By remythorne@aol.com and lydiamsko@aol.com
In the moonlit shadow of the broad stone edifice was gathered a flock of tourists, their hands clutching self-consciously at their belongings as they watched his approach. Doffing the worn fedora to them, he grinned, gold teeth flashing along with those that could still claim ivory as their color. In the midst of this gathering of sneakers and Bermuda shorts, a song rose from the flagstones, the beat of drums hammering beneath the shake of tambourines and the quick strum of guitars. Bare feet capered over the sand-sprinkled golden stone, the clapping of hands accompanying the strut and flashing eyes of the dancers. They were gitans, bohemien, the gypsies of this province; whatever term one might pin upon them, they sang with a shadowed life depicted everywhere from whispered legends and warnings to tourists, to the silhouette of a gitane painted on the surface of a cigarette box. They were his people.
The flare of brightly-colored skirts swirled in a living kaleidoscope as the girls spun in their dance, tambourines snapping smartly over the jingling of the bells and bracelets that adorned their wrists and ankles. Their voices swelled together in an untamed mix of alto and soprano, supported by the low melody of the men, and the shade of a genuine smile turned his lips as he took up a stance at the edge of the circle, watching. Francs were falling in silver and gold to the upturned hats placed upon the ground, the visiting foreigners enraptured in the bright entertainment that unfolded before them. The stereotype supported by the dancers made it all the easier for the children to strip their unwitting prey. Cash, credit cards, clothing, cameras, food: all fell victim to small and agile hands, tiny forms with twinkling eyes and tattered bluejeans working to divest the ignorant travelers of their possessions as the performance of their elders held them enthralled. He could see the dimpled cheeks of young Davet as the child winked at him from behind a fat woman in a polo shirt, her chubby hands toying with the sweat-damp collar as her eyes remained glued to the song of nighttime rainbows unfolding in the exhibition before her.
"Brigliadoro!" Spinning to a halt amidst the whirlpool of vivid fabrics and glittering jewelry, the young man extended a hand to the tall figure who stood a bit apart from the tourists, his gold-ringed fingers splayed wide as he bowed low in a mocking tribute to the older man. Curious and wary eyes turned to the colorful figure, and he inclined his head briefly, a bold grin seeming to put them to the ease they had already reached, but did not yet realize it. "Le dauphin des gitans, mesdames et messieurs! A prince among men!" Scattered applause tittered through the small crowd as the indicated gypsy prince moved in a charming little jig, then straightened from the expected bow with a flourish of flared sleeves.
The young man at the center of the circle polished a lazy grin as his eyes met Brigliadoro's. The arrival of the prince des gitans meant the game was over for the night. The anti-gypsy warnings printed in tourist guides had harvested this flock of sheep for them to feast upon, and the table was set. Concluding the song and dance, the small group took their bows and curtsies, gathering up hats and instruments as they dashed away from the tourists, turning with cheery waves and blown kisses. A multicolored stream of tanned skins tied with bright silks and cottons drifted onto the beach, chatting amongst themselves as they cavorted laughingly through the midnight surf. The winking eyes of distant campfires could be seen down the shore, the shadows of their flames stretching to paint the sides of the gathered vardos. The lean, sturdy forms of the Camargue horses drifted like pale spectres over the sands as they browsed the shore grasses, their uniform white coats cooled by the breeze off the ocean.
Falling into step beside the gypsy prince, he slowed a bit to match the older man's pace, two pairs of bare feet sauntering familiarly over the wet sand. The warm air off the Mediterranean trembled through the ragged threads fringing the bottoms of their pantlegs, both similarly dressed in patched pairs of black cotton drawstrings that fell to mid-calf. Brigliadoro's voice was soft, the significance of his simple words carrying beneath the rush of waves. "Esperanza is going to die. She wishes to have her ashes scattered with the Sainte Sara. Once that is done, we move on. We have been too long in this place as it is." His dark eyes moved to the young man, piercing pools of deepest night, sinking blacker than the bottom of the sea. "When we go to the road again, you will be our prince, Gan. You know what is expected of you."
The young man shoved his hands reflexively to the pockets of the straight-legged pants as they approached the circle of their dwelling place. Moonlight sparkled on the two days' growth of beard that shadowed his handsome features -- finer, more refined than those of the uncle who walked beside him. The long illness of the gypsy queen had cast sadness like a pall upon their little band, for Esperanza had endured as their leader for decades, emerging alive from the death camps whose brand was still tattooed in the wrinkled flesh of her arm. Her children had not been so lucky, falling victim to the shady commerce and often violent dealings that were a part of their lives. Brigliadoro was the youngest of her offspring, the only one still to live as his mother lay upon her deathbed.
