Turn 10
Clayton thanked Betty for her generosity but declined any further help. She was a good woman with old-world morals, but Clayton wasn’t the kind to take advantage of her- no matter the fact that she would never have thought of it that way.
"I have to get these home, and then I have to hustle back over to the university for some studying. Have a good day," he said, bowing slightly and hustling out.
”Good day to you as well, and good luck with your work,” Betty called out to Clay’s back as he left.
Clay shook his head slowly as he tried to balance the loaves of bread and manage the door at the same time. If she’d said “school” instead of “your work”, there really would have been little to tell the difference between him, a man she saw once on Sundays and a couple other times a month for bread, and one of her own brood. Clay finally managed to juggle the bread off enough to open the door, opening it straight into the man on the other side.
[Stranger Dodge 39 (Margin 1)] The door clips the edge of the man’s coat as he scrambles out of the way, just barely avoiding getting hit in the shoulder. The man’s expression flickers from surprised to cold readiness in the space of a heartbeat.
”Ah, sorry,” Clay apologized as he once again struggled with the bread, though this time it was to hold it and the door at the same time.
”Are you alright? I didn’t get you, did I?” The man looked Clay up and down with a disconcertingly hard expression before he seemed to relax and shake himself.
”No, no, entirely my fault,” The man said, his expression softening into an amicable smile as the tension left him.
”Too many things on my mind, and I fear I completely missed you. Forgive me.” The stranger stepped back out of the doorway and hooked the door with his foot, holding it open for Clay.
”Thank you,” Clay said, grateful for the chance to get out of the shop without further interference from what was turning out to be a fully nefarious set of loaves.
The stranger inclined his head, paralyzing Clay as the man’s eyes locked with his for a split second. He was a lanky fellow, a handspan taller than Clay but probably not more than a few pounds heavier for the extra height. The dark trenchcoat he wore only exacerbated the man’s gaunt figure, the collar, pulled up against the weather, adding another pair of harsh lines to what was already a weathered face. His hair had once been red, contrasting starkly with his faded blue, almost grey, eyes, but it had begun to frost at the temples and pull back a little from the man’s forehead. He was an imposing gentleman, but nothing about him was explanation for the way that Clay’s stomach turned to ice when the man met his eyes.
”Have a fine day,” the stranger said, casually breaking eye contact as he stepped into the store behind Clay. [Clay observation 48 (Margin 2)] Clay heard Betty greet the man, Mr. O’Hara, but then the door swung the rest of the way shut and left Clay out in the breeze.
Clay shook himself when he realized he was just standing there, staring blankly at the door. It was nothing, Betty knew the man well enough to greet him on sight, so he couldn’t be all bad. No matter how much the man disconcerted Clay.
The rest of Clay’s walk was far lass eventful. The greatest tribulation he encountered was in the renegade bread attempting to fly with the wind. The streets were busier, not terribly so, but enough that Clay no longer had long stretches for simply thinking. It took longer than Clay expected before he was back on Lich Street. Carrying a set of awkward loaves through a windy day would do that, but he was home now, or just about anyway.
Clay let himself into his house one handed, reflexively kicking whatever street grime there was off his shoes before he entered.
”Helen?” Clay called as he walked into the kitchen, setting the bread down on the counter.
”I’m home.” ”Just a moment,” Helen’s voice floated back, slightly muffled and delayed. The rest of Helen came into a sight a little bit later, clad in a bathrobe and with her hair in a towel.
”Have I ever told you that you have a gift for timing?” ”I know, it’s impeccable,” Clay said, smiling slightly.
”I got the bread and a bit extra, Betty’s idea. You look beautiful, by the way.” Helen regarded him coolly.
”I’m in a bathrobe.” Clay’s slight smile broadened.
”I know, it’s very elegant. It brings out your eyes.” Helen shook her head and sighed, but she kissed him anyway.
”You’re an odd man.” ”Yes, I suppose I am- but not because I think you’re beautiful. A more sane thought than that has never been uttered.” Helen laughed but didn’t say anything else until after she finished putting the bread up.
”So, where did you say you had to go?” Clay raised an eyebrow.
”I didn’t, I do have to go, but I didn’t say anything about it. How did y-“ ”Your coat,” Helen said, looking at his mystified expression with amusement.
