↠ world | the deal is rigged

[larue]

THE UNDERTOW

a handful of dust

PREMISE

WE BEGIN AT THE END.

Every ghost story is, at its core, a tragedy: Someone died with something unfinished, and now they linger on, in the world but ignored by it, trying with the often-limited tools at their disposal to make the living understand them.

Sometimes, when that doesn’t work, they lash out in frustration, just so that people notice something is going on, but no matter how frightening the apparition, how violent the manifestation, there’s still a human being at the core of it.

Sin-Eaters understand this. They live in two worlds: the world of the living and the world of the dead. As they struggle to understand their own identity and the cultural heritage of Sin-Eaters who came before, they act as intercessors and speakers for the dead.

They help ghosts finish their unfinished business and laying tormented souls to rest. They come into a haunting and see not the monster making the walls bleed and lashing out at the living, but the frightened father who just wants his child back.

NAVIGATION

THE WORLD THE BOUND THE COLD BELOW CAST & KREWE CASE FILES JOSH LARUE

CREDIT | Geist: The Sin-Eaters is a tabletop rulebook from the World of Darkness system. I do not own it, I just enjoy playing in the world. Copy from the rulebook utilized for this is mostly for my reference and the reference of fellow players.

Comments

[larue]

WHERE THE SHADOWS GROW LONG

There are no such things as monsters. But the truth is, there are. And they live—quite comfortably—among us. Some stalk the night and the clubs, offering the kiss of immortality to those eager for the next high. Others serve and protect, leaning into rigid hierarchies that keep their beast in check; where they police themselves and their own. Others woo humans past a hedge maze that has traded walls of leaves of the labyrinth of subways and underpasses. They leave something else behind, of course. In a world of instant messaging, data, and GPS, it's in their best interests to leave counterfeit goods to cover their tracks. It's a very human need to explain everything away, so the monsters use that to their advantage.

The Only Rule: Whatever you do, don't spook the sheep. This universe is a dark mirror of our own. Where science and tech sits comfortably beside magic; where the wolves sleep and eat among unsuspecting sheep. A new age comes with newer ways to set up smoke and mirrors: patents to shield miraculous break-throughs. Non-disclosure agreements to silence the few who manage a peek behind the curtain. And, of course, that ever-widening gap between the filthy rich and everyone else. If there is one rule that the multitude of supernatural factions agree on without actually speaking, it is this: We don't spook the sheep. The oldest ones in existence know what happens when you let humans know that they have monsters living in their midst and it's never good for survival. They still outnumber us, after all.

A Love Note from the Player I don't have actual castmates and it's hard to schedule a proper table, so the information I've cobbled together here was frankly so that I could play Josh with other folks. And since the rulebooks of the universe that Josh's supernatural template is from are long, exhaustive and not everyone has the patience (or access) to read them, I decided I wanted to put together the equivalent of flash cards. Some of the more expansive sections (the Underworld, the Kerberoi) are lifted directly from the books with some minor paraphrasing. Everything else is pretty much open to interpretation. I'm taking the bare bones of what I need and discarding the rest.

[ BACK TO TOP ]

[larue]

TELL TOLD ME I WAS ONLY BURDEN-BOUND

The dead are all around us. They walk beside us on the streets, reach out to us with invisible hands, shout their needs with voices we don’t hear. We turn away from the very thought of them, mumbling platitudes like “he’s in a better place” or “she’s at peace now.” He’s not. She isn’t. He’s here, among us, trying desperately to make sure his children are looked after. She’s trapped in an endless labyrinth of gray stone, slowly leeching away into nothingness while the man who stole her life’s research goes unpunished. And so, when a grinning stranger with pale eyes and a broken-winged angel on his shoulder blows into town, they turn to him for help. The dead are speaking. It’s time to listen.

The Road Back "Death is a door. If you step out, who says you can't walk back in?" — overheard at ᴛʜᴇ ᴇxɪᴛ People think they know what that world looks like, or what they’ll look like in that world. They do what they believe they must to guarantee a place in that world for themselves, and try to teach others to do the same. Some don’t expect a world after this one, and find other ways to occupy their time. People leave one another alone about it, or they don’t. But no matter what people believe, it's rare that they imagine cheating mortality the way their ancestors did. If they believe in anything other than the finality of death, they believe that it comes to us the same way death does, in a crawling marquee. They don’t outsmart or defeat death. They meet it as it comes, and prepare for whatever they believe comes next. In this universe, reality falls somewhere in the middle. There are ways to claim immortality without dying first—but the Bound don’t concern themselves with those. Death is inevitable. But it's not a freefall into the dark. It’s not the passive reception of an eternal gift. For the Bound, like Josh, death comes with a choice.

