World of Darkness; Greg's Tale

The backstory of one of the non-player characters in a World of Darkness roleplay I run, written as a short story. I did up a quick sketch of the short story's star, but don't worry; the writing is better than the artwork ^_^;

 

West Side, Rockford

 

“Greg, where are you going, exactly?” said a voice, meek and uncertain.

“I told you already, Rob,” replied Greg, packing some more of his old, tattered jeans and his few shirts that weren’t eaten by moths into his suitcase. “It’s a school in Madison. I applied and they accepted me.”

Rob, whose hair was neat but the same grungy shade of black as Greg’s, didn’t seem convinced. “That’s, um… Great, bro. Really, it is. But… Why school, why now? Since you dropped out of High School, you’ve barely shown an interest in going back, nonetheless college in another State.”

Greg sighed, putting his guitar in its case and sliding his fingers through his greasy hair. “I don’t know. I guess… Something’s just changed, now I have a reason to learn this.”

“What has changed? We still live in this same house we always have, and it’s been years since Mom died. What is it you think you need to do?” Rob was both concerned and confused in equal parts.

The sound of gunshots, cars screeching and neighbors yelling barely made either of the brothers flinch. Greg walked over to the window absentmindedly. “Sounds like some kid’s trying to take a shortcut through Old John’s yard again,” he said without thinking much of it.

“Is this the reason? Our neighborhood?” Rob was still trying to figure out his brother’s odd change of heart.

“No, Robby, it’s not the neighborhood…” Greg faced his brother again, and looked him straight in the eye. “There is a reason, and something has changed with me. But I can’t tell you what it is right now, okay? But this is the best chance I’ve had to make something out of my life, and I’ve gotta take it. When I get back, I’ll tell you more, but I need to understand it better myself first.”

The sound of gunshots was the only thing that broke the silence between the two brothers. Rob still seemed confused. “You promise?”

“Yeah, bro, I promise.” Greg went over to his suitcase and pulled an old pocket watch out from it. “Remember this?” he threw it to Rob.

Rob looked it over. “Dad’s old watch. Of course I remember.”

“Keep it, and don’t give it back until I come back with some answers, okay?”

“Alright…” He was still trying to figure this out, with no luck. “You know the neighbors aren’t going to leave me alone without you there. I’m a wimp to them.”

Greg laughed. “You still got Charles. He’ll make sure you’re safe.”

“He thinks I’m a wimp too, though.”

There was a pause, and both brothers broke into laughter.

 

 

The Academy, Madison

 

The building in front of Greg was amazing to behold. It once was an old church, built in the 19^th century, and was a great work of architecture back then and now still. Massive compared to most, the dark stones that made its walls rose up three floors and into pointed ceilings of weathered tile. The highest point was the steeple, housing a rusted and chipped church bell and a solid bronze cross that was eroded by over a century and a half’s worth of rain. It has not been a place of worship for some seventy years, when the church could not afford the high cost of the property during the Great Depression. Two decades passed and the building remained abandoned, although several times the city made plans to renovate and restore the church, it never worked out. But in 1954, the old church was purchased by a private owner by the name of Edric Sapienti. Sapienti was an entrepreneur of some wealth, and said he intended to turn the church into an exclusive school of Religious Theory. And, to this day, that is what the mundane records say about the coming and going of people in the church.

Greg’s bus drove by the church on his way to his motel, but it wasn’t until now he realized how grand the place really was. It was as if the place had an aura, one you could see, hear, taste, smell and feel all at once. Greg reminded himself that it probably did. This was, after all, the Academy of Magic.

He was greeted at the door and asked his name by the doorman, who checked his list and granted him entry. Greg was brought through the majestic building, and into the elegant cathedral. The tall, domed ceiling and stained glass windows filled the room in natural sunlight, giving it a timeless feeling. In all the rows of pews, there were under a dozen people, myself among them. Age, gender and appearance varied, and yet Greg could sense something connecting them all on a different level. Not knowing where to be, he sat in one of the back pews, and waited.

“Credo quia absurdum, class,” said an elderly man emerging from behind the altar. Greg half expected to see someone garbed in church robes, but the man instead was wearing a very formal but all black suit and tie. He held a rough wooden walking stick that appeared to have been ripped right off a tree branch. He did not seem to limp, however.

“Credo quia absurdum, Taropos” those in the room recited, with the exception of Greg.