No more words passed between the two men as they entered the gathering at this quiet bend in the beach. The young man paused to stroke the thick forelock of one of the ponies, smiling into the mare's dark eyes, she was just one of the hardy white horses of the Camargue, paired ever with their gitan families. Around one of the fires, two of the adult bohemiennes appraised the treasures the children had thieved from the tourists, laughing softly amongst themselves in a tongue which mingled the accents of southern France with the language of their more Eastern ancestors. The younger generation dispersed to their individual vargos, moving to shed the garish skirts and silks whose purpose was to delight the imaginations of the tourists. The colorful patches and motley attire would be shed for more practical cutoffs and tee-shirts, dusky flesh exposed to the heat of the night on the Mediterranean.
The young man flanked Brigliadoro as the gitan prince approached the door of his mother's makeshift dwelling. Whispered words from the older woman at the entrance indicated the police had visited the encampment again, capitalizing upon the French laws that denied the roaming people the right to establish campsites. Brigliadoro's sharp, hewn features hardened to stone as he moved into the interior of the vardo. The air within was heavy with incense and scented candles, their flickering lights casting jittering shadows along the draped walls. Candleflames sparked in the man's dark eyes and clung to the gold loops adorning his ears as he stooped a bit in the cramped space, crossing the wooden floor to crouch beside the bed.
The gypsy queen had been a tall, robust woman, but the withered form lying so still beneath the airy quilts showed almost nothing of the physical presence she once had. Eyes as dark as her son's sharpened with an intelligence undiminished by her long illness, glinting as black pearls behind the steel-gray tousle of wiry curls. None of her reason had left her, but the pain of dying clouded that cutting gaze as Brigliadoro took one of her shriveled hands in his own. Her eyes moved though her head could not, touching once upon the young man at the foot of the bed before they darted to fix upon her son, the gitan prince shifting in his position so that his mother might see him more easily. At the opposite bedside, the girl attending upon Esperanza took a step back, lowering her eyes immediately after looking once to the prince-to-be at the scarred footboard.
The cracked lips parted almost imperceptibly as the voice of the queen wheezed forth, breath rattling laboriously in her lungs. "Brigliadoro...my son." The broad shoulders slumped a bit beneath their rough azure covering as the devastation of his mother's coming death settled again as sackcloth upon his indomitable presence. "You know my wishes...take my people from this place where we are persecuted. Far from here, child, where the little ones can run free." The gitan's strong jaw seemed to tighten a bit as he bowed his head to the deteriorated hand, his forehead nearly touching its papery flesh. The dying creature who had once been Esperanza -- queen of her family, renowned over Europe and beyond for her beauty and beguiling charms, respected for her power -- turned her murky eyes upon the young man who tarried at the foot of her bed. "Ganelon...hope of my old heart. Preserve the ways; pass them to your children. Stand always by your uncle's side . . . and remember me." It was as if a light went out behind those eyes, then, and the final sigh drifting from her lips was as a death toll that stretched across the sea.
The young man was unable to raise his eyes as he sensed the dark aura of mournful anger and pained fury emanating in a tangible chill from the man who had just this moment become king of the gypsies. The shiver of loss skittered coldly over his bones as he began to turn and exit the vardo, neither he nor the attending girl needing any prompting to heed the grieved words grating from between Brigliadoro's teeth. "Leave us."
Outside, he offered his arm to the slender young woman who followed him. She was his cousin Maurelle, and they looked upon the gathering of the camp at the foot of the queen's vardo, the shimmer of unshed tears upon their own eyes mirrored in the uncomprehending sorrow that marked the faces of even the smallest of children in the group. Beside him, Maurelle lifted her chin as a single tear tracked a path over her sun-bronzed skin, her bejeweled fingers a gentle but insistent pressure at the small of his back. The salty warmth of the breeze off the ocean seemed to whisper as an intangible weeping, stirring through their hair as the gitan prince swallowed the saddened lump in his throat and addressed his caravan, the bold southern French rolling as a honey sweeter than any of the flowered words the old nobility had ever composed. "La riene est morte." The queen is dead. The solemn voice of a violin lifted, then, singing alone for just a few bars before the song rises in so many harmonies from the throats of the gitans.
Stepping down from the queen's vardo, he disentangled his arm from his cousin's and crossed over the rich white sand to the water's edge, hands curling slowly into fists at his sides. Maurelle followed behind with deliberate slowness, touching a delicate hand to the neck of the horses who stirred nervously at the cold aura issuing forth from the young man who passed them. Black fire flashed a reflection in the moonlight-dappled waters as the gitan prince lifted his chin to the Mediterranean in challenge, the angry ebon light seeping from his clenched fists to swallow his figure with a shade darker than the night around them. They were to leave this accursed country, move on to another place, and woe unto any who tried again to step on them.
