Field Report, Week 4: Dream Analysis



 

Riding on the high of our success from last week, Poincaré and I dove into our field research with renewed vigor. The data that I'd collected at the Sin-Eater Haunt was invaluable and shed quite a bit of light on our subjects. Nevertheless, we were left with more questions than answers. We were uncertain how to interpret much of the information. Hours were spent painstakingly studying the pictures I'd taken, particularly the magic circle and the mysterious glyphs. As I had initially determined, the glyphs and circle seemed to have no legitimate occult  power. I dedicated several days to translating some of the lines of the multi-lingual glyphs, only to find that they were utter nonsense. They didn't spell or convey anything intelligible; no apparent meaning whatsoever. Instead, it appeared as though the Sin-Eaters had taken various characters from different languages and mixed them together, at random.

 

Obviously, there had to be something I was missing. The Sin-Eaters wouldn't write useless script all over the walls and doors of their Haunt unless it served some sort of purpose... right? Likewise, the circle didn't correspond to any existing magic circle I could find, nor did it adhere to any principles of magic that I was aware of. In this regard, however, I was less certain, since I can't claim to be familiar with all the forms of magic in the world. To completely rule out the occult efficacy of the circle, I'd need access to an Autumn Court library, which wasn't currently an option. So it seemed that we'd hit a wall.

 

 

Frustrated at our inability to decipher the data  before us, I decided that some more direct observational study was in order. More specifically, it was time to start gathering information oneiromantically. One can learn a tremendous amount by observing a person's dreams, and analyzing all of the symbols and metaphors contained therein. Dreams disclose a great deal about the dreamer: hopes and fears, motivations, general temperament, vices and virtues, and so much more. Perhaps the best application of Dream Riding is the ability to spy on another person's dreams. To do so, I needed only to perform a few Oneiroscopes and walk the Skein to the personal dreamscapes of the Sin-Eaters. Some changelings criticize the practice of Skein-walking, arguing that it's a violation of privacy to enter the dreams of those with which you don't have a dream-tasked pledge. While I don't exactly disagree, I try to meddle as little as possible in foreign dreams. I simply observe, and move on. Disrupting a foreign dream can cause nightmares for the dreamer, so I'm careful to reduce my "oneiromantic footprint." 

 

By night, I studied the dreams of the Sin-Eaters. By day, I directly observed the Sin-Eaters in their day-to-day affairs. This two-fold approach to our research would prove to be very effective. The information we gathered about our subjects in their waking lives provided me a context with which I could more accurately analyze the symbol-laden imagery of their dreaming subconsciouses.

 

Aside from the standard dangers associated with Skeinwalking, I had little concern for my safety. It was extremely unlikely that the Sin-Eaters had any form of dream-related powers to guard their dreamscapes from intruders. Even if Oneiromachy somehow took place, I highly doubted that any of the subjects posed a true threat to a changeling trained in the arts of dream combat by Rowena herself, the Miami Freehold's former High Oneirologist.  

 

 

Skeinwalking

 

Before I continue, allow me to provide some exposition on the topic of Oneiroscopy. The art of casting Oneiroscopes is little known among changelings; a secret that the Autumn Court is vigilant about keeping within its ranks. I suppose I can understand this, since having any random Oneiropomp walking the Skein is probably not a good thing for humanity. While Skeinwalking may be accomplished without an Oneiroscope, doing so is substantially more difficult and costly. Its best that convenient travel to foreign dreams be limited to a select few. Fortunately for the Lord Sages, the Hobo King happens to be one of those few.   

 

Finding a path of dream-gates leading to each Sin-Eater's dreamscape is no simple task. Oneiroscopes are temperamental things; far from an exact science. Yet, they are a necessary tool without which successful Skeinwalking would be difficult to achieve. An Oneiroscope permits a changeling Oneiropomp to chart a course that gets him to the desired foreign dream. This is accomplished by following the dream-gates linking dreams of similar themes. On the giant web that is the Skein, thematically-aligned dreams have a way of temporarily connecting along a narrative thread, and this is when Skeinwalking is possible.   

 

If one is willing to be patient, a path to almost any destination dream usually manifests within a few weeks or months; all dreams lead to each other on the Skein, at some point. However, the challenge of Oneiroscopy is finding a path that occurs in a timely manner, preferably within days of the Oneiroscope's casting. This was my intention, and furthermore, I was doing this for five separate individuals. I didn't want to wait months to visit each Sin-Eater's dreamscape. I wanted to visit the dreams of the entire krewe within a single week. Consequently, I had a lot of work to do. 

 

Over the course of a couple of days, I employed several Oneiroscopes to plot out manifold paths through the Skein, using a deck of playing cards to represent Fate. I searched the cards to find the proper alignments of narrative threads that would allow me to traverse the Skein to my destinations. It takes skill, time, and a bit of help from the Wyrd to discern a useful path through the World of Dreams. Ultimately, however, I succeeded in my task. I deciphered the necessary alignments of dream-gates to take me to each Sin-Eater's dreamscape. One alignment was going to occur each night for the next five nights, starting the next evening.  

 

 

Sin-Eater Dreams

 

From what I've been led to believe by the Lord Sages, Sin-Eaters are still, for the most part, human. What differentiates them from other humans is the death spirit bound within them - known more specifically as a "Geist." Apparently, this spirit changes each Sin-Eater just enough that he or she ends up qualifying as something slightly more (or less) than Homo Sapiens Sapiens. Nevertheless, they seem to be much closer to human, biologically and meta-physically, than changelings and other supernatural beings. Obviously, I'd need to conduct an in-depth medical and magical examination to determine this conclusively, but I think it's safe to categorize Sin-Eaters as human, or at least a sub-species of humanity (Homo Sapiens Spiritualis, if you will). In other words, they are the least "monstrous" of the supernatural factions in this big world of ours.

 

That said, the dreams of Sin-Eaters differ somewhat from those of other humans. And these differences seem to be common to all the Sin-Eater dreamscapes I visited. It appears that Sin-Eaters tend to have rather mono-thematic dreams. Their dreams all revolve around the same subject matter: Death.

