By Timothy Toner (thanatos@interaccess.com)
"Well, Janice told me that Jeff wanted to go back to his room, and she wasn't so sure, since he was supposed to be going out with Mary later on that night..."
"You mean nothing happened? Jeff has been telling everyone he scored on her!"
"Well, that's what she told me. You know how she is..."
A slim woman walked into the classroom, pushing a tv cart before her. She set it up hastily, and turned to the class.
"Tonight we're going to begin our discussion of horror and the postmodern; horror that knows it's horror. The easier manifestation of this self-reflexivity is found in satire. We'll be discussing the Evil Dead movies in this regard. This evening, however, I want to show you Lair of the White Worm, by Ken Russel, an intriguing transition from the original to the copied, from the real to the surreal..."
Karen rolled her eyes to heaven. She took this course because it was supposed to be fun, not to have her think. Watch movies, pass in a few trite pages. Then she could get the hell out of this school, and into the real world.
She stared at her friend Patty, who smiled back at some stupid joke she was composing on her notebook. 'Play the game, Karen,' she warned herself. Gah, if only college was more like high school.
"You're blocking my view."
Unaware that someone was sitting behind her, Karen turned to glare at the moron. He was faux chic, one of the wannabes that just weren't cutting it. He wore his sunglasses defiantly, and yet to her they were absurd, unnatural. A razor hadn't scratched his face in a week, and the odor that drifted from him suggested that perhaps water was alien as well.
She muttered, "burnout," and shifted a tad to the left. At least she was farther from Patty.
Her friend poked her in the arm, and gestured at the pad. "Isn't he creepy?" Creepy? Was Patty on drugs? Could she possibly be falling for the attitude? Please! 'Play the game!' She smiled and nodded. Creepy. Heh. Her boyfriend coming back home after last call was creepy. This guy was stupid.
Funny. This stranger wasn't in any of her previous classes. She then recalled the upcoming exam, and realized he was just putting life off until the last minute. 'Why the hell am I even thinking about this loser?' Turning to watch the show, she tried to push him, Patty, reality, everything out of her mind. She hoped the movie wouldn't suck...
It was an hour into it, and Karen couldn't take it any more. Something was bubbling over in her mind, some grand inconsistency that nagged at her brain. 'What's wrong with this picture?' she repeated over and over. It got so bothersome that the worry seemed to bleed into her physicality. 'Maybe a trip to the washroom...'
She stood and left, despite an admonishing glare from the teacher. A lot of students who did this never came back. Karen reassured her with a smile, and stepped out the door.
Here, in one of the most antiseptic areas of the University, a fear borne of silence and sterility stained the walls with white. It was a night class, so she didn't expect the halls to be bustling with people, but there seemed to be something absent altogether.
'No...' Mer mind, suddenly distant, couldn't grasp it. She hastened to the washroom, splashed water in her face, and sighed at the reflection. Brad was supposed to be waiting for her when she returned. Now she'd have to reapply the makeup and fix her hair. 'Why did I have to splash my face with water? Why don't I think?'
A shape passed before the mirror. No. 'Behind the mirror.' She took a step back, and stared, stared at the too familiar face reflecting back.
It was like a flutter of movement, and then it was gone.
Karen began to walk back to the room, water still slowly dripping from her fingers. She was numb, and her mind seemed to be on autopilot. 'I'll get my bag and go...'
What had she seen? It was as if her mind wouldn't grasp it, for fear of accepting the impossible. It was movement without cause, motion without explaination. The most puzzling aspect was that she wasn't scared at the least. She just desired to go, to leave this place.
She found herself at the door, and turned the cool knob slowly, waiting for the click. The movie played on within the room, but what else waited for her on the other side? The mirror couldn't open. This could. Would it be there?
No. Nothing. The bored class continued to stare on at the flickering box, and the stranger continued to stare blankly at the door. He frowned at her entrance, and slowly shook his head. 'That's what's been bugging me. I wasn't blocking his view of the tv; I was blocking his view of the door!'
This knowledge didn't settle her at all. Despite her mounting concerns ('not fears...concerns') she took her seat, and watched on, slowly sliding her chair to the left, to give him whatever he desired.
