“The seventh child of a seventh child? Aren’t you supposed to be, like, psychic or something?” A sudden burst of laughter makes the speaker – a gangly young man barely out of his teens – look around uncertainly. “What?” he asks. The other two men make no attempt to hide their mirth.
“Psychic!” one of them splutters. “That’s a new one.”
“Psychotic, more like,” says the other. He starts to say something else, only to break off with a yelp as someone jabs her elbow into his ribs. Rubbing his side, he shoots an injured glance at the elbow’s owner. “Responding with violence just proves my point, you know.”
Evelyn smiles sweetly at him. “Shut the fuck up, Carson.” Ignoring both his glower and Sanford’s continued mirth, she returns her attention to Smith. “If I was, then someone forgot to pass the message on. I’m about as psychic as a brick.”
“Subtle as one, too,” Carson mutters.
She doesn’t try to deny it. “Well, you know what they say: Blunt by name, blunt by nature.”
“Know what else they say about you?”
“No, what?”
“Oh, nothing of any real interest. Forget I brought it up.”
“I’m interested. Tell me.”
“I couldn’t possibly be a party to gossip and rumour-mongering. It’s a matter of principle.”
She snorts. “You wouldn’t know a principle if it bit you on the arse. And unless you want me to kick that flabby posterior of yours, you’ll tell me exactly what you’ve heard.”
Smith interrupts before Carson can reply to the threat, his mind evidently still on the previous subject. “But there are all the legends and stuff. It has to mean something.”
“We’ll continue this later,” Evelyin mutters to Carson. He just grins. “What it means,” she says to Smith, “is that the Blunts have been Catholic since forever. Almost before they started joining the army. They have large families, and seven children isn’t exactly unusual. Odds of a seventh child having a seventh kid of their own are actually relatively high.”
“But…”
“It’s just statistics. Doesn’t mean anything.”
“Smith’s superstitious, though.” Sanford swats him on the shoulder, more or less gently. “Chucks salt over his shoulder if he spills it; won’t walk under ladders…”
Smith flushes. “I’m not that bad,” he protests.
“Yeah, y’are. Don’t worry, though. We’ll soon knock that shit out of you.”
“It’s not shit!” The background noises of the pub quieten briefly; people breaking off their conversations to see what the shouting’s about. They soon pick up again when it’s obvious nothing exciting is happening. Smith flushes even brighter red, sinking down in his seat. “Well, it’s not all shit, anyway,” he mutters.”
“Something you feel strongly about?” Evelyn raises her eyebrows enquiringly.
“Not really.” At Carson’s disbelieving snort, he hunches over defensively. “Well, maybe a little.”
“Why?”
He shrugs uncomfortably. “I’m just interested.”
“Tell ’em your theory, kid.” Sanford nudges him, grinning. To the other two, he says. “This is a good one.” For a moment, Smith looks like he’s going to refuse, but then he sighs wearily.
“It’s not my theory,” he says. “It’s a fairly old one, actually. A lot of people think that superstitions are the remnants of protective rituals. Except that no one really remembers what they’re for. They do them out of habit, but the meanings have been lost.”
“Okay, I’ll bite,” says Carson. “What are they supposed to protect people from?”
“All kinds of things.” Smith is obviously warming to his subject. “Bad luck, curses and…” He falters, looking down at the table. “Things.”
“Things?”
Slumping further in his seat, Smith mutters something inaudible.
“What was that?”
Somewhat louder, he says: “Monsters.” There’s a brief pause, and Sanford and Carson burst out laughing again. Evelyn remains silent, frowning.
“He means vampires and werewolves and ghosts, oh my” chortles Sanford. “Real Hammer Horror stuff.”
“You really believe in all of this?” Smith doesn’t answer Carson’s question, staring into the bottom of his glass as if he’s wishing it would just swallow him up.
Evelyn drains her own glass and stands up. “Well, it looks like it’s my round, lads,” she says firmly. What do you want?”
Carson and Sanford don’t need telling twice. “Beer!” they chorus.
“Might’ve known,” she grins. “What about you, Smith?”
“The same,” he says, looking relieved at the change of subject. “Thanks.”
“You can come and help me carry them.” He nods, following her to the bar. While they’re waiting to be served, she gives him a lop-sided smile. “They don’t mean anything by it, you know. They take the piss out of everyone.”
“Yeah, I know.” Another minute or so goes by, both of them lost in their own thoughts.
“So,” she says, casually. “Do you believe in monsters?”
He looks up at her sharply, but the hurt betrayal melts into a puzzled frown when he sees the oddly intense look in her eyes. “I believe there are things out there that science can’t explain,” he says, cautiously.
“Oh?”
“Yeah.” His shoulders twitch in an awkward shrug. “It’s just… You hear things, sometimes. Strange things. Most of it’s just crap, but there’s always the odd incident that can’t really be explained away. Individually, they don’t amount to much, but if you put them together, they start to add up.”
“And what do you think they add up to?”
He starts to say something, and then hesitates, evidently changing his mind. Taking a deep breath, he meets her eyes and says, softly: “There are monsters out there. I think… I think there always have been.” She tilts her head to one side, studying him thoughtfully. Smith shifts uncomfortably under the regard, flushing slightly and looking away.
“If that’s true, then why doesn’t everyone know? Why isn’t this out in the open?”
“They’re good at hiding,” he says, simply. “And… I’m reading a book at the moment, by Professor Lyons. He’s written a whole bunch of books, actually. Anyway, he says that people don’t want to believe the world isn’t as neat and orderly as explainable as they’d like it to be. So they just close their eyes and go about their lives.”
“Do you believe that?”
“I guess. Yeah.”
The silence stretches for a few moments, and then she says, quietly: “So do I.”
His head snaps round and he stares at her, his mouth an ‘O’ of surprise. “Have you…?” he starts to ask, but she cuts across the question like a scalpel through flesh.
“So, these rituals and superstitions…”
“Y, yes?” He blinks, still a little off-balance.
A grim smile lifts the corners of her lips but doesn’t come anywhere near her eyes. “Do they work?”

