In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 72):

Still holding his unfilled wine glass, Mike grabbed the closest bottle of red wine and filled it. He sat down next to Clarke and Hector and clinked glasses with both of them before rising again, as if he forgot, to raise his glass to Abner in a gratuitous show of gratitude before taking his seat again.

"Well," He began, "I'm sure we can all agree that God works in mysterious ways. To be quite Frank Mr. Wick, I didn't expect to see Charles any time soon either. I had suspected that Jack had died in Europe. But I received a letter from him, or someone impersonating him, so we decided to to check in on ol' Charles to see if he had heard anything from him."

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 73):

"Then you'll be happy to know that I have taken charge of Charles' care." At Abner's words, Carla and Hector break into veiled grins. Placing the fork and knife on the table before him, Abner grabs his glass and slowly swirls the wine. "This letter, what did it say? I'm sure it must be enlightening seeing as it came from a dead man." He takes a long draught, downing the contents of the glass.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 74):

Clarke ate one more slice of meat and then  picked up a glass of read. He swirled it in mock reverence to whatever this event was turning into. Wick, he assumed, was involved with the shadows and the stone. With Jack and all the death. He had crossed over from mere observer to active participant.

"You should have paid more attention," Zoe said. She was flipping a coin and dressed in clothes similar to what Al Capone might be seen wearing in the broadsheets. "You should always be paying more attention."

Clarke took a sip on the wine and tried to see if he could persuade Abner away from the topic.

"We're comforted to know you are looking after Charles, but Jack's letter - real or not - seems a bridge too far even for you. Digging through the confidential thoughts of a wounded veteran or delusional imposter? What do you hope to gain from it - dragging mud into this fine party? Why I have dozens of half-drunk correspondence from you that would make the most amusing reading for Arkham's residents. Can we let this drop and enjoy your fine cuisine?"

Roll to persuade Abner: 24 - success?

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 75):

You see Abner's hand tense around the glass briefly before he sets it down on the table. "You are right, forgive me my poor manners." He snaps his fingers and a servant hands him a wooden box which he opens to reveal a row of cigars. "Carla and Hector inform me that you were a patron of my fine establishment recently. Seems you have a nose for fine tobacco. And quite a few questions..." Pulling out a cigar, Abner lights it. "What was it you were looking for exactly?" he asks as a familiar cloying scent begins to fill the air.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 76):

Zoe's face morphed into an older version of herself. She was less cloying, and more at peace. More substantial, as if pulled from another dimension. "After all these years," she said, "still rattling cages. You're a good man, Clarke. A man still, but a good one."

Clarke swallowed. His throat dry. He missed Zoe. He missed the real one, not the one he had fabricated for his misdeeds.

"I think the answer is obvious." He squinted, as if hinting that a man like Abner should have understood right away. "I saw an unusual cigar and wanted to try it out for myself. Is that abnormal now?"

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 77):

"Ah, as dear Carla informed you, these are treasures of my own creation. A unique blend." Abner takes a long drag from the cigar, exhaling through his nose. Having nearly devoured their entrees, Carla and Hector sit back with pleased sighs.

Taking another drag from his cigar, Abner asks through the smoke "How was that little trip up North Mike? Seems Hank has lost his touch."

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 78):

Mike took a sip of his wine and set it down on the table. He looked about for an ash tray and spotted one near Hectar, he reached over and slid it over in front of him before puling out his pack of Lucky Strikes and lighting a cigarette. He inhaled deeply and briefly watched the smoke curl upwards, twisting into the dim light.

"Well, Hank has always done the best he could. Truth be told, we went up North to investigate the letter. Since Charles had heard nothing of it, we figured if it was real then that would be the most likely place for Jack to be. So we took the trip up, but to no avail. He wasn't there."

He looked Abner square in the eye and took another drag before exhaling and picking up his wine glass.

"I'm still curious as to why you care. You never knew Jack all that well if I recall."

He took another sip, "Good wine."

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 79):

Taking another drag from his cigar, Abner pauses before answering. "Charles is in a... delicate way. As another man of..." his eye briefly flick to Byron before returning to Mike, "means, I fear that someone may have sniffed an opportunity to make a quick buck. Lost son, suddenly reappears as father is on his deathbed, I don't that that even Hector could tell such a captivating tale."

"Ahem," says Hector as he rises from his seat. "I do believe I have such a tale for just this occasion." He takes a quick swig of wine as Carla gently taps a knife against the side of her glass for silence...

"There was once a good-looking girl, the daughter of well-off country folk, who was loved by an honest young fellow named John. He courted her for a long time, and at last got her and her parents to consent to his marrying her, which was to come off in a few weeks’ time.
One day as the girl’s father was working in his garden he sat down to rest himself by the well, and, looking in, and seeing how deep it was, he fell a-thinking.

