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Realistic or Modern Welcome To Shearport

The Fuzz

The Fuzz

Staberinde
The Dog's Bollocks





The sign that hung over the pub in the 1990's was admired by many, until the proprietor, Gerry Hicks, was prevailed upon to take it down. Apparently, a grinning bulldog with his back end facing out of the sign was considered a bit vulgar.


This place was originally set up as a bit of a tourist trap, with (fake) sailing paraphernalia hung on the walls, artificially weathered wooden panelling, and carefully dirtied rough plaster on the walls.


In the couple of decades since, a bunch of the artificial trappings have been slowly replaced by the real thing. The place flooded back in 2007, and the fittings put in after the water receded have been battered and worn the traditional way. Because the pub is so close to the docks, fishermen and seafood merchants have adopted it as a watering hole, and the place is well regarded for a hot whiskey on a miserable day.


Try the fried clam roll, with the sweet potato fries.


The owner, Hicks, is a bit wider these days, a bit greyer too. Still a cheerful bloke, does the afternoons behind the bar. Nightshifts are generally covered by a younger crew, including Billy, a big handsome looking bloke who wears an apron and keeps his dreadlocks tied back while he's on duty. Billy also happens to be a well respected Fairest of the Summer court, who won't abide by any fights inside the bar, but will happily award points for brawls outside.
 
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Holloway Ave.


(Main Street)





You could be forgiven for asking yourself "Where the hell do folks go to eat in this town?" Walking down the main shopping street of Shearport, you'll find lots (and lots) of souvenir shops, bookshops, gift shops, a huge sweetshop selling saltwater taffy and peanut turtles, and, at the end of the street closer to the beach, a sports place which sells bodyboards and rents wetsuits. If you're looking for pretty rocks, beach glass, driftwood sculptures, hiking maps, books of photographs, novelty hats and t-shirts with humorous lobster prints, this is where you want to be.


Off the side streets is where you'll start hitting cafe's and restaurants. This being on the coast of Maine, pretty much everywhere sells seafood. Those poor lobsters. They were just curious about what was in the pot.


The Docks


Much of the local economy depends on tourist trade. In fact, the town seems to shrink in winter. Still, fishing and lobster potting also makes up a big chunk of the local cash flow, although that too ties into tourism. Delicious lobster.


The fishing boats out of Shearport tend to be battered but perfectly functional. A commercial fishing boat ain't cheap to run, but it cal also bring in surprisingly huge sums of money for the right catch. A single full sized adult swordfish, if you can get the damned thing back to the market fast enough, might be worth a couple of grand.


There's also a small company which do whale watching tours, operating two tourist boats and employing local young folks who can shout loud through a megaphone and keep smiling all day.


Accommodation





Along the shore from the docks, there's a stretch of road running broadly parallel to the beach which is dotted by big white clapboard buildings, running from very nice (but overpriced) miniature hotels, to simpler B&B's.


This is where the combined B&B/hostel you guys are running is. It's cast in the same broad mold, a white wooden-framed old building with several guest rooms. It also has a long extension out the back with a couple of bunkrooms in it, sleeping up to eight people per room, for hikers and younger people who don't fancy shelling out for a private room. Breakfast is in a big refectory styled room out to the side, where guests can eat all the muesli, toast, bacon and scrambled eggs their hearts desire. Or, you know, don't desire, in the case of the bacon and eggs.


You guys tell me what the name of the place is, if you can agree on it in the OOC thread.
 
The Beach


Or, perhaps more accurately, the rocks. The local shore around Shearport is remarkably treacherous, with only one or two spots where a nice traditional sandy beach can be cultivated. A couple of people still drown every summer.


There are some rather nice walks going through and behind the rocky swells overlooking the ocean, dappled with cover in the form of skinny silver birch trees. The rocks are damned slippery at this time of year, mind, what with the combination of seaweed down low and wet leaf mold above the tide line.


The beach itself is lovely, golden sand stippled with pebbly patches, although autumn has turned it from gold to grey. There are a couple of shacks which sell ice cream and spare swimming trunks in the summer, but they're shuttered for the moment.


The Lighthouse/That Eyesore/We Should Have That Old Lighthouse Redone One of These Days





Out on a rocky promontory, there's an old mostly abandoned lighthouse. It's been rendered obsolete by one of those new high powered halogen beacons on an islet near the harbour. Every so often, there are noises about having the place done up, but then the insurance adjusters scowl at the town's mayor, and he goes and scowls at the local business association, and nothing gets done with it.


The Forest





Shearport is a few minutes off a major North/South highway, but if you cut West a bit before the junction, you can get onto some truly lovely forest trails through the backwoods. On the map, there's about 200 acres of forest here, but it somehow feels even larger. In the Autumn, the forest is spectacular, and much of the local trade switches to hikers rolling through to admire the turning leaves.
 
