• Abstract and Figures
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Transcribed in its entirety. ã 1997 White Wolf Publishing, Inc. All Rights reserved. The reproduction of this product in these pages is not a challenge to the trademark or copyright concerned. The transcriber just wanted to give others the ability to play this great game from an out of print book that is getting exceedingly more difficult to obtain. This book uses the supernatural for settings, characters and themes. All mystical and supernatural elements are fiction and intended for entertainment purposes only. Reader discretion is advised. Game Studio 1 Table of Contents Ghost Story: Little Girl Lost 3 Chapter One: Introduction 7 Chapter Two: Setting 19 Chapter Three: Character 46 Chapter Four: Characterisitics 61 Chapter Five: Rules 122 Chapter Six: The Shadow 142 Chapter Seven: Storytelling 155 Chapter Eight: The Risen 176 Chapter Nine: Others 185 2 Ghost Story: Little Girl Lost o my question is, what does a dead six-year-old want with a single sock, anyway? That’s what Jeremiah was wondering as he trotted homeward, the pockmarked walls of the Citadel leering down at him as he paced its length. Up on the roof of what was an abandoned warehouse in the lands of the living, Legionnaires stood silent watch by the light of soulfire torches. The ruddy light flickered off of their armor and drawn blades, and cast monstrous shadows down the Citadel’s side. Through the windows, masked and chained wraiths could be seen moving about, always backlit by the same soulfire glow. From somewhere inside came the dim ringing of a hammer and the occasional moan of a Thrall. Jeremiah ignored it all. It was just business as usual in the Shadowlands, and he’d long since grown used to it. Part of him was appalled that he was able to ignore what was going on behind those warehouse walls, but there was no other way to survive here in the Underworld. You could always go mad, hissed a voice in the back of his mind. I’m told it’s very therapeutic. “Get stuffed, Shadow,” Jeremiah mumbled as he passed the last set of watchgates. The pair of guards stationed there stared after him, but made no move to follow. Everyone in the Underworld had a Shadow to deal with, a dark side with a voice that lived in the back of their head, and these two soldiers had obviously been around long enough to recognize Jeremiah’s mutterings for what they were: a way of keeping control. Occasionally a wraith’s Shadow could get loose and take over his Corpus – his ghostly body – with terrifying consequences. Jeremiah had no doubt that had his Shadow come out in front of the guards, he’d have been instantly subdued and chained. Or worse, his Shadow cackled. Or worse… “I don’t need this crap, Shadow. I’ve got an appointment with the weirdest ghost I’ve ever met in 10 minutes, and if you’re going to get pissy on me now, I’m heading to a Pardoner right after the meeting ends. He’ll Castigator your skanky butt so hard I won’t hear from you for a month.” You’re bluffing, the Shadow replied, but there was an edge of fear in its voice. You don’t have the relics to pay for that. “And I don’t have the time to listen to you. There’s a little dead girl whom I need to go see right now.” Then you’d better watch where you’re going, Jerry. I think you might have just taken a wrong turn… There was a sudden, vicious edge to the Shadow’s voice. Jeremiah had heard that edge before, just before his Shadow had taken him over – or just before he’d gotten Harrowed. He stopped, looked up, and cursed. He had taken a wrong turn, that much was obvious. Ramshackle brick buildings squatted on both sides of the litter-choked street he stood in, and empty windows like hungry mouths gaped from their sides. Cars on blocks, their windshields spiderwebbed with cracks, lined the road, and a dimly flickering neon sign dangled 3 like a hanged man from a crumbling façade. Dimly visible, a living derelict shivered under a blanket of newspaper. Jeremiah could read the man’s death in the desiccated lines of his face. It was coming soon. There was a scraping sound behind him, and Jeremiah turned. Surprise… There were three of them, Renegades by their look. As a law-abiding Hierarchy wraith, Jeremiah had heard about Renegades. Some called themselves freedom fighters, some were self-proclaimed peace activists and some – well, and some were what could politely be called “thugs.” At a hunch, Jeremiah guessed that