“If Jane had a child,” said he to himself, “who knows but that one day it might play about here and fall in and be killed?”

The thought of such a thing filled him with sorrow, and he sat crying into the well for some time until his wife came to him.

“What is the matter?” asked she. “What are you crying for?”

Then the man told her his thoughts. “If Jane marries and has a child,” said he, “who knows but it might play about here and some day fall into the well and be killed?”

“Alack!” cried the woman, “I never thought of that before. It is, indeed, possible.” So she sat down and wept with her husband.

As neither of them came to the house the daughter shortly came to look for them, and when she found them sitting crying into the well “what is the matter?” she asked. “Why do you weep?” So her father told her of the thought that had struck him. “Yes,” said she, “it might happen.” So she too sat down with her father and mother, and wept into the well. They had sat there a good while when John comes to them.

“What has made you so sad?” asked he. So the father told him what had occurred, and said that he should be afraid to let him have his daughter seeing her child might fall into the well. “You are three fools,” said the young man, when he had heard him to an end, and leaving them, he thought over whether he should try to get Jane for his wife or not. At length he decided that he would marry her if he could find three people more foolish than her and her father and mother. He put on his boots and went out. “I will walk till I wear these boots out,” said he, “and if I find three more foolish people before I am barefoot, I will marry her.” So he went on, and walked very far till he came to a barn, at the door of which stood a man with a shovel in his hands. He seemed to be working very hard, shoveling the air in at the door.

“What are you doing?” asked John.

“I am shoveling in the sunbeams,” replied the man, “to ripen the corn.”

“Why don’t you have the corn out in the sun for it to ripen it?” asked John.

“Good,” said the man. “Why, I never thought of that! Good luck to you, for you have saved me many a weary day’s work.”

“That’s fool number one,” said John, and went on.

He travelled a long way, until one day he came to a cottage, against the wall of it was placed a ladder, and a man was trying to pull a cow up it by means of a rope, one end of which was round the cow’s neck.

“What are you about?” asked John.

“Why,” replied the man, “I want the cow up on the roof to eat off that fine tuft of grass you see growing there.”

“Why don’t you cut the grass and give it to the cow?” asked John.

“Why, now, I never thought of that!” answered the man. “So I will, of course, and many thanks, for many a good cow have I killed in trying to get it up there.”

“That’s fool number two,” said John to himself.

He walked on a long way, thinking there were more fools in the world than he had thought, and wondering what would be the next one he should meet. He had to wait a long time, however, and to walk very far, and his boots were almost worn out before he found another.

One day, however, he came to a field, in the middle of which he saw a pair of trousers standing up, being held up by sticks. A man was running about them and jumping over and over them.

“Hullo!” cried John. “What are you about?”

“Why,” said the man, “what need is there to ask? Don’t you see I want to get the trousers on?” so saying he took two or three more runs and jumps, but always jumped either to this side or that of the trousers.

“Why don’t you take the trousers and draw them on?” asked John.

“Good,” said the man. “Why, I never thought of it! Many thanks. I only wish you had come before, for I have lost a great deal of time in trying to jump into them.”

“That,” said John, “is fool number three.”

So, as his boots were not yet quite worn out, he returned to his home and went again to ask Jane of her father and mother. At last they gave her to him, and they lived very happily together, for John had a rail put round the well and the child did not fall into it."

Hector finishes his tale with a flourish. "I only hope that I too may find my three fools before I wear out my boots." Polite applause fills the room.
This message was last edited by the GM at 13:27, Mon 11 Feb 2019.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 80):

Mike clapped politely along with the others, his cigarette dangling from his lips loosely. When the applause had subsided, he took a drag and pulled the Lucky strike to the ash tray before stubbing it out.

"Well told, Hector," he said dryly, "and where do you expect to find three fools, when you're cooped up here with us yokels at such a fine dining establishment?"

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 81):

"You'd be surprised the things that make their way to Arkham. In fact we just received an rubbing of the etchings from Salt Tower. A magnificent addition to Mr. Wick's collection," says Carla as she leans back in her chair, balancing on its rear legs.

Tapping ash from his cigar in a nearby ashtray, Abner takes another sip of his wine. "Perhaps you gentlemen have come across something recently that might be of interest to me. I'm always looking to add to my collection..."

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 82):

Clarke snorted into his glass. It was a genuine one and as such awkward because he was out of practice with feeling anything other than heaviness and despair. The sound came out in two: the first a snuffle and then the low murmur of someone with a hunk of bread stuck in their throat.

"I am dreadfully sorry Ms. Wick," Clarke said. "Byron may be one of the most unique humanoids I have met in my travels, but alas, he is not for sale." Clarke paused and tapped the table. He added, "He's not even available for rental."