”You take it off when you’re staying, you leave it on when you’re just stopping for a little while.” ”Ah,” Clay said, plucking at his greatcoat with a grimace. It was a bit of a giveaway.
”I have to pick a book up from the university library. I should be done in time to walk Jennifer and Fiona home.” Helen gave Clay a look and he raised his hands in surrender.
”I know they’re old enough to walk themselves home, but I might as well while I’m already out.” ”Alright, but they aren’t going to vanish if you take your eyes off them for ten minutes.” Helen paused and looked at Clay hard for a moment.
”This isn’t going to be as bad as it was when Fiona fell asleep when playing hide and seek with you, is it?” Clayton winced. He might have overreacted slightly that time, but that had been more than a year ago. He was calmer now than he was then. Maybe.
”No, of course not. That was a long time ago.” ”Of course,” Helen said with a faint smile,
”I’ll see you when they get home then.” Leaving was easier than it had been in the morning, but it was still only easy by way of comparatives. He wasn’t on the way to visit a pair of injured students this time, but he would be getting back within sight of their blackened homes.
There wasn’t smoke in the air, a breezy day and change since the fire had cleared that out of the way, but everything still smelled like smoke. Wood smoke evoked images of reading in front of a fireplace, but the clinging smell in the blocks around the university smelled like a hundred things that should never have seen fire being burned to ashes. It put Clayton’s teeth on edge, bringing the memories of the burning dormitories to the front of his mind. In the few short blocks it took him to walk from his house to the steps of the Miskatonic library, Clay’s hands were already shaking from the mnemonic echo of that night.
Clayton pushed open the double doors of the old library gratefully when he finally ascended its steps. The smell would be inside as well, there would be no helping that, but it could certainly be forgotten and overwhelmed in the midst of the library’s vast and musty collection of literature. The building was old, dating back almost to the founding of Arkham, an unusual feature for an old world town, even in New England. Architecture had been updated over the years, and the building had certainly been expanded, but where buildings like the grammar school had grown in a slapdash manner to meet the needs of the town, the library had blossomed slowly and beautifully- a cathedral among yurts. [Observation 76 (-26)] Clayton paid the staff little mind, their nearly silent jobs had been unaltered by the fire, and he was too glad to be back in the second-best building in Arkham to waste time.
Getting into the restricted stacks required finding one of the senior librarians, in this case a knife faced Russian who went by John. His name wasn’t John, but the story was that he’d given up trying to get people to pronounce his actual name properly after almost twenty-two years of working here. He was a very physically ascetic man, sparing no energy for animated expression or volume behind what was absolutely necessary to be understood. When he saw Clayton he got as sentimental as he ever did with people; he shook Clay’s hand and told him that he was glad to see him again before he went on to ask what it was Clay wanted. John’s meager reserve of physical emotion ran deep enough that he didn’t even grumble when Clay asked him to open the restricted section for him.
The two of them didn’t talk as John led the way to the metal gate that separated the public part of the library from the private section. Beyond his name and the university legends about the man, Clay knew absolutely nothing about him. Conversation just wasn’t something they could share.
John, however, defied that expectation in an unusual display of talkative nature as he fumbled with the key for the gate.
”You are looking for anything particular?” ”Just a translation commentary. I need a reference text for a particular book that I acquired recently.” John’s quiet voice was completely silent for a few moments as he finally got the key to line up and unlocked the gate. [Discern Truth 61 (Margin -21)] His expression was unreadable behind craggy white stubble and deep frown lines.
”Commentaries will be with foreign texts. Good luck professor.” Clayton stepped through the gate and John closed and locked it behind him. The gate would only open freely from the inside, and it was something of a mark of respect that John hadn’t cited the rules for the restricted section before he let Clay through. John might be an odd man who was only moved to tears by the events of literature, but he was a likeable man after you got to know him. Clay thanked him as he closed the gate, and the old librarian nodded once in reply before walking silently off to continue whatever unfathomable task that Clay had interrupted. Clay wondered if he had ever been destined to become a less Russian version of that man, at least until Helen and stolen his heart.
