Topic: City of Madness; Arkham. Ch. 1: The Lord of Broken Song (Read 30325 times)

IronyOwl · « **Reply #210 on:** May 13, 2012, 12:09:27 am »

I suspect you're even busier than before lately, but I feel two weeks isn't too bad for a hopeful bump.

Draignean · « **Reply #211 on:** May 13, 2012, 01:10:29 am »

Quote from: IronyOwl on May 13, 2012, 12:09:27 am

I suspect you're even busier than before lately, but I feel two weeks isn't too bad for a hopeful bump.

Actually the Turn fairly close to complete. It's about 13-14K Words (Depending how you slice it) all told. Definitely going to need two posts for it $:-\$ .

I know I haven't been the best GM to any of you guys recently, D-22 almost ground to halt there for a bit (and it's stuck right now until Wolf shows up), but... Hell, I've been working things out recently.

I would like to ask the favor of critique*, from all of you**. I know it sounds a little strange, but, for this project particularly, a post or a PM of hard*** critique would mean a great deal.

*I don't mean, "I liked it" or "Terrible". Tell me where you felt bored, where you lost the train of events, when something actually made you feel, where a character was unclear, the dialogue felt wrong/right, etc.
**Those people who play or watch this thread, and may, or may not, be figments of my imagination.
***Swearing is optional, but seriously, pull no punches. No stranger will.
****Admit it, you looked for the word with four asterisks on it, didn't you?

Spinal_Taper · « **Reply #212 on:** May 13, 2012, 01:25:41 am »

I'll admit, despite th awesomeness of what you have, whenever I see this I think it's about Batman.

Draignean · « **Reply #213 on:** May 13, 2012, 10:03:08 am »

Quote from: Spinal_Taper on May 13, 2012, 01:25:41 am

I'll admit, despite th awesomeness of what you have, whenever I see this I think it's about Batman.

Yeah, that's a problem with era. $:-\$ Arkham asylum got named in the era when batman was a bit overweight and carried cans of shark repellant around with him. Most people today have forgotten (or never knew) that Arkham was also the name of Lovecraft's fictional city.

Ahra · « **Reply #214 on:** May 13, 2012, 12:22:43 pm »

Quote from: Spinal_Taper on May 13, 2012, 01:25:41 am

I'll admit, despite th awesomeness of what you have, whenever I see this I think it's about Batman.

Really? lovecraft was the first i thought of, did help i read a collection of his stories a few weeks earlier
(Oh god... the Watcher in the dark... his last lines in the book... "ITS COMING!!! OH GOD ITS COMING!!!" 3 eyes like fire...)

Draignean · « **Reply #215 on:** May 24, 2012, 02:01:56 am »

Turn 8, part one of three

Clay held up the necklaces in the light, something about the way they caught the light gave Clay a good feeling. Giving them to his wife and children did not seem that strange an idea, despite the oddness of the letter. Even if Mr. Tyrel was a little mad they would be beautiful gifts.
Standing up from the table Clay refolded the letter and slipped it into his pocket, sliding two of the three necklaces in along with it. The third he kept in his hand as he walked into the kitchen.
The little blue and white kitchen was filled with the scent of sausage and eggs, a heady aroma that gave Clay painful reminder that he'd eaten precious little since the incident. He hadn't felt like it then, but by God if those sausages weren't the most beautiful things in the world, well, after his wife and daughters of course- but they were far less edible. Clay walked up behind his wife gently, grazing her shoulder with his thumb to let her know he was there as he looped the necklace around her neck.
"What's this?" Helen asked as she caught the little leaf pendant with her free hand, examining it with a knowing smile as she kept breakfast from burning with her off hand.
"I ordered these for you and the girls some time ago, although I've quite forgotten the occasion," Clay lied with a laugh. [Clay Lie roll 17-10-10 (Target distracted, Target Trusts you) -Margin 3- Vs Helen Discern Truth 42-10 (Target Knows you) -Margin -27-]
Helen leaned her head forwards to let Clay do the clasp, her shoulders shaking slightly under the power of a suppressed chuckle. Clay hated lying to his wife, but saying 'Oh, here, a stranger who says humanity might be falling apart sent these to give to you and the kids' might have been pushing things. Though, to be honest, Clay felt a little odd about it himself. He somehow felt more trust in the necklaces themselves than he did in Hector Tyrel's good nature.
As soon as Clay finished getting the clasp around Helen's neck she playfully elbowed him backwards, making room to spoon a hearty helping of sausage and eggs onto a plate and hand it off to him before setting out a similar, if smaller, helping for herself. "Go on," Helen said, shooing Clay back to the table. "I can hear you drooling, eat, then talk."
Clay took the proffered plate of food without hesitation, walking back to the table with Helen in tow. As they sat together, Clay offered a quick grace. Nothing extravagant, just a bowed head and a word of thanks. He was alive, Helen was alive, his girls were alive. All might not be right with the world, but nothing was wrong with the part of the world he cared about.

Only when Clayton had blunted the ravening edge of his hunger did he surface for long enough mention the letters. He wouldn’t mention anything about that last one, he wasn't sure he wanted Helen to see that one just yet. "The letters," he began after he washed down his latest bite of breakfast, "I was talking about the letters."
Helen smiled at his hunger induced absentmindedness but said nothing, waiting for him to finish his train of thought.
"The first was a letter from the mayor, or his secretary rather. They apparently blame me so much that they're going to give me an award for it," Clay said, shaking his head in rueful disbelief before continuing. "Then there was a letter from Professor Fen, he's holding a meet of sorts on Saturday and is inviting the whole family. I think it would be good for the girls to go out to the country for a few hours. The fresh air could probably do us some good, too. What do you think?"
Helen's lips pursed slightly, an expression that could either be amused or exasperated. "Professor Fen, Abigail's husband?"
Clay winced when he made the connection. Abigail Fen was a matriarch in every sense of the word, and she had the tendency to offer free advice about anything that happened to be in front of her. Up to and including what a proper family should have.
"Thought so," Helen said as she correctly interpreted Clay's expression. "You're going to cloister yourself up with the other professors while the old bird points out how we have two very lovely daughters, and that what we really need is a couple of sons to balance out our lives. Clay," she added in an almost pleading tone, "the woman is worse than my mother."
Clay hid his smile in his coffee cup, Helen would do it, but she certainly wouldn't pass up the opportunity to let him know how tolerant she was for doing it. "I know for a fact that you and the other wives decide as much about the college's strategy and what to say to the board while you're with the children as we do while we're conferring. Probably more," Clay amended with a snort. Some of the professors occasionally seemed to forget that they were suggesting ideas, not giving a lecture.
"True, Helen said with a secretive smile. "Of course I'll come, despite the old bird. Jennifer and Fiona could use an evening out of town, and we could certainly do worse ourselves- even with Abigail's advice."
Clay nodded once and drained the last of his coffee. "Thank you, remind me and I'll write a reply back to him when I get back," he said as he gathered his empty plate and cup to wash.
Helen twisted in her chair to look at him with a raised eyebrow. "Of course, but where are you going?"
"If I hurry I can meet the girls while they're having lunch, I can give them their gifts," Clay replied from the kitchen.
Helen sighed knowingly and laid her own dishes together. "You just want to see them don't you? It would hardly be that much of a wait to give them your gifts when they get back."
Clay agreed inwardly, it probably would be equally easy to wait until later to give them the pendants, but this was as good an excuse as any to see his daughters. "True, but I've also given some thought to checking up on some of the students in the hospital. Just to make sure that they're alright and to let them know that their classes have been canceled until further notice. With everything going on they don't need that worry weighing them down."
"Alright," Helen said as she walked into the kitchen and set her own dishes with Clay's. "I suppose it was a lost cause to get you to stay home and help around the house," she said with a quirked smile, "but while you're out would you mind picking up some bread? Nothing fancy, just a solid loaf from that little bakery on Derby."
"Of course," Clayton replied immediately. The bakery on Derby wasn't the cheapest, or the closest, but they had a reputation for not trying to pass off a stale or airy loaf as good bread. Besides, Derby was just a couple of blocks from the hospital, he could drop by after he'd visited the students. "I can pick it up on my way back, anything else you need?"
Helen smiled but shook her head. "No, that's all for today," she said to Clay's back as he walked out of the kitchen and collected his greatcoat. "Clay," she added a moment later when he'd managed to drape the heavy coat over his shoulders. "Just... be careful."
Clay physically winced at the note of raw concern in her voice. She'd kept her emotions in check for the benefit of him and the children, catching a glimpse of what she was actually feeling under the armor she'd built was... painful. "Helen," Clay said softly, walking back to her and putting his hands around her shoulders comfortingly. "I'm going to see our daughters, see a student, and get some bread. I'll be fine."
Helen closed her eyes, relaxing for the first time in many hours. "Last time you were just working late, and a building nearly burned down on top of you."
"Most people manage to go their entire lives without something like this happening to them," Clay murmured, his head bowing forwards to support and be supported by Helen's in equal measure. "With any luck, the rest of my life will be spent without anything remotely close to interesting happening ever again- and even if I'm unlucky enough to have something like this happen to me again, I don't think it's going to happen again so soon." Clay smiled as he finished and kissed Helen, he knew his reasoning wouldn't stop her worrying- not anymore than her calm rationale had truly stopped his guilt, but perhaps he could banish her fears to the dark for a while longer. "I'll be fine, I promise."
Helen hugged Clay tightly for a moment, then disengaged far enough to look him in the eye. "You better be," Helen said, her eyes and tone fierce enough to make it a command. "Now go. You'll miss the girl's break if you don't leave soon."
Clayton nodded fondly, pausing to favor Helen with one last kiss before straightening and settling the greatcoat back across his shoulders. "I'll be back in a little while," he said as he fished through his pocket to make sure he had his wallet. "Don't you worry."
"Tell the girls I love them," Helen said, "and try not to forget the bread."
"I will," Clay said with smile. "I love you."
"I love you too, now stop stalling before I make you polish the silverware," she replied, her tone equal parts tenderness and banter.
"Yes, ma'am," Clay said as he walked to the door, turning the collar of his greatcoat up against the spring chill that waited for him outside.

