Clayton took another fortifying drink of coffee, letting the almost scalding fluid burn the spiritual chill from his body.
”Thanks, Helen. You’re the best,” he said after he finished defrosting his soul.
Helen nodded sagely.
”I know, but it it’s rude to say it,” she said, giving Clay’s hand one last squeeze before she stood up from the table.
”Now, since you’ve decided to become a gentleman of leisure, let’s see to a late breakfast.” Clay chuckled and shook his head. He wasn’t sure if he was ready to eat anything just yet, but he was equally sure that Helen wouldn’t take no for an answer. She had a problem she could solve, and heaven help any who got in her way.
Still sipping at his coffee Clay turned his attention back to the envelopes, selecting the Mayor’s as his first candidate. Tearing the top carefully open Clay pulled out the folded paper inside, noting the typed body with a mayoral signature tacked on to the bottom. The letter was nice, extolling his virtue and honoring his civic service. It was, however, very general and mentioned his name only in the header. Clay shook his head ruefully, there was no doubt in his mind that most of those involved in the fire had gotten a very similar letter.
The last paragraph, however, was enough to give him a start- it invited him to a remembrance ceremony planned for the 21st. Not just as an honored guest, but to receive Arkham’s circle for his “unswerving loyalty in the face of danger”.
Clay stared at that for a moment. Arkham’s circle wasn’t nationally prestigious, one or two were awarded every year for loyalty, dedication, or substantial donations, but it was still an unexpected honor.
Still blinking in astonishment Clay set the letter back down gingerly. That might be something worth keeping around for later, he usually wasn’t much for framing things, but that letter certainly seemed to qualify for it.
Taking another sip of coffee Clay cast about for Isaac’s letter, hoping that it would contain something to make what was left of the morning take on some semblance of sanity.
The letter was handwritten, not with Isaac’s spiking hand, but rather his wife’s looser style. Isaac’s hands had given him pains in his youth, and now that he was getting on in age he had taken largely to dictating his letters. The letter itself was an invitation, a get together of the university’s professors to discuss matters that should be brought before the board in light of the recent disaster. The letter gave somewhat short notice, setting the meet at Saturday evening at the Fen family estate outside Arkham. The letter did go on to include invitations to spouses and children, letting on that the occasion might also be set as a way to lighten darkened spirits as well as discuss courses of action. Clay felt himself smile slightly, Fen would never let on that there was anything other than business, but the man had a soft spot a mile square.
Refolding the letter and setting it atop the letter from the Mayor, Clay turned a wary eye to the letter-of-unknown-origin. He picked it up and felt it carefully, noting the odd weight along with the presence of at least one unusually hard shape inside. With nothing else to be discerned from the outside, Clay tore the letter open. Inside was a small parcel of brown wax paper, and a folded sheet of heavy typewriter paper. The letter itself made Clay’s eyebrows rise by degrees as he read. It was clean and professional looking, written with neat typestrokes that showed no marring or hesitation.
It was also madness.
Dear Reader,
People have said there is something terribly wrong with this world, they say that something unnatural lurks beneath the fabric of the real. Mediums, psychics, paranormal demagogues, cultists, all of them would have you believe that the normal world is under attack by monstrous and alien forces.
Their arrogance taxes the patience at times.
There is not something wrong with the world, there is something terribly wrong with our perception of the world. We have built our reality upon the edifice of what we can sense, we have defined sentience by the standards with which we raised ourselves up, and we define nature solely upon what can be quantified with the instruments of glass and steel. For tottering sacks of flesh that barely live less than a century and sense in such a limited spectrum we have determined a great deal to be real and true.
This however is both our salvation and our damnation, we have lit our own hands aflame to ward off the beasts in the woods. Still... it has not failed us yet. Our race memory has been sufficient to keep a great many things in the shadows, it has been a shield and a blindfold, but it is falling into tatters. There are those among us who have grown weary of this charade, human men and women have come to tear the veils from their eyes and look unflinching into the dark. Most have been consumed by it, some have turned away never to look again, but a few... a forsaken few have embraced the ancient and forgotten, and they have brought our progenitors back into the light to scatter the unknowing like mice before wildfire.
Those who remain in blissful ignorance are killed (and worse) the same as any of the enlightened, and even the soundest mind may begin to whisper of the happenings in the darkness. And in this is the reason for your birth, you have been marked as one who will fight. Whether your fight is to maintain the tenuous shroud that separates sanity from madness, or to tear it down and revel in the chaos is not known. All that is known is that you will fight, and you will have to fight soon.
I do not pretend to know who you are, nor will I dare hope that you will believe my words now, but when the time comes I can only hope that you will remember this letter.
7th and Saints, the key box is under the statue of the angel with the sword.
