The Broken Mirror Part Three: Dark Side of The Moon

When last we left the face-shifting amnesiac known only as the Talented Mr. Ripley, he had half a dozen holes in him, had murdered a handful of Chicago cops, and managed to make his escape into the shadows. It was a pivotal moment in his development, though he didn't quite know it yet. After all, his familiarity with guns, blades, and blood would be enough to worry anyone who had misplaced their memories, and when you're down in the gutter, any outstretched hand will do.

Even one that comes out of the sewer.

Before continuing on, make sure you're caught up on the previous installments of the story below.

The Broken Mirror Part One: The Talented Mr. Ripley
The Broken Mirror Part Two: Through The Mirror Darkly
The Broken Mirror Part Three: The Dark Side of The Moon
The Broken Mirror Part Four: The Moon Court Madman
The Broken Mirror Part Five: Madness Comes Home to Roost

Finished? Lovely! Because this is around the time that things start getting good... or bad, depending on your perspective.

A Carrot on a Stick

When I initially created the Talented Mr. Ripley, I had no real direction I wanted to go with him. He was a jack of all trades, and the only thing he was truly a master of was blending in and going relatively unnoticed. It was one of the few times I, as a player, allowed my character to be shaped entirely by the events that happened to him.

Then my storyteller opened his big, fat cake socket.

Once you're here, there's no going back.

Game had finished for the night, and we were all at a local restaurant getting fuel in us for the drive home. My storyteller, appropos of nothing, mentions that he's had a plot kit for months now, but no one has shown any interest. My ears perked up, and I asked what it was for. In an off-hand tone, he told me it was a kit for characters to get recruited into the Moon Court.

I jumped on that like Mario on a toadstool.

Life-Saving Initiation

Ripley, as someone who is a killer and not a fighter, is losing blood fast. Though he managed to escape, he passed out in a gutter somewhere. He awoke to the sound of rubber gloves, and to a man standing over him. Ripley's first instinct was to reach for his own face, which sent lances of pain through him. The man, wearing a bloody apron, just smiled at him.

Don't worry... everything's going to be just fine.

The back alley miracle worker, a mysterious man named Puck, said he saw Ripley's entire performance, and it would be a shame for someone like him to die broken on the busted concrete. Ripley was still raw, of course, but he showed talent. If someone could put an edge on it, then he could really come into his own. That was when he explained the philosophy of better living through Disgust, and told Ripley that if he wanted to find a place with open arms, the Moon Court would take him... once he passed a simple test.

Nothing hard, really. He just needed to play a trick or two to show his devotion.

A Dark Seed Grows A Twisted Tree

It was my goal, as a player, to see which of the courts would reach out to recruit Ripley as a member. Winter seemed the likeliest court, especially given his recent services, but they didn't rescue him from his predicament. Puck did. More importantly, though, Puck gave Ripley the most dangerous message the mirrorskin could have received; there's nothing wrong with you. Your broken face and murderous hands? Be proud of them! The filth and squalor you've been forced to sleep in? Don't hide that, it's a badge of survival! If other people see you, and recoil, that proves they aren't capable of handling your truth. The dark side of the playground is where the monsters hold sway, my friend, and we're all monsters who came back from that place.

Even Jeff. Especially Jeff.

It seems harmless at first... but Ripley's mind proves fertile soil. His entire perception of the world is like looking through a spider-webbed crack at the best of times, and now he's being told that he's right. Right to feel resentment for his treatment. Right to feel wrath at the smallest of injustices. Right to take what he needs without thought or worry, because that is what monsters do.

All he has to do is play a trick or two. It takes a few months, and just the right set of circumstances, but he manages. Accosted by a man with knock-out darts, Ripley does some bloody business with the knife he keeps up his sleeve. Of course, the stripling mirrorskin keeps his peepers open, while one of the Summer Court's heavy hitters is left unconscious and snoring on the ground. The big warrior is completely vulnerable, and has no idea what happened around him, so Ripley leaves a tiny note explaining both his dereliction of duty and cowardice, and walks away whistling through his own yawns.

That little piece of paper caused fires of rage to spread through the Summer Court, but it was rage fueled by shame. Trying to control it was like putting out a grease fire with a water bottle; all it did was spread it around.

Puck, slow-clapping and smiling, used that as a chance to officially induct Ripley into the Moon Court. It was the first step off of a long, long drop.

This is, of course, not the end of the tale. If you want to keep up on all my latest stories, or submit some of your own, make sure you check out the rest of Table Talk. And, if you'd like to help support Improved Initiative, why not drop by The Literary Mercenary's Patreon page? All it takes is $1 a month to help keep the content coming your way, and all new members will receive some sweet swag just for choosing to support me! Lastly, if you haven't followed me on Facebook, Tumblr, and Twitter yet, now would be a great time to change that.