The day was brisk, not enough to put frost on the windows, but more than enough to make Clay grateful of the thick coat he wore. The scent of fire on the wind, old now, taunted Clay as he set foot on the sidewalk. He hoped it would be better the further he got from the college- but a part of him doubted that the smell would be banished so easily by time or distance. Clay snorted into the wind and started walking, now was not the time for thinking.
Not that Clay could ever stop thinking.
Clay kept his hands in his pockets as he walked, exchanging the occasional nod and greeting with the sparse pedestrian traffic that the hill district offered at this hour. People and vehicles, a luxury that Clay often wished that his Professor’s salary could afford him, became more frequent as he approached the Miskatonic river. Business never really stopped there, and it didn't always retreat indoors either. The docks were not a place for the sensible citizen to go after dark, at least not without good reason.
The little grammar school on the end of East Main was close enough to the river to make the wind damp as well as chill. Clay picked up his pace a little as a fresh gust of wind off the river cut through his heavy coat, sending cold shivers down his spine and already making him miss the warmth of home.
The wind slackened to almost nothing as Clay's quick walk put him in the shadow of the three-story brick school. It was an old building, and one that had grown in a decidedly lopsided fashion from the one-room schoolhouse that it had started life as. The peculiar looking L-shaped school was a quilt of brickwork, but the plants that grew up the sides of her mismatched walls lent the old building a look that was more warm and organic than slipshod.
Clay dusted his feet absently when he reached the steps of the school, catching his breath and straightening his windblown coat before he stepped inside.

The school was warm and mercifully free of the smell and damp that blew in off the river. The faint sounds of conversation and movement gave the building a sense of hidden life, though Clay felt sure that the life would be far less hidden when lunch was not in session. Clay checked his watch, frowning in concentration when he realized that he had only about seven minutes left before the lunch was over and his daughters headed back to their classes. Clayton had only a few memories of the large room that served as both lunchroom and performance stage for the school, but between those memories and the constant murmur of young voices, Clay was able to set a fairly brisk pace through the school.
Forced to stop only once at an intersection to regain his sense of direction, Clay was able to get to the heart of the susurrus with five minutes left to find his girls and give them their necklaces.
Clay scanned the rows of tables in the cafeteria, discarding the oldest tables on the far half of the room immediately, picking carefully instead through the nearer tables where the seating tended to settle more on gender and less on age. Fiona was easy to spot, taller than most and with her mother’s straight brown hair pulled back in a ponytail that most of her teachers had dubbed “unladylike”.
It took a bit of doing but Clayton was able to catch her eye after a moment, mouthing “Jennifer” and beckoning her to come over.
As Clay had hoped, Fiona had been keeping an older sister’s eye on Jennifer. She found her little sister’s table immediately and managing to disentangle the curly headed (A legacy of Clay’s family) moppet from the rest of the children- though all it took to get Jennifer away was for Fiona to point at Clay and whisper something to her. The teacher with the unenviable task of watching over Jennifer’s table started to say something to make Jennifer sit down, but Fiona said something else to the teacher and pointed again at Clay. The teacher turned a slightly reproachful glare on Clayton for upsetting the routine, but in the end he, albeit stiffly, waved Fiona on towards Clay.
”Daddy!” Jennifer yelled as soon as she was in range, hurling herself into Clay’s knees with the force of a small, dress wearing, cannonball.
Clay grunted as she wrapped her arms around his legs. Despite having earned ingrained bracing reflexes from Fiona’s similar greetings at that age, Clay could never quite get used to how much force Jennifer could put into her tackles. ”Hey, I missed you too,” Clay said as Jennifer continued in her attempt to crush his legs. ”Is everything all right?”
Jennifer didn’t bother to look up or say anything, responding simply by nodding vigorously into Clay’s knees.
”She had subtractions today,” Fiona said as she completed her slightly more sedate journey to where Clay was being slowly crushed by Jennifer.
Clay winced sympathetically, Jennifer had a mental block when it came to subtraction, she could do addition of large sums well above her grade, but subtraction… it just threw her for a loop. Clay’s wince became less sympathetic and more physical as Jennifer hugged his knees tighter in response to the dread word. ”Mercy,” Clay said as he smoothed Jennifer’s curls affectionately, ”what have they been feeding you girls here?”
”Rocks,” came Jennifer’s prompt and somewhat muffled reply.
Clay chuckled and managed to remove Jennifer from his knees enough so that he could kneel and hug her back. ”Well, that would explain a lot.”
”Her bread was hard today-“ Fiona started to say.
”It was a rock,” Jennifer said defiantly.
Fiona rolled her eyes but didn’t contradict her little sister. ”She’s just had a rough morning.”
”So I hear,” Clay said, wrestling Jennifer back far enough to kiss her on the forehead and give Fiona a hug too. ”I’m always grumpy when people make me subtract numbers and then feed me rocks, so don’t you worry, I understand completely.”
Jennifer nodded earnestly and hugged herself back into Clay’s shoulder in reply. Fiona smiled at the joke and her little sister’s antics, but she was a smart girl, and old enough to wonder why her father had come to visit them at school.
”I’m sorry to interrupt your lunch," Clay began as he dug the parcel containing the necklaces out of his pocket, ”but I was running some errands for your mother, and I thought that I might just give these to you while I was in town.” He unfolded the wax paper package as he finished, pulling the necklaces out where they could see.
Fiona’s eyes went wide at the sight of the amulets. She’d always loved playing with shiny things (much to the dismay of her mother’s jewelry drawer), and Clay knew she probably wouldn’t take hers off for a week. Jennifer was also excited, but she was at an age where a root shaped like a foot would have caused equal fascination. ”It’s beautiful,” Fiona whispered, taking hers out of the paper as if it were made of glass. ”Thank you, daddy.”
Clay couldn’t help but smile as Fiona marveled at the amulet. Whoever Hector Tyrel was, he’d made Clay’s daughters happy. That put him a step ahead of the average stranger. When Jennifer unwrapped herself from Clay’s neck, she took her necklace without quite the same reverence as Fiona, struggling to put it on until Clay took pity and did the clasp up for her.
The bell that signaled the end of lunch rang out just as Clay finished locking the catch on Jennifer’s necklace. ”Alright,” Clay said as he smoothed Jennifer’s curls back over her neck, ”you girls be good. I’ll see you when you get home, I love you both, and your mother told me to tell you she loves you.”
”Love you too, daddy,” the girls said in almost perfect unison, leaning in for one last hug before Clay sent them scampering back off to their classes.
Clay sighed as he straightened, watching his two girls melt into the masses of retreating children. Despite the sun being higher in the sky, the day was going to feel all the colder when he went outside again. Still, he’d done what he came here to do, he’d seen his girls, gotten the hugs he’d missed getting this morning, and given them their gifts.
Clay nodded once to himself and turned back they way he’d come, retracing his steps unhurriedly as students and teachers steadily returned to their classrooms behind him. One thing off his list, two to go.