Local Personages - Changeling Courts


Spring





Spring King, Lawrence Wolnik. Handsome, early thirties, slavic looks, complete with dirty blond hair and high, clean cheekbones. His slicked up hair (pulled into a slightly pretentious fauxhawk) is, to the eyes of other fae-touched folks, the beginnings of antlers. No visible means of support. He's not the manager of anything, doesn't work anywhere, but always has money for a round of drinks, and is wearing a nice new suit every couple of months. Well liked, but sliiiightly skeevy.


Spring manager of the court, Peg Lincoln. Very much the mother hen type. Older middle-aged lady, but very tall and robust. Potters around town in sweaters and jeans, carries enormous (hideous) handbags. To Fae eyes, she stands six inches taller even than that, with olive skin and tusks jutting up from her lower jaw. Fusses over people. Owns the general store in town, for when you want groceries and are willing to trade slightly higher prices for eggs and milk and sliced beef in exchange for not having to drive miles out the highway to the bulk goods supermarket. Nice place, with ancient yellow lino tiles and slightly battered wooden shelves supporting basic groceries, maple syrup candy, jams and weird little sauces. Beloved for the lobster rolls in summer.


In addition to owning the general store, she's also been spending quite a few shifts recently as receptionist/hostess/general facilitator at the B&B. Perhaps with the arrival of some of you folks, she can devote more time to running her store?


She likes to check in on local Changelings.


Summer





King of Summer, Stan Walters. Owns and runs the sports centre. Wiry, gnarled old white guy who stumps around with a cane, giving solid advice on training and exercise. Rents bodyboards and wetsuits, but sneers at the idea of actually going and getting into the ocean. When seen through Changeling eyes, he's a figure carved of earth and stone, with shiny obsidian eyes winking out of an earthen face. His cane is, in the Hedge, a sword tied into its scabbard with an ancient, frayed knot on a leather thong.


Billy Bedlam (William Bowers). Big handsome looking guy, barman at the Dog's Bollocks. Known as the Knight in these parts. Has no hesitation in cutting you off once you've had enough to drink, and he knows when you've had enough. His dreadlocks, seen in the Hedge, are clearly a mane of horns, and his dark skin is scaled.


Autumn





Autumn Queen is one Molly Malone (Mitchell) Statuesque lady, literally. Very good at staying still and quiet. Has a shop which sells, yet again, random crap, but she hardly seems to bother keeping truly regular hours. Occasionally plays up the "creepy lady" act and gives Tarot readings. Has been known to incorporate a little bit of Fate management into her sessions, and takes an almost Spring-like pleasure in setting up summer romances for young visitors to the town.


Enjoys teaching, and genuinely likes dropping the 'woo woo' persona when she's with other Changelings, at which point she becomes a brusque, forthright educator. Her tanned skin becomes bronze when in the Hedge, and her deliberate grace is then apparent as the slow movements of someone whose skin is not quite as soft as it used to be.


 
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The Mask





US Park Ranger of Shearport, Lucas Hood is responsible for watching the surrounding wilderness for poachers, polluters, lost children and running criminals. He knows the woodlands like the back of his hand, and since Shearport doesn't see a lot of corporate assholes or escaping felons, he spends a lot of time running tours and field trips, educating folk about the environment and how to survive it, if necessary. He's a charming son of a bitch with a habit of pissing off boyfriends and women whose gender politics escaped the fifties. They say he came down from Alaska, but Hood doesn't talk about his past much - lotta people figure he's so protective over womenfolk because he lost someone before leaving. He tells ghost stories to camping children and organizes the Sheriff Department's annual clambake.


Ask the people who don't like him, and they'll tell you Hood is a selfish, thuggish asshole who thinks his legal authority renders him immune to the consequences of his demanding attitude and casual insults. And why would a man move all the way from Alaska to Maine? Sure as shit ain't for the weather. Hood's hiding something.


The Man





Once upon a time, a strapping young man with a smart young wife and a cute baby son went out to do his duty - SOS came in from a remote cabin, a vacationing family.


"Someone stole my baby!"


Not on his fucking watch.


The young man followed the kidnapper across the wintry wastes of Alaska for damn near two days; thank god it was Spring. Cornered at some long lost and forgotten place of burial for the people his ancestors stole this land from, the man was offered a choice; offer himself as hostage and the child goes home. What else could he do?


The Monster





I am the hound of this dread manor. I am the dragon at the gate. I am the wrath of these primeval woods. I am hunter, and you are my prey. I am vengeance, and you are a sinner.


Gamekeeper and favoured prey. Hunter and hunted. For times untold the green dragon of the dark forest fled and fought to evade the Lord of the Manor and his hunting hounds. Yet when the hunt was off, and behind yellow-glowing windows the Lord of the Manor took tea with his guests, the waldgeist was made protector and caretaker of the hunting grounds. Nothing was to escape, no poacher would be permitted.