Minutes anguished and suffered, transforming into hours by the strain of waiting. Waiting. 'Waiting for what?'
A knock. The teacher, annoyed, moved to get the door, her eyes still glued on the action. Karen wanted to warn. She also wanted to hide, but neither emotion won out. She remained . . . seated.
Opening the door revealed a monster beyond the meagre dimensions of the civilized human brain. It was primitive and primeval, savage and bestial, yet walking on two legs. It snarled, and the teacher fainted away.
The beast smiled at this, a room full of frozen children, and finally selected one. From deep within its throat, it rumbled, "Patty." And moved to take her.
'Not take. Kill." This she knew, even though she did not understand. If she did nothing, her friend would die, and die horribly.
'You don't even like her! She's not your friend. She's not...'
"And Karen, who hung up the phone on her best friend who was distraught over the loss of a boyfriend, who didn't see the point of weeping at a funeral of a sorority sister who had OD'ed on amphetamines, Karen cared...
'If you do care, stay down...'
This was an alien voice in her head, male, masculine, reassuring. She should have been angered by the invasive nature, mystified by its unknown suddeness, but she was neither. 'Now you sit and learn...'
'Now I sit and learn.'
All this took mere seconds, but it was enough. Karen could move, could act. The paralysis was gone, as was something else she couldn't quite place.
"Come Patty...your father has made carrion of my children, and now I return the honor." Patty slowly stood, too scared to disobey.
A shot rang out, next to Karen, scorching her ears with its blast. It smalled into the creature, with no noticible effect.
"Back off, Horul. She's innocent. She knows nothing of her father's sins. Take your war to him. Don't repeat his crime, his raping of the future."
Its vocal cords were not made to speak complex sentences, and yet it tried. "I thought I smelled a Wyrm in here. I guessed it was the girl. No matter. Two abominations will be slaughtered tonight. Too bad you didn't use silver." It reached into the oozing wound, plucked out a pellet, then flicked it aside.
"I deal with many of your kind, Horul. I am honorable. My first shot is always a warning." A sudden flurry of movement, and more deafening explosions. At last, the creature slumped to the floor, twitching.
The stranger grabbed Karen, and hauled her to her feet. "You wanted to help, right?"
She nodded gravely. He pressed a silver knife, exquisitiely sharp, into her hands. "Help me with Chucklehead, here."
While the class began to stir, as if out of a terrible nightmare, they dragged the slowly shrinking corpse out into the hall.
It was now a wolf, but larger than any of the ones in Janice's nature magazines. He propped the corpse against the door, effectively blocking anyone trying to leave.
With a sudden, terrifying motion, he plunged a knife he had extracted from his pocket into one of the many bullet wounds. "C'mon! We don't have much time!"
And slowly, she inserted her blade into the creature, and began to dig and scoop, searching for hidden bullets. She was not told what to retrieve, but suddenly it all made sense why she had to do this. As soon as the silvery round was extracted, he shoved another pellet into the hole.
In a moment they were done. The stranger, more sinister now than she ever imagined, took the bullets from her blood soaked hands. He pecked her on the cheek, and whispered, "You did great, kid."
Fists began to pound on the door, and the press against it made the carcass slowly slide forward, streaking the white floor crimson.
He grabbed her again, and led her toward the bathroom. "Get in there, and wash up. Get all this off you...quick!"
"My dress..." In her mind, it was a minor thing; her dress was now sticky and saturated with the blood of the monster. She would never make it home unmolested, but somehow the horror of the situation, the improbability of it all didn't affect her. Blood on her dress was no worse than wine: a bitch to get out.
The stranger shook his head, finally seeing the pathetic sight she had become. He removed his trenchcoat, amazingly free of the gore of the battle, and draped it around her. "Now clean up. Say you weren't feeling well, and you went in there to puke or something. When you heard shots, you hid, okay?"
"Sure. What about..."
"Those guys? They won't be able to remember a damn thing."
"What about you?"
"Me? I'll probably get a new coat. Keep that one. Something tells me you'll be needing it.