The damp wind greeted Clay as soon as he stepped outside, tossing the edges of his coat in frustrated eddies that promised to be a great deal more cutting when he walked out from the shadow of the school. It was going to be a long walk across the east bridge today, but at least after that he’d have the narrower streets of downtown to keep the wind off him.
Clay headed towards the river, ducking his head against the wind. The smell was irritating, but Clay knew he’d grow used to it shortly. The odor of fish, boats, sweat, and innumerable cargoes never really left the docks, but the chilly spring had done a good job of keeping it mild.
Greetings became less frequent when Clay reached the docks proper. Here it was people doing their jobs, nothing more. It was still a little too cold for street vendors to be out in force, and the ones that remained felt no need to hawk their wares. With the exception of a friendly wave and bellowed greeting from a brawny dockworker-slash-student of Clay’s, the walk was uneventful.
The city was oldest along the river; the farther away you got, the newer the buildings were. The university district and the hill district behind him were older than the downtown half of the city, and remnants of the earlier era before Arkham made name for itself could be seen in buildings like the grammar school. Old perhaps, but they had a dignity that the newer sections that frequently grew out of them could do little to diminish.
Even around noon, not a time considered to be picturesque by most, Clay had to stop midway along the bridge to admire the way the city split away on both sides of him. He didn’t stop to admire long, no amount of beauty could make the wind less cold, but it had certainly been too long since he’d taken in the sights of his own city.
Clay admired for only a few more seconds. Then he forced himself to start walking towards the downtown hospital. He thought about what he was going to say as he walked, he wanted to make sure Briar was all right, -he felt oddly responsible for the boy after having saved his life- but it was certainly an awkward situation to walk into. The boy’s friends and family would undoubtedly be there with him, and Clay wasn’t exactly sure how to introduce himself into that situation. It would be worse if the boy’s injuries were severe, and downright disastrous if the injuries were fatal. Ah, good morning to you. I’m the man who gave your son enough time so you could watch him die in terrible agony. Can I see him now?
Clay snorted darkly, leaving the bridge and turning west without even thinking about it. He had to go check on them, he felt obligated to do that. He’d just have to sort the rest out when he got that far. Clay never really like that kind of planning, but sometimes it was the only kind of planning that made sense.
When Clay surfaced from his thoughts, he found himself standing outside the Saint Jude hospital. He couldn’t remember much of the intervening distance, but that happened fairly often when he was musing. The hospital itself was four stories tall, largely brown and grey, and built like a bulldog. It was one of the last buildings built before the depression, made to replace the ludicrously inefficient hospital that had grown up like the grammar school. The old hospital had been torn down and turned into houses after this one was built, largely because it was (in an irony that the Arkham Chronicle had not let go unnoticed) a health hazard. Saint Jude had been built during an election year, and, true to form, the mayor had spared no expense in its construction.
Clay realized he was stalling for time when he started trying to catalogue the political ripples the hospital’s construction had generated. He needed to go in there; he needed to see this through. He was a professor, they were, at least some of them, his students. He owed them that much.
Resigned, but determined, Clay marched into the aptly, perhaps too aptly, named hospital.

Clay’s march faltered slightly when he saw just how busy the hospital was. The disaster had given the hospital more patients than it had been forced to deal with in a long time. Families, doctors, nurses, the patients who needed treatment beyond a housecall, and, of course, the press, all mingled in the commons area up front. The hospital had the same sense of teeming life as the school, but where the school had felt warm, quiet, and comforting, the background noise of the Hospital felt like someone fighting back a scream.
Clay could almost feel the ambient tension of the room condensing into a tangible point in the middle of his spine, putting a cold knot in his stomach and making him tense in expectation of a blow that wasn’t coming.
Shifting under the uncomfortable sensation, Clay struggled to get the attention of one of the nurses coordinating the groups of patrons and guests. Eventually, of the nurses, busy at that moment with an older woman, noticed Clay and made a gesture for him to wait a moment. Clay did as he was bid, waiting as out of the way as he could while the nurse finished with the woman. The nurse said something that looked consoling, then patted the women gently on the shoulder and ushered her back to her seat. The nurse wrote something on the clipboard she was carrying, and then bustled over to where Clay stood. She was older than Clay, but not by more than a decade or two. She didn’t look like she’d ever been considered pretty, and her lined face had the look of someone who hadn’t laughed in a very long time. ”Patient, press, or visitor?” the woman asked after a perfunctory smile, undoubtedly more for politeness’ sake rather than any desire of hers to smile.
Clay was slightly taken aback by the woman’s businesslike manner, not that it should have been surprising in a time like this, but it was still enough to put him off balance. ”Er, visitor.”
The woman made a quick mark on the board she was carrying. ”Name of the patient you would like to visit?”
”Briar, he was injured during the fire at the college,” Clay said, regaining his verbal balance.
A flicker of recognition crossed the woman’s face as Clay said Briar’s name. ”Oh,” she said, the faintest traces of pity leaking into her professional tone. ”Would you be the boy’s father?”
Clay briefly wondered exactly how old he looked, -his oldest child was eight, Briar had looked about nineteen or twenty- but he suppressed that moment of vanity quickly. ”No, my name is Clayton Brooks. I’m…” Clay took a deep breath. ”I’m the one who got to him first, after he fell. I’d just like to see if he’s all right.”
A quick blink was the extent of the woman’s surprise, then she scrawled something else on the board. ”I read about you in the paper, I hear we have you to thank for all of this work.”
Clay didn’t exactly know how to respond to that. He opened his mouth, and then closed it again. He supposed what she’d said had some merit; hospitals didn’t take care of people if they were dead, but-
”I like to have work,” the woman said, finishing whatever she was writing and then tearing it off the set of papers on her clipboard. ”Work means people ain’t dead. I’d prefer to be busy and give the undertaker a day off, rather than the other way around.” The woman handed the piece of paper to Clay. ”Take this and go to that hallway,” she said, pointing across the room to a set a double doors, ”a nurse will be by soon. Give her that note, she’ll take you to him.”
”Thank you,” Clay said, taking the note and carefully folding it over.
The nurse pursed her lips but nodded. ”The boy, Briar, he’s doing fine, but he’s been asleep for a long time. My prayers are with you,” the nurse added, managing to be sincere as she said it while maintaining her professional tone. Having finished her business with Clay, the nurse bustled over to greet and file an older man that had come in behind him.
Clay picked his way carefully to the door the Nurse had indicated. The trouble wasn’t that the lobby was disorganized, far from it, the trouble was that Arkham hadn’t had this many simultaneous severe injuries since, well since before this hospital had been built.
The doors that Clay had been heading for swung open the instant he reached them, allowing a harried looking young woman to slip through. Her black hair was coming out of her nurse’s cap in wisps, and she had the wide-eyed and slightly manic smile of someone who had been kept near to panic and exhaustion for many hours.
”Hello, sir, my name is Nicole,” she said, something in her voice indicating that this was something she’d said a thousand times since she’d started work today. ”Do you have a visitor’s slip?”
”Yes,” Clay said as he handed her the folded piece of paper, ”here.’
”Thank you, Mr…” Nicole scanned the paper, her brow furrowing in uncertainty. ”Mr. Books?”
”Brooks,” Clay corrected automatically.
Nicole smiled tightly, and waved Clayton forwards. ”Right this way sir, follow me.”

Nicole led Clay up two flights of stairs, zigzagging through the wards to avoid staff and patients. She made small talk about how the doctors were doing everything in their power to help the patients as she led Clay through the hospital, but Clay only gave her half on ear. Hearing about problems he couldn’t fix was pointless, and even if things were going better than expected, –as he gleaned from half heard snatches of Nicoles one sided conversation- there were still too many horror stories of burned students and shattered lives for Clay to bring himself to join in.
Nicole eventually stopped in front of a small room on the third floor, number 314. ”You can stay for as long as his doctor will allow you, just stay out of the way and try not to touch him,” she said as she opened the door for Clay and motioned him inside. ”Can you find your way out?”
Clay smiled and nodded, his assurance setting the nurse off back down to the lobby as fast as she could manage at a walk. With no real options besides walk away, or stand perpetually in the hallway with the door half open, Clay took a deep breath and entered Briar’s room.
He’d been expecting family, or at least some sign that a family had been here- though the nurse asking if Clay was Briar’s father did seem to indicate that the kid’s real parents hadn’t yet made an appearance. Instead, all the room contained was Briar and a chair holding a pile of discarded clothes. Briar was partially tied into his bed by way of a harness linked to a series of immobilizing braces on one arm and one leg, as well as a series of braces that ran along the kid’s ribs. He looked asleep, and only the agonizingly slow rise and fall of the boy’s chest gave evidence to any sort of life at all.
A shift in the mound of discarded clothing immediately drew Clay’s eyes off Briar, bringing them to focus on the clothing laden chair. The pile of clothing twisted again, tugging the overcoat that overlaid the rest of its bulk into a more comfortable position as it turned in the chair. It twisted once more, then lay still, emitting a quiet snore as it did so.
Clay walked as quietly as he could to the foot of Briar’s bed, stopping there to attempt to inspect the young man who at compressed himself into such an unnatural –though apparently comfortable enough to sleep in- position. Dim recollection flickered into vibrant memory as the boy shifted again, knocking part of the overcoat off to expose most of his face. He hadn’t been drooling or snoring then, but this was the same kid that Clayton had told to run to the hospital.
Judging by the state of disarray the student was in, Clay had his doubts about whether the student had ever managed to leave.
Clay was still struggling to put a name to the boy’s face, -he could only remember him from one of his classes- when the young man’s eyes flicked open.
”I haven’t got any airplanes!” the boy protested groggily, one arm flopping about in what –had he been more awake- might have been an angry gesticulation. He continued to stare somewhat angrily at Clay for a moment, then one of the rusty cogs in his mind clicked over. He blinked and rubbed his eyes, looking at Briar, then at Clay. ”Am I awake?”
”Yes,” Clay said, lacking anything more insightful to say.
”Did I just yell at you about airplanes?
”Yes.”
The boy grunted once, stretching his arms and legs out from where he’d crammed them in the chair. ”Sorry. Sir,” he added somewhat belatedly.
Silence reigned for a few minutes after that, Clay looking at Briar’s heavily braced form, and the younger man looking at nothing in particular as he finished the process of waking up. ”How are you feeling?” Clay asked as soon as the younger man -Robert! That’s what the boy’s name was, liked to sit in the back, member of the team- regained enough consciousness to receive questions.
”Fine, sir,” Robert replied, slowly shifting forwards in the chair so he could stand up. ”I… All I have are bruises.”
Clay paused a moment before asking his next question, unsure of whether he really wanted an answer. ”And Briar?”
”He’s,” Robert started to say, then stopped and shook his head. ”I don’t know. He woke up not too long ago, and the docs say he’s not slipping, but he went from talking to being dead asleep.” Robert frowned, staring at his silent and bedridden friend in concern, and, Clay noted, with a distinct undercurrent of anger. ”He hasn’t so much as fluttered awake since. It hasn’t been long, but… I’ve just got a bad feeling,” Robert said quietly, raising his eyes from the hospital bed to stare Clay in the eye. ”The paper, it said the fire was an accident. Was it?”
”I don’t know,” Clay replied honestly. By the time he’d seen the fire it had already been well underway, and Clay didn’t have much idea how to tell whether a fire was accident or arson besides. ”Why?”
”I just..” Robert said, balling his hands into heavy fists, only to let them fall tiredly to the armrests of his chair as her failed to complete the sentence.
”You want someone to blame,” Clay supplied for him, ”someone real. Someone who can be locked up and put away for what they did.”
Robert grimaced but nodded, staring at his hands in silence.
Clay hesitated for moment, but then extended a hand to rest on the boy’s shoulder. ”The hand of fate is not so easy. There’s no one to blame for it, not honestly. People try, but they only end up shifting their pain onto others. You’ve got to let it go boy, otherwise that anger at nothing is going to eat you alive.”
”We came to Arkham from different directions completely,” Robert said without preamble. ”We were both here to study at the university, and neither of us had family to speak of. We became like brothers, always watching out for the other, always making sure that the other could pull their load.” Robert paused a moment, and then snorted bitterly. ”Now I don’t know whether he’s going to wake up tomorrow, or sleep until he dies of old age… And there isn’t a damn thing I can do to help him. How am I supposed to let that go?”