Eventually, all hunts must end, and the guardian of the forest knew it. But the forest was grateful for his care, and opened up a secret path down which he fled, until he was surrounded by cool night-sounds and wind through woods that were not his own.


The Mien


Lucas Hood has skin like fine bark, shaped into scales. The moustaches that to most others are short and black hang low as green vines past his fanged mouth.


When Hood wandered into Boston, lost, the Winter Court cut him a deal. We'll give you an identity, a job like the ones you've known. All you have to do is serve well.


He wouldn't join, but he couldn't refuse. Two months later, Lucas Hood was US Park Ranger to the little town of Shearport, and the rest is what passes for local history.


Dragon's Talon: Free die on Brawl, 1 Glamour to reroll a failed Brawl roll.


Fade Into Foliage: 9-Again on Stealth in forest, 1 Glamour to inform physics that actually, yes, I can hide there.


The Pledge





"Shearport will be protected, and the forest too. I swear on my badge, won't accept no defilement."


Sheet


Experience Expenditure


16XP for Wyrd 2


4XP for Contracts of the Wild 1


20XP spent in total.
 
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  • History


    Zach's Father was a petty car saleman scam artist, his Mother a gossip and drunk, and his older sister had a nack for sleeping with other women's husbands. Naturally he has little love or fond memories of childhood, save for trips to his Grandmother's house during the Fall holidays. Finished school, left the house as early as he was able, got himself a tiny apartment and became a firefighter to pay the bills.


    Durance


    There's always that one house at the end of the lane that's been abandoned for years. Through the owner dying or moving on, it never gets claimed or bought, falling into disrepair, and rumours of hauntings crop up.


    Normally home to local wildlife or the occasional squatter. This time however, some bored teens decided the best course of action was to set it on fire. Naturally Zach and his team got called out to handle it. But upon tackling the blaze, he wandered into the smoke... and just kept walking. Walking and walking until eventually he came out the other end somewhere completely different.


    The Gentry that found him – a orgreous cook – who loved his hair so, that they stuck him in the fireplace to become an errant flame, used to heat the fires of the kitchens in the castle where he now resided. He spent his time being dripped on by the scalding fat of the spits, being force-fed coal and poked at with a red hot poker. He befriended a dog-shaped hobgoblin that turned the spits, eventually bringing it home with him upon his release.


    Current


    After his release, Zach had little inclination to return to his former life. His immediate family had never cared for his distance after leaving the house. He therefore took his new companion – named Gus – and trekked across country to his Grandmother Beatrice, the only family he trusted and loved. Granny Bee-Bee taught him the art of cooking in the way only grannies can, feeding his newfound interest in the craft. Having been around the town for a long time and well respected, Granny Bee-Bee put in a good word for him and helped get him the job as a chef for the B&B at which he now works, renting a room from her house out to him for now.


    Appearance


    Despite the fact he is in his twenties, Zach still looks like an awkward teenager. Tall, gangly and lanky limbed. Babyfaced, with large hazel eyes and a smattering of freckles. His most distinguishing feature however is his rather terrifying nest of strawberry blond curls that falls past his shoulders, making all the girls jealous.


    He normally favours wearing old faded metal band t-shirts, featuring chains, guns, flames forming giant skulls and giant skulls spitting flames. This is normally coupled with cropped denim or army camo pants and old converse sneakers.


    Also including a particular favourite hedgespun black vest, sleeveless but hooded. To mortal eyes, it's a simple vest, to Changeling eyes, the material is the night's sky, dappled with stars and silver clouds. This, coupled with his hair, gives the impression of a campfire on a balmy summer night.


    He never seems to get cold, even during the bitter winters. It's alarming to see him in a thick coat. He always carries a small silver flip cap lighter, engraved with a stags head skull on his person at all times.


    Bereft of his mien, the tips of his mane of curls glow like coals of a fire, leaving glittering embers in his wake. His skin always having a warmth and glow to it.


    http://crimsonkanji.deviantart.com/art/Zach-312804636


 
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  • WHAT HE'S MADE OF


    Sackcloth doesn't remember much about the time before his Durance. A lot of him got left on the Thorns and in that far-away land, in an uncomfortably literal sense. There's bits and pieces, of course, in his patchwork memory; a kindly woman with glasses whom he assumes is his mother, an austere building that he could guess is a university, and time spent rigging stages for plays. His name was Robert, he's fairly certain, though whether that was his personal name or his family name is long gone. Then, there's beautiful music, fairy circles, and that's where Robert's story ends and Sackcloth's begins.


    The thing Sackcloth remembers most about his Durance is making things. Lots of things. Beautiful things. Terrible things. Terribly beautiful and beautifully terrible things. He still has a slight hunch from many nights stooped over a workbench stocked with jackdaw claw and nightshade braid; making machines that ran on baby cries and bottled lightning; stitching raiments of rainbows or cloaks of cat-eyes. On just as many evenings, however, it was him on the table.


