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Fear not what you haven’t triedListen now, because your parents liedYour body is all you will ever possess

So put a little effort into your pathetic flesh— Deathride 69, “MK Ultra”

A Handbook for the Magickally Fucked

By Justin R. Achilli, Aldyth Beltane, Brad Beltane, Phil Brucato and Rachelle Udell, with Mark Cenczyk, James E. Moore,

Kevin A. Murphy and Lindsay Woodcock

SURVIVAL GUIDESURVIVAL GUIDE

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Written by: Justin R. Achilli, Aldyth Beltane, Brad Beltane, Phil Brucato and Rachelle UdellAdditional Material by: Mark Cenczyk, James E. Moore, Kevin Andrew Murphy and Lindsay WoodcockDeveloped by: Phil Brucato"Expert" Guidance: Ian Dunteman, Laurah Norton and Lindsay WoodcockEdited by: Cary GoffArt Director: Aileen E. MilesLayout and Typesetting: Matt MilbergerArt: Mike Chaney, John Cobb, Guy Davis, Jason Felix, Michael Gaydos, Shea Anton Pensa, Alex SheikmanFront Cover Art: Lawrence SnellyFront Cover Models: (left to right) Courtney King, Karen Schultz and Chase JonesFront and Back Cover Design: Matt Milberger

Fare Thee WellIronically, The Orphans Survival Guide will be the last

book I develop for Mage: The Ascension. Once again, the '90s have worked their subtle magic at the Wolf (see Special Thanks), and this time I’m on the list.

To be honest it’s not a bad thing for me. I've done the books that really mattered to me — The Fragile Path, The Book of Mirrors, Cult of Ecstasy, Destiny’s Price, Mage Second, Sorcerers Crusade, and many others besides. It’s been a good ride, but maybe it’s time to get off after all.

For better and worse, I put everything I had into Mage, and she’s been a hard but rewarding mistress. While I can’t honestly say I’m happy about leaving, it's time to go. Five years is enough. I've given Mage to Jesse Heinig and Lindsay Woodcock, and they'll give the line the treatment she deserves.

Although I’ll be moving on to other things, I won’t be leaving the industry behind. I have several pet projects in the works, and might even return to White Wolf for a book or two. One door closes and another one opens, as the cliché goes, and I love this industry too much to leave it for good.

For those people I have gamed with, worked with, spoken with and argued with, thank you. Mage has been as much a reflection of you as it has been of me.

Take care!— Phil Brucato, Fall, 1998

Final Mage Special Thanks To:Kathleen “Amanda” Ryan, who was there through it all. Jane "Voice Box" Palmer, who deserved better. Nate "Kick in the Ding" Wall, for playing Crow Boy. Rob "Shaggy" Dixon, for heading off to those Fading Suns. Cary “Puzzle Master” Goff, for enduring occulted voices. Allison “Farmer’s Market” Sturms, for chilling out E&D. Shane “Succubus Club” DeFreest, for throwing one of the best parties in GenCon history. Ian “Grand Pooka” Lemke, for keeping The Dreaming alive. Conan “The Barbarian” Venus, for bringing us the world. Karen “Topper” Schultz, for making Cover Girl. Jeff “Battle Lord” Holt, for calling his armies to the table. Katie “Bombshell” McKaskill, for her wit, her smile and her dog. Larry “Master Vampire” Snelly, for art directing some of the finest work this industry has ever seen. Anna “Ghost” Branscome, for sorting through the wreckage. …and Stephe “Vacating the Landscape” Pagel, for running off with Merlin. Good luck, man. We’ll miss you.

DedicationsAldyth’s Dedications: To Andrew Vachss for teaching

me to stand up in writing and in life. To Neil Gaiman for showing me that mythology can be modern. And to Grant Morrison for the monthly magic lesson.

Rachelle’s Dedications: To Shadow, Ken, Troy and Gerald, for providing endless sources of inspiration.