 

Sin-Eater dreams are choked with death symbolism and imagery; what changeling Oneirologists would call "Pluto Dreams" according to the terminology of the Hynagogic Constellation. While its normal for people to dream about death, the Sin-Eaters take it to a whole new level. Everything in a Sin-Eater dream was a visual cliché related to death: skulls, grim reapers, graveyards, dead bodies, zombies, ghosts pleading for help, banshee-like wailing, funeral dirges, coffins, tolling church bells, creepy mist, etc. It felt like I'd been plopped directly into a B-grade horror movie. Even when the dream wasn't specifically about death, the touch of death was clearly everywhere. The typical mise-en-scène for a Sin-Eater dream was nighttime or a gray, overcast daytime, and everything - items, places, and characters - were afflicted with the look of decay, deterioration, and entropy. It's all about as subtle as a brick to the face.

 

My visits to the Sin-Eater dreamscapes consisted of me observing everything from an invisible, disembodied state. I refrained from inserting myself "physically" into their dreams so as not to inadvertently influence events. I noticed that each Sin-Eater dreamed about identical themes. The events of the dreams, themselves, were different, but the mood and imagery were consistently the same. Furthermore, I'm quite certain that these death dreams occur EVERY SINGLE NIGHT for a Sin-Eater. This goes far beyond what we changeling Oneiropomps understand as recurring dreams. 

 

Recurring dreams are normal... up to a point. However for humans, an extended period of recurring dreams (months or years) is often indicative of some kind of psychological damage - obsession, post-traumatic stress, repressed memories, etc. Yet with Sin-Eaters, I got the impression that these recurring death dreams are a natural, intrinsic aspect of their existence, not due to mental illness. To be a Sin-Eater is to be forever connected to death. Their dreams appear to reflect this metaphysical truth. Still, it's gotta get old after a while...  

 

Another oddity of visiting a Sin-Eater dreamscape is the inescapable sense that you are not alone. When I say this, I'm not referring to the presence of the dreamer himself, or the many supernumenaries(dream characters) that populate the dreamscape. No, I mean something else. As soon as I entered the first Sin-Eater dreamscape, I began getting the unmistakable impression that I was being watched. As I observed the Sin-Eater's dream, I felt as though I were being observed, in turn. It almost felt like another Oneiropomp was in the dream with me, but I know that this wasn't the case. The longer I remained in the Sin-Eater's dream, the stronger this feeling became, to the point where I started to get somewhat paranoid. Even in my disembodied form, I felt as though eyes were upon me. It was all I could do not to say "feck it" and abandon the dream.

 

I sensed a "presence" in the dreamscape of each Sin-Eater, and each time it felt a little different. These "presences" didn't feel hostile, per se, but they didn't feel welcoming, either. I think the best descriptor I could possibly use would be "dispassionate curiosity." I was being observed because I was there, and I could be. It's hard to say whether these presences could exert any control within the dreams, or if they were limited to passive observation. I never experienced any interference with my activities as an Oneiropomp. However, this might simply be because my visits were unobtrusive. Maybe I would have encountered resistance had I taken a more direct hand with my Oneiromancy.

 

My suspicion, as is likely yours, is that I was somehow detecting each Sin-Eater's Geist. This makes a certain amount of sense. Normally, spirits don't have dreamscapes; they don't dream and therefore, don't have a place in the Skein. However, Geists appear to be inextricably bound to their Sin-Eater hosts in a way that I've never seen before; a way that surpasses simple possession. Perhaps then, along with sharing the Sin-Eater's body, a Geist also shares the Sin-Eater's dreamscape. This theory goes a long way to explaining the taint of death that pervades a Sin-Eater's every dream. I was inside the dreams of, not just the Sin-Eaters, but their Geists, as well. Spooky...

  

 

Complications

 

My sojourns into the foreign dreams of the Sin-Eaters were largely uneventful... that is, until the final dreamscape I visited. This dreamscape belonged to the woman with the necklace of skulls. I must admit that I was eager to study this woman's subconscious, for she, by far, was the most enigmatic member of the krewe. From the very first time we observed her, it was clear that she held a special position in the group. It was clear that she was shown a certain degree of deference by the other Sin-Eaters, including the leather-clad biker whom Poincaré and I had established was the krewe's leader. As such, I was keen to get into her head and see what made her tick.

 

Like the other Sin-Eaters, the woman's dreamscape was congested with an obnoxious quantity of death-related imagery. I found myself spying a network of subterranean tunnels that seemed to extend on and on, ad infinitum. The surroundings were dark, humid, and sulfurous. Below me, milling about aimlessly, were the pale shades of the dead. The spirits hailed from every type of nationality and ethnicity, and some bore the grisly markings of their deaths. They were doing all the things that dead people do, I suppose: moaning, weeping, screaming, and sometimes even laughing, until it became a chorus of unintelligible noise.  

 

Although I was initially put off by the dark and cramped chthonic setting of the dream, it didn't take long for me to start drawing parallels between this dream's imagery and the Underworld. I thought back to Wesleyan Cemetery, to that fateful moment when I witnessed the doorway to the Great Below. I recalled that the entrance to the Underworld appeared to be a rocky tunnel extending into the depths of the Earth. Not unlike my current surroundings. Considering how often the Sin-Eaters likely enter the Great Below, it's to be expected that they'd have dreams about the place. Therefore, it was entirely possible that I had stepped into a dream about the Underworld. Intriguing.

 

Had I entered a dream-recreation of the Great Below? If this was the case, then it was a golden opportunity to study up on my extra-dimensional destination. Though an Oneiropomp definitely shouldn't trust everything he sees in a dream, it is important to remember that dreams are often molded from the ephemera of memories and conscious knowledge. As such, even the most convoluted and bizarre dream may potentially have snippets of useful or truthful information. Being able to discern the good information from the "junk" of the dreamer's subconscious is one of the hallmarks of a skilled Oneiropomp.   

 

Though I usually remained invisible and disembodied when studying a Sin-Eater dreamscape, it was necessary to place myself directly into the dream in order to perform a more thorough investigation. There's only so much information one can gather while floating around without form. Thus, I willed myself a "physical body" so I could to interact with the elements of the dream, making sure to take the appearance of a non-descript spirit of the dead. Once I'd blended in, I set out to uncover more about this place and, by extension, the real Underworld.

