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[Draignean]

The stars have aligned once more... We shall begin again.

The good news is that I thankfully had a portion of of the turn written before I went AWOL, so this should be running again in a couple days. Eldritch horrors don't go down that easy.

[Ahra]

CTHULU FTHAGN!!!

[IronyOwl]

Excellent.

[Dwarmin]

Heh, false start?

Just posting to let Draignean know we haven't forgotten yet.

[Draignean]

This next turn is a transition, thus containing the resolve scene for the segment, the resolve scene for each player, the start scene for the next segment, and the start scene for each player. Ten scenes all in all. I had two scenes (one short) written before my internet tanked, now I just have 1.5 scenes left the editing, room descriptions, and finishing. 

Right now it's at Ten eleven thirteen pages and 27 30 38K characters. Should be done tonightish (Tonightish includes AMs before 5AM), but don't hold your breath. I like you people and your bloated fetal corpses would dishearten me. That and the lawsuits.
 
As an additional fun fact while I'm churning the rest of this out, by wordcount you will be roughly 67-70 pages into this story. If you've been following the previous updates that is. (Assuming standard paper-back size.)

[Draignean]

Turn 7, Part one of two

   

The man smelled of fire, not the clean smell that came from an evening by a warm fireplace, this was a dark smell that clung to his every pore and sickened the smile he wore into a mockery of cheer. The man sat silent in the alley, his head cocked to one side as he listened to the faint song that lapped at the edges of his mind, whispering secrets and promising dreams.
  The man's smile deepened as another form fell from the burning building across the street, adding its own voice to the broken song, adding it's own note to the almost perfect melody. The song swelled as the fire burned brighter and higher, lilting in time to the groan of burning timber and heated brick.
   The man didn't really understand why he'd done what he'd done, just that it was necessary if the song were to ever be real. He was one musician, playing the notes of a hidden song at the whim of an unseen conductor. The thought made the man shake with silent mirth, he had never played an instrument before, and yet he had been one chosen to bring this masterpiece from where it had lain forgotten.
   Smiling silently the man watched as his home and the academy building burned, his wife's voice singing silently in his ears.

---~~~---

   Clay cursed the flames, swearing oaths of frustration and helplessness as the building continued to burn around him. Alone, scared, tired, and doing as much good as spitting into the wind, Clay let the fire extinguisher fall to the floor. He wasn’t a hero, he was just a man in the wrong place at the wrong time.
   Covering his mouth against the smoke and billowing waves of heat Clay left the burning building, he had to find someone to help, anyone. Coughing raggedly he staggered away from the building, his eyes half blind with tears and smoke.
    Blind enough that he nearly staggered into the man who leapt out of the third story of the building. 
   
   Yelling in surprise Clay threw himself out of the way as the other man hit the ground rolling, turning to watch in amazement as the stranger half tumbled, half skidded across the grass before regaining his feet with alacrity.
   ”Briar!” The stranger yelled, seemingly ignoring Clay in favor of a dark and only vaguely human looking lump that rested unnaturally on the fire-lit ground. The man grabbed the corner of the lump and levered it over, exposing the unconscious face of another young man, blood leaking from the corner of his mouth.
   ”NO,” Clay yelled when it sunk in that the broken looking lump was a human being, ”don’t move him!
   The other man stiffened in surprise and twisted back to look at Clay. ”P-professor Brooks? The young man stammered in amazement.
    Clayton didn’t recognize the student, not that it really mattered, but he did recognize panic. Well controlled and well meaning panic, but still panic that could kill and maim just as surely as the flames that it had escaped. ”Don’t move him,” Clay repeated firmly ”Get help, run down that street and across the bridge, the first right is the station, get them and tell them about the fire.”
    The student froze in place, half crouched over the unconscious and in all probability dying man. Clay had seen the face before, difficult debate, no wrong answer and the boy didn’t quite know which side of the argument he supported. Considering the number of very bad ways Clay had seen this pan out in class he felt justified in his rather unorthodox solution.
     Indecision and shock was replaced with surprise and pain when the back of Clay’s hand impacted the students jaw with enough force to elicit a sharp yell of surprise before Clayton’s other hand grabbed the man’s collar and drew his face an inch away from his own. ”You. Will. Run. Or. He. Will. Die. Now GO,” Clayton shouted and half threw the young student away from himself, watching him stagger a few steps before picking up into a dead run.   
   Clayton didn’t bother with a second glance as he knelt beside the fallen kid, now all he had to do was keep a student with numerous and unidentified injuries from dying using only his clothing and a great deal of prayer.     

   Maybe saving this one would help him forget the screaming coming from the building behind him.

Maybe.