The Endless Carnival For as long as Sin-Eaters have recorded their own history, their societies have followed the same pattern. Arise in the wake of a massive uptick in deaths, then fade as the tragedy that birthed them does. Some lasted mere decades, others a century or more. Most of these societies were geographically isolated, though that had more to do with fewer travel opportunities for ancient peoples than anything mystical. Sin-Eater society got its first taste of globalism with the age of colonialism, when Europeans brought disease and slaughter to the rest of the planet, but it wasn’t until World War I and the influenza epidemic that followed it that the Bound really began to see themselves as a worldwide phenomenon. Easy transoceanic communication and travel allowed for Sin-Eaters from New Orleans to New Zealand to exchange ideas and share practices—and just when that wave of Bound might have started to die off, World War II kicked off and started the whole cycle again. Since World War II, Mourner krewes have noticed a curious thing: That old limit on the Bargain no longer seems to apply. Optimists say that the sheer weight of human population has reached the point that even the normal daily mortality rate across the globe creates enough death resonance to fulfill the Bargain. Pessimists say the Underworld is gaining power and will soon swallow the world of the living just like it swallows the dead. And the cynics just point to the near-constant brushfire wars, police brutality, and hate crimes the world over with a “what did you expect?” shrug.

ᴛʜᴇ ᴇxɪᴛ "Thing is, you always expect the bartender to be where he is, 24/7. Things get interesting when the bartender flips the mat over, tells everyone it's closing time, and goes out back for a smoke." — overheard at ᴛʜᴇ ᴇxɪᴛ If you number among the restless dead, welcome to the in-between before the Hereafter. Since you're still finding your legs, here's a tip for you: If you have nowhere else to go, there's always The Exit. Manned by Jack's Lantern (or his people when he's not around), the bistro-by-day, occasional-club-by-night keeps the lights on and it's doors open for all types. There's always a seat; and someone who's ready to listen with your first drink on the house. The Dead are welcome to stay as long as they'd like, and for the Living, well; they invested in enough couches for sleeping. Hopefully when you're done, you walk out with a little less baggage to take with you as you pass on. ᴛʜᴇ ᴇxɪᴛ started out as a simple concept: everyone needs a bartender—yes, even the dead. While the venture began out of a practical need (a steady cash flow, a top floor to kick back and rest), Josh knew it was only a matter of time before word got around. People talk; ghosts are no different.

[ BACK TO TOP ]

[larue]

THE LANDS OF THE DEAD

A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, And the dry stone no sound of water. And I will show you something different from either Your shadow at morning striding behind you Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; I will show you fear in a handful of dust. —The Waste Land, T.S. ELIOT

The Gates "Death is a door. If you step out, who says you can't walk back in?" — overheard at ᴛʜᴇ ᴇxɪᴛ Morgues. Graveyards. Crossroads. Battlefields. Once you can see them, Avernian Gates are almost impossible to avoid. Anywhere that death has marked as its own births one, standing silent and dripping with phantasmal water just out of mortal sight. A Gate forms without pomp or circumstance—even if keenly watched for, it appears between blinks, between frames of video, standing as though it always had, already weathered and seemingly ancient. A cold dampness pervades the area around them, clinging to every surface. Every so often, the living notice it on the subconscious level, shivering at the presence of a chill they cannot feel. Normally, the Gates stand closed, though the presence of a ghost without any Anchors always causes an Avernian Gate to open, to draw the unfortunate through. Crossing Over Avernian Gates stand locked for most of their existence, grim monuments to the fate that awaits all who live. Each Gate has a key, however, and this key may or may not be a physical object. One Gate opens to any who hold a certain worn, ceramic doll with an uncanny stare—which vanishes as one passes through, always seeming to find its way back to the same empty nursery. Another Gate opens in the presence of tears. A third, to the final lines of T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land. Avernian Gates always open for Reapers, or for their Deathmasks, allowing them free passage to carry on their dread work. The Bound, and Sin-Eaters in particular, only seldom realize what that means: that Avernian Gates can be opened without the presence of their key. In other words, the Gate may be locked, but any lock can be picked.