 

First, I tried to speak to the various ghosts around me, hoping that these dream characters would provide some critical intel. I spent a good fifteen minutes plying my social skills on the dream's inhabitants. Nothing came of it. The shades completely ignored my attempts at interaction. Even the Hobo King's legendary charm had no effect. They simply walked by me as though I weren't there. Nevertheless, I was undeterred and decided to wander the tunnels in order to locate the dream's owner. It didn't take long to find her. 

 

I immediately recognized her necklace of little skulls. Unlike the surrounding spirits, who were drab and gray like the characters of a black-and-white TV program, the woman was rich in tone and hue. The navy-blue of her long gown, her olive complexion, and even the darkness of her hair and eyes - all of it was somehow livelier than everything else. Her movements were more fluid than the rigid ambulations of the nearby ghosts. Her chest heaved as she breathed and her eyes blinked; little signs of life that the spirits never displayed. In other words, she stood out.  

 

She was carrying a notepad and quill (yes, a quill), and was sketching as she unhurriedly roamed the tunnels. It seemed like she was mapping the local section of the Underworld, her eyes glancing up from the notepad only long enough to look along passageways and into caverns. Though her eyes remained down most of the time, she had no trouble navigating the surroundings. Not once did I witness her accidentally bump into a wall or ghost. Rather, she deftly glided around all obstacles as though her body had already memorized where to go. I also noted that the quill never seemed to run out of ink.    

 

I followed her as she moved through the tunnels, keeping a short distance behind her. The surrounding ghosts would sometimes attempt to harass her, to which she would shoo them away with a slightly irritated wave of her hand. She paid the ghosts no mind, whatsoever. I was impressed, and here's why. While dreaming, a person typically perceives the situations and characters within their dreams as real; there's no way for most dreamers to tell the difference. Consequently, the way a dreamer reacts to a certain situation or threat in his dreams is probably very faithful to the way he'd react to that same situation or threat in real life. This is why dreams are such a valuable source of information about a person; they present the Oneiropomp with an unalloyed look at someone's psyche. Thus, the woman's complete disregard for the surrounding spirits and other elements of her environment indicated a certain degree of fearlessness. Ghosts, death, and even the Underworld, didn't seem to scare her. I could only surmise that she was either very experienced or very tough. Perhaps both.  

 

For nearly an hour, I continued to watch and trail the woman, content to drink in her memories of the Underworld. However, this is when things got hairy.

 

The woman came to a sudden halt. It was an abrupt stop in mid-stride, as though she'd unexpectedly remembered something very important... or noticed something important. She stood rigidly at the center of a tunnel, with spirits continuing to press by on either side. I stopped the moment she did, maintaining my distance whilst watching her. Slowly, her head rose from the notepad and turned to peer over her shoulder. With a sidelong glance, she looked back in my direction, and to my horror, I understood that she was glancing at me. A few seconds later, her whole body turned till she was facing me, and our eyes locked. Then she spoke. "You're not supposed to be here."

 

Her voice was soft, yet it carried over the clamor of the nearby spirits as clearly as if she'd whispered directly into my ear. I detected the faintest trace of an accent in the way she rolled her r's; Spanish, maybe? 

 

I froze. This was unusual. Normally, a dreamer doesn't process a visiting Oneiropomp any differently than other dream characters. I should have been overlooked as part of the background, just like the ghosts. My surprise prevented me from making an intelligent rejoinder, so instead, I foolishly looked around to make certain that I was the one she was speaking to. She continued to stare at me with a visible leer of suspicion. I maintained my oneiromantic disguise, even though I knew the jig was up. She wasn't ready to behold the Hobo King in his full glory. 

 

By now it was obvious to me what the woman was. She was a lucid dreamer. This could prove to be serious problem. Unlike the rest of sleeping humanity, lucid dreamers remain self-aware within their own dreams. They understand when they are in a dream, and furthermore, they can exert control over their own dreamscapes. Not to the degree of a trained Oneiropomp like myself, but enough to accomplish basic feats of Dream Riding. How could I'd been so careless?! I should have seen the signs. I'd exposed my existence to the Sin-Eaters, and much too soon. The entire expedition was at risk.

 

This was First Contact of a sort, and I needed to broach things diplomatically. The following is a transcription of our conversation, as best as I can remember it:

 

I employed the bellowing, stately voice that I used when addressing other world leaders on behalf of the former Hobo Nation. "There's no need to be alarmed. I don't want any trouble. Just visiting."

 

Her eyes narrowed even more than they already were. "You have no right to be here. You are an intruder in this House of Dreams."

 

I shrugged. "Uhh, yeah I guess you're right. Meant no harm. I just wanted to learn about you... so I decided to watch your dreams while you were sleeping..." I winced at that. "That sounded creepy. I'm not creepy, really! To be honest, you weren't supposed to know I was here."

 

The woman's expression was rather implacable; a mixture of distrust and quiet judgment. I couldn't say I blamed her for having negative sentiments. What was important now was to take things slowly; to put her at ease without revealing too much about myself. Unfortunately, I've never been very good at lying.

 

"The Red Bride told me you were here," said the woman in an ominous tone. There was a detached quality to her voice that was disconcerting. "Would you like to meet her?"  

 

Oh boy... time to eject.

 

I chuckled, nervously. "Well, that sounds lovely, but you see, I have places to be. I'm a king and, well, kings have lots of responsibilities. My companion Poincaré is probably waiting for me to wake up, and I certainly don't want to worry him. So I should get going, I'm thinking."

 

At this point, I made a hasty attempt to will myself back into wakefulness. It's usually a very simple task for me. But to my shock, I discovered that I was unable to exit the dreamscape. I tried several times and could feel myself straining against the force of her will. The woman was hindering my ability to leave; a basic technique of Dream Riding. It was a nifty trick, but one that she couldn't maintain indefinitely.

 

I now became uncomfortably aware of the fact that all the surrounding spirits in the tunnel with us had gone eerily silent. They were motionless, and glaring intently at me. The tunnel itself had insidiously widened and seemed to be changing, the rock walls slowly dissolving away like celluloid film in an acid bath. I needed to leave this place before a fight broke out. I was more concerned for her than for myself. For anyone else but the True Fae, Oneiromachy against a changeling, especially this changeling, was a supremely bad idea. But she didn't know enough to realize that. To her, I was an invader to defend against. I needed to go before she got hurt, which would permanently ruin any future chance of a relationship with her krewe. 

