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 Post subject: The Haunting of Borealis - Halloween 2007
PostPosted: Wed Oct 31, 2007 1:09 pm 
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Joined: Thu May 25, 2006 10:03 pm
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First up, a great big thank you to everyone that turned up and helped make this Ghost Walk so special!

And a big thank you to all the Dancers involved, both on the tour and behind the scenes. And to GSP for their participation, espeially to DJ Narcotic and DJ Chaimera, our DJs for the night!

This was the first major event the GSP Dancers have staged as an Org in our own right... but it certainly won't be the last! More events are already being planned, so keep an eye on this forum as this is where any announcements will be posted.

And keep an eye on this thread, as over the next few days we shall be posting on here all the stories that were told during the ghost walk... and maybe a couple of bonus ones on top!

For now, here's a map of the entire route taken by the Ghost Walk. Look how far we walked! (My feet hurt now...)

Image

Happy Halloween! And watch out for things that go bump in the night!

Espcially if they're GSP Dancers... ;)


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PostPosted: Thu Nov 01, 2007 1:18 am 
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Greetings, my fellow Atlanteans and, on behalf of the GSP Dancers, welcome to Borealis.

I know that for many of you this city is as much of a home as anywhere on Rubi Ka, in fact some of you may even have lodgings here.
For others, off fighting the good fight in strange fields far from here, this will be the first time in many moons that you have returned to the city on the hill.

But for locals and visitors alike, we are hoping to peel back the surface of the Borealis you know, and show you some of the things that lurk in the darkness beneath.

For your comfort and security on this tour, we recommend that you wear footwear suitable for walking on both paved streets and out in the open countryside, and that will allow you to run away from psycho-killers without breaking a heel at an inopportune moment.

Please avoid reading aloud from any old dusty books filled with obscure runic languages, particularly not those bound and buried in the deepest vault of the darkest crypt.
Do not enter the deepest vaults of the darkest crypts.
Do not go into the basement.
Do not go into the attic.
Especially do not go into the attic to investigate the funny shuffling noise you heard up there.

Do not feed anything after midnight.
Not even yourselves.

Do not invite Them in.

Do not meddle with things of which man was never meant to know.
Do not boldly split any infinitives that man has never spilt before.

Do not dance in graveyards with vampires till dawn.

Do not sign any contracts with strangers, particularly if your own blood is to be used as ink, and do not enter into any fiddle contests with same.

Do not invoke the elder gods.

And if all else fails, just head vaguely towards the light and hope for the best.

Finally, we would like to remind our Atrox tour members that even though Opifexes are grey, this does not mean that they are zombies, and decapitating them with a shotgun will not be appreciated, and may lead to you being asked to leave the tour.

GSP Dancers take no responsibility for the loss of your illusions, your lunch, your innocence, your memories, your wallet, your pets or family members, any limbs, or your immortal soul.

The tales about to be revealed to you are even more disturbing than the idea of a cheerleet hellhound, and could stick to your eyelids until time itself ends.

We recommend anyone with a weak heart to make sure they are saved at the nearest insurance terminal before we set off – quite apart from the scare factor, there is a lot of walking involved.

This tour should be perfectly safe for pregnant females, as long as they feel they are up to the walking involved..

However all other females may risk being impregnanted with some kind of unspeakable demonic spawn.

Some of these stories may be unsuitable for the very young or highly nervous.

There may be clowns.

Most importantly, if you are at all offended by tales of gothic horror, grisly nefarious villains, eldritch insanity and murder most foul, then we advise you consider whether you should really be taking this tour.

Although looking at you lot, I think I should maybe be warning the ghosts instead!

While of course the following tales do indeed involve many people – both alive and very much dead – here on Rubi Ka, please note that any resemblance to any character on the fictional RK4 dimension is purely co-incidental.

We advise you stick close to your guide. We shall of course be shouting as loudly as possible, but sound doesn’t always carry that far in this strange fog, and if you stray too far away you may miss some of the gory details.
Plus that way there’s less chance of you being dragged off by a tentacle monster from Beyond.

We shall be proceeding at a walking pace to allow all members of the party to keep up, and there will be frequent stops for refreshment. Drinks will be provided, so that nobody has to step out to the garage to grab a beer.

On their own.

With a killer on the loose.

Again.

If at any point you lose the party, there is a map available charting our progress on the www.gridstream.org gridsite, or you can send a tell to our dear friend gridbot asking for directions.

So, is everybody ready?

The GSP Dancers’ Ghost Walk of Borealis is about to begin!


Copyright Myz Lilith / Coffeewench 2007


Last edited by Coffeewench on Thu Nov 01, 2007 11:56 am, edited 2 times in total.

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PostPosted: Thu Nov 01, 2007 1:21 am 
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The Diversion

Now, I know that all of you here will be familiar with the wompah transit system, and use it frequently in the course of your daily business.
Indeed, if you are a regular party goer at GSP shows, you have probably used this particular wompah more times than you’ve had hot dinners.
You wouldn’t even think twice about stepping through, or stop to consider where it might take you.

But maybe you should…

A young Nanomage, freshly graduated from basic medical college, was returning from the school in Tir to his childhood home, in the tiny market town of Reets Retreat, in Stret West Bank.

Like many a young and inexperienced traveller, when faced with a long journey he preferred to wompah hop, since he was easily confused complex computer interface required to access the grid. Indeed he had been using the wompah system to visit Borealis, from an early age, and to him stepping into the blue glowing doorway was as familiar as walking across his own living quarters.

The journey from Tir had been swift and uneventful, each jump crossing many miles in the blink of an eye, with nothing but a slight lurch in his stomach to suggest the vast distances involved. The suns were dipping below the horizon in a perfect twin sunset, and the evening air was tinged with the chill of approaching night, as he stood before the portal that would take him on his final jump, home to Reets.

Pausing briefly to brush down his travelling cloak and straighten his glasses – his mother might be there awaiting his arrival, and he wished her to see that he was quite capable of taking care of himself when away from home – he activated the exterior doors, and stepped into the familiar, eerie, blinding notum light.

As the afterglow faded and his sight returned he quickly realised that something was wrong.

He had expected to be greeted by the same fading twilight that he had left, moments before, in Borealis. Instead the sky appeared a lurid pink, the light tinged with a violent magenta hue.

His first thought was of fire, that through natural disaster or some deadly attack, the town was burning. That the glow of rising flames had turned the sky this ungodly colour.

But as his brain caught up with his vision, he began to realise that a city on fire would be preferable to what lay before his unbelieving eyes.

In place of the familiar sight of the stone walls and archways of the town’s ancient defences, he appeared to have materialised in the midst of some kind of medieval village.

Looking round, he observed a mass of roughly paved paths and rough wooden stockades, and his ears were assaulted from all sides by cries that could have come from a heaving tavern, a busy marketplace or a bustling slave pit, or indeed all three combined. But while, in his mind, he was convinced that any historical scene should by rights appear in traditional sepia tones, stone greys and muddy browns, the scene before him was painted in colours as lurid and bright as the magenta sky, unnaturally vivid, like an explosion in a young child’s painting set.

But that was nothing compared to the inhabitants.

All around him, strange-looking creatures scurried by on their own private errands, or gathered in groups, turning themselves to gawp at the mysterious stranger in their midst.

His mind reeled as he took in beings of all shape, size and colour, dressed up in arcane robes and old-fashioned armours, all in the same eye-melting hues as the rest of their world. Some were small and stubby, sprouting vast amounts of facial hair or none at all, helmeted and viscious looking.
Others were tall and alien looking, with purplish skin and weird pointed ears, these sneered at him with contempt and loathing. And all around were fantastically coloured great cats, lizard, birds and beasts of all kinds, some obviously trained hunting pets, others being treated as some kind of bizarre riding mounts.