    The thing Sackcloth remembers second-most about his Durance is that Arcadia was dangerous. Hunting for the bits-and-bobs and gewgaws and trinkets that go into making toys for the True Fae is exceptionally risky work. Horribly risky work. So risky, in fact, that on many trips out into the woods surrounding his master's mansion, fetching things for his latest creation, he'd leave pieces of himself behind. Sometimes a finger, or a part of an ear, but sometimes a whole arm or leg. Occasionally, some nasty jazzerwat or kikerikinny would tear him all to bits and leave him strewn all over the Keeper's garden. Sometimes, what was there could be stitched back on, but quite often a piece was lost or beyond repair. Bit by bit, Sackcloth lost most of himself to Arcadia.


    Whenever a piece couldn't be found, Sackcloth never went long without; his Keeper wouldn't allow it. Every time something was lost, it was replaced by something new. The skin of treevine snakes replaced his intestines, clock chains replaced his muscles, bellows for his lungs, and, of course, sackcloth for his skin. With time, every bit of Sackcloth was replaced. Every bit, save his heart.


    Sackcloth's escape from Arcadia was precipitated by an accident. The hunched little craftsman had become used to his life, forgetting so much that he might never returned, were it not for a fateful thorn. On a venture out to the edges of his lord's lands, Sackcloth's stitching caught on one of the spikes of the briar and tore open. The red ink that is his blood spilled forth, and the Changeling heard, in the quiet of that moment, the organ that pumped it still.


    Ba-damp. Ba-damp. Ba-damp.


    With that sound, Sackcloth underwent epiphany: He remembered. Button eyes blinked, feeling that human heart pulsing within his chest. A mind that had grown used to being but mere sackcloth chafed against its shackles. It remembered the air of freedom; that the soul within was more than just rags and stuffing. With one last look at the mighty clockwork house of his lordship - that domicile of dreams and nightmares of his for how-long-he-couldn't-recall - Sackcloth steeled his nerves, slipped through the iron gates, hoping never to return.


    The sound of seagulls chirping as he stumbled out of the woods was the prettiest sound in the world.


    THE OUTER DRESSING


    To mortal eye, Sackcloth is a man who's had a hard life. His most striking feature is a pair of deep, soulful eyes that almost seem designed to inspire sympathy were it not for how irregularly they blink. Of slight stature and thin frame, his age is hard to place; anywhere from a tired twenty-something to a remarkably enduring 40-something could be a reasonable guess. Some might say he's just one of those people who don't really seem to age. Few would argue he's not seen something of a hard life, though; his body is covered in scars and small tattoos, as well as patches of discoloured, calloused skin. The only exception is his face, which seems somewhat uniquely taken care of.


    Underneath the Mask, the true nature of these marks is revealed. Those large, soulful eyes are actually shining discs, made of black glass or plastic. His skin is tattered fabric - largely resembling a creamy denim but with plenty of other fabrics mixed in, of every shade, hue, and texture - held together with an array of fine stitch-work. Some parts of him are long, singular swatches but others are tatterdemalion patchworks. His jet-black hair is a mixture of animal fur and raven feathers and his teeth merely small stones.


 
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  • Lita is a strange character who appeared in Shearport about a year ago. Apparently a girl who could be anywhere from fourteen to eighteen, there is definitely something about her that is just off, more so then your average changeling anyways. Though incredibly clever and competent, her priorities and ways of interacting with both the human and changeling worlds more closely resemble those of a young child. Her name is known by most of the small freehold, but she is more often simply referred to as "the Magpie." She tends to hang around the inn doing odd jobs and eating ice cream. She also frequently disappears into the local hedge.


    She has become something of a fixture in the changeling community, generally regarded as useful but unpredictable. She is known to be a collector of objects and secrets, though what she places value on often seems nonsensical at best. To her a brightly colored toy could hold the same value as a diamond, or the knowledge of the color of the sheriff's favorite socks could be more important in her mind then the location of a hollow's secret entrance. If one can get her to sit still long enough to talk, however, and offer what she deems a suitable trade, Lita is known to be able to acquire all sorts of interesting items and information. It is also generally known that one should keep one's eye on one's valuables when dealing with her, especially if they are shiny.


    She is known to like children, shiny things, sweets, books, birds and high places. She is also known to have a distrust of adult men and a dislike of coffee and alcohol.


    The human world generally pays her little notice, except for the occasional parent who will become alarmed at the strange girl talking to their child. She is usually assumed to be that adolescent relative of the inn's owner or someone who works there, who's always hanging around, making herself useful or getting into trouble (depending on the observer's opinions on adolescents).


    Finding Lita can be a frustrating, sometimes fruitless endeavor, as she possesses no phone, computer, or anything of the sort, but sooner or later she turns always up at the inn.


