Perchance to Dream
Jonathan Stone, a.k.a. Jonathan MacCallister, is 6'7" and weighs 254 lbs. His hair is black, seems naturally unkempt, and often hangs in his eyes. His eye is brown, but looks red to Changelings. His seeming gives him the appearance of a hulking ogre.
|Giant (Core Rules, pg. 112)||4||Stone (Changeling, pg. 144)||5|
|Iron Stamina (Core Rules, pg. 113)||3||Smoke (Changeling, pg. 132)||1|
|New Identity (Changeling, pg. 98)||(2)|
|Fighting Style: Boxing||3|
|Glamour||12, 3 per turn|
One Eye (Core Rules, pg. 219)
* Your character is missing an eye. He has no real depth perception, so all penalties for ranged attacks are doubled. If he attempts to drive in heavy traffic, any 1’s rolled on any die cancel out successes on a one-to-one basis, and you may not re-roll 10’s.
* House Rule: -1 to sight-based Perception rolls.
Motley Pledge (Changeling, pg. 188)
* Type: Vow
* Tasks: Alliance, Greater (-3, All)
* Boons: Adroitness ( + 1, all — Subterfuge), Blessing, Medial ( + 2, all — New Identity)
* Sanction: Poisoning of Boons, Greater (-3, poisoning both Adroitness and Blessing boons)
* Duration: Year and a day (+3)
* Invocation: 1 Willpower (all)
Ogres are mostly big, often ugly and always capable of frightening displays of brute force. The player can spend points of Glamour to improve dice pools involving Strength, Brawl and Intimidate. Each point of Glamour spent adds one die to the dice pool.
Not all Ogres are necessarily stupid but most are fairly gullible, weak-willed and prone to impulsive, thoughtless actions. An Ogre doesn’t get the benefit of the 10 again rule on dice pools using Composure (with the exception of Perception rolls using Wits + Composure, which suffer no penalty). The character also suffers a -1 die penalty to Composure when using it as a Defense Trait (that is, when subtracting it from another character’s dice pool).
Smell the Blood (Changeling, pg. 118)
* The character gains the benefit of the 8 again rule on Wits-based Perception rolls. He can smell things that can’t normally be smelled, meaning that, even if some of his senses are deficient, his sense of smell makes up for it.
Jonathan Stone was born into a poor household, to an abusive father (Benjamin Stone) and an alcoholic mother (Lila). Lila tried to protect Jonathan, but inadvertently exposed him to psychological abuse in the process. When Benjamin went on his rampages, Lila locked Jonathan in the closet and told him to recite the Lord’s Prayer in order to block out the noise. It mostly worked until a week after Jonathan’s eighth birthday, which was the day Mommy and Daddy got into a fight so bad that the police had to intervene. Lila was hospitalized, and Benjamin got sent to jail. In all of the confusion, Jonathan remained undiscovered, and ended up trapped for almost two days before Mommy was coherent enough to start asking for her son. He was found in the closet, mouthing his prayer frantically through parched lips.
Due to the sensitive nature of the situation, Jonathan was placed into foster care. He didn’t take well to the situation, and grew ever more reclusive. He was returned to Lila’s care at age 10. She’d cleaned up her act, and life was good—until Benjamin got out of prison six months later. He returned home, and while things started out promisingly, he did eventually start hitting her, which drove Lila to drink, and everything drifted back into the old norm. It was almost inevitable when Lila “fell down the stairs” and Benjamin was returned to prison.
Jonathan’s second foster family was worse than the first. His foster father, one David Calhoun, was verbally aggressive, especially after a few too many beers. His foster mother, Beth-Ann, while kindly enough, was too timid to do anything about the verbal abuse that was heaped upon her and the children. A week before Jonathan’s twelfth birthday, David cornered Beth-Ann in the kitchen while Jonathan was in the room. Jonathan had lived through similar scenes many times; he knew the signs. David was about to start hitting his wife.
Jonathan couldn’t allow that to happen.
He attacked David, so viciously that by the time the police arrived David was barely recognizable. Jonathan found himself in police custody. Worse, when questioned, Beth-Ann sided with David, claiming that Jonathan’s reaction was unnecessary and excessive. The psychiatrist who evaluated Jonathan’s state of mind found him to be mentally unstable and, rather than being sent to prison, Jonathan was sent to a mental hospital.
