Goodnight, Tacoma

The sun sets, the moon rises, and the darkness spreads, the same as it always does.

In that darkness, Tacoma itself goes to sleep. The concrete office buildings click off one by one and become obsidian pillars of modernity. The buses cease their nightly hums in order of necessity, and the trolley's vein cuts off to a silent evening.

Goodnight, Tacoma. Your steel shall rest, and your waves will lap silently across the shores of the Sound.

Goodnight, humans. As your nights press on, many of you will be perfectly content, either in your homes or out and about on the streets. But some of you, well, misfortune happens to us all. Mortal folly will be your end, mostly, as, despite the inflation of fear-mongering, there is mortal danger to be found in the alleyways and less-than-secure neighborhoods. But some of you will find something far different...

Goodnight, cloistered Mages. Your prized technocracy toils away to restore your broken tower, and yet you are so divorced from your wider network that even if you repair it, will it end up being what you desire? In your academia-hidden chantries, you lie defended by layer upon layer of wards and defenses, and yet despite all that defense and all that power, you are still merely human, and so the Awakened must find their sleep.

You unorganized sort are much the same. The wild Verbena finding their way in a neopagan world, the Dreamspeakers in their urbanized land, the Ecstatics and their varied dens of hedonism. You all fancy yourself as free and less rigid as the Technocracy, and perhaps that is true. Without constraints, yet without walls. Without overseers, yet without plans. Without judgment, yet without collectivity. Perhaps that will change as well, but for now, you must sleep as well, beneath the trees and the stars and the sounds of your slumber.

 Goodnight and good morning, wild Garou. The shifts change, the guardians take new positions, and humanity is "protected" just that little bit more. Those of you who've sat on this land before the settlers ever dreamed of the West, those of you brought into the fold by the whispers of the wild and those of you who found your way in waking life before the first howl crawled from your gut. 

May the trees bend and plains grace those of you who dash in the wild, stalking the edges of concrete and steel to watch for the wanderer and the monster. May those of you who weave and walk amidst iron and data fall easy on the street and stifle your snarls at the stench. The wise shall dream of their fortunes, the cunning shall plot their schemes, and the strong will protect you all, until violent bloody rage takes you, every single one.

Goodnight, Ragged Court. You handful of Fae are truly tricky folk. Gracefully scraping for motes of inspirational refuse like a debutante picking at scraps, you persist in times of darkness and times of banality. Oh, many would want to be among the colorful and eclectic of Seattle, dancing brilliantly in blinding light to avoid noticing the choking, encroaching iron cages around them.

But no, your court of a dozen or so (last you checked) is beyond such things. You will go quietly into that dark night with no more than decades of regret and desperation in your palette, but tonight brings you a slight meal as you inspire one more mediocre soul amidst the drollery of the city, because yes, he should totally start that political podcast!

Goodnight lingering Wraiths. All things must die, and many things will die unfulfilled and tortured, but you unique few struggle through such adversity even now. How does it feel in an afterlife with no walls? No halls? No mournful monuments or ghastly gatherings? The Weakness that pervades Tacoma's magic, how it strangles you most of all. Many of you cannot even muster enough force to manifest in the skinlands, left to wander imperceptible to most, and that's not to mention the strength of the oblivion just as your back.

Even more so than the loosely collected mages, you are scattered. A journal of memories and despair tossed like confetti amidst a tornado, with nothing to contain you. So wander listlessly as flickering candles, until you find wax enough to light and wick enough to last, bound to the fragments of death and remembrance that truly exist for you.

Goodnight vigilant Hunters. The noble warriors of the night, ready to take up arms against the horrors at the end of their visions. How gallantly you struggle against the feckless ghoul, the wailing ghost, and the minute pixie. Glorious is your cause to champion the divine status quo, and these helpless mortals would be lost without you!

Praise be the few Imbued, whose divine gifts grant them the standards to fly in the night to lead the rest, you pitifully enthusiastic, to the brink. Throw yourselves against the wall of blood and violence and precision until it finally begins to chip. It's bound to happen eventually.

Good morning, energetic Kindred! You have won the fight against your dreaded authoritarian foes and your maliciously monstrous cousins, and this city is now your prize. Worm your way into the boardroom, the boudoir, and the blood banks, for to worm and parasitize and destroy is all that you are capable of doing. Let the blood run freely, the manipulation pass seamlessly, and your greed increase exponentially.

How proud your six Barons are, believing themselves at the relative top of the food chain, with but one sly member knowing the true depth of the city. Yes, the one with enough perceptiveness and wherewithal to tie this whole operation together sees the city for what it really is. A menagerie of also-rans and tossed-aside misfits, sinking in the muck but ready for the taking. And oh, does he plan to take these potential motes of Destiny amidst the Grit.

And last, but certainly not least, good night to my two "cousins", who truly peer above all these fools and sad-sacks. The fallen angel, more broken than they could even fathom, and the never-fallen monster from beyond twisting all towards their epicenter. I am here, tirelessly watching, waiting, and writing, and the city lives, the people die, and time marches on, the same as always.