"I know this is all really confusing to you right now, but don't worry. It gets easier. Just look for other like you, wearing the coat. You'll know who's real and who isn't. They'll help you out."
With that, he dashed toward the exit.
She slowly soaked her hands in the cool water of the sink, ignoring the screams that echoed in the halls, the sobbing of classmates horrified by the discovery. When she was done, she opened the drain, and let it all wash away. She slipped on the coat, and walked to where they were waiting for her. The weight of the gun, still in a pocket, pressed against her hip.
She wasn't worried. 'They won't ask me to open the coat. They won't see what's in my pocket.'
And they didn't. She spent the entire interview somberly staring forward. The police took it for shock. It was, in fact, revelation. All her hopes were confirmed. The secret world she always dreamed about, as a little girl, talked about in high school, was out there. At last the magick flowed through her, quietly. Her midnight wishes finally had come true.
And she was scared as hell...
What is not well known, however, is that the vast trenches, ankle-deep with mud, blood, and men, was actually a vast laboratory conceived of and created by the Enclave of Technomancers once known as Kindercolt, the Children of Colt. There the latest technomancer toys were tested on a level never before seen. Needleguns, capable of spewing death at an incredible rate. Mustard gas, which seemed to creep along the ground with inhuman intelligence, seeking out the trenches filled with life. Tanks, grenades, flamethrowers, all saw their start in the fields of France. Those that showed promise were later refined and enhanced. Those deemed too brutal were universally banned as "unsporting."
When it was done, the Technomancers should have rejoiced. After all, mankind was forced to look deep within the heart of its intellect, and rather than reviling technology, as they had done in the time of the Luddites, they instead blamed their flawed nature on a dispassionate or absent god, and drank themselves to Sleep. With a few rare exceptions, weapons would nevermore be reviled as "wrongful tools," and the Kindercolt could at last claim great control over war.
Indeed, World War I was the last of the wars that actively employed Magick. Soldiers spoke of legions of spirits rising up in anguish at the suffering caused by both sides. In reality, Euthanatos mages were using such spirits to war on the other side. The entire contingent was wiped out by paradox when, on the next day, a psychiatrist proclaimed the effect "shell shock," and the event a sort of mass hallucination. The soldiers were heartened by the fact that there was a rational explanation, and The next time the Euthanatos tried it, they were doomed.
However, despite the fact that the Technomancers won a war both sides lost, the Kindercolt, with their leader Krupp, were singularly reviled after the war. It would seem the other Technomancers feared their growing power, and subsequently overthrew them, exiling them to a section of the Deep Umbra, from where they could never escape.
For indeed the Kindercolt were not entirely successful in their endeavors. Their machines of death and iron had effects far beyond the mere physical manifestations. The pain and suffering wrought there cohesced, and stalked the trenches, searching for more fresh blood. To all but a few, they were invisible, striking at random, and leaving carnage in their wake. There are those that say these spirits still walk, now far from home, drawn to places of slaughter, where they kill rapturously, and leave only a possessed human to take the fall.
But these creatures were not the greatest mistake of the Kinder. They were, however, the catalyst for what would happen next.
Those who fought on the side of the English were a motley bunch. The rise of the middle class meant that there now was much blurring in rank and state. Once, the lower classes swelled the trenches, lead mindlessly by the indifferent aristocrats, who were more concerned with hills on little pieces of paper than actual human lives.
Now the sons of the middle class filled the trenches. Well educated, they came not out of compulsion, but instead high minded ideals. Democracy. Honor. Duty. Every man had his part in this grand glorious game. For too many, it was to die of dysentary far from home.
What, however, was happening was that vast groups of these educated men were seeing the horrors of war firsthand. Their dreams they had conjured were ripped, and the reality of a safe haven in this horrid place was blown to atoms with the first bomb blast. Psychological warfare played a critical role in the demoralization of the troops, but rather than cowing the masses, as it happened in the past in other dirty little wars, it Changed not a few.
Stories abound of bizarre acts of suicidal bravery that pay off. A lieutenant spotted a man trapped in No Man's Land. His commanding officer deemed him too risky to save. The lieutenant dashed across the field, grabbed the man, and ducked into the trench. After the man was turned over to the medics, the officer examined himself, the coat he was wearing was riddled with bullets. He was unharmed. At his court martial -- he had defied orders to remain at his post -- the lieutenant claimed, "I would not let another man die."