Aghast, the young Nanomage took a gasping breath, and then another more desperate one. He realised that this strange land displayed a far more fatal difference… It was lacking in the notum-soaked air of Rubi Ka, upon which his people relied for their survival.

It was then that a heavy hand fell upon his shoulder.

Spinning swiftly on the spot he found himself face to face – or rather face to chest, for the being was immense – with what looked on first glance to be an advy morph gone horribly horribly wrong. The unfortunate creature appeared to be stuck in mid-transition between human and bull forms, with the limbs of the man, but the chest and head of the beast.

His brain, overawed, whispered “minotaur”.

His nose screamed that whatever it was called, the thing stank like a filthy sauna stuffed with soiled leather and month old sweat socks.

The rest of him just stood there and trembled.

Bending down the monster stared him straight in the eye, and its mighty brow furrowed in confusion and anger. It cleared its throat with a cough that rumbled like thunder, and then it spoke:

“OMG!!1! wtf r u? ru horde?!1!?!” it gabbled in a squeaky, over-excited voice.

It was all too much. Overcome by shock, terror, notum deficiency, and the horror of ear-mangling language, the young man gave a sharp cry and collapsed, sinking swiftly down into welcome oblivion.

He opened his eyes to a gently spinning swirl of lights which, as his head stopped swimming, settled down to reveal themselves as the familiar constellations he had known since he was a boy.

He registered the cool night breeze on his skin, and for a while simply lay there, hands flat to the soil of Rubi Ka, enjoying the soft night sounds and subtle palette of his home world.

Then he rose, gathered his bags, and made his way to the little stone cottage where his family were waiting.

And from that day on, until he was able to buy a yalm of his own, wherever he travelled it was always – and only – on foot.


Copyright Myz Lilith / Coffeewench 2007


Last edited by Coffeewench on Thu Nov 01, 2007 1:31 am, edited 1 time in total.

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PostPosted: Thu Nov 01, 2007 1:25 am 
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It Opens Both Ways...

We have all heard the rumours.

Here in Borealis, most urbane of cities, there lies a portal to the hidden sanctuary of a cult of priest so evil, so perverted, so loathsome, worshipers of foul eldritch beings of long forgotten lore.

Okay, well it’s not really a rumour, because the gateway is right here.
Most of us have strolled past it on our way to the clothes shop here, or glanced over at the swirling light as we charged into the Subway for another round of clubbing dust fleas. And I am sure that many here have passed through the gateway and faced what lies beyond… and have lived to tell the tale.

But portals are funny things.

After all, if you can go into them… well, then that means something else could come out...

***

So the existence of the Inner Sanctum is definitely fact, not fiction. But rumours of a further temple, populated by those that make the cultists in the Inner Sanctum look like Sunday School teachers in comparison, have proved harder to pin down.

Nobody is sure if the Forbidden Temple even exists, or if it lives only in the boastful tales Keepers tell while they are rubbing down their armour, by the fire, late at night… an urban myth for the wild wastelands.
It would probably be safest if it stays that way.

Especially for Borealis.

***

There was a thief.

A great thief.

A thief about whom legends would have been written, had he stuck to simpler things, such as stealing the fire of the Gods while they were taking a quick nap.

Or even stealing the stars from the sky.

But he had reached far beyond such petty rewards.

He had stolen from the Dark Altar of the Forbidden Temple itself!

***

He had no idea what it was that he had stolen.

He had looked at it only briefly, and ever since had been trying to find a way to scrub the image from his mind. Even now he was not entirely sure what he had seen.

He had memories of weight, of squatness, of blood that whispered ugly truths, of bottomless pits turned inside out, of teeth that were eyes and words that were tentacles that waved through 8 dimensions, of a taste of yesterday, of a voice that spoke only in brail, of something that had lived under his bed when he was small, of colours that existed on no human spectrum, and – for some unknown reason – of kittens with wings. They were fleeting, unconnected impressions and he had no wish to probe them more deeply.

He didn’t need to know what it was.

He only knew to know what it would be worth, to the mysterious collector he was due to meet there in Borealis three days hence.

***

The thief was woken by the silence.

Glancing out of his window, he momentarily disorientated.

He knew he was in Borealis. But the vista before him must be one of the cities of the coast, with the silvery ocean spreading to the horizon. Then re realised that half of the city was covered in a rolling wave of mist, growing closer by the second. It seemed to be emerging from the North end of Borealis, down by the subway.

Down by the portal to the Inner Sanctum.

And it was heading in his direction.

Unquestionably. Directly.

And fast.

With a rogue’s instinct for self- preservation, he didn’t stop to watch one second longer, but snatched up the backpack with his hard-earned loot inside, grabbed a rope that he had tied to the window frame, just in case a speedy escape was required, and swung himself into the street below.
He was running before his feet hit the ground.

But the mist was approaching faster than he could run, faster than a stiletto fitted with an illegal notum supercharger, faster than thought, faster than breath, faster than comprehension.

As he was engulfed, he had the briefest impression that what he had thought was fog was actually millions upon millions of tiny holes in the air, opening into somewhere ancient, heavy, creaking, and very, very hungry. Then he saw what they really were, and his mind, mercifully, snapped completely.

***

As the mist rolled back, there not a trace remained of the thief, nor the artefact for which he had ended up paying so dearly. Although there was something, twisted, shrunken and diseased looking, that might, once, centuries ago and a world away, have been a backpack.

The mist withdrew steadily, back into the portal from which it had emerged’ leaving only silence in its wake. Where it had covered the city, not a living thing remained.

Just the ancient stone walls of the city, and the occasional bone, strangely twisted as if under incomprehensible pressures, and picked completely clean.

***

Of course, we know that the Forbidden Temple is only a myth, an Old Wives Tale, something to scare the newbies with.

Let’s keep it that way, shall we?


Copyright Myz Lilith / Coffeewench 2007


Last edited by Coffeewench on Fri Nov 02, 2007 1:02 am, edited 3 times in total.

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PostPosted: Thu Nov 01, 2007 1:29 am 
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The Hidden Room

It may appear that we are stood before an ordinary wall, possibly the back of a store, or maybe an office block.

But this is no ordinary wall.

Follow me now as we move through the very stone itself, and into the secret chamber within.

Can you feel how the bricks dissolve beneath your touch, as if they remember the time when this was once a doorway? There may be some truth to that sensation…

Some call this place the Secret Room, but the Hidden Room would be more accurate, for it’s existence is known to many, both within the city and beyond. On the other hand, the secret of why this strange phenomenon exists, and why it should exist here of all places, is known to very only a select few.

Many years ago, this space housed a normal apartment, similar to those that many of you own in cities across this land, perhaps even in Borealis itself.

Little is known of the family that once lived here. By all accounts they were normal, quiet and well liked. The father was said to have held some bureaucratic role at a local textile firm, the mother a trader with a local firm of brokers. The daughter was training to become a doctor, the son, too young to have taken up a profession, was still undergoing basic schooling. An unremarkable family, living in what appeared to be an unremarkable home.

Until the night they disappeared off the face of Rubi Ka, never to be seen again.

Neighbours reported nothing out of the ordinary. No sound of screaming, no noise of surreptitious construction work. Certainly nothing to suggest the tearing open of the void and the swallowing whole of one small city dwelling, not to mention those that dwelled within.

Had the family alone disappeared, it would have been assumed that they had taken themselves off in the depths of the night, fleeing bad debts, old feuds, or the long arm of OmniPol. Had both the family and their furniture disappeared, it would have been assumed they had still made a rapid and secretive exit, albeit a slightly more organised and pre-planned one.

But on that mysterious night, not only the family, not only the contents of their home, but the very windows, doors, and interior walls all vanished without a trace!

