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This man, though, clearly wants to hurt me. Most people in Atlanta are polite to strangers, and I find that even through the haze of Disquiet they usually afford me a forced smile and a nod. Other people, lounging on the grass, looking up at the carvings in the mountain, don’t notice. Eleven Months Ago “Nice fuckin’ mullet.” I turn and stare at the man. The spirits grow angry when I reveal their secrets, and my memory, if not my flesh, bears scars of the kindnesses I have done to humanity. And certainly no longer will I tell stories to humans, warning them of the spirits in their midst. I have come to this realization many times over my years of life, and each time I swear that no longer will I strive for humanity, no longer will I follow useless milestones. Our purpose is to follow the Pilgrimage and to reach that state of ignorance, to give up a clear path and take on a state of perpetual uncertainty. They may search for purpose and gain much in so doing, but they will never find it, and that is humanity. Any human who claims to know his place in the world is lying, for it is not in the human condition to know. Human beings do not have bans, and they do not know their natures. Every spirit has a ban, and spirits know their own natures. But I looked to Twilight and I saw that the Black Cat, which had been following them all day, was now stalking away petulantly because they knew its secret. PROLOGUE: BANS Mark Johnson 1554 Litton Drive 10:25 a.mĪnd walked even faster, and I sat down in the wood. I told them that the Black Cat cannot harm a woman while she is with child, and they said “oh that’s interesting,” I told them this story and framed it as “a Native superstition,” because these hikers were white and didn’t know any better.
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They tried to walk faster, to be rid of me, but I kept pace and I told them the story of the Black Cat, the death-spirit that can kill a man with one scratch of its claws, can devour a woman in two bites and can leave a child torn to skin and sinew in an eye blink. I stopped and told a story to a group of hikers in Stone Mountain Park. But I do remember bans, and I leave those secrets behind me. I merely remember the ones that have touched me. I have walked many a mile since leaving my assigned task, and I have met so many spirits that not even someone as meticulous as Brine or as verbose as Verney could catalog them all. A ban is not something that a spirit must not do, but something that defines the spirit as walls define a room. The word is misleading, but I don’t know that English - such a strange, bastard tongue, like a contagion on the lips of the world, a linguistic virus - has a term for the real concept. I crash the floor, dying, and I see what’s left of his body on the floor. They carry with them brain tissue, those tiny bees made of steel and carbon, they carry cerebrospinal fluid, blood and, perhaps, the Divine Fire. The bees push their way up into my brain, burrow through the stolen flesh that I carry through the world, drill their way through my skull and exit, humming angrily, from the back of my head. A million bees sting my neck and my throat. But he doesn’t, so I put the barrel under my chin again. I do so, and I glare back at the glass, daring the qashmal to challenge my decision. While he’d loaded the gun, he hadn’t cocked it. But my reflection is talking, and I can see Pyros around that glass like heat rising off desert sand. I recoil and my fingers are already growing into claws before I realize that it’s a mirror, it’s my own reflection, tinted by the blood and bile covering the glass. I turn my head and see a monster on the wall. “You have to chamber the shell,” says a voice. I pulled the trigger, but nothing happens, and that makes me cry even harder. I drop the club, stagger away, pick up his shotgun and place the barrel under my chin. His brains, already half-pulverized by the damage, spill out around the weapon. Six Months Ago, After The fifth time I bring the club down, his skull caves in. Mark Johnson 1554 Litton Drive 10:25 a.m Roland Ortizħ80 Park North Blvd Ste A 30083 12:15 a.m Stone Mountain Police Dept. “To the Wastes,” a continuation of the “Water of Life” story begun in Promethean: The Created, set in the Colorado Rockies.Four new Refinements, with new Transmutations.
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Even Evenif ifeach eachof ofus us were weregranted grantedMortality Mortalitytoday, today, what then? WeWewould wouldallall stillstillhave havejourneys journeys to tomake. The Thebeauty beautyofofthetheGreat GreatWork Work is isthatthatit itis isnever neverfinished. Possibilities on new and different ways in which Prometheans might be created, complete with sample characters.