That One Time I Brought Calvinball to a Changeling LARP

So, we finally finished The Saga of Majenko (all 10 parts of it), so I thought this week we could all use a Pathfinder palate cleanser. For those who don't know, in addition to slinging dice across a tabletop, I'm also a fan of World of Darkness live-action games. I've been an on-again-off-again player in Mind's Eye Society's Changeling: The Lost venue. While I currently play in the Chicago venue, the story I'd like to tell took place in DeKalb, back when it was a hopping place to be. And, I like to think, it shows the sheer willingness of some members of the ST staff to run with any concept that came their way.

No matter how oddball it was.

And boy did WE have a doozy.

Of Changelings and Calvinball

For those of you unfamiliar with Lost as a game, let me give you the crash course. You are a mortal who was stolen by a being of god-like power called a True Fae. While in their realm, you were twisted and altered to become something else. You managed to escape, in time, and find your way back to the real world. What you find is that the world has become strange to you, and you now have to make a new life for yourself, altered as you are by faerie magic.

So, it's basically a modern-day fairy tale with a heavy dose of cthonian horror. Solid? Solid.

As a player, one of the things that appealed to me most about Changeling in the new World of Darkness setting was that you could do nearly anything. You want to play a comic book character who finds himself in the real world, and uses his powers to fight injustice? You can do that. You want to play a slick-talking businessman whose words can cloud people's minds, and who can read the skeins of fate in order to turn every investment into solid gold? You can do that too. Psychotic homeless shapeshifter? Bounty-hunting wolfman? Dragon who is also a prosecuting attorney? These are all concepts you can make right out of the gate, with no special permissions from the storytellers, and no paperwork required.

The idea I had was a little stranger, and I got two friends to go in on it with me.

Don't hate the players, hate The Game.

One of the big things that Lost took from Irish mythology was that True Fae love games. Games are how a lot of mortals end up getting taken in the first place, and it's also how a lot of changelings end up escaping their keeper's clutches. What I wanted to do was to create a sport that would appeal to the nonsensical, solipsistic nature of the True Fae. A game where the rules could change from one breath to another, and where players would need to operate at a level of superhuman skill in order to follow all of the constant fluctuations of fouls and goals. A game where winning once would be a triumph of will, and where never losing was all-but-impossible.

In short, I wanted to play Calvinball, from the comic strip Calvin and Hobbes.

To drive the ridiculousness of the idea home, the team of players we had were serious business. Two ogres and an elemental, all of them rippling with muscle, and with a fanatic devotion to their sport typically only seen in certain World Cup games. They called it The Game, and were confused no one else had ever heard of it. The Summer Court, who was in full attendance, wanted to play.

The three players agreed, handed the referee's whistle to the mute Harlequin from the Winter Court (because who else would we possibly give it to?), and we all turned to the storyteller.

This Was Where The Magic Happened

Some storytellers would look at this, and shake their head because it wasn't serious enough. Others would look at the backstories, realize that one of the unshakeable rules of The Game in Arcadia was that the losers were put to death, and decide this was too serious (even if the Aztec-style victory celebration was no longer a requirement now that they'd escaped). The storyteller running this particular game gave us a huge smile, and said, "All right, let's do this!"

Queensbury rules, motherfuckers!

The storyteller added up each team's physical stats, athletics dots, and bonuses gained from activated powers, as well as kith and seeming blessings. Then he pulled randomly to decide how the rules were going to affect each team. We were tied. Then we started spending Willpower. When that was said and done, we were still tied. Then, before there could be a deciding victory one way or another, an outside force (another player who wasn't in the competition at all) swooped down, and stole the ball.

For the first time in the history of The Game, there was a tie. Not only that, but in a venue where outsiders are looked upon with distrust (and occasionally with outright hostility), three new PCs with no ties and no history were immediately embraced as if we were all long-lost friends.

Which really goes to show that sometimes all it takes is a zany idea, crazy players, and a brilliant storytelling staff, to create some truly remarkable memories. Also, in case you were curious, that was not the last time The Game was played in that particular venue.

As always, thanks for stopping in to listen to my ramblings! If you're more of a Pathfinder or tabletop player, rest assured, I've still got one or two more stories up my sleeve. If you'd like to support Improved Initiative, then stop by The Literary Mercenary's Patreon page. All it takes is $1 a month for me to keep getting hot, fresh content right on your screen. Also, if you want to stay up-to-date on my latest, then follow me at Facebook, Tumblr, and Twitter.