---~~~---

   David nodded, wincing at the sick throb the motion created, he just wasn’t ready to go out in a blaze of gunfire and gory glory. That was a kind of blaze was best entered by people that hadn’t partaken of a head injury and a glass of astonishingly potent alcohol beforehand.
    The masked man leaned back in his chair and sighed contentedly. ”Well, that’s it then isn’t it?” He paused for a moment, tapping his finger thoughtfully against the lips of the weeping mask. ”Oh yes, don’t try to line your pockets twice as deep by closing the case with Ms. Gregor while you’re working it for me. My own associates will see to that loose end, don’t worry yourself. You can ungag him now Lenore.”
    Soft hands twisted at the knot at the back of David’s head as Lenore moved to comply from behind. A couple of painful jerks to his Concussed head later and the gag fell free from his mouth, letting David twist his mouth and try to get the taste of the coarse fabric out of it.
   The masked man stood up from his desk, meticulously straightening his pinstriped suit before offering the file he’d been editing to David. ”Lenore will give you the rest of the information in a few days, once we’ve finished ironing a few things out you understand. Have a fine night Mr. Hadjem, do good work for us or I’ll kill you with your own necktie.”
    David stood slowly and took the file from the man’s hands with equal care, turning back to the door and to the outside world the instant his fingers firmly grasped the papers. The masked man let him get as far as the door before stopping him.
    ”Wait a moment Mr. Hadjem, I almost forgot. Lenore, would you mind returning to this man the bullets we took from his firearm?” The weeping face said, its tone conveying a scarcely concealed malevolent amusement.
   David stopped dead, wordlessly extending a cupped hand to Lenore and thanking his lucky stars that he hadn’t tried or needed to use his pistol.
   Lenore smirked and dropped the six bullets into his outstretched hand one by one. A game to be certain, something meant to run his nerves a little more raw. Something to emphasize the fact that they’d let him live because they decided he was more useful alive, not because of any fear they might have of him. ”See you in a few days sweetheart, and don’t get lost on your way out,” Lenore said as the last bullet dropped into his hand. ”It’s big place here, hate to never see you again because you got a little… lost.”
   David nodded, feeling the urge to rise to the challenge, to say something to these bloody people. Instead he merely smiled politely and tucked the bullets back into his pocket with the others, pausing on his way out the door again only to favor Lenore with an almost mocking half-bow.

   He had a world of work to do, work that had been graciously bequeathed upon him by an eccentric, homicidal, and in all probability slightly mad client.

Heh, he’d had worse before. 

---~~~---

   Patric flexed his bandaged hand experimentally as he scanned the room, most of the people and girls were partitioned off in private dens, but there were a myriad of signals to look for, signals that let people be shown the door before things got too heavy.
    Patric’s face almost broke its expressionless mask at that thought. Things were going to start to heat up soon, he could feel it in his back and in his knuckles. He was going to be working a lot more than drunken fools with more money than sense soon, a prospect that was not all unwelcome to a man who had overcome and outgrown every challenge that this place had offered. 
    Patric continued to test his hand, ignoring the pain that radiated from the tiny hole in its center. It had been a small price to pay as far as prices went, a small price for a great deal of money and a foot in the door to something much bigger.

  You could say a lot of things about the Trades, but life was never dull for those in their employ.

---~~~---

    Tragedy smiled faintly beneath his mask as the young detective left. He didn’t care whether the man succeeded or failed at finding the answers to the case, truthfully the only thing he’d dubbed necessary had already been done.
   ”I still think we should have killed him.” Lenore murmured as she put the chair back into it’s rightful place and stowed the gag back up on the shelf. ”All due respect of course.”
   Tragedy sighed inwardly and sat back down in his own chair, pinching the pleats of his slacks as he did so. ”I’m fully aware of your opinion but he has a rather different set of paths ahead of him, all of which benefit us at this point. No sense in killing him yet.”
    Lenore grimaced, an expression as endearing now as it had ever been. ”Of course, but why did you have to tell him that it was my idea to keep him alive?”
    ”Because you, little one, are a sweet lily of purity.” Tragedy said with only a ghost of sarcasm passing his lips. ”I am the one who crushes the souls out of people and makes them beg to die,” he paused and shrugged indifferently ”or at least that is what should be impressed upon our guests.”
    Lenore said nothing to that, feigning interest in one of the oil paintings that ornamented the walls of the office.
    ”I’m curious,” Tragedy said after a moment of still silence ”are you going to stand there critiquing my art or are you going to spit out that thought you’ve been chewing over since you brought your guest in?”
    Lenore remained silent for a couple seconds, her gaze drifting to a spot of wall, a spot that had it been a window would have looked out to the south-west. ”Something was and is shrouding a quarter of the city.”
    Tragedy leaned back in his chair resignedly. ”I know.”   
     ”I thought you might…” Lenore said slightly bitterly ”holier than thou and all that.”
     ”Yes.” He said simply. ”I am. I’m sorry."
   Lenore smiled a little sadly but nodded once in acceptance. ”What are you allowed to say?”
    ”Very little,” Tragedy said grimly ”but it would be in our best interests if you brought the events that the shroud concealed to the attention of your friend, particularly if you did it when his own investigation begins to run into a wall.”
    ”And when will that be?”
    ”The day after tomorrow, a quarter past ten in the morning. Bring a newspaper.”

[Draignean]

Turn 7, Part 2 of 2
March 11th, 1931. Approximately 10:15, Wednesday.
57 hours since the fire.

