Johan does a double-take as Dr. Kafour casually mentions the ‘Al-Azif’. He recognizes the name as another name for the dread Necronomicon, written by the mad Arab Abdul Al-Hazred (Abd al-Azrad). Only four copies of this blasphemous book are rumored to still exist. This would be another, hereto unknown copy, and its value would be immense.

Dr. Kafour always respected Sir Aubrey Penhew (who he now believes to be dead), as well as director Edward Gavigan, and the efforts of the Penhew Foundation in London. However, since Sir Aubrey’s death, there have been ten Foundation expeditions to Egypt, and among them there have been at least 20 deaths, numerous disappearances, several suicides, and one certified case of madness. Most have followed the same pattern of paranoid secrecy, erratic excavation, and bizarre incident that was set by the Carlyle Expedition.

You guardedly reveal a few short descriptions of what you have encountered so far. Johan watches the professor carefully as he listens. The man seems genuinely interested and not at all shocked by your stories, nodding often and scribbling notes.

“You have certainly done great deeds already!” Dr. Kafour says. “If what you say is true – and I have no reason to doubt this – the Carlyle Expedition got involved in some very dark magic and met with a terrible fate. It feels as if various shadowy entities are gathering their forces for some sort of cataclysmic event. What it could be, we can only speculate.”

He leans back in his chair and takes a sip of tea. “I am an old man and I cannot leave Cairo, but if I can offer assistance in any reasonable way, it would be my pleasure. I have a few contacts here in the city that might prove useful.”

‘If you are curious about the Clive Expedition, they are currently at Memphis. As for Mr. Al-Shakti, I have heard rumours about people going missing or dying of mysterious diseases after crossing him. He is careful to keep a benign public persona, but I sense corruption behind the mask.”

Asked to elaborate on his extensive knowledge of the Mythos, Dr. Kafour looks uneasy and hesitates before answering.

“Back when I was a young man, I was one of the guides on an expedition to the Rub' al Khali desert – the Empty Quarter. We were looking for Iram of the Pillars, the Nameless City, and to my sorrow, we found it. We descended to the tunnels under that lost city in search of knowledge, but instead found crawling horrors and burrowing monsters. Many died and many more were driven mad. I was one of the only ones to make it out alive, although I can never sleep easy at night, knowing the truths I learned there…

I carried with me some ancient scrolls I found, and took them to this very museum to get them read. I found others like me, who knew the truth of the universe – and I have worked here ever since, to learn more of these uncaring Gods and their designs on this world.”

Asked who these other people are, Dr. Kafour smiles slightly. “You will forgive me if I do not mention names at this early stage. One must be careful these days. Some are here in the museum, others around Cairo – and even some outside of Egypt. I would however urge you to visit a friend of mine in relation to your mission; the nazir, or holy man, at the Mosque of Ibn Tulun. You mentioned this place from your meeting with Mr. Najjar, and how the Brotherhood are hoping to obtain something from there.”

Dermot produces the stone you got from old Nuri and shows it to Dr. Kafour. "What can ye tell us about this symbol, this shard?” asks Dermot. “We acquired it recently under strange circumstances, and we suspect it holds some clue that could be vital to our mission."

The professor leans forward and studies the stone with interest. “A part of a capstone. From a red pyramid. Hmm… the symbol seems familiar. A protective sign of some power, I think. I would need to consult some of my resources. Can you leave it with me? Or allow me to take a rubbing of it?”

https://i.ibb.co/FXKsqny/hjg.jpg" data-lightbox="images-msg-40">https://i.ibb.co/FXKsqny/hjg.jpg" alt=''>

In reply to Dr. Kafour (msg # 40):

Dermot nods to Dr. Kafour. "A rubbing will do nicely, Doctor. We appreciate your help."

Dermot feels this is a man who can be trusted. Not that Dermot trusts anyone completely. He allows the historian to take his time making the rubbing. Afterward, he returns the fragment to his pocket (or whatever the equivalent in Egyptian garb).