(Free dialogue engaged as necessary)

Location: St. Jude Hospital, 3rd floor, room 314
Status Effects: None

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

Spoiler: St Jude Hospital, Room 314 (click to show/hide)

Draignean · « **Reply #216 on:** May 24, 2012, 02:02:47 am »

Turn 8, part two of three

David massaged his temples gently as he prepared to dig back into the files. He was used to working on the street, talking to people, watching the way things clicked, occasionally staring down a dumb thug to get him talking. Staring down paperwork printed in irritatingly small typeface was not an activity that he engaged in except when absolutely necessary. Unfortunately, right now was one of those times when it was absolutely necessary to know everything he could before he went beating down doors. David sighed, it was never easy.
Picking the papers up again, David scanned them for Maria’s listed places of residence. He’d been to her house yesterday, and, like he’d told Lenore, the place had been cleaned out. Not a dirty job that David might have been able to get something out of, but a real professional clean. Damn place had smelled like lemons and lavender. What David hoped to find now was something else, anything else. An acquaintance she’d stayed over with for a couple days, maybe an apartment she kept back to entertain her lovers of greater social standing, anything. Her closest friends had left town, or were still in Trade employ, but that didn’t mean that there wasn’t someone that Trade reports had missed, or someplace that they hadn’t deemed important enough to clean out.
[Solve Enigma 81-10 (margin -39)] David shuffled the papers back and forth in frustration. He kept coming up with the same leads every time, leads that he’d already checked out, leads that led into dead ends. Pages of information, and it all circled round and round until it ended up gurgling down the drain. Increasingly unproductive minutes ticked by, David’s mounting frustration making him sloppy, and his sloppiness making him frustrated.
After going back over and double checking a particular place of residence for the third time, David let the heavy file slam flat on his desk. Either there wasn’t an additional lead to see, or he needed to come back at this with better eyes. Spending another hour staring at it would be pointless and frustrating. What David needed was to get out, hit the streets, be a detective. Not ape some slackjawed, paper pushing secretary.
David stood up from his desk, stretching out his back and arms as he went. He’d spent too much time in that chair today. Normally it was just used to receive the occasional client or catch a couple minutes sleep when he was running an all-night case. Actually sitting in it for long periods of waking life was something of a novelty. David shook out the rest of his kinks violently, rolling his neck in wide circles as he set about making a plan of action.
Her places of work were among his strongest leads right now, they were simply too big for the Trades to vanish, and they employed enough people that at least one of them should know something about Maria. Of course, shoulds and assumptions hadn’t solved a case yet, but among his leads the restaurant, Paulais, was his strongest place to start. David smiled and chuckled to himself; the fact that he hadn’t eaten anything today might be making the restaurant seem like a stronger lead than it was, but the sooner he started crossing things off, the better.
David reached for his trenchcoat, then stopped. Going in as a detective asking questions about a random employee that had been fired for unknown reasons quite some time ago would probably be a waste of time. Paulais was nice, and that kind of place had the same kind of arrogance that rich people possessed. If he made his push too obvious they’d shut him out, and in all probability, throw him out. He had to be subtle, beyond reproof, someone that they wanted to please beyond all reason. David smiled as the idea he’d been tossing around in his mind finished forming. He knew how he could be trusted, and he might even get a free meal out of the deal.
Turning aside from his trusty trenchcoat, David walked into the little side room his office possessed. It had been outfitted as a home-away-from-home, stocked with a little bit of everything needed for an extended stay. Including, if David remember right, a much nicer coat and shirt that David had gotten as a gift from a grateful client, (a tailor in French hill whose sole employee had been stealing profits) and had never really needed. With a triumphant exclamation David managed to produce the gifted clothing from a cabinet, taking a moment to admire the cut. They were excellent examples of the tailor’s craft, which was the main reason that David never wore them. Standing out was something of a liability in his profession.
David changed clothing in the side room, shrugging out of the serviceable shirt and vest that he’d been wearing, trading them for the much nicer matched dress set. The clothes fit well, fitting perhaps a little more loosely than they had when he’d first received them, but times had been harder recently, and David’s rent had to come from somewhere.
The only real trouble was the coat, it was a slick affair, far lighter than David’s trenchcoat. That lightness of fabric made it more form fitting, and a great deal more difficult to conceal his revolver under. David frowned, even if he could conceal the pistol under the coat the restaurant would undoubtedly take it for him when he entered. To fail to comply with that would be to invite suspicion before David had even begun to engage in the things that would normally warrant suspicion. That left David the option leaving the pistol at the apartment and going in unarmed, or violating the gunman’s rules of intelligent concealment. David grimaced at his pistol, then reluctantly unzipped his pants to hide the pistol in his linens. P.I rule number one, never go anywhere unarmed.
[Concealment 77-10 (Margin -39 again…)] The concealment, however, did not go well. With the pistol tucked into his linens David had to admit that he looked like a rather burlesque joke. Fishing the pistol out of his pants, David grudgingly forced himself to set the pistol on top of the cabinet he’d pulled the clothes from. This was about disguise, finesse. Hopefully enough so that he could pull it off without needing to shoot anybody.
Feeling naked despite his fine clothes, David finished dressing and squared off with the window to see how he looked. The clothes did wonders for making him look less like a gumshoe, and David went through a series of expressions to find something adequate to the role. [Disguise 23-20 (Margin 20)] (Rolls against David’s disguise are at a +10, social rolls by David that rely on his façade are at a -10) David turned up his nose and squinted slightly, hardening his jaw and tensing his nostrils as if he was in dire fear of some terrible miasma. ”My name is Adar Povoro,” David said to his reflection, making his voice nasal and exaggerating his ‘a’s . ”I represent the league of culinary excellence. I believe I have been appointed to test your,” David paused for a moment of effect and made a half sneer before spitting the last word out as if it was somehow a grave insult to his dignity, “food.”
It was hardly a perfect disguise, but it would be enough to get his foot in the door. From there he’d have to make it on his wits, hardly an unusual situation for David. Granted, David would have liked to have his pistol as a fallback strategy in case wits and charm failed him. He grimaced at his double in the window, grooming a few strands of hair back into a more civilized style. He didn’t need the gun, hardly a chance that he’d end up needing to shoot his way out of a restaurant in broad daylight, not again anyway. At least, that’s what David told himself as he finished the last touches of his hasty personal grooming.
David turned to leave as soon as he finished his last minute grooming, popping his fedora off the office’s hat rack and adjusting it for an air that was more professional than his usual rakish angle. His attire completed, David left his office and locked the door carefully behind him. His office might be one of several in this building, but there was no reason to give Trouble any more opportunities to torment him than it already had.
David left his building without any real hurry, a critic was expected to arrive whenever the hell he felt like, looking flushed and hurried when he walked into the restaurant would be a dead giveaway that he wasn’t who he said he was. Besides, it looked like it was going to be a nice enough day, a leisurely stroll every once in a while would hardly hurt.