When the war ended, these children of the battlefields, Awakened in the most horrible ways imaginable, sought each other out trying to find solutions. They formed informal societies, and discovered that despite the fact that they were all from various socioeconomic strata, they had one thing in common: at one point, all expressed an interest in the occult. They also discovered that their trauma there had affected them in unknown ways. Things would go their way one minute, then their lives would shatter the next. People would often blindly follow them, and mere thoughts and intents of other people were laid open. What was worse was the increasing reports the members would tell of gaunt pale men following the aristocracy and celebrities, and bestial creatures that walked the streets, while normal men merely looked away. These men were scared and confused by the world they had discovered, and were determined to take it back, no matter what the cost.
They had one more thing in common: the only memento of the war that they felt compelled to keep was the trenchcoat. This, then, was the sign of their Awakening, and the symbol of their struggle.
Now knowing you are not alone in the world is a very powerful thing. These poor souls who could not find meaning to existence after the war now found the strength to go on. The clear majority found jobs to support those few whose abilities had truly manifested in spectacular ways. Anyone who heard of the presence of supernatural forces sent in the details to a respected few, who disseminated the information, and turned it over to the most qualified agent. Of course, it never worked as simple as that, but to them it was enough.
Tangents were made almost immediately with the Arcanum, and both groups decided to work together, sharing resources and data, to aid the other in their respective quests. By and large, the Trenchcoaters, as they came to be known, did not divulge the true extent of their powers to anyone, lest the Arcanum change their mind and hunt them down. Also, the Trenchcoaters became very aware of the deliberate attempt to shroud the existence of the supernatural from humanity. They decided, for the benefit of all, to also remain in the shadows.
And so it went for many years. Inroads were made with the rest of the Traditions, but to the Trenchcoaters, their application of magic was making it all worse, and not better. It became an unspoken policy to use and abuse mages and other supernatural creatures whenever necessary, to make them realize what it was like to be human, with no power at all.
This shouldn't have lasted, however. The horrors of the War were fading into memory, and the Trenchcoaters, once young and defiant, were now old and wanted to give it all up. They would have, if not for Victor Rogers, son of Gregory Rogers, one of the founders of the Trenchcoaters.
Victor showed up at one meeting (the gatherings, once conducted under the veil of "a social club" had degenerated to just that) wearing his father's tattered trenchcoat, tears streaming down his eyes. He explained that his father was expecting a visitor, and asked Victor to fetch something at the store.
When Victor returned, his father was dead, his throat slashed and oozing blood. He dashed outside into the night, recalling he had heard footprints when he was arriving. Blind to all but anger, he met up with the monster which had killed his father. With an inhuman fury, he beat it down, until it moved no more.
Rising, and still consumed with fury and sadness, he suddenly seemed to black out. When he recovered, he was sitting in his father's chair, wearing his coat. Further, his father was laying sprawled before him, his throat uncut. For a moment, a mere second, he thought the beast a dream, but then why were his hands still spattered with its blood?
Urges beyond his understanding compelled him to come here, to the meeting, and tell his tale. Saying this, he collapsed from exhaustion. A doctor in the crowd examined him, and found a horrid wound delivered by the beast, and, until now, ignored.
After healing his wounds, they gathered together, and talked in a manner like they never had talked before. Many confessed now that their children, or their children's friends, had that same haunted look they once saw in their own eyes. When asked what was wrong, they hedged, claiming the world Depression and the spectre of a second world war hung heavily in their minds. But the Trenchcoaters could not be fooled.
Was it happening all over again? After all, another war was on the horizon. History seemed apt to repeat itself. Furthermore, the occult world they had been battling over the past twenty years seemed to parallel the real one. Despite their best efforts, the creatures of magick were spilling over into this world, licking their talons at the prospect of another bloody war. Worse, the attempts of some of the Trenchcoaters to expose more of the world to the occult and its hidden dangers, through pulp stories, instead had caused more young people to be seduced by the dark forces about them. It was the friends of these unfortunates who would be the next generation of Trenchcoaters.
