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White Wolf's World of Darkness

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Omicron said:
it's the process of becoming one that I wouldn't take in a lifetime.
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People seem to always forget that you can become a Changeling without "Always Angst, All The Time".
Pretty much any "You are taken away to a world of _____" story can result in a Changeling.
Including stuff like Doctor Who, Peter Pan, and Narnia.

You can even become a Changeling by accidently wandering into the Hedge, getting lost, and wandering out a few hours later to discover that several months have passed.
 
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Sydonai said:
People seem to always forget that you can become a Changeling without "Always Angst, All The Time".
Pretty much any "You are taken away to a world of _____" story can result in a Changeling, including stuff like Doctor Who.
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Being an ex-companion makes you a Loyalist. :V

(Plus, the fact you consider "actually following the themes of the game" to be "Always Angst, All The Time" speaks 'well' of you. The True Fae are bastards. And if they're being nice to you, they're doing it because that's what they want to be - for now - not because they actually care about how you feel)
 
Sydonai said:
Magic Knight Rayearth also fits as a Changeling backstory, as does Land of the Lost.
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Yes.

And when you walk out of the hedge after being a magical adventurer girl or time challenging explorer suddenly all that horror and madness the Hedge prevented you from experiencing happens all at once. Remember, Morality sins in the hedge only occur after you leave. So come with me and have magical adventures (and pay later).

Like, the girls in MKR were child soldiers drafted into a bloody war where they were routinely almost killed and had to kill multiple people. You don't walk out of that and have a happy life, you have severe PTSD at the least and probably massive trauma. The same is true of Land of the Lost, with them suddenly experiencing years or even decades of intense isolation, constant struggle for survival and other traumas all at once.

Going off the Fairieland is always appealing... while you're in Fairieland. Once you come back, well... its not so appealing anymore.
 
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For the longest time I've thought I'd love to be a mage, Obrimos specifically. All the worlds mysteries at your fingertips just waiting to be solved? Sign. Me. The. Fuck. Up. The power is just the icing on the cake.

Lately however I've found that Beast touches me in a way that no other gameline has. Rationally speaking I'd love to be a mage but deep in my heart of hearts I can't deny that being fear incarnate sounds wonderful in a way that I can't really describe.
 
EarthScorpion said:
Being an ex-companion makes you a Loyalist. :V

(Plus, the fact you consider "actually following the themes of the game" to be "Always Angst, All The Time" speaks 'well' of you. The True Fae are bastards. And if they're being nice to you, they're doing it because that's what they want to be - for now - not because they actually care about how you feel)
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We all know that the Doctor is an asshole. The Zygons know he's an asshole, the Cybermen know that he's an asshole. The Daleks know that he's an asshole. But what are you gonna do? I mean, you could join the Daleks, I guess, but that really wouldn't end well for you.
 
If I absolutely had to be one of the supernatural creatures in NWoD, I would prefer to be a Sin-Eater, but that's probably because I'm a lazy fuck and the Sin-Eater powers are so broad that I can do anything with them.

Otherwise: Purified, sign me up.
 
Sydonai said:
The point I was making is that you don't have to get kidnapped and tortured for decades to become a Changeling, but people like to pretend that's the only way.
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Well, that depends on how you define 'kidnapped'. Not all of the True Fae are going to appear as literal hunters dragging you off. Some Fae are going to appear as a magical land of wonders that lure you in and steal your life, bit by bit by bit.
 