By the time David had exited the building and exchanged the ritually polite greeting with the doorman, he’d revised his opinion of the day: It was bloody cold, too cold for strolling. The whipping wind made the day feel worse than it really was, but the larger problem that was making David shove his hands into his pockets and quicken his stride for warmth, was the dress coat. He’d realized that it was a great deal less bulky than his trenchcoat, he just hadn’t realized how much it would let the wind in.
This, David thought darkly to himself, was the reason the rich had cars. If they actually tried to walk around in this stuff they’d freeze into very well dressed icicles. Thankfully, the restaurant was fairly close and didn’t require crossing the river- something that would have been a windy hell in the light coat.
David occupied his mind with entrance scenarios for the rest of the walk, largely ignoring other pedestrian traffic except when it threatened to run him over. He wanted to come off as arrogant and off-putting, someone that you wanted to make happy and then get out the door. If he was too amicable then there might be depth to the conversation, depth that might scrape through the bottom of his flimsy disguise. On the other hand, if David was too off-putting, he’d never be able to strike up enough of a conversation to get at the details he needed. With the perfect balance he’d come off as a master in his field who believed himself to be beyond reproof or need of explanation, the wrong balance and he’d come off as a shifty townie trying to scrape a free meal and ask a lot of questions.
David stopped himself when he was within a block of the restaurant, gathering up his will and setting his half made plans into action. He set out again with a shorter stride but a faster pace. Both of his hands were outside of his coat, but he kept them clenched into fists. His expression was that of a man who was going somewhere, and who didn’t care to be interrupted by paltry things like any solid objects that got in his way. He didn’t want to look angry yet, -that would almost certainly come later- he wanted to be determined.
David swept into Paulais without breaking a stride, not-quite pushing his way through the small group of people waiting to be seated, and walking straight up to the maitre d’.
”My name is Adar Povoro,” David boomed with more than the necessary volume. He kept the name and the accent he’d used in his office, but he dropped the nasal tones. ”I represent the League of Culinary Excellence. I have a table for one.”
The maitre d’ gaped at David for a moment, his pale complexion and thin face giving the expression an oddly fish-like quality. ”Ah, Mr. er, Povoro?” The man managed to ask as he flicked through the book of reservations.
David didn’t bother to dignify that with a response, simply staring at the man in the same cold way that had made Lenore stop playing games with him. Although David thought it might be something of an insult to compare Lenore to this fishfaced man.
The maitre d’ coughed sharply at the sight of David’s expression and broke his gaze away from David’s as soon as possible, turning all his attention to his frantic flip-search through the reservation book. ”I-I’m sorry sir, I don’t seem to have a reservation for you, fishface said in hushed tones, as though fearing that louder would send “Mr. Povoro” into a rage.
[Intimidate 28-10 (Margin 12)] Despite the maitre d’s hushed tones, David was quite happy to fly into a range. ”I see,” David began icily, glaring at fishface with enough intensity to make the man generate a nervous tick. ”You have managed to… misplace my reservation after I have been booked weeks in advance. So, my friend, what happened? Did you give my seat up for a nice lining in your wallet, or were you just too stupid and lazy to write my name in when my secretary called?” David spat, taking a step forwards to place both of his hands on the maitre d’s podium. ”Well I’ll say one thing, you certainly know how to give this restaurant and immediate and lasting impression. I’ve certainly seen enough to write my review, and to put your restaurant on the League’s blacklist, permanently!”
[Maitre d’ Detect Lie 33+10 (Margin -22, does not beat Intimidate Margin 12)] The fishfaced man sputtered and gawked simultaneously, an expression that would hardly have been attractive even on a person who didn’t look like a halibut.
David gave the man a final steely glare, then turned angrily on his heel and stalked away. He didn’t make it two strides before the maitre d’ recovered his wits.
”Sir, Mr. Povoro!” the maitre d’ called frantically as he abandoned his podium, scrambling in front of David and blocking the exit with his body. ”I’m sure there has been a terrible misunderstanding. I know you must be terribly tired from your trip, and this cannot be easy for you, but please know that we will do everything in our power to correct this situation. If you can just give me five minutes I will have a table for you. Please, sir, don’t make this decision on an empty stomach,” the man pleaded, adding a few forced laughs that were both irritating and unconvincing to reinforce his weak jest.
David returned the plea with a cold stare, one that he managed to make more frigid still when the man attempted to resort to humor to ease the situation. ”Two minutes,” David commanded after the requisite amount of calculating silence.
The Maitre d’ gulped visibly, but made a nod that involved almost enough shoulder to be considered a bow, then ran off to make arrangements.
David took a step back towards the wall as the fishfaced man left, consciously keeping his back straight as a knife and avoiding his natural inclination to lean against the wall while he waited. Still, the hardest thing by far for David was keeping Adar’s iron expression on when he could watch the maitre d’ running around in the restaurant proper. This was why David enjoyed working in the field over working on paper. People could be leaned on, lied to, interrogated. Paperwork was just static, largely unhelpful, and as frustrating to work with as a drunken moneychanger.
When maitre d’ came back one minute and forty-three seconds later, David had to grant that the service here was pretty decent- at least it was if you were a tyrannical food critic. David allowed the Maitre d’ to take his coat personally and lead him to his table, a short trip that the fishfaced man spent babbling apologies. David ignored the apologies for the most part, nodding at the appropriate intervals but spending the majority of his time admiring the restaurant proper itself. He hadn’t actually been in here before, the place was difficult to get a reservation in at the best of times, and even if that wasn’t a problem the prices were a little steep for David’s anemic wallet. The restaurant floor was set out ballroom style, a central raised platform for elite guests surrounded by a lower region that used strategic placement of shoulder high walls topped with bright flowers to give each area a more private feel. For most people the effect would have provided comfort in the vastness of the room, but to David the technique was uncomfortably similar to the one used in the dancing saint. The painting, stonework, and flowers were all done in a series of creams, rich reds, and muted gold tones. The effect was ostentatious, but the size of the room made it feel grand rather than gaudy.
When they actually got to the table David pursed his lips and inspected it thoroughly, letting the fishfaced man get a moment of fear that David would reject the table for some obscure and inarguable reason. After an apprehensive moment, David nodded almost imperceptibly and seated himself.
”Thank you for your consideration Mr. Povoro, please accept our sincerest apologies for the accident,” the maitre’d gushed. ”Everything will, of course, be on the house and prepared with special delicacy. Would you prefer a man or a woman to wait on you?”
”A woman, thank you,” David replied immediately. Women who chose employment formed tighter bonds with other women, odds were good that an experienced member of the female staff would have at least made Maria’s acquaintance, and with the show he’d just put on there was now way the maitre d’ would send anything but an experienced member of the serving staff to wait on him.
The maitre d’ bowed his head and attempted a friendly smile in return to David’s word of thanks, undoubtedly the least hostile thing David had done since he’d walked in the door. ”Excellent, sir, she’ll be with you in a moment. Now, I must excuse myself so as not to neglect my duties, but I will make sure to check back to make sure you are enjoying your visit.”
David waved him off with a expression of barely placated impatience. The sooner the man went and arranged for the service, the better. David was starving, and there was free food, albeit free food that was only free if he acted like a food critic, something which involved a great deal more tasting and tongue swishing than David’s usual eating habits.
Of course, there was also the manner of having to get information on Maria, but this restaurant looked like it could be one of the rare intersections between business and pleasure. Not an opportunity that David could let slip by him.
The waitress arrived even before David had expected her too, her face a pleasantly smiling mask that looked as if it was set up to endure the worst abuse Mr. Povoro could offer. She was black haired and blue eyed, short at what David guessed to be five-nothing. She was a little older than David had expected, but even the masculine uniform she was wearing couldn’t hide the fact that she was an arrestingly beautiful woman. The restaurant had excellent taste in feminine employment; David would certainly give them that. ”It is an honor to have you dining with us, Mr. Povoro,” she said, setting a folded menu delicately in front of David. ”Would you like to browse our selection first, or do you have something already in mind”
David unfurled the menu and shook his head absently, waving the woman away while he inspected the menu. He didn’t want to order everything at once, no time to talk to his attendant otherwise, but he also needed to stick to something that looked like a plan.
Decisions, decisions…

Spoiler: Menu (click to show/hide)

Location: Paulais
Status Effects: Disguised as Adar Povoro (Bonus of 10)

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

Spoiler: Paulais (click to show/hide)