 

The woman's notepad and quill had vanished, and her hands, now free, were absently playing with the tiny off-white skulls strung across her collar. "Are you a creature of the Grave Dream?" she asked, watching me closely. I just stared at her, not sure what to say. I must have been conveying my confusion on my face, because she followed with a different question. "Are you a servant of the chthonians? A form of abmortal?" Again, I was bewildered, but also intrigued enough to make inquiries of my own. 

 

"Are those like the Gentry. Is that code for 'evil faeries'?" As soon as I said it, I wanted to slap myself. When this expedition was over, I needed to find a Winter courtier to teach me a few things about lying and keeping secrets.

 

The woman furrowed her brows in response; I think she was trying to determine if I was truly as strange as I seemed, or if I was just messing with her. Then her face went slack, ever so subtly, as though something finally clicked in her head.

 

"You're the one who trespassed into our haunt... the raggedy man in the paper crown... the would-be king..." 

 

I just about blew my top when she said that. Would-be king!!! That statement implied that I wasn't already a king! Who did this woman think she was?! I may be without a country at the moment, but even the greatest of leaders have their setbacks. Gandhi got his butt kicked a lot, Nelson Mandela was locked away for 27 years, Tom Hood of Miami was killed in the Summer Court's coup, etc. Yet did such incidents prevent these men from later persevering (okay well, maybe Tom Hood because of the whole, you know, dying thing). Obviously, this woman didn't know who she was speaking to.  

 

With my ego bruised, I was on the verge of giving this Sin-Eater vixen a stern tongue-lashing until I realized that she'd stopped paying attention to me. Her eyes were now focused on something behind me, and that's when I heard it. It was a noise like the grinding of asphalt or concrete; the kind of ugly rumbling one hears when a city milling vehicle is stripping pavement off of the street. It reverberated from the depths of the tunnel behind me and grew steadily louder. Against my better judgment, I turned in the direction of the sound and saw a dark shape lumbering towards us. I only caught a glimpse, but that glimpse afforded me much more than I'd have ever wanted to see.

 

The advancing figure looked like a human woman, but only in the vaguest sense. Perhaps it was a human female once, but mere vestiges of that origin remained. Instead, it was a jigsaw of mangled body parts intermingled with protruding fragments of metal and glass. Some of the metallic debris perforating its form was faintly identifiable as bent or melted automobile components - pieces of tire rod, exhaust pipe, fender, grille, drive shaft, etc. - all cruelly mashed together. Most of the surface area of its body was skewered by one thing or another, including its face, which was little more than a misshapen mass of pulped flesh rivened by glass and plastic. Half of its hair seemed to have been burned away, and a viscous combination of blood and motor oil dripped from every point of impalement. The meager remainder of its organic body was twisted and broken, sporting sad scraps of blemished white lace from what had once been, presumably, a wedding dress.      

 

A living creature would surely be dead from this degree of injury (including many a supernatural being), let alone incapable of walking. Yet that's exactly what the approaching figure was doing, laboriously trudging toward us, and that only added to its frightfulness. Words like "horrific" or "grotesque" did the sight no justice.  

   

 

Field Report, Week 5: Observation & Identification

 

Moses Bridge

The so-called "leather-clad biker" from my earlier field reports. I had surmised several weeks ago that this man was the leader of the krewe, and since that time my suspicions were confirmed. Mr. Bridge is a gruff, no nonsense individual; the strong but silent type who rarely smiles and keeps to himself. He lives in a small apartment in downtown Cincinnati and works in a fairly upscale repair shop that specializes in building, fixing, and restoring expensive custom motorcycles (think American Choppers on the Discovery Channel). He also spends a lot of his time drinking at a local Hell's Angels-style motorcycle club; I'm assuming he's a member, but not entirely certain. 

 

At night, Bridge goes ghost hunting; often by himself. He appears to have little else in the way of a life. No children, no wife or girlfriend, and no friends outside of his fellow krewe members (and even then, I'm not sure he regards the other Sin-Eaters as friends). His dedication to the Sin-Eater life looks to be all-consuming, perhaps obsessive. If his dreams are any indication, all he thinks about are ghosts. However, this isn't entirely out of place; all the Sin-Eaters spend an inordinate amount of time dreaming about death and spirits.

 

It's still difficult to judge Bridge's style of leadership; our observation of the Sin-Eater interactions with each other have been limited. He's definitely at the top of the pecking order, that's for sure. Though he's not terribly talkative, the krewe is always careful to listen when he does speak up. His orders sound more like suggestions, though I've yet to see anyone disregard one of his "suggestions." He keeps a tight reign on his emotions and has one of the most unexpressive faces I've ever seen. At best, I've caught him giving his fellow Sin-Eaters some truly withering glares on a few occasions when they did something to earn his ire or annoyance. I'm not ashamed to admit that the man is intimidating. Even if I didn't know what he was, I'd find Mr. Bridge to be unnerving. There is a certain stone cold detachment about him; the byproduct of a life spent dealing with the dead, maybe. In battle, he seems like the type of man that give no quarter and asks for none; in other words, a born soldier.

 

 

we heard some of the krewe members refer to him as "Torn" and "Reaper." I've yet to see him

kkd

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



 

 

 

 

 

Field Report, Week 3: Exploration of the Haunt

Poincaré and I spent the week observing and studying the Sin-Eaters in their natural habitat. In particular, we watched a church that appeared to serve as a regular meeting place for the krewe. Over the past few weeks we tracked the Sin-Eaters to this location on five separate occasions. The number of krewe members varied with each visit. Sometimes the entire krewe came to the church; other times it was as few as two. In one instance, one of the Sin-Eaters (the woman with the necklace of skulls) even stayed the night after everyone left. 

 

The church was located on Freeman Avenue in Cincinnati's West End neighborhood, amidst a slightly rundown area that was a mixture of residences and small businesses. We suspected that the church was some sort of secret headquarters. I would later learn the Sin-Eaters call such places "haunts." Assuming the place was a base of operations for the krewe's ghost hunting activities, one could only imagine the treasure trove of information waiting inside. Though it was potentially a great risk, I decided that entering the church was a necessary next step in our studies. However, I first had to make my due preparations.