    Some Half Forgotten History:


    Lita's father drank, he came home every night and he chased her, when he caught her he beat her until she could barely see. One night a nice man came to her as she lay hiding from her father, he brought her toys and sweets and shiny things. One day he offered to take her away from it all, take her somewhere bright and beautiful where she could play all day. She ran to him and felt her feet leaving the ground. The last thing she remembers is the pure joy of flight...


    She doesn't remember much of her time in fairy. She remembers most the joy of of flying,


    of always wanting to fly farther and faster, fighting against anything that tried to hold her, until one day she must have flown far enough. That was when she remembered her name.


    Appearance:


    Despite her adult like competence and child like manner, Lita appears to be a rather scrawny teenage girl whose actual age, even if not complicated by time in Arcadia, would be hard to guess. Even she doesn't remember how old she is, not that it ever really occurs to her to wonder.


    She typically wanders around in rather ratty jeans, a black hoody and combat boots, all salvaged or stolen. Her neck, wrists and fingers are frequently covered in a wide, flashy, jangly array of bangles, chains, beads and other mismatched jewelry (unless, of course, she's trying to be "sneaky").


    Her hair and eyes are the features that mark her as unusual, even through her mask. To most eyes, her hair is cut rather choppily somewhere between her chin and shoulders. It is mostly black with streaks of white and occasionally a hinted flash of blue. Beneath the mask what was seen as hair is actually revealed to the careful eye to be a mass of feathers in black, white and blue. No matter how Lita is seen, she possesses the piercing, clever black eyes of her namesake.


 
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  • They always said the O'Malleys had saltwater in their veins. For centuries the family sailed from the village of Quilty in the West of Ireland, fishing for lobster, crab and mackerel, and it was aboard the family vessel that young Liam was born, in the early Autumn of 1933. The eldest of six brothers, Liam spent most of his childhood aboard the boat, learning from his father and grandfather and teaching his brothers in turn. His proudest moment, and one he held dear throughout his durance, was his grandfather declaring him fit to captain the Lady Ellen on his 21st birthday.


    The sea, they say is a cruel mistress, and those who make their living from her are never truly safe. In the early Autumn of 1956 a vicious storm struck Quilty just as the Lady Ellen was leaving port. Liam remembers little of the storm, other than the ferocious fight to keep his vessel afloat. He lost. The vessel was holed near Seal Rock and carried further out, carrying Liam, his father and two brothers to the depths. His last thought before the water took him was a heartfelt wish that he'd learned to swim.


    Liam awoke in a net, being hauled onto a ragged ship on a stormy ocean. The ship's first mate, a tall woman with black eyes and shark's teeth, cut him from the net herself and offered him a place in her crew, if he would pledge loyalty to the ship. Seeing no other choice Liam agreed, and as he offered up his pledge the ship's figurehead uttered a deep, eldritch laugh. The Cruel Mistress, as he later learned the ship was named, had claimed a new servant.


    His Durance lasted countless years, serving before the mast as a fisherman, pulling lost loves and broken dreams from the hungry ocean to feed the ever hungrier figurehead. As the years turned to decades, the bone chilling wind and salt spray became a part of him, and he rose to prominence among the Cruel Mistress' crew. As suddenly as it began, however, his Durance ended. A rope caught around his ankle as the ship made a sudden turn, and with no warning he was flung into the waves. The last thing he heard was the booming laughter of the figurehead.


    Strange things washing up in Shearport is hardly unheard of, and Liam wasn't even the first changeling to wake up on the stony beach. On January 14th 2003 Liam O'Malley returned from Arcadia, waking up just below the shoreline a mile south of Shearport. The local fishermen took him in, not entirely believing his story of being an unemployed fisherman looking for work, but not questioning it eaither. He soon found his place on the boats of Shearport, becoming a fixture of the local community. Although he recently retired from fishing to help other Lost find their feet in the B&B, he sees the fishermen of Shearport as his new family, and will defend them with his life.


    Appearance:


    Liam's Mask has the weathered, almost grizzled look of a man who has worked on a boat his whole life, and could be anywhere between 35 and 80. He plays up the role of old sea captain for the tourists, and leans toward very practical clothes even when working in the inn. Beneath the Mask, salt rimes his beard, grey/white hair is blown by an unseen wind and angry ocean swirls in the irises of his dark blue eyes.
 
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  • Reed Remington remembers his earlier days pretty well, as far as his kind go. Sometimes memories of a peaceful forest behind a shadowy manor get blurred together with a threatening woodland where blades of grass are made of sharp silver. Sometimes a dog he had as a child has seven eyes. Sometimes he’s playing hide-and-seek with his earliest friends, but instead of laughter when someone nearby is found and chased around the yard, it’s shrieking and the sound of jaws crunching bone.