---~~~---

Charlotte was frightened, but she was still in control. She had ways out, she had a little on-the-go supplies tucked into the little satchel, and, most importantly, no one and nothing knew she was here. Most children like her at the orphanage would have added a ‘yet’ onto the end of that thought, but none of them could hide like Charlotte. Most of the other kids she knew were good at it, hiding was a valuable skill the way most of them had grown up, but Charlotte was an artist in her field, and they were fingerpainters.
Silently, Charlotte grabbed her bag, cinching it on so it wouldn’t toss about as best she could without making any overt moves. The shoes she was wearing were well broken in, and the bottoms were soft with age. That softness was a trait that had probably gotten them thrown away, but a trait that would let Charlotte run almost as silently as she could barefoot.
The faint scraping noise of movement came again, slightly closer now. Charlotte couldn’t wait, she had to move now. She’d have to find a new place, but that was hardly something she hadn’t done before. Finding a new place was infinitely preferable to getting tossed back in the old one. Charlotte took a silent breath and waiting for the next scraping sound, she’d use the noise they made to cover any noise she made, and with any luck they’d be distracted by whatever they were doing.
[Stealth 84 (Margin -39)] Charlotte dashed out from cover at the first hint of the scraping noise, but in her single-minded focus she missed seeing the twisted nail that protruded a scant inch from the side of the box she was dashing around. The nail caught the side of her pants, scraping the crate a couple inches sideways, ripping a small hole in her trousers, and making Charlotte yelp in surprise and pain. Not exactly Charlotte’s proudest, or stealthiest, moment.
Her cover blown, Charlotte was left with no other option but speed. She could hear rapid movement off to her left, but she didn’t bother wasting time to look at it. She’d have plenty of time to do that when she was safe. Charlotte recovered from her ungainly start and ran, her small body having the advantage of accelerating very quickly, even with a short start. She crossed the basement in the blink of an eye, throwing herself up to reach the window. [Athletics 55-10-10 (Margin -10)] Charlotte’s jump, however, hit the wall with a little too much force. For a moment her hands scrabbled frantically for the purchase necessary to haul herself up on the edge of the window. Then physics caught up with her as the rest of her body hit the wall and rebounded, tearing her hands away from the ledge and hurling her to the floor.
Lying on her back, the wind knocked out of her lungs, Charlotte had one of the rare moments when crying seemed like the appropriate response. She’d practiced that maneuver a dozen times, just in case something like this happened, and the one time she actually needed it…
Mostly helpless and entirely breathless, Charlotte twisted her head and rolled her eyes back, trying to catch a glimpse of whatever avatar of ‘justice’ was coming to take her away this time.
When her mind finally accepted what it was, Charlotte blinked, and rolled over onto her stomach to get a proper look. Her vision was swimming, and little black sparkles of breathlessness were frolicking at the corners of her eyes, but her sight hadn’t lied to her. It was a boy, and he looked a little younger than she was. He was dirty, grime and soot darkened his skin to the point that Charlotte couldn’t tell his original skin tone. His dark hair was smoothly cut, or at least it had been in the near past. Now it had enough filth and disarray to it that Charlotte guessed it had been a few days since he’d had any grooming. Charlotte didn’t recognize him from the orphanage, and he didn’t have the look of somebody who’d grown up in that place. He had too much meat on his bones, and he looked like he’d gotten roughened recently, not been raised to it. His eyes though… something about the way he stared at Charlotte reminded her of the orphanage. He looked surprised, but there was a frighteningly familiar kind of deadness to it, more like he was surprised to find an occupied spider-web in front him, rather than the kind of surprise she would have suspected someone to display after watching her embarrass herself so very thoroughly.
After a long moment of mutually surprised staring, the boy approached her. He was cautious and slow, approaching her as if she were a stray dog that could start snapping at any moment. Charlotte watched, breathing deeply to get her wind back, as the boy stopped a little bit in front of her, his look of mild surprise and confusion replaced by a look of concern.
Charlotte stood up slowly as the swimming flecks retreated from her vision, resuming her silent staring match with the newcomer as she managed to transfer her weight back onto her feet. She had a good six inches of height on the boy, and a year of age at the very least. Nevertheless, the boy met her gaze without the bat of an eyelash, just staring back with sad concern.
Eventually, Charlotte broke the silent stalemate. ”What’s your name?” she asked him, her tone perhaps a little harder and more demanding than absolutely necessary. ”What are you doing here?”
The boy lowered his eyes and shook his head, absentmindedly scuffing his foot on the basement floor.
Now that the boy was closer, Charlotte’s could tell that he’d been near –or in- something bad. He smelled of fire, and not the comforting kind that fireplaces had in them. ”So, you’re nobody and you’re here for no reason?”
The boy nodded somberly, still not taking his eyes off of the basement floor. He looked for all the world like he was waiting to be punished, though Charlotte could not even begin to guess for what. The good news, she supposed, was that the orphanage hadn’t found her yet. The bad news was that she now had a kid named Nobody in her home, who, apparently, lacked the ability to speak.
Life was full of surprises that way.

Location: Nest
Status Effects: None

Spoiler: Charlotte Novák (Scriver) (click to show/hide)

Spoiler: Nest (click to show/hide)

Draignean · « **Reply #217 on:** May 24, 2012, 02:03:37 am »