Phil’s Dedications: In Memorium, this book is dedi-cated to Rozz Williams (1963-1998) and Wendy Orleans Williams (1950-1998). Rest easy, guys. May things look better in the next life.

Note to the Terminally DenseBe grown-ups about this book, people. Do not steal. Do not kill. Do not run away from home. It’s only a game. Thank you.

© 1998 White Wolf Publishing, Inc. All rights reserved. Reproduction without the written permission of the publisher is expressly forbidden, except for the purposes of reviews, and blank char-acter sheets, which may be reproduced for personal use only. White Wolf, Vampire the Masquerade, Vampire the Dark Ages, World of Darkness and Mage the Ascension are registered trademarks of White Wolf Publishing, Inc. All rights reserved. Trinity, Werewolf the Apocalypse, Wraith the Oblivion, Changeling the Dreaming, Mage the Sorcerers Crusade, Werewolf the Wild West, Succubus Club, The Book of Shadows, Destiny’s Price, The Orphans Survival Guide, The Book of Madness and The Book of Mirrors the Mage Storytellers Guide are trademarks of White Wolf Publishing, Inc. All rights reserved. All characters, names, places and text herein are copyrighted by White Wolf Publishing, Inc.

The mention of or reference to any company or product in these pages is not a challenge to the trademark or copyright concerned.

Check out White Wolf online at http://www.white-wolf.com; alt.games.whitewolf and rec.games.frp.storytellerPRINTED IN THE U.S.A.

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ContentsPreludeto aKiss... 4

Introduction 7

Chapter One: Voices in the Night 13

Chapter Two: The Hollow Ones 41

Chapter Three: Crashspace 59

Chapter Four: The Chosen Few 77

Chapter Five: When the Fire Starts 101

Appendix: The Stash 113Sample

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it didn’t, but if it does, I’d like to think that we were more than just a blip on the screen or a meteor blazing into noth-ing across the night sky. I’d like to think that I’ve learned a thing or two about life since then, about survival, about consequences — especially consequences. I suppose sitting in this grease trap of a diner waiting for who knows what is my way of paying for all of the shady fucked-up things I did in the interest of what I thought was right. I tell myself that I can go back. I still have the key to the penthouse. The rent’s paid through the next five years. I still have the credit cards and the bank accounts. I could fly back to London in a heartbeat — first class, even. But I don’t. Whatever I’m waiting for won’t let me. So I sleep my days away in a non-descript room in a somewhat respectable boarding house, and I come to the cafe at night.

Every now and then, I play a bonus round with karma — see if I can’t spare some of these kids my fate and save them from ending up in a no-name diner somewhere waiting for a sign from beyond. They come in here lost, but radiant with “star stuff” as some poet once put it. Who knows, maybe he was one of us…. Some of them seek me out, knowing who and what I am, but others stumble in blindly and happen to sit at my table. We talk. People love to talk — for ex-ample, the skinny girl in black sitting in front of me now.

Prelude to a Kiss...

By Rachelle UdellThe Majestic CaféJanuary 10, 1998

2:19 A.M.If coffee was the food of the gods, I’d be damn near

immortal by now. As it is, I’m just old, jaded, and jumped up on too much caffeine. I sit in my usual spot in the dark corner of this grungy café watching the angsty kids who call themselves regulars here, and I wait. I suppose there was a time when I knew what I was waiting for, but I guess I’ve stopped caring and have long since forgotten.

The city is a bitch on wheels this time of year. Winter. We used to move through it so easily in our limousines and faux fur coats, the heels of our Italian leather shoes crushing the last leftover bits of Christmas tinsel into the snow as we alighted into our hotels and apartments, the elevators whisking us up to our glittering world of glass and light. I don’t think we ever realized how cold it was outside as we planned our parties and our heists and fought the good fights. But things change, as I suppose they must. Things happened and time crushed us under its heel just like that tinsel.

