Kurieg posted:

Powered by what in the air though?

Kurieg posted:

Powered by what in the air though? Air is 80% Inert gas. The rest is oxygen and some trace compounds like Methane and Hydrogen. Seriously if they're able to power themselves entirely through air and water that's a way more interesting development than robot heaven.

Hostile V posted:

One of the main original developers of the Cogs was a 57 year old mouse schoolteacher who figured out this one weird trick to power a robot with nothing but ambient air. She was shunned by the scientific community, a lot of them hated her, but she got a patent and funding and later went into production and that's where air-powered robots come from.

(you know what would actually make some goddamn sense if they just ran on water and air? Friggin' hydrogen fuel cells that require water for fuel and they need to be able to vent the water vapor Or Else so they give them the ability to "breathe" so they look more lifelike)

Covok posted:

Are you sure? I heard it was janitor who walked in on a chalkboard full of equations trying to solve the energy problem. He decided to erase one line and fixed the entire equation. The scientists involved, of course, had him killed and buried without rites then used his work to revolutionize the world.

PurpleXVI posted:

The funny thing is that in the corporate dystopia that HSD should be, despite the author's protestations to the opposite, this is really what they'd do.

Kurieg posted:

Now I'm imagining that forcing robots to breathe was actually part of a conspiracy by the Spacesuit creation industry ensuring that they'd always have a market.

Everblight posted:

Is this the GenChat thread? I can't find the GenChat thread and I would like to talk about Night's Black Agents. Can I do that here?

quote:

Mickey Frank woke on a metal cot in the field hospital. He looked down in fascination at the band of cotton dressing wrapped around his middle, darkened in the middle where blood was beginning to seep through. He could feel the morphine coursing through his bloodstream. Adele, the nurse he had taken to the USO show not a few days ago, stood at the foot of his bed, watching him sleep. But wait, no, the woman at his side wasn’t a nurse. His watcher was clothed in white, like Florence Nightingale from his boyhood history books, not in the dull army green he knew so well. And yet, something in her reminded him of Adele. The sharpness of her dark eyes, the downy skin of her long neck as she bent over him, tender and powerful. “You,” he whispered against her skin.
She spread her arm as if waiting for his embrace, and here her limbs multiplied into hundreds of pale arms, ending in fingers shapely as feathers. Beyond her head, the field hospital was gone, transformed into the eternal twilight at the end of the world, shot through with magnetic bands of shifting color. “Come,” she said. Not-Adele twined her neck around his throat, enfolded his body in her million-fi ngered arms, pressing him to her breast. “No, wait,” he said, but the muscles of her neck and wings tightened further, until he saw only blackness and stars, and the beat of wings bore him away.

quote:

Their dishes are as varied as those of humans, though many Wing-Folk prefer a diet heavy in meat. Most Westerners would consider their specialties “weird”: poached mouse, live ants wrapped in succulent leaves, fricassee of rattlesnake. However, Wing-Folk also enjoy fresh fish and eel, making sushi and sashimi restaurants popular gathering places for Wing-Folk worldwide.
Naturally, the Spinner-Kin and smaller specimens of the Riverkin and Serpentine breeds feel uneasy around the Wing-Folk. Although it’s unlikely that a winged feral would eat another feral of a different breed out of mere hunger, they do feed on ferals’ animal kin. Larger Wing-Folk, such as falcons, bats and owls, have been known to cannibalize smaller winged ferals in fits of rage.

quote:

Stereotypes
Man: Man is a mere page in the vast tome of our people’s history.
Mages: They could achieve more if they weren’t afraid to get their hands messy. True magic requires sacrifice.
Vampires: No good for food, no use as servants. What use is something undead?
Werewolves: What have we to fear from creatures bound to the earth?

quote:

The people of Guatemala say the quetzal bird once sang more sweetly than any other beast in creation. But when the Spanish conquered the Americas, the quetzal ceased to sing, its melodies replaced by a harsh cry. Men say the quetzal will regain its beautiful voice only when its people are free from bondage. The Gente Alada, literally “winged folk,” are echoes of the quetzal’s promise. Warriors in the form of quetzal and hummingbird ferals, this “breed” (really a sect united by common origin) fights under the banner of ancient Aztec deities: Huitzilopochtli, god of war and the sun; Quetzalcoatl, the feathered serpent, who embodies both heaven and earth in his form; and Mictlantecuhtli, lord of the dead.
The Aztecs believed Huitzilopochtli called the souls of warriors killed in battle and women who died in childbirth to serve him. These souls could later return to earth for a brief time as hummingbirds or butterflies. Hummingbird warriors among the Gente Alada believe themselves to be these spirits, returned to earth for a brief tenure and charged with bringing about an end to Man’s dominion over Nature. When the regional headquarters of a multinational corporation poised to clear-cut a forest mysteriously catches fire, or explosives rock a mile-high dam, devotees of Huitzilopochtli are certain to have had a hand in the destruction.

