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- Mood:
discontent
I hate being sick. Because I can't think. I'd been sick for a week -- millfever, or something like that -- when Dad died and they took me back to the Palace for my coronation. I was half-unconscious through the whole flight back, and the rocking of the dirigible, usually quite soothing, just made me throw up repeatedly. The captain was canny enough to avoid settlements that might be large enough to have anti-air rockets, so all I saw was a cloud of Goblin riders heading south. Probably towards Warsaw. I couldn't figure out why -- like I said, when I'm feverish I can't think.
We docked at Ezernieki Station at noon, and from there by steamwagon to the funeral, already in progress. My driver looked American, crammed into his seat like a great spider, but the pair of janissaries and civil doctor that rode in the back with me were good Imperial stock. The civil doctor kept pressing his hand against my forehead. It felt wonderfully cold so I let him, until we came over the hill to the death place.
The metalled high road led straight down the hill from Ezernieki, so I had a good view of the crowd. The tall stacks of ancient cooling towers surrounded a mass of people, all in the blinding white of mourning. At least a hundred, with personal attendants and guards making up the outer ring. My steamer halted a respectful distance away, and the jannisaries helped me out. My spectacles had gone missing, so I couldn't make out details, but I could tell that a hundred faces all turned towards us. Because the tops of the white shapes turned from the grey of ash-laden hair to the pink of servants or brown of Imperials.
And we're walking. And we're walking.
Things got a little shaky at that point, and I felt strong hands holding me up on either side. Good, I thought, now I won't fall down and hit my head. I think that my father's personal janissaries had just finished cutting their own throats. Some of them because of their familes held at gunpoint, I heard later, but that might have been just a rumour. My mother -- I beg your pardon, Her Imperial Majesty the Dowager Empress Kristine of Lombard -- stage-managed it, and she isn't usually that crude. I wound up next to her wheelchair, somehow, and collapsed onto a stepstool.
"Alexi." Her familiar rasp -- product of a botched assassination before I was born -- seemed hoarser than normal. "Stand up. You're scaring the peasants."
Hands under my armpits, and I stood. The stepstool went somewhere. The background swam around again. We were in front, only a dozen meters from a coffin. Black, wrought iron with wooden handles. The inner chamber all ready to be sealed, assuming the liquid nitrogen machine worked. Steam rose off the coffin, so maybe that part was already done.
I looked around. As I suspected, the front ranks were solid noble -- every governor, every viceroy, every clan leader, or at least those within travel distance. Some ambassadors, too, I thought, maybe even American or Chinese among them. With a jolt, I realized that three were Goblin, their fish-belly white skin blending in perfectly with the robes of their neighbours. I fancied I could smell them from where I stood, but the stench was probably my own vomit, so who knows? One looked at me and winked. I couldn't tell if it was male or female, but the flash of needle teeth was unmistakable. The poor thing was trying to be friendly, I thought, so I managed to nod in return, and thanked God that they were all the way over on the other side of the coffin.
- Mood:
curious
I'm so happy!
- Mood:creative
I know I need to discuss:
--The Boy Emperor
--The Emperor-in-Waiting
--The Emperor at age 24 (note: come up with catchier title)
So that's, like, three books right there.
- Mood:
groggy
I have boring dreams, where I'm flying, or making supper. And scary dreams, where I'm being chased, or I'm writing an exam. And then sometimes I have dreams like this...
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My name is Oleg Pepinsky. At least, that's what it says on my internal passport. There are days that I almost believe it. But most days, I know that the real Oleg Pepinsky is buried in a shallow grave near Ezernieki, mixed in with a dozen other corpses and some pieces of dog.
It was 1942. From the village of K_____, I had walked north, looking for the border between the newly-occupied Lithuania, and Byelorussia. I'd avoided the Germans, or so I'd thought, till I got swept up by an SS patrol, along many others. I don't know how we got clear -- that part is fuzzy -- but I remember going through the pockets of a drab little man, and taking his papers and money. There were ten of us maybe, and we were clear, with a rifle and some food. Some were for surrendering, others just for suicide, for which i didn't blame them. Anyone found within a kilometers of dead SS would not be allowed to die quickly. But I told them, I said, anyone who wanted an honourable death, we'd give it to them, but we should make for the hills, and wait for the Red Army to return. I knew they would. I don't know how I knew.