Clay tried to cast off the images of himself as a gray haired library dweller as he made his way over to the vast section of foreign tomes. Most of the books in the restricted section were old or rare, and in many cases both. Those traits did come up in books that were printed in English, but for every rare book that a layman could read, there were a hundred, a thousand, that needed translation. Many of the items in this library, originals and transcriptions both, had never been translated. [Knowledge 60 (Margin 35), Solve Enigma 58 (margin 2), Observation 96-35-2 (Margin -9)] Clay had been through here hundreds of times before, he remembered roughly where the books should be, and he even had a decent grasp of the unholy system that the librarians ordered the texts in, but for the life of him he couldn’t find the book he was looking for. [Observation 95 (Margin -45) {Penalties mitigated through perk}] A second sweep of the immediate shelves revealed nothing, and a quick walk around the section revealed about the same. Most people would be developing a throbbing forehead vein by now, but Clay had learned patience over the years, and the virtue of occasionally calling in one of the librarians to help find something. They usually took it with good humor when one of the professors called on their help, the ones that had humor did anyway, but their ability to move silently amongst the oceans of books made them difficulty to find unless you got lucky. Clay wasn’t certain whether he wanted to potentially waste his time trying to find one them, or just continue trying to find the book by himself. He had patience enough to keep at this for a while, but he was also on something of a timeline.
Location: The Miskatonic library
Status Effects: None
Health: 40/40
Sanity: 60/60
Head: Nil
Body,
Greatcoat
- Medium Slot: Well Preserved Ancient Tome, Foreign Language.
- Medium Slot: Empty
- Small Slot: Empty x4
- V.Small Slot: Empty x4
Blazer
-Small slot: Empty
-Small slot: Silver Pocket Watch
-V.Small slot: Empty x2
Open Collared Shirt (1 V.Small)
-V.Small slot: Empty
Legs,
Black slacks
-Small Slot: Wallet
-Small Slot: Empty
Feet,
Black Shoes
L. Hand,
Infinite Slot: Empty
R. Hand,
Infinite Slot: Empty
Special Slot: Wedding Band
Carried Weight: 9/35
Injuries: None
Attribute Bonuses: +5 Cha, +10 Int, +15 Wis, +10 Will
Attribute Penalties: -15 Str, -10 End
You are between two tall shelves in the Miskatonic library. More shelves than you can count surround you, each packed with books and manuscripts. You are currently in the foreign books area, commentaries and translations section.
Somewhere back behind you is a gate back to the library proper, two other such gates are further down.
There is a staircase down to the preservation in the north-east.
Loose Items,
More books than you can shake a stick at.
---~~~---
Charlotte had most of her decisions made for her in this situation. She couldn’t turn out the kid, him on the street would be more of a problem than him in her den, and that meant that he’d have to eat and sleep here while she figured out what she could do with him. Eating was the more immediately important of those two items. Charlotte blew out a breath, drawing out one long well until it conveyed her feelings about the present predicament.
"I'm gonna get something more to eat, all right?” Charlotte said finally.
”If you stay here, you can't make a single peep. You got it? The kid didn’t seem to notice the warning, completely absorbed in whatever world his rocking transported him to. Charlotte grimaced at the boy. It was a silly thing to think, but she hoped that the missing part of the boy was in a happier place than his body had gotten stuck into.
Charlotte left through the front door. Her clothing wasn’t that poor considering the condition of the rest of the docks, and walking out of a door, even if that door led to an abandoned warehouse, was a lot less suspicious than climbing out a window. It was chilly outside, and the dwindling sunlight made Charlotte wish she had a coat that wasn’t as holey as a preacher’s blessing. Still, there had been worse days when she’d been forced out onto the street, and she was a lot bigger than she used to be. The few years she had on her now meant that she couldn’t play the innocent waif quite as well, but she got fewer people trying to take her back to her parents. Prime hunting ground was now in the French hill, particularly in the park when the weather was good. Charlotte would give the park there a chance, but her money for a decent meal was in one of the smaller grocers, or rather, behind one.