---~~~---

   Briar ran through flame as the world throbbed passively, a steady beat that permeated every aspect of reality. A reality filled with flames and bodies.
    The floor burned and screamed as he ran, legs pumping endlessly as he dashed through a maze of corridors and turns and switchbacks. He couldn’t really remember why he ran anymore, whether he was trying to catch someone or if he was trying to escape the fire. He was running, the why of it wasn’t important, just the need.
    Nothing changed as he ran, the fire still burned, the world still throbbed, and yet… There were voices now, or at least the suggestion of voices. Briar didn’t stop to listen, he couldn’t ever stop, but he did bend his ear as far as the crackling flames and his own rapid breath would allow.
   The voice was familiar, the tickling kind of familiar that tells you that you would have known this in a second were you just a few years younger. The voice sounded curious and amused, like a child playing with a new and puzzling toy.
   Despite the flames that played around him and heated the air to a blistering degree, Briar felt a chill as something familiar stirred inside him at the sound. He didn’t want to go that way. He always had to go that way in the end, but for now he could still run until it dragged him back.

    Briar opened his eyes slowly, wincing back from the brightness of the sterile white and blue that surrounded him. He felt… strange. Half-remembered tatters of dream and memory pattered about his head like kittens and butterflies. He felt like a kitten right now, all warm and fuzzy and sort of brownish. He wasn’t sure why he felt brownish exactly, but it was a nice sort of color…
   ”Hey! You’re awake!” Exclaimed a rather excited sounding voice from somewhere off to Briar’s left.
   Briar tried to make vague waving motions at whatever was making the word noises, but the motion in his waving arm was a little restricted by something.
   ”Whoa there, don’t move around just yet,” said the voice in a tone that might have been concern. ”You got a little hurt when you fell, how do you feel?”
   Briar considered how best to answer for a moment, choosing his words carefully when he finally spoke. ”Feel brown.”
   There was a moment of silence before the voice spoke again. ”I’m sorry, what?”
   Briar twisted his head around a little until he could see the top third of Roberts head. ”I feel like a brown kitten.” He repeated and smiled in a somewhat unfocused way at Robert’s forehead.
   ”Ah,” Robert said slowly, ”that’s probably the morphine they gave you. Sorry,” he added offhand.
  Briar shrugged as much as the restraints would allow. ”It’s nice actually, kind of hard to worry about anything…” Briar said slowly, blinking his way up through the levels of drug muddled consciousness. ”What happened?”
   Robert sighed and leaned back, an action which took most of his head out of Briar’s field of vision. ”The rope unknotted, and you with characteristic quick-thinking decided to break the fall with your ribcage. I follow you out like a fool and sprain an ankle doing it, then professor Brooks starts yelling at me to go get help.”
   A flicker of surprise crossed Briar’s mind sluggishly before finally connecting. ”Professor Brooks? As in Captain Abercrombie?” He said with as much surprise as he could muster.
   ”The very same,” Robert said, his tone confessing a lingering astonishment. ”He came out of nowhere looking like smoking hell, takes one look at you and orders me to run to get help.”
    ”Wow, Briar murmured softly as in the opium began to kick back in. ”I must have looked terrible.”
    Robert chuckled slightly and let out a tired breath. Yeah, you looked even worse than you usually do.”
    ”Heh… I probably did,” Briar said with a faraway smile. He felt alright, at least in the sense that no part of him actively felt injured, but… he was in a hospital and drugged. That didn’t bode well for his health. ”How am I?” Briar asked.
   There was a long minute of silence before Robert finally spoke. ”You’re going to be fine, okay? You just gotta rest.”
    Mild alarm made its way through Briar’s mental fog and rapped smartly on his sleeping consciousness. ”Robert, what happened to me?” Briar asked again, his voice hardened and sharpened by the knot of vague fear that was growing in his stomach.
    ”You…” Robert started to say before taking a deep breath and beginning again. ”You cracked three ribs, bruised half of your body, dislocated your left arm, got a concussion, and broke your left leg pretty badly. You also bit a chunk off the inside of your cheek, so you’re a cannibal now.” Robert added with a weak attempt at humor.
   ”Oh,” Briar said.
   ”Yeah,” Robert replied, ”It’s bad. But you’re going to get better, alright?”
   Briar tried to smile, feeling strangely cold inside the warm drug haze. ”Yeah, that sounds fun…”
   Robert’s forehead nodded up and down. ”Good,” he said in a much lighter tone. ”Now, you’ve got some mail. One is from the university, I got one too. They apologize for the tragedy, etcetera, etcetera. You’ve got one from the mayor, also have one of those. He wants to apologize AND pledge that your medical costs and replacement housing will be at city expense.” Robert paused for a moment and grunted once before continuing, ”this one is interesting. No return but it’s definitely addressed to you. You want to read it or shall I?”

(Reading in your current state will require a successful –favorably weighted- solve enigma roll.)