The next morning, neighbours were confronted with a blank wall, that by all appearances had always been a blank wall and nothing more, with no sign to suggest it had ever contained a doorway. At least, not until you tried to touch the bricks where the entrance had once been. Then, with a slight static resistance, they allowed you to pass cleanly through, into an empty space betraying no sign of its former occupants.

Of course, within days, the rumours started.

Some claimed that the mother of the family was not an innocent trader at all, but a high level agent spying on the polis of Borealis on behalf of a shadowy organisation, and that everything else in the house – furniture and family alike – had been nothing but a complex 3D hologram. Her assignment complete, she had simply switched them off and crept away unnoticed.

Some claimed that the father had, in his youth, been the member of a radical Clan organisation, planning a resurgence of violent terrorist activity. In order to ensure that he could not reveal what he knew of their structure, they had hired a top assassin who had used strange metaphysical powers to not just kill the man, but wipe him and his family from existence.

Some claimed that the entire family were members of an obscure cult, worshipping the lost gods of Rubi Ka, banished into a forgotten realm many millennia before, and that one of their eldritch ceremonies had opened up a portal into the abyss, consuming them utterly.

But strangest of all, reports started to filter through of things actually reappearing.

While, most times, the room simply appears to be an empty space, at times witnesses have reported seeing, momentarily, snatches of the room as it once appeared, furniture and fittings materialising and de-materialising almost at a whim.

Watch closely, and you may observe the phenomenon for yourself.
Can you see any patterns?
Any sense in the chaos?

It is almost as if the contents of the apartment passed into another plane of existence, which occasionally briefly align with our own, allowing a brief glimpse through to the items stranded, just in sight but forever out of reach. But how was such a thing possible?

Could alternate dimensions even exist?

And if so why would one open up here, in this quiet little unassuming residence?

What many believed to be the greatest clue to the mystery came a year later, 27 August 29477, with the announcement that the Jobe Association of Metaphysical Exploration (or JAME) had managed to open a stable portal to a parallel dimension – the realm that we know today as “The Shadowlands.” Speculation was rife that a similar, but unstable, wormhole might have snatched up an innocent urban family, and all of their worldly goods.

It was not long before local investigators uncovered an even more pertinent fact: the building that had so recently been home to the unfortunate victims of the mysterious displacement had previously been a scientific research station – home to non other than those very scientists now stationed at the Jobe research centre. It appeared obvious that their experiments dated back far further than was being publicly admitted… all the way back to the time that they had been stationed in a tiny, secretive, unshielded lab located right in the heart of a busy metropolis.

The outcry was immediate, widespread and loud but – with no actual proof – quickly simmered down and died. But if you ask local residents, they will still tell you that it is no co-incidence that the Jobe portal is located close to this very spot.

They will tell you that it was selected because there is already a weak point in space-time in this vicinity, created by those early experiments.

And that it shouldn’t be allowed.

But what became of the family themselves?

There are rumours that they were found by explorers, staggering lost and afraid throughout the Shadowlands, and were quickly offered one of the best appointed luxury apartments in Jobe Harbour in return for their silence.

And there are rumours that they merely disappeared into the void, never to be heard of again.

(As this story was told, various items of furniture materialised around the room and then mysteriously dematerialised again... spoooooky!)


Copyright Myz Lilith / Coffeewench 2007


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PostPosted: Thu Nov 01, 2007 1:35 am 
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Grid Slip

Let us pause briefly here at the Borealis Gridpoint. For our next story does not take place here… but it may well have begun here.

For many of us, no matter how used we are to accessing the grid, it can be an unsettling business. One second stood firmly on the city streets, the next whisked into an eerie echoing subspace, all physical form lost, identity in turmoil, reduced to nothing more than a pulsating energy cone. I don’t mind telling you, even us fixers can get the spooks in there at times!

You may even be aware of the phenomenon of “Grid Ghosts.”

Sometimes the nanoprograms that allow adventurers and others to polymorph interact in strange ways with the grid interface. Instead of the cone of light we expect to see, flashes of the assumed animal form appear. But these are just visual quirks, ghosts in the nanocharge, and nothing to cause alarm.

But there is said to be one genuine ghost in there...

Occasionally people emerge from the Grid bearing tales of a strange figure, seen wandering through the ethereal pathways.

Unlike the other travellers in this eerie realm, he does not appear as an energy signature. Rather it appears the he is present in bodily form, blundering through the interspace, a lumbering hulk compares to the swift points of light that zip by him on every side.

Some claim to have seen him desperately claw at the exit points, beat at the walls, even to have heard him howl in despair. But most who have encountered the Ghost of the Grid report that he simply stands there… or wanders, vaguely, silently, alone.

Some say that he died in there, a slow acting poison taking its toll after he had entered the gridspace, and that when his body returned to Reclaim, his soul remained behind.

Some say that he wandered in there as a foolish child, hacking a grid terminal he should never have been able to access… but that who, once inside, found himself unable to repeat the trick, and remains forever trapped.

Some say that it is one of the planet’s top Fixers who lies somewhere, in a coma, their mind reaching out to the place they feel safest, their family still desperately trying to find a way to call them home.

Others that he had tried to access the higher paths without the proper training and simply, somehow… slipped between the gaps.

Some offer no explanation, but merely say that he is very, very lost.

Very few people have seen this strange figure, very few descriptions of him remain.

Some claim it’s not a man at all, but a woman. Or a trox. Or any one of a thousand combinations of ages, sex and breed.

Details are few and far between.

So consider this: gridspace is vast, reaching across the infinite and bending it to our needs.

What we see when we enter the grid is simply an illusion, an interface created to help our brains comprehend the incomprehensible.

It may not be just one man that has been sighted in there.

It may be many, male and female, all races represented, all forever just out of reach of the land of the living. There may be thousands of lost souls, wandering forever, only occasionally intersecting with those few well-walked paths through the grid that we normally frequent.

After all, we all know of people that are… missing.

Who in times past we would bump into every day… on the streets, in a store, deep in dangerous territory fighting for their lives, or simply sat under a tree, contemplating life. But whom have not been seen on Rubi Ka for a long, long time…

Next time you are travelling through gridspace, pause a while and take a look around.

Maybe you will see one of them in there.

Maybe you can guide them home.


Copyright Myz Lilith / Coffeewench 2007


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PostPosted: Thu Nov 01, 2007 1:51 am 
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The Lovers Leap

Back in the olden days, not long after Borealis was first founded, it was a very different place to the one we know today.

Imagine, if you will, a frontier town. A rich frontier town, for the mines were prosperous, but a frontier town nonetheless. Remember that in those days, there was no reclaim, no suppression gas… and that a fall of anything more then a storey could actually kill you. And the city leaders were not the pillars of the community they are today.

Whoever had the most guns was in charge.

And whoever had the most money had the most guns.

Now in those days, a young smuggler by the name of Samhanlo had made his home in Borealis.

Sam was a good smuggler, in both senses of the word. He was very talented at his chosen profession, making a fair living in days when everything was scarce. And he was a good man, and although his profession was strictly speaking illegal, very few men – or women – of the time made their living within the law. But Sam tried not to steal from those that were destitute, to share when he could, and not to hurt anyone that didn’t mean him harm.

Still at some point he had crossed the wrong people, and even in a city of smugglers, thieves and ne’er do wells, as Borealis was back then, he was on the run from the city guards.

On the day we meet him, he was in a desperate situation, having been cornered high up on the city walls. Desperate, surrounded on all sides by unfriendly faces with serious weaponry, he took the only escape open to him, and dived from the walls into the lake below. As he fell through the air, he prayed to whoever might be listening that he survive the plunge.

His luck held and he surfaced, spluttering and gasping for air but otherwise unharmed. But his luck was far from complete. For surrounding the upper lake entirely, were more of the militia men.