Regarding his companions, Dermot makes a suggestion. "Well then, what do ye say we pay this holy man a visit?"

The mosque is about a kilometer due west of the Citadel of Saladin, and near due south of the Ezbekiya Gardens. The windswept wilderness of the City of the Dead begins less than a kilometer south of the mosque. The easiest way for you to get there is by hired car, which Salaam easily arranges.

The oldest complete mosque in the city of Cairo, Ibn Tulun is less ornate than many of Cairo’s later holy places. Traditional mosque design imitates the courtyard of Mohammed’s house in Medina, where the prophet first taught. Originally, Ibn Tulun was a walled court, open to the sky, with shade along several sides; however, since the middle of the 19th century the mosque has been converted and used as an asylum for the infirm and insane, rather than as a place of worship. This is evidenced by the shrieks and wails coming from within the building.

The nazir, Ahmed al-Dhahabi, is a busy man with a lot on his mind, and is uninterested in chatting with “tourists and gawkers,” whether they are local, foreign, Christian, or Muslim (or anyone else, for that matter). He is reluctant to see visitors but when you mention Dr. Kafour, one of the holy men leads you to a building adjacent to the mosque, which the old scholar uses as an office away from the noise and insanity of the asylum. al-Dhahabi has a lined and careworn face framed by a long, white beard. He wears a traditional white taqiyah (skull cap). He frowns at the presence of a woman at this holy place, but does not pursue it further.

“How can I help you?” he asks in Arabic.




This message was last edited by the GM at 17:42, Sat 16 Feb 2019.

In reply to GM (msg # 42):

(In Arabic) "I assure you we are many things, but we are not tourists.  We come at the suggestion of Dr. Kafour.  He says that you are a man who is wise, can be trusted and that might be knowledgeable in certain areas.  Is there somewhere private we can talk?"

The nazir nods. “This office is safe. No one can hear us. Here we spend our time meditating on the wisdom of the Prophet and guarding the secrets of the past. Tell me, why should I help you?”

In reply to GM (msg # 44):

Dermot doesn't know the precise manner of address for this religious figure, but he forges ahead in a serious tone.

"It seems, sir, that there here in the desert lies a growing threat to our world. We seek to extinguish an ancient evil of legend which is steadily rising toward a renewed reign of horrible darkness. Have ye heard of the Black Pharoah and his Brotherhood?"

Saleem translates for Dermot, and something in the smuggler’s tone seems to resonate with the old cleric.

“We are of course aware of these infidels,” he sighs. “They recently attacked this very mosque, seeking a relic that we have been guarding for millennia. Our brave warriors were able to drive them off with little effort. The Girdle is safely guarded from all comers. The evil ones shall not have it. In’shallah.”

In reply to GM (msg # 46):

"I'm glad to hear they caused you no extreme difficulty. If I might be nosey, what is this Girdle you speak of? We'd heard the cult was after something here, but we know nothing more."

---

Spoiler text: (Highlight or hover over the text to view)
Note to self: remember to ask about cult tactics and to show him the fragment.

---

This message was last edited by the player at 03:11, Mon 18 Feb 2019.

“It is the Girdle of Nitocris,” replies the nazir. “Worn by that evil Queen herself. It is said that when she wears all of her regalia, the Crown, the Necklace and the Girdle, she will walk the earth again. This will never happen!”

The old man stands from behind his desk, with a proud look in his eyes. “In fact, I will show you! Come, my friends. Come and meet our holy warriors, who guard the Girdle day and night!”

The Girdle rests beneath Ahmed al-Dhahabi’s office in a guarded cellar. The only entry is through an iron door at the back of the office, which is kept locked at all times. Behind the door, stairs lead down 25 feet (7.5 m). Here, it is cool and dry; the very conditions which have preserved so much of Egypt’s heritage. The nazir leads you down the stairs, which end at another locked iron door. Beyond is a bare room, 20×15×10 feet high (6×4.5×3 m), with walls of thick stone. A small chest sits in the center of the room.

