In reply to The Keeper (msg # 242):

At the cafe near the pensione, Karlkheinz sipped his strong Italian-style coffee, espresso as it was called. He glanced at the poster of il Duce emblazoned across the side of the 2-story post office across the street.

He scowled, but didn't say anything.

"Roger, I shall fly the Brisfit from now on, ya? Vhat is our course?"
This message was last edited by the GM at 21:09, Sat 26 Oct 2013.

"Of course, Molly. Whenever you're ready."

Having finished her light dinner, Cynthia returns to the hotel with the group. She pulls out her clothes for the walk, then pulls off her shoes and outer wear and lays down, just for a minute, waiting for Molly to come get her ... Just a minute ... zzzz ...

In reply to Karlheinz Bergmann (msg # 243):

Sipping on the Italian coffee, he talked, "I'm not sure.  Do you remember what we'd decided on the charts?  We're here in Rome now.  Do we want to make it across the Sea, or do we want to head further east first this side before jumping on over to Egypt?"

The Count retired for the evening somewhat early so he could go over his notes. He was going to be at the entrance to the archives early so wanted a good nights sleep. He spent the rest of his time seeing to his correspondence a much harder task then he had envision.

JM had moved from the wine to the coffee with the others.  The satisfaction of a good day of flying and working on the planes filled him with happiness that the good food perfected. "I'd say we fly down the coast of Italy and step across to Greece.  Athens would be a good overnight spot and then across the Aegean to Turkey and the Levant."

In reply to John-Marc Falcon (msg # 247):

Looking at the charts, Karlheinz nodded in agreement.

"Ya, my friend. Ist gut.

"Say, what have we here?"

It was getting late, most Italians seemed to be getting to bed. It had been a long day, but the planes were almost ready to go, having required no major repairs.

Ambling up the street came three young men led an older fellow. They wore black shirts, grey trousers that were tucked into black leather boots just below the knees and a black fez. At their leather belts were sheathed long knives. They ambled up the cobbled street, stopping outside the post office. Glancing over at the cafe, they continued on up the street.

Angelo, the cafe owner, asked if the travellers wanted anything further or would be returning to their lodgings?

JM watched the four men walk up the street.  He avoided eye contact being unwilling to provoke a response from what looked to be fascist thugs.  Shaking his head to the owner he paid out the bill and a gratuity and stood.  "Let's get back to the hangar gents.  I'm tired and I don't like the look of the company that just ambled by."

They returned to the airport after supper to find that it was mostly closed down for the night. A not-impressed night watchman (in an impressive uniform) let them into the rented hangar where they worked a little before conceding it was hopeless to go on.

Still, there was little else they needed to do. A few minutes work would be enough to get them aloft.

The next morning, they awoke to heavy rains. Those lodging near the airport witnessed streams running down the cobbled streets. In the heart of the city, Romans rushed about under umbrellas or folded newspapers. Overhead the sky was dark grey with rainclouds.

The Count rose early and after his morning routine met Mr Perkins at the door to their suite to descend for a hurried breakfast. He had dressed in a dark conservative three-piece suit and had forgone his usual personal adornment.

Once finished both the Count and Mr Perkins haled a taxi for the short journey to the small nondescript door to the archive on the right side of St Peters Basilica. He was nervous and even though he had been to the archive before with his father he had never been inside.

He huddled under the umbrella as Mr Perkins paid the driver they then made plans for the Count to met him at a small cafe across the street. Turning the Count climbed the small steps to the archive and opened the door.


He was greeted by a small white stucco room with a small table and a single chair on which sat a Vatican Primate. He had a large ledger in front of him and did not look up as the Count entered.

"Good morning, I am Count Sigismund Bathony. I believe I am expected."
This message was last edited by the player at 05:42, Wed 30 Oct 2013.

When the morning came JM stared up at the falling rain.  "Well, at least we're not flying in that."

In reply to John-Marc Falcon (msg # 253):

"Ya, ist correct. We could, but it does not seem worth the risk. Let us have some breakfast here in the pensione."

He sat in the dining room and sipped some of the strong Italian coffee known as espresso. It was addictive stuff! It sure would keep him awake on long flights.