Faced with this outlook, the Trenchcoaters had but two options: surrender, or continue in what seemed to be a no-win situation. The vote was unanimous.
The Society disbanded, and placed all its holdings in strategic interests. It knew that to fight the establishment, it could not become part of the establishment. The greatest of the Trenchcoaters, Nigel Binford, then prepared the Bar, a concept he was working on since stepping into his first node.
The Bar was a miraculous weapon, which would make the need to gather all but pointless. Based on the highest principles of the Spheres of all but Entropy and Life, it would act as a battering ram, riding the ley lines in the near Umbra, orbiting the planet, and shattering Quintessence dams created by greedy mages. What it also would do would be to act as a receiver, a stable point by which the Trenchcoaters could direct their powers and draw on for reference, information, and assistance. The Bar would act on a subconscious level, to send information to those Trenchcoaters unaware of its existence.
The point of all this was to provide Trenchcoaters with resources outside the realm of standard Magick. Mundane means of hunting Trenchcoaters through each other was impossible, since the only tangible link was the ever moving, never detectable Rod. Further, the Bar proved to be the central focus of the Trenchcoater movement, symbolizing their interconnectedness to others of their kind, and to all things.
The battle continues to this day. Defying others to call them a Tradition, the Coaters extend the honor of membership to all Awakened species, having several Kindred, Garou, Spirits, and even one mummy, as allies. They tend not to seek each other out, and when two or three do meet, by "accident," there is usually a reason.
The Trenchcoaters by nature are loners. However, recognizing the need of allies, they often mingle with supernatural beings. Often, it would seem that the Coaters, too weak to play with the "big boys," are often either hiding behind their more powerful allies, or using them to fight their battles. Their peculiar relationship with foci also leads many mages to distrust their Orphan brethren.
For the Coaters, the mages, Technomancers and Traditionists alike, are the ones making it worse. They despise those who abuse power and reality, to fight their petty war, and don't think twice about messing with their foci, and disrupting rituals with Sleeper pizza boys paying a visit. Because they distrust the Traditions, they don't buy into the anti-Technomancer rhetoric spouted by these groups. Uneducated in the nuances of reality, they see nothing wrong with the not-so gentle ministrations of the 'Mancers (as they refer to them) unless it comes to some of their really excessive powers, such as Mark IV's and cloning. (Basically, play the Trenchcoater as a Sleeper. If the Technomancer shows off something very futuristic and dangerous, the Coater is apt to get pissed).
There are those who believe that there were always Trenchcoaters. As the theory goes, Trenchcoaters are those who were awakened in the presence of one of the celestial spheres. The reason most seem to manifest on battlefields, or as a result of war is due to the fact that large groups mass during war, and subsequently there is a greater chance for a larger number of people to become Awakened when exposed to Mars, Force of War. The fact that more and more Trenchcoaters are awakened when exposed to Terror, which has no direct planetary correspondence, may mean there is indeed an unknown sphere out there, undetectable to even the Void Engineers.
Finally, Trenchcoaters passively control their power most of the time. Subsequently, they feel magic must be coaxed, and not shoved down anyone's throat, as it was done to them. They feel the concept of patterns are too complex for normal magi to understand. Strangely, this belief empowers them in a bizarre manner. Since they give in to the call of the pattern, they find it much easier to manipulate their personal pattern, with its connections to other patterns. Some say that this subconscious yearning reinforces their desire to protect humanity, as they feel the connection to those who are hurt.
Their weakness in relation to vulgar spheric magick compels them to use foci when trying vulgar magic. This usually requires the foci of another Tradition. Thus, to use Forces in a vulgar fashion, they must rely on the language foci of the Order of Hermes (usually Latin).