They obviously had no intention of letting him escape his fate so easily. But he had no intention of being captured so easily either, for he knew that the Boss Man was intending to make an example of him, and that was not a pleasant thought.

He decided that a second spin of the wheel was his only chance. Shouting his defiance, he struck out towards the falls and let the water carry him over.

Half the militia rushed down to the lower bank, the rest remained behind, wary of a trick. While they were cruel, crude, and would sell their should for a half credit chip, but they were not stupid. They waited and waited but nobody emerged from the waters.

Eventually, deciding that there was no way Sam could stay under so long, and that he must have drowned, they headed back to town to claim their bounty, to swiftly spend it again on wenches and ale.

***

Now, Samhanlo had a fiancée, a strapping lass by the name of Etienette.

At the time of his death, she had been out of town on business, for she was a smuggler too, and a mighty fine one too. Generally she travelled incognito, and never turned up where expected. So nobody knew how to contact her, and tell her of her tragic loss.

But someone was obviously trying to get a message to her.

Or rather some spirit.

For reports were coming back from those that lived and worked by the falls. Sam’s ghost had been heard, a-calling to his lost love. And by all accounts, he had been shouting for her to come join him in his eternal sleep.

Some folks thought this was the most romantic thing they’d ever heard, others that it was pure selfishness on behalf of the spririt. But it was all conjecture, for Etienette was nowhere to be found.

At this point, some on the Ghost Walk swore they could hear Samhanlo's ghost calling out through the mists of time "Come follow me my love, and we shall share eternity togather!"

Some weeks later, Etienette arrived back in town late one night, dusty and bedraggled and disguised as a washerwoman (not that unusual an occurrence in her line of work.) Instead of being greeted by her fiancé, she was instead met by one of her oldest friends, who gently broke the devastating news to her that Samhanlo was dead and gone these past few weeks.

Overcome with shock, she sat down heavily on the nearest seat, as tears streamed down her face.

After a while, something apparently occurred to her. She sat bolt upright, and asked about the rumours she had been hearing on her long ride home, about a haunting on the Falls.

Upon hearing that the ghost of her fiancé had been heard, calling out to her to come join in his oblivion, Etienette dried her eyes and stood up.

Then she wished fairwell to her nearest and dearest, dressed in her finest gown, and took herself out to the cliff top, right by the lip of the falls.

She called out to the heavens, proclaiming her undying devotion to her beloved. And leapt to her death in the waters below.

Again, those on the tour swore they saw a shadowy figure on the overhang, and heard her call out "I will follow you, my one, my love, even into the arms of Death itself!" before she leapt

Together in life, together in death, their bodies were never recovered.

***

But our story doesn’t end there.
If you wish to know the full truth, it will require courage.
You must take that same deadly plunge that the lovers took, centuries ago… over the Falls!

As we step off the cliff , it becomes clear that there is a cave behind the falls - a cave with a sloping back wall that it is possible to scramble up and down...

As you can see, the Falls of Borealis hide a secret.

Samhanlo was claver as a fox and cunning as a rat, and knew of the cave beneath the falls. And he had discovered many moons before that rather than go over a falls, a man could scramble down behind them. He knew that one day this knowldge may save his live, and so it did.

He hid under there for weeks, surviving as best he could on what he could catch or scavenge, and calling to his love to join him. In all that time he never once lost faith that she would follow.

When Etienette heard that her man had been calling out for her to join him, she knew in her heart that he must be alive. For he loved her life above his own, and would never, in this world or any other, summon her to her death.

She herself had no idea that the sloping wall of the cave would be there to catch her before she had dropped scarce a dozen feet.

But she believed enough in her beloved to trust him, and take the plunge.

Reunited, the pair escaped to a new life in a new city, and many new adventures…


Copyright Myz Lilith / Coffeewench 2007


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PostPosted: Thu Nov 01, 2007 7:23 am 
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I must say the tour was very well planed out and something new and different for everyone... Kudos all the stories were interesting and entertaining... I so wish it could have been recited aloud tho over gridstream.. with all the other chatter going on it was a bit difficult at times to follow but still very enjoyable ...I so hated to leave and go to bed but was happy to see the stories were posted so I could catch up on the ones I missed


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PostPosted: Thu Nov 01, 2007 12:26 pm 
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The Grey Lady

Of course, there are many backyards in the city, each with its secrets to keep and stories to tell.

Our main reason for selecting this particular backyard as a stop on our tour is the presence of one of Borealis’s most infamous Spectres, the grey lady.

You may see her, drifting around aimlessly, or even wandering through the crowd. You may feel a slight tingle, like cool static, if she brushed against you. Do not be alarmed.

She cannot harm you, many are unsure if she even sees you.

She simply wanders this terrain as she has done for centuries, lovelorn, bereft, and alone.

This is her story.

Once in Borealis, many moons ago, lived two brothers. (This is a hardly an uncommon occurrence, for there are many brothers in this world.) From an early age, the brothers differed greatly in temperament. (Again, this is hardly unusual – fraternity does not dictate that two men will grow up alike, not even if they are twins.) But these two brothers were so different from one another as to be nearly separate species.

The first was stocky, loud, crude and impulsive, quick tempered and violent, with a viciously cruel streak, and an overwhelming desire to control all around him. Where his parents had fled to Borealis many years before, seeking a haven from the civil war that wracked the planet, he sought out conflict and bloodshed wherever he could find it.

As a child he had been a bully, and during his years in the pre-professional training school, he was little more than a thug. It was when he joined the ranks of the military that he really came into his own. It is true that his superiors occasionally had cause to mutter, over his bloodthirstiness, and lack of self-control at the height of battle. But his innate skill with weaponry and fine head for tactics made him a valuable soldier, and his occasional transgressions were stoically overlooked.

A mercenary at first, the Soldier quickly discovered that the strict regime and insistence on absolute control within the Omni Tec Security Forces mirrored exacty his own tendencies and personality, and he soon swore his lasting allegiance to the Corporation.

The second brother was slight, almost feminine looking, with delicate features and distant, dreaming eyes. He tended to drift through existence, equally oblivious to his mother’s attempts to coddle him, his teachers attempts to educate him, and his bother’s attempts to intimidate him.
When pressed into a profession, he reluctantly opted to follow the path of the Metaphysicist.

He viewed his engagement with the metaphysical planes as a purely intellectual one. He would not work with the manifestations of rage, and merely tolerated the healing visitations. The focus of all his study were the mesmeric entities, whom he viewed both as a key to the understanding of the inner consciousness, and also his own personal muses.

For he fancied himself a poet, and to be fair his verse was not without its charms, although the subject matter tended to the esoteric. Most found his poetry to be worthy, but full of overly long words, and more than a dull. They tended to view the Poet himself in much the same way.

For many years it appeared that the brothers would simply drift further and further apart until they left one another’s orbits entirely. But that was before the Soldier returned home, from a long difficult campaign, up in the treacherous Northlands... and brought with him a wife.

The soldier had taken her as much as a trophy of a successful campaign, as out of any lust or desire for the woman herself.

It did occur to him briefly that if he ever wanted a son and heir, he might be better off trading her in for a model more suited to childbearing, for she was stick thin and elfin, as close to an adolescent boy as to a woman. But for now, he simply required a housekeeper to take care of his property when he was away, and to serve his needs when he returned. And the fact that her stinking Clan family would be wailing and gnashing their teeth, thinking of their daughter defiled by rough Omni hands – well those that he had left alive, at any rate.

His wife, of course, did not grieve for her lost family, not outwardly at least. She had quickly learnt what the consequences would be if she did.

By local standards she was a little strange looking, and her accent harsh.
To many she appeared distant and proud, preferring not to mix with the wives and mistresses of her husbands fellow officers, but to remain in her chambers, staring out over the lake, ccompletely immobile. When she was forced to bear their company, they were polite to her face, and made innocent jokes about soap, just within earshot.