“As I understand it, we have a new student in our midst,” the old man looked directly to me, without spending a moment searching the room. “There will be time for introductions later, newly Awakened. For now, sit and watch the class. I will give you a personal lesson afterwards.”

Greg found it odd that he didn’t ask me to introduce myself, but I remained quiet. The class was interesting, but most of it was above his head. He expected to see lightning flying from fingers and people levitating, but nothing of the like took place. It was a lot like regular school, talking about the composition of matter and the effects minor alterations can make. At the end of the class was the study of a foreign language, something called High Speech. It sounded strange to Greg, and he was slightly disappointed by how similar this was to the school he dropped out of.  After the language lesson, the old man bid everyone farewell, and gestured for Greg to follow him. He did so.

 

“Allow me to properly welcome you to the Academy of Magic, Greg Byrnes,” said the old man, who gave a small bow. “Taropos est nomen ejus.”

Feeling ignorant, Greg just nodded. He didn’t like not having a clue what this guy was saying.

“Ah, I’m sorry, my boy. It’s Latin, you see. You may call me Taropos.”

“Oh, right,” Greg said, trying not to look like a fool. “My name’s Greg, but I guess you already knew that.”

“Yes, I do. And you’ll be smart to keep the list of people who can say that to a minimum,” said Taropos. “Names are a powerful thing, especially to the Awakened.”

“There’s another thing. You keep talking about ‘the Awakened.’ What’s that really mean, anyhow?” Greg hoped he wasn’t being rude, but he needed to know what he was dealing with.

Taropos simply smiled. “Most people go through their day to day lives with their eyes closed, oblivious to all that is truly around them. Their souls shut out the potential it has lying dormant, sleeping within it. The reason you are here is because you opened you’re eyes, your soul no longer sleeps. This is why we call you Awakened.”

“I see…” Greg walked around, looking up into the sky through the image of Mother Mary and Baby Jesus. “And how does that change things? I remember when it happened; it seemed like I was hallucinating a lot, then I had this intense waking dream. I traveled through this dark and murky place, and signed my name on this… Tower.”

“The Watchtower of the Lead Coin,” Taropos explained. “It is through your connection, linked by the chain of your name, that you are capable of using Magic. Those who’s signature rests upon that mighty tower are called Moros, who have great influence over physical substances and the subtle, discreet energies where life no longer resides.”

“So, are you also a−”

“Moros Necromancer,” Greg was cut off by Taropos. “who’s true name is neighbor to yours on the Watchtower of the Lead Coin, who has walked the same path through the realm of Stygia.” He smiled. “As have your classmates.”

It was a lot to process for Greg. He kept repeating the journey he made through that powerful fantasy in his mind. “You said something about my name earlier.”

“Yes. It is your true name, the name that was etched into the Watchtower, that grants you your power. Anyone else who knows that name can use it against you.”

“So, what do I do? Just come up with some pen name or something?” Greg asked.

“We call them Shadow Names, but yes. That is why I didn’t introduce you in class. None here other than those necessary will know your name, and we will not call you by it. We suggest you choose a Shadow Name in the near future.”

Greg looked Taropos in the eyes. “You know how hard all of this is to believe?”

The wise old Taropos laughed a hearty laugh. “Credo quia absurdum, my boy. Believe it because it is absurd.”

That didn’t make any sense yet, but in time it would.

 

It was not for another several days that Greg finally decided upon a Shadow Name. An awkward few days, indeed, as he was only addressed as “newly Awakened.” One night after class, he was sitting in his motel room thinking about magic and everything Taropos was teaching him, playing his guitar, a B.C. Rich Warlock. He couldn’t help but find the irony of a magic user playing a Warlock amusing. He paused, and looked at the words “B.C. Rich” on his guitar. Rob once asked the guy at the music store (Greg dragged him along periodically) what the B.C. stood for, and the guy said it was “Bernie Chavez,” and that he was the founder of the company. Bernie Chavez Rich… It was decided; Greg would now take on the Shadow Name Bernie Chavez!

 

 

West Side, Rockford, four years later

 

They haven’t stopped. Not in weeks. He’s occasionally seen them, more often has he heard them, but he always, always felt them. Ever since that rat bit him, he’s been feeling sick, but it’s worse than that. There’s been something… Else. He couldn’t afford to see the doctor, so he had to make his own diagnosis, and came to the conclusion they had to be hallucinations from the fever. He couldn’t have really seen a huge, mutated rat with far too many limbs in his kitchen. That voice he heard telling him he wanted to eat from his trash can or roll in the gutters must have been his imagination. And it had to be mere paranoia that he always felt something watching him, slowly stoking this illness of physical or mental nature and watching the subtle reactions. He just had an infection, and his body was working overtime, that’s all.