 

Research time. Poincaré and I began at Cincinnati's City Hall, where we paid a visit to the Public Records Office. We spent several hours pouring over property records, blueprints, and inter-office memos, all in an attempt to gather intelligence concerning the place I'd be walking into. Much to my elation, we tracked down an old set of blueprints for the church. The floor plans didn't indicate anything unusual, though there was a large basement that certainly caught my eye. We also found a paper trail of real estate transactions and deeds. The church has been known by many names, and its ownership has switched hands many times over the years.

 

 Originally, this building was the First German Reformed Church, constructed in 1850 by German immigrants as an Episcopal place of worship. In 1918, it was changed to the First Reform Church in response to changing demographics and anti-German sentiments following World War 1. In 1970, it became the Freeman Avenue United Church of Christ, but only lasted five years before closing its doors. After that, the building was abandoned for eighteen years before it was purchased by Seven Hills Neighborhood, Inc. in 1993. Seven Hills, a social services agency, had intentions to remodel the building. However, funds dried up and the renovations never happened. The church remained unused and in disarray. It was facing possible demolition until the timely intercession of Over-The-Rhine Adopt (OTRA). OTRA was a nonprofit program seeking to preserve derelict properties of historic value by finding them new owners. In 2011, the church was put in the hands of three real estate developers who were told to bring the building up to city compliance. Renovations were underway until late 2012. For some inexplicable reason, the developers quickly sold the church to a small property management company called Trioditis Unlimited.

 

Poincaré and I were unable to find much information about this company, other than the fact that it was founded in 2012 by someone named Bryce Radke, a native Cincinnatian on record as the business' president and CEO. There was no current address or telephone number for either he or his business. Trioditis Ultd. appeared to have no significant assets or operations, and the church was the only property in its ownership. In truth, the company seemed to be barely solvent, and Poincaré speculated that it was simply a front of some sort. We did uncover paperwork indicating the issuance of a building permit to have finish work done in the church's basement. However, there was no evidence that a city inspection ever took place. Furthermore, I would later come to learn that Trioditis is one of the Roman names for Hecate, a Greek goddess of crossroads and the Underworld. 

 

Armed with new information, our next order of business was to study the building itself more closely. I wanted to verify that the church had no security systems in place, magical or otherwise. Though the church seemed utterly abandoned and unsecured at first glance (considering half of the windows were broken), I didn't wish to make any assumptions. Using the trackers still on their vehicles, Poincaré confirmed that none of the Sin-Eaters were in the vicinity, and then I went to work casing the church. I looked through the windows but my vantage points were quite limited. As far as I could tell, there were no magnetic reed contacts along the doors. I didn't see any PIR sensors (passive infra red) in any of the interior corners or walls, nor did I view a control panel anywhere. I also saw no evidence of magical defenses in place. I carefully combed the outside walls and doors for any semblance of occult symbols or materials, but there was nothing supernatural, at least nothing that I recognized as such. Besides some harmless graffiti and peeling paint, the walls were bare. 

Still, these findings didn't necessarily mean anything. Alarm systems and magical defenses don't always advertise themselves. Therefore, my following course of action was to perform some reconnaissance by proxy. I was hesitant to do this, but I needed my cat's help. With promises of top-of-the-line tuna as a reward, I coaxed Alexander the Great, my fae pet, to explore the insides of the church. He easily slipped in through a window missing a few of its panes, while I observed from a distance away. I held my breath in worry and anticipation. No alarms went off, nor did I detect any magic activate. None of the Sin-Eaters made a sudden appearance. Alexander the Great re-emerged a few moments later, no worse for the wear. 

 

In addition to scrutinizing the church, I panhandled in the neighborhood for the next few days and took the opportunity to converse with locals about the church. Few people seemed willing to stop and indulge the questions of an old hobo. Of those who did stop and talk, none had anything good to say about the place. I was told by several people that the church had a history of strange happenings, going as far back as the mid 19th century. There were old tales about bizarre noises, weird lights, sightings of apparitions, and shadows standing in the broken windows. The church seemed cloaked in a mystique of ghost stories and urban legends. If it was true that the church was haunted, then this might explain why ownership constantly changed, and why the Sin-Eaters had taken an interest in it.   

 

Once the locale had been surveyed to my satisfaction, I prepared to make my ingress that very night. Poincaré, ever concerned for the welfare of his liege, tried to convince me to let him take my place. He reasoned that there were too many unknowns and variables involved in entering a Sin-Eater Haunt, and the potential dangers were too great to risk the life of hobo royalty. However, I assured my faithful companion that all would be well, and I argued that a good leader must lead by example; I could hardly let my vassals do all the perilous work. Also, though I didn't voice this aloud, my curiosity wouldn't allow me to sit tight. I had to see what was inside that church.

 

Sometime after 12am, once we'd confirmed via the trackers that none of the Sin-Eaters were in the vicinity, I made my way into the heart of darkness.

 

The front doors of the church were locked, but I was nonetheless able to effortlessly slip in through one of the many broken windows on the property. Much as expected, the interior of the building was a ruinous mess. I entered into the nave of the church - a large room with a high vaulted ceiling and numerous clerestories (windows above eye level) ringing the tops of the walls. Any furnishings and decorations had long ago been stripped away, leaving bare walls and lots of empty space. The floor was littered with rubbish and rotting wood, and the air was still and stale. To my left was what had once been the presbytery, which no longer sported an altar but still had the remnants of a stained glass window high above. To my right was the lobby, beyond which were the front doors, and over the lobby was a dilapidated balcony that appeared unfit to hold anything heavier than a child. Despite its deplorable condition, the church conveyed the impression of having once been a visually striking place of worship. And underneath that... I experienced an inexplicable feeling of dread, not unlike what I felt when near the Jacquess Family mausoleum in Wesleyan Cemetery.  

 

It took my eyes a few moments to adjust. There was dust everywhere, and I could soon discern numerous trails of footprints scattered across the floor of the nave. It was obvious that the church was being visited on a regular basis. I followed the footprints and used my walkie-talkie to update Poincaré on my status. The trails led me down a short hallway and up to a closed door. If my memory of the blueprints was accurate, this was the entrance to the church basement. However, while the church itself was old, the basement door most certainly was not. It was much newer than the rest of the structure and seemed very solidly built; probably reinforced. Not surprisingly, this door had been installed fairly recently. It appeared that our research subjects didn't want people snooping down into the cellar.