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There Once Was a Scholar
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    • Omicron said:
    Durance is not always violent, but it's always traumatic.
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    There once was a scholar, who knew many things.
    He lived in a house on a hill, where he sat in his garden and filled the day with books.
    He knew of Redcaps and Brownies, Nixies and Pixies, Kelpies and Gentry.
    He knew all these things and more, for he had lived a very long time.
    But one thing he did not know was the hour of his death.
    This worried him, for he could feel it coming closer upon him with each setting of the sun.
    So he turned to what he did know, to delay that which he did not.
    Would that he had known less, for he sought the Fae and, fool that he was, he found one.
    "Why have you come to me, mortal?" the Gentleman asked, its voice a river without a bottom.
    "Because I would strike a bargain with you," the Scholar replied, touching iron as he did so.
    And they argued back and forth, he and he, for the Fae was old and wise in such dealings, but while the mortal was not so old as that, he was yet wise.
    This, then, was the deal they struck together:
    Each night for a cycle of the moon and one day, the Scholar would go to that place and tell the Gentleman a story he knew of the Fae.
    And if the Gentleman had not heard this thing, he would laugh a laugh that turned back the clock of the Scholars life, leaving him a year further from the hour of his death.
    The first time the Gentleman heard a thing he already knew, he would laugh a different laugh, and return one of the mortals years.
    The second time, he would return ten years.
    Should he hear three things that he knew, that would be the end of it and the mortal would be his, for these things must be done in threes.
    So the next night, the Scholar came to that place again, and he called the Gentleman, and the Gentleman came, and they sat down to talk and the Scholar told the Gentleman a chapter of a story.
    It was not an old story, for the Gentleman knew all the old stories. It was new and fresh, so fresh it still had the scent of morning dew.
    It came from a great book of stories, of modern faerie tales.
    And at the end of it the Gentleman laughed, for he had not heard this story. He laughed long and loud, and the Scholar felt the months drain away.
    And then he went home, and went to bed with thoughts of triumph.
    And then he woke in the morning and thought... What happened last night?
    This was the Gentleman's trick. He would indeed turn back the clock of the scholars life. He would drain away the mortals years- and with them, the memory of those times too.
    The Scholar remembered the deal he struck. He remembered where to go and how to call the Gentleman, and he remembered the price should he fail to do so.
    But he could not for the life of him remember what he had eaten for breakfast the morning before, or what he had told the Gentleman.
    This worried him throughout the day.
    Finally, the time came. He went to that place, and he called the Gentleman, and the Gentleman came, and they sat down to talk.
    He did not rant and rail at the Gentleman for his trick. Of course there had been a trick, and he was wise enough in the ways of the Fae to know this already.
    So the Scholar told the Gentleman a story.
    It was not an old story, for the Gentleman knew all the old stories. It was new and fresh, so fresh it still had the scent of morning dew.
    Come the end the Gentleman laughed, and it was not a kind laugh. "I have already heard this thing," he said.
    "But I like you, and I am not so cruel as to end it here. These things must be done in threes, after all."
    And this time, the Scholar felt the weight of another year settle into his bones, and he remembered that the story he had told the Gentleman this night, and the story he had told the Gentleman the night before, were one and the same.
    So the Scholar went home, and he slept, and he woke, and he thought.
    He was only foolish in some things, and so he came upon the idea of writing it all down.
    Soon, he had a great book of memories all bound up in leather.
    At the front of it, most precious of all, was a nearly-blank page with the name of the story he had already told the Gentleman, and that he would tell him the next night.
    Thusly prepared, the Scholar went forth to win his youth. Six nights they sat down, and six stories he told, and six times the Gentleman laughed, and six years he won back, and six years of memory he lost.
    But on the next night, the eighth in all, the Scholar sat down to the table and he told his story and at the end, the Gentleman smiled and brought out a book.
    It was a great book of stories, of modern faerie tales.
    So the seventh story, the Gentleman already knew.
    "But I like you," he said, "and I am not so cruel as to end it here. These things must be done in threes, after all."
    And this time the Scholar felt the weight of ten years settle into his bones, and he did not sleep well that night.
    The next day, the Scholar spent poring through his books. Pages upon pages of scraps of knowledge, of stories both old and new.
    And for another eight nights he went to the Gentleman, and eight nights they sat, and eight stories the Scholar told, and eight times the Gentleman laughed, and eight years the Scholar felt leave him.
    But the next night, the sixteenth story the Gentleman knew. Not by trickery or study, but simply because he was as old as the world and a bit more besides.
    So the Gentleman smiled, not unkindly, and said, "I like you, but I am so cruel as to end it here. These things must be done in threes, after all."
    "Well and so, it is done. Three times you have failed, and so you are mine."
    And so the Scholar who knew many things stood up and walked, bound for Faerie at the heel of his new Keeper.
    But that is only a piece of the story.