But to the Poet - he had called round to his brother’s quarters to query some trivial but necessary point of law regarding the family estate, and the Soldier had summoned his wife to the parlour to be displayed like a hunting trophy – to the Poet, she was perfection personified.

From the moment he set eyes upon her, he could think of nothing else. All of the passion that he had previously reserved for intellectual pursuits now, for the first time ever, burned within him for another human being. The Poet was completely smitten, eaten up inside by love and longing. Hours that he would previously have dedicated to lofty pursuits, penning an essay examining the conversations that men hold with themselves within their dreams, perhaps... well, those hours he now lavished upon an ode to her face, her voice, even her right ear (smaller than the left but somehow sweeter.)

Any thoughts of filial loyalty, already worn thin by years of his brother’s boorish behaviour, evaoprated completely in the blaze of his obsession.

He fabricated detailed excuses to drop by his brother’s house when he knew the Soldier would not be home, and laid upon those even more extravagant excuses as to why he must speak to the lady of the house - alone, and away from curious ears. He plied her with little gifts, both physical – sweetmeats, lacy gloves, once a notum onyx pendant – and intellectual – a line of a long forgotten poem, the view from the highest peak to the mountain rim beyond, the air of a melody he had heard when he was a boy, and never since. He spoke of her beauty, and her charm, and her perfect stillness in repose.

And little by little, she opened up to him.

Maybe his love for her burned so strongly that she could not help but reflect it. Maybe he was the only person in this strange city to pay her the slightest attention, to show her any hint of warmth. Maybe she saw him as a means to escape from her brutish captor, who she found it hard to think of as a husband. Maybe she truly loved him.

Whatever the reason, the two were soon emotionally entwined, surviving from one clandestine meeting to the next on nothing but the memory of a stolen glance, a whispered word, a forbidden kiss.

As the winter progressed and the Soldier spent more and more time away on campaigns, and the lovers grew ever closer. But there was also a new urgency to their assignations. News was filtering through that a truce was in the air, meaning that many in the military would be taken off active service, and would take up guard posts in the major cities.
It appeared most likely that when that time came the Soldier would relocate, and drag his bride off to the capital city, where she would be trapped among those that hated her kind the most, totally despised, isolated, and alone.

And her lover left behind, forever broken hearted, in Borealis.

There was no choice, she told him. They must flee together, to the North, to the Clan lands, to where people who knew her would take her in and shelter them.

The Poet engaged one of his oldest servants to make their preparations, and trusted him to procure what would be needed for a speedy and stealthy journey north. But the servant was loyal only to his own pocket, and he sold his master out for a handful of credits and the promise of more. He informed the Soldier that not only had he been cuckolded by his own brother, but that he and the Soldiers wife were planning to seek succour with the very enemy he had been battling so relentlessly for so long.

This was too much!

To lose a wife was one thing. To lose her to a weakling of a so-called brother was another. But for the pair of them to heap betrayal on betrayal by fleeing to the filthy Clans?

THAT was simply unthinkable.

High with rage, so enflamed that he could barely see where he walked, he charged headlong towards the home of his brother, a small and humble apartment, right here in this very backyard. As he ran, there was a great howl of anger building in his chest, and a murderous rage in his heart.

But as he drew closer to his target, his one man stampede slowed, as his training took over. From an animalistic stampede, he sank into the stealthy, unstoppable prowl of a silent assassin. His rage did not die down, but crystallised, hardening to an icy killing fury.

Moving like a shadow, he slipped into the courtyard of his brothers apartment. He instantly froze as he spotted his target.

His brother was sat on a low bench with his back turned, dressed in his old, faded travelling robe and hood, no doubt waiting for the Soldier’s ungrateful wretch of a wife to come and join him before the pair fled into the arms of the enemy. In motion again, silent as a breeze, the Soldier crept up behind his wayward sibling, slipping his most fearsome blade from its sheath.

The first blow was a measured strike, designed to kill instantly. But with it, the Soldier’s control broke, and his fury erupted. He fell upon his target, stabbing wildly, uncontrollably and repeatedly, carrying on long past the point where even a glimmer of life might have remained.

Prodding the corpse with a boot, he turned it over, planning to look upon the face of his brother in death, and bid him a traitor’s farewell. Then he would wait here in the shadows for his wife to arrive, and drag her home. She may have betrayed him, but she was still his property, and belonged by his side, or at least kneeling at his feet. He believed he might even love her, just a little. But she would have to learn just how painful attempting to escape his love could be.

But as the body rolled over, it revealed the awful truth. The face inside the old grey hood, above the shredded and tattered torso, was that of his own wife.

His appraisal of the situation had been close to the truth, but fatally flawed. The figure on the bench had not been his brother after all. It was his own wife, her boyish frame wrapped in the Poet's own cloak, that had been sat there, awaiting her lover's return.

The soldier was still stood there, transfixed with shock, when the Poet returned, to a very difference welcome than the one he had been expecting.

As he looked upon the murderous tableau before him, his heart seemed to freeze in his chest, his face turned chalk white, and a thin cry of hatred rose in his chest, growing to a crescendo of pain and loathing.

The Soldier went for his side arm, and fired off two quick shots. But the Poet’s howl was more than just sound. In that instant he summoned all the anger, all the rage, all the outright hatred that he had shunned in all his years as a Metaphysicist. The entity manifested at that moment could have felled armies, and swallowed fleets whole. But the one and only focus of his rage was his brother, standing bloodied and panting over the body of the woman he loved.

Even as the shots hit the Poet and he fell, mortally wounded, the Soldier was struck dead on the spot, as his brain, heart, liver and lungs exploded simultaneously, with the heat of a thousand suns.

So a little tragedy, one of many in a vast and hungry war. Brothers that would never have been friends, that were barely kin, torn completely apart by conflict, deception and betrayal.

But the greatest tragedy was that of the poor foreign maiden, taken first from her home and people, and then snatched so swiftly from the mortal plane, that she does not even realise that she is dead!

To this day, she wanders the backyard, waiting, always waiting, ever hopeful, ever patient, for her lover to arrive, and carry her off, back home, to the North.


Copyright 2007 Myz Lilith / Coffeewench


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PostPosted: Thu Nov 01, 2007 12:34 pm 
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The Screaming Trunk

This large stone trunk has stood in this very backyard for as long as any here can remember. You may have seen similar chests in backyards all over Borealis. Often they are used to store communal items – sunshades, deckchairs, small arms – for use by the residents in this central courtyard.

But this particular trunk houses a most unusual spirit, one of the restless undead. And a most noisy one at that!

Nobody knows how the leet managed to get in to the trunk. But it is certain that it died in there. And in death, it discovered a voice it had never had in life. Morning noon and night, without warning, the silence of the backyard would be broken by a single, ghostly leetish voice, screaming its despair.

Of course, normally leets make little sound. But the trunk itself made the perfect echo chamber, and the spirit’s howl rang loud and clear around the whole backyard, and into the houses beyond.

Of course, the first think to occur to the residents of the backyard was to remove the trunk, the source of the haunting. They pooled their cash, hired a few strong Trox labourers, and had them cart the heavy chest away. At once, their error became clear!

While the long-departed leet had been using the trunk to amplify its lament, it was not bound to it. With the trunk gone, the sound level was greatly decreased, it is true. But the loss of its ghostly loud-hailer had angered the spirit of the leet, and it began to emit an endless, high pitched grizzling, with no pause or relief.

The residents decided that amplified, but intermittent, screams were far preferable to this unending screeching, that ran across the soul like fingernails down slate. Runners were quickly despatched to catch up with the labourers, and have them return the trunk from whence it came.

