In reply to novissimo (msg # 91):

Byron's second wind, while not enough to separate himself from his pursuer, is enough to maintain the distance between them. "Get back here you idiot! If you run any farther into the woods we're gonna get lost!" Thankfully the faint moonlight that drifts through the forest canopy is enough to light the path in front of Byron. Leaping over a fallen log, he seems to freeze in midair as a vision feels his mind's eye...

The man's heavy weight crushes Byron into the forest floor and his heels futilely scrabble for purchase. The man's hot breath, smelling of shitty tobacco and gin, seems to fill the world. The man's thick, ape-like fingers are wrapped around Byron's windpipe, strangling the life from the academic. As his vision begins to blur, his head is filled by a passage from Thoughts for the Times of War and Death by Freud.

It is indeed impossible to imagine our own death. Whenever we attempt to do so we can perceive that we are, in fact, still present as spectators. In fact, we could say that we assist at our own death, as if the one who dies in our imagination were a different person. We can't imagine how we would be like dead, without being able to think or see, for example. We can't accept our own death, as at the bottom no one believes in his own death. In the unconscious, every one of us is convinced of his own immortality. There is no sense of the passage of time; time does not work chronologically in our unconscious. This unconscious belief that nothing can happen to us may be seen as 'the secret of heroism'.

So much for being a hero...

As the last bit of consciousness begins to fade from Byron's mind, his murderer leans down and whispers in his ear. "Open. The box..." Almost as if of their own control, Byron's eyes shift to the box, lying in the leaves where he had dropped it. The carved reliefs on the box seen to dance in demonic glee, throwing their hands in the sky in supplication to an unseen deity. Slowly the lid swings open on silent hinges...

Thump Byron lands on the other side of the log, nearly losing his balance in the process. The box seems to grow heavier and heavier in his arms. Open. Me.
This message was last edited by the GM at 05:21, Sun 05 Nov 2017.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 92):

Clarke pushed Mike towards the truck. "This man said he had a note from Jack. We were just going to pick it up."

As Clarke moved, he kept the lights between them so his face couldn't be seen.

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 93):

A quizzical look passes over the man's face for a second, only to be replaced by a horrendously fake smile, fully displaying his blackened teeth. "Ah, so he's one of Jack's," says the man. He takes a few unbalanced hops towards the cab of his vehicle steadying himself against the hood. "I had forgotten that Lance had put another man on the mission. Just let me grab something and I'll help you with that traitor."

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 94):

Jack's alive...?

Mike resisted the urge to rush the crippled man full speed and lurched forward towards his truck.

Just need to survive this...Jack could be alive...that fucking crazy bastard.

Mike continued moving to the truck, "Look guys, I don't know whats going on. Jack sent a letter and a box...he said not to open the box..." He really coughed, not just for dramatic effect.

Am I losing blood?

He continued on until he got to his truck, and leaned against the hood.

"Do you want the box or not?" He said to Clarke motioning him over in what he hoped appeared to be resignation.

23:44, Today: Jrodimus rolled 25 using 1d100.  Fast Talk.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 95):

"Yes, the box... That's what I want..." The one legged man reaches into the cab of his vehicle. "But perhaps you should ask my children," he says in an almost ominous gloat. A sudden click sending a sicking shudder through Mike as a headlights of the car switch off and an inaudible scream fills the night. Despite what may be taught in the world of science, Mike can feel the shadows grow unnaturally around him. As his heart races, he can feel that he has to make a decision now or put everyone in danger.

Clarke's lantern stopped everything from turning dark. Although he couldn't see the area as well as before, he definitely could make out the key shapes of the people in the area.

He took a step back towards Mike's truck and fired a shot towards their mysterious antagonist. Although his monster killing bullets were gone, Clarke thought the man seemed to be made of blood and flesh.

(Firearm roll: 30)

After all his bad luck that night, Clarke's shot went straight and true. It whistled through the air heading directly at the shadow representing the man with golden knuckles.

"You're always a little late with that luck," Zoe said, scratching her nose. "Should work on that."

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 97):

Clarke's shot takes the man in the shoulder, spinning him around as he falls to the ground with a grunt. An unearthly wail fills the night, as night replaces the brightness of the headlights. Clarke can hear a rustling coming from inside the cabin. Dressed in a chemise and clutching tightly to a blanket and a plush bear, Zoe peeks into the open door of the cabin. "I think you made them angry. Though you do tend to have that affect honey."

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 98):

Mike saw the one legged man go down as Clarke's shot rang true. He sprung into action and moved opened the drivers side door and slid into the seat and jammed the key into the ignition and turned it.

00:04, Today: Jrodimus rolled 72 using 1d100.  Drive check.

And the engine didn't turn over.

Fuck.