The walk down to the small park was short and uneventful. Even a twelve year old girl could walk unquestioned down from the docks if she walked with a purpose, and hunger was a powerful purpose. The park itself wasn’t the prettiest place in the city, much like French hill not being the prettiest part of town, but it was the only park aside from the university’s grounds and Independence Square. People came here, they brought and ate food here, and they usually didn’t suspect thievery when their food went missing. People in general just didn’t expect that someone would walk up and steal their food, but that was their loss.
[Luck (Threshold 50) 91 (Margin -41)] The park had a decent number of people in it, despite the weather, but at least two of the ones that Charlotte could see were long time acquaintances of hers, and not the nice kind. A soft and rounded looking businessman that she recognized from a failed attempt at swiping food from turned her way for second, [Concealment 11 (Margin 34)] but Charlotte didn’t react and his eyes flicked back down to his food. He wasn’t one of the worst adults to run across, but he was certainly up there. The park would have to be passed on today, but passing today should make it easier to swipe from later. That was the theory, anyway.
Charlotte rounded the park at a quick walk, taking the long way around to avoid getting seen by anyone. The fat guy took his food seriously, and he could hold a grudge like few other people that Charlotte knew. It was better to waste a few minutes in the cold than to catch his attention again, and she wasn’t in a hurry yet.
The grocer she wanted was sandwiched between a hardware store and a perfume shop. Charlotte didn’t do a lot of shopping that involved money, so she didn’t have much first-hand experience, but it was usually a moderately busy place. Enough that there was usually enough people inside the store for her not to seem suspicious, but not so many that she couldn’t get a bit of privacy when she needed to grab something. Now she had to decide how she wanted to go about this one. Walking in the store with the rest of the customers brought her right up to the food, but taking things from under people’s noses always involved a certain amount of risk. Hanging around the back of the store was a good way to nick some decent stuff without people seeing, or even a crate of something if she got really lucky, but it would be luck alone that decided what she got to eat if she didn’t go inside....
Location: Outside Martel’s Groceries
Status Effects: None
Health: 25/25
Sanity: 75/75
Head
Hair
Body
Cracked leather satchel (2 Medium slots)
-Medium Slot: Wadded up shirt, wadded up pants
-Small slot: bottle of water
-Small slot: unmarked can of food
-V.small Slot: Improvised Lockpick
-V.small Slot: Empty
-V.small Slot: Empty
Child’s Dirty brown shirt
Child’s Dirty blue jacket
-V.Small slot: Crude Lockpick
-V.Small Slot: Empty
Legs
Child’s Dirty black trousers
-Small slot: Crude Bag of Money
-Small slot: Empty
Feet
Repaired brown child’s shoes
L. Hand
-Infinite Slot: Empty
Special slot: Concealed Crude Knife
R. Hand
-Infinite Slot: Empty
Carried Weight 10/40
Injuries: None
Attribute Bonuses: +5 Per, +10 Agi, +10 int, +15 Cha
Attribute Penalties: -10 Str, -5 End, -5 Wis
You are standing outside Martel’s Groceries, on S. Peabody, across from the park, situated between a perfume store and a hardware store. The air is cold, foot traffic is light. You won’t be able to stand around long before people start to take notice of you.
---~~~---
Gerald had a lot to do, and if Miss Eliza was serious about her deadline, and she didn’t seem to be the kind of person to not be serious, he didn’t have a lot of time to do it in.
Gerald stripped off his greased clothes as quickly as he could, giving his hands a cursory wash before he whipped a fresh shirt on. He left the tap on after he finished, just as a precaution in case the woman was as suspicious of him as he was of her. It wasn’t much, but it might mask the sound of phone call. Gerald grabbed his phone with damp hands and dialed, the action seeming agonizingly slow against the timetable. [Luck (Threshold 75) 81 (margin -6)] Gerald grit his teeth progressively harder as the professor failed to pick up. He had a plan, but it hinged entirely on the professor picking up his phone. [Luck (Threshold 50) 58 (margin -8)] Gerald dialed again, his hands still poised over the piece of paper that he had hoped would bear a note to the professor. The call failed again, and the likelihood that Brooks would answer his phone seemed to be fading fast. [Luck (Threshold 25) 41 (margin -16)] The third dialing was done with more desperation than hope, and it bore no more fruit that Gerald’s earlier efforts.
The phone met the receiver again with the sound of someone’s plans being wrenched askew by fate. Gerald needed to think, he needed a plan b.