    His earliest memory that wasn’t discernibly twisted is how he earned his nickname. Around five years old, Reed found a bright red coat of his father’s and put it on. The garment was big enough at the time to brush the ground like a cape, but Reed refused to give it up. From then on, he was known as Red.


    Red remembers a reasonably comfortable young life all the same. His parents had steady employment, and in the summers they visited his grandfather who was the richest man in Shearport, Maine. Grandfather didn’t spoil them all while he was alive; it was important to his parents for them to make their own way. But the boy was well taken care of. With both parents working, he became a reasonably self-sufficient latchkey child. As much as he enjoyed independence, however, his fondest memories were of his summer trips to his grandfather’s manor in Maine.


    Red’s last memories are vivid, too. Recollections of the last summer car ride up through the New England countryside. The bright moon high overhead. The trees growing taller and taller the farther they got from the last city. The road winding incessantly, turning the ride into a rocking back-and-forth rhythm of speeding up and slowing down. Despite the late hour, he was awake in the car. His mother hunched over the map with a book light while his father squinted for road signs, and Red was the first to see the huge, dark shape dart out into the road before the headlights fell on it. He remembered shouting a warning, and a darkness before the impact.


    When Red woke up, he was scraped and bruised and a little bloody, but nothing worse. An unfamiliar wet sound interspersed with crunches that made him shiver. The car’s headlights were still on, and Red looked up to see the Wolf tearing into a motionless form that he realized was wearing his father’s Sunday shirt. Nearby was a broken heap he more easily recognized as his mother; the Wolf hadn’t gotten to her yet. It was still preoccupied with the ropey things falling out of his father’s stomach.


    Fight or flight? He ran, stumbling off the road and into the woods. In a heartbeat there were heavy paws tearing into the dirt and grass behind him. Much, much too fast. But here the woods were thick, and grouped close together. Small Red barreled through the densest trees, heedless of branches and brambles that began to tear at his clothing. The closer together and the more painful the foliage, the more ground it gained him. He’s not sure when the thorns started to tear at his soul as well as his body. The boy managed to gain enough ground somehow to find a small cave or collection of rocks to hide in, but by then he was well and truly lost.





    Red hid in the small den for a day or two, his heart leaping into his throat at every sound and constricting in his chest whenever it was quiet enough for him to think of what he had seen. Emotion crushed down the restless clawing of hunger. But Red knew a little of what it was like to be on his own, and could recognize when no one was going to help him. Eventually, he left his shelter to find himself far from the world he knew.


    The last clear memory Red has of this time is removing his coat; even in this alien landscape, the red stood out bright as the sun. He tossed it away, and from then on the world lost the order of past and present, and became simplynow.


    Now he was learning the territory, and where the Wolf’s howls came from at night. Now finding some small animal he’d never seen before and cooking it over a fire that demanded he make a contract with it before it would help. Now realizing the fire attracted too much attention and trying to eat the next kill raw.


    Now finding the other wolves. Not the Wolf; not so big or scary. Some were like Him, a little; they still had voices and faces. Others were more like animals. One didn’t like Him, and when He got too close, it pounced. He kicked and bit and smashed it against the ground until it stopped moving. The others let Him into the den, and He pulled off the fallen wolf’s skin and wrapped it around his shoulders. Now running with them, chasing down bigger things than He could kill alone. Now enjoying the spoils, but only in the proper order; the biggest ate first. But when they heard the Howl in the dark, even the biggest of them ran. Sometimes the Wolf found them. When they scattered and met later, often one or two were missing. There was nothing but to run and hide.


    Day after night. Season after season. Now.


    Now facing down the leader for some sleight, or maybe just because He wanted to. No words decided it; they barked and snapped and snarled, until one flinched and the other pounced. The big one’s friend harried Him from behind, until He turned and tore its throat out. When the big one went down, he gave up instead of face the same. Now He ate first.


    Now bringing down the biggest thing they had ever chased; they had no words for it, but they had no words for anything. It had more legs than they did, and horns, and that made it prey. The dead of winter was cold, and the meat and warm and the red gave color to the white snow and black trees. But something else red caught His eye through the forest. Something stirred in Him at the sight, and He headed away from the pack to follow it.


    Hanging from a branch, blowing in the cold wind, it was ragged and harshly beaten by the weather. But it was brighter than the blood on the snow. An old red coa. No familiar smells clung to it, but the sight made something within struggle, desperately clawing like a penned animal. He looked back to the kill; His pack waited for Him to return and eat His fill of the feast. None of them felt the same inner stirring; it was plain in their eyes.


    Red blood. Red cloth. Red.


    A fragment of His mind clawed its way out of the place it had been buried and shouted the word. The name. He forced himself to stand and cast off the wolf skin, exposing himself to the cold. Instead he took the coat and wrapped it around himself, and he ran Back.