One woman asked for a bullet, so I did it, and took her shoes for another girl. One shot. A big risk, but she was brave, and deserved it. The others we covered with earth, and walked away.
So there was snow everywhere, new in the fall, and we went up a low hill. We didn't know what was there, but what could it be worse? Over another, and across a field, and then through some more snow. I made them walk in single file, to disguise our numbers, and I brought up the rear with the rifle. While we walked, I memorized my new name -- Oleg Pepinsky -- and the details of my life.
A bad winter. We found more, and hid. Partisans? Fuck, no. We kept our heads down and listened for the sound of aircraft. The second winter, the Reds found us again, and somehow I was made a Major, and we got a drop of food and weapons.
The third winter, Colonel. Me. Colonel. Huts and even a fucking kitchen and hot food every night. One ring of a bell, though, the place would clear out. Keep eyes up. Always keep eyes up.
Soon it would be time to leave. One of these days, one of those clever boys, those commissars sent out to help us fight the Germans...one of them would figure out who I really was. Soon it would be time to leave.
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And then I woke up, shuffled to the bathroom, and got ready for work. It was just a dream.
- Mood:awake
"Think nothing of it. It's been years since I've been home, and those like me prefer the country air. Give my best to your husband, and invite him to call on me if he so wishes."
"My lord, I shall."
"A good day to you, then."
And they swept across the street, the girl stealing looks at me behind her mother's back. I stuck my tongue out at her and she hid her face.
The townhouse looked much the same as ever, although the hydraulic piping bolted to the outside looked new. Father had resisted installing running water for anything but emergencies for centuries, I'd heard. When it became clear how little time I had left, Mother had put her foot down. He'd probably rip it out again as soon as I passed on, but in the meantime -- I put a stop to that road of thinking with a firm Now there, none of that!
The door opened to a touch, and there stood my father's handman Pascal, his eyes flicking over me and out to the street. Looking for trouble that didn't happen anymore. Pascal had been with the family for centuries. God, it was good to see him, but why was he opening doors now? But before I could open my mouth to ask, an assault came from behind him. I was swept up in a hug and a cloud of perfume that turned into a raven-haired woman.
"My sweet Alex!" Anastasie. Dark eyes and full mouth. Oh, that mouth. I kept my hands on her slim waist to see if she'd flinch at my touch, but of course she didn't. Off to the side, Pascal reappeared with my baggage and flitted off somewhere with it.
Anastasie stroked my cheek. "Justine's been delayed, she sends her love."
I forced a smile. "Well, that means you've got me all to yourself, auntie." And kissed her on the mouth and neck, lingering there for a moment. To tell the truth, I was exhausted and my back hurt from the long carriage ride, but she'd been good to me for too long for me to be impolite. She wasn't my aunt, more like some kind of great-great-aunt's cousin, and a friend of Mother's, but she'd taught me to read as a child.
And when my hair started to lose its color, and all my other playmates vanished, she had come to my bedside -- and bed -- night after night. Even when my failing body betrayed me, she was someone to talk to. And we both knew that but for her, these few remaining years would have been given up long since, to a friendly poison or a walk in the woods with a pistol.
She knew me too well. So close that all I could see were her eyes, she whispered, "You're a dear, but your bed is for resting today." I offered her my arm as if I were a century older and she five centuries younger. She grinned and took it. From the lobby, stairs led up to the right and left, winding around out of sight behind the column of the Christ Ascended. I led Anastasie up the left-hand staircase, proud of myself for breathing only a little more deeply from the climb.
- Mood:indescribable
Methuselah Wept
With a thump and spattering of water, my last trunk landed on the sidewalk. I would have tipped the cabbie, but for that he'd have to come within ten feet which he declined to do. Ah well, ten pennies saved is ten pennies to the good. With all haste, the cabbie clambered back down into his front seat and the carriage pulled away from the curb, the clattering of the horses' hooves making my headache worse than ever. I took a breath of the stinking city air, mixture of smoke and feces, and tried not to throw up. Sooner or later I'd have to go into the house, but an extra minute to regain my equilibrium would do no harm.