    There once was a scholar who knew many things, who filled his head with facts and fables.
    Would that he'd sought less stories and more sense.
    Knowledge may be power, but knowing all things under sun and moon both will not grant power enough to outwit the Gentry, and that is something the scholar did not know.
    Thus he was snared in one of their traps, and taken away to the Gentleman's realm.
    Stepping into the Fae realm is a small step, as such things go. A simple matter of time and place. Sometimes, it can even be done without meaning to.
    Certainly the Scholar did not know the moment he had crossed, and you can be sure he looked.
    But soon enough it was clear to any with eyes. The woods grew greater and darker, with strange lights throughout.
    All manner of strange sounds were to be heard, and they with a curious rhythm. The song of a wild place, of a land untamed that bowed to no one.
    Through this place the Gentleman walked, tall and unafraid. For his part, the Scholar was half-mad with fear, sure that each flicker in the darkness was some beast come for him.
    One may wax lyrical on the light of knowledge and its power, but the Scholar was fast discovering that facts and fables were a poor defense against his predicament.
    Until at last the path came to an end, blocked by a hedge of thorns.
    This was no mere thing of gorse and brambles. Serrated spines the length of a mans arm jutted out at every angle. It was taller than the very trees, and stretched as far as could be seen to either side.
    Their progress stopped and the cacophany only growing, the Scholar was sure they must soon be attacked.
    The Gentleman laughed.
    This laugh was neither kind nor cruel, it simply was. It went on and on, drowning out the wild song and crushing it under the weight of the Gentleman's mirth.
    When he was done, there was silence, and the woods conceded that to some, they would bow.
    The Gentleman stepped aside and made a sweeping gesture, pulling the thorns back like the curtain of a tent.
    Beyond... Those who have been there require no reminder. Those who have not could read of it for years and still grasp only the barest shape of it.
    It was the Fae realm proper. That is all that need be said. That is all that can be said.
    The Gentleman lived in a great tower.
    It had nine floors with nine sides and nine rooms with nine windows, and was tended to by nine-and-ninety servants.
    Or rather eight-and-ninety, for the Gentleman let one free in favour of the Scholar.
    Old Jenna Mae fled that place with tears in her eyes, whether from joy or sorrow not even she knew. The Gentleman did not watch her go.
    The Scholar did, with envy in his eyes.
    That first night, the Gentleman sat in a great oaken chair before a rearing fire, and bade the Scholar sit across from him.
    "Tell me a story," said the Gentleman with hunger in his eyes, and the Scholar racked his brains.
    Here he had no books to read from, nor anything familiar at all. It took him a while to think of a story, until the Gentleman had almost lost patience.
    At last the Scholar spoke, his voice trembling only a little, and the Gentleman leaned back as the story filled the air.
    This was an old, old story. So old it had been laid to rest in a tomb, still covered in cobwebs.
    The Scholar hoped the Gentleman had not heard of it, though he feared otherwise.
    But there was nothing to be done, for it was all he could bring to mind.
    So he spoke, each word perhaps the sound of a grave being dug.
    The tale lasted long into the night, and at the end of it the Gentleman gave a deep, contented sigh.
    "This tale I have heard," he said, and the Scholars heart near froze before the Gentleman smiled, "though I had not heard you tell it."
    From this the Scholar gathered that the rules had changed. You may think this a small thing to be sure of, but reeling as he was it felt as if a great weight had lifted.
    Relief is a fleeting thing however, and by now the Scholar was accustomed to the sensation of lost memories.
    The Gentleman spoke of the tale he had enjoyed, and the Scholar found he did not remember it. Not one bit. He sat there, thinking fearful thoughts.
    Was this his life now? Spilling out sagas each night into the mouth of a lord of dreams, his memories devoured a snatch at a time?
    "Yes," said the Gentleman, and it was so.
    Each night, what there was of night in that place, the Gentleman would sit, and the scholar would sit.
    The Scholar would tell a story of the Fae, and the Gentleman would drink it in, drink the words from the air and from the Scholar's mind.
    As the years passed, more and more of the Scholar's mind was taken this way, an evenings entertainement for the Gentleman.
    We are fragile things, we mortals. We have our limits, our breaking points.
    If cut, we bleed. If laden with sorrow, we cry. If subjected to any of a myriad torments beyond our ken, we break.
    To have our memories torn away one by one is assuredly such a torment.
    The holes left in the Scholar's mind became so great, such yawning chasms, that he collapsed in on himself.
    But that is only a piece of the story.