 

I briefly studied the door and found no evidence of mystical protections. After a few nervous breaths, I activated my Contracts of Artifice and politely asked the door to unlock itself. The door agreed and a second later, I heard several satisfying clicks. I thanked the door and cautiously pulled it open. It was then that I noticed them - strange glyphs carved into the frame of the door - markings that were entirely unfamiliar to me. They had many of the features of Enochian, as well as Koine Greek and Coptic Egyptian. If I had to venture a guess, I would hypothesize that the glyphs were a mishmash of the three languages. In an occult sense, the symbols were gibberish and not likely to have any true power behind them. Still, I stared at them for a few panicked moments before deciding that they were (likely) harmless. As I proceeded through the door, I was pleased to discover that it seemed I was correct.

 

Rather than utter darkness, the basement was bathed in an eerie soft blue light; a light so cerulean that it was ethereal. The basement staircase was short, and as I descended I felt a sudden drop in temperature, to the point where my breath actually became visible. When I reached the concrete floor, I saw that the light was originating from an electric lantern in the corner. My eyes were drawn to another door on my left. I approached this door as stealthily as I could manage, listening for any strange sounds emanating from the other side. There was nothing. Unlike the first door, this one was not locked to intruders. 

 

I entered a room that, at first glance, reminded me of a Lord Sage's library or wizard's sanctum. I was a moderately large quadrangular chamber with walls of brick that were partially painted off-white in slipshod fashion. The ceiling was not very high, and it was curved where it met the walls, giving the entire room an arched contour. Lines of glyphs, similar to those at the door of the basement, where written upon the walls and ceiling; more lines than I could possibly count. Cluttering the sides of the room were numerous shelves holding all manner of books, baubles, devices, bottles, boxes, scrolls, and other knickknacks. I spotted several tables, also cluttered with items, a small sofa, multiple lounge chairs, and even a tiny bar/kitchenette area stocked with copious amounts of rum (the drink the dead like best). There were also a few mattresses stacked in one of the corners. There were half-melted candles everywhere, as well as several more electric lanterns. It was clear that the Sin-Eaters did more than just conduct business here; this was also a place where they rested, and perhaps spent recreational time.

However, what drew the majority of my attention was the floor at the center of the chamber. The central floor was empty of items and furnishings, and the concrete had been painted black. Upon the blackened concrete was a massive magical circle. It seemed to be hermetic in design, encompassing several smaller circles and an immense triangle, coupled with hundreds of mystical symbols and characters. As with the rest of the room, much of the writing in the circle was indecipherable to me. All I could divine was that the symbols had a distinctly Greek flavor, with elements of other languages thrown in. The entire design and everything in it was painted in some kind of reflective substance that glistened in the light of the electric lantern, making the circle seem as though it glowed with its own inner luminescence. The circle initially seemed very sophisticated; I'd only seen its like in the Hollows of Autumn Court sorcerers. Para-doxically, however, the parts of it that I could understand also registered as highly flawed, even perhaps completely made up. The best comparison I could provide is that the circle didn't strike me as auth-entically mystical. Instead, it felt like it was the product of someone without magical training. Someone portraying their idea of what a magic circle probably looks like.

 

I conveyed all of these sights to Poincaré over my walkie-talkie, and then engaged in a brief inspection of their supplies. I wasn't shocked to find that a vast majority of the items in the Haunt were related to death in some way, shape, or form: animal bones, calavera skulls, some marigold flowers (symbols of death), calacas dolls, urns, coffin screws, glass displays of pinned Ascalapha Odorata (also symbols of death), soap made from the rendered fat of the dead, and all sorts of morbid artwork. There were even several small shrines dedicated to saints or gods of the afterlife, such as Legba and Santa Muerte. In addition, there were a multitude of books about death by various philosophers, books of ghosts and hauntings, medical texts, religious texts, and ponderous volumes concerning funerary practices and death mythologies from hundreds of cultures. Most of it was mundane information, if highly specialized, with little overt mystical potential. I also noted many bottles and flasks carrying all sorts of substances. Some had grave dirt, some had salty water (tears, maybe?), and others had body parts preserved in formaldehyde. Some had substances I simply couldn't identify. 

All told, I spent only about ten minutes in the Haunt. I took at least a hundred pictures and I made certain to leave everything exactly as I'd found it. With all my documentation done, I excitedly headed out.

Field Report, Week 2: Tag 'Em & Track 'Em

 

Whew! It's been a busy week.

 

Like true naturalists, Poincaré and I have successfully tagged and tracked our Sin-Eater research subjects. Since our first confirmed sighting of them at Wesleyan Cemetery, we've dedicated the remainder of last week and all of this week to following our quarry around Cincinnati. We've discovered where they live, where they work, and where they like to spend recreational time. We've even found what might be considered the krewe's hangout or base of operations. All of this has been in an effort to establish an understanding of their habits and backgrounds. 

Those who read this report out of context may perceive our actions as "creepy" or "stalkerish." However, I assure you that everything we do is purely in the name of science and the pursuit of knowledge. Poincaré and I demonstrate the utmost professionalism at ALL times. We have no intention of wholly compromising the secrecy of our subjects. Consequently, the Lord Sages will only be receiving general ethnographic information regarding Sin-Eater customs, culture and powers. Any specific personal information we obtain about the krewe that is not pertinent to our studies won't be passed on to the entitlement. The goal of our research is to paint a picture of the Sin-Eater species in broad strokes, not minute details about a single krewe.

So as one can see, these seeming violations of privacy are actually necessary scientific endeavors. We're not stalking the Sin-Eaters; we're tracking their migration patterns. We're not spying on them; we're partaking in observational study.

 

As to how we "tagged 'em and tracked 'em," our method was quite simple, yet effective. When the Sin-Eaters first entered the Underworld nearly two weeks ago, we assumed that they would return for their vehicles at some point. Neither of us had access to any supernatural means of tracking the subjects; no special tokens or Contracts of Four Directions. And though we could tail one of them in our safari jeep, there was no guarantee that following one Sin-Eater would lead us to the rest. Who knows how often they meet together? What we'd witnessed in Wesleyan Cemetery might have been a strictly annual event. Naturalists usually track animals in the wild by attaching electronic RFID tags to the ears or legs of their subjects, and though we deliberated this approach for a brief period, it was decided that trying this with Sin-Eaters would be disastrous.  