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 83):

Abner's eyes narrow. "Be series Clarke. You of all people know the sort of artifacts I speak of." Taking one last drag on his cigar as the cherry nearly reaches his finger, the large antiquarian ashes it. "If it were not already obvious, I would pay handsomely for any... information you might have."

The party notices that the room has gone quiet. The servants have left, not without placing extra bottles of wine within reach, and the host and his associates stare at the group, waiting...

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 84):

Mike crosses his arms in front of him after taking a sip from his wine glass and looked Abner square in the eyes, “Jokes aside Mr. Wick, our investigation has sadly come up short of anything of interest to you. Jack is gone and probably buried somewhere far from here. Though we’d probably all like to imagine otherwise, it appears to be the fact of the matter. I’m sorry we can’t be more helpful to you.”

Today: Jrodimus rolled 56 using 1d100.  Persuade check .

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 85):

*CRUNCH* The glass in Abner's hand shatters, the shards digging deep into his hand. Unnaturally slow, blood begins to ooze from his hand. "Do NOT toy with me Michael. I am not a man to be trifled with." Dropping the shattered remains of the glass, he begins to pick the pieces from his hand as Carla replaces his glass and refills it from a nearby bottle. Cinching a handkerchief around his hand, he quickly drains the glass which is just as quickly refilled. He gently sets the glass back down on the table, drawing a deep breath through his nostrils.

"Jack's alive..."

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 86):

As Abner’s glass shattered Mike steeped himself as his instincts kicked into fight or flight mode. He nearly reached for his revolver holstered out of view hidden beneath his dinner jacket.

Sonofabitch knows more than we do., he thought bitterly to himself. He bit down in his tongue to prevent from yelling a string of obscenities and threats at the obese man sitting at the end of the table. He felt that cold tingle on the back of his neck and skull again. The smell of wet dirt seemed to waft in on an imagined breeze.

As Abner drained his fresh glasses of wine he composed himself and lit another cigarette.

“Jack’s alive, huh?” Mike began. He shrugged in disbelief as he ashed his Lucky Strike before taking another inhale. “So it seems to me that you know more about this than we do. So why the charade and this fucking horse and pony show? Why waste our time and your money when you could’ve revealed the truth this entire time. Knowing you, there’s a con game going here and you seem to think you can swindle us for something. But whatever it is, it doesn’t matter.”

He met Abner’s gaze with what he hoped were eyes of steeled determination to not be fucked with as he took another drag from his cigarette and exhaled heavily like a sigh.

“What proof do you have that Jack’s even alive? Because I assure you, we’d all like to know if he is.”

Today: Jrodimus rolled 43 using 1d100.  Fast talk.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 87):

Roll: 96 - Acting: Fail

Clarke felt the floor drop out from under him when the revelation came. It was as if he was hovering over a deep abyss and all that awaited him at the bottom was the weeping and gnashing of teeth. He could hear the sounds of monsters as bones were snapped in chewed upon by unseen terrors.

Sweat pooled on his forehead, his fingers drummed against the table. Zoe stared at him, floating as if on air. She grinned widely - her mouth covering twice her face and her teeth slowly becoming more and more pointed. "What is for dinner Clarke?" she asked.

He desperately wanted to bolt down the hall, out into the air and never come back.

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 88):

Abner's eyes move slowly between Mike and Clarke, noting the markedly different reactions. "Might I remind you Mike, you are my guest here and I demand to be treated with a least a modicum of respect," he says through gritted teeth. "At least your academic friend has the wherewithal to bite his tongue." With a wave his hand the air fills with the patter of footfalls as the servants exit the room in a hasty yet dignified manner.

The dinning room fills with a pregnant silence as Abner seemingly evaluates each of you with his gaze. Carla and Hector are almost ghostly still as if they fear to draw his attention to them.

With a grace that belies his size Abner rises to his feet and take a few long strides to the crackling fireplace that warms the room. A strange dimness fills the room as the large man stands before the fire. Backlit by the flames his features are nearly inscrutable. "I've known you a long time now Michael. I would have hoped we had cultivated a more... cordial relationship..." His shadow seems to stretch impossibly long across the room. "And you Clarke... Well I guess I should have known there is only one way to gain your confidence..." As he talks his hand begins to drift toward the inside pocket of his jacket.

"I had hoped it wouldn't come to this..."

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 89):

Mike saw Abner's hand drifting towards the inside pocket of his jacket and he shifted his body towards Abner and crossed his arms and attempted to snake one of his hands behind the other arm and into his jacket so he could reach his revolver if necessary, but tried to remain composed.