quote:

Mictlantecuhtli also attracts his share of followers from the ranks of the quetzal and hummingbirds, as well as some owls. Devotees of the lord of the dead have gone beyond the ritual cardiophagy popular among the quetzal to full-out cannibalism of their human kin. Unlike the quetzals, the devotees of the lord of the dead don’t confi ne themselves to strategic murders of powerful men. To these hummingbird warriors, all humans are a threat to the devotees’ kind. They move in darkness, picking off members of the human race at random. Often, the victims are the poor and vagrant, whose deaths are unlikely to attract attention to their murderers. The more the devotees of the lord of the dead kill, the more souls they have delivered to serve the lord of the dead.

quote:

Ferals who take hummingbird form populate all of Central America. They are the most numerous among the Gente Alada. Meanwhile, the heart of quetzal culture radiates from Guatemala, where people regard the bird highly. The cult of Mictlantecuhtli has followers throughout the world, and though they are less numerous outside of Central America, their doctrine is beginning to catch on among young ferals of other nationalities and species. Followers of Mictlantecuhtli may be rare in Poland or Japan, for example, but thanks to the “virtual wings” of Internet culture, they’re beginning to make their presence known.

quote:

Unlike other Gente Alada, Mictlantecuhtli’s followers kill their human progeny at birth, delivering them directly into the hands of their god. Thus the world is rid of Man’s evil, and Mictlantecuhtli’s kingdom prospers. Initiates into the cult of the death god often must kill a human relative in order to be accepted into the fellowship of Mictlantecuhtli’s followers. Devotees of Huitzilopochtle and Quetzalcoatl regard these practices as barbaric. In fact, most Wing-Folk would consider the murder or ritual sacrifice of their own relatives, especially their young, a sacrilege.

quote:

In the days before Creation, when all was black and void, a part of that black void detached itself from the rest and began to fly. Its first caw cracked the Nothingness, and all other things began. So goes the tale the crow-folk cackle to themselves. Whether or not they believe the story or consider it one more raucous joke at Man’s expense remains a mystery.

quote:

They avoid Man and his gathering places whenever possible, preferring the open road (or sky) to cities. If they traverse into Man’s territory, it is out of sheer desperation — a family member fallen gravely ill or a streak of bad luck that leaves their children starving — or by pure accident.
When the Vagahuir do show their faces, either in Primal or human form, the Vagahuir often find themselves run out of town by exterminators or angry mobs. Moving from small town to small town, sleeping in rented campsites and abandoned houses, these ferals seldom find a place unsullied by the ancient and unfounded hatred humans bear for their kind. “Rest your weary bones by day,” the old Vagahuir proverb goes. “For by night, we fly this place.”

quote:

Because children are relatively rare among their kind and are a mark of prestige, Vagahuir girls begin trying to conceive early in life. As a means of increasing reproduction, their culture also encourages polyandry. A Vagahuir woman will bed many men in her life, both human and feral, leaving a trail of broken hearts behind her. While she may fall in love from time to time, her people won’t encourage her to mate with the same man for long. To do so would be unlucky, they say, and might even make her infertile.

quote:

Song is also important to the Vagahuir. Normal bats may shriek, but human and feral Vagahuir alike raise their voices in pure melodies. Music helps pass the time on the long road between safe nesting places, but music is more than mere entertainment. The songs of the Vagahuir tell the story of their history, rolling along to the steady hum of tires on pavement, or beating out in time to the sound of footsteps in the rain. The Vagahuir teach these songs to each new child, in the hope of “singing out the Gift,” causing the feral form to blossom in their young. Whether or not this works, singing out the Gift leaves the child with a rich sense of her family’s history, binding her to them through clear nights and bad days. Even if she feels any misgivings about her family’s traditions ask of her, she will never leave them for a life among other ferals or humans.

quote:

When, in 1957, a secret auction was held of the “evidence” found at Ed Gein’s Wisconsin farmhouse, the mortal children of the Strigoi were waiting, briefcases in hand.