-In friendship and warning, Hector Tyrel
Clay blinked owlishly as he finished reading, either ‘Hector Tyrel’ needed a stay at a mental institution, or he didn’t have quite enough coffee in him to make sense of that letter. Leaving the letter open, Clay set it down beside him. He would get back to it in a moment, right now he wanted to see what had been sent in the package inside the letter.
The wax paper was merely folded shut instead of tied, relying solely upon the combined forces of the stubborn nature of the wax paper, and the confines of the envelope to keep it from opening. Clayton opened it carefully, peeling the paper back to reveal the corner of something silver and gleaming inside. Clay’s eyes widened in surprise as he finished opening the package, revealing three small silver pendants and a note. The pendants were all worked in the same shape; a stylized representation of the branching veins of a leaf- oak or some similar variety. The design was plain, but clearly of excellent craftsmanship. The note that came with them was penned on a torn strip of parchment, the three words it carried written in the practiced hand of someone long accustomed to the written word.
For your family
It didn’t make any sense. Clay turned back to the still open letter in consternation, re-reading it carefully. It was still madness, but the last bit sounded like a corner address. [Knowledge 3 (Margin 92)] The trouble with that is that there were no streets in Arkham named Saints, and the cross streets aren’t numbered. Whatever that line was, it didn’t pertain to an address, at least, not one for here.
Location: Own Home
Status Effects: None
Health: 40/40
Sanity: 60/60
Head: Nil
Body,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:
Hot CoffeeSpecial Slot: Wedding Band
Carried Weight: 2/35
Injuries: None
Attribute Bonuses: +5 Cha, +10 Int, +15 Wis, +10 Will
Attribute Penalties: -15 Str, -10 End
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 open letters on the table. One from the Mayor -Read-, one from Isaac Fen (Coworker, colleague) -Read-, one from Hector Tyrel -Read-.
There is a parcel containing three silver amulets (Unknown, V.Small slot each, 1 small for the lot) on the table.
Closed Containers,
Own Home (You can make a roll to find anything that you could reasonably be found in your home.)
---~~~---
David grimaced at the papers that lay strewn across his desk. This was going to be like finding a specific needle in a seamstresses shop, frustrating, boring, full of false leads, and probably painful. [Solve Enigma 17-10 (Margin 25)]
David started his search as far back as possible, looking first at the deaths of Maria’s parents. It was entirely possible that she had come to Arkham a sociopath, and Mr. Gregori was potentially just a bystander who triggered her.
Yeah, and maybe Lenore’s boss likes being tickled.
Maria’s mother, Clarice Wodel, died trying to give birth to what would have been Maria’s younger brother when Maria was only six. Complications from the birth killed mother and child.
Maria’s Father, Mortimer Wodel, died just two years later from long term respiratory issues aggravated by pneumonia. Neither death shows any kind of foul play, just bad luck on top of bad luck.
Maria’s education took place in a one-room schoolhouse in the middle of nowhere, augmented later by tutoring when she went to live with her uncle. Like most women she never attempted reach into collegiate learning, or if she did there is no surviving record of the attempt.
[Solve Enigma 31-10 (Margin 11)] David let his eyes skim forwards as the document progressed in glacially forwards in time, letting his eyes dig slightly deeper into the document only when it reached the point where she arrived in Arkham. She’d attempted to find work fairly shortly after arriving in the city, there wasn’t a complete list of her attempts at finding a job, but something about the wording told David that there had been many.
There were, however, two places that she had managed to get a job in briefly. One of them was a small restaurant in uptown, she worked there for a couple weeks before getting turned out. David marked down the address of the restaurant, she hadn’t worked there long, but it was better than nothing. Oddly, the document didn’t go into any detail about why she was fired, just that she was. The other job apparently fell through almost immediately after she got it, a secretarial position that she had apparently grossly exaggerated her skills to get. David penned the address to that one as well, again, probably nothing, but it never hurt to check.
From there it appeared that Maria was reduced to begging for money, and scavenging for scraps to eat. After almost a month of that kind of fringe existence, one of the Trade “talent spotters’ picked her up off the street and offered her food, a warm bed, and a job.
David stopped there, the corners of his mouth twisting into a frown. After that, well, he already knew where she worked after that. The talent spotter mentioned goes unnamed, and no other form of identification is given to him. Typical.
