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A Glimpse From the College of Mages

In the lull between bells, the campus walks were deserted and their scent trails stale, the pupils all in their classes this late morning. They worked them hard at the College of Mages, and no student would have a break until after a lunch of bread and fishy oil and the moments they could snatch for chatting, flirtation, naps, or mischief, before they were forced to plod on to other debates in other classrooms.

The sunlight was weak in this place, a thin draught of heat unlike the fierce burn of home, particularly in late winter. The Sphinx lay on a stone slab outside the Hall of Instruction, wishing for the comfortable give of sand and listening to the voices from inside: an instructor teaching her first year pupils about the Lists.

The Sphinx combed her hair with a paw. Black strands, dull from infrequent brushing, had fallen in front of her face — discolored claws slid through them, dirt-darkened to a matching color. A fly crawled across her tawny flank, and her limber tail swatted it away as she listened.

“How do we know,” a student asked. “What is Beast and what is Man?”

The instructor’s voice was mild, although she had answered this question before at the lecture’s beginning. “The races that are Human and the races that are Beasts are set forth in the Lists.”

“What if the listmakers were wrong?” a student asked. There was brief, shocked silence at the words before the instructor said “We do not believe that they were wrong.”

The words’ quiet conviction made her hackles rise, the fine fur at the nape of her neck, where it shaded between hair and mane, bristle. Irked and restless, she rose, abandoning her puddle of sunlight to move along the gravel paths of the College, in and out of the pine and cedar shadows.

An itch between the pads of her paws, furry grooves full of sensitive hairs, told her that somewhere in the crypts below the college, Carolus was teaching a class on summoning ghosts. There was electricity and regret in the air, and spiritual energy stirred on the breeze, pulled here and there by forces of attraction and repulsion.

A wiggle of ectoplasm circled her ear, an incipient ghost trying to figure out whether or not it wanted to be born. Another flick of her tufted tail, as big as a fat feast carp, dispelled it back into shredded wisps, and it did not reform as she passed out of range.

She patrolled along the high iron fence that kept the townsfolk out and the students in, intricate ironwork that held containment sigils, woven together so thick and strong that passing through the gates felt like sliding through velvet and steel curtains, heavy weights catching at her. She resisted their impediment to pause outside, surveying the street.

Only one passerby paid her much attention ““ some northerner newly come to town, country dust still thick on him and his eyes wide with wonder at the city’s nature as it unfolded strange thing after strange thing. Including her, who he eyed with trepidation as he moved along the street. He was a mouse, a boy who would snap beneath one pounce.

She watched him with her wide golden eyes, knowing their unnerving nature. Outside the city, Beasts were more dangerous ““ her uncanny fellows stalked the humans through the wilderness, and claimed hundreds each year, but she had become Civilized in her role as the doyenne of the College of Mages. She was legendary to the students — generations had tried to evade her detection when sneaking in or out of the grounds. Though she was forbidden to harm them, they acted as though she would. As though she was still dangerous.

Perhaps she was.

#sfwapro

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Clans in a Roleplaying World

by Cat Rambo (Sanvean of Armageddon and Krrx
This article originally appeared in the March 2000 issue of Imaginary Realities.

Lately, I have been contemplating how clans fit into role playing muds–particularly in getting players acclimated to the mud and helping them survive in that environment. The following conversation takes place between myself and a staff member of Armageddon mud who revamped a defunct clan, the T’zai Byn, and transformed it into an active and well-loved clan. The Byn is perhaps one of the best clans for new players, as well as an experience praised by the vast majority of its participants. (This is the first of three musings on the nature of clans, and what being in/running one means to a player/immortal, with the second discussing a cultural clan, where players begin the game having been born into the clan, and the third outlining some conclusions and problems with clans on role playing muds.)

Sanvean: First off, why were you interested in reviving the Byn, and what sort of clan did you want it to be?

Krrx: Probably the key thing is that I have a passion for the concept. It started when I played in the T’zai Byn a few years ago. I enjoyed playing in a fighting unit where you and your comrades faced death regularly, and had to work together to survive. While I have had very enjoyable times in other clans, I would still rate the Byn as the highlight.

Sanvean: What was the first step in getting them restarted?

Krrx: I outlined what the clan would be–what role and ‘flavor’ it would have. Of course, this was all documented. As the concept developed, the documentation changed. The documents today are quite different from how they were at first. I had ideas about what I wanted the clan to be like, but they didn’t ‘fit in’ as well as they could have with the game world. Nessalin had a big influence on how the clan turned out. The Byn are a lot more low class than I first planned, and the documents reflect that.

Sanvean: How did Nessalin change your intentions?

Krrx: My original vision was of an elite mercenary unit, with a lot of ‘high class’ things. Nessalin encouraged me towards a low class, gritty, down-and-dirty vision of the clan, which fit in better with Armageddon’s overall flavor.

Sanvean: As I recall, you were worried at first that they would not take off.

