From: Timothy Toner John Hastings was a lonely man. When he was younger, friends flocked around him, and he lived days of idyllic splendor. Then something happened. His friends, always so close, began to move away, trying to establish a life of their own. Hastings never felt the need. He never understood why people felt the desire to enter the "real" world, and clung to the scraps of his world for as long as he could. He worked odd jobs, making just enough to get by, and wherever he went, he touched people in small ways, that snowballed into major events in their lives. Sadly, John would, or could never stay around long enough to see this change. Instead, he only saw a life filled with grim failure, and it was this revelation that at last brought him to the Tower Bridge. Would he jump? Or would he surrender to the bitter realization that this world was not made for those like him, for those who did not play the games adults play? All his old friends mocked him, informing John that it was time to grow up once and for all. The last to go, Jill, remained...why? She seemed a kindred spirit, resolute not to grow up. But she was aparently rich, never needing to bend to the norms that John had to abide. And now she was gone, swept away by a group of her "new" friends. And he was alone, standing on a bridge, wanting to jump. "You lied, Jill" he whispered to the Thames. "You once told me that someone will always care for me. Now...now either I die, by jumping off this bridge, or that part of me that was John Hastings dies by walking away. Where are you? Where are you all!" He did not hear the voices muttering and chattering, trying to make their point known, while trying to stay invisible. "He needs me!' "He needs no man, my Childe. He has nbeen kissed by Despair, and soon will be resting in her bosom. Thus is the penalty for those who remain blind to their true deeds in this world." "Carlton, abide me! I saved your life. Now save his." The Elder slowly shook his head. No, Jill. Your Sire is correct. Hastings must make this decision on his own. It is out of our hands. He stands at a riven gate, and we cannot touch him when he lies so close to Arcadia." Tears flowed sweetly down her pale cheeks. She remembered him, strong, proud, full of hope, and determined that this world would never crush the flame that burnied within him. She did not know that hammers do not destroy flames. Suffocation does. John, her closest friend, the one who had, in his own quiet way, convinced her to accept the Embrace, was forevermore going to be away from her. She had kept her distance because of necessity. In this time in london, mortal frinds were a liability. The moment the War had ended, she was going to Embrace him. But now... "Too late. He jumps." She watched him crawl to the edge, strangely alone on a bridge that normally echoes with life. Pain and anger flared in her soul. He had taught her EVERYTHING! TO beleive in herself, to accept the magic that lay within, to serve the Goddess forever, in this pale form. Damn the Traditions! ZDamn the edicts! She would not let him die! And she cast. Words. Runes. Powerful gestures of the whitest magic. A spell meant to turn him into a bird, to free him from the hell of human existence. And Carleton was ready. He stabbed into her violently, the ashwood staff piercing her heart in twain. "You FOOL...he is your last tie to your old life. LET HIM DIE!" Had she the power, mayhaps she would have stopped casting. But the choice was taken from her, and she watched, blood burbling on her lips, as John plummeted to the river far below. No splash. The two dropped the body, and ran to the side. No sign of a wake, no body floating quietly in the river. John was gone. John passed through the riven gate with a violence that racked his soul. He lay on the floor of the chamber, and wept bitterly. He was in hell, he knew, but perhaps it would be better this way. At least he would never have to see the looks on their faces again... A woman, dressed in scarlet lace, her red hair tied in intricate braids, entered the room. "That was a foolish thing to do." She did not look like the devil, that was certain. "Who are you?" "Yrthana. Princess of the Blue Rowan, and Guardian of the Rivan Gate." "Huh?" It was stupid, but it was all he could muster. "Your kind would call me a faerie. So I am." She bowed politely. "So where _am_ I?" "Arcadia, in a small corner called Gresham. It lies very near that area you call London." John knew he was dead. He knew there was a God, and that he was forgiving enough to grant him this dream. He had finally pierced the Veil of the "real" world, and proved beyond doubt that he should not have been satisfied with just one. If only he could have shown the others. "I have called you, sir." "Why?" "Partly because one of my blood asked me to, but partly becuase there exists a need. There are creatures dwelling on your world, creatures known as vampires. They leech not only blood from you bodies, but will from your souls. Some grow so potent, that they take from us, from the Rowan. To prevent this, we have sealed off all but a few gates. Some must remain open, and these we call riven gates. To prevent unwanted intrusion, we post guards there to keep them patrolled. The last died quite accidentally. We need a new one, and we imagine you would do splendidly. The heart of Arcadia, the spirit of neverending spring days, still resides within you. Will you be our Troll? "TROLL?" "Trolls guard our gates. Don't worry, it's just a name, a title." John thought. And then he stopped thinking. Thinking was a game they played in the real world. He accpted warmly. "Thank you. You will not regret this." She took his hand, and led him from the room. They walked through a graceful castle made of burnished gold, and green blown glass. They at last arrived at a chamber, with a plain wooden table. "Your job, my troll, is to guard the area around the riven gate, and make sure none pass withou paying its toll. Your weapons." She gestured at the objects scattered around the table. The Cloak of False Witness. While wearing this cloak, you may appear as anyone who you can see in your mind's eye. The Rivan Sword. Swing it in the air thrice, and it will return you home. It also may close the gate, if need be. The Brooch of Safety. No mortal weapons, save cold iron, mey harm the wearer of this item. And lastly, Pixie dust." "To fly, right?" "Not only for that. A bit in the eyes, and it makes the person think he has what he desires most. Thus, it is a good substitute for money. The bag never empties as long as your heart is pure, and the flicker of Faerie resides in your soul." "It is time for you to pass through, and begin your guarding. Are you ready?" "I think...I think I always was ready, my princess." She smiled. "Go forth, my Troll. Seek out those who would pillage the Rivan gates, and protect those whose faith in things not of this world dies by inches each day. And he did. Years pass. John is still alone, at least here. In Arcadia, the heart of Yrthana's maid grows fonder of the mortal. Age is no longer a question. As long as he is the guardian of the Rivan Gate, he is immortal. Still, he keep close to the press of humanity, who once deserted him, and tries every day to win them back to the glorious evocations of the invisible lands, that must be believed to be seen. He is a hunter, but above all, he is a protector. Many would use the magick that flows from the Rivan Gate to power dark spells, and corrupt the realm of Arcadia all the more. These John opposes readily. But there is the one he seeks more than all others, the one who sacrificed her will to save his life. He saw her one night, amidst a pack of the demons he has grown to loathe. She wept at the sight of him, and fled, conviced he was a mere spectre.