Location: Arkham Hospital, Room 314.
Status Affects: Morphine ()

Spoiler: Briar R. Charleson (Bdthemag) (click to show/hide)

Health: 30/30 (Normal max value 40, reduced by wounds.)
Sanity: 70/70
Head: None (No spots)  (Bruised)
Body: Hospital Gown (No spots) (Multiple Cracked ribs -Healing, 15 turns-)
Legs: Hospital Gown, Cast on left leg. (No Spots) (Spiral fracture -Healing, 25 turns-, Permanent Nerve Damage)
Feet: Hospital Slippers (No Spots)
L. Hand: Empty
R. Hand: Empty

Other Worn items:
None

Carried Weight: 0/35
Available Spots: 0
Inv:
Pocket lint

Spoiler: Room 314 (click to show/hide)

One exit out into hall, Small southern window shows a brick wall..
Robert Denver (Close Friend) is here.
You are lying on a bed, you are partially restrained to the bed.
You have in IV in your arm.

Loose Items,
Room Unsearched
Robert is offering you letters.

Closed Containers,
Room Unsearched

---~~~---

Fire at Miskatonic kills seventeen students, dozens wounded, four missing!

   Clayton stared at the newspaper without reading anything beyond the headline. He’d been there. He’d been just feet away, and as powerless to help as the dirt itself. After a day spent talking to the police, city officials, firemen, and enough journalists and reporters to sink a ship, Clay’s impotent rage and helplessness had faded. Now he felt… numb.
    Seventeen dead, four still missing.     
     Clays fingers trembled as he reached for his cup of coffee. How many of those deaths were on his head? If he’d noticed the time faster he could have seen the fire as it started… If he’d been stronger, more daring, maybe he could have saved them.
     Feeling very old and very tired Clay raised his cup drank mechanically. There was a second of pause before Clayton’s eyes bulged and the taste of cold and rather salty coffee percolated though his morose thoughts. ”Good God,” he sputtered wetly as he attempted to spit the vile brew back into the cup, ”are you trying to kill me Helen?”
     A slim hand settled fondly on his shoulder and Helen laughed softly behind him. ”No love,” she said, ”I’m just trying to see if you’re still alive in there.”
    ”So you salted my coffee?”
    Helen stepped out from behind his chair and took a seat beside him, raising an eyebrow archly as she did so. ”I served you cold coffee. You salted it yourself.”
    Clay stared at his mutinous coffee. He really couldn’t remember much about its origin or about what he’d put in it. ”I…” he started weakly before shaking his head and trying again. ”I’m sorry Helen, it’s just that I keep thinking… I keep thinking I could have done more.
    Helen twined her fingers in with his and nodded. ”I know you do,” she said softly, ”but you can’t do this. You walked away from one fire and you lit another one inside your head. You’ve got to let it go.”
    Clay bowed his head and gripped Helen’s hand gently. ”Yesterday… you weren’t there. Everyone asked question about the fire, where I was, what I did. The firemen, the police, the reporters… They don’t go out and say it, but they blame me all the same.”
     Helen’s hand stiffened in Clay's as a look of incredulous surprise crossed her face. ”Oh. Clayton, you haven’t actually read the paper have you?”
     Clayton’s eyes rose from the floor to meet Helen’s gaze. ”Not really,” he said slowly, ”why?”
      Helen laughed and shook her head in amusement. ”You read, I’ll get something a little more palatable.”
    Clay looked puzzled but he turned his eyes back to the –now slightly damp- newspaper and began to read.

Fire at Miskatonic kills seventeen students, dozens wounded, four missing!

The Miskatonic university dormitories were rent by fire on the 9th of March in the early hour of one in the morning. The blaze originated as a house fire on church street and was spread and fanned by a prevailing wind off the Miskatonic river. Police and fire officials were delayed in their response by a systemic failure of the area’s phone system, and by what the police chief referred to as “an apathetic public.”
   The bodies of seventeen students have since been recovered from the ashes of the dorm, and four more students have yet to be accounted for. Many others were wounded by the fire or by their own desperate attempts to escape the collapsing building.
   This disaster however was prevented from becoming a true calamity by the actions of a single professor and one student who managed to escape the fire. Fire chief Hinden O’Connel stated that, ”The actions of Professor Brooks and the student Robert Denver are the only reasons that we were able to evacuate the building before it burned to the ground.”
    Third year student Robert Denver was the first person to communicate the fire to the station officers, an act which required Robert to run across town just moments after he himself had escaped the burning building by leaping out of a third story window. Robert was later quoted as saying that ”I leapt out after my friend, I really didn’t have a plan.” Robert’s friend, Briar Charleson, was badly injured and rendered unconscious in the fall. His life however was saved by the actions of Prof. Brooks, who had seen the fire and had run to render aid. Professor Brooks was quoted as saying that “I did what anyone would have done. I saw the fire and I saw two kids fall out of the building.  He [Robert] meant well when he tried to help his friend, but the only thing he would have done was worsen his condition. So I told him to do the only the he could do, get help.”
    Mayor Alestor Colins addressed the event as “…the worst disaster to befall Arkham in a decade…” in his speech yesterday afternoon. He did, however, go on to state that ”…This disaster has brought out some of the best in the men and women of our city, as well as stressing the need for structural reform in the older buildings…”
    The Mayor has pledged city expenses to the rebuilding of the old dormitory and to providing additional fire protection to other key public and privately owned buildings. The Mayor has also announced plans to host a fundraiser celebration to aid the injured and the families of the taken as well as honor the heroes of the fire.