However, an interesting quirk manifest when they get their hands on just such a foci. They can tap into the sympathetic pattern each magi invests into a foci when it is used as a channel for mystical energy (whether or not it is unique). When an item is stolen, it can be used to lower difficulties on magic cast through the focus. The foci starts with a pool of 5 for a non-unique item, 10 with an unique item. Every time the foci is tapped, difficulties are lowered by one. The item is burned out at a rate equal to the highest level of magick. Thus, when using Matter 3, Correspondence 2 through batteries owned and used by a Son of the Ether, the difficulty to the roll is diminished by one. Since the highest sphere tapped was three, the item is drained three. When the item is completely tapped, it can function as a normal foci. There are no "unique" items.
Some of the more peculiar foci they require, like languages, can be tapped in modern ways. Thus, to use Forces with the -1 difficulty, the Trenchcoater has to get an Order of Hermes mage on tape. Realize, however, that this turns the Hermetic mage's coincidental act into a vulgar with no witnesses (there now is proof of the magic) and a vulgar with no witnesses into a vulgar with witnesses. Some hermetic mages might be a bit miffed when this occurs.
Although this would seem as a boon for a Trenchcoater, most mages are leery to give away a focus, regardless of how readily it can be replaced. The Trenchcoaters can easily tap into forces they cannot, and it frightens them. Subsequently, a trenchcoater must steal the majority of the foci he wants, storing them in boltholes until they are needed.
Sure, run on in, and fight the Machine. Fight the forces of darkness and crap Man wasn't meant to know. Just remember, it's fools like me that'll have to run in there and save your lousy asses.
Celestial Chorus: Is it live, or Memorex? Who gives a flip! These holier than thou types really need a reality check. The world isn't as cut and dry as they make it out to be, and they're only cutting the innocent out of the loop. When you fight demons and stare into that Abyss, remember to try not to step on those you're defending.
Cult of Ecstasy: A bunch of circle jerkers. They're so intoxicated with what gets them off, they miss the big picture. Magick's a tool. You use it wrong, you use it to get your jollies, and people die. The only life is a life free of vices. Hey! Those silk cuts get me through the night...!
Dreamspeakers: Omm...Omm...Hairy Goddamn Fishnuts. Get a job.
Euthanatos: A good idea. Cack those who abuse the Stuff. Too bad they don't start closer to home.
Hollow Ones: Please! Listen to a little Joy Division, and suddenly you have the right to twist reality like a pretzel? I'd like to take the wanker that created this bunch, and drop him off a cliff.
Order of Hermes: Maybe the Oldest. Definitely the most lost. Always toying and manipulating, never taking responsibility for their actions. They'll get theirs, and soon.
Sons of Ether: These guys aren't so bad, since they usually leave a lot of pretty potent stuff lying around to swipe. Also, you can usually get a hearty chuckle out of their best efforts.
Verbena: Nothin' like that ol' Black Magick, right? Hell. I thought we got rid of these black bastards at Salem. Just trying to scam a foci off them is creepy enough.
Virtual Adepts: Let them play at their video games. The Technomancers will fry their brains, hang them out to dry, and maybe download a clue into their addled brains. Magic is here and it's now! Why spread it to virgin worlds?
Dream: Once a lunar cycle, the mage can summon and speak with a mystical being known as the Lord of Dream. Through this connection, any question can be asked, and answered -- for a price. The advantage is that the Lord of Dream can access the subconscious of the Dreamer. There is no chance for the victim to discover the inquiry, unlike most Mind abilities.
Arcane: The mage's connection to reality begins to get tenuous. Reality seems to want to deny her existence. A piece of paper once held suddenly bursts into flame when discarded, leaving no ashes. The mage must make a conscious effort to leave record of her passing.
Allies: One specific ally seems to lead a particularly charmed life. Nothing seems to keep her down long, and she's always willing to lend a hand, regardless of what you do to her.
Resources: Money really loses all value to the user. A quick check in a coin return always reveals change, and the bill is seldom calculated correctly, whether it be at restaurant, the grocery store, or from the power company.
Node: When the character achieves mastery in Node, something happens to her pattern. So entwined is she within the quintessence flow that her own pattern comes to resemble a nodal trap, catching free quintessence, as does a Node. Thus, for all purposes, the character is constantly standing in a node. However, this does not come without a price. To reform a personal pattern on such a level prevents direct application of the Prime sphere. Thus, the character can never exceed her Avatar rating, and must constantly apply quintessence to keep effects going (one point of quintessence for each turn).