The sea would take the ashes of the queen.
The world would never take the spirit of the gitan.
System: No dice roll, roleplay effect only. The Gypsy may summon an icy wind which whispers sounds of the dead (curses, threats and such), and in which the shapes of ghosts can be seen.
System: 2d6+Will = TN or better. This allows the Gypsy to place the skull of a dead breed anointed with its blood and wards off all like-breeds from entering the Gypsy's home or coming within 1/2 mile for 1 24-hour period.
System: 2d6+Quickness = TN or better.
Failure, the attempt is unsuccessful and the gypy is caught.
Success levels:
TN+2 | Thievery is unsuccessful, but the victim does not realize they were nearly robbed. |
TN+4 | Thievery is successful, but the gypsy will be recognized as the thief after they have committed the act. |
TN+6 | The victim does not realize something has been stolen from them for some time, and has no idea who did it when they do realize this. |
Great skill at the fine art of stealing makes it possible for gypsies to thieve an item from a person, usually without their immediate notice -- the ring off a finger, a wallet or a purse, a gun from a holster, or simply hot-wiring a car and driving it right from the lot.
A streetfighting style for the gypsy breed, emphasizing the swiftness with blades and their natural agility.
(5 points / 1 Soul point)
System: The Gypsy gains +2 to initiatives.
The Gypsy can evoke a strange aura around himself. It is barely noticeable to the eye, but is faintly dark and quite cold. Anyone who is near the Gypsy will feel the chill and an eerie sense of foreboding, as though someone had stepped on his grave.
* The Glory of Death
(10 points / 1 Soul points)
System: 2d6 + Will = TN or better. If successful, No attacks will be allowed against the Gypsy for the duration.
This aura blazes with cold black light and is quite visible. It grants the Gypsy the ability to cast an illusion of death or the "undead" upon itself for any that may glimpse its nature. Those near will assume the Gypsy is dead, giving up further attacks.
(5 points / 1 Soul point)
System: 2d6 + Will = TN or better.
The Gypsy can set a mystical mark on a being whom she wishes to keep track of. As long as the mark is in place, the Gypsy will always have a sense of how far away the Honored One is and in what direction. If she concentrates she can easily track the Honored One to its location. The Honored may only be used on one being at a time, but the Gypsy may leave the mark in place for as long as she likes, and can remove it at will. The mark is invisible to the eye. They do not need to see the Honored One to remove the mark. There is no known way to remove the mark without the assistance of the Gypsy who set it, but at the Storyteller's discretion certain rituals or magicks might do it.
** Honored Multitude
(10 points / 1 Soul point)
System: 2d6 + Will = TN or better.
This power allows the Gypsy to Honor more than one person at a time. In all other respects it is the same as The Honored. The Gypsy can never mark more individuals than 1/2 her Soul rating, however.
(5 points / 1 Soul point)
System: 2d6+Gypsy's Mind vs 2d6+Target's Body. This causes the victim to be somewhat stunned. Targets Mind at -2, for the duration.
With but a look, the Gypsy can wrack his victim with phantasms of her own demise. The Gypsy must look into his victim's eyes. The victim will undergo nightmare-like scenes of her own death. This is a very frightening experience.
** Kali's Blessing
(10 points/ 1 Soul point)
System: 2d6+Will vs 2d6+Will. Success, Target's Quickness at -4 for the duration.
The Gypsy can tell her victim about death with such eloquence that the victim will resign himself to it, and even yearn for it. The victim is plunged into a haze of sorrow, and melancholy, a resignation to and acceptance of his own death. In fact, the victim becomes passively suicidal and finds it difficult to take any action to prolong his life.
*** The Glory of Kali
(15 points / 1 Soul point)
System: 2d6+Will = TN or better. The Gypsy's Body increases +2, Mind +1. Any Soul lost will be regained for the duration of this form.
With this power the Gypsy can assume the form of the Black Mother: a seven-foot-tall, black-skinned demoness with four arms ending in clawed hands, three eyes, and terrible strength.
This form is the very image of Kali Ma in Indian art, and some Gypsy keep necklaces of skulls around to wear in this form on special occasions. The Kali-form is distinctly female; interestingly enough, male Gypsies who use the Glory of Kali still take on the female form.