    There once was a Scholar, who knew many things.
    Hoping to postpone his own death, he sought out the Good People, with them to trade tales for time.
    As these things sometimes go, he found them.
    As these things usually go, he wagered with them.
    As these things often go, he lost, and away went he to the Faerie Realm, there to feed the fae with tales forevermore, until he was only a shell of a man.
    This made his master unhappy, because now his toy was boring.
    He poked and prodded at the Scholar, but the mortal just sat there all empty and broken.
    Now with most of the Good People, that would be that.
    When a toy is all used up, they throw it away and find a new one.
    "But I like you," said he to he, "so I shall help you, poor fragile thing that you are."
    First, the Gentleman gathered what scraps of the Scholar's mind still floated free, having escaped his hunger.
    Little facets of a mind, all throughout the tower.
    Some were in the reading room, some were in the servants dorms and some were on the loom, being woven into thorns.
    One was even stuck in the Gentleman's hair, for he was not a careful eater.
    But alas, this last piece had gone mouldy with age.
    So the Gentleman looked at the Scholar's mind, and saw that it was better.
    And indeed, the Scholar was better for there was knowing in his gaze.
    But 'better' is still not good enough, and the Gentleman's toy was still boring.
    So now he sat, and thought, and recalled how his toys memories had tasted.
    This made him hungry, so he dined on his chambermaids childhood before continuing.
    The Scholar's childhood had tasted of ink and moonlight.
    So the Gentleman walked back to mortal world, and plucked moonlight from the sky (and a little starlight too, because starlight is never a bad thing to have), and stirred it in an ivory inkpot.
    With it, he wrote the Scholar's childhood back into the poor mortals mind.
    He may have improved it in a few places, for he was of the Good Folk, and he knew a good tale when he wrote it.
    So the Gentleman looked at the Scholar's mind, and saw that it was better.
    And indeed, the Scholar was better. There was knowing in his gaze and a spark in his eye.
    But 'better' is still not good enough, and the Gentleman's toy was still boring.
    So the Gentleman sat, and he thought, and he remembered how the Scholar's first love had tasted.
    This made him hungry, so he dined on the funeral of his treasurers wife.
    The Scholar's first love had tasted of lavender and passion.
    So the Gentleman walked into the mortal world and there he found a child.
    The child danced among fields of lavender, and loved to do so with that simple joy so sadly lost..
    The Gentleman brokered a deal with the child, and that is a story in itself, but it is not this tale.
    Suffice it to say that the child came back to the Gentleman's tower, and danced through the Scholar's mind.
    And the child danced upon the moonlight of the Scholar's childhood...
    And the child danced upon the broken homes of the Scholar's first love...
    And the child danced upon the cast-down towers of the Scholar's studies...
    And these things became, not healed, but whole, inasmuch as they could.
    Thus satisfied, the Gentleman let the child go, there to dance far away from our story.
    So the Gentleman looked at the Scholar's mind, and saw that it was better.
    And, indeed, the Scholar was better. There was knowing in his gaze and a spark in his eye and a song in his limbs.
    But 'better' is still not good enough, and the Gentleman's toy was still boring.
    So the Gentleman sat, and thought, and decided that enough was enough.
    His power was all things as he was all things, and it would rebuild this mortals mind at once, for the Gentleman had gone too long without a story to warm his evenings. This, the Gentleman declared.
    And indeed it did- after a fashion.
    The Scholar's mind renewed itself, replacing the brick and mortar of mortal life with moonlight and laughter and gossamer dreams.
    So the once-Scholar stood up, and looked around, and yawned.
    The Gentleman smiled. He said, "tell me a story."
    But the once-Scholar did not know any stories. Just moonlight, and laughter, and gossamer dreams.
    This made the Gentleman unhappy, because his toy was still boring.
    That wasn't supposed to happen. Once you fixed something, it works. That is the way of things.
    "How dare you deny me!" cried the Gentleman, first at the once-Scholar, then at the world.
    But the once-Scholar did not understand, and the world was silent- although perhaps that silence was a trifle smug.
    The Gentleman ranted and raged, and he broke his things and he broke his servants and he broke his tower with the nine floors with nine sides and nine rooms with nine windows, and he was terrible to behold.
    The Gentleman sat in the crater of his home and he looked around, and something in him trembled, for he did not like this piece of the world that would not bow to him.
    The Gentleman wailed and wept for three days and three nights, his tears filling the ruin of his home.
    At last, the Gentleman looked around himself, and he saw that he stood on an island in a lake of his own tears.
    The lake glistened like stars, and the Gentleman smiled. What a pleasing view to build a new home upon!
    So the Gentleman built a great spire. It had nine-and-ninety floors with nine-and-ninety sides and nine-and-ninety rooms with nine-and-ninety windows.
    The Gentleman waltzed among these halls until he found the Once-Scholar, and the Gentleman crowed with delight.
    "It is a time of new beginnings!" said the Gentleman, "if you cannot tell me stories, you will find me stories!"
    "Go forth!" commanded the Gentleman, "go forth into the mortal world! You are my Hero Who Knew Many Things, and you shall bring me stories to warm my evening fire!"
    So passed the years. The Hero Who Knew Many Things ventured out into the world in search of stories.
    He searched in great glass spires and tunnels of musty stone, and the world was strange to him.
    But his mind was all moonlight and laughter and gossamer dreams, and many things were strange to him. What were a few more?
    Sometimes the Hero found stories, and sometimes he lived them. In either case he brought them back to the Gentleman's tower, with its nine-and-ninety floors and nine-and-ninety sides and nine-and-ninety rooms with nine-and-ninety windows.
    There he would wait idly in the grandest reading room until the Gentleman took his ease, and the Hero would pour the inky blood of memory into his masters mouth.
    At last, in search of another story, the Hero came to a place that was not strange to him.
    It was an old house upon an old hill, all overgrown and forgotten.
    It felt familiar, so he walked inside. The house was home to cobwebs and regrets - and a book, all bound up in leather.
    And in that book were memories...

