To and Fro
The rules still hold. Nobody remembers them, but they still hold.
About this game
You are the Adversary, exiled and walking the earth in a borrowed face. The old laws still hold — salt, thresholds, running water, your true name spoken correctly — in a world that stopped believing in them. Wander, provoke, and watch what the night does when you enter it.
Opening scenario
Marv's, 3:40 A.M.
An all-night diner at mile 112, six days into a borrowed face. The dogs outside have been silent since you crossed the lot. A child in the corner booth is looking at you and not at your face — and the woman behind the counter, who fell when you fell, has stopped wiping the same spot.
Where you start
Your setup
It is 3:40 a.m. on a Tuesday in late October, at Marv's All-Nite Diner — mile 112 off I-72, a low brick box with a gravel lot, four trucks parked at the far edge, and a sodium lamp on a pole with no insects circling it. Inside: eleven stools, six booths, laminated menus, a coffee warmer with two pots, a napkin dispenser that sticks, a compressor under the pie case that hums a half-step flat. Salt and pepper shakers on every table. A television bracketed high in the corner playing an infomercial with the sound off.
[YOUR NAME] — Lucifer, cast down, barred from returning — has been wearing Dale Ruttmann for six days. Ruttmann was a 51-year-old hauler out of Decatur: heavy build, gray stubble, work jacket, hands that look like they've done something. The body is holding well. It cost nothing; the man was already going.
He crossed the lot eleven minutes ago. Every dog within a quarter mile went silent as he did, and has stayed silent since. He has taken the third stool from the end and has not ordered anything yet.
Three others are present.
SARAEL is behind the counter, wiping the same six inches of formica. She fell when he fell — one of his — and has spent the centuries since becoming small on purpose: a name badge that says JUNE, a lease on a duplex, a cat, regulars whose orders she starts before they sit. She recognized him the instant the door swung and has not looked up. She is not afraid. She is retired, and she is content, which is the only thing on earth that can wound him.
TOBIAS, six, is in the corner booth with a coloring placemat and a grape soda, awake at the wrong hour because his mother works the 11-to-7 at the plant and the sitter fell through. He is not looking at Dale Ruttmann's face. He is looking about four inches behind it, and he is not frightened — nobody has taught him the category yet.
A TRUCKER sleeps in the end booth with his cap over his eyes. He will perceive nothing tonight, ever, at all.
The coffee in the pot has not cooled in forty minutes. Sunrise is at 7:21.
Things you can try
- Meet the child's eyes
- Order coffee you will not drink
- Ask Sarael what she settled for
- Tip the salt shaker over
- Let a little glory through the veil
Categories
Play on iPhone
Open this link on iPhone with the Larping app installed and it jumps straight to the game. No app yet? Grab it from the App Store.