Eliza’s fist pounding on the door interrupted Gerald’s last ditch planning.
”Time’s up, you’ve got thirty seconds ‘till I leave you to mourning.” Gerald doubted that she’d actually leave, not when she’d expressed so much interest in getting him out of here, but that didn’t mean he wanted to see what Eliza would do if he failed to come out of his house on time. A mental image of her pressing a chemical damped cloth over his mouth and then dragging him out seemed both wildly improbable and not entirely out of this woman’s character.
Eliza heart was already knocking on the door again by the time that Gerald opened it. Her expression was impatient as she waiting for Gerald to step out of his house, but she said nothing else as she directed him to follow her.
Her car was parked around the corner of the Halsey block, a simple black Chevrolet Six. It looked well worn despite its short life, [Observation 40 (Margin -15)] and the paint had been touched up in a few places, but it still looked quite serviceable. Eliza ushered him into the passenger seat and waited until his door was shut before she got in. The lack of conversation was noticeable and uncomfortable, at least to Gerald. He had questions, a thousand questions, but Eliza didn’t seem like the person to get answers from.
The car ride didn’t get any more comfortable for Gerald. Eliza drove with the attitude of a woman seeking vengeance, using the brakes when absolutely necessary and avoiding obstacles only when they’d stop the car if she hit them. The effect was as good as if she’d put a black bag over Gerald’s head for the trip; his memory of the ride was a surreal blur interspersed with a few flitting images of his life flashing before his eyes. [Detect Pattern 70 (Margin 5)] He thought he remembered passing through East Armitage, but he was almost certain that a few of the lightning turns she’d made had been absolutely unnecessary. He was probably somewhere in downtown, near northside, but he wasn’t exactly sure where. The only thing he was sure of was that he was still on the same side of the river- and that he was grateful to God Almighty that Eliza had stopped the vehicle.
”We’re here,” Eliza said as she killed the engine. “Here” wasn’t an assuming place, a squat brick and mortar building for private offices. It didn’t look promising, but it also didn’t look like the kind of place where the worse sort lured people out to be mugged and left for dead.
Gerald got out of the car thankfully, grateful to be back on solid ground. Eliza didn’t let him enjoy it long, taking the lead again almost as soon as he was on his feet. She led Gerald up to the squat office building and held the door open for him, probably more so she could have an excuse to watch him as he approached than out of any sort of inverse chivalry that the woman might possess.
The inside of the building showed two very clear styles at work. One favored an elegant look of wood and smooth curves, and the other favored being absurdly cheap wherever possible. The result was a reception area that looked impressive at first glance, and then started to look progressively worse the longer any one object held scrutiny. The woman behind the front desk took one look at Eliza Heart, cringed visibly, and then fixed her interest on something out of sight behind her desk. Eliza’s lips twisted, but she remained silent as she led Gerald out of reception and up the stairs.
Eliza led Gerald up two flights of stairs, something she managed without even changing speed. From there the two of them entered the third floor and Miss Heart showed Gerald past several offices, psychiatrists, an arborist’s, and one with a label that Gerald was sure was in a foreign language. She stopped in front of a heavy oak door, paned with a single large window of frosted glass. Gerald had time to read if before she pushed it open and ushered him inside.
Damian O’Hara, Private Investigator Gerald blinked in surprise, but he went inside. Usually you had to pay a P.I. before they took an involvement in your troubles, and even then they weren’t usually known to send women to drag you into their office.
Eliza walked past the secretary’s desk and knocked twice on a door set in the back wall.
”Gerald Green is here to see you, sir,” she said to the door before there was a reply, her tone as close to demure as Gerald had yet heard from her. A thought suddenly occurred to Gerald. If this was an investigator’s office, and Damian O’Hara was the employer that Eliza had referred to, then Eliza was a… secretary.
”Send him in,” a rougher voice replied a second or two after Eliza spoke. Miss heart obediently opened the door and waved Gerald on through, stepping in to follow behind him as he went inside.
”Just Gerald. Eliza, I would ask you to wait outside,” the voice added. Eliza’s expression darkened, but she stepped back and shut the door behind Gerald instead of following.