I think some of my complaints regarding the skill squeeze for White Court vampires, specifically Raith vampires, is that for a competent social combatant, unlike a physical combatant, there is a real drive to have a lot of skills.

For instance, a physical character can happily survive with just a high Weapons skill. Sure, there are going to be times when this is to his disadvantage, but in general he’s golden. If you want someone to like you, then you pretty much have to have Rapport, as I understand it. If you want to lie to someone, you have to have deceit. Granted, there are often ways to use either to achieve your ends, but from a roleplaying perspective, there would seem to be far more disadvantages to just being competent at one.

This was pretty much born out by character creation, where (on 25 skill points) after choosing Good Deceit, Discipline and Weapons (in this case), I was left with having to get Empathy (to read people and social initiative), Presence (social fortitude and how likeable you are at first impression) and Rapport (general social defence and how actively likeable I am). Obviously I had to get most of these at Fair. Possibly this is just coming from SOTC, but this doesn’t exactly strike me as a competent social character. I guess we’ll find out in the playtest.

I’ve only just started thinking about the supernatural elements, but I can see hedge witches, werewolves and faeries fitting in naturally. As you point out, we’re a bit on the small side, so the various vampire courts probably wouldn’t bother with a presence (or much of one) which could make it a good hidey-hole for exiles and runaways.

I’m really looking forward to getting stuck into some research. With the long history of the area and bloody battles that have been fought around here, there must be a rich seam of ghost stories to mine.

It’s going to be a week until the group gets a chance to do some brainstorming, and I’m wary of running the risk of deciding stuff before then, but I can’t stop the ideas sparking either!

Thanks for reminding me about the LJ community — I’ll add it to my links.

MK sounds like it would be a fascinating location for Dresden-style RP. The supernatural community would be severely off-balance. A dozen ancient powers were sleeping securely, when suddenly (almost instantly, from an immortal perspective), they were overrun by people and construction. And, of course, where you have people, you have power, and lots of supernatural elements who were too small to make it in London look at MK as fresh pastures to start empire building with little competition.

Yeah, lots of potential in there.

Bleak Hall
Laughter and smiles are forbidden within the domicile of the Bleak Lord, as is music, hope, and any speech above a whisper. It is rumoured that his wife left him for another. It is rumoured that he lost a son. It is rumoured that an angel stole his laughter for a necklace and his smile for a ring. There are many rumours. Whatever the truth of the matter, you would be wise to abide by his laws when under his roof.

Bradwell, Bradwell Common, New Bradwell
There is a giant chained beneath the earth. Over time, wells have been sunk through the rock of his prison and deep into his veins. The first was drilled into his heart, and conferred immortality. The second was drilled into his groin and granted fertility to even the most barren of people. In time each ran dry. A new one has recently been dug, into his eye, and the rich, red fluid bubbles and steams at the up to the surface. It is rumoured to grant Sight, but with it, madness.

Eaglestone
At first glance, many mistake the great bird for a mere statue, albeit an exquisitely carved and painted one. If one is patient, however, and watches closely for a while, it becomes clear that the wings are slowly, so very slowly, starting to unfurl, that the bird is in the process of taking to the air. One word is carved upon the plinth: hope. It is not known what will happen when hope takes flight.

Monkston
Few who see the dark brothers return to tell the tale, yet there are still those who attempt to seek them out. It is said that the monks have the power to give the worthy their heart’s desire, to change an old life for a new one, to offer a second chance, the opportunity to atone for past mistakes. No one knows how they judge who is worthy and who is not.

Rooksey
In the centre of a blasted plain stands a tower. Not that you could tell what shape it is beneath the seething mass of rooks that roost upon it. It is whispered that the birds of rooksey know the future. For a price – the eye of a drowned child, the heart of an honest man – they will tell you your fortune, good or ill. It is said that all who visit here come to regret it.

Stony Stratford
A river of liquid stone meanders its lazy way towards the horizon. The river may be crossed by stepping on the boulders of solid water – not ice, water arrested mid-flow – that protrude above the surface.

Winterhill
Few pass through this place where Old Man Winter is said to make his home. Cold reigns here, even when a few steps beyond is sweltering beneath the summer sun. Frozen statues, scattered here and there, serve as a reminder of why it is unwise to tarry here.

Wolverton
Tread carefully in the land of Wolves that Walk Like Men. ‘Tis true, they seem a friendly enough folk, but beware those wide smiles and firm handclasps. Refuse – politely, mind – that offer of refreshments and a soft bed for the night. And, whatever you do, don’t run. Yes, I know we had no trouble, but the sun was blazing down. At night, well, that’s a different story. Night is when they Change. Night is when they hunt.

Wolverton Mill
Home of the Wolverton miller. He’ll grind your bones to make his bread.

That reminds me, I did mean to mention some of the bizarre place names in MK. The street naming in the city centre seems to indicate that the town planners were hippies or pagans, with Elder Gate, as you mentioned, as well as Avebury Boulevard, Midsummer Place, Witan Gate and Silbury Arcade. It all has a kind of Wicker Man vibe to it.

Some of the estate names are also pretty evocative. I can see Winterhill and Bleak Hall touching on the Nevernever for a start.