    There once was a Hero, who knew very little, and hunted stories for the Fae.
    He is long gone now.
    Perhaps the Gentleman is still waiting for him to return.
    Perhaps he stopped waiting long ago, and searches instead.
    If so, he will find the Hero Who Knew Many Things clutching iron, for he waits idly no more.
     
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  • Threadmarks
    • Imrix said:
    There once was a scholar, who knew many things.
    He lived in a house on a hill, where he sat in his garden and filled the day with books.
    He knew of Redcaps and Brownies, Nixies and Pixies, Kelpies and Gentry.
    He knew all these things and more, for he had lived a very long time.
    But one thing he did not know was the hour of his death.
    This worried him, for he could feel it coming closer upon him with each setting of the sun.
    So he turned to what he did know, to delay that which he did not.
    Would that he had known less, for he sought the Fae and, fool that he was, he found one.
    "Why have you come to me, mortal?" the Gentleman asked, its voice a river without a bottom.
    "Because I would strike a bargain with you," the Scholar replied, touching iron as he did so.
    And they argued back and forth, he and he, for the Fae was old and wise in such dealings, but while the mortal was not so old as that, he was yet wise.
    This, then, was the deal they struck together:
    Each night for a cycle of the moon and one day, the Scholar would go to that place and tell the Gentleman a story he knew of the Fae.
    And if the Gentleman had not heard this thing, he would laugh a laugh that turned back the clock of the Scholars life, leaving him a year further from the hour of his death.
    The first time the Gentleman heard a thing he already knew, he would laugh a different laugh, and return one of the mortals years.
    The second time, he would return ten years.
    Should he hear three things that he knew, that would be the end of it and the mortal would be his, for these things must be done in threes.
    So the next night, the Scholar came to that place again, and he called the Gentleman, and the Gentleman came, and they sat down to talk and the Scholar told the Gentleman a chapter of a story.
    It was not an old story, for the Gentleman knew all the old stories. It was new and fresh, so fresh it still had the scent of morning dew.
    It came from a great book of stories, of modern faerie tales.
    And at the end of it the Gentleman laughed, for he had not heard this story. He laughed long and loud, and the Scholar felt the months drain away.
    And then he went home, and went to bed with thoughts of triumph.
    And then he woke in the morning and thought... What happened last night?
    This was the Gentleman's trick. He would indeed turn back the clock of the scholars life. He would drain away the mortals years- and with them, the memory of those times too.
    The Scholar remembered the deal he struck. He remembered where to go and how to call the Gentleman, and he remembered the price should he fail to do so.
    But he could not for the life of him remember what he had eaten for breakfast the morning before, or what he had told the Gentleman.
    This worried him throughout the day.
    Finally, the time came. He went to that place, and he called the Gentleman, and the Gentleman came, and they sat down to talk.
    He did not rant and rail at the Gentleman for his trick. Of course there had been a trick, and he was wise enough in the ways of the Fae to know this already.
    So the Scholar told the Gentleman a story.
    It was not an old story, for the Gentleman knew all the old stories. It was new and fresh, so fresh it still had the scent of morning dew.
    Come the end the Gentleman laughed, and it was not a kind laugh. "I have already heard this thing," he said.
    "But I like you, and I am not so cruel as to end it here. These things must be done in threes, after all."
    And this time, the Scholar felt the weight of another year settle into his bones, and he remembered that the story he had told the Gentleman this night, and the story he had told the Gentleman the night before, were one and the same.
    So the Scholar went home, and he slept, and he woke, and he thought.
    He was only foolish in some things, and so he came upon the idea of writing it all down.
    Soon, he had a great book of memories all bound up in leather.
    At the front of it, most precious of all, was a nearly-blank page with the name of the story he had already told the Gentleman, and that he would tell him the next night.
    Thusly prepared, the Scholar went forth to win his youth. Six nights they sat down, and six stories he told, and six times the Gentleman laughed, and six years he won back, and six years of memory he lost.
    But on the next night, the eighth in all, the Scholar sat down to the table and he told his story and at the end, the Gentleman smiled and brought out a book.
    It was a great book of stories, of modern faerie tales.
    So the seventh story, the Gentleman already knew.
    "But I like you," he said, "and I am not so cruel as to end it here. These things must be done in threes, after all."
    And this time the Scholar felt the weight of ten years settle into his bones, and he did not sleep well that night.
    The next day, the Scholar spent poring through his books. Pages upon pages of scraps of knowledge, of stories both old and new.
    And for another eight nights he went to the Gentleman, and eight nights they sat, and eight stories the Scholar told, and eight times the Gentleman laughed, and eight years the Scholar felt leave him.
    But the next night, the sixteenth story the Gentleman knew. Not by trickery or study, but simply because he was as old as the world and a bit more besides.
    So the Gentleman smiled, not unkindly, and said, "I like you, but I am so cruel as to end it here. These things must be done in threes, after all."
    "Well and so, it is done. Three times you have failed, and so you are mine."
    And so the Scholar who knew many things stood up and walked, bound for Faerie at the heel of his new Keeper.
    But that is only a piece of the story.