"Come to what, I might wonder." Mike asked half in genuine curiosity and half ready for a fight if the situation were to arise.

22:00, Today: Jrodimus rolled 64 using 1d100.  conceal readying action to grab hidden gun for combat.
This message was last edited by the player at 13:02, Wed 27 Mar 2019.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 90):

Clarke smoothed out his pants - hard. His palms were wet and he could feel the sweat sliding down his cheeks. He wanted to dab his face with a napkin, but that would have been rude.

He had very little in the way of protection if Abner decided to let loose with a semi-automatic pistol - just the silverware in front of him. His heart beat faster. This was not how he had wished to go - bamboozled by a pompous old man, but no one got to pick their death.

He leaned slightly to the side, to fall onto the ground if shooting started. He was still going to try.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 89):

Byron jumped out of his chair and slammed both his fists on the table. Gristle and wine slplatter across the white cloth.

“Abner!” Byron shouts at the man. His jealousy of the gratuitous display of ostentatious wealth finally boiled over. His indignity at being threatened and insulted all evening by a petit bourgeois gambler was now at a fever pitch. His neurotic obsession with his own misplaced class status had festered in his mind since the end of the war. He hadn’t survived that grueling ordeal to be kicked down the ladder further, evening if he made it through this night alive.

“We will not be intimidated by a two-bit bloated porcine swindler like yourself! Whatever deranged story you’ve concocted in your twisted mind, you can forget it. We’ll have no part in it. Good day sir!”

novissimo rolled 42 using 1d100.  Psychology/ Reverse Psychology/ Persuasion .
This message was last edited by the player at 07:56, Sat 30 Mar 2019.

In reply to novissimo (msg # 92):

A look of shock over Bryon's outburst briefly passes across Abner's face before being replaced by a scowl. Reaching into his jacket he pulls out a stack of bills and throws them on to the table. "I hope that once you're in my employ you might afford me a bit more courtesy." Straightening his jacket he looks at each of you. "Charles is a dear friend. If you can find his son it would be a small amount of solace for a dying man." Carla and Hector have visibly relaxed.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 93):

The sum on the table was not insignificant, and the task ran parallel with their own. However, Clarke eyed the glittering coins and dull notes with suspicion. This event had been a lot of fan fare for a simple job. A job they would have done simply out of the invisible bonds still holding them to the past.

Clarke stood, less abruptly than Bryan, but with a wilful determination. He would be away from this evil man, even if that meant moving towns after they had finished here. He flicked his jacket down. "I stand with my comrade," he said, dropping communist terminology to rile up the capitalist. "If we find Jack, it will be as a friend and not some pre-bought trackers wooed with cheap silver and rural cuisine."
This message was last edited by the player at 23:49, Sat 20 Apr 2019.

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 94):

Seeing Abner slap down the stack of cash on the table, Mike relaxed his posture and stood as he brushed off stray cigarette ashes off the front of his jacket.

"Clarke and Byron have the right of it. Thank you for the offer, but we don't need your money. If Jack is truly alive, then we'll find out, beholden to no one."

Mike nodded to his friends, "Shall we?"

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 95):

A strange impassivity seems to take over Abner as the party gathers their things and prepares to leave. He doesn't even reclaim his money from the table. Carla and Hector simply watch from the table, their eyes blinking slowly as you leave.

The intermittent moonlight caused by the rapidly moving canopy of clouds leaves the area surrounding Crawford's Restaurant a gray haze. As the party loads into the battered and dented truck their spirits are buoyed by a sense of righteous, having turned down Abner. However underneath it pulses a steady but dull thread of uncertainty. They had finally found evidence that Jack was alive. But had they been right to turn away Abner's offer? That money would have done a great deal to alleviate their current predicament. Maybe they could have greased some palms within the old rumor mill? Or at least fixed the truck, a fact that you're reminded of as the engine sputters to life. Heck, they could have just taken the money and split.

With the windows cracked to allow the wind to whip through the truck's cabin, everyone does their best to ignore the elephant in the room. The stone sits in its box on the center console. While you may have learned more about Jack, the party had yet to learn anything more about the stone. This seance was beginning to seem more and more like your last chance. For once, the silence is welcome as the truck rolls down the deserted streets...

“Ah, I cast indeed my net into their sea, and meant to catch good fish; but always did I draw up the head of some ancient God.”
This message was last edited by the GM at 13:31, Mon 15 Apr 2019.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 96):

Clarke hears the proverb whistle into the truck, as if the wind itself was talking to them. It sounded vaguely familiar, like an old lover one hadn't seen since university. He tried to place its meaning.

Occult roll: 59 - Fail

Unfortunately, the silence pushed out his other thoughts and he came up blank. The road kept sliding underneath of them.