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Why should 
the mysticks have all rlie fun? Across the boards ot Dr. Volcano’s Forbidden Website, we uncover dozens of gadgets, widgets, inventions and killing machines from the vaults of the Virtual Adepts, Sons of Ether, Technocracy and other random sources.
A long-awaited sourcebook tor high-tech magick, The Technomancer’s Toybox includes:
• A collection of neat stuff for Virtual Adepts, Sons ot Ether, Technocrats and others;
Technomancer’s Toybox
Digital Web 2.0
The Internet is full. Go home. — poster for benicetobears.com 
This is a book about being there.
Where is “there,” exactly? That’s simple. It’s neither where you are nor where I am. It’s where we are together.
Take this example: You and I talk on the phone. We may be at opposite ends of the country, but for all intents and purposes, we’re in the same room. That room does not exist in our “material” reality, but nevertheless, we are there. We can hear each other clearly. With effort, we can practically sense each other’s presence. In material terms, though, we are not in the same room. We’re here, not there.
You and I can’t step into that room. We may be aware of it, but we can’t enter it physically — yet.
Some people can.
This is a book about those people, that room, and the stories that take place in there.
Wild West Companion
“Companion” is an odd name for this book. The picture that it paints of the Savage West as a whole is, frankly, not very companionable at all. Enemies of the Garou seem to be lurking behind every tumbleweed or always gathering force just on the other side of the Gauntlet here. There are no blue skies or singing cowboys on this frontier, but that’s why you need a frontier companion — forewarned is forearmed.
Ghost Towns
Go west, 
young man! — Horace Greeley
Towns pop up frequently in the Savage West. Miners, farmers, pioneers, snake-oil salesmen, pilgrims, outlaws, soldiers and many more individuals make their homes among the mesas and fields of the American frontier. As the Manifest Destiny pushes the boundary of the American frontier all the way to the coast of the Pacific Ocean, communities of all sizes surface in the wake of expansion.
Not every settlement grows to be a Salt Lake City or a Los Angeles, however. Many towns are hardly more than collections of shanties centered around local mines or groups of subsistence farms sharing the same creek. Pestilence, violence, loneliness and starvation threaten many of these small towns
Litany of the Tribes (Volume 2)
‘Frail 
crescent Moon, seven times J bow my head. Since of the night you are the mystic queen: May your sweet influence in her dews be shed!’ So ran by heart the rune in secret said: Relic of heathen forebears centuries dead? Or just a child’s, in play with the Unseen? — Walter de la Mare, “Benighted”
Greetings and welcome!
Sit your arse down here and relax. Get a drink if you’d like. I’ve got a long story to tell you. It’s the story of our tribe, the epic of the Fianna. But before I begin, I want you to do something. Close your eyes and listen. Listen carefully. What do you hear? Silence?
If that’s all, then you aren’t listening. There’s always something to hear
Book of the Weaver
Book of the Weaver is your guide to the madness of Grandmother Spider. It offers insight into the “mindset” of the most powerful of the Triat (though again, speaking of what the Weaver “thinks” isn’t much more accurate than metaphor, considering that the Celestine operates on a level that mortals and shapeshifters alike can’t comprehend).
Book of the Wyrm (2nd Edition)
Man and the animals are merely a passage and channel for food, a tomb for other animals, a haven for the dead, giving life by the death of others, a coffer full of corruption.
— Leonardo da Vinci
Book of the Wyrm, Second Edition is a resource for the Storyteller to populate stories with antagonists of the vilest tradition. Storytellers are encouraged to take the material herein, play with it, modify it, and make it as horrific or loathsome as you believe your players can appreciate while still having fun.
Gurahl
We sing. Heads thrown back, our throats bared. Muzzles pointing to the sky. Awaken, our kin! Return once more from Gaia’s stony embrace. Sleep no more, for it is time. Young ones hunger for your wisdom; Come, sing with us the ancient songs. We dance. Arms thrust outward, heads lowered.
Wendigo Tribebook
The wind 
was fierce and biting cold. Snow blew heavy across the sky, Winding Taken-From-Fire as he made his way over the hills. He was cold and tired, his wounds still bleeding, refusing to close. The Stone Giant’s fists had the poison power of the Wyrm, and its blows had crushed Taken-From-Fire’s ribs; they would not heal quickly.
“I must find shelter soon,” he thought, “or I will die here.”
It seemed that as soon as he thought it, he saw a light ahead, like a fire seen from afar. He stumbled on and came to a lodge, a mighty building of rough-hewn wood. Inside, he could see four people sitting on benches around a fire. One of them, a beautiful maiden, looked at him.
“Come inside, noble Garou,” she spoke as she stood, beckoning him. “You are among friends.”
Corax
There’s nothing quite like the taste of a dead man’s eye.
It’s not j ust the flavor, though there’s a good salty tang to aqueous humor. No, it’s drinking in the secrets that the eye saw, hack when it was still part of a something living. There’s no describing that, not to someone who hasn’t tasted those flying sights himself. I mean, you could try, bur whoever you talked to would probably look at you kind of funny.