Mr Perkins had been awakened by the rain in the night. A light sleeper since the war he could not recall when he again dosed off. He glanced out one of the large windows in their suite as he waited for the Count. They descended in silence to breakfast and it was only at the door to the Archive that they spoke to make plans to meet.

Mr Perkins took a seat in the window of the cafe directly across the road from the entrance. He ordered a coffee and some bruschetta and olives. He had taken a copy of the English language paper from the hotel and place a couple of books on his table.




He would throw a glance at the door every few minutes but this lessened as the hour wore on.

In reply to Count Sigismund Bathony (msg # 252):

After a moment, the balding Primate closed the ledger and looked up. He said in Italian-accented English, "si, Conti Bathony. I am aware of this. I am Archbishop Molnado. My secretary, Father Savio, will be back momentarily. He shall provide all the assistance you require." A steam heater hissed in the corner, driving out the spring chill brought about by the heavy downpour. It was perhaps the only semi-modern accoutrement in the ancient cell, save for an electric lamp. The Archbishop went back to his ledger.

On cue, a young scholarly-looking man in a long black Jesuit cassock (long-sleeved black robe with white clerical collar) entered the room. "Buongiorno, Conti. my name is Father Savio. What may I do for you?"

In reply to The Keeper (msg # 256):

"Buon giorno Father Salvio it is good to meet you. As I said in my letter I wish to gain access to the archive on a matter of great urgency to myself and the church."

The Count then goes into great detail on the nature of his problem and the cult in general.

"So Father Salvio as you can see my need is great. Do you think the archive may contain the information I require."

Cynthia awoke, ready to take on the night! That was a very restful nap, but what time was it? 8? Perfect. Oh, 8am. Well ... there shall be other nights in the future. The rest was clearly needed, and she'll have no regrets, as long as Molly didn't go out and have a night of fun without her. The minx.

Cynthia gets dressed, tights, cotton skirt, blouse, sweater, overcoat, hat, boots. Her wardrobe is a hodge-podge of New York, London, and Paris, selected for cold and hot, dry and wet, formal and filthy, all light enough to fit in a tiny bucket of an aeroplane. But Cynthia chose the challenging life for herself, so she has no right to complain, and frankly, these suede boots are adorable with anything.

Dressed and washed up, she goes downstairs to the cafe, to see who else is awake and to await Dr. Weston. She looks for an Egyptian newspaper, but failing that, snags one in French, and sits to enjoy coffee and fresh fruit.

JM followed Karlheinz to the little dining room and took a cup of the pungent, steaming coffee as well.  He ordered a plate of bread, cheese and whatever else could be arranged and laid it out on the table to share.  "I find myself willing to wile away the day watching the rain and enjoying the coffee.  I wonder how the rest of our party is finding Rome."

In reply to Cynthia Jane Holloway (msg # 258):

The good doctor came down to meet up with Cynthia, "Good morning.  Hope you had a well enough sleep."  He called for a coffee to start the day and a portion of fresh fruit to enjoy. "Today could be quite interesting! It will certainly be interesting to see if anything had happened here in the asylum that would coincide with my recent discovery of trouble early this month."

Molly woke up and stretched....and stopped.  After she sniffed a couple of times to make sure her foggy brain was correct she smiled.  Coffee...the fuel that makes the morning happen.

She dressed in her travelling clothes but chose to leave her hat on the bed next to her packed bags.  She had been tired enough last night not to even unpack yet.

Like a zombie walking towards a victim, Molly went straight for the coffee and after taking a couple of sips, turned around to face everybody else.

"Good morning everybody.  My body is kicking into gear again after that much needed rest so what is on today's agenda?  Cynthia!  I am soooo sorry that my hour nap turned into an all nighter.  You should have jostled me awake.  My deepest apologies."

She then finished off her cup post haste, and after refilling it, went to sit down, snagging some bread and cheese on the way.  She was used to the snag and sit routine for that is what her uncle usually did at the office.  You could accomplish so much more in so little time if you could master that technique.

Alexander had woken early and found a taxi, heading over to see how the pilots and their charges were doing. He'd made sure that a note for his other companions explaining his whereabouts was left with the front desk of the hotel.

Finding the hangar deserted he made himself comfortable, listening to the rain hitting the roof.

Dr. Weston's meeting with his colleague at the Pazzarella Hospital on the Via Lata was rather early, but this understandable as Dr. Giovanni Dellupo said (over the telephone) things were very unsettled after some mass incident of a week or so earlier.

