Tug Glimpses

**Tug** · Jul 11th, 2009 08:58 PM

Since retiring from the NFL after faking an Achilles tendon injury, Tug has set a routine to keep himself from going out of his mind with boredom. Today is no different. He wakes up at five in the morning and makes himself a banana-berry'n'egg-super protein smoothee. He touches his arm, feels how easily his flesh yields without the Supernal woven into it, and sighs. He walks over to the home's small Hallow, located in the large back room with enormous bay windows.

The previous owner had been a kind middle-aged woman who ran a child-care facility out of the home, and the Hallow's resonance had taken on a joyous, child-like quality that always put him in the mind of candy and toy fire trucks. Tug has filled the room with plants since it gets so much sun, some of which are fairly exotic. He breathes deeply, then speaks in Atlantean and initiates a day-long Shield with his Life magic, and feels his skin tighten slightly as it becomes as dense as a rhinoceros' hide.

Organic Resilience

Then he jogs up to a county rec center track, where he alternates between wind sprints and body-weight plyometric exercises. At six a.m., he jogs back home to use the weight machines in his basement. Today, it's lower-body work; he could always be more explosive. Afterwards, he hits the showers and reads the paper, making a face at how his stocks are doing.

He's been checking out local boxing and MMA gyms on-line, but nothing has really caught his eye. He knows how important the right coach is. He walks back to the Hallow and tries a Fate spell he's only used occasionally to find the 'right' place...

Winds of Chance

...eventually, he gets it right. He goes back to his computer, tries the search again, and chooses a random search page. At the top is one he hasn't seen before, just a name, Red Rock Gym, an address, and a phone number. It isn't in the best part of town, from what Tug can tell, and he smiles. I want to learn from someone who's had to use it, right?

The neighborhood isn't totally bleak, but it's not the kind of place you'd want to get caught after dark. Tug parks his Escalade behind the large one-story building, which appears to be a converted warehouse. It's clearly in need of repair; as he walks in, he notices the white paint is peeling off the facade.

An elderly, heavy-set Spanish man leans back in his chair behind the short desk, watching boxing on a small television. His hand freezes inside his Cheeto bag. "Can I help you?"

Tug takes in the dingy, windowless excuse of a gym and wonders if Fate is just messing with him, and he'll go back outside to find his truck on blocks. "Hiya. I want to learn boxing. This the place?"

"Yeeaah," he says cautiously, as if it were a secret. "Why you wanna' learn?"

That's an odd question. Looks like they could use as many members as they can get. "Umm...I just finished watching Rocky? Does it really matter? I can pay. Cash, if you want. But I want to get started right away. Are you the teacher?"

The old man burps. "Thas me. Humberto," he nods heavily. "Ok, Mr. Cash, you wanna learn to fight? You follow me, we gonna whup your big ass into shape..." He pushes his chair away from his desk and rises, breathing heavily, and leads Tug past the ring in the center of the back room, toward a black heavy bag...

**Tug** · Aug 9th, 2009 08:22 PM

On a lazy weekday afternoon (his short time in the NFL meant he didn't have to get a real job any time soon, and with some smart investing, hopefully never) Tug sits back in his black leather recliner with a beer and re-watches the final game of his career on his massive flatscreen for the umpteenth time. It always put him in what Falx would call A Mood. Tug had always been an intense person; there's no way a person can put their body through the rigors of professional football without such passion. Since his return from the Wilds, however, it had become more difficult to dam these sudden bursts of emotion.

He finds his thoughts turning toward his recent trip to Robbins with Animus, and what, for some reason he couldn't put his finger on, felt like a failure. His pride still stung that he had to rely on Animus just to help him see past the Gauntlet. Tug tenses up as the replay of the fateful play that sent his soul toward the Stone Tower. As he watches it on the screen, he watches it in his memory, and his pulse quickens.

The ball is kicked off. His neck is slightly craned up as he runs downfield, watching it arc seamlessly to the returner. As he watches it fall into the other team's hands, Tug feels a sudden jerk in his perceptions, an echo of his original Awakening. His memory changes before his mind's eye; where before there were two tribes of primitive human warriors, now they are joined in battle by each side's spirit-gods. Even as he races toward the enemy's king, he watches a wrathful whirlwind of blades appears over his shoulder and tears into the ephemeral lion that would have blocked his way. He continues on his mission, launching himself violently into the Lion-Chief, and his crown falls from his head, and into Tug's hands, and he takes it into their camp and throws it mockingly in the dirt. He throws his head back and howls in victory as his brother-soldiers surround him, cheering and clapping him on the back.