Leaving the key in the ignition, Mike quickly leaned over to the glove box and opened it. He groped frantically about in the darkness until he found his headlamp and put it on over his forehead and switched it on.

He peered around looking for slithering and shifting shadows.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 99):

While brighter than Clarke's lantern, Mike's headlamp does little more than illuminate the direction he is looking in. Unfortunately what it does shine light upon is the monstrous shadows as they surge towards the cabin door.

"Begone demons!" bellows Father Henesey, throwing a handful of vials at the doorway, completely coating the entryway in the shining viscous liquid. The shadows pull short of the door hissing in annoyance. "We need to retrieve the box," says the father, running over to the truck, panting in exertion. "Your friend has no idea what kind of danger he is in!"
This message was last edited by the GM at 14:10, Wed 08 Nov 2017.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 100):

"What's happening with the truck?" Clarke yelled as he moved backwards towards the vehicle. He thought he'd heard a click, but it was difficult to tell in such a large open space.

He fired one last parting shot towards the mysterious figure who had disrupted their lives. His life.

(Firearms roll: 8)


He staggered back into the truck. His body making contact with it. "We gotta get out of here Mike, pick up Byron the way."

He could see the priest making a dash for their vehicle in a way that showed he was not a man who had needed to run for a very long time.

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 101):

Clarke's shot rings off the wheelhouse of the car, the man having managed to drag himself behind cover. "You can't escape," comes his voice from behind the vehicle. "By now my associate has caught that friend of yours and wrung his neck." These is a slight pause as the man stifles a groan. "Put down the guns and I may even let you go, we just came here for the priest."
This message was last edited by the GM at 03:56, Thu 09 Nov 2017.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 102):

"Well, what are you waiting for? Get in!"

Once Clarke and the priest were in the truck, Mike put the Chevy truck in reverse and backed out of the short gravel driveway into the small road in front of the cabin. "Hey padre, you know how to use a gun?"

He put the truck into drive and slammed on the accelerator. "Which way did Byron go?"

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 103):

"I may be a man of the cloth," says the father, bouncing around the back of the cab as the truck leaps into motion, "but I have no desire to meet my maker sooner than I must." As Mike starts to navigate the truck down the gravel road, the father grabs the back of the driver's seat and pulls himself forward. "We can't leave the box behind. If they regain possession of it, all will be for nothing. And your friend can't run forever. As I'm sure you can guess, the Order doesn't take prisoners."

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 104):

Ah, hell.

Mike took his best guess and steered his truck into the treeline carefully, avoiding the first trees that lined the road. "Watch our back padre, let me know if you see anyone." He turns to Clarke, "Hold on!"

01:03, Today: Jrodimus rolled 98 using 1d100.  Drive check.

The truck bottomed out with a loud screeeeeeee and stopped dead in it's tracks.

"Fuck!" He exclaimed in rage.

"Well We're fucking hoofing it now. Let's get that bastard."

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 105):

Panting and wheezing his way through the brush, his legs burning and the pit of his stomach heavy with pain and fear, Byron dares not look back.

"I really haven't run this much in a while" he thinks to himself as he regrets neglecting calisthenics all these years.

His unexplained gashes still oozing blood, he redoubles his grip and girds himself to keep running from the crazed cultist on his trail.

novissimo rolled 23 using 1d100

Byron catches his second wind and manages a slight sprint.

Suddenly his sense of hearing clears and, as if his pace puts him in a meditative state, he comes to realize the rhythmic thudding of his feet sound like chanting that is growing progressively louder...

open me open me open me open me open me open me OPEN ME OPEN ME

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 105):

Mike
The sound of metal on stone grates in Mike's ears. He can only hope that no lasting damage has been done to the truck. Getting out of the vehicle he can see that the front axel is caught on an outcropping. Given time, he could probably get her loose, but for now the old Chevy was stuck. Shelly isn't going to be too happy.

He notices that the air isn't filled with the usual crises and calls of nocturnal fauna. Instead, a low buzzing fills the night. As he tries to find his bearings, Mike thinks he can hear some shouting off in the distance.


Byron
As the chanting seems to rise to a crescendo, Byron suddenly breaks through the tree line. He finds himself in a small clearing, a large stream separating the two banks. At first glance, Byron figures that he might be able to wade across, although the box would make things difficult. The thrashing in the underbrush behind him and a muffled curse remind him of the gravity of the situation. The box gives a sudden almost impatient twitch in his arms.

Clarke
Clarke helps the woozy father from the rear of the cab, noticing the giant knot growing on his brow. "You see Clarke, this is why they should leave the driving to the French," says Zoe, a cigarette holder dangling from one gloved hand and racing goggles pulled low over her eyes.
This message was last edited by the GM at 21:07, Thu 09 Nov 2017.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 107):

"How are you holding up?" Clarke asked the Priest as he helped him down from the truck. "When we're done with this, Mike should take a few extra driving lessons."