Jonathan didn’t respond well to treatment. In fact, most of the things the doctors did to “help” him only served to make him feel worse. He was in the hospital for four years before he decided that the doctors were never going to let him go and he needed to find a way out. Unfortunately, he was unable to find one… until the day he opened up the janitor’s closet and discovered a completely different room inside.
It’s never warm in the hospital, but this room’s fuckin’ cold. An’ bright. Light almost seems ta radiate off the walls. An’, in the center of the room, there’s a white desk with a doctor-lookin’ guy seated behind it. He motions fer me ta come in, smilin’ a grin that almost seems too wide fer his face. Motions fer me ta take a seat at the white chair I hadn’t noticed ‘til just that second. …An’, even though ever’thin’ about this seems wrong, I find myself walkin’ in an’ sittin’ down.
“Hello, Mister Stone. I’m Doctor Thorne. I hear you’re slated for your evaluation next week.”
The guy’s wearin’ a labcoat, there’s a stethoscope draped around ‘is neck, an’ he’s takin’ notes on a clipboard. Never fuckin’ stops with the note-takin’. He looks every bit the doctor, but somethin’ about him’s just… off. He’s skeleton-thin an’ freakishly tall, an’ his eyes almost glow red behind his glasses. An’, like I said, there’s that grin. It never leaves his fuckin’ face.
“I’ve spoken with the other doctors, and from what I gather, you’re not making any progress under their care. They want to keep you here another year, can you imagine?”
My jaw an’ fists clench. You wouldn’t figure the guy’s smile could get any wider, but it does. He sets down his notebook, steeples his hands in front’a his chest, an’ keeps talkin’.
“I, on the other hand, think you are more than healthy enough to leave the hospital. If you are willing to sign yourself under my care, I guarantee you will be able to leave this hospital whole and hale in record time.” He leans forward, an’ I can see the eagerness in his eyes. “So… what do you say? Would you like to go home?”
Somethin’ about this is wrong. Everythin’ about this is wrong. I walked into a fuckin’ closet, didn’t I? But, shit, if I’ve gone crazy, I might as well fuckin’ roll with it. “Yeah. I wanna go home.”
“Excellent.” The bastard stands up an’ starts changin’, gettin’ taller an’ taller as his face expands ta contain that ever-growin’ grin. His clothes melt inta his body an’ once his glasses vanish, there’s no denyin’ that his eyes are blood-red an’ glowin’ with hellish glee.
The arms of my chair turn inta vines, complete with thorns, an’ wrap around me before I get the chance ta jump up. I scream as they bite inta my skin, rippin’ an’ tearin’ at flesh an’ muscle. Every time I move they just squeeze tighter, ‘til all I can do is breathe.
The walls start boilin’. Growin’. Changin’ color an’ texture an’ crawlin’ with creeper-vines. The ceiling vaults upward as all the surfaces change to volcanic stone. Blackened trees lunge up outta the ground an’ grow straight up inta the ceiling like livin’ pillars. There’s a reddish glow from the far side’a the room, where this little stream’a lava flows through the floor. The room’s not hot, though – it’s just as cold as it was before, if not colder.
Doctor Thorne – not that that’s his real name, there’s no way it’s his real name – leans forward an’ speaks in a soothing tone as he strokes my face with unnaturally long, inhumanly cool fingers. “You’re not well, Mister Stone. But we’ll fix that. Won’t we, pets?”
A horde’a people step out from the shadows, dressed like doctors an’ nurses preparin’ fer surgery. Some of ‘em have scalpels an’ surgical saws; some of ‘em have nasty complicated tools I’ve never seen before. All their tools gleam wickedly in the hellish glow. All of ‘em are warped or mutated, somehow. One of ’em has his mouth an’ eyes stitched shut. Lots of ‘em are missin’ eyes or limbs. Some of ‘em have their tools pokin’ directly out of their flesh.
Doctor Thorne reaches forward an’ plucks my right eyeball out of its socket. I howl in pain. He examines it thoroughly, then takes his free hand an’ uses it ta hold my mouth open. My eyes widen as I realize he’s movin’ ta stuff my own eye down my throat.
“Time to take your medicine…”
I can’t help it. I scream.