the Mistress had taught me, as I was trained to do alongside all of the other Tenebrati Familiars.  Because, my Master, we do not merely serve you by giving our blood.  We are all trained to kill for you, to lay down our lives for yours.  I moved without a sound, and quick, closing the door behind me and rushing down the stairs.  Keeping my head low, I stole a glance at her at the soda machine, and they rushed across the parking lot to her car.  Fool.  She had left the door unlocked.

I climbed inside.

When she returned, I could feel my pulse racing, throbbing in my neck.  I was quivering with rage.  The thought that she might have hurt you filled my head with hot, red images.  I would make her bleed.  I would strap her down and fuck her with the knife blade.  

And when she gave me the chance, I sprang.

"Why have you been watching our room?"  I asked her, pressing the knife just hard enough against the skin of her throat to draw blood.  "Where is my Master?  What have you done to him?  Answer me or I swear I will bleed you out right here." 

Her eyes bulged.  I could see them in the rearview mirror.  To my surprise she didn't struggle or scream.  She barely even breathed.  "Please...please don't kill me.  I won't tell.  I won't tell anyone."

She was pleading, of course, but her voice was very low, almost calm.  I thought to myself that she was either very brave or very foolish.  "Tell anyone what?  Are you spying for him?  Do you serve Harrow?"

She swallowed, and winced as the knife bit just a little deeper.  "I saw in the mirror last night.  I knew what your father...Master...was.  But I swear, I won't tell anyone if you let me go."

Mirror?  What mirror?  I made a mental picture of the lobby, but saw no mirror.  Inwardly, I cursed myself.  It was my job to notice these things, to protect my Master from discovery.  I had been so tired from the flight, and from recuperating.  Had I failed him?

"Please...please...just let me go."  Her voice was very low right now, and a single tear slid down her cheek.

"Why are you sitting out here, watching?"

"I..." she swallowed and winced again.  "...I was afraid for Don, the guy who replaced me.  I mean, I couldn't tell him what I had seen--he'd never believe it--but I was worried your...umm...Master would do something to him."

I stared very hard at her eyes, and behind the terror in them, I felt certain she was telling the truth.  Something inside of me collapsed.  She didn't know where you were, Master.  She had no idea.  

I lowered the knife, and then collapsed into the backseat.  I couldn't stop myself.  I began to weep.

The girl didn't try to run, she didn't scream.  She sat frozen while I sobbed, watching me in the mirror.  Then suddenly, she turned around to face me directly.  She cleared her throat.  "He's...missing?"

I wiped my eyes, looking up at her.  I thought of the Laws that forbade me from sharing the secrets of the Progeny with her, of the dire punishments that would fall upon me if I broke them.  But then I thought of the Mistress.  Of Athena.  Of the orders she gave me.

Forgive me, Master.  I lied to you.

She had come to the Familiars' Quarter, the others bowing and moving out of her way as she approached me.  She sat beside me on my bed, smiling gently.  "You have bonded with young Damien, haven't you."

It was not a question, nor to it require an answer.  We both knew it was true.  

"It happens, sometimes, between Familiars and certain Progeny."  She stroked my hair like a pet.  "Something in the Blood calls out to the Blood.  His Kiss is now an addiction for you."

I nodded at this.

Athena gave a gentle sigh, and tossed her golden mane of hair.  "He's very foolish, this one.  Right now he is planning on running away.  He thinks I do not know about it, if you can imagine such a thing."  She smiled sadly at me.

"Running?  Why?"

"Because Blood calls out to Blood," she repeated.  "Because I am his Sire, but the Blood of another is also in his veins.  It always has been.  He is my Get, but he is also another's Familiar.  Only, he does not know this yet."

"I don't understand, Mistress."

She nodded.  "It is not necessary that you do.  But he is going into very great danger, Stefan."  She turned and looked at me.  "Terrible danger.  It might destroy him."

I frowned.  "Then forbid him, Mistress."

Athena tilted her head slightly, a faint smile at the corner of her lips.  "But I want him to go, Stefan.  It has been my plan ever since he first came to us."

I didn't know quite how to feel about this, Master.  Athena had saved me, taken me in, given me purpose.  But as she said, I had now bonded with you.

"I need you to go with him, Stefan.  I need you to look after him.  But he mustn't know that you are my eyes and ears.  We must let him think he has slipped the leash."