When he arrived by taxi, his old friend could only spare a few moments from his hectic schedule. The story was the same as in France; around the 5th of April most of the patients became agitated, many had vivid dreams of the "walking mountain" rising from the ocean. There was much delerium and raving, a few of the catatonic patients actually became conscious, awoken from their sleep, and some of those commenced to try and injure themselves and the staff.

At ten o'clock, Giovanni apologised profusely and said it was time for Dr. Weston to leave.

"I thank you for coming, my friend! But truly, we are very busy. Things have calmed down but there's so much for me to do, I am so sorry I can't devote more time! Come back soon, I will have Magdalena cook some of her pasta for you, we'll drink some wine, it will be like old times, yes?"

---

At the pensione Mingarelli, the pilots (Roger, Karlheinz and John-Marc) ate a leisurely breakfast. There was a knock on the door.

It was Americo, a handsome young wiry man in his early 20's. He was from the rural part of Italy, apparently working for a time in his uncle's pensione. His English was poor and thickly accented, but he could make himself be understood. He took his cap off his head and held it in both hands, revealing thick curly black hair hanging over dark eyes.

"Scusi, Signores? There is-a problema? I-a go to the cafe. Get bread, yes? I see my cousin Francisco Battaglia across the street. In Post Office. He's-a the Black Shirt? You know? No good fascisti. There are many fascisti there, ten, twelve. He call-a me over, so I go. He says they are-a looking for three foreign men staying in the pensione. He says these foreigners, they are pederasti! Looking to buy-a Italian boy from filthy Gypsies. That is crazy! I say you-a gonna be here all day, I come and warn you.

"They gonna come in ten minutes. You go now! I show you back way. Down alley!"

---

At the hotel, Cynthia was able to find an English language paper. She was able to obtain a French-language paper, Le Progrès Egyptien, which she she could read. There didn't seem to be much of interest other than left-wing political opinion, but she did see an article about how, earlier in the month, several villages in French Polynesia were wiped out in a mysterious tidal wave that struck late on night and left no survivors.

At around 9am, the immaculately-suited concierge came up to the table where Cynthia and Molly were waiting. He was holding a yellow envelope and politely excused his interrupting of their repast. " Pardonatemi, Signoras. I have an urgent telegram from London for Conti Bathony. You checked in with him, do you kindly know of his whereabouts or when he might return?"

---

As there was no convenient cafe inside the Holy See, Perkins had to content himself with pretending to buy stamps at the Vatican Post Office just down the street from the closest entrance to the Library and the Archives, behind St. Peter's Basilica. The Archives were part of the Vatican Library, a truly massive structure with over 35,000 volumes in the selected catalogue alone, and the inventory of the Secret Archive was kept on 1,300 parchment volumes.

There was little traffic in the lane on this rainy weekday. The few faithful who had made the pilgrimage to the heart of the Catholic church would much rather see the magnificent Basilica and not be wandering down the lane behind it in the Vatican's administrative, lodging and quarters blocks. A pair of Swiss Guards in ceremonial dress and carrying halberds wandered down towards the barracks just inside the Porto di S. Anna (which led out into the city to the Via di Porta Angelica). Mainly, there were some Catholic priests and officials in their black and grey cassocks and capes. Ordinary Italians weren't absent either; the Holy City needed deliverymen, handymen and craftsmen to function, like any secular city.

About two hours after Bathony entered the Archives, Perkins spotted a horse-drawn delivery wagon clattering down the lane that led from the Porta di St. Anna past the Swiss Guard barracks. It looked like a typical delivery wagon, probably given a quick check by the Swiss Guard at the gate and then passed through. The wagon stopped outside the Archive entrance, and a group of four men climbed out and glanced around, furtive and unsure. They looked like street toughs, probably Sicilian, wearing caps low against the rain. Their rough moustachioed faces were thick with stubble, shabby coats long enough to conceal weapons of some kind. One knocked at the door, and it was immediately opened. Looking around, the men began entering the door to the archives, trying not to look too suspicious. Perkins was about 2 blocks away from the entrance, to the right was an open areas with trees and a cobbled courtyard where a delivery truck was parked, to the left were the towers at the rear of St. Peter's Basilica.