Tug comes to, and watches his teammates calling for a doctor as they are coming to realize that something is wrong with Thirty-Eight. Intuitively, he knows something has changed, just as it had that day...

He walks out to the Hallow room and tries to remember what it felt like when Animus extended his perceptions into the Shadow. He chants quietly and imagines his mind piercing the Gauntlet...

Peer Across the Gauntlet

...Tug grins hugely as the view of his backyard is decidedly more arcane. I can't wait to tell Falx.

**Tug** · Aug 20th, 2009 10:15 PM

"Hey, puta, do you feel a draft in here?"

ThumpthumpthumpthumpWHUMP

"You at the wrong place, lady. Jazzercise is at the other gym."

WHUMPWHUMPWHUMP

A long, dramatic yawn comes from the fat, smelly, bearded bastard on the other side of the big black bag. "No, no, you keep on, I'm just gonna' take me a little siesta."

WHAPWHAPWHAPWHAPWHAP

The force of Tug's fists on the heavy bag finally cause Humberto to stumble backwards slightly. The old jackass smiles at him.

"Oh, there you are."

Tug wipes the sweat from his brown with his sleeve. He didn't use the Wilds to enhance his physical ability here. He liked the way his muscles burned after the heavy workouts the old man scheduled, and the constant insults stung his pride, pushed him, increased his focus. Fate had led him to the right place.

"C'mon into the ring, you got footwork to practice."

Tug smiled back.

**Tug** · Oct 21st, 2009 08:06 PM

On a balmy California autumn evening, Tug finally gets around to returning his former agent's call. Sacramento's Arrow Magister hadn't seen any problem with the big man getting a job that would put him squarely in the public eye and Tug was anxious to do something other than sitting around the house and waiting for the next crazy zombie adventure. The other line picks up.

"Hello?"

"Heya, Marty. It's Donnie."

"Briggo, baby, it's good to hear from ya!" the voice on the other end exclaims enthusiastically. Donnie's old agent has a voice that simply exudes money, probably because it's all the sonuvabitch thinks about. He's good at what he does, though, damn good. "How are ya? You had a chance to think about those commercials we talked about?"

"Ah, it's right to business with you, Marty." Donnie laughs. "I have, and yes. Let's do it."

"Terrific! That's just great! I'll send over the contracts and the shoot schedule for the commercials immediately." Tug can hear the sounds of Marty's fingers snapping. "I got someone I want you to work with, help you get ready for announcing games."

Donnie nods along to the plan. "Yeah, that sounds good." He was nervous about the live television stuff. He wasn't exactly the Great Communicator.

"Don't worry, Donnie, you're gonna be great! This is gonna be great! Glad to have ya' back, big guy!" Cha-ching. "What are ya' doing this Friday? Let's go out, get some dinner, some drinks, go over your future." The Thyrsus can hear the satisfaction in Marty's voice.

"Yeah, okay." They make plans to meet, and Tug hangs up, smiling to himself. It's the first day of the rest of his life.

**Tug** · Jan 30th, 2010 04:17 PM

Donnie sat in his favorite chair, waiting for the commercial he'd recorded for a local car dealership to air. He had a bag of chips, a six pack of a micro-beer, the phone next to him to call Mom and Dad when it came on. Channel 67 only plays crime dramas and real crime shows, the big guy finds. He'd rather be watching ESPN, but his enthusiasm for seeing his big, pretty mug on TV keeps him bolted firmly to his seat.

"The boss did it," he informs the perplexed fictional detective on-screen.

The waiting continues. He looked out at the clock. Midnight. He looks forlornly at the phone. His parents had to be in bed by now.

"It was the maid, duh."

Two A.M. It had to be on soon, he tells himself, wiping his face to stay awake, and switching from beer to coffee.

"Oh, c'mon! Where's the semen, huh? Where's the semen?"

Finally, at 3:37 A.M., Tug makes his city-wide acting debut. "FINALLY!" he exclaims, then watches wide-eyed as Donnie Briggs tell every insomniac around that Wilson Luxury Motors was the best purveyor of slightly-owned bargain luxury automobiles, good credit, bad credit, no credit, se habla espanol, come on down.