On times when these fantasies were hardest to ignore, sometimes he would drive himself around town for some fresh air. He was heading north up North Second Street into Machesney Park when it started to get really bad. The constant muttering was driving him crazy, the sweating from his fever, the stench of sewage and vomit overwhelming. He pulled over, and wandered from his car in a daze. He didn’t know how far he walked, but soon his legs caved in on him, and he fell to his knees.

Dumpster! Jump in the DUMPSTER!

Breakfast ain’t digustin’, it’ll look good on your shirt!

Fester! Grow, decay, fester!

He’s full of sick, keep feeding!

The voices just weren’t stopping. His arms twitch in response to their words, his sickly stomach gurgled.

“No, stop it… Stop talking! STOP TALKING TO ME!” he yelled, holding his hands over his ears in a futile attempt to drown them out. All it did was add the heavy thumping of heartbeat to the array of noises.

He was so distracted, so lost to these hallucinations… That he didn’t even see another someone approach him from down the alley, bloodless cuts and gashes all across his body.

 

 

The Academy, Madison

 

“I’m sorry, Master Taropos,” Bernie said with a bow. “But I cannot stay here any longer.”

Taropos looked at him wearily. “I see… And why are you to leave after only four years? These last two school years are very crucial to your complete education of Magic.”

“I know, Master, I know,” Bernie looked him in the eye. “But there’s something more important that I have to do.”

“Has this anything to do with your brother’s recent death?” Taropos asked.

A deep sigh, the kind that fills your soul and exhales great tragedies. “I let him down, Master. I wasn’t there for him. I could have helped, I could have prevented this.”

“That may be true, but you also cannot undo it. Even the best of our kind cannot bring the dead back to any kind of real life, I hope you know this.”

“I do, Master.” Bernie’s eyes were fixed and determined. “I know I can’t change what has happened, but I have to try and make it right.”

Taropos put his hand on Bernie’s shoulder. “Then, I can’t stop you. Do what you must do, but remember this as you do; there is something to be learned everywhere, and in everything. You have made exceptional progress in your studies, but perhaps what you need now is a chance to learn on your own. But if you can always pursue knowledge wherever you go, then you are better off than you are here.”

“Thank you for understanding, Master Taropos.”

 

Bernie packed his things. Since his arrival in Madison he’s been renting an apartment, living in the city full time. He had to jump from mundane job to job, but it paid the bills. As he was packing, he saw the pocket watch he gave his brother sitting on the counter. When Bernie went to Rob’s funeral the other day, he took it with him. He thought he would never get the chance to live up to the promise he had made his brother, but found that wasn’t exactly the case. He held the watch tightly, thinking of his brother.

“You didn’t have to do that, brother,” Bernie could hear his brother’s timid voice saying.

Bernie opened his eyes. He had attuned his senses to perceive things that weren’t visible to Sleepers, a trick that Taropos taught him, and he saw the ghostly specter of Rob standing in front of him, translucent and with an eerie green glow.

“No Rob, I did have to,” Bernie told his brother’s ghost. “You weren’t supposed to die. And it sure as hell wasn’t from an infection. You were murdered, and you will be avenged.”

“I don’t want you to become a murderer too, Greg.”

“Don’t worry, that’s not going to happen, Rob.” Bernie took his Warlock and went into a closet, pulling out a big wooden box. He had met an acquaintance while here who dealt with shady merchandise, and just pulled some strings to get this last night. He opened the box, and extracted an M249 SAW machine gun. He held the M249 in one hand and his Warlock in another, said a few words in High Speech, and with a few flashes of light pushed the two together. All that was visible now was the guitar.

“It isn’t murder if you kill an undead monster like that.”

Reviews

[Morgan Ashire]

A couple things I would like to point out. 1. Bronze doesn't corrode. That's why they use it for ship propellers. It's unlikely that the bronze cross in the church would be affected by the weather. Secondly, when "Greg" first sits down in the church in front of the old man, the viewpoint switches for one line to first person, where as the rest is in third. Other than that, very well done. This really helped me refine how I want to play Morris with Bernie. I'm looking forward to it.