The inside of the P.I’s office was austere, well kept, and managed to feel less fake than the building that it inhabited. It had a filing cabinet, a coat rack occupied by a fedora and a trenchcoat, a heavy desk with a lamp and a phone on top, and a pair of chairs, but it was the man who occupied the chair behind the desk who was clearly the dominant feature of the office. He would have been a tall man if he stood up, built in a gaunt way that gave him the aspect of a scarecrow. He was older than Gerald by at least two decades, his once red hair starting to frost around his temples and pull away from his creased forehead.
”Forgive me if I don’t stand, these cold days have been nothing but trouble for me.” he said, looking up from a heavily creased paper. His expression turned slightly sympathetic when he took in Gerald’s rumpled hair and clothing, but Gerald wasn’t paying attention to the man’s expression- the man’s eyes captivated Gerald’s attention. They were a plain shade of grayish blue, but the intensity with which they focused made Gerald feel like a field mouse staring up at a hawk.
”I apologize for my secretary’s manner. She can be,” the man seemed to search for a word,
”abrupt.” He shook his head, breaking eye contact with Gerald.
”But that is beside the point. My name is Damian O’Hara, and I’m sure you have a great deal of questions for me, most of which I can’t answer, but I can answer the most pressing ones on your mind if you’ll let me speak my piece when you’re done. After that, despite whatever my secretary may have told you, you’ll be free to do as you wish on the condition that you can’t mention this meeting to anyone. Those are the terms before we begin, can you accept them?Location: Damian O’Hara’s office
Status Effects: None
Health: 45/45
Sanity: 30/60
Head
Hair
Body
Button up shirt (Sleeves Rolled up)
Legs
Dark Grey Suspenders
-Small slot: Wallet
-Small slot: Empty
Feet
Plain Brown Shoes
L. Hand
-Infinite Slot: Empty
R. Hand (Greased)
-Infinite Slot: Empty
Special: Wristwatch
Carried Weight 10/45
Injuries: None
Attribute Bonuses: +5 Per, , +10 int, +10 Wis, +10 Wil
Attribute Penalties: -5 Str, -5 End, -5 Agi, -5 Cha
You are standing in front of a heavy wood desk. Damian O’Hara (Unknown) is seated in front of you. There is an unoccupied chair beside you. The room is clean and uncluttered, notably lacking in any objects beyond necessity.
Loose Items,
Papers on desk, not yours.
Closed containers,
Damian’s Desk
Damian’s filing cabinet
---~~~---
Patric’s thoughts ran in muddled eddies. He knew this wasn’t right, he knew that he shouldn’t be here, but this place, this woman, had the rationale and logic of a fever dream. It didn’t matter why it was, its existence justified itself.
Patric swayed in place for a long second as his mind ground slowly forwards. The woman kept reaching toward him. She was an inch away when Patric’s fogged thoughts finally came to a conclusion: he had a job to do, it wasn’t done yet, therefore he didn’t have time to waste. It was a child’s logic, but right now it was the only thing between him and madness. [Endure 41 (Margin 9)]
Against all odds, Patric took a single step back. Under normal circumstances this wouldn’t have been anything to get dizzy over, but it was an act of defiance in the face of something that hadn’t been defied since the first stones of Ingapirca had been set. It was old beyond all measure, and it was not something to take defiance from cattle.
The broken song changed, the beckoning melody twisting into something vast and angry without gaining clarity or form. The woman’s face mimicked the change, sad and smiling changing into an anger that pressed beyond the limits of human expression. The hand she’d reached out with retracted as if burned, and for a moment she looked stunned with rage. Then she struck at Patric. [To hit auto-resolved, target helpless] [Brawl 24 (margin 36) Vs Soak 46 (Margin 4+20 (perk))] (Health -12) The woman’s arm lashed out like a club, striking without skill or finesse, the attack backed only by the will of something that was as old as the human race. Her forearm, striking Patric flat across the chest, knocked him into the air. [Luck (Threshold 50) 43 (Margin 7)] His body reunited with the floor with only slightly less than bone breaking force, largely thanks to the steadily thickening carpet of fleshy tendrils growing out of the earthen floor.