The Upper Reaches "We all go to the same place, eventually." — overheard at ᴛʜᴇ ᴇxɪᴛ THE UPPER REACHES resemble whatever is underground relative to the location of the Gate. When the Gate of a cemetery opens, as so many do, the Depths resemble catacombs; if the dead enter the Depths through a city, they are subway tunnels. Wilderness Gates lead to deep caverns, and deaths at sea lead to sandy dunes without a sky or cramped, rusted submarine quarters. No mourners ever descend to pay their respects, no trains ever come, and no submariners man the vessel—the Reaches resemble an out-of-the-way portion of their locale, such as maintenance sections of the subway or a cavern walkway far separated from the lighted, well-trodden path. But every tunnel slopes down—some have a sheer vertical drop requiring aid to safely traverse, while others boast a polished and grand flight of stairs. The thin streams of water moving through always let the travelers know they’re heading deeper, though. The living are not the only things that die. Valued knick-knacks, treasured possessions, even real estate prized by a community: They all burn, decay, and are lost.

The Rivers "There's always a toll." "You mean like coins over the eyes?" "Something like that. Coins work. But some boatmen ask for other things too." — overheard at ᴛʜᴇ ᴇxɪᴛ THE RIVERS OF DEATH are the heart of the Underworld, and they touch every point. Bridges cross over the Rivers all the time, but they only ever lead to other tunnels within the Upper Reaches or various River cities. To travel the Underworld, one must sail the Rivers. Some of the Rivers’ banks are fetid and greasy charred flesh, others pristine dark sand, still others are bleached bone. If their riverbanks are strange, the Rivers themselves are stranger: some are composed of insects floating amid the brackish waters, others are clogged with bone dust, and some have sap or gold coins floating within. Drinking from the Rivers can confer great power, but eating or drinking the stuff of the Underworld is perilous in nearly every culture’s mythology. Boatmen pole craft about the waters, willing to accept payment for crossing. Their appearances vary—many conform to the stereotype of the old man with a barnacle-encysted poleboat and lantern, but others are winged demons dragging shells on fiery chains, while others are “travel agents” for the dead, all smiles and crisp white suits. They ferry passengers down the Rivers...and back up, for a price.

The Dominions "Abandon all hope." — Dante Alighieri "I fucked up, Josh." — overheard at ᴛʜᴇ ᴇxɪᴛ THE DEAD DOMINIONS found below the Rivers are 1,000 broken kingdoms, ruled by ancient ghosts, feudal overlords to those forced here in exile from the Depths. Their borders are often unclear and undefined, but each is watched over by a Kerberos, a being empowered to enforce the strange and Byzantine laws that suffuse these realms and keep them whole. Each Dominion has a gate, seemingly ancient. Each gate has a Guardian, a ghost who greets travelers and informs them of the Old Laws by which each Domain is ruled. The farther along the Rivers one sails, the longer and stranger the Laws become. “You must eat and drink what is offered to you” seems simple enough, but soon it becomes “Do not speak to a shade unless commanded to” and “Let no slight pass unchallenged with blood and steel.” Stepping into the Dead Dominions means placing yourself in subject to those Laws. Break them, and you face the wrath of the Kerberoi. Dominions come and go with the passage of time. Some are impossibly ancient, inhabited by ghosts who claim to remember the mammoth. Others are decidedly modern, gleaming obsidian skyscrapers with no bottom to them and skyways connecting the gaps. But as with all things—nothing lasts.

The Ocean of Fragments "I'm telling you. It's Inception-level shit down there." — overheard at ᴛʜᴇ ᴇxɪᴛ THE OCEAN OF FRAGMENTS—All Rivers stream to the Ocean, yet the Ocean is never full. Many cultures hold that the world began with an endless ocean. Very few know that is how it ends. The Ocean of Fragments has all the hallmarks of a Dominion—a Kerberos, Old Laws—but it is more ancient by far than any other, appearing in the oldest, most hallowed texts of the Bound. Sail the Rivers long enough and you’ll hear the lapping of ebony waves upon the Black Beach; see the lonely fire of the Hermit who lives on the sands. The brackish water of the Rivers gives way to salt and sadness, for the Ocean is, by all accounts, made of tears. No structures sit upon the Black Beach; no dead warlords lay claim to it. Only the forlorn sit upon those shores, and only for as long as it takes them to screw up their courage and wade into the Ocean. Nothing survives the waters, though breath comes easy. Instead of bubbles trickling up to a surface, identifiers of the individual break off like tiny pearls and pieces of driftwood to spiral into the endless sea. Small things at first, like “I am the Third Grade Spelling Bee Champion of Elderbrook Elementary” or “I am a lover of cheesy television shows meant for children.” Then other things break off — “I am an accountant,” “I am a writer,” “I am a Muslim,” “I am a mother”—until they only thing left is “I am.”

[ BACK TO TOP ]