Location: Own Office
Status Effects: None
Health: Base 50/50
Sanity: Base 45/45
Head Fedora (No spots)
BodyBlack dress shirt
-V.small Slot: Empty
Grey Vest
-V.small slot: Empty
-V.small slot: Empty
Shoulder holster
-Small slot
Legs: Black Slacks (2 Small)
-V.Small Slot: Pocket Watch
-V.Small Slot: Empty
-V.Small Slot: Empty
-Small slot:
WalletFeetBlack Shoes (No Spots)
L. Hand-Infinite Slot: Empty
R. Hand-Infinite Slot:
Detective SpecialCarried Weight: 3/45
Injuries: None
Attribute Bonuses: +5 Cha, +5 Per, +5 Agi, +5 Will
Attribute Penalties: -5 Str
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 didn’t really need anything other than what he had, his metal knuckles were all would want in a fight.
“I´ll stick with knuckles if no one else wants ´em, sirs?” Patric said, his tone somewhat unsure of whether he should be addressing them as superiors or as comrades.
One of the enforcers let out a hearty guffaw at Patric’s conundrum of address, shaking his head in equal parts mirth and derision. Rake himself gave Patric one of his brutal smiles and waved a hand indulgently.
”What’s yours is yours kid, just try not to lose it,” Rake said,
’cause nobody is going to help you find it again.” Patric’s expression returned to neutral as he stood back and watched the others grab a few choice implements of destruction. Inside he grimaced, “kid” wasn’t the best nickname, but it was probably better than getting on their collective bad sides by trying to sell himself as hard.
A couple of minutes later everyone had either pulled a weapon from the box, or in the case of Rake and one other enforcer, checked the gear they were already carrying. When everyone had finished getting ready Rake addressed the group once again.
”Alright, there is a car waiting outside. You will get into the car, and by your own rotten brains keep your damn weapons down. We’re a few gentlemen going an a drive, not something for officers to stop or even look at funny,” Rake said, his eyes locking with each of the group in turn until he reached Patric’s.
”Oh, one more thing,” he added in an almost offhand manner, his fierce eyes still locked with Patric’s.
”Don’t call the scum that we’ve been sent to educate ‘sir’, it completely ruins the mood.” The last comment earned another set of ugly chuckles from the enforcers and one nervous laugh from the other greenhorn. Rake nodded, flashing the room a smile that was as much a baring of teeth as it was an expression. With that Rake walked out to the front door, beckoning for the rest of the group to follow.
Patric followed, the comments at his expense were standard hazing: a way to bring the group closer together by way of deprecation. Normal, but no less irritating.
The car, as it turned out, was made to seat the appropriate number of people. The trouble was that it had been made to seat the appropriate number of average sized people. With five males of above average height and weight stuffed into the vehicle, plus the driver, Patric almost wished that he were a smaller person. As it was he felt constricted, hot, and somewhat asphyxiated.
[Endure: 80 (Margin -30)] (-3 Sanity) The actual ride was a living hell from the moment the automotive lurched into motion. Every bump magnified the presence of the other passengers, every lurch and jolt brought with it the ever-fresh discomfort that came of being cooped up with four other men like bunch of sardines in a can. Not even the pleasant view of the more rural scenery flowing by as the car left the city was enough to get Patric’s mind off of the fact that the breath of the enforcer next to him smelled like a sewer’s nightmare.
After what seemed to be an eternity the car ground to a halt in front of an old and winding path that led up to distant and worn looking building, a winery shut down with the prohibition if Patric had to guess.
Everyone piled out of the car with sighs of relief mingled with the pops of straightening backs and necks. Rake gave them all of thirty seconds to unwind before he barked them back into a loose group behind him.
Together the small group of enforcers walked up the path to the winery, they didn’t try to be stealthy, but they didn’t go out of their way to be loud either. If no one looked too closely at the various blunt and not-so-blunt objects that they carried, the group could easily have simply been strolling at their own leisure.
When the group finally wended their way to the door of the winery Rake seemed both surprised and disgusted at the fact that they had done so without challenge.
”Should have known we were coming, should have been watching for us. Wouldn’t kill them to be polite, but it sure has hell might kill them to be otherwise. Stupid rats,” he cursed in a low voice, barely breaking his stride to slam one heavily shod foot into the wood of the door. [Rake Melee 61 (Margin -1, door weakened)] Rake’s foot smashed into the door with a cracking thud, knocking the door back a little with the rusty shriek of old nails pulling free of an even older frame. [Rake Melee 55-10 (Margin 15)]
Rake snarled and kicked again, this time smashing already abused hinges clear of the frame, hurling the thick door to the floor with a racket that should have been able to be heard back in Arkham.
Rake and the other enforcers walked through the now gaping doorframe without hesitation, Patric and the other greenhorn followed only a hesitant moment later. The complete lack of any attempt to surprise the couriers said a lot about Rake’s way of doing things.
The inside of the winery was dark and dusty, occluded windows casting more illusion than light as their radiance swept through the motes of dust kicked up by Rake’s enthusiastic entrance. Patric’s nose, though not overly sensitive at the best of times, twitched at the smell of old wine, dust, wood mold, and... something familiar that he could not quite place. Before Patric could figure it out, however, Rake clapped his hands together and turned to face both of the new bloods at once.