"Wow. I'm so awesome," he says finally, wiping a tear from his eye.

**Tug** · Feb 7th, 2010 09:44 AM

Donnie wakes up early to get his routine in. Today he's got an appointment with the personality coach, which sounded like bunk to Tug's ears, but his agent had insisted. He had been insulted at first- Tug's as charming as a sack full of Christmas kittens, thank you very much- but Marty had assured him that it would really help his announcing game, make him a more sought-after talent, and was totally not for wussies.

Tug groaned anyway, and went out at five-thirty in the a.m. to run wind sprints by himself at the local high school. The Talon puts himself through a plethora of plyometrics, then heads home to hit the showers. After, he makes himself a banana-egg-n-spinach super shake and goes out to the enclosed back porch/greenhouse, taking a moment to take in the joyful resonance that was the reason he had bought this house.

It's not much of a Hallow, but it would grow, Tug knew. That's why he had put all these plants around, and they all grew strong and healthy in this room. He takes his little plastic watering can and tops off the little guys, then his eyes are drawn to the bongo drums. Yep, it was time to draw from the Well. He hoped he didn't wake Falx.

Donnie sits cross-legged on the floor and pulls the drums in close. He smacks the skins in time with his own heart, then adds a third beat, a fourth. The tempo gets faster, and the rhythm takes on a life, a momentum all its own. There are no words to this Song, yet it consumes him, and he wails along to its irresistible beat. The crescendo breaks, and he feels strong, pure, alive, as he draws the Hallow's bounty into his Pattern.

Oblation

"Dude, gross. Put some clothes on."

**Tug** · Feb 17th, 2010 10:26 PM

Tug sat in the Sanctum he shared with his brother, a two bedroom townhouse in one of the nicer districts of Sacramento. He crossed his legs, since that just seemed 'right' for meditation. All this sudden work and publicity Marty was throwing his way, the attention from the ladies and fans, his responsibilities as a mage, he had to admit it was a little overwhelming. He had decided to spend some time in contemplation of the Phalanxes of the Arrow as a means to ground himself, and remember why he had sought this attention in the first place.

Donnie breathed in deeply, then quietly considered, Existence is War. The war against Vector, the Banishers, these battles were an extension of the Great War all mages wage against the Abyss. He thought about the wars closer to home- how his secret life as a mage warred against his public life as a celebrity, his duties against his desires. The Mind, Body, and Soul War Eternally. He examined how he had come by this fame- that it was because the public saw in him something they wanted to be, and thus celebrity was a natural expression of, The Supernal as Self. It gave him a natural strength, wielded properly, one which didn't rely upon casting, and so allowed him to Employ Magic Strategically.

Tug got restless around then, and decided to study the Phalanxes further at the Circle, in action. Backing away from his sparring partner's advances, Tug desperately tries to use a spear to stop him, ignoring his natural instincts to close the distance and grapple. Do Not Have Preferences, he reminds himself as he takes blow upon blow on his thick skull.

After healing the shattered bones and deep bruises from that challenge, Tug continues to push himself, intent to shore up his weaknesses. Granite Park had taught him that he needed to know how to handle a gun, so he grabs one off the rack and tries his hand at some target practice. Once he's hitting the bullseye with some regularity, he hands the weapon to another Arrow and takes the target's place.

"Die Every Day," he chuckles, then a burning hot round punctures his abdomen. "...shit." He heals the wound and gives the thumbs up. Another tears through his shoulder. The big man told himself that he wouldn't be fazed a bit the next time he was shot, and his fellow Arrow would become a better marksman.

When this self-imposed torture session is over, his request to learn new rotes was honored, and Donnie stayed to practice the mudras until the movements were second nature. He felt a small catharsis then, exhausted by his efforts, and decides its finally time to head home.

**Tug** · Mar 5th, 2010 01:14 AM

Tug sat in his Sanctum's Hollow, listening to the quiet of the house, considering how incongruent the silence was with the rage that was boiling over inside him. Tom was gone. He knew that, but he didn't know it yet. Even if Tom was dead, which Donnie was not yet ready to accept, they still had to get him out of Kruegan's. Mages knew the soul persisted past the Veil of Death, and how to hurt those who had learned the final mystery.