Thirty feet away, a child paused while some urchins swept a path for her across the street. Her mother finished locking a door, her gaze passing over me without pause and out to the street.
"Mother, what's wrong with that man's face?"
She'd seen the slack skin at my throat, the discolored hair at my temple. I cleared my throat.
Her mother looked back at me. "Shh, lovie, he's sick. Don't stare at him."
I am neither deaf not contagious. But then somehow she stood beside her child. I'd blinked, or glanced at the street for a fraction of a second and she'd moved that dozen feet to put herself between me and her child.
Very fast. She was a hundred years old if she was a day, and that daughter might very well be the last child she'd ever have. I cursed myself for a boor and tipped my hat. The finest physicians said that I wasn't contagious, but the finest physicians used to stick leeches on your foot if you had a cold in your head. I couldn't blame her for being cautious.
"Alexander de Rochefort, at your service."
She curtsied automatically, her daughter copying her after a moment's confusion. Both held it as the mother introduced herself, then rose. "My lord. Mrs. John Grey and Miss Anne, of London. I apologize for my daughter. She has never seen one afflicted." Impeccable manners.
- Mood:
cheerful
Here's what the three judges said:
JASON
+ Very interesting, a concept filled with possibility, a cool setup that is unique. I'd play this, it seems like a fun conceit.
- Where are the ingredients? This is immersive like a parlor game is immersive. This needs to be developed and it ought to be.
GRAHAM
This is interesting: a very direct approach to immersion and hard to deny it's immersive.
I've got little to say about it, which doesn't mean I don't like it. It would almost undoubtedly work. It would almost undoubtedly be immersive. I don't think it would feel like a roleplaying game and I can't see our Wednesday group playing this.
Nevertheless, interesting, and I'm glad I read it. Apologies that I haven't got any more useful feedback than that.
EERO
I like the mechanical premise very much. The GM as a psychic guide, having the players play with their eyes closed, communicating with gestures, all goes flawlessly with the game's premise of psychic session. It's a great shame that the designer doesn't run with this; he should have the GM prepare an elaborate mission for the psykers - he should in fact be in a role as a MiB, first briefing the players with handouts and whatnot before the psychic session. Then the game would have tension - the GM/officer has this need to find the nuke and get it disarmed, but the other players actually have all the power in the situation, as they're the ones who see things. The GM in fact turns into another player, while the others act as GMs. Except that of course the GM could bring stuff in too, as he's the one holding the access to the computer mainframe, the FBI files and whatever else he wants to pull to bring in some more backgrounds.
Also, there should be some psychic combat, different psychic powers and such. All interesting to implement with the players blind and mostly unmoving.
OK, so I see an excellent gimmick game here in the spirit of a psychic Tom Clancy novel, but the designer obviously was going for some sort of murder therapy take with less game and more ritual. The actual direction of the game I found boring, as the GM doesn't get to shout at the others frantically as the clock ticks down and Mary-Jane insists that the bomb is in the other briefcase. Boooring. Games need to have interaction and goals, this is more akin to meditation. I'd do this so much better.
This time, it's a one-week deadline, with the challenge to use the three of the four terms "midnight", "sea", "burn", and "horse", all around the theme of immersion. My entry is here , titled "Do U See".
I'm pleased with it, especially with how long I spent working on it (from start to finish, maybe 4 hours, over a two-day span). The writing is good, the layout is terrible (but what else is new?). I got the theme, all right, but had to shoe-horn in the terms. I may get dinged for that. Big deal. I'm very happy with the writing.
- Mood:creative
- Mood:
contemplative
- Mood: crushed
I think that's a good thing.
- Mood:accomplished
- Mood:creative
- Mood: sleepy
www.huffingtonpost.com/2008/12/19/califo
What else do you need to know about these people?
- Mood:
angry
Or solve so many of their problems with violence?
Or are excellent (though often flawed) parents?
- Mood: contemplative