 

GPS Tracking Key...
worth every one of
Poincaré's pennies

Ultimately, it was Poincaré who had the ingenious idea of purchasing trackers to place on each of their vehicles. I was at a loss as to where we could procure such devices, aside from the internet, so we did a hefty bout of consumer research. Poincaré eventually found a local Brookstone that sold active locating GPS Trackers. As a side note, I must say that I adore the store known as Brookstone. Who knew there is a company that sells quirky, high-tech gadgets? My first time inside one of these places proved to be a sheer delight to the Wizened in me. I could have stayed for hours to peruse the store's wares, but Poincaré rightly pointed out that my presence was attracting too much attention. Apparently, a hobo in an electronics retail outlet tends to stick out. Since I'm still wanted by the authorities, we didn't linger.  

The trackers that Poincaré purchased were expensive, to say the least, with just five of them totaling at well over $750. It'd easily take me over half a year of panhandling to collect that much money (thank the Wyrd for Poincaré and his fiscal contributions to the hobo cause). However, these sly little devices were well worth the price. They could be attached to a vehicle by magnet, and they transmitted real-time information (routes, driving speeds, and stops) to an app in Poincaré's phone. The trackers were capable of relaying up to two weeks worth of activity, and location data was accurate to within 2.5 meters. They were each powered by two AAA batteries, and were entirely ruggedized and water resistant.  

After obtaining the trackers, we concealed one on each of the vehicles, then stood by and waited. Once the Sin-Eaters returned, the devices tracked them as advertised. Knowing their whereabouts at all times has permitted us to study them at our leisure. This past week has been about documenting the Sin-Eaters' various comings and goings. I was pleased to discover that the krewe members meet up regularly, though it's unclear if the reasons for this are personal or professional (i.e., related to ghost hunting). Whatever the case, it makes them easier to track and observe. 

Along with establishing where each of the Sin-Eaters live and work, we've also become aware that they often congregate at an abandoned church in western Cincinnati. The building is called the First German Reformed Church, located in Cincinnati's West End. The trackers show that the krewe gathers here several times a week. However, aside from privacy, there's no obvious reason why a group of people would want to come here. My theory is that this place is the krewe's headquarters, not unlike what a shared hollow is to a motley of changelings. We have yet to ascertain whether the location is strictly a mundane meeting place, or if it offers any special features/benefits. We've only observed the church from the outside, and I don't want to attempt to break in until I know more about it. The krewe could very well have supernatural protections in place. Then again, such defenses probably only apply to ghosts. Too much is still unknown. 

Once I've determined that it's safe enough, I'll try to get inside the church for a closer look.
   

Field Report, Week 1: 1st Confirmed Sighting

For the consideration of the Lord Sages, I humbly submit the following series of ethnographic field reports detailing my research into Homo Sapiens Spiritualis, known more commonly as "Sin-Eaters." These reports are based upon several months of in-field observation and study of this unique species of supernatural being. The Hobo King wears many hats - not just a crown - and one of them is the hat of the scholar. It is my hope that this contribution to the collected lore of the Lord Sages proves me worthy of admission into your noble order.

                                                       ---Tobias Blackbriar

The first time I laid eyes on a Sin-Eater "krewe" was while staking out Cincinnati's Wesleyan Cemetery with my faithful companion, Poincaré. 

Of course, at first it was unconfirmed that we were observing authentic Sin-Eaters. We could only venture a guess, since neither of us were exactly sure how to identify such beings. All we knew was that a strange group of individuals had come to the cemetery late one night. I describe them as "strange" because they arrived at the witching hour (12 am), which is a bizarre time for anyone to visit a graveyard. Furthermore, they were an eclectic bunch who seemed to hail from many different walks of life: a businessman in a nice suit, a heavily tattooed punk rocker, a leather clad biker, a goateed construction worker, and a willowy gothic beauty wearing a necklace of little skulls. Not the type of people one would expect to see hanging out together.  



Jacquess Family Vault

They met up in front of a decrepit mausoleum situated in the rear of Wesleyan. It was an old, battered stone edifice whose features had been eroded away by time. The front of the mausoleum had ornamental square columns carved in relief on the wall, and the door was little more than a rotted collection of wooden planks held loosely together. Carved above the door were the words "Jacquess Family Vault," followed by some numbers (presumably dates) that were too faded to read in their entirety. The whole thing was small, as far as mausoleums go, and it'd been the only crypt that I hadn't slept alongside since I'd started staking out the cemetery. For some inexplicable reason, I felt a slight sense of dread when near that particular structure. Not unlike the dread I feel when within the Hedge. The Hobo King trusts his instincts, and mine told me to avoid the Jacquess Family Vault.


Anyway, each member of the group arrived separately. Their vehicles included a pristine silver BMW, a motorcycle, a maroon beetle, a beat up Ford pickup truck, and a '59 Chevy Impala. Some of them parked at the gates of the cemetery and walked the rest of the way, while others drove in and parked their vehicles along one of the plots near the mausoleum. They silently congregated at the front step of the crypt, saying nothing to each other until the final person - the leather clad biker - pulled up on his Harley.


I observed all of this from several hundred yards away, using a large gravestone as cover. I'd taken off my safari hat and was peaking over the top of the gravestone just far enough so that my eyes could get an unobstructed view. I managed to quietly contact Poincaré via my walkie talkie, at which point he confirmed catching sight of the mysterious visitors entering the cemetery. Fortunately, it was a waxing moon that night, so there was an ample amount of moonlight with which to see. I told Poincaré to make his way over to me as stealthily as possible, so as not to alert our quarry. He emerged from the darkness moments later and crouched down beside me. 


Poincaré and I shared the binoculars, taking turns to watch the visitors. The group was having an involved discussion; I could see mouths moving and hands gesturing. Sometimes one would speak and another would interrupt. The tone struck me as nervous or urgent; I could see it in their body language. It was obvious that they were in heated debate over something. We were too far away to hear any of what was said, and though the moon was nearly full, it was still too dark to read lips or make out further details. What I wouldn't have given at that moment to be able to enhance my hearing with the Contracts of Fang and Talon. 