Mors Rattus posted:

E: Though we're probably gonna want a new thread for the new year.

Alien Rope Burn posted:

Whenever Inklesspen catches up to archiving this thread would be a good cue to start anew.

Hc Svnt Dracones posted:

Vectors represent excess and opulence that is, quite literally, larger than life, and Vector pop culture holds a certain fascination to some while simultaneously revolting others. Singing is a noteworthy example. Cogsunes like music as much as the next person, but singing uses an enormous amount of oxygen, something they themselves consume very little of. The fact that oxygen isn’t a finite resource for them is a non-issue; it’s the overuse of it that matters.

Hc Svnt Dracones posted:

Tauric Delphinidae and Selachii members transition to their lateral lower bodies just below the thighs, leaving a gap between the crotch and the lower body that’s absent on tauric snakes.

PurpleXVI posted:

theironjef posted:

At least it has those little snaps in the front to get past the obvious question of how did it put that bathing suit on. Though in retrospect that really just draws attention to the garters, which would have been impossible.

Young Freud posted:

I don't want to know how much waste that webbing where the legs merge collects if she has to use the restroom.

Also, a gap like that is in no way aquadynamic. Especially with how it's webbed, it's going to create a pocket that creates a lot of drag.

PurpleXVI posted:

Hc Svnt Dracones: Extended Core

RocknRollaAyatollah posted:

They actually managed to fit those lovely, Nomura anime pants on a creature with a god drat flipper.

theironjef posted:

So, I have a copy of the Ralph Bakshi's Wizards RPG sitting here now. It's amazing to think there could be worse art of Wizards floating around in the world than what is present in the film, but here we are.

PurpleXVI posted:

Kurieg posted:

Wing-Folk:Thieves and Tricksters, all

theironjef posted:

So, I have a copy of the Ralph Bakshi's Wizards RPG sitting here now. It's amazing to think there could be worse art of Wizards floating around in the world than what is present in the film, but here we are.

PurpleXVI posted:

Everblight posted:

Is this the GenChat thread? I can't find the GenChat thread and I would like to talk about Night's Black Agents. Can I do that here?

quote:

Warmed by alcohol’s kiss and human metabolism, these shapechangers fear the sun but emerge at times to join the night-hunt up above. . . . In human form, they appear degenerate, like the castoff parents who bore them. In Primal form, they’re sewer-sized crocs with smarts to spare. And in War-Beast form, they swell like DTs into man-like shapes with gaping mouths, short claws and scales sheened with whiskey and shattered glass. Though they almost never speak in any form, these ferals recall what the cities have forgotten.

quote:

From golden fleece to black sheep, the Horned Folk garner a mixed reputation. Stubborn as hell yet offered up to heaven, their sardonic ways mock the sanctity of Man. He cannot deal with them easily, yet finds he can’t do without them fully. Their bleating grates upon his nerves, yet when the wind turns cold, it’s their warmth and wool that he seeks.

quote:

It may have been propaganda that burned the Templars alive, but the conflation of goat-worship and left-hand mysticism bore fruit around later infernos. Named for an Egyptian city dedicated a ram-headed god, the infamous Mendean breed takes up the mantle of Shadow-Teachers. Bearing satanic horns and hermaphrodite anatomy, these pansexual shapechangers lead sabbats on the outskirts of Man’s world, conjuring dark dreams of forbidden knowledge and carnal ecstasy. Yet despite these ferals’ sinister allure, the Mendean excel at healing arts and show compassion to life’s outcasts. Does human perversity guide their birthright? Or is something deeper at work? To Baphometian goat-folk, all things are of Nature. Wisdom comes with embracing fear.

quote:

There is crime, and there is punishment. When a now forgotten king of old Akkad withheld his blessing from the crops, the people starved in droves. Children perished, and elders withered in the beds. Meanwhile, the king and his court gorged themselves on fine wines and honeyed wheat cakes. They never noticed the clicking and skittering of 10,000 little shadow breeds legs, or the hard eyes that gathered until the sun had passed. Nor did the king and his court note the serving girl with equally hard eyes noting each one of them as she fed them succulent dates. When two-score skeletons, stripped as clean as bleached reeds, awaited the morning servants, no one thought to search the darkest corners of the rooms, or find the hard-eyed serving girl whose name no one recalled. And if those servants had, the previous night, heard muffled coughs, as if a fat man or woman were choking on some thick morsel, the servants thought no more about such things. For there is crime, and there is punishment. And sometimes Justice crawls.