    Red stumbled out of the forest in the shadow of Remington Manor just a few weeks ago, confused and frightened and unable to say where he had been for the past nine years. He returned to the world to find himself alone. His grandfather had died several years prior, and the boy had no other close relatives. However, he was old enough to live on his own now, and to inherit his grandfather’s fortune in the form of property and a comfortable trust fund. The Remington family practically founded Shearport, and although its influence is much more moderate these days, Red found himself in possession of the family mansion as well as technically owning several businesses. Among the estate is a substantial share in an inn which was where Red met the first of his own kind he had ever seen outside of Arcadia.


    Red is a fledgling member of the local Autumn Court. His interests in Shearport have been mirrored by an interest in the court structure of Changeling society. Though he hasn’t seen much yet, he knows enough to think certain talents could carry him far…





    Both with and without the Mask, Red is disarmingly handsome. Mortal eyes see him as a tall, athletic young man with a perpetual scruff to him. Even if he shaves frequently, he’s back to a distinct stubble within a day. Red’s hair is thick and black, and his eyes are a sharp amber bordering on orange. Even mortal eyes can perceive the predatory air about him; his teeth are a little too sharp, his mouth a little too wide, his eyes not quite the right shade to be called brown. But the mixture of familiar and exotic combines into a distinct allure that’s at its best when he smiles that wide smile and his eyes gleam like gold.


    Beneath the Mask, it’s clearer what Red is: a hunter. His angular features are wolfish and his hair is just thick enough it might be the start of a pelt. Teeth and nails are sharp enough to draw blood with ease. his ears are distinctly pointed, and his nose is just a little bit more like a snout. Even then, he has just the right mixture of handsome prince and alluring beast.


    Red tends to dress casually, often in jeans and shoes good for running. He’s rarely seen without his red coat, however. To mortals, it’s a somewhat tattered but vibrant long jacket, ragged around the hem. It’s light enough to be worn in most weather without trouble, and on cold days he pulls the hood up. Ensorcelled eyes find the jacket no brighter red, but sometimes it seemed to run with blood from a spot on the back, or shoulder, or arm, distinguishable only because it darkens the bright fabric.
 
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Name; Sage


Gender; Female


Age; approximately 68


Seeming; Darkling


Kith; Antiquarian


Appearance;


Sage is, in her Mask, a dainty elderly lady. Standing at five and a half feet tall, she is petite, and extremely wrinkled in the way only someone who has laughed quite a bit can be. Her grey hair is short; kept curled in a style reminiscent of the 1950s. She speaks with a slight accent, indicating she may be originally from north of the border. Sage believes in sensible shoes, and always carrying a long umbrella, just in case.


Her Mien looks older, more unnatural; faint thin cracks cover china skin, with thin wisps of dusty cobwebs flowing from the head. The scents of mothballs and furniture polish. Only her eyes remain unchanged.


Background;


-the fleeting things-


Sage remembers certain, little things. She remembers a long porch and a rocking chair. The forest. Mama had long black hair, and Daddy wore a nice coat. She remembers deep snow...having to wear big boots to walk to school.


But these are only snatches of things; the rest has been eroded away. The last clear memory of that time is the music box, and the long, white fingers holding it.


-during-


Where is....


How long have I been here for...?


...what was I thinking just now...?


...white fingers...


The white fingers are important.


White fingers held the music box.


The man with the round glasses has white fingers....


Maybe he knows where my music box went.


He's looking at me again.


He must know where it is...I'm sure he gave it to me.


Why can't I speak to him?


I need to ask him things.


...glass....glass all around...


**tap**taptaptap**


"Do you remember your numbers, little doll? Here, start in this room."


-time always passes-


Sage counted, and listed, and counted and listed. Then waited. He would bring her to another room, and she would repeat the process. Again and again. Counting endless collections of endless objects.


One room held a tall dresser full of music boxes. She held the first one for a long time before opening it. As it tinkled into life she remembered deep snow. Mama had long black hair, and Daddy wore a nice coat.


For the first time she noticed the spiders in her hair, and how her fingers clinked softly against each other. She noticed she was alone. Checking the hallway, she saw it was empty. Room, after room of baubles; all of them empty. She found herself standing in front of a door bigger than all the others, moonlight shining through the stained glass. It was unlocked.


Beyond the door lay a silent garden, lit by small hanging lanterns, with a forest in the distance. She started walking.


-solid things to hold on to-


Sage found herself on the streets of Montreal, having emerged from a public park, the forest behind her gone. She was lucky enough to be very literally scooped up the next morning by an Ogre who worked at the welcome centre. He brought her to a local Freehold where she was allowed live under the stairs until she got used to being around people again.


Then they put her to work to earn her keep. Her durance made her very good at organising, and finding lost things. When she could remember her parent's names she went looking for them, but seemingly they had moved away, and taken something with them in her place.


-and now-


Shearport has been her home now for about ten years. Its a small, caring Changeling community, with attitudes of inclusion and responsibility that appealed to Sage greatly. She was never really a city girl after all.