Turn 8, part three of three

Patric opted for speaking out, there wasn’t a lot of point in staying silent. The big and dumb routine only got you so far, and Patric wanted to look as competent as possible for his new job. Starting out by hauling out the bodies of other Trade employees who’d failed at their jobs did wonders to inspire that kind of work ethic. "I don't have any experience with this,” Patric began slowly, “but if I was them, I would probably get as far down in this hole and hope for the best… Maybe if this place has a cellar-“
”Or the upper floors,” the other new blood jumped in, happy to provide something to show Patric up now that the silence was breached. ”They could have gone to the attic too. We’ll have to search everywhere for them.”
Rake grinned lazily at the two thugs, looking rather like a cat deciding which dying mouse it wanted to bat around. ”Well then, I’m going to say that one of you is rather stupidly wrong. Of course, the winner will only get his pat on the head if he can tell me why the other person is wrong. So,“ Rake said, turning the brunt of his attention onto the more enthusiastic thug, ”why is oaf standing next to you stupid and wrong?”
The other thug looked surprised, glancing from Rake to Patric and back again. ”I don’t exactly understand…” he started slowly, the thug’s meager train of thought obviously going under what passed for full steam. ”They could be in the cellar, but it’s more likely that they’re in the upper floors, ‘cause there are more floors up there than there are the in the cellar.”
”Brilliantly observed,” Rake boomed in his stagemaster voice. ”There are more floors to this building then there are cellars. It’s a wonder you aren’t already the brains of this outfit.” Rake shook his head and one of the other experienced enforcers chuckled darkly. ”So, you, other buffoon whose name I can’t be bothered to remember. Why is he stupid and wrong?” Rake asked Patric, jerking his head once in the other thug’s general direction.
Patric let his face fall into its natural dour expression as he thought about why he’d just known they’d go for the cellar. ”The cellar is where people go when they want to hide,” Patric said with a shrug. ”People cower, they get as low to the ground as possible when they don’t want to be seen, like animals. Basements and cellars just let people get further down.” [Solve enigma, No Skill] Patric stopped there, it wasn’t exactly convincing, just stuff he knew about people, but it was all he could think of to say.
Rake made a noncommittal grunt, looking at both of the other experienced enforcers for their opinion. Both uttered the same grunt, not exactly a throbbing vote of confidence for Patric. ”I’m afraid I can only give partial credit to you, kid. The part you’re forgetting is that the idiots in question are in possession of a box that is bigger than they are, and, in addition to cowering like dogs when we’re scared, people are also lazy. No self respecting smuggler hauls a crate up stairs when he has the option to haul it down stairs. Still,” Rake admitted, ”you are right-“
”But, they-“ the other thug started to interrupt.
”Shut up Jerry, the adults are talking,” Rake cut across.
”My name isn’t Jerry!”
”I don’t care, and you’re deluding yourself if you think I do care what your name is. Jerry was a dog I had in the country, he had a dent in his head from where he got kicked in the head by a horse, and he was so incredibly stupid that he often attempted to play fetch with bonfire logs. Bastard never realized that the logs were the things that kept burning his mouth. Now, if you interrupt me again, I will carve out one of your nostrils. Just one side. Are we clear?”
They newly christened Jerry stared at his feet and nodded silently.
”Good! Now, without further interruptions, the kid is right,” Rake said, nodding to Patric in sardonic acknowledgement. ”They are, in all likelihood, hiding in the winery’s aging cellar, probably scrounging for anything the government missed when this place got shut down.” Rake seemed, for all the scars and not-so-concealed-weaponry, like a particularly hands on schoolteacher. Patric hadn’t ever been much for school, so he didn’t know exactly how he felt about being back in. “The trick of it is that, while we know that they’re probably in the cellar, we don’t know where the cellar is. So, would one of you care to share a theory?”
‘Jerry’ still looked shamed into silence, so Patric shrugged mentally and dived back in. He’d been right once, why not try and keep that ball rolling? ”Why not just follow the marks in the dust? This place has been empty for a long time, should be as easy to track in as snow.”
”Ah,” Rake exclaimed, ”but there are no marks in the dust.”
”Then they couldn’t have entered through this door,” Patric said as the idea clicked all the way together in his head. ”They must have used a side entrance, and if we find the entrance they used, we find the trail. Then from the trail we can find the cellar, and in the cellar we find them.”
”Not bad, lacking a certain eloquence, but I don’t really expect that out of anyone but me,” Rake said in reply to Patric’s observations. ”Hedger, Borus, go outside and swing clockwise. Give a shout if you find the entrance our friends used, and do be thorough. I’ll take the kids for a walk counterways and do the same.”
Hedger, or maybe Borus -Patric had never gotten their names straight- nodded grimly, and crunched his way back over the door with the other senior enforcer.
Patric, meanwhile, was still trying to get the persistent smell that had been bothering him out of his nose, or at the very least identify it. [Observation 67-10 (Margin -47)] The scent, however, continued to irritate and elude him. It was familiar, but it also brought up the edges of bad memories. For a moment Patric could almost name what it reminded him of, and then Rake started talking and obliterated that tenuous line of thought.
”Get your nose out of the air kid, you and Jerry are with me,” Rake said, beckoning the pair of new hires back out the way they'd come. ”Plenty of time to fill your nose with the finest selection of molds and mildew when we’re in the cellar.”
Patric grunted in chagrin at losing the elusive odor, but he said nothing and followed Rake back out with Jerry. Complaining to Rake about odors seemed a sure way to get laughed at, beaten, or both. Patric was already saddled with ‘kid’, adding on ‘fancy’ didn’t hold much appeal.
The day outside was much as Patric had left it, bright, clear, breezy, and just this side of a little cold. Rake, though, wasn’t one to take in the country air and scenery, immediately beginning his counterclockwise search around the winery when they were outside. Patric followed closely, keeping on eye on the winery wall for any entrances that might have become obscured by unchecked growth. He had a thought drifting hazily about his mind, slowly coalescing into… something. In the end, It was Rake’s completely untroubled expression at finding the first two doors shut by a couple years of undisturbed rust that managed to crystallize the thought into a question.
"You already have all the answers don’t you, s-?" Patric asked, biting off the beginning of the sir before he uttered the rest of it. His ingrained desire to respond in certain ways had gotten him a hole in the hand from Tragedy, and while Rake might not be quite that insane, Patric still didn’t want to reinforce his nickname.
”Wouldn’t be much point in testing you if I didn’t ,” Rake replied with his trademark amicable animosity. ”I honestly don’t give a damn what you think at this point, anymore than teacher gives a damn what his students think about whatever he’s teaching. I’m just here to instruct you, show you how to think, not care about your precious opinions. If I didn’t know all the answers beforehand, then how would I know when you’ve conjured down a miracle and actually managed to get something right?”
[Patric observation 46 (Margin -36) Vs Door Concealment check 86 (margin -66)] Patric didn’t exactly have an answer to that question, but he was saved from trying to make an awkward response by a rather peculiar sight on the wall of the winery. There were tree branches sticking out of the wall. Tree branches, and behind the branches Patric could make out the outline of a narrow door. Patric stopped and stared, marveling at the kind of idiocy necessary to believe that nailing a few branches to a door would make it invisible. ”Miracles like finding the door we’re looking for?”
”No, actually,” Rake replied, ”spotting a large piece of tree nailed to a wall is not a miracle, that just means you’re smarter than the average fencepost. Now, if you’d spotted it from the car while we were driving up like I did, that would have been a miracle. Now, Jerry, run along and get the door for us.”
Jerry grumbled something incomprehensible and slouched his way to the branch covered door, breaking off limbs with unnecessary -but probably quite cathartic- force in his fight to reach the door handle. After a vicious struggle, the thug eventually managed to find the doorknob, twisting it without success.
Rake didn’t even have time to make a disparaging comment before Jerry roared with pent-up fury, stepping back and then ramming his shoulder into the branch covered door. [Jerry melee 69 (Margin -39 )] The thug hit the door, his shoulder crunching branches, and then he bounced off. Jerry cursed and staggered, clutching a spot on his shoulder where his suit had torn on an errant branch.
”I don’t want to make you feel like I don’t appreciate you,” Rake said as he observed Jerry’s antics with a mocking expression, ”because, and I mean this, you are the most entertaining thing I have seen since my aunt got committed to an asylum. But, I have to wonder, what in God’s green earth actually qualifies you for this line of work?”
Jerry balled his fists, his face turning a color that Patric associated with two things; customers that needed to be thrown out, and overripe tomatoes. Growling, the thug stepped forwards in a menacing posture, or it would have been menacing were it not for the leafy twig playing piggy-back in his hair.
Rake thoroughly ignored the furious amateur and turned his attention back to Patric. ”Open that door. Show me that at least one of you is worth the boots on your feet.”
Patric was actually fairly glad of the request; it was a great deal simpler than the last few things he’d been asked to do. Thinking beyond a couple minutes in the future was irritating and unfamiliar, but hitting things until they fell over was something he did fairly often as part of his job.
Patric set his aim on the part of the door where the bolt should be on the other side, stepping forwards and a bit sideways to get a better angle. Assuming his leg didn’t foul in the branches, a single hard kick there should break the frame and free the door. [Patric Melee 1 (Margin 34)] Patric’s kick hit the door perfectly, his foot striking in through an open space in the brush and smashing the door open, spraying splinters of frame into the interior of the winery.
Rake nodded in satisfaction at Patrics handiwork.”Not bad. Still a rookie, but I might decide to devote the energy necessary to learn your name.” Rake raised his face to the sky and pursed his lips, letting loose a short three-note whistle. ”Lead the way kid, Hedger and Borus will be along shortly.”

The camouflaged side door led to what had once been a personal office, but everything that hadn’t been nailed down when the winery closed was gone. Layers of dust in varying thicknesses and shapes gave mute testimony to the disappearance of their creators. The footprints that littered the floor, though, were the real objects of interest to Patric and the others. Several distinct tracks were evident, [Observation 29 (Margin -19)] but the prints crossed one another in so many places that Patric could only get a vague idea of how many people had made them; three at the least, probably no more than eight. Probably.
Patric’s awareness of the unsettling smell that he’d caught when he first entered the winery was stronger here, and it only increased as he led Rake and Jerry on the path of dusty footprints. The smell grew more potent and closer to recognition the farther he followed the trail, and even Rake seemed to take notice of the smell, sniffing audibly with an expression of concentration.
”Hold up, kid.” Rake’s voice had the first trace of actual concern in it that Patric had ever heard. ”Here we wait for the others. Something is wrong here.”
”Coward,” Jerry muttered under his breath.
[Rake Melee 2-20 {Perk: Vicious} (Margin 78)] [Jerry Dodge 3 (margin 22)] Rake’s contemptuous backhand was swift, crushing the insubordinate thug’s lips between his teeth and Rake’s scarred knuckles.
Jerry staggered and tripped, falling backwards onto the dusty floor as he sputtered bloody curses through split lips.
”Be. Quiet. You. Mewling. Pup,” Rake hissed, his voice low and hard. ”You are being nothing but dead weight. You’re weak, slow, stupid, and you’re rude to your betters. When we get back, I’m going to encourage Tragedy to rescind your signing bonus, and hopefully your job as well. That, of course, is assuming you make it back alive. Now get up and shut up.”
Jerry looked murderous as he stood up, but Rake just turned his back to him. Patric could see the thug contemplating the shot, wondering if it would be worth it to put a dent in Rake’s skull with that pipewrench he was carrying.
Borus and Hedger’s heavy footsteps coming up the hallway snapped Jerry out of his mutinous contemplation. The man was brash and a little short of brains, but he wasn’t quite that short on brains.
”Nice walk?” Tragedy asked as soon as the two enforcers were close enough.
Borus snorted. ”Could’ve used someone prettier to take it with. No sign of them on our end, but it looks like you’ve got it covered here. Thanks for waiting.”
Rake tipped his head. ”Showdown an armed gang of trigger happy fools with only a pair of thugs who couldn’t tie their own shoes? I’m very good, but I’m not suicidal. Come on, we’re close. Hedger, take the front with the kid who isn’t bleeding, but let him lead. Borus, watch our backs.”
The enforcers nodded, taking their positions with only a curious glance at Jerry’s bloodied face. They were used to this kind of thing when Rake took the training runs.
Patric started leading the group forwards again as soon as Hedger had taken his place beside him. The path was easy enough to follow, [Solve enigma: No skill] and following the tracks was a mindless, if very dark, task.
The group followed the tracks through the winery interior, stopping once for Rake and the other enforcers to produce and switch on a set of copper bulletlights. [Observation 72 (Margin -62) Vs ??? Concealment 42 (Margin -22)] The heavy dust on the floor coupled with the thick wood, stone, and plaster of the building made the walk eerily silent. Sunlight and fresh air might have been just dozens of feet away, but it might as well have been on the other side of time for all Patric could feel of it.
The tracks, and Patric, stopped abruptly at a heavy trapdoor. It was unobstructed, unbarred, and yet… something about it made Patric’s hair stand on end.
”Congratulations gentlemen and womanish gentleman,” Rake said as he got a good look at the trapdoor from behind Patric. ”We are now coming to the physical part of today’s exam, do be ready to hit anything that gets in your way. Now, open the door kid, it’s time to tech these fools a lesson about playing games with Tragedy.”
Patric nodded, grasping the trapdoor’s heavy iron handle, and pulling it open in a single heave of strength and sinew. [Patric Endure 36 (Margin 14), Rake Endure 1 (Margin 39), Thug Endure 95 (Margin -65), Enforcer 1 Endure 63 (Margin -20), Enforcer 2 Endure 53 (Margin -9)]
The smell that had been seeping up from the basement, worming its way up through every crack and seam, was loosed in its full and undiluted force when the trapdoor opened. Rotting blood and putrefying flesh, the smell of a mass burial for an axe murderer’s victims ripped open and left to rot in the sun.
”Mary Mother of God…” Hedger swore as he choked on the smell, taking a step back from the open trapdoor as though the smell was a physical force. The other enforcer, Borus, took it better, but he too coughed and hacked on the miasmal odor. Jerry took it the worst, vomiting on the wall and falling to his knees, attempting to gasp and retch at the same time. Patric’s instincts had warned him there was something bad in the cellar, instinct certainly hadn’t predicted this, but he’d had the opportunity to steel himself before the door had opened.
”Damn.” Rake’s voice was somewhat surprised. ”I might need to apologize to their lazy corpses. Failing to make the meet and drop their cargo might not be entirely their fault. The no kill order has just been lifted boys, if it moves, hit it or shoot it until it stops moving. Hedger, you’re with me in front, Kiddies in the middle, and Borus, take the rear.”
Hedger and Borus were able to pull themselves together like professionals, [Thug Endure 5 (margin 25)] and, surprisingly, Jerry is able to get shakily up from his knees and take up a position. The simple act of silent strength garners him the closest thing to a look of approval he's had yet from Rake.