this trio fit into the latter category. All were well over six feet tall, dwarfing him. Their faces were covered by gruesome masks, demonic caricatures of human features. Draped in ragged chain mail and leather, they were armed with a variety of blunt and bladed weapons, all prominently displayed. What drew Jeremiah’s attention though was the glistening set of manacles that the Renegade on the left wore at his belt. Got your name on them, pal. Gonna be a hot time in the old soulforge for us tonight. Gritting his teeth, Jeremiah did his best to ignore the cackling in his head. Taking a careful step backward, he raised his hands in the universal “no weapons” gesture, “Hey, guys, I’m lost. I was wondering if you knew where that little girl with all the relic socks has her haunt? I’m supposed to meet her in a few minutes, see, and…” He trailed off as muffled laughter echoed out from behind the three masks. “Oh yes, the little girl,” The Renegade in the middle spoke, phrasing his response in a brutal parody of a high-class English accent. “Well, let’s see. You go up tow lights, make a left at the Nihil, and…damn, I know I’m forgetting something Jasper, what am I forgetting here?” “You forgot,” the second wraith said even as he stepped forward, swinging a length of whistling chain, “the first step.” “And what might that be?” They were toying with him now, spreading out to cut off his escape routes even as he backpedaled. “First we nab his ass and sell him, that’s what. Tre’, grab him!” Jeremiah turned to run but even as he pivoted, his arms were seized n an alligator-jaw grip. A silhouette sprouting from behind him announce the arrival of the mysterious Tre’, and the other tow moved forward with manacles dangling. “Damn, no trouble at all, man. No trouble at – aggh! The bastard’s a Shaper!” He screamed and pulled back punctured hands that leaked plasm. Jeremiah ducked and spun away from his stumbling captor even as the spikes he’s sprouted from his arms flowed back into his Corps. Jasper and the first Renegade grabbed for him, but he dodged m and threaded his way left, in between a pair of derelict cars and towards the front of a building. Behind him, Jasper was following while the other two fanned out to either side. There was only one-way to go: into the building. He took a deep breath and plunged through the wall. There was the momentary feeling of dissolution that he hated so much, and then Jeremiah was inside. The building was burned out and blackened. Away to the left stairs led up to a ragged second floor, and he dove for them. Behind him, he could hear curses as his pursuers followed him through the solid surface. Eyes wide, he scrambled up the stairs and cut a hard right into what had obviously once been a nursery. Relic toys lay scattered on the ground, enough to bring him a small fortune at the local bazaar if he got out of here in one piece. The room’s real status was plain enough to see: blackened and empty, with jagged teeth of glass in the maw of its window. But the memories of someone’s childhood lingered here, in the form of ghostly furniture in faded pastels and a dangling, sad mobile. Phantom blocks scattered underfoot as Jeremiah stumbled in looking for escape, even as the pounding of feet on the stairs warned him that his pursuers were gaining on him. A half-opened door on the far side of the room beckoned, and he dove in. Streaming light indicated the back wall of the closet he found himself in had been burned away, so he ducked under a rotting two by for (probably real, he noted to himself) and into the next room. Behind him he could hear voices in the room he’d just vacated. From the sound of things, the Renegades had paused to confiscate the relic toys. 4 Silently praying, Jeremiah didn’t dare move. Maybe the relics will be enough, he thought. Maybe they’ll give up. Maybe they’ll be satisfied with what they have. Ordinarily these three clowns wouldn’t have worried him quite so much. He knew enough Moliate to be nasty in a fight, and Jasper and company didn’t look like they knew much about tactics. If all things had been equal, he would have had no hesitation taking the Renegades on. But all things weren’t equal. He’d burned up most of his Pathos getting the single sock his contact wanted, and his Shadow was also getting perilously strong. If he got in a fight, it might get out, and then there’d really be hell to pay.

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