   Clay read the article, the numbness in his mind fading with every line. This… wasn’t what he had expected. They didn’t blame him, not on paper anyway. O’Connel had even praised him, and that man was reminiscent of a granite wall in every conceivable way.
    Helen walked back in with a pair of lightly steaming cups, handing one to Clay and keeping the other for herself. ”So,” she said in a crisp tone, ”feeling better?”
    Clay nodded and felt himself actually smile a little. ”Yes, I think I am,” he said, taking a drink of the blissfully hot (and unsalted) coffee. When he set his cup back down he stared at it for a moment before speaking again. ”I still feel…”
   ”Guilty?” Helen supplied. ”I think everyone does. I had no reason to even be there and I feel guilty for not being there to help you. Everyone wishes that they could have done more.”
    Clayton nodded and leaned back, letting his body actually relax for the first time since he’d rushed out of his office. ”Whatever I did to deserve you Helen, Clay said, ”I’m glad I did it.”
     ”Mostly you made lost puppy eyes, and I couldn’t resist picking you up and petting you,” Helen said with smile. ”Oh, before I forget. The girls got the mail for you before they left for school,” she said as she withdrew three plain looking envelopes from an apron pocket and handed them to Clay.
    Clay snorted and took the envelopes. One was from the Mayor, undoubtedly relating to the fire. The second was from one of the senior professors at the university, Isaac Fen. The last had no return address, just his own. The last letter also felt strangely heavy in Clay’s hand.
           
(Post Traumatic stress Roll 67, Clay endure roll 71-30 (support). Clay margin of success 26. No Sanity damage or lingering conditions.) 

Location: Own Home.
Status Affects: None

Spoiler: Clayton M. Brooks (Seriousconcentrate) (click to show/hide)

Health: 40/40
Sanity: 60/60
Head: Hair (No spots)
Body: Open Collared Shirt (1 V.Small), Blazer (2 small, 2 v.small)
Legs: Black slacks (2 Small)
Feet: Black Shoes (No Spots)
L. Hand: Newspaper
R. Hand: Hot Coffee

Other Worn items:
Wedding Band

Carried Weight: 2/35
Available Spots: 1 V.Small, 4 Small, both hands
Inv:
Silver Pocket Watch (V.Small, blazer pocket)
Wallet (Small, slacks pocket, contains $50 in small bills)
Newspaper
Hot Coffee

Spoiler: Own Home (click to show/hide)

You are at the dining table of your own home. The windows look south across the street.
Helen Brooks (Wife) is here with you.

Loose Items,
Own Home (You can make a roll to find anything that you could reasonably be found in your home.)
There are three letters on the table. One from the Mayor, on from Isaac Fen (Coworker, colleague), one from unknown.

Closed Containers,
Own Home (You can make a roll to find anything that you could reasonably be found in your home.)