”Now, our friends have gone to ground. This is evidenced by the fact that they are not attempting to out posture us right about now. Which one of you rag brained new bloods can tell me where they are?” Patric’s expression remained impassive, the other greenhorn was hesitating, and if he seized the moment he could easily speak first… though Patric didn’t exactly know what that would earn him in Rake’s eyes.
Location: Abandoned Winery
Status Effects: None
Health: 75/75
Sanity: 52/55
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: None
Attribute Bonuses: +5 Str, +15 End, +5 Will
Attribute Penalties: -10 Cha
You are in the ground floor of an abandoned winery, the exit is immediately behind you. Everything is dusty, the windows are few and heavily occluded by grime. There does not appear to be anything worth salvaging in here. Rake (Trade Senior Enforcer, Allied, Direct Superior) is here. Also here are two trade enforcers (Allied, superior by experience) and a thug. (Trade faction, allied, colleague)
The exit is behind you, its door has been destroyed.
There is a door to your left
There is a door to your right
There is a hall ahead of you
---~~~---
Charlotte was not alone in her home. For most twelve year old girls this observation would have been nothing special to wake up to, but to Charlotte it was something that she spent most of her waking hours avoiding.
Charlotte had woken late, an unfortunate side effect of staying up late so she could borrow some food from the shops after they closed. She had also woken to the elusive, but unrelenting, feeling that her small home had been invaded. Considering the fact that her ‘home’ was made out of scavenged crates and newspaper in an abandoned basement, Charlotte doubted that it was anyone she wanted to meet.
She wasn’t sure she had a choice either.
Silently she slipped out her makeshift bed, a surprisingly comfortable affair courtesy of several feather pillows that Charlotte had borrowed, and rolled immediately to the side to avoid letting the top of her small head show over the empty crates that made up the wall of her ‘bedroom’. Slowly and stealthily she peeked her head over the lip of the crates, trying to get a look at whatever it was that was in here with her. With luck it would be rats trying to take her food, without luck… well she’d managed to stay away from the orphanage for longer than usual this time.
Charlotte tightened her fingers on the lip of the crate as her heart began to race at the thought of being taken back. They always came, and they always dragged her back. She didn’t belong there, she didn’t belong with the people that wanted to pretend she was their daughter, she belonged with her own self. She was her own daughter now.
The basement was exactly as she had left it, with the exception of the sunbeam that slanted its way down from the squat, dirty, street level window at the top of the wall. Nothing had been moved, her little table and stool were as she left them, and yet...
Charlotte listened intently, trying to filter out the minimal buzz from the morning city above her, bending her ear as hard as she could to the sounds of the empty-but-not basement.
For a long moment there was nothing, and Charlotte briefly entertained the notion that she had simply woken with a dream still in her head. Then the scrape of wood on old stone shattered that illusion.
The sound came from around the corner of the little wall of crates, where her vision was blocked by an ancient and thoroughly broken dresser that had been abandoned here since long before her stay. The sound was small and hesitant, not at all like the men who came from the orphanage. Charlotte, however, knew all too well that people didn’t have to from that place to send her back, anyone could make a call.
Charlotte’s eyes flicked instantly to the room’s only exits, the heavy wooden door that lead up to the top floor of the abandoned building, and the dirty little window. Getting to the window would mean crossing in full view of whatever made the noise, but if it was a grown-up making the noise then it was more likely that there would be others past the door.
Charlotte chewed her lip, it could still just be a rat looking for leftovers, but if it wasn’t…
Location: Nest
Status Effects: None
Health: 25/25
Sanity: 75/75
HeadHair
BodyChild’s Dirty brown shirt
Child’s Dirty blue jacket
-V.Small slot: Crude Lockpick
-V.Small Slot: Empty
LegsChild’s Dirty black trousers
-Small slot:
Crude Bag of Money-Small slot: Empty
FeetRepaired brown child’s shoes
L. Hand-Infinite Slot: Empty
Special slot: Concealed
Crude KnifeR. Hand-Infinite Slot: Empty
Carried Weight 2/40
You are crouched behind a low wall of crates. Several such walls section off the basement into small rooms. Standing would put your head above the crates. There is something else in here with you.
There is an exit at the west of the room, leading up to the ground floor of the building.
There is a window that you can climb through on the north of the room.
Loose Items
There is a Cracked leather satchel (Body slot) on the floor beside you.
Own home, roll can be made to find a specific item that could reasonably be found.
Author
Topic: City of Madness; Arkham. Ch. 1: The Lord of Broken Song (Read 30337 times)