He beat on his drums in a berserk, untamable, unlistenable staccato and sang a vulgar, wordless battle cry from deep within the primal wilderness of his soul, entreating the Mana to flow from the small Hollow into his Pattern.

Oblation sux

He left to train with Humberto over at the humble Red Rocks gym in the barrio. The elderly boxing and wrestling coach is about to give Mr. Big Shot an earful for not showing up at his last appointment, then sees the look in his eyes. Humberto knows that look. "C'mon. Over here, let's start with the bag," he says, getting right down to business. Donnie nods in appreciation, then sets about practicing with gameday intensity. After the bag, they put on the gis for judo. Tug listens hard and works hard and at the end of the session, takes grave comfort in knowing these skills will help him kill those that took his brother from him.

When he returns home, he retrieves his dedicated weapons and delicately sets them on the altar Falx built on their Hollow. Tug then begins to chant the first words of spellcraft that will prepare him for the battle to come. The first Imago is a trade with First Assassin, Serpent, for some of his tricks.

Transform Self- 1WP spent to accept reduced Potency

The Abyss takes its tool, and though it's not quite everything Tug wanted, he strikes the bargain nonetheless. The next spell is crucial and difficult, since he's going to try to combine his Shield rote with his Honing rote to reduce the Tolerance drag of all the spells on his Pattern. Finding the familiar Tortoise and Elephant together, Tug asks both to grant him their own boons.

Organic Resilience + Honing the Form- 1WP spent to accept higher Potency

His pattern already loaded with magics, Tug crafts one last spell today, which he dedicates to his brother. He asks the Supernal to teach him to hold a gun as good as Falx did.

Learn Skill (Life) - 1 Mana spent, Correct Potency sux achieved

Totals

The last spell in place, Tug finally goes to put his head down and hopes for a sound, dreamless, oblivious night of rest before the assault.

**Tug** · Mar 19th, 2010 03:50 PM

The phone rings. Tug sits in his recliner in the living room, his face in his hands. He makes no move toward the phone and the machine picks up for the grieving Thyrsus.

BEEP. "Hi, this is Janice at the School. Is this the right number for Tom Briggs? He volunteered here, but no one has seen him in weeks-" BEEP.

He drinks freely from the open bottle of whiskey next to him and stares dully at a muted television. Every so often, he looks at the other chair. He knows Falx isn't here, but habits die hard.

BEEP. "Hey, hey, Briggs! This is Mickey Devereaux, my tour is done, yessir! The wife is throwin' a cookout, you should come, it's gonna be on-" BEEP.

BEEP. "Tom? Donnie? Pick up, boys. Your father and I haven't heard from you two in weeks and you know how I worry. Just pick up-" BEEP.

BEEP. "This call is for Mr. Tem Buggs. We have an exciting offer to share with you-"

"HE'S DEAD, GODDAMMIT! TOM IS DEAD! DEAD! YOU HEAR ME!"

Silence. Then, "I'm sorry to hear that, ma'am. Do you know that BBG offers hundreds of your favorite magazines at less than-" Click.

Moments later, a shattered tangle of wires and plastic lies on the floor.

Tug cries, then goes back to drinking and staring.

**Tug** · Apr 25th, 2010 01:37 AM

Tug pulls into the driveway of his house. He was spending less and less time there, and he told himself it was just because he was busy, between his duties as Sentinel, his training at the Circle, his workouts to keep from falling into husky range, working with charities, ducking his parent's phone calls, and appearing on the local sports radio stuff to give his opinion on the draft. Oh, and drinking. Can't forget that.

But none of those were the real reason. They were merely symptoms of the crushing loneliness he felt whenever he walked inside and his big brother wasn't there, and was never coming back.

He tosses his jacket on the couch and heads to the fridge for a cold beer. After he's had his drink, he goes out to the Hallow in the back. It's so depressing now. His grief had drained the joy from this place, and the little mana it provided was like salt on an open wound.

He pulled the drums close and bellowed out the pain he felt in deep, gutteral, primitive song, and as he did so, the Hallow poured its agonizing bounty into his vengeful Pattern.

Tug realized later that night, as he lay awake, unable to sleep, that he couldn't stay here any longer. The Sentinel felt the Hallow should remain in Pentacle control, however, and decided to make some calls later.

Bring the Pain

Tug Glimpses

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