    There once was a scholar who knew many things, who filled his head with facts and fables.
    Would that he'd sought less stories and more sense.
    Knowledge may be power, but knowing all things under sun and moon both will not grant power enough to outwit the Gentry, and that is something the scholar did not know.
    Thus he was snared in one of their traps, and taken away to the Gentleman's realm.
    Stepping into the Fae realm is a small step, as such things go. A simple matter of time and place. Sometimes, it can even be done without meaning to.
    Certainly the Scholar did not know the moment he had crossed, and you can be sure he looked.
    But soon enough it was clear to any with eyes. The woods grew greater and darker, with strange lights throughout.
    All manner of strange sounds were to be heard, and they with a curious rhythm. The song of a wild place, of a land untamed that bowed to no one.
    Through this place the Gentleman walked, tall and unafraid. For his part, the Scholar was half-mad with fear, sure that each flicker in the darkness was some beast come for him.
    One may wax lyrical on the light of knowledge and its power, but the Scholar was fast discovering that facts and fables were a poor defense against his predicament.
    Until at last the path came to an end, blocked by a hedge of thorns.
    This was no mere thing of gorse and brambles. Serrated spines the length of a mans arm jutted out at every angle. It was taller than the very trees, and stretched as far as could be seen to either side.
    Their progress stopped and the cacophany only growing, the Scholar was sure they must soon be attacked.
    The Gentleman laughed.
    This laugh was neither kind nor cruel, it simply was. It went on and on, drowning out the wild song and crushing it under the weight of the Gentleman's mirth.
    When he was done, there was silence, and the woods conceded that to some, it would bow.
    The Gentleman stepped aside and made a sweeping gesture, pulling the thorns back like the curtain of a tent.
    Beyond... Those who have been there require no reminder. Those who have not could read of it for years and still grasp only the barest shape of it.
    It was the Fae realm proper. That is all that need be said. That is all that can be said.
    The Gentleman lived in a great tower.
    It had nine floors with nine sides and nine rooms with nine windows, and was tended to by nine-and-ninety servants.
    Or rather eight-and-ninety, for the Gentleman let one free in favour of the Scholar.
    Old Jenna Mae fled that place with tears in her eyes, whether from joy or sorrow not even she knew. The Gentleman did not watch her go.
    The Scholar did, with envy in his eyes.
    That first night, the Gentleman sat in a great oaken chair before a rearing fire, and bade the Scholar sit across from him.
    "Tell me a story," said the Gentleman with hunger in his eyes, and the Scholar racked his brains.
    Here he had no books to read from, nor anything familiar at all. It took him a while to think of a story, until the Gentleman had almost lost patience.
    At last the Scholar spoke, his voice trembling only a little, and the Gentleman leaned back as the story filled the air.
    This was an old, old story. So old it had been laid to rest in a tomb, still covered in cobwebs.
    The Scholar hoped the Gentleman had not heard of it, though he feared otherwise.
    But there was nothing to be done, for it was all he could bring to mind.
    So he spoke, each word perhaps the sound of a grave being dug.
    The tale lasted long into the night, and at the end of it the Gentleman gave a deep, contented sigh.
    "This tale I have heard," he said, and the Scholars heart near froze before the Gentleman smiled, "though I had not heard you tell it."
    From this the Scholar gathered that the rules had changed. You may think this a small thing to be sure of, but reeling as he was it felt as if a great weight had lifted.
    Relief is a fleeting thing however, and by now the Scholar was accustomed to the sensation of lost memories.
    The Gentleman spoke of the tale he had enjoyed, and the Scholar found he did not remember it. Not one bit. He sat there, thinking fearful thoughts.
    Was this his life now? Spilling out sagas each night into the mouth of a lord of dreams, his memories devoured a snatch at a time?
    "Yes," said the Gentleman, and it was so.
    Each night, what there was of night in that place, the Gentleman would sit, and the scholar would sit.
    The Scholar would tell a story of the Fae, and the Gentleman would drink it in, drink the words from the air and from the Scholar's mind.
    As the years passed, more and more of the Scholar's mind was taken this way, an evenings entertainement for the Gentleman.
    We are fragile things, we mortals. We have our limits, our breaking points.
    If cut, we bleed. If laden with sorrow, we cry. If subjected to any of a myriad torments beyond our ken, we break.
    To have our memories torn away one by one is assuredly such a torment.
    The holes left in the Scholar's mind became so great, such yawning chasms, that he collapsed in on himself.
    But that is only a piece of the story.