Krrx: Yes. When restarting the clan, it struck me that to achieve its goals effectively, the clan would have to have strict rules, and that people might not be able to handle it. One example is the regulation where members are not allowed into the ‘rinth, and are not allowed to leave Allanak unless certain criteria are met. The ‘rinth and the wilderness are two areas where a lot of new player characters die, because they insist on wandering in dangerous places alone. It thus makes sense, both in character and out of character, to have rules that limit going to those places.

Sanvean: Speaking of rules, one of the things you have done very well is making the Byn self-regulating. Did you plan on that?

Krrx: To an extent, yes. There are two points here. The first is that I have recruited clan leaders very, very carefully. The second is that because they are trustworthy players, they will help enforce the rules anyway.

Sanvean: When you are looking for players who will make good player character leaders, what do you look for, then?

Krrx: The key things I look for are: (1) out of character trustworthiness, (2) a very high standard of role playing, and (3) regular playing. Of course, it must be appropriate in character that the player character move into leadership. I can elaborate on those points if you like.

Sanvean: Please do!

Krrx: First, out of character trustworthiness. I have put a lot of work into this clan, and I will not put in leadership anyone who does not respect the work I put in, and is not willing to do likewise themselves. Another reason for this criterion is because I am not on-line 24 hours a day. If something happens, I need an honest, trustworthy viewpoint to rely on.

Sanvean: How do you know you can trust them?

Krrx: Trust is not something that can be guaranteed, but I do my best to screen players. I look at past player characters that the player has played. I chat to other staff members about them, particularly if the player played a player character in their clan. If someone is trustworthy, they tend to show it in the way they play the game.

Onto the second point–a very high standard of role playing. Armageddon is a role play intensive mud, with a very high overall standard of role playing. While many players entering the clan do not have this standard, it is a requirement for leadership. If people see leaders role playing well, they will tend to do likewise.

Sanvean: Good role playing seems to mean different things to different people. What is your definition?

Krrx: Good role playing? Thinking and acting in character. Immersing yourself in the role of your player character, and not just playing it like a robot in some shoot-em-up.

Onto the third point–regular playing. This does not mean leaders have to play Armageddon for 6 hours every day. I do, however, expect them to appear in the game fairly regularly. You can not lead if you are not around to lead. Common sense, really.

To sum up, one theme is that I have set limitations on the clan, with the idea that playing within those limitations actually gives players more freedom. It is why we have the law in real life. The law prevents idiots from ruining life for the rest of us. At face value, the law seems restrictive–you are not allowed to drive if you have drunk too much alcohol, for instance. But it is restrictive because: (1) it is logical and sensible, and (2) it protects the greater good–people generally do not like to get killed by drunk drivers.

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Teaser: Final Excerpt from The Crow's Murder

Abstract Image for IllustrationI finished a first draft of a new story, tentatively entitled The Crow’s Murder, today. It clocked in at 8300 words, which is technically a novelette, but I’ll probably trim enough to bring it down to official short story length, 7,500. I’m pleased with it, but there’s an angle that may let to WTFery on my writing group’s part when I run it past them. One thing I’ve done over the course of the past few days is track the progress of the story by taking pictures of early notes and saving snapshots of it from day to day. I’ll be using that in the Writing Fantasy and Science Fiction class and then looking at the story again when we get to the section on rewriting and revising.

So here it is. I hope it tantalizes you to read the rest!

I wheel the Colonel out into the day. He can walk, but prefers the dignity and slowness of the chair, in spite of its awkwardness, to having to struggle for every step. Dr. Larch will not let him have his artificial leg except when there are visitors. Otherwise it stays in the cabinet in the supplies room, along with all the rest, locked up so the patients can’t break or wear them down.

It’s just as well. Two days ago, when he surrendered it to me after a visit from his niece, the Col. said, “I knew every man of the three who owned this before me.” He slapped the brass surface. “And some fella will get it after me. Maybe someone I know, maybe someone I don’t. Do you think that ghosts linger around the objects they leave behind, the ones that accompanied them day by day? Because if so, I wouldn’t be surprised if there weren’t three ghosts riding this one.”

I didn’t answer and he didn’t expect me to. He knows my vocal cords were seared away in the same war that’s stole his leg, the same war that’s furnished most of the inhabitants of this asylum. Broken soldiers, minds and bodies ground-up by its terrible machines.

It used to be an injury was enough to get you out. Now if they can, they turn you into a clank, half human, half machine, and send you back to the lines. Nowadays we receive only the men who cannot be repaired, and here they sit or lie in their beds, waiting to die a slower death than the war would have given them, waited on by orderlies like me, other broken men who can function enough to pretend to work.

If you want to read the rest of the story, you can get it, along with at least six other stories, at the end of July by signing up to sponsor me in the Clarion West Write-a-thon. Even a small donation entitles you to the stories, so please do sign up!

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