It was pointless asking her why.  Besides, that is not my nature.  I nodded and did as I was told.

Now, my Master was in the very danger Athena had warned me about.  And I was a boy in a strange country I knew nothing about.  He was missing, and I had no resources to find him.  I didn't even know where to look.  So to fulfil my instructions, to do as Athena had told me, I broke the laws of our Clan.

"My Master went out to Feed last night," I said quietly.  "He never came back."

The girl stared at me, both terrified and visibly excited.  "When you say Feed, you mean he killed someone?"

I shook my head vigorously.  "No.  Not my Master.  My Master is kind.  He takes only what he needs.  His prey seldom even knows they have been Fed upon."

The girl nodded at this, and seemed even more excited to me.  I couldn't understand her reaction.  She should have been afraid.

"So there are good ones," she said.  "Your Master is one of them."

I nodded at this, and something clicked in my head.  Wait.  She is one of those.  She is one of those who has fantasies about your kind.  "Yes.  He is kind, and good, and gentle.  But there are very bad ones as well."

I watched her reaction to this, and she nodded slowly.  Her face was a bit flushed, like a schoolgirl discovering her imaginary friend was real all along.  I realised I could use this.  I could use her. 

"In fact, he is here on a mission.  He has come because their is a very evil vampire in this community.  My Master has come to rid you all of him."

She blinked rapidly, leaning a little closer towards me.  "You mentioned 'Harrow' before.  Did you mean 'Harrow House?'  That old place by the cemetery?"

I stared.  "Yes.  Yes.  That is what I meant.  The evil vampire lives there."

She bit her lower lip, and I knew that it was working.  Good and Evil.  Ha!  Forgive me, my Master, but the people of your country are so simple.  They see everything in Black and White, and always themselves as the White side.  This was an illusion I could work with.  "But I am afraid for him.  I am afraid the evil vampire has done something to my Master."

The girl nodded again.  "You think he is at Harrow House?"

"Yes, I do."  I put on my most innocent, pleading expression.  "Could you...could you possibly take me there?"

She seemed to weigh this in her mind.  A reasonable person would call the police upon the knife-wielding maniac who just put a knife to her throat.  But this girl had always wanted to believe in vampires, in her fantasy of good guys and bad guys.  She was starting to think of herself as one of the protagonists in one of her silly stories.

"Sure.  I could drive you there.  If you can help him."

"Yes," I nodded, genuinely relieved.  "Yes please take me there.  My Master will be so grateful."

The girl seemed to have a second thought, then dismissed it.  She turned and started the engine.

PROGENY, PART FOURTEEN

HARPER

Meredith got me started.  She was my step-mom, sort of--Dad never actually remarried, he just invited her to move in when I was nine.  There was nothing weird about her; she looked just like any other middle-aged woman.  But I remember finding pictures of her back in the day, and she was a total goth.  Black hair, maroon lipstick and fingernail polish, clothes that looked like they'd been yanked off a Victorian corpse.  I guess she grew out of all that.  But Meredith kept something from those days.  On a crummy little bookshelf she kept by her bed, she had just about every book Anne Rice ever published.

I was ten when I "borrowed" the first one.  It was The Queen of the Damned and I guess the title just jumped out at me.  As soon as I realised it was part of a trilogy I went back and read Interview and Lestat.  I was that kind of kid...always with my nose stuck in a book.  By the time I got to Body Thief I was hooked.  For some kids it was Harry Potter or Lord of the Rings.  It was vampires for me. 

I read all the Rice books Meredith had, including the non-vampire ones like the Mayfair Witches, The Servant of the Bones, and the one about Ramses the Damned.  But it was the vampires that hooked me.  So when Twilight came out, I read that too.  I was fourteen at the time.  I wrote a book report about it for Mrs. Fuller's English class and she handed me the paper back with a sour-faced scowl.  She'd given me an "A," but she'd written in red pen I really wish you would turn your attention to something educational.  You are never going to learn anything real from stories like these.

Yeah, right.  At least not until a vampire checks into the motel you are working at.

Not one of Anne Rice's immortals, or Meyer's "Cold Ones," this one was old school.  He reminded me a bit of Angel from Buffy, a combination of his soft-spoken broodiness and that spiky hair. I never believed for a second the pale, skinny kid with him was really his son, but the vibe I was getting from them wasn't a gay thing.  Actually the boy seemed protective of the older guy, like some sort of scrawny bodyguard.  He glared at me the entire time they were checking in.