It took an observant 6 year old – proud owner of one of the first Shaoleets - to realise that, whenever there was an actual living leet in the yard, the unearthly screams ceased completely. The spirit of the leet was not angered, or confused, or distressed.

It was lonely.

The obvious solution seemed to be to keep a wild leet, or two, or many, in the backyard, to placate the ghostly one. But this solution brought with it many problems.

Wild leets are nomadic, with a tendency to wander off. People would go to bed, leaving a herd of leets huddled companionably round the trunk, only to wake to screaming, and not a leet to be seen.

Moreover, the creatures were often regarded as pests, meaning that those who used the backyard as a cut through to the training area often herded the leet through with them to the kill zone, there to dispatch them swiftly, thinking all the time that they were doing their civic duty.

What is more, the ghostly leet appeared to occasionally transport a nearby leet inside the trunk itself – for what purpose, few cared to speculate – and these unfortunate creatures would invariably perish, trapped in the airtight tomb! The residents agreed that one ghostly leet was bad enough, but 2 would be unbearable.

Finally, whenever wild leets actually remained in the yard more than a day or two, their droppings began to build up. Even ghostly howls were better than the smell!

The leets were removed, and the screams rose once more.

As a last desperate attempt, the apartment owners tried fooling the spirit, by propping a leet doll near the trunk. But the howling grew worse than ever.

Perhaps the leet took the small, immobile thing for a corpse, and was mourning what it saw as its lost companion. Either way, the experiment was a failure, and the doll was removed. Locals resigned themselves to a noisy existence, and either bought earplugs, turned up their stereos, or attempted to quickly sell up and move during quiet spells.

Finally, an engineer came up with an ingenious solution. Using a leet doll, and various other pieces, he constructed a mechanical leet.

To the eye it appeared perfectly lifelike. It stood, moved, twittered fotly to itself, even smelled a little like a real leet. But it would not wander off, or allow itself to be herded into a killing zone. Most importantly of all, it could not suffocate, for it required no air.

The engineer’s creation was released into the yard and the locals held their breaths. A day, a week, a month followed, of pure, blissful… silence. The ghostly leet obviously believed its mechanical companion to be real, and was lonely no more.

The mechanical leet remains in the backyard to this day. At times you will find it in the trunk, nestled close to its ethereal companion. Other times it will be wandering round the yard, occasionally pausing to scratch vaguely at itself, just like a flesh and blood leet.

But as long as the mechanical leet doll remains somewhere in this backyard, the spirit is happy, and silent.

And would you believe it? During the telling of this story someone managed to stand on the mechanical leet, crushing it, and waking the noisy spirit once again. Luckily members of the party were able to find the parts required to build a new mechaleet, and the ghost was silenced before any of the local residents could complain...


Copyright 2007 Myz Lilith / Coffeewench


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PostPosted: Thu Nov 01, 2007 12:41 pm 
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The Doppelganger

Of course, these are enlightened times, and nowadays we all understand Cell Scanning technology.

Well, we don’t actually understand it. But we know there’s some science in there somewhere.

But even today, many people harbour superstitions about Reclaim...

For example, there are those that say that you should never walk away from a Reclaim booth until you have seen the next person to res after you emerge. Until they do, you have to watch that booth carefully carefully. Don't dare take your eye off it even for a second. Even if you have to wait there for days. You must keep your vigil until the next person comes out, and you are safe.

Because if you were the last person out of the booth, and you walk away and leave it unattended...

...~something~ can follow you out .

Call it an echo.

Or an incomplete copy.

It will look like you.

It will have your face, your fingerprints, your voice, your way of walking… it will be you from the mole behind your ear down to that funny twisted little toe on your left foot.

Of course it will lack the one thing that make you… you.

It has no soul.

It knows this.

It knows that it is incomplete without that little bit of you it was unable to scavenge from the Reclaim booth. And it will want it. Oh, how it will hunger for it! And it knows just where to find it…

You will never know that it is following you. You will never know it is stalking your every move.

Until late one night, you hear footsteps in the alley behind you. You turn, only to find yourself staring into the face of a stranger – but a face that you know from the mirror on your bathroom wall.

And who walks away from the encounter?

Well...

How could anyone ever say for sure?

Of course, this is probably just an urban myth, dating back to the days when you ~had~ to wait at Reclaim, as your equipment and personal possessions took longer to catch up with you.

I mean, it’s not like there’s anyone out there, walking around with your face...


Is there?


Copyright 2007 Myz Lilith / Coffeewench


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PostPosted: Thu Nov 01, 2007 1:00 pm 
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The Hungry Miner

Now, at our last stop, we were discussing Reclaim, and some of the more laughable myths and legends surrounding it. But some of the horror stories about reclaim are very, very real indeed. And right over there, in that very mine, one of them actually occurred...

You may know, that at times various people have attempted to reopen these old mines. Some of them are representing corporations looking for a profitable venture, but quickly realise the mine hold no quick returns on investment. Some are a fighting faction looking for an extra boost to their notum supplies, but these soon move on to better sources. And some are individuals, plucky entrepreneurs who think that a worn out mine may actually be profitable if it is worked by one person, with no overheads.

And the one thing this last group have in common, is that they are usually insane.

Mining alone, with no back-up crew or support team, is a recipe for suicide. Now, in these days of Reclaim, suicide may not be final. But it is highly unprofitable.

After all, you spend days digging down after a potentially rich seam of notum. Next thing you know, cave in! You’re waking up in the nearest Reclaim booth, on the wrong side of the cave in, with all that digging to do all over again.

But our tale concerns a hopeful young Atrox, who believed that he could indeed make a living from solo mining, and a good one at that. For this particular Atrox had a plan.

And he had a Device.

A Personal Reclaim Device.

It was fully portable, meaning you could set it up wherever you were working, and if you were killed, reappear right on the spot. And completely self contained, constantly recharging itself from the ambient notum in the air, which was particularly rich in the depths of a notum-soaked mine shaft. And completely automated. There was no need to remember to scan yourself, the Device automatically scanned you every half hour.

And it was totally and utterly illegal.

Personal Reclaim Devices are strictly classified by the Military. Their existence is denied and they are never ever to be allowed into civilian hands. How the Atrox had managed to get hold of such a unique item is unknown. But it may explain why a secluded life as a miner, away from prying eyes, currently seemed such an attractive idea to him.

Of course, there is a reason why Reclaim booths tend to be located in busy city thoroughfares or at least guarded outposts, and why you never ever build one deep in the depths of a mine.

Or take a Personal Reclaim Device down there...

***

The first few rockfalls were fairly minor, and he found it easy enough to clear the tunnel again after the dust had settled. It was the fourth one that escalated into a major earth slide, crushing the Atrox beneath tonnes of impacted rock.

He awoke into darkness. Not complete darkness, his eyes soon picked up the very faint glow from the ever present notum particles, obviously highly concentrated in this chamber.

Or rather this cavern.

Jerking to his feet, he realised his terrible mistake. The same rockfall that had killed him had missed the Personal Reclaim Device, but left it marooned in what had become a tiny cave, trapped behind many hundreds of feet of impenetrable earth and stone. And so this is where it had brought him back.

Just him. NOT his mining laser, or pit props, or any of his food or water supplies. They were still buried. There was just him, the clothes he stood up in, and the Device.

Desperately, he clawed at the walls, at first wildly, and then with purpose. Muscles rippling, chest heaving, he dug by hand in the direction he believed the entrance tunnel lay, hoping against hope that each handful of scree might be the one that broke though to freedom. But after twenty hours of frantic digging there was no sign that he was any closer to escape.

He struggled gamely on for many days, his desperation rising as his strength failed. His stomach screamed out for food, but there was none.
His mind fogged with pain as dehydration bit deep. And eventually he sank into starving, painful oblivion.