---~~~---

   David slumped behind the explosion of papers and hand-written notes that cleverly concealed his desk. The file that the masked man had given him was extensive, containing a list of Moon's known addresses, abbreviated clientele roster, known aliases, her family history, her history in the city, descriptions of her physical and psychological state, and even included a sketch of her face.
   It told him surprisingly little about her motives. He knew that "Moon's" real name was Maria Wodel, he knew that both of her parents were dead and that she’d lived with her uncle for a time before he lost everything in the depression. He knew she’d gotten stuck in Arkham because she’d run out of money and options, something that made her a perfect target for recruitment into the Trade's legion of illegitimate businesses.
   He still couldn’t fathom why she’d killed a man. Her psych profile showed her to have adapted well to her profession, a summary of her accounts showed that she was actually doing better than David was, and a look at her client list revealed absolutely nothing to indicate that Mr. Gregor had devoted unwanted attention to her.
    ”What would make you need to kill him…” David murmured softly to the pencil sketch of Maria.
    Three quick knocks at the door interrupted David’s meandering train of thought, and he paused a moment before answering. Using the time to free his pistol from a desk drawer. ”Come in.”
     The door opened and Lenore walked in without pause or hesitation. She had changed since the club, choosing a sensibly skirt and woman’s suit over her other more risqué attire, and was carrying yet another set of files. ”I thought Detectives were supposed to have secretaries respond to the door,” Lenore asked with feigned surprise.
    ”Yeah, we solve cases every week too, and whenever we run across a dame who wants to kill us it always turns out the she has a heart of gold underneath the ice,” David replied, keeping his pistol trained on her from under the desk.
    Lenore smiled wickedly at him and took a step closer. ”Your head still hurting you, hon?”
    ”It is,” David said, responding to her smile in kind. ”I’m also armed and not paid to run my jaw at you. What do you have for me?”
    ”Your gun have bullets in it this time?”
    David didn’t say a word, confining himself to a smiling stare. Eventually Lenore sighed and handed him the papers she carried. ”I assume you’ve looked over the others?”
   ”I have,” David said as he set the new files on the table without opening them. ”I found your boss’s notes to be completely indecipherable from inkblots, your clientele to be surprisingly broad, and your record keepers to do a fine job cataloging a veritable cornucopia of nothing.”
  ”The files are merely to give you background, if there was anything in them that would have told us why she did it, well…” Lenore paused for a moment and shrugged languidly. ”That would make you a little unnecessary, wouldn’t it?”
  David grunted and flicked a hand over the new papers. ”What are these of?”
  ”Those are the records of her elimination, her post-mortem file, and the file for the cover work we did on Mr. Gregor’s death,” Lenore said.
  ”Cover work?”
  Lenore nodded. ”Mr. Gregor wasn’t robbed by Moon-“
  ”Maria,” David interjected. ”Moon was just something that the lecherous stared at, and played with if their pockets went deep enough. Maria is, was, the person.”
   Lenore snorted derisively, but inclined her head in acknowledgment. ”Of course. As I was saying, Maria didn’t rob Mr. Gregor. We did.”
    David grimaced. ”Of course, a body with a hole in it and no money and no watch is a bit less conspicuous than a dead body with all of its stuff,” he glanced back at the new files and thumbed through them briefly, stopping in the middle to pick out the newspaper that had been sandwiched between two folders. ”Why,” David asked slowly, ”did you include a newspaper?”
   Lenore frowned. ”Have you already read it?”
   David raised an eyebrow. ”Believe it or not, I am not actually capable of deducing everything that happens in the city from the comfort of my home. Of course I read the paper.”
   Lenore looked surprisingly irked at that, but she continued on without mind. ”Front page?”
   ”Big fire, tragedy, students dead, civilian heroes, mayor makes speech,” David said with a shrug. ”Though considering the fact that the paper didn’t actually blame anybody for the fire I’d say the article was rather liberally subsidized, either by your bosses for reason unknown, or by the mayor so that he doesn’t get blamed for not adopting fire codes. Why do you ask?”
   ”They’re connected,” Lenore stated simply.
  David coughed in amused surprise. ”Really,” he said somewhat scornfully. ”You think that this fire was connected to why your girl wanted to kill a random client? Even without taking into account the fact that the fire occurred after she died, the idea is rather mad.”
   Lenore’s eyes hardened noticeably. ”If you would like me to go back and tell the Trade family that you think their research is rather mad, I can do that. Just make your peace with God first.”
   David didn’t flinch back, but he did begin to reconsider the preposterous nature of the theory. If it had come from above Lenore and she was only delivering it… Well, there were sources of information the Trades had that David could only dream about. ”Peace woman, I’ll consider it but you’ve got to give me a lead on something.”
   Lenore’s hard features softened into a smirk. ”A lead? You were hired to find leads, not to ask for them.”
   ”You’ve given me nothing,” David growled, gesturing broadly at the explosion of papers. ”I’ve been to her listed place of residence, they’ve been cleaned out. I’ve been to all of her listed friends, they've all moved. You and the Trades vanished her, and you did too good a bloody job of it.”
   ”Not my problem,” Lenore said irritating amounts of cheer.
   David closed his eyes and took a deep breath in and out. ”At least translate a few of the worse scribbles that your boss added to these files will you?”
   ”Having trouble reading the big words? Poor baby,” Lenore said pityingly. ”Where?”
   David pawed through the papers on his desk for a few seconds before he found the client roster he was looking for. ”Here,” he said, pointing towards a mess of  black spikes and loops that had been scribbled in at the bottom of the roster.
   Lenore leaned over and squinted at it. ”Damian O’Hara.”
   David froze. That wasn’t a name he’d expected. ”Get out of my office,” David ordered Lenore, his voice suddenly a great deal colder.
     ”Ooh, but things have just gotten interesting,” Lenore cooed, ”I couldn’t possibly leave now.”
    ”You can, and unless you have something else important to add, you will,” David said, penning in Ian’s name beneath the incomprehensible scratch as he spoke.
     Lenore frowned in a way that could almost be taken as genuine, and tossed another small parcel onto David’s desk. ”Operating expenses, plus a little bonus for buying a girl a drink,” she said, her manner oddly amicable after her more maliciously playful antics. ”Good luck,” she added offhand as she opened the door to leave.
    David didn’t respond as Lenore left, still staring at Damian’s name on the client roster. Damian O’Hara was a fellow P.I, hell, he was the man who’d introduced David into the work in the first place. He was a good man, prone to brooding spells and cold morals where the Trades were concerned, but he was absolutely the last person David would have expected to see on the client list for a Trade brothel.
   The crime though… Damian could convince anyone to do anything, and if he hadn’t commissioned Maria as a courtesan…
   David shook his head out of that line of thought, he wasn’t about to jump to conclusions based on a single note from a man who had gagged him and threatened to kill him. Now was the time to work every lead he had, no matter where they lead.
   No matter where.