As the priest started to reply, Clarke opened the chamber to his pistol and ejected the bullets. He started to reload them one by one as they walked deeper into the forest.

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 108):

Mike motioned for Clarke to be quiet and listened carefully for the shouting.

"Must be Byron or his pursuers. Time to be heroes." He said as he took off into the forest heading towards the voices.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 107):

Not wanting to risk a trek through the waters, Byron finds a large bush to hide behind.

novissimo rolled 96 using 1d100.  Hide.

He snaps several  twigs and branches loud enough for anyone in ear shot to hear.

He hopes his assailants are far enough behind him that they didn't see where he went.

The twitching of the box, after the hearing the disembodied voices, drives Byron over the edge.

"What is in this thing?" he angrily asks himself.

He places his hand on the lid...
This message was last edited by the player at 03:22, Sat 11 Nov 2017.

In reply to novissimo (msg # 110):

Byron's pursuer crashes through the trees, stopping with his hands on his knees, panting as he catches his breath. Despite Byron's efforts, the man easily spots him in the bushes. "So..... you've finally... come to your senses..... Now.... give me.... the fucking.... box," he says drawing deep ragged breaths. He pulls a knife from his belt and begins to stalk towards Byron.

Seeing his death in real time, Byron's mind reels. The incessant chanting of the box seems to have disappear, almost as whatever was in the box had left him to his fate. It sits heavily in his hands, it's silence almost like a stinging and disappointed rebuke...

The tiniest voice seems to penetrate Byron's conscious mind. In almost a childlike plea he hears the words, perhaps for the last time... Open ME...

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 111):

Eyes wide in terror, stricken with panic, the words come to him as an oasis.

With a face of grim defeat and befuddlement, he stares at the box as he pulls the lid up...

In reply to novissimo (msg # 112):

As Byron pulls open the lid of the box, the world around his seems to become deathly still. Almost immediately  he notices that the walls of the box seem to be lined with lead. Fully opening the box reveals a large shard of stone nestling in a pile of cloth. It appears to be made of gray slate but has an odd metallic sheen to it.

Looking at the shard, Byron's mind is bombarded with strange images. Like water rushing into the lungs of a drowning man, his mind is flooded mathematical and geometric symbols, odd curvings and anomalies of space-time, and brief, but horrific, manifestations of indescribable things. Just as his sanity is pushed to its limit Byron feels the images start to withdrawal.

As he comes back to his senses, Byron finds the stone in his hands, the box lying discarded on the ground. Smooth and oddly cold to the touch, he can feel the presence of the stone in his mind, turning slowly as if measuring him.

"Gimme that stone boy!" Shouts the man as he continues to approach.

Again Byron's mind is flooded with images but this time the message was crystal clear. Use Me
This message had punctuation tweaked by the GM at 11:01, Sun 12 Nov 2017.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 113):

Mike's foot caught on a root and he nearly tumbled forward. He felt blood run down his back and the cold air where his shirt was ripped. He wasn't sure if he could still hear the shouting with the wind in his ears. Branches whipped by him, reaching to claw at his face and flesh.

He had suspected Jack might still be alive, and it seemed true given by Peg Leg's reaction.

Should've made sure the bastard was dead.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 113):



Byron's fear melts away as he feels the power radiating from the stone in his hand.

His head is filled with a static whitenoise that start to build.

A sense of glee surges through him as a realizes the tables have turned.

The noise breaks, Byron holds the stone out in front of him.

He focuses all his will into activating the stone with his mind.

"Fire away" he says

In reply to novissimo (msg # 115):

It only takes a moment. Byron feels a dark energy surge through his body, emanating from the stone.

"For the last fucking time! Give me the..." The thug freezes in mid stride, his face the picture of abject horror. We don't fear death. The man is only able to whimper in fear before the stone's magic takes him. In the blink of an eye he seems to age decades, hair falling from his head in clumps and skin wrinkling and darkening with liver spots. "Ugh..." the man moans through a suddenly toothless mouth. A cracking fills the air as his bones break under there own weight. In a matter of moments the once dangerous criminal is reduced to a pile of dust, no more than would be a corpse left to the elements.

Byron watches in horror as the wind blows to dust towards him, coating his skin and clotting his wounds. Reflexively covering his eyes, he stumbles back a few steps. When he lowers his arms he is amazed by what he see. While his clothes are still tattered by massive rips, the skin underneath is once again solid and seamless. We are god.

A sudden crashing through the trees startles Byron as Clarke, Mike and Father Henesey break through the tree line.
This message was last edited by the GM at 14:38, Sun 12 Nov 2017.