The name calls to mind images of swarming tourists, a picturesque castle against an artificially brightened night sky, and, inevitably, the King Rat, Mickey. At a glance, “The City Beautiful” is a foundation of economic and social progressiveness; of business, with a steady and never-ending trade; of commercialism, marketing, and tourism. For those who live here, though, what reality lies behind Orlando’s glittering image?
What, exactly, is Orlando?
It’s not Old Florida; not the tropics and relaxation of the Keys, nor the natural beauty of the Everglades. It is not the heated Latin pulse of Miami. It is not the North, despite many transplants from those colder climes, nor is it truly the South despite the occasional sweet-tea-and-okra restaurants intermixed amid the high-end chains and gourmet McDonald’s, designed to attract the tourist’s eye… and money.
It is a hodge-podge of cultures and crossroads, actively rejecting a clear definition. Less a city, then, than a loose collection of cultures and suburbs, from the smug affluence of Metro West and College Park to the rural poverty of Ocoee and Apopka and the predatory desperation of Pine Hills and Parramore, interspersed throughout with pockets of immigrants from all over the globe. In a way, then, the city itself does not exist – it has no singular will, no self-identity, no sense of where it’s been and only the most ephemeral idea of where it’s going.
What is Orlando, then, but the Gilded Cage built upon a bed of sand; a crossroads for tourists and travelers, for people running towards an eventual dream or running from a troubled past? Even the creatures that stay hidden from public sight have some inkling of the nature of their home: at its best, it is quicksilver; at its worst, quicksand. They sense that the things which they build are as transitory as the customs and economy of the area, redefining themselves at each change of the seasons. Far-traveled Kindred from Old Europe gliding the gilded halls of their Elysium, primal forsaken Uratha prowling the streets of their territory, or the seemingly humane Awakened mages of both the Pentacle and the Exarchs… all understand one thing in stark clarity:
The cage is gilded well in pomp, circumstance, and their own traditions, but one must shift with the ever-changing sands or be swallowed by them.
Welcome to Orlando’s Dark Embrace (FL-035-D), part of White Wolf’s international fan club, the Camarilla. Every weekend, we gather to create and act out the stories of vampires, werewolves, mages, and the regular humans among whom they hide, all set against the backdrop of Orlando, FL.
If you’d like to hear more about or participate in these stories… come have a look around!
(Confused? Not really sure what this is all about? No worries! Read this handy introduction before you go any further! It's short and simple, I promise, and if you're in unfamiliar territory this will make things much easier to understand.)
This site is being created by Kristy Griffin, US2005116902; beat her if it sucks.
All photographs courtesy of Tiffany Allen, US2006027399.
Copyright White Wolf Publishing, Inc.