    There once was a Scholar, who knew many things.
    Hoping to postpone his own death, he sought out the Good People, with them to trade tales for time.
    As these things sometimes go, he found them.
    As these things usually go, he wagered with them.
    As these things often go, he lost, and away went he to the Faerie Realm, there to feed the fae with tales forevermore, until he was only a shell of a man.
    This made his master unhappy, because now his toy was boring.
    He poked and prodded at the Scholar, but the mortal just sat there all empty and broken.
    Now with most of the Good People, that would be that.
    When a toy is all used up, they throw it away and find a new one.
    "But I like you," said he to he, "so I shall help you, poor fragile thing that you are."
    First, the Gentleman gathered what scraps of the Scholar's mind still floated free, having escaped his hunger.
    Little facets of a mind, all throughout the tower.
    Some were in the reading room, some were in the servants dorms and some were on the loom, being woven into thorns.
    One was even stuck in the Gentleman's hair, for he was not a careful eater.
    But alas, this last piece had gone mouldy with age.
    So the Gentleman looked at the Scholar's mind, and saw that it was better.
    And indeed, the Scholar was better for there was knowing in his gaze.
    But 'better' is still not good enough, and the Gentleman's toy was still boring.
    So now he sat, and thought, and recalled how his toys memories had tasted.
    This made him hungry, so he dined on his chambermaids childhood before continuing.
    The Scholar's childhood had tasted of ink and moonlight.
    So the Gentleman walked back to mortal world, and plucked moonlight from the sky (and a little starlight too, because starlight is never a bad thing to have), and stirred it in an ivory inkpot.
    With it, he wrote the Scholar's childhood back into the poor mortals mind.
    He may have improved it in a few places, for he was of the Good Folk, and he knew a good tale when he wrote it.
    So the Gentleman looked at the Scholar's mind, and saw that it was better.
    And indeed, the Scholar was better. There was knowing in his gaze and a spark in his eye.
    But 'better' is still not good enough, and the Gentleman's toy was still boring.
    So the Gentleman sat, and he thought, and he remembered how the Scholar's first love had tasted.
    This made him hungry, so he dined on the funeral of his treasurers wife.
    The Scholar's first love had tasted of lavender and passion.
    So the Gentleman walked into the mortal world and there he found a child.
    The child danced among fields of lavender, and loved to do so with that simple joy so sadly lost..
    The Gentleman brokered a deal with the child, and that is a story in itself, but it is not this tale.
    Suffice it to say that the child came back to the Gentleman's tower, and danced through the Scholar's mind.
    And the child danced upon the moonlight of the Scholar's childhood...
    And the child danced upon the broken homes of the Scholar's first love...
    And the child danced upon the cast-down towers of the Scholar's studies...
    And these things became, not healed, but whole, inasmuch as they could.
    Thus satisfied, the Gentleman let the child go, there to dance far away from our story.
    So the Gentleman looked at the Scholar's mind, and saw that it was better.
    And, indeed, the Scholar was better. There was knowing in his gaze and a spark in his eye and a song in his limbs.
    But 'better' is still not good enough, and the Gentleman's toy was still boring.
    So the Gentleman sat, and thought, and decided that enough was enough.
    His power was all things as he was all things, and it would rebuild this mortals mind at once, for the Gentleman had gone too long without a story to warm his evenings. This, the Gentleman declared.
    And indeed it did- after a fashion.
    The Scholar's mind renewed itself, replacing the brick and mortar of mortal life with moonlight and laughter and gossamer dreams.
    So the once-Scholar stood up, and looked around, and yawned.
    The Gentleman smiled. He said, "tell me a story."
    But the once-Scholar did not know any stories. Just moonlight, and laughter, and gossamer dreams.
    This made the Gentleman unhappy, because his toy was still boring.
    That wasn't supposed to happen. Once you fixed something, it works. That's the way the story goes.
    "How dare you deny me!" cried the Gentleman, first at the once-Scholar, then at the world.
    But the once-Scholar did not understand, and the world was silent- although perhaps that silence was a trifle smug.
    The Gentleman ranted and raged, and he broke his things and he broke his servants and he broke his tower with the nine floors with nine sides and nine rooms with nine windows, and he was terrible to behold.
    The Gentleman sat in the crater of his home and he looked around, and something in him trembled, for he did not like this piece of the world that would not bow to him.
    The Gentleman wailed and wept for three days and three nights, his tears filling the ruin of his home.
    At last, the Gentleman looked around himself, and he saw that he stood on an island in a lake of his own tears.
    The lake glistened like stars, and the Gentleman smiled. What a pleasing view to build a new home upon!
    So the Gentleman built a great spire. It had nine-and-ninety floors with nine-and-ninety sides and nine-and-ninety rooms with nine-and-ninety windows.
    The Gentleman waltzed among these halls until he found the Once-Scholar, and the Gentleman crowed with delight.
    "It is a time of new beginnings!" said the Gentleman, "if you cannot tell me stories, you will find me stories!"
    "Go forth!" commanded the Gentleman, "go forth into the mortal world! You are my Hero Who Knew Many Things, and you shall bring me stories to warm my evening fire!"
    So passed the years. The Hero Who Knew Many Things ventured out into the world in search of stories.
    He searched in great glass spires and tunnels of musty stone, and the world was strange to him.
    But his mind was all moonlight and laughter and gossamer dreams, and many things were strange to him. What were a few more?
    Sometimes the Hero found stories, and sometimes he lived them. In either case he brought them back to the Gentleman's tower, with its nine-and-ninety floors and nine-and-ninety sides and nine-and-ninety rooms with nine-and-ninety windows.
    There he would wait idly in the grandest reading room until the Gentleman took his ease, and the Hero would pour the inky blood of memory into his masters mouth.
    At last, in search of another story, the Hero came to a place that was not strange to him.
    It was an old house upon an old hill, all overgrown and forgotten.
    It felt familiar, so he walked inside. The house was home to cobwebs and regrets - and a book, all bound up in leather.
    And in that book were memories...

