Time to switch it up a little. This is the character history for Phillip Schuler, as he began his life in the current Mage game…

As Phil stared at the row of fraternity houses, he became quite sure that wherever he was, it was not home.

In his memory, this row of houses had been home to any number of people of mystical persuasions.  They had possessed a source of power, a node, and had been the only ones in the state, aside from the Technocracy, to officially have such a thing.  Now, these houses were dead to him.  Oh, they still housed fraternity members, but there was no longer any mystical or magical facet to them.

There was another thing.  The newspaper and his cell phone agreed that it was nearing the end of February in the year 2000.  Phil was certain that this was wrong.  It should be at least 2002.  God damn, if only his memory were less hazy.

He had been in Lansing.  He had stayed away from his fellow magic-workers for as long as was possible.  Something had drawn him back in, and it had caused him great pain.  Phil eyed the clothing stores in disdain as he walked past.  There had been a friend, and he had died.  That’s right!  Phil had met the others at a wake.

But his friend had become corrupted.  Nephandus.  His soul had been turned inside-out, and even dead had sought corruption and descent.  He had fought the spirit of his old friend side by side with these orphaned and teacher-less mages.  And they had won.

Phil stopped for a moment in front of a chain costume and party store.  He frowned at a sudden memory of the smell of cotton candy.  His friend had not been the only one.  Other Nephandi had crept their way into Lansing, slowly creating a powerful Labyrinth.  One had smelled strongly of cotton candy.  It had worn a white suit.  Others had fought by his side.  Celican bin Thoth, of the Order of Hermes.  V of the Euthanatos.  Rebecca, an orphaned mage.  He remembered these clearly.

He remembered the baby.  The child who was the cycle of birth, death, and rebirth.  They had protected the child, hoping for salvation.  No one had been saved.  Phil scowled and moved on.

Rebecca’s mentor had protected the child, and then she had.  That had left Phil and V to manage the unorganized and opinioned Tradition mages and just as many of the orphaned.  They had done pretty well, considering.

Considering what, you ask?  Considering the Nephandi opening a portal to some twisted spiritual world between here and where their masters churned in darkness.  Considering the surge in Technocracy presence in response.  Considering the regular death and dismemberment of those he was just beginning to call friends.  Considering the lupines and the fluctuations of the spirit world and its infinite layers.  Considering.

They had run a couple of successful raids on the Nephandi, with the Technocracy as allies.  Their devices for harming spirits had looked strange, to say the least.  Things got even more hazy here.  Phil sighed and slumped into a bench.  He watched the Ann Arbor traffic go past, and remembered his Harley.  Poor bastard.  Maybe it was time to let go of that.  Something across the street caught his attention.

He stood up, paused for a moment, and rushed to the street corner, trench coat flapping behind him.  After waiting impatiently for the light to change, he rushed across the street.  He forced himself to slow down as he approached the bum.

It was Arland!  He had been one of the orphaned in Lansing.  His arms were scarred from razor slashes, just as Phil remembered.  He was as bald as a cue ball, just as he remembered.  He was covered in tattoos, just as… wait.  There were less tattoos.  There were less cut scars.  Phil frowned for a moment.  He tapped his staff on the ground.  He shoved his hand into his trench’s pocket and held the marble sphere.  The worlds of spirit and energy leapt into sharp relief, and Phil saw Arland as he was before he had awoken to his power.

He approached the bum Arland, and handed him a ten-spot.  Arland mumbled a slurred reply, and Phil saw how dilated the man’s pupils were.  He scribbled his cell number on a piece of scrap paper and handed it to Arland.  The wind shifted, and Phil almost gagged.   “If you need to talk, or anything weird happens, give me a call.”

“Uh, sure.”  The bum took the paper and Phil walked briskly away.  This might not be the same world, but it was pretty damn close.  That raven.  That cursed ancestor spirit.  Fucking tricksters.

Sure, it couldn’t help, much less deny, its nature.  Phil had come to it, not the other way around.  He had finally come to terms with what had happened in the glass tunnel.  The quest for the spirit had focused him and let him mourn.  He had mourned all of his fallen comrades, most of whom he couldn’t remember.  He had mourned Crashing Boom-Boom and the Harley Davidson.  He had celebrated for the spirit of the house, which he had released.

Phil had cut all ties, because it had felt like the right thing to do.  Then, after questing for what seemed like an eternity, he had collapsed into the raven’s nest and fallen asleep.  When he had awoken, it was staring down its beak at him.  He had asked it for the path to understanding.  It had told him that for this gift, Phil would seek out and console a lonely friend of his.  The raven had said that he was qualified, because the spirit inhabited a house.  Phil had fallen back asleep, and then woken up in the Ann Arbor train station.

He stopped in front of a used theatrical costume shop.  He had spent a lot of time with the spirit, and it was time to let go of Harley.  Phil sighed, gripped his staff tightly, and walked in the store.

The bell over the door jingled.