He awoke once again to darkness. But this time was different.

He had last been scanned by the Device fairly shortly before his demise. And so he was brought back in a state of near starvation. Res sickness merged with gnawing hunger pains deep in his belly, and the burning fire in his parched throat and swollen tongue.

It was only a matter of time – far less time – before he sank into the tortured blackness once again.

After the fourth such lingering death and subsequent revival, he decided that enough was enough. Permadeath would be preferable to this endless round of slow starvation. It was then that he discovered that the Personal Reclaim Device, so fully equipped in so many ways, was lacking in one minor detail.

An off switch.

Obviously its military designers did not wish to give their soldiers the option of getting out of their endless duties that easily – for the pawns on the front lines, permadeath was not an option!

Desperate now, gathering what little strength he had, he attempted to smash the Device, but it had been built to exacting standards by the military, and his unfed, tired muscles had scarcely enough energy to lift it. Finally, he gave up, and huddled in a corner, knowing that he would be going through the agonies of starvation and dehydration again.

And again.

And again.

***

We return to our tale some 20 years later, to a group of four friends, teenagers, out exploring the mines.

One of them, an aspiring engineer, had been proudly showing off some new gadgets he had invented, and claimed to have picked up the trace of something buried not far from the short tunnel they had entered, something that looked to be military. Intrigued and excited, the other three soon joined him in excavating what looked like an old cave in, untouched for decades. Each was hoping that under the rock and scree they might discover a long lost military secret, worth a handsome finders fee.

As they blasted great holes in the rock with overclocked energy rifles, they speculated gleefully about parades, medals, and – most important to them - impressing the chicks.

To their horror, when they broke through into the source of the signal, the first thing they found was the pitiful, bedraggled figure of an Atrox.
His hair was white, and his eyes empty of anything at all. He appeared incapable of communication, but followed commands docilely enough, when encouraged with a smile and some gentle prodding.

Thinking only of playing the Samaritan, the four friends led the stricken Trox up to the surface.

Upon reaching daylight, he clutched his eyes and let out a piercing, undulating howl. Upon reaching daylight, he clutched his eyes and let out a piercing, undulating howl. The young engineer, feeling responsible, reached up to try to grab his shoulder, to offer comfort, reassurance, anything...

With lightening speed, the Atrox, suddenly no longer looking so feeble or pitiful, turned upon hin. With unholy strength, he knocked his would-be-rescuers down, one by one, landing crippling blows that broke legs and shattered spines. For the budding engineer, the last thing he saw was the Trox, a strange new light in his eyes and drool dripping down his chin, advancing purposefully towards his broken body.

He was the lucky one. What the others witnessed from that point on was far, far worse...

A short while later, a passing hunter, alerted by the screams, arrived at the pit entrance, fully alert and armed to the teeth. To his overwhelming horror, he was met with the sight of a happy, contended looking Atrox, sat complacently amid the remains of… well, let us just say among the remains of the first good meal he had eaten in a very long time.


Just as we were reaching the climax of this tale, we were inerrupted by a breaking news report, warning the citizens of Borealis to be on the lookout for an escaped prisoner, an atrox, found missing from his bed in a secure hospital, an asylum for the criminally insane.

A few quick calls from our guide revealed that this atrox was indeed the very same "Hungry Miner" whose story we had just heard. To make matters worse, it appears he had escaped at least once before, and on that occasion had made a beeline right for this very mine, where he had killed and eaten a young couple, out here alone for an innocent "midnight picnic".

(A minor fact that the GSP Dances somehow forgot to mention to those that had signed up for the Ghost Walk... whoops!)

Luckily a member of the party was able to capture the cannibalistic killer - and avoid being eaten themselves - by offering the Hungry Miner a piece of Atrox Wonder Pie that had been liberally dosed with sedatives.

The fugitive was returned to the secure hospital. Nobody got eaten. And no tour organisers got sued.

Which was nice.



Copyright 2007 Myz Lilith / Coffeewench


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PostPosted: Thu Nov 01, 2007 1:05 pm 
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The Pool

You may think you have stumbled upon this pond before. You may consider wandering down here some time next week, to see it in true daylight.

Think you’ll find it?

I very much doubt it.

For this pool only appears when the mists descend and the wild pumpkins stalk the land!

Now, it may not look like much. More like a pond than a pool, and more like a puddle than either. But taste of its waters at your peril...

Some say that the waters of this pool can strip you of your memory, your identity, your soul. Others that but a sip of its waters can put you to sleep for many millennia, waking to a world of dust and emptiness.

But those who know will tell you that it is not sleep that the pool brings, but dreams. Dreams that will haunt your waking hours for as long as you live.

Legend tells of a young adventurer, a few years past, out in the All Hallows mists, hunting the elusive Pumpkinheads. She had trekked the path from Reets Retreat far to the East, gathering many a trophy along the way. Now, close to home at last, she had somehow lost the road, and found herself wandering aimlessly through the fog.

She was not afeared, for he knew the countryside well, and felt sure she must come across a familiar landmark soon. However, she seemed to stumble on for a long time with no sign of the road, the city, or even the great surrounding lake.

Through the murky air, she finally spotted something that looked like the lake in the distance. But as she drew closer, far from the vast stretch of water she was expecting, she found something that was little more than a puddle. Still, the water smelled fresh and clean, and she was hot and weary. Deciding to stop briefly to rest her aching muscles, she knelt by the pond and raised a handful of the water to her lips.

The water felt icy cold yet somehow burning on her tongue, and a strange aroma enveloped her. With a small cry she collapsed to one side, and darkness overcame her.

The next thing she knew, she found herself hovering, invisible, in a darkened hall, stretching off to what looked an impossible distance in all directions.

In front of her, close to the nearest wall, human shaped but impossibly large, a monstrous being was perched on an immense chair, before a confusing array of equipment. In front of it in the air, apparently the focus of all the ogre’s attention, a rectangle of light shimmered and swirled. It made no sound itself, but the air was filled with an insane clattering as it hammered at some kind of flat rectangular device with it’s massive, clumping hands.

And emanating from a couple of squat black monoliths came a weird distorted raucous noise – possible some kind of music, but unlike any she had ever heard before.

Awed, terrified, repulsed and yet intrigued, the adventurer willed herself to float closer to this strange tableau, hoping to spot something that would make some kind of sense of it all. She strained to make out what was so captivating to the epic creature, and as she stared at the rectangle of light, familiar forms began to appear to her. She saw to her horror…

...herself!

A representation of herself, to be sure, stylised and simplified. But herself nonetheless, lying prone by the shimmering pond.

Unmoving and unresponsive, dead to the world.

The being before her appeared agitated by this development, and began to chant some strange incantation, apparently to itself. She struggled to understand, but only made out random words - “lag”, “petition”, “patch” and “support” - that were meaningless to her in such a context.

Even as she watched, the giant stabbed angrily, twice, at the clicking board in front of it, and even as it did so, she blacked out completely.

When she came to, she was lying by the same pond, able to move freely again. The mist had thinned enough that she was able to make out the town walls in the distance.

Mindful of tales of enchanted sleep, from which men wake a century later to find all that they cared for in the world lost forever, the young woman sprang to her feet and sped towards the town. She was relieved to discover, upon her arrival, that only a few hours had passed.

But after that night, she was forever changed.

Once a proud huntswoman, revered by her peers, she became known as little more than a lunatic, pitied and ridiculed in equal amounts. Even today, you may cross paths with her, wandering the streets of some major city or sleepy town.

You will know her if you see her.

For she will be ranting and raving at all those that she encounters, gabbling about life as we know it being nothing more than an illusion.

And of the mysterious godlike beings that toy with our lives for their sport.