The cellar smelled of everything that had been promised, and worse. The beams cast by the enforcer’s lights were dim, but they were enough to highlight spatters of dried blood and shreds of clothing. Patric fought the urge to raise one of his arms to cover his nose. It would be a vain attempt to keep the smell out anyway.
Muttered curse-prayers and fidgeting weapons made the only noise as Rake lead on through the cellar. It was tense, dark, and smelled like the sewers of an old testament god.
It didn’t get better when Rake’s spotlight fell on a shattered crate and he started swearing with an eloquence and fury only manageable by someone who was both very angry and very frightened.
The piece of crate was of a different make than the dusty storage boxes and barrels that lay scattered about the cellar. Its wood was darker and more refined, thin but ordered marks scrawled up what was left of one corner, and, oddly, it didn’t appear to have any nails in its construction.
”This job is now officially botched,” Rake said, his voice tight and angry. ”Hedger, Borus, take a kid, whichever you think is prettier. We can’t take the crate back now, but we can at least bring the pieces back. Search everywhere, if you find bodies, particularly live ones-“
A trill of laughter echoed out from one of the cellar side rooms, breaking off Rake’s hissing commands with casual ease. The three flashlights of the enforcers immediately jumped to the source, spotlighting the doorway the sound had come through, but finding nothing.
Rake snarled with sudden animal fury, drawing a rough handled revolver with his free hand. ”Everyone out now! RUN DAMN YOU!”
Hedger and Borus complied without question, stirring dust in motes as they dashed back to the cellar door. Jerry seemed confused, more so than he should be. His grip on his pipewrench slackened, and his eyes looked oddly glazed as he stared into the darkness that covered whatever had laughed. Rake, meanwhile, was running in the wrong direction, scrambling with all haste to the broken piece of crate he’d highlighted.
Patric stood rooted in surprise, not exactly sure what to do. Clearly, running was the order of the day, but Jerry didn’t look capable of it, and Rake was costing himself quite a bit of time in attempting to grab that chunk of wood.
He could run, help Rake, or help Jerry, but he couldn’t do all of them.
This side-job thing was shaping up to be a lot less simple than he’d imagined. Less beating people up, more brain work.

Trade Enforcer 1 (Hedger) -10 Sanity
Trade Enforcer 2 (Borus) -5 Sanity
Trade Thug ('Jerry') -33 sanity (Terrified)

Location: Abandoned Winery
Status Effects: None

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

Spoiler: Abandoned Winery, (Cellar) (click to show/hide)

---~~~---

Spoiler: Map (click to show/hide)

scriver · « **Reply #218 on:** May 24, 2012, 07:54:08 am »

Jesus... Jesus Christ.

SeriousConcentrate · « **Reply #219 on:** May 24, 2012, 10:08:54 am »

(...Damn. O.o Anyway, time to talk to Robert. :3)

Clayton thought for a moment. Briar didn't appear to be from Arkham, judging from Robert's words, and it seemed he didn't know how to reach his friend's parents, either. If Briar even had any. The professor felt horrible. He wished to God that in ten or so years, when Fiona was old enough to be in university herself, that something like this wouldn't happen to her... especially if he and Helen never knew about it. The very idea chilled and discomfited him, like a thick ball of ice sitting in his abdomen. He sat down on the bed to take a rest from all of this walking around, careful not to touch Briar, and turned his attention outward once more to Robert.

"I apologize for asking this, but... what did Briar say to you when he woke up?" Clayton asked. If Robert suspected arson (unlikely as it was), then maybe Briar had seen or heard something. It was important to know.

Draignean · « **Reply #220 on:** May 24, 2012, 11:49:20 am »

Quote from: scriver on May 24, 2012, 07:54:08 am

Jesus... Jesus Christ.

Quote from: SeriousConcentrate on May 24, 2012, 10:08:54 am

(...Damn. O.o Anyway, time to talk to Robert. :3)

Yeah. That about sums it up. I can pull one of these every two-weeks and change if I reserve a thousand words per-diem exclusively for it. Hopefully the others won't be quite as long, but...If it happens, it happens.

It is also important to note that time is not yet synchronous. It took Clay about an hour and a half to shoot from point to point in his trip, but Charlotte's turn only encompasses the space of minutes.

Quote from: SeriousConcentrate on May 24, 2012, 10:08:54 am

Clayton thought for a moment. Briar didn't appear to be from Arkham, judging from Robert's words, and it seemed he didn't know how to reach his friend's parents, either. If Briar even had any. The professor felt horrible. He wished to God that in ten or so years, when Fiona was old enough to be in university herself, that something like this wouldn't happen to her... especially if he and Helen never knew about it. The very idea chilled and discomfited him, like a thick ball of ice sitting in his abdomen. He sat down on the bed to take a rest from all of this walking around, careful not to touch Briar, and turned his attention outward once more to Robert.

"I apologize for asking this, but... what did Briar say to you when he woke up?" Clayton asked. If Robert suspected arson (unlikely as it was), then maybe Briar had seen or heard something. It was important to know.

Robert slumped back into his clothing covered chair as Clay changed the subject. The boy looked tired, too tired to even keep up his frustrated rage for long. "It's fine, sir. He didn't say much, much that made sense anyway. They have him drugged, so he wasn't really making complete sentences when he woke up." Robert pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and exhaled tiredly, the last of his defiant energy gone. "Christ, I don't even remember much of what he said, I was just glad he was waking up. I looked away for a minute to get him his letters, and when I looked at him again he was out. Letters weren't even that important..."

Digital Hellhound · « **Reply #221 on:** May 24, 2012, 11:58:14 am »

Oh dear god. I like your style, Draig!

SeriousConcentrate · « **Reply #222 on:** May 24, 2012, 02:59:39 pm »

"What letters? Did you read them?" Clay asked.

Draignean · « **Reply #223 on:** May 24, 2012, 05:04:58 pm »

Quote from: SeriousConcentrate on May 24, 2012, 02:59:39 pm

"What letters? Did you read them?" Clay asked.

Robert hesitated, [Clay Persuasion 1-10 (Margin 39)] then nodded a little abashedly. "I only read one... He got three letters, I read the one that I didn't recognize." Robert twisted in his chair, digging through the pockets of the coat he was reclining on. "I hoped it was from family, or at least someone who'd care, but it wasn't. Just more insanity." Robert shook his head with a mordant attempt at a smile, withdrawing a plain envelope from the coat's inner pocket and tossing it to Clay. "See for yourself."
Clay caught the envelope, withdrawing the single sheet of folded type-writer paper inside with hands that suddenly felt a great deal colder. This was almost impossible... Confused and more than a little disconcerted, Clayton pulled his own unmarked letter out of his back pocket, comparing the two side by side. The letter Robert had given him was a great deal more rumpled from its time in the coat's pocket, but with that small exception, the two matched perfectly.
Clay re-checked the inside of Briar's letter, looking for another slip of paper or a parcel like the one he'd received. Sure enough, crumpled and stuck in the corner, was a small hand-written note.

Knowledge has a price
Don't take what you're not willing to pay for

SeriousConcentrate · « **Reply #224 on:** May 24, 2012, 05:13:13 pm »

Clayton was silent for a few moments. "Robert, something very serious and very odd is going on here. I received a letter similar to this one myself." He ran a hand through his hair, looking and feeling very frazzled indeed. "I'm not sure why. Perhaps they are related to the fire somehow." Despite himself and his usual disposition, he attempted a tone of authority. "I'll figure this out, but I need your help. Did Briar find, buy, or otherwise receive anything unusual recently? Perhaps a book?" The letter mentioned knowledge; surely it had to be a book of some kind.

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