She runs a small craft store featuring local, handmade arts and crafts, with a small selection of books on local history, photography and folklore. And some other items in a back room, if you know what to ask for.


Some years back she invested in the Black Lantern, and can always be counted on for taking night shifts there. After all; it is her favourite time of the day.
 
Local Hedge Gates





There's a small wooden pavilion in the garden behind the Black Lantern B&B. One of the arches there can be used as a Hedge gate. You need to cover your eyes with a bit of the ivy which grows on it and then step through whistling.


Down by the docks, if you put a penny in the heel of each shoe and jump off the end of the old pier, you'll splash....and surface in a small pond in the Hedge. This is a one way gate, mind.


When the last streetlight on the western end of town is lit, if you keep one hand on the pole and walk around it three times anti-clockwise and then jump into the shadows, you'll land in the Hedge. Using this gate to come back out of the Hedge is tricky, it requires some source of light to create a shadow to jump through.
 
Seeming; Darkling


Kith; Antiquarian


Court; Autumn


Blessing; A point of glamour to increase wits, subterfuge, stealth.


Curse; -1 to enact contracts during daytime, -2 in direct daylight.


Kith benefit; 9 again on academics, investigation. A point of glamour to gain Encyclopedic Knowledge for a single question.


Virtue; Wise


Vice; Ageist


Attributes


Intelligence; 3


Wits; 3


Resolve; 2


Strength; 2


Dexterity; 2


Stamina; 2


Presence; 2


Manipulation; 3


Composure; 3


Abilities


Academics; 3 (history) (9 again - blessing)


Crafts; 1


Investigation; 3 (hidden objects) (9 again - blessing)


Medicine; 1


Occult; 3 (the Hedge)


Athletics; 2


Stealth; 2 (unobtrusive) (9 again - blessing)


Empathy; 2


Expression; 1


Persuasion; 1


Socialise; 1


Subterfuge; 2


Contracts

Dream


*Pathfinder; allows the Changeling to divine the nature of the Hedge in a certain area. Locate Hollows, trods, paths to and from Faerie, Goblin fruits, etc.

Cost; 1 glamour


Dicepool; intelligence+wyrd (instant)


Catch; the Changeling must have plucked a thorn from the local Hedge and shed a drop of blood while doing so within the last day.

Smoke


*The Wrong Foot; allows the Changeling to change the nature of the marks they leave behind in passing.

Cost; 1 glamour


Dicepool; no roll necessary (instant)


Catch; The Changeling licks his thumb and smudges it on a mirror.

**Nevertread; the Changeling leaves no trace of his passage.

Cost; 1 glamour


Dicepool; intelligence+wyrd (instant)


Catch; The Changeling must have spent at least an hour barefoot in the past day.

Darkness


*Creeping Dread; this causes the target to become more susceptible to fear or intimidation.

Cost; 1 glamour/2 glamour + 1 willpower


Dicepool; manipulation+wyrd- target's resolve (instant)


Catch; The Changeling is using this contract to frighten intruders into her dwelling.

**Night's Subtle Distractions; this allows the Changeling to avoid notice by enhancing physical conditions that limit perception.

Cost; 1 glamour


Dicepool; stealth+wyrd (instant)


Catch; the contract is invoked outdoors and at night.

Merits


Hollow; 3 (1 each in size, amenities and wards)


Resources; 3


Court Mantle; 1 (Autumn)


Clarity; 6


Wyrd; 2


Size; 5


Health; 7


Willpower; 5


Defense; 2


Initiative Mod; 5


Speed; 9
 
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Experience- 4


In - 25


20 exp; starting


5 exp; for -1 Clarity


Out - 21


2 exp; hollow size 1


2 exp; hollow amenities 1


2 exp; hollow wards 1


15 exp; manipulation 3
 

Pledge of Protectorate


Mortal Emblem: This pledge is sworn on Lucas' badge, and if he breaks his word, he will lose all authority based on his status as a park ranger.


Greater Endeavour (-3) : Lucas swears to patrol the forests and protect the town. He might be honestly bested or tricked without breaking his oath, but if he ever abandons or shirks his duty, he done fucked up.


Boon, Adroitness (+1, x3, +3) : So long as he protects the town, Lucas is empowered to do so, gaining a +1 bonus on rolls using Survival, Investigation and Brawl.


Blessing (+1) : So long as he holds to his oath, Fate accords him the role of protector, and effectively grants him an extra dot of Status: Pork Ringer.


Poisoning of the Boon (-1, x3, -3) : However, if he shirks or abandons the town, or brings harm instead of safety, Fate will curse him and render him toothless, giving him a -1 on uses of those three Skills for the rest of the duration of his oath.


Duration, Season (+2) :Lucas reaffirms his oath with each turning of the season. Should he want out of the oath, he's probably going to have to wait a couple of months.
 
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