But the vampire...yeah, he was old school.  The minute I looked up from the computer I caught sight of that mirror on the wall opposite the desk, and I saw.  My reflection was there, and the back of the scrawny kid's head, but the older guy was nowhere to be seen.  I mean, he was right there in front of me, but the mirror was oblivious to that fact.  He had no reflection.

In the books, of course, people either freak at this point (and get killed) or rationalise, trying to convince themselves that despite the bloodless corpses piling up there-are-no-such-things-as-vampires (and this gets them killed later).  But those are stories, and this was the real world.  The guy standing in front of me cast no reflection, and I knew what that meant.  No point in pretending otherwise.

So I did my best to remain calm.  I didn't want to end up like the Evil Ed kid in Fright Night.  

In my defense, I think I should score some points for that.  Letting my obsession get the better of me immediately after that?  Yeah.  Not so smart.

But you probably have never worked the night shift at a fly spot of a motel in the middle of nowhere.  It is a long, dark stretch of hours that never end.  You sit there with a book, or endless informercials on the TV, slowly going stir crazy and thinking you really need a better job.  Only this time, I sat there shaking.  There was a freaking vampire in the motel, and I was twenty minutes away from the closest state trooper barracks.  Except for the few guests who had checked in, I was alone.  Around three in the morning, stuck at a job like that, there is nothing to distract you.  Your mind picks at things the way Ronnie Illes used to sit in class and pick at his zits.  I couldn't stop thinking about what was happening.

So the kid isn't one of them, I thought.  He's like the Renfield, maybe, like the old dude taking care of Chloe Grace Moretz.  And on a scale of one to 30 Days of Night she wasn't really that bad of a vampire.  Maybe it's like the Sookie stories.  Maybe they aren't all bad.  Maybe there are good ones.

This went on all night, my mind obsessing, chasing itself in circles, and I nearly screamed when Don showed up to relieve me.  It was six AM, and the sun was still an hour away, but with Don here I was free to go.  I could escape.

But what if something happened to him?  What if this vampire decided he needed a pre-dawn bedtime snack?  I got out to my car, and sat there with my hands on the wheel, unable to turn the key and drive away.  I couldn't just leave Don there, without any sort of heads up.  But what was I going to say?  "Don, there's a vampire checked into 213?"  He'd laugh me out the door.  Don was kind of a creep, and I was tired of him trying to get into my pants, but I didn't want to see him eaten.  So, well, I guess I got stupid.  I stayed.  

I cracked the window despite the cold and fumbled through my purse for my e-cig, spending the next hour vaping on Skittles-flavored mist.  From my vantage point, I was staring right through the windshield up at 213.  I didn't budge.  But there were no signs of movement up there, the curtains pulled and the door shut.  Maybe he was just passing through.  Maybe he would sleep the day away and then he would be gone.  Maybe, maybe...

The sun came up, finally.  When it was bright enough that I felt sure an old school non-reflection casting vampire would burn to a crisp (rather than just sparkle, I mean), I got out of the car just to run over to the vending machine.  Vaping had given me a headache, and I needed a drink to wash down the Advil I had in my purse.  I was only gone a minute or two, tops.  Carrying my soda I got back into the car.

It was safe enough now, I thought.  But what was I going to do tonight, if the vampire was still there?  I reached down to get the Advil.

He had climbed into the backseat.  The moment I looked away from the mirror he sat up, his scrawny arm putting the knife to my throat.  His other hand grabbed my hair and pulled my head back hard.  

"Why have you been watching our room?"  He hissed, his voice ice cold.  "Where is my Master?  What have you done to him?  Answer me, or I swear I will bleed you out right here."

PROGENY, PART THIRTEEN

Read Part Twelve Here

KATSUYAMA

By the time he left Geneva, I knew three things about this Draegonne guy.  I knew he was drama I didn't need fucking up my life, I knew running after Harrow was going to get him killed (or destroyed, or whatever you call it when Bleeders get offed), and I knew I was already into him in a big way.  Any of those was reason enough not to follow him to the States...especially the last one.  I don't mind hooking up now and again to scratch an itch, but relationships are not my thing.  I like simplicity.  Maybe it came with my Japanese blood.