Copyright 2007 Myz Lilith / Coffeewench


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PostPosted: Thu Nov 01, 2007 1:25 pm 
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Okay, those were all the stories told during our ghostly tour of some of Borealis's more supernatural locations. But to follow are a couple of bonus stories, exclusive to these forums... enjoy!


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PostPosted: Thu Nov 01, 2007 1:38 pm 
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The Hand

Of course, tragedies such as the tale of the Hungry Miner, while horrifying, are still in their own way rational. There is a scientific explanation for insanity and its actions, even if the end results are inconceivable to a sane mind.

But some of the stories to emerge from the mines have no such rational explanation.

Miners throughout history have told tales of voices heard where there could be nobody there to do the talking; moving lights seen way underground where no such illumination should exist; and shadows somehow far deeper than the darkness around them appearing, even when there is no light to cast them.

Of course in Rubi Ka mines, the presence of notum can explain much. Or rather it suggests that there is an explanation to be had, eventually…for even the most dedicated nano-physicists and notumologists readily admit there is much we don’t know about the blue gold of Rubi Ka.

For example, in the record books for this very mine, you will find logs of many strange disappearances, illnesses and mutations among the miners. Now of course, these sort of occurrences are hardly unique. In mines, accidents will happen, and throughout Rubi Ka many such accidents were never particularly well investigated, even at the time they occurred. But being a Neutral owned and operated mine, this one had more reason than most to keep honest, open records of the fates of its miners and other employees.

What’s more, the free miners that worked here were far less likely to run away than those that slaved in Omni mines, or fall victim to sneak attacks, a fate suffered by many a worker in an openly renegade Clan mine.

And yet in among the regular records of falling prop beams and sudden tunnel falls, their pop up over and over again mention of those that vanished, or suffered strange injuries, with no recorded cause.

So what did happen here?

And as time passes and those that worked the old mines pass on, all we are left with are figures in a book, and those keep their secrets well. But in the taverns where the old miners hang out, you can still hear some mighty strange tales…

The little Opifex supervisor was having a long day. His breakfast had burnt, he had a blister forming on the sole of his heel, and he had lost an Atrox.

What’s more, the only people that might be able to help him work out what had happened to it were yet more Atroxes, the missing miner’s fellow shift workers.

Now, before we go any further, it must be made clear that there are some troxes that rise above the intellectual constraints their nature imposes on them. They have been known to rise to great heights in the Sciences, the Arts, Politics, Tactics, Literature, Medicine and flower arranging.

But mining tends to attract those Atroxians who are not exactly playing with a full deck to begin with. In fact, they probably ate the cards, broke the table, and stuffed the chips up their nose. And that’s when they were at their best, before they cracked their heads on the mine ceilings a few times. So they were not always the best of witnesses.

In fact, the supervisor was starting to think that he’d be better off interviewing a nearby rock.

“So, would anybody care to bring me up to speed as to what exactly the situation is vis a vis the location of your currently absentee co-worker?”

He looked round at a room of blank stares, and tried again:
“What did the missing Atrox say last time you saw him?”

“Dat guy Idigzmor, he say ‘e fink he see summink movin in da udder cave room”
“An ‘e wanna follow an see wot is”
“Fink it cud be sumfink fallin in an getting lost”
“Wont’d to see if it woz tastee-gud, hur hur hur.”
One by one the rest of the miners started chuckling gutturally, as they gradually caught up with the joke. In Atrox miner circles, this counts as wit of the highest calibre, after all.

Gritting his teeth, the supervisor inwardly moaned that he wasn't paid enough to have to deal with this, and persisted with his painfully slow inverstigation.
“What was it, did any of you see it?”

There was an almost audible creaking sound, as mighty brows furrowed in thought.
“I fink… I fink he sez it look like black furbeastie”
“Yeh. Fuzzy’n’black an small.”

“But what kind of creature could that be? And how on earth could he see it down here? That tunnel over there is pitch black.”

The supervisor waited patiently, as the assembled troupe turned the questions over slowly in their minds…
“Dunno.”
“E nevah said”
“I woz sayin dat I fink e see it wiv is stomach, not is eyes!”
This brought on another round of delayed action guffawing, accompanied by echoing retorts as some slapped their thighs with mirth. By their standards, this was shaping up to be a night of unsurpassed heights of comedic invention. Some of them would need to go for a lie down if it carried on much longer.

The supervisor waited until the worst of the echoes had died away, and tried to pick up the tattered thread once more:
“And he never came back?”

Watching the heavy brows around him furrow once again, at speeds resembling continental drift, the supervisor sighed.
“Never mind. I’ll go look for myself.”

The supervisor picked up his lantern, which was far brighter than average, for he was non too fond of the darkness. And he picked up his gun, far larger than average, for much the same reason. Besides, while offhand he could think of no furry black critters local to the vicinity that would be able to take down a fully grown trox, he had no desire to suddenly discover one, at least not without massively superior firepower on his side.

The little Opifex gritted his teeth, muttered to himself that he he could ~never~ be paid enough for this, and set off, tracing the path he supposed the Atrox had taken, down a side tunnel and deep into the desered heart of the diggings.

The flickering shadows cast by his lamp played tricks on his eyes. More than once he was convinced he saw a figure up ahead, or possibly some kind of scurrying, dark coloured beast, but whenever he looked more closely, it turned out to be nothing but shadows.

He almost screamed as an invisible hand seemed to grasp at his ankles, almost tripping him… but when he directed his light downwards, there was nothing there.

And once or twice he was convinced he heard footsteps behind him, but they must just have been echoes, for whenever he stopped walking, so did they, a second or two later.

As he progressed, the darkness around him seemed to grow heavier and somehow more solid, and his lantern, that had seemed so bright and powerful in the upper cavern, appeared to be growing weaker and more feeble with every step he took.

As he watched, it flickered once, then gave out altogether.

He stopped dead, frozen in fear, only to hear those other footsteps carrying on, coming closer and closer.

As something brushed his face he let out a whimpering scream, which was suddenly choked off…

***

Some time later, dimly aware that they were probably due some kind of meal soon, the abandoned Atroxes came to some kind of a group decision, and made their own way up into the sunlight.

Thus it was that the mine’s owners came to discover that they had mislaid not only an Atrox mineworker, but also an Opifex supervisor as well. They swore aplenty and sent in a full strength rescue team, fully equipped with mobile flood lights, body-heat detectors, specialised deep-earth communicators, heavy weaponry and plenty of rope.

This team neither saw nor heard anything unusual as they traced the path the little supervisor had taken down into the depths of the mine. Not until the narrow tunnel opened up into a sizeable cavern, with remarkably clean, smooth walls. But that was not the strangest thing about it...

From where they stood in the entrance, looking over at the far wall of the cavern, darker patches of stone created what appeared to be a sketch of human shaped figures, captured in silhouette form. You would swear that you were looking at the shadows of a group of players posed still as statues, somewhere in the centre of the cave… were it not for the fact that the cavern was empty, with nothing or no-one present to cast any shadows, none at all.

Besides, as the rescue party entered the chamber, their powerful lamps flooded the room with intense white light, and banished all shadow… but the mysterious stains on the far wall remained. In silence, they examined the strange designs apparently etched into the rock itself.

One appeared to be the silhouette of an Atroxian miner, caught in the action of crouching down, as if to pet some small domestic creature.

The other shadow formed the shape of a small Opifex, oversized gun dangling uselessly from one hand, body twisted in terror. And clearly defined by the darkened stone, apparently rising from the ground before him, could be seen the outline of a massive arm with a hideously be-clawed hand, which had grasped the unfortunate Opi by the throat and hoisted him high into the air.

But of course, all of this was just an illusion, a pattern in the stonework, playing games with the eyes, like faces in clouds.

Just a trick of the light.

Or maybe the dark.


Copyright Myz Lilith / Coffeewench 2007


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