    There once was a Hero, who knew very little, and hunted stories for the Fae.
    He is long gone now.
    Perhaps the Gentleman is still waiting for him to return.
    Perhaps he stopped waiting long ago, and searches instead.
    If so, he will find the Hero Who Knew Many Things clutching iron, for he waits idly no more.
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    This is excellent.

    I am reminded of the gentleman with thistledown hair from Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell, who is a great exemple of how a fairy can be extremely harmful to the people it genuinely seeks to help.
     
    Imrix said:
    There once was a Hero, who knew very little, and hunted stories for the Fae.
    He is long gone now.
    Perhaps the Gentleman is still waiting for him to return.
    Perhaps he stopped waiting long ago, and searches instead.
    If so, he will find the Hero Who Knew Many Things clutching iron, for he waits idly no more.
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...

    hng

    Fuck me, shit like this reminds me why I love nChangeling :p
     
    Believe it or not, that originally started as the background for a Changeling explicitly designed for crossover games - he was going to be someone who knew the world was full of monsters, and figured pointing them at the True Fae was as good a bet as any. It took me a long time to drift away from that idea. Besides that, the concept is unchanged even though it took me years to finally finish; he was always going to be a tall, dashing fellow who, beneath the Mask, is stoop-shouldered and white-haired with age, with faded eyes and too many lines on his face.
     
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    I would be perfectly fine with this thread becoming Durance Storytime Thread.

    Have I ever told you the story of the Woodsbeast? I always thought it was one of the more amusing backgrounds I came up with.
     
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