Six men, all old and all armed with scimitars, sit or lie in alcoves along the wall, but they spring to attention as you arrive. The nazir explains that the lives of these men have concluded except in their zeal for Allah. Here, shut off from the world above, they testify, expound, and contemplate, waiting for death or a final chance to prove the temper of their faith.

Nessim Efti, 90 years old and the chief of the guards, stands ready with the Sword of Akmallah, an enormous scimitar, to defend the Girdle, or die trying.

In reply to GM (msg # 49):

Dermot is taken aback by the advanced age of the guarding force. He keeps a straight face ad he searches for a tactful way to satisfy his curiosity. He gives a slight bow in another attempt to imitate Saleem's gestures of respect.

"These men must be great in valor to hold off the cult forces. Tell me, did they not employ any supernatural measures in their invasion here?"

This latter question is directed more toward the chief guard, though he's happy to hear a response from the nazir alternatively.

Saleem is in the middle of translating Dermot’s question, when suddenly there is a great rending sound, and a tear appears in the very air above the chest. Impossibly, an enormous ropy and winged being appears from the crack and hovers below the ceiling, almost filling the room with its bulk.

It is a great viperlike creature, which has a curiously distorted head, and grotesquely great clawed appendage. It is supporting itself with ease by the aid of black rubbery wings of singularly monstrous dimensions.

It speaks in an unknown language with a great harsh voice, as the old men cry out in alarm and draw their swords…

[SAN roll please; 0/1D10]

In reply to GM (msg # 51):

At the appearance of this hideous beast of shadows, Dermot Murphy has finally seen too much. Deep within his fracturing psyche, Dermot catches a glimmer of the truth of the universe. Time and space seem to simultaneously unravel and contract around him. Behind the fragile mask of this apparent universe lie energies and entities too hideous for any whole human mind to comprehend and remain whole. Dermot's sight begins to blur as he staggers backward, weeping softly but openly.

Nearly falling over backward, his mental vision comes to a focus, of sorts. Dermot knows what he must do. Everything in this world is a sham. No one can be trusted. Nothing is real.

EVERYONE MUST DIE.

These thoughts are his own, and yet not his own. At least, not those of the Dermot Murphy he thought he knew, who clearly can't exist as he thought he did. Sweet oblivion he judges to be the only action now. He will cleanse this place of a handful of fakes and lies.

Dermot levels his gun at the second in a line of guards whose backs are turned, they facing this horrible and clarifying beast from another plane. He prepares to gun down a man he's never spoken to, and never will speak to.

In reply to GM (msg # 51):

Johan grabs a torch from the wall and moves toward the horror before him, point the light of the flame before him with as much of pace as he can muster.

Johan screams "mashael!...TORCHES!!!  Grab a torch!"

Rachel felt her heart sink to her stomach as a great, writhing creature rose above them. At Johan's screaming, she took a step towards the nearest torch she could find, but not before noticing that Dermot had a strangely calm look on his face. She saw him raise his gun towards one of the men.

Ah, shit! Someone else would have to take the torch. Rachel ran towards Dermot, trying to wrench the gun away from him.

12:34, Today: Rachel Katz rolled 40 using 1d100. Fighting Brawl. Regular Success.

Three guardians slash with their swords at the monster. Two misses, and the other powerful blow fails to even damage it. There is an audible snap as the man held by the monster's tail has his legs broken

Johan waves the torch at the hovering beast and it recoils ever so slightly from the light, but otherwise there is no effect.

Dermot manages to free his knife hand but instead of striking Rachel, he stabs himself during the melee (losing 5 hp).

Nessim, the old guardian, lifts his sword, almost as tall as himself, and brings it down on the monster. It screeches as the scimitar wounds it badly, and angrily bites the head off another guardian.
This message was last edited by the GM at 18:10, Tue 19 Feb 2019.

Crap. Rachel stared as Dermot took out a knife--and proceeded to stab himself. A quick glance at the creature told her that it was preoccupied at the moment, but they didn't have much time.