Spoiler: Leads. (click to show/hide)

   Maria's friends have moved, but a lot of other people haven't. There are two grocery stores and a bakery that a likely distance away from her house, canvassing local tellers about her could turn something up.

   Maria was staying at an apartment in the southside. Canvassing there could turn up something useful.

   There's an honest club Downtown that her file mentions her frequenting, chances are decent that someone might recognize the sketch.

   Damian O'Hara was among the last people to see her alive. He's an old friend that's certainly worth a visit.

       
Location: In own Office
Status Affects: None

Spoiler: David A. Hadjem (Micelus) (click to show/hide)

Health: Base 50/50
Sanity: Base 45/45
Head: Fedora (No spots)
Body:  Black dress shirt (1 V.Small), Grey Vest (2 V.Small), Concealed Shoulder holster (1 small)
Legs: Black Slacks (2 Small)
Feet: Black Shoes (No Spots)
L. Hand: Empty
R. Hand: Detective Special

Other Worn items:
None

Carried Weight: 3/45
Available Spots: 1 V.Small, 2 Medium, both hands
Inv:
Pocket Watch (V.Small, slacks pocket)
Wallet (Small, slacks pocket, contains $20 in small bills)
Colt detective special (6/6, Small, in hand, 2 pounds)

Spoiler: Own Office (click to show/hide)

You're alone in your own office. Papers relating to the Maria case are everywhere. (Anything that you need to know about Maria you can make a roll to learn) There is a window facing east, the curtains are drawn.  Two new neat stacks of papers sit on the corner of your desk. They relate to Maria's death and the death and cover-up of Mr. Gregor. (Again, these allow you to make rolls to learn any question you can ask.)

Loose Items,
Own Office (You can make a roll to find anything that you could reasonably be found in your Office.)
There is a small brown parcel on the desk. (Suspected to be Trade Payment)
There are 22 loose .38 special rounds in a desk drawer.


Closed Containers,
Own Office (You can make a roll to find anything that you could reasonably be found in your office.)

---~~~---

    Patric stood roughly in the middle of the Dancing Saint, more or less apart from the four other bouncers that were gathered here. The others talked and joked a little between themselves; Patric though wasn’t in a talking mood and simply contented himself in surveying the empty club. With the light of day the trappings of the Trades had been stripped away, the curtains, the benches, the bar, the little paneled mini-rooms, everything had been removed. Old crates, cracked tables, and a couple of weather-beaten and broken chairs and been put in their place.
    Patric scuffed a foot across the floor and grunted once without changing expression. Dust had even been spread across the floor to make it seem as if nobody had trod here in weeks.
   Angelo walked up beside him so quietly that Patric had to work not jerk when he spoke. ”Nice isn’t it? Housekeepers will be back to sweep more dirt back over our prints as soon as we leave.”
   ”Good,” Patric responded monosyllabically
   Angelo curled one corner of his mouth in bulldog smile. ”Well, good to see you’re in good health. Boys are bringing out the box now, get with the others.”
    Patric nodded once in acceptance and walked slowly over to the knot of his fellow enforcers, exchanging acknowledgments with the two he knew from his shift. Those pleasantries were interrupted however by the hollow scrape of a large wooden box being drug towards them.
    ”Listen up meat,” Angelo bellowed over the sound, ”you’ve been called in to help Mr. Tragedy with a problem. He hired some nice men to get something for him, and the men brought it into town. Problem is that they decided to hide out, and not give Mr. Tragedy his merchandise until he paid them a bit of a travel tax. Now, we found out where the nice men are, and you’re going to go down there and negotiate the tax.” Angelo paused for a moment to turn a baleful eye on Patric and another bouncer that Patric didn’t know. ”Two of you are doing this for the first time, so let me lay it out plain. It is daylight, you don’t take the fight outside. People are awake now, so don’t use a gun unless it’s your life or Mr. Tragedy’s merchandise on the line. Most importantly, if you so much as put a crack in what Mr. Tragedy wants, he will put a crack in you. Got it?”
    Sounds of assent murmured through the loose group of enforcers, and Angelo nodded approvingly.
    ”Good. Rake is going to be senior for this one,” Angelo said, pointing to a dark haired man the size of a fridge. ”When I leave the room, he is God. Blaspheme and he or I will cut your balls off.”
   One of the senior enforcers chuckled darkly and Angelo favored the group with his bulldog smile again.
    ”The object the nice men are holding for Mr. Tragedy is box, about man sized. You will, under no circumstances, allow harm to come to the box. All you have to do is persuade the men there to deliver the box. Good enough?”
    ”Good enough,” Rake replied.
 The box that had been making the interminable scraping noise finally came to a rest beside the group of bouncers, its one hauler taking a brief and panting respite before tossing the lid back.
     The box was filled with an assortment of weaponry, all stacked neatly in rows. Wrenches, bats, crowbars, saps, switchblades, chains, garrotes, spiked clubs, pipes, knuckles, all set along with every other implement of harm that Patric could think of.
     ”Show is yours Rake,” Angelo said as the enforcers already began to select implements from the box, ”I’m going back and finding something warm, soft, and feisty. Show the new blood the same.”
     Rake grinned brutally and stepped up to take Angelo’s place as the older man left. ”Good morning, for those of you who don’t know me, my name is Rake, and I will make you eat your own feet one toe at a time if you don’t do what I say when I say it,” Rake said, his tone both flamboyant and cruel. ”Angelo is not as picky as I am, so let me lay on a few more rules. First, try not to kill anyone. Dead bodies are a boring pain to dispose of, live scared bodies are all manner of entertaining usefulness. Second, everyone who has done this before gets first pick of the box, new bloods get the leavings. If a new blood touches your favorite weapon you may feel fully entitled to rip it out of his baby hands and demonstrate how to use it on him.” Rake turned his leer directly on Patric and the other fresh enforcer. ”New bloods, if you take a weapon from the box you are expected to return it. If you don’t, well then you get to see the meaner side of myself, Angelo, Lenore, or even Tragedy if you lose something important. These items are not yours, Trag’ is loaning them to you. Don’t find out what happens when you can’t make that loan up.  Any questions?"