---

Out at the Aeroporto di Ciampino, Alexander waited in the cold hangar as rain drummed on the tin roof. It seemed odd the structure was deserted at this time of the morning, there should at least be a watchman to keep it secure. As he pondered this, he smelled smoke. Looking around, he saw tendrils of smoke beginning to seep from around the wood door to the rear offices. He knew that inside was a wood-burning stove that the watchman would have lit for warmth and to boil water for tea or coffee.

---

Father Salvio led the Count deeper and deeper through the galleries and winding passages of the Archives. Doors led off into different parts of the stacks, revealing books, documents, scrolls and other reading materials in hundreds of languages. Once they passed an ancient monk in a brown robe tied with a white rope silently pushing a cart laden with worm-eaten volumes. They stopped in one section obviously devoted to all aspects of the occult.

After a couple hours of poring through the volumes, Bathony could tell that while all manner of heresy and blasphemy were detailed, anything relating to the corrupt Mythos worshipped by the cultists of the Bloody Tongue and the Brotherhood of the Black Pharoah. Father Salvio admitted he was not experienced with the part of the archive housing the most blasphemous materials. It was said there were deeper vaults that kept volumes of writing so horrifying that the Church denied their very existence, keeping them in the lowest level. Only a few of the most trusted archivists knew of their location and possessed the means to access them.

"I must get the archivist's assistant to show us. He will have the key. Please wait here."

In a few moments, Salvio returned with another monk, different than the one they'd seen before, yet equally ancient. The silent monk led them to a tiny winding stairwell that descended deep into the earth beneath the Vatican and Rome. They ended up in a series of small stone-lined subterranian corridors lined with metal-bound wood doors. The air was cool and dry, and Monk lit an oil lamp as he them into the labyrinth under the Archive and Library. It looked like there were some electric lights although only the main corridors were wired as such. Bathony thought he might be able to navigate back, if need be, but wasn't 100% sure.

Finally, after snaking their way down narrow side passages, they arrived at a thick metal-shod door into a cell-like room. The small window was barred. Their guide produced a thick iron key and, turning it in the lock, opened the door with a squeal of hinges. He stepped aside and motioned for them to enter, and Father Savio, after making the sign of the cross and breathing a silent prayer, did so. As Bathony was about to enter he noted a glint of silver around the right wrist of the monk. He was holding something down by his side. It was a silver wrist chain. And attached to that chain was an inverted ankh, also made of silver.
This message was last edited by the GM at 04:01, Sat 02 Nov 2013.

Standing, Alexander picks up his walking cane from where he'd left it leaning against a bench.

That's odd he thinks, casting a quick glance around the hanger and trying to remember if he'd seen any fire extinguishers about.

Maybe it's a blocked flue.

"Hello?"

Might score myself a brew if I'm lucky.

The Count was nearly struck dumb by the shear size and scale of the archive. Not in his wildest dreams did he think it would be so vast. He tried to make a mental note of their path and his surroundings just so he could accurately describe it in his journal and in his correspondence to his friends.

His interest was at a peak as they descended into the very bowels of the earth for answers and while his search so far had been fruitless he had seen and touched volumes that to the outside world were only rumour and myth. These books and manuscripts were first-hand accounts of history, the very narratives that would create a saint had they been of miracles. Instead they dealt with foul acts and deeds, the very stuff of nightmares.

As the Count caught sight of the symbol of the cult in the centre of Catholic worship on earth he asked the archivist's assistant in Latin;

"Ubi mores sunt mei post te Sir bonum, hoc est tuum post proprius."

---

Spoiler text: (Highlight or hover over the text to view)
Where are my manners after you good Sir, this is after all your speciality.

---

It is a set up, and the Count is in danger.

Mr Perkins thought to himself as he set off at a brisk pace towards the entrance. He tried not to draw any attention to himself as he tried to cover the distance as fast as possible.

Cynthia responded to Molly, "No harm, no foul. We're on holiday, and sometimes the body gives subtle - or not so subtle hints that that means sleeping now and again."

Cynthia receives the telegram. "We'll make sure he gets it, don't worry." She gives the messenger a small tip before he goes. She then turns to her two companions, "I'd be surprised if the Count returns before supper. If it's urgent, do you suppose we should open it? After all, whoever sent it knows he's traveling and doing so with us."