Coincidence: This rare innate quality seems only to be possessed by those who never quest for personal mastery of magick, but instead allow it to obey its own ebb and flow. Subsequently, things happen, both good and bad. Each dot allows a die to be added to any non-magick dice pool, even surpassing the 10-limit. To an observer, the mage is "finding" stuff he requires. However, each application creates a phantom point of Paradox (the universe does not liked to be tweaked). Start on the outside of the Paradox chart, and place a dot for each current paradox point. For each application place another on the outside of the track, whether he uses one or five points. If he picks up a paradox point later, a space is filled in the wheel, and a dot is placed on the outside. When phantom paradox hits quintessence reserves, reality goes awry. A 1-point paradox flaw is picked up, usually humorous and embarassing. Often, a real point of paradox is picked up.
The dice pool is regenerated at a rate of 1 per hour, or recharged through quintessence on a one for one basis (reality manipulation is reality manipulation.
Immunity: This new background confers a form of resistance to (1) Sphere. A mage can reinforce his pattern versus attacks aligned against his pattern. Taking the amount spent on the background, a mage can use this total to negate attacks on his person. For each point alloted, a success against the mage is negated. This is a reactive ability. The mage knows how much he needs to spend to negate the effect.
However, the hardening goes both ways. Not only is he rendered immune, but he also steals from himself part of his influence over that Sphere. Thus, if 2 points are spent, two successes are negated for the rest of the day from each roll using the given sphere. However, every time he attempts to use that sphere, or if it is used beneficially against him, two successes are wasted. If he had a 4 rating, and added 2 more effects, he would be immune to four successes against the sphere.
Only one sphere can ever be selected. The effect lasts until the next sunrise, or the next moonrise. Once the effect is negated, points are regained at a rate of 1 per hour.
Favor: This level one to five background symbolizes how good the character is at finagling people. It can be used on a one to one basis to emulate most tangible backgrounds. It is used up during the course of a story, and is replenished only at the end.
The background usually works like this. If the item/person/thing is to be returned, then it can be used on a point to point basis. If it is to be kept, then it works as a background at 2 less. As an example, the mage want to get his hands on some fast cash. He has a level 4 favor. If he intends to give it back, he can get the full cash value. If he intends to keep it, it acts as a Resource 2.
The background cannot be used to supplant an existing resource. For instance, if the Mage has a level 1 resource, and wishes to spend a level 2 favor, he can only get the level 2 resource total for the favor.
In the case of the Trenchcoaters, this is not merely the ability to mooch. It is part of their unique ability to create connections. Basically, one moment the mage is bereft of friends, and the next a connection has been created between her and someone with a valuable ally.
90% of Trenchcoater magic is Coincidental, as well as subconscious, as the Trenchcoater taps into her largely hidden potential. To utilize coincidental magick, the Trenchcoater offhand states the effect ("I wonder what he's thinking..."). The Storyteller determines effect level and difficulty as usual. However, the ST rolls the dice. The Trenchcoater never knows to what degree her powers worked. Since the power derives from the subconscious, sometimes, during emotional moments, the mage triggers her power. Of course, spending a willpower point negates the effect.
Although the trenchcoat does not act as a focus, many Trenchcoaters build up the Favor background, and convince mages to augment their individual garment as Talismans. Bulletproofing is a must, as well as protection from the elements. Some prefer to have weapons and effects stored into it, as well as a healing effect. Perhaps the first trenchcoater, Ambrose Bierce had his garment augmented so that it consistently put beef sandwiches in his pocket, never looked crumpled or dirty, and completely arrested the flow of time around him, so that he never aged.
Trenchcoaters have an innate disdain for the Prime Sphere. They cannot comprehend the concept of limiting the flow of quintessence in a pattern, or even treating it as a force to be manipulated. Subsequently, they work strictly on their Avatar ratings to gain quintessence, and hoard pieces of tass as the natural way of storing magick. However, once a 5 is garnered in Avatar, something happens within the Trenchcoater, and he understands the subtle nuances of quintessence. Only then will he begin to understand the Reason for Prime, and take it to heart.