(Feel free to use the box)

Location: Inside the Dancing Saint (Closed)
Status Affects: None

Spoiler: Patric Stefan Williams (Ahra) (click to show/hide)

Health: 75/75
Sanity: 55/55
Head: Fedora (No spots)
Body:  Open collared shirt (1 V.Small) , Black Drape Suit (2 small, 1 V.Small)
Legs: Black Trousers (2 Small)
Feet: Black Shoes (No Spots)
L. Hand: Empty
R. Hand: Empty

Other Worn items:
Wristwatch
Trade Family Ring

Carried Weight: 2/55
Available Spots:  3 V.Small 3 Small
Inv:
Brass Knuckles (V.Small, Trouser pocket, 1 pound)
Wallet (V.Small, Trouser pocket, $50)

Spoiler:  Inside the Dancing Saint (Closed) (click to show/hide)

You're inside the main floor room of the dancing saint, the room is large. There are a few pieces of broken pieces of furniture, old crates, and torn paper strewn across the room. A thin layer of dust coats everything.
Also here is Rake (Trade Senior Enforcer, Allied, Direct superior), two enforcers (Both allied colleagues, superior by seniority), a thug (Allied colleague), and a Trade hauler (Allied, inferior).

There is an exit behind you.
There is a door leading up to the rentable rooms.
There is a side-door to the mousehole chain on the east side of the room.
There is a door marked to the back rooms at the south end of the room.
There is a bathroom on the west side of the room.

Loose Items
Rubbish

Closed containers
Rubbish

Open Containers
Trade weapons Crate. (Any basic melee weapon you like can be withdrawn from the crate.)

[SeriousConcentrate]

Clay took a long drink of the coffee. He really needed a bit of a boost before he even considered going through the mail. "Thanks, Helen. You're the best," he said warmly. Things always seemed better with her around. Setting the coffee down, he opened the mail, starting with the one from the mayor. Most likely it was a form letter of thanks, nothing special, but something he would keep around with the rest of his files anyway. Next would be the letter from Professor Fen. As he remember, Isaac didn't send letters out very often, and he was curious as to what the man had to say. Last would be the unmarked letter, which he would examine carefully for any sort of clues about sender or contents before opening.

[Ahra]

"i´ll stick with knuckles if noone else wants ´em sirs?"

[micelus]

(Oops: The Third.)

Maria, Maria, Maria...what could have Damien been thinking?

David searches through his papers and tries to find out the circumstances of her the deaths of her parents and also tries to find out where she went for her education and all the places she worked.

[IronyOwl]

Hefty bit of reading to do all at once, but well worth it. :3

[Draignean]

It would appear BD was last active a month ago...

Anyone have information on that or reasons why he shouldn't be NPC'd for a reasonable amount of time?

[Dwarmin]

People on the waiting list say nay.

Also judging by his last post...

I'm trying to get rid of some damn viruses from my sisters computer, and it is fucked up beyond help. At first there was just one little one on there that I could easily get rid of, I come back a few minutes later and I meet virus equivalent of an arch-nemesis.

He ran into a MOAV.

[Ahra]

tough luck, my friend just ran into one, his computer is now fried.

[Draignean]

People on the waiting list say nay.

Also judging by his last post...

I'm trying to get rid of some damn viruses from my sisters computer, and it is fucked up beyond help. At first there was just one little one on there that I could easily get rid of, I come back a few minutes later and I meet virus equivalent of an arch-nemesis.

He ran into a MOAV.

Well the good news is that he's in a hospital, there is a valid place for him to be if I decide to NPC him and I don't have to worry about what he should be doing.
The bad news is that he's the one who I gave the starting artifact to, thus kinda inhibiting you unless I can find some sensical way to get it into someone else's hands.

Gnrg. And I had him pegged for a safe bet to hand that thing off to. I might just pull an entirely different artifact out and nullify his book (since it hasn't done anything interesting yet), or I might add an entirely new one to somebody. Don't really know.

I'll think on it tomorrow, feel free to think loudly about the options and what you think best.