"Gustav! Johan!" Rachel shouted as she decided that Dermot could be handled more easily if he had a knife stuck to his leg. Grabbing his arms best she could, she tried to drag him towards the staircase.


07:47, Today: Rachel Katz rolled 71 using 1d100. Fighting Brawl.FAIL

In reply to GM (msg # 55):

Gustav, surprisingly, was not surprise by a sudden entity that flew in and swept inwards, attacking the old guards. In fact, He has seen some illustrations of this monster and the memory filled his mind during that long voyage from New York to London. He instinctively knew that it is weak against sources of light.

As he was about to grab a torch, he heard Ms. Katz shout both of him and Johan's names, then turning to see her trying to wrestle a knife away from Mr. Murphy as he plunged the knife deep in himself.

Flashbacks of a time in London where the memories are still fresh when Gustav set his revolver on Ms. Katz, Gustav acted fast and pulled his brash knuckle to knock out his friend. Due to the confusion, he might have missed and proceeded to help Ms. Katz dragged the deranged Mr. Murphy out of the room. Grabbing Saleem as well.

'Johan! We have to run!'

Wisely deciding that discretion is the better part of valor, you grab Saleem and the cursing Dermot and quickly retreat from the room, closing the door behind you. There are a few more moments of screeching and screaming, and then only silence.

As you cautiously open the door again to peek inside, you see a scene that most closely resembles an abattoir. The walls and floor are red with blood and the bodies of five dead warriors. There is no sign of Essim Efti, his mighty sword – or the small chest that rested in the middle of the room…

You eventually manage to calm Dermot down and stop the bleeding from his wound. The nazir, who ran away when the Hunting Horror appeared, cautiously returns to the stairway again and looks in shock at the blood-spattered room.

“Allah be merciful!" he cries. "The winged djinn has taken the Girdle and slain my warriors. All is lost! Nitocris will walk the earth again.” He leans against the cold stone wall and weeps. “Go home to your loved ones. Spend time with them, for soon darkness will cover the land.”


This message was last edited by the GM at 15:30, Mon 25 Feb 2019.

In reply to GM (msg # 59):

Once Dermot is snapped out of his insanity and bandaged, he makes a feeble attempt to regain his composure. This attempt , naturally, has very little success. He manages to change into a fresh set of clothes before heading to the nearesr pub to drown his sorrows in whiskey.

After a couple days’ rest, or what must only pass as such after such a harrowing ordeal, Dermot weakly suggests hitting up the Clive Expedition to continue the investigation. For the first time in a long time, he’s unsure and afraid. This brotherhood must be stopped at all costs.

In reply to Frau Specht (msg # 61):

Gustav joined Dermot on the pub partly to make sure everything is all right with his friend, partly also to swallow up the most recent ordeal they had faced. After making sure no one was following them back to their hotel, Gustav settled to the comfort of the bottom of his mug.

"Not our better days herr Dermot?"

Gustav spends the night drowning in alcohol and whatever merry exotic music  playing in the background


A few days later, when everyone was stocked and ready, the group headed to the Clive expedition in Memphis.

Memphis, city and capital of ancient Egypt and an important centre during much of Egyptian history, is located south of the Nile River delta, on the west bank of the river, and about 24 km south of Cairo. Closely associated with the ancient city’s site are the cemeteries, or necropolises, of Memphis, where the famous pyramids of Egypt are located.

The Clive Expedition’s dig site at Memphis is impressively guarded. It lacks only minefields and machine guns to be up to the defensive standards of the Great War. Anyone with experience of archaeological digs knows that this level of defense is unusual but not unheard of in countries where there is political or civil unrest.

You are stopped near the entrance to the dig by armed guards. After a short while, a young woman strides up to the checkpoint. She has a well-honed physique and a golden tan. She wears jodhpurs and a close-fitting tailored shirt, and keeps her blond, wavy hair in a ponytail.

“Was geht hier vor?” she snaps at the guards. “Who are these people?”