quote:

In Primal form, this feral is smaller than Size 1, and can scatter in all directions yet stay connected through her hive-mind bond. The swarm cannot use human manual skills, but ignores Defense when attacking. To attack, the swarm must surge over the opponent and remain in place for at least one turn. Once in place, the shapechanger inflicts one lethal Health point per turn until the shapechanger retreats or is harmed by fire, electricity or some other attack that inflicts equal damage on the target.

quote:

Loud is the drum that brings passion. Humbling is the dance that challenges fire. So it is with the Yumni. Native Americans all, they are Bison’s blood-inheritance. By heritage, Tornado Walkers are usually only born to Kiowa, Aisca or Dakota tribe; by legend, Yumni shoulder the weight of the wind. Theirs are the hooves that pound down the rock so it can be carved into rivers by the floods. Given sacred purpose to serve both the land and the air, Yumni balance carefully the mysteries bestowed on them.
Yumni are often handsome, but never classically beautiful. Male or female, human- or sometimes animal-born, these folk are all treated as holy protectors. When a child or calf is born with the mark — a white streak down the left side — she is taken from her birth-parents and reared by a shaman until it is known whether or not the Changing Gift will manifest. This white streak stays with her in all forms. It is believed to be smoke that rose when the White Calf Woman brought magic to her people. Writhing silver
white toward the stars, it is the very breath of Grandfather Mystery.

quote:

At first, the young Felipe believed that his ancestors shared the blood of the old Spanish royal family. On his 16th birthday, his grandfather awoke in Felipe the dormant potential of his kingly blood. On the pretext of having the boy assist with the midnight birth of a foal, the elder Bandaris summoned Felipe to the birthing stable. Once the boy arrived, the old man shoved him into a stall and followed him inside, a heavy training whip coiled in his hand. Without a word of explanation, Felipe’s once-kindly grandfather lashed him with the whip, driving the panicked boy from one end of the large stall to the other, giving him no rest from the relentless swish and crack of the whip.
Felipe tried to protect himself. His grandfather (who had obviously gone mad) only directed the whip to areas the boy could not protect. Then Felipe felt a stinging slash sharper than the others: he felt hot sticky wetness trickle down his arm from where the whip had broken the skin. A voice within him said, This is the blood of kings. Be now a king, and Felipe felt something inside give way as his battered body twisted and swelled, his hands hardening into hooves, his body growing larger and more powerful. With an angry snort, he reared up on his hind legs and batted the air just inches from his grandfather’s face with his fore hooves. His grandfather dropped the whip and fell to his knees.
“The blood of the Bandaris Andalusians runs true. We have an heir!”

quote:

As an added perk to his position, Felipe enjoys the droit de seigneur, or “lord’s right” among the residents of the villages adjoining the Bandaris farm and among the young mares in the family’s herd. Several children in the towns of La Palla and Sangrillo bear a distinct resemblance to Felipe. Should any of them show a kinship with the family Gift, the lucky ones will find themselves literally saddled with a new family, new responsibilities and the searing inner fire that marks the bloodline of the mighty Andalusians and their human counterparts.

quote:

William had just begun to learn to play the saxophone that became his signature when an especially nasty schoolyard fight revealed his literally venomous nature. He bit a boy, who later died. Just before the cops picked William up, his inventive schoolmates nicknamed him “Copperhead” for the deed, his skin tone and the unusually long canine teeth he’d bitten the boy with. On William’s way to prison, he suffered his First Change in a cell, turned into a snake and slithered free. His parents never heard him come home, but they noticed the missing clothes and sax. Wisely, Mom and Pop McCain didn’t say a word.
Years passed in a blur of blues. Young William worked hard, shook out some rough deals and earned a place in the traveling blues scene. Folks commented often on his pearly skin and prominent teeth. He learned never to smile, and let the sax speak in his place. Women came and went: the Jewish writer from the Bronx, the radical sistah from Watts, the slinky Asian chick with a fondness for ropes . . . Copperhead let his fingers, sax and tongue do the talking, then split when he heard hissing in the back of his mind.

quote:

Rennie and his boys were the same age as Fawn. She’d known them since childhood, and detested them entirely. When Rennie got his first gun, he took it to the woods and . . . well, the carnage spoke for itself. No huntsman, Rennie liked to kill poo poo. One evening, Fawn found their handiwork, still alive and badly suffering. A deer — a large female, rich with child. She’d been an illegal target, but that hadn’t stopped the boys. When Fawn found the doe, she hung tangled in barbed wire, shot to bits but still alive. The girl’s hands tattered as she worked to free the deer. Sure, it was heroic, but the effort was wasted. Before the deer died, though, she locked eyes with the girl and breathed her wild breath into Fawn’s face. Something passed between them then. Even now, Fawn couldn’t tell you what or why, and she wouldn’t if you asked her. In blood and breath, they’d shared a secret.
A day later, Fawn awoke deep in the woods, naked and covered in scratches and dirt. It took her another day to get home, with clever efforts to remain unseen. The skills she’d sharpened as a childhood sneak served her well from that point onward. It didn’t take long to discover her new talents; who could resist a cute little fawn like her? It didn’t take long, either, for her to lead poor Rennie off the edge of a cliff. Now she’s after the other boys, too . . . and any hunter she can find. Girls are clever, and deer are quick. Fawn is both — and bloody-minded, too. These days, she’s a predator who looks like prey. For fun, she hunts the sportsmen. With traps, deceptions, fast kicks and other “accidents,” she sends them to slow and nasty deaths. No, no one ever fears the quiet ones. But in Fawn’s case, perhaps they should.

quote:

Sovah followed her mother to a tall, walk-in enclosure.“We’ll have to wait a few minutes before he shows himself,” her mother said. “He’s probably seen you from a distance, but he’s not used to your closeness.” She sat on the ground and motioned Sovah to take a place at her side. Mystified and still resentful, the girl obeyed. “You know, you weren’t always an only child,” Sovah’s mother said. “Your brother Kyle was eight years older than you. Like you, he was smart and dreamed of big things. We took him with us on a trip to Chicago when he was ten because he begged us to take him to see the Sears Tower and the other skyscrapers. He loved heights. . .” She fell silent.
“That night, as we crossed the hotel lobby on the way to our room, Kyle discovered the family gift early, and suddenly,” she said. “It frightened him so much that he got away from your father and me. Kyle made it as far as the revolving doors and got trapped inside . . .” She paused, looked over her shoulder and smiled, holding out her arm, where a leather arm-guard shielded her skin.
“Here he is now,” she said, as a large golden eagle zigzagged crazily down from a foliage-filled corner of the enclosure to rest on the woman’s forearm. Sovah had seen many eagles at the habitat, but this one was . . . different.
“Sovah,” her mother said, “this is Kyle, your brother. One day, probably soon, you will discover our gift for yourself.”
A few nights later, Sovah took her maiden flight as a great snowy owl. Later, she met her mother in her falcon form and her father as a great horned owl. Sovah studied at a local college and got a degree in ornithology. Now she joins her father in working with the problem birds, and shows a real talent for bird rehabilitation. She has grown close to her brother, though he rarely flies at night and she is exclusively nocturnal. Once she asked him to show her his human shape, and he agreed.
She never asked him again.

quote:

Possums may be ugly as adults, but as babies, they rank right next to kittens and puppies on the cute scale, with big, bright eyes, tiny faces, pointed pixie noses and round chubby bodies. The people who run possums down with their cars don’t care about that, though. Big or little, the critter’s a possum, and no one brakes for possum. That’s what the man from Richmond in his fancy canary yellow Passat thought as his headlights caught the familiar outline of a possum — a halfgrown one — making its way slowly across the road. He lined the critter up and gunned his engine. He felt the slight bump under his left front tire that told him he’d gotten the creature square. He smiled in his rearview mirror, complimented himself on his deadly aim and focused again on the road ahead — and tried to swerve out of the way of what must have been the biggest possum in the world, standing more than five feet tall and as broad as a brick wall.
He doesn’t remember much after that except that his car careened over the side of the twisty mountain road, leaving him behind about halfway down the slope. The car landed in the gorge, one more scrap for trees to grow on; he lay where he fell, unable to move, for what seemed like days until help came. Now, confined to a wheelchair, he no longer drives. Instead, he sits outside the general store in Logan’s Holler, not far from the crash site, and tells his story to anyone who’ll listen. Some people do, and nothing happens to ’em. Some people don’t, and they invariably meet up with Old Man Possum. Few of ’em walk away.