Each person in the group seemed intent on getting his or her point across to the others, particularly the construction worker and the tattooed woman. The only one who rarely contributed to the conversation was the woman with the skull necklace; she simply stared at the mausoleum. To their credit, they took pains to keep their voices low, despite emotions running high. Each of them periodically scanned his surrounds to make certain no one was snooping. Clearly, they prized their privacy. However, the visitors never seemed aware that they were being watched. Not surprising, really. Poincaré and I might not be as stealthy as a Darkling, but we hobos know a few things about going unnoticed.

My sketch of the symbol on
the mausoleum door

The group conversed for about twenty minutes, at which point they seemed to finally reach some kind of consensus. Then they all looked expectantly to the woman with the skull necklace. In response, she silently approached the door of the mausoleum and drew what appeared to be a small stiletto from her right sleeve. She sliced open her palm with the tip of the blade and proceeded to use her blood to paint a symbol on the door. The others watched without reaction, like this was a casual happening for them. When the woman completed her grisly task, she took a step back and closed her eyes. Poincare snapped some pictures with our camera while I sketched the bloody symbol into a notebook. My later research would reveal that it was a pictogram representing a "crossroads" - a location between worlds.

From the standpoint of a potential Lord Sage, what occurred next was terribly exciting. I feel privileged to record this momentous observation on paper.   

I do not exaggerate when I report that the entire front wall of the mausoleum trembled violently. Within seconds, the stone split apart and collapsed inward. The wall crumbled and fell into the crypt as though sucked inside by a powerful vacuum. It was a jarring and somewhat humbling sight to behold. The deficit of noise was surprising; all we heard was a low earthen rumble and a sharp rush of air, like an intake of breath. Poincaré and I were transfixed with morbid amazement. Where once there was the face of the mausoleum, now was a gaping black opening. The remainder of the crypt's external structure appeared undisturbed.

The opening was the mouth of what seemed to be a subterranean tunnel of sorts. It was shadowy and foreboding, with rocky walls and uneven ground. The tunnel looked like it continued forever; I certainly could see no end to it. It was impossibly long; much too long to conform to the size and dimensions of the mausoleum that housed it. Like a gateway into the Hedge, I understood that I was watching something trans-planar in action. Though my experience in such matters was very limited, it wasn't difficult to deduce that I was staring at a doorway into the Underworld.

The group moved into the opening, beginning with the leather clad biker, and I detected more than a little reluctance on everyone's part. This was not a journey that they were enthused to make. The last to enter was the construction worker, who lingered at the entrance and turned to look out at the cemetery, presumably to make certain nothing followed them inside. The doorway remained open for about seven minutes, after which the mausoleum's face began to reconstruct itself. Much like how it opened, the process was fast and noiseless. The front wall came back together piece-by-piece until the crypt was whole again. With the exception of the crossroads symbol painted in dried blood on the door, the mausoleum appeared completely untouched. There was no evidence that people had used this location to cross dimensions only seconds earlier.  

Poincaré and I took a brief moment to rejoice. What we'd just witnessed had confirmed it. We'd finally found the object of our months long search: real life Sin-Eaters! Had that last Sin-Eater not wisely remained at the doorway to ensure no one trailed them into the Underworld, I might've been tempted to follow them in. Obviously, that action would have been incredibly foolhardy, given how little I know about the Great Below, but such was my exuberance. 

We stayed in the vicinity of the mausoleum for the remainder of the night. I spent several hours carefully scrutinizing the crypt and plying the door with some magical tests, including fae incantations and imbuements of Glamour. My curiosity compelled me to experiment with a few things, even though I wasn't expecting any results. Not surprisingly, nothing had an effect. I knew enough to understand that the source of a Sin-Eater's "power" was different than that of the Lost. We draw our magic from the Wyrd; they draw theirs from death. 

Eventually, we withdrew from the mausoleum and positioned ourselves some distance away, awaiting the krewe's return. Admittedly, neither of us had any inkling as to the nature of Underworld travel. Though changelings have experience with their own brand of extra-dimensional realm - the Hedge - it was foolish to assume that the two places have similar physical laws. One is a mind-bending reality where the chaotic physics of the fae hold sway, while the other is a purgatorial world of the dead. I wasn't about to use the Hedge as a frame of reference, so we were left with a number of questions. Did the Sin-Eaters have to exit the Underworld from the same spot that they entered, or could they exit at a different location? Did time function normally in the Underworld, or was it mutable like in the Briars? What was the geography of the Great Below? We were severely lacking in answers. So without any better options, we waited. After all, the Sin-Eaters had to come back for their vehicles at some point, right?  

Poincaré and I took shifts monitoring the mausoleum for signs of activity. It was a full four days before the Sin-Eaters returned. It's worth noting that, in that time, the krewe's vehicles were seemingly ignored by the groundskeepers at Wesleyan Cemetery. No tow trucks were ever called, even though some of the vehicles were inconveniently left on an access road. We would later discover that the cemetery's staff had been previously bribed to leave the vehicles alone.

After four days of waiting, in the stillness of the pre-dawn hours, I heard a sudden low rumble coming from the crypt. This was followed by the same violent rupturing of the crypt's front wall that had marked its initial opening. The Sin-Eaters emerged as soon as the doorway finished forming. Each one was in a filthy state, his or her face and clothes caked in a mixture of dirt and sweat (and perhaps a little blood, too?). They trudged out with an unmistakable look of fatigue on their countenances, but they otherwise seemed no worse for the wear. I could see no obvious injuries, and everyone who'd entered the Great Below was accounted for.

As I eagerly watched through the binoculars, the krewe huddled together while the once leather clad biker (now missing his leather jacket) addressed them all quietly. Though I still couldn't hear anything that they were saying, it was becoming increasingly clear that the biker was the krewe's leader. There was no heated debate this time; it seemed to be a simple, post-op follow-up. It was easy to see that everyone was terribly exhausted and just wanted to go home to sleep. However, they remained at the entrance of the Underworld until it closed several minutes later. At this point, the Sin-Eaters dispersed to their vehicles and left the cemetery.

Now that we'd confirmed our discovery of Sin-Eaters, it was time to track, study and further observe them...