Winter. I think of him as I pull my coat around me a little tighter, even though the coffee and the busy crowd of bodies have made it quite warm here. Our time in the sun is over. History might remember us. I wouldn’t blame it if

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Her mouth’s been going non-stop for the past five minutes, a steady stream of babble pouring forth.

I’ve been doing that annoying incessant stirring thing with my coffee, but I finally look up at her. She’s high and she’s scared because “she’s never had drugs like these before.” I look at her and know that she thought she looked cool when she left home with her fake vampire teeth and raggedy black dress. She wears the requisite pale makeup and pouty red-black lips, and her fake heroin-habit eyes are truly a work of art. Jean Paul Gaultier would be proud.

“Why are you telling me this?” I ask her, knowing exactly what she’s just gone through.

“I dunno, “she mumbles. “You looked like someone who’d listen. Y’know? Not laugh at me an’ shit.”

“Take the teeth out; you’ll talk better.” She pops them out and puts them in a small plastic case marked “fangs.” She’s rummaging around in her purse, obviously nervous, so I decide to start the conversation.

“I’m Swarna. You are…?” “Tarra,” she says, not looking up just yet. “You from

England? You sound like it.”“Yeah. I’m from London. So you wanna tell me what

happened?”“I got this tattoo.” she reveals. “Wanna see?” She stands

and hikes her skirt up to show me the back of her thigh. The tattoo is fresh, not more than two weeks old, and the ink hasn’t quite settled in, so the colors jump right out in a lurid mix of green and blue and deep red. It’s a lattice and knotwork design reminding me a lot of the henna patterns that Hindu women paint on their hands for special occasions.

“It’s a nice tattoo, but what does it have to do with anything?”

“Well, I got it and it hurt like hell.” She sat back down. “I was lying there trying not to cry, trying to think of anything else but that needle. Suddenly, I got this rush, like my whole head just opened up. I could feel the needle, but it wasn’t bad pain anymore. The pain fed the rush, see?”

“Yeah. I’ve heard of things like that happening. Appar-ently that’s what makes the whole bondage scene appealing, or so I’m told. That pleasure-through-pain thing.” I know that’s not what she means, but I wait for her to tell me so.

“Well, that’s just it. I’ve done bondage and all that, y’know, done some scenes, been to a few parties, so I know what that high is like. This was different. It’s like time stretched out and there was nothing but the feeling and the moment. I felt like I was there forever just wallowing in that sensation.

“I’m starting to worry though,” she says. “I think they may have laced the ink or something. It’s like I’ve been high for days now, but there’s no sign that I’m gonna come down. Hell, coming down off this is gonna be a fuckin’ bitch.” She pauses to light a cigarette and takes a long drag. Her pose is perfect, and I have to laugh silently. Even in a trashy diner with a total stranger, she feels the need to be cool. She reminds me of myself at that age.

“It’s not like your average high, either” she continues. “Everything’s clear, not fuzzy like an alcohol buzz or like a slow trip, but it’s a different kind of clear. It’s like I’ve been looking at stuff in a mirror all my life and suddenly the mirror’s gone and I’m looking at the real deal. Sometimes I feel like I’m moving in slow motion and I can savor everything — the water in the shower, the way this coffee smells, the sound of your voice. Other times things are rushing around me so fast it feels like a carnival ride! I want to get off, but then I realize I can’t because I am the ride.” Tarra is breathing hard, tears falling involuntarily from her eyes. Her makeup is washing away in black rivulets down her cheeks. I dip my napkin in the obligatory glass of water on the table and hand it to her.

“Wipe your eyes. You’ll look like a manic raccoon if you don’t.”

“So what do you think?” she asks. “Was I, like, seriously drugged or something? I swear I’m fucked! I’ll lose my job if I show up again stoned.”

I decide it’s time to tell her.“The first time is always hard,” I say. She blinks back

at me, confusion written in that little line between her eyebrows.

“What? Getting a tattoo?”“No. I mean the first time you really wake up and open

your eyes.” I have nothing better to do with my time, and she needs to hear it anyway, so I tell her.

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