**** Kali's Gift
(No cost, must have the levels above / Death of the Gypsy)
System: No roll required. The Gypsy makes the greatest sacrifice to Kali, that being her own life in order to restore the life of a chosen one (must be Marked as Honored).
At this level the Gypsy becomes capable of saving lives or ending them with only a thought. Those with Kali's Gift can, if they choose, save the life of a creature who is about to die by "borrowing" the death; that is to say, literally taking the death away from the creature, thus giving it another chance at survival. Conversely, the Gypsy can use this power to slay instantly, by bestowing the "borrowed" death upon a chosen victim. The death can take many forms, but all of them are shockingly swift; depending on circumstances they can range from sudden heart failure, to spontaneous human combustion to getting shot.
A "borrowed" death may be kept for as long as the Gypsy wishes; some have been known to carry a death around for decades, searching for just the right victim to give it to. However, only one death may be retained at a time.
System: 2d6+Quickness = TN or better. Corpse must be present and/or near.
The Gypsy can walk into one corpse and exit another up to a mile away.
This power acts as a rather gruesome form of teleportation. The Gypsy may Dance the Paths of the Dead to bypass walls and other obstacles, make quick get-aways, and even to travel. He may also try to pull others through a corpse to him, by reaching into the corpse, grabbing the victim, and pulling her through the Paths to his own location. Appearances will be as if the Gypsy or victim have simply vanished.
System: 2d6+Will vs Targets 2d6+Will. Success, -1 body lost each night for 7 nights to the target. Effects caused by subtle forms shown in the description, or other manners of choice by the target.
The Gypsy can be amazingly subtle killers when the situation warrants. With this, a Gypsy can make the Exalted One's life into a thoroughly dangerous hell of accidents, chance occurrences, and freak coincidences. Cars swerve to hit him, his tuna salad is contaminated with botulism, the tasty-looking Vessel turns out to be a Lupine, the fugu chef is hungover, the disgruntled employee starts shooting while he's in the office; he gets the wrong address and walks into a Blood Feast, and so on. There is a pretty good chance that he will die as a result of one (or more) of these accidents. The Exalted is especially deadly if used in conjunction with Kali's Blessing.
System: 2d6+Will vs 2d6+Will. Success, Target will immediately do the opposite of what he had intended with minimal coaxing from the Gypsy.
The Gypsy can make a target do/say/think something opposite of what was actually intended ("yes" instead of "no", etc.).
System: 2d6+Will vs 2d6+Will. Target's Will is reduced by 1/2 for the duration. The Gypsy can inflict a Delirium on someone, causing her to lose half her normal modifier to Masteries affecting the Mind.
System: 2d6+Gypsy's Mind vs 2d6+Target's Soul. Success, Target will feel compelled to do immediately what the Gypsy tempts her to do.
By describing her victim's weaknesses to her, the Gypsy may encourage a victim to behave in a corrupt and decadent fashion.
System: 2d6+Will vs 2d6+Will. Success, lie is believed without question.
Allows the implantation of a lie, no matter how outrageous, and to make the target believe it. The lie cannot be more than two sentences long, and must be based on some facet of the truth. Whatever the case, when the Deceiver dies, the lie dies with her. Here comes the fun part.
A misinformative lie may be used as the "truth" of another lie. This is the great power of the Gypsy. They lie, and they lie well.
System: 2d6+Will vs 2d6+Will. Success, statement is implanted.
Allows the Gypsy to implant a statement into the subconscious of the target. The target will never remember that she heard it, but in her subconscious, she will remember it perfectly, and follow through with what it says. There is no way to get it out, and the target may well be under a life influence.
System: 2d6+Will = TN or better. All those in the presence of the target will feel an intense unexplainable hatred toward him.
This curse must be cast in the presence of its victim; the Gypsy can make all others react to a victim with hostility.
Each time the target intends to lie, it forces his to tell the truth for the duration and must answer without hesitation (not attempting to be silent and avoid since the target will not realize his words are the truths as opposed to the lies, until after they are already spoken).
System: 2d6+Will = TN or better. Success, thirst lasting the duration.
The Gypsy may curse a victim with an unquenchable thirst, the target must do nothing but drink.
System: 2d6+Will = TN or better. Success, the Gypsy using a werewolf cloak, may turn into a wolf and use the werewolf's mastery of Dispas, blending into its surroundings unseen for the duration.
System: 2d6+Will = TN or better. Success, the Target's Soul is reduced -3 for the duration.
A coy and easygoing people, the gitans can be deadly when threatened or provoked; their derisive laughter combined with a sharp eye contact can strike unnerving fear into the heart of a victim, that stare and dark laughter startling the opponent while the gitan moves against her.