So it bothered me that I couldn't stop thinking about him.  Not in a school-girl crush way, heart all pitter-patter, but more like wondering if he had been totally possessed by this ancient vamp yet.  I had seen it up close and personal.  That night in die Nachtpalast did something to him...messed with his head.  He was different immediately after it.  To be blunt it gave me the fucking creeps.  I know I had just met the guy, but I read people pretty damn well.  Always have.  And there were moments on the way back to Geneva that it sounded like someone else was talking through the guy.  Especially the bit back at the hotel.  I mean, yeah...alright.  I did give him a bit of a brush off, but I had also done this guy a solid saving his boy toy blood doll like that.  I don't think I deserved the attitude blast he hit me with.

And yeah, it bothered me how much that bothered me.

Screw him, I told myself.  I decided to put him out of my mind the old fashioned way; get over a guy by getting under another one.

I had a friend DJing at Avalon that night, so I put on this new school boy uniform I had been aching to take for a spin, and made sure it was just untucked and tussled enough to look less prep and more punk.  I put on extra eye-liner shook my hair out into a lion's mane.  Kitteh was on the hunt tonight.

The place was predictably packed, a sea of half-naked bodies writhing in the pit.  Bathed in red and yellow laser-light, the music throbbing, it reminded me of something out of Dante's Inferno.  As I descended the stairs into the crowds, a new remix of the old Lords of Acid "Show Me Your Pussay" launched from the speakers.  The timing really couldn't have been more perfect.

It didn't take me long, really.  It never does.  He was this red-haired Danish boy, snuck in the door on a doctored ID and flying high on E.  He had the cutest dusting of freckles over his cheekbones and bridge of his nose.  Ginger.  Kitteh likes himself some ginger.  Without saying a word I went straight up to him, pressed my pelvis to his, and started sucking on his tongue.  We were grinding together on the floor about half an hour before the action moved outside.

Neither of us much minded the cold.  We found an alley about half a block from the club, and he was down on his knees with my cock in his mouth.  Which is when they appeared.

I cursed.  Another minute of two of ginger working my tool and I might have unloaded.  That wasn't going to happen now.

Nikolea.

The boy saw them but it was clear he didn't know the score.  I think what must have gone through the poor bastard's head was that these toughs were gay-bashers.  He got up on his feet, wiping his mouth while I put my dick back in my pants, thinking this was going to get messy.  He held his hands up and told them he didn't want any trouble.

Jesus those fuckers are fast.  Three of them were on the kid, lifting him off his feet and against the wall.  It was a fucking fang-bang.  Two of them had their teeth in his throat, stifling his agonised screams with a fist jammed into his mouth.  A third was sucking at his wrist.  I am no body's freaking hero, but the look of terror and pain in that sweet kid's face brought a snarl to my face.  I would've tried to help him if I didn't have four others to deal with.

They stood between me and him as he slowly stopped thrashing and the light went out in his eyes.  

"I caught your scent," the big one said.  He looked Arab to me, North African, fangs at least three inches long.  Despite the cold he was wearing a flimsy T, muscles rippling underneath it.  "I tracked you.  You some vampire's bitch, boy?  You got the stink of the Tenebrati on you."

Fuck, I thought, glancing a final time at Ginger.  His dead eyes seemed to stare back at me.  This wasn't random.  And I got him killed.

Quietly, I drew the knife I kept in my boot.  I didn't think I could win, but I wasn't going down without drawing my own share of vamp blood.  "I do?  And here I thought I had showered him off."

The Outcasts closed in, slower.  I don't think the knife intimidated them, they just wanted to make me squirm.  Then the one that looked like a snake--seriously, no hair or eyebrows and pale skin that looked like he'd stolen it from a boa constrictor--grabbed the big one's arm.  "No.  Wait.  Wait!"

The big one growled, clearly hot for my blood.  This made the snake even squirmier.  He raised his voice.  "No!  I know who this is!  He's the one who went to die Nachtpalast.  He was with the Draegonne!"

My eyes flicked to the big one's face, and it looked like something big and scary had just reached out and squeezed his balls to pulp.  He staggered back a step.

And before I could make a smart alec remark--and I can spit those fuckers out like machine-gun fire--the whole pack of them vanished, racing off into the night.

I swallowed, trying to coax my heart back into my chest from where it felt lodged in my throat.  Then I went over to Ginger.  

Too late for him.

My hands balled into fists, and my eyes went back to the mouth of the alleyway.  He doesn't just scare the Dragons, he scares the fucking Nikolea as well.

"America, here I come," I whispered.