Patric sat up when he realized the blow hadn’t killed him, resisting the pathetic efforts of the yellowed tendrils to hold him down. He’d landed a number of yards away from the woman, almost back to where he started. Beside him, Patric could see the hole in the weeds that was probably Rake’s still prone body, but he could no longer see the exit when he looked back to where it
should be. That part of the room -if it could still be called a room when most of the walls were missing- seemed to extend out into an endless field of yellow weeds, glowing under the corrupted sun and writhing with the angered song. The other newblood was trying to fight through the weeds in that direction, but his movements were clumsy and weak. The fragile weeds tugged at him and held him back, slowing him even though each grasped at the thug’s clothes with less strength than a child. Patric turned away from the sight, focusing on forming a plan. His mind seemed clearer, now he needed to find a way out, or at least something familiar to use as a landmark, but there was nothing familiar left. There was Rake’s body, the other thug that Patric didn’t even know by name, the imperfect woman, and the… wait. Patric squinted at a second hole in the weeds, past Rake’s body. He didn’t know for sure what it was, but it was in the right place to be the piece of crate that Rake had been gunning so hard for.
The imperfect woman was moving again by the time that Patric regained his feet, but she wasn’t heading towards him. She was headed to the other new hire, “Jerry”, and he wasn’t making enough progress against the pulsing tendrils to outdistance her slow stalk. Patric didn’t know what the woman was going to do to the other thug when she caught up with him, but he had a feeling that the man would end up paying for whatever Patric had done to raise the woman’s ire. What he did know was that the woman was going to turn her attention to him after she was done with the thug, and Patric couldn’t stand a chance against her straight up strength. He was a strong man, and he’d had a life that had hardened him, but even the roughest knuckle monkey Patric knew couldn’t have knocked him flying like she had. She was in a different league than he was, impossible as that seemed from her slight form, and going bare knuckle against her would be suicide.
[Rake endure 73 (Margin -33)] A gurgling sound rose from the hole in the weeds where Rake lay, and the edges of the hole jerked and thrashed as the senior enforcer struggled, but whatever force and dropped him still had him well in thrall. Patric was alone, Rake was down, the other thug looked like a child learning to walk, and Patric hadn’t seen the other two enforcers since they’d ditched for the exit.
Whatever he was going to do, he’d have to be able to do it without help.
Location: Abandoned Winery
Status Effects: None
Health: 63/75
Sanity: 42/55
Head
Fedora (No spots)
Body:
Open collared shirt
-V.Small slot: Empty
Black Drape Suit
-Small slot: Empty
-Small slot: Empty
-V.small Slot: Empty
Legs:
Black Trousers
-V. Small slot: Wallet
-V. Small slot: Empty
-V. Small Slot: Empty
-Small Slot Empty
Feet:
Black Shoes (No Spots)
L. Hand
-Infinite Slot: Brass Knuckles
R. Hand
-Infinite Slot: Brass Knuckles
-Special Slot: Trade Family Ring
-Special Slot: Wristwatch
Carried Weight: 2/55
Injuries: Heavily bruised chest
Attribute Bonuses: +5 Str, +15 End, +5 Will
Attribute Penalties: -10 Cha
[Spoiler= Abandoned Winery, (Cellar)]
You are in the cellar of the abandoned winery, but it’s barely recognizable as that anymore. Off color sunlight pours down from the ceiling. Pulsing yellow tendrils cover the floor. The cellar smells of death and decay. Music that you can't quite describe fills the air. The pulsing weeds have taken over the crates and barrels, rendering them invisible by submersion. Rake (Trade Senior Enforcer, Allied, Direct Superior) is here and is writhing in pain on the ground beside you. Two trade enforcers (Allied, superior by experience) have fled beyond your vision. A thug (Trade faction, allied, colleague, slight inferior by action) is being pursued by the imperfect woman. There is an unusual hole in the weeds not too far behind Rake.
A number of yards in front of you is a woman that cannot describe with anymore accuracy than you describe the broken song that fills the air. She is pursuing the thug.
The exit is out of sight
The doors have been lost to the fields of fleshy weeds.
The fields continue on ahead of you.
Author
Topic: City of Madness; Arkham. Ch. 1: The Lord of Broken Song (Read 30259 times)