quote:

On the road, good company is a blessing — especially for folks with the Changing Blood. And so, when a ragged assortment of backpackers appears deep in the mountains or forests, full of song and shots of good booze, who’s gonna complain? Rucksack Mary’s band of rovers has been wandering in various configurations for the better part of a decade. Folks who give ’em a ride or grab a spot by their fire are treated to raucous stories and a noseful of hiker-musk. Those who meet ’em in emergencies find a helpful bunch of hands. And those who meet ’em doing something wrong or stupid . . . well, those folks don’t often meet anyone else again.
A freckle-faced malcontent with bare feet and elfin smiles, Rucksack Mary is the heart of this motley bunch. She hit the road last decade and hasn’t called anywhere “home” since. Driven by a restless itch, she left home at 16 with the rucksack she still wears. Hiking on the Appalachian Trail, she met up with a dude called “Bear.” That name held more truth than poetry, and the two became fast friends. Later, when her own Change overtook her, Bear helped her through the Storm and set her right about the Gift. Her new feline temperament, however, clashed with Bear’s breed. The two fought bitterly one night, and he left her in the woods. She hasn’t seen him since then, but Mary’s never stopped looking, or wanting to apologize for the scars she left across his face.
In the years since, Mary’s been wandering: Europe, Asia, India, all Americas, even parts of Africa. A year in Australia brought her some new mates. Two of ’em roam with her to this day. Mary’s infectious laugh, good looks and head full of tales make her a natural hiking buddy, and she grows a tribe of “protectors” wherever she goes. These days, that band counts Hyper, Mandrill, Crash and Steve-Steve as its core. Each one bears the Changing Gift, and they’re not shy about sharing it when they must. Mary and her bunch are wanderers, not warriors. Even so, there’s times when a set of claws or a sharp beak sets things right.

quote:

Restless in the ways a cougar gets, Mary never sets down roots. She’ll snuggle close to anyone who smells right, but deep down she misses Bear. Every so often, she’ll catch his scent, or find a footprint in moist ground. He’s there, she knows, but won’t come out. Is it love he’s after, or revenge? In either case, Mary wishes he’d just get it over with. Her Aussie lover Crash (a falcon with a curious taste for walking) has seen Bear himself, but isn’t talking. It’s hard to keep secrets by firelight, but birds are better than most folks at such things. In the meantime, Mary’s walking, making friends wherever she goes. There’s a stone in her heart that won’t dislodge, but maybe that’s just the price of the road.

Kurieg posted:

Whiskey Croc: The Beast in your Belly
Alcoholic sewer crocodiles. Apparently at some point before their first change, they run away from home and instinctually drink themselves into a stupor in the slimiest sewer they can find. How the gently caress did these guys develop naturally?


Breed Favors: Darksight, Fang and Claw (bite) 3(L)/(rake)1(L), Natural Armor 4/3
Breed Bonus:They recieve the Eidetic Memory merit for free, but in all forms they reek of alcohol and sewage.
Common Aspects:Blend In, Carnivore’s Puissance, Culling the Weak, Earthbond, Extra Limb (Tail — attacks only), Gross Eater, Mercy’s Touch, Nine Lives, Razorskin (Broken Glass Shards), Size 6, Spinebite, Stash, Tell (Alcohol Stench, Drunken Mannerisms), Truth Sense, Unsettling Eye

Form Adjustments: War-Beast:Str+4, Sta +4, Man -4, Size 7, Health +6, Speed +3 Primal Beast: Str+3, Sta+4, Man-4, Size 6, Health +5, Speed+3

I feel we've rather heavily departed from the book's original presence. How are these guys in any way serving nature by literally living in poo poo? Also they actually have glass shards for skin, how does that work? Regardless they're combat monsters, 3L bite and 4/3 armor with 4 stamina? Get bit on everyone else.

quote:

As an added perk to his position, Felipe enjoys the droit de seigneur, or “lord’s right” among the residents of the villages adjoining the Bandaris farm and among the young mares in the family’s herd. Several children in the towns of La Palla and Sangrillo bear a distinct resemblance to Felipe. Should any of them show a kinship with the family Gift, the lucky ones will find themselves literally saddled with a new family, new responsibilities and the searing inner fire that marks the bloodline of the mighty Andalusians and their human counterparts.

Kurieg posted: