Despite the fact that Cockburn was dead, Moretti remained alert, keeping to the shadows as he moved to the rear of the building and approached the Foundation's back entrance.

Working quickly, he did his best to recall the nuances of the lock as he tried to get the door open a second time.

01:34, Today: Vincent Moretti rolled 80 using 1d100 with rolls of 80.  Stealth - Stealth 80%.

01:33, Today: Vincent Moretti rolled 94 using 1d100 with rolls of 94.  Locksmith - Locksmith 70%.

OOC: Let me know if I can take another crack at the lock, or if I'll need to contrive some other way to enter.

<u>OOC</u>:

Sure, you can make an attempt. Each failed attempt sets you back ten minutes.

Moretti took a deep breath, trying to push some of the events of the evening, as well as the pain in his side, out of his mind. Focusing solely on the task at hand, he attempted to open the lock a second time.

21:02, Today: Vincent Moretti rolled 9 using 1d100 with rolls of 9.  Locksmith - Locksmith 70%.

The lock popped open, and Vincent was able to pull the door open if he so wished.

OOC:

If you can give me a general idea of what you plan, I can call for the appropriate rolls and narrate the outcome at once rather than doing a blow by blow.

Moretti slipped inside the Foundation, easing the door closed behind him. Moving quickly and quietly, he entered the storage area and pressed the eyes on the false sarcophagus, as he had seen Rosalie do, to access the hidden chamber below.

His knowledge of the building from the recent incursion, as well as his flashlight lead him directly to the sarcophagus, gaining him access to the hidden chamber below. Once he reached that place, he could see the body tucked away in the corner where he had left it.

With the bottle of Lagavulin that he had collected from Gavigan's office in one hand, Moretti descended into the hidden study. Pressing the button to close the false sarcophagus above, he first circled the stairs, trying to get a sense of the best place to remain hidden from someone entering from above.

Moving over to Cockburn, he crouched beside the fallen guard. Reaching into his pocket, he took out one of the vials of his own blood, slowly uncorking it. Even with all he'd seen, the horrors he had encountered alongside the Elias family in New York, there remained a tickle of doubt whether the spell would actually work. Whether he wanted it to do as it promised.

Pushing past his doubts, he quietly began reciting the words he had committed to memory, following the actions the incantation required.

OOC: Cast Create Zombie

Pouring the blood into Cockburn's mouth, he leaned in, placing a kiss on the lips of the body, breathing part of the self into the body as the spell instructed him to do. He felt a feeling of elation, a rush of joy and excitement rush into his body, almost immediately followed by a sensation of tremendous loss.

The body of Cockburn, all this time dead, began to lurch.

---

OOC:

You lose 1 point of POW, and 1d10 Sanity. Before I post any more, let's get that roll.

23:32, Today: Vincent Moretti rolled 9 using 1d10 with rolls of 9.  Sanity Loss - Spell

23:33, Today: Vincent Moretti rolled 57 using 1d100 with rolls of 57.  Idea - Idea 85%.

Vincent heard a scream after he saw the body lurch to life, and to his surprise he realized it came from within him, as he came to some realization of the life force within him leaching into the body on the ground. Before he could think too much on the subject, he collapsed.

Some time later, he woke up to find the raised corpse of the Penhew Foundation guard staring at him relentlessly but otherwise dormant.

---

OOC:

Vincent has a fainting fit, and was out for about 45 seconds, though it's hard for him to know exactly how long he'd been out until he checks the time.

For seeing the Zombie just after coming to, give me a Sanity roll (you will lose 1/1d4 SAN).

13:38, Today: Vincent Moretti rolled 19 using 1d100 with rolls of 19.  Sanity - Sanity 56%.

OOC: That's three points away from a fifth.

Moretti blinked, uncertain of how long he had been unconscious. Cold rippled through him as he sat up, the unsettling environment of Edward Gavigan's study seeming somehow more threatening, more alien than it had before. He tried to swallow, his parched throat making the act painful.

His eyes were drawn to Cockburn, standing there, defying death and reason, wrenched out of rest to serve his bidding. The man he'd murdered. In sudden, sharp focus he saw himself firing at the guard, followed a moment later by Cotton's tackle. The watchman crumpling, the light fading from his eyes. Rosalie's gaze, the anger, the disgust in her expression.

The cold in his flesh deepened and somehow the thoughts of the guard's death bled into others. Him as a boy, pointing a gun at a man for the first time. The hijacking in the Kitchen that went so terribly wrong. The murder of four of D'Aquila's soldatos at a barber shop in the Bowery. Beating one of Larry Fay's men bloody in the yard at Welfare Island while the guards turned a blind eye. The memories kept coming, as though they had a life of their own. Or perhaps some unseen entity, mindful of justice, was intent on bludgeoning him with the weight of his own evil.

There were so many of them, mental pictures collected from a life given to crime and violence. The volume of them was overwhelming, their mute testimony to the choices he had made, the monster he'd become, relentless and inescapable. At some point, as they flooded his consciousness, he hugged his knees, keeping his head bowed, his jaw clenched so tightly he could hear his teeth grinding together, tasting a trickle of blood in his mouth.

Eventually, he wept. Deep, choking sobs that shook his whole body violently, tearing open the wound in his side afresh. Only the dead man, with his unblinking stare, bore witness to his grief. Time became lost to him, but finally his tears abated, more because his eyes could produce no more, rather than a lifting of the mourning that pressed down on him. Shakily, he released his knees and struggled to his feet.

Gavigan.

The name came to him like a long forgotten memory. He was here to stop Gavigan. To get information, if the man would talk. To kill him, were he to prove able. Reaching down, he picked up the bottle of liquor and opened it. Setting it down, he felt in his coat pocket. Making certain his matches were there.

Gavigan. He had to protect his family from him.

No. That was wrong. Not his family. He was indebted to the Eliases. They had shown kindness to his Madre and Papa when they came to America. But he was not one of them. He was a resource to them. A tool. Nothing more than that. If one owned a guard dog, they would ensure the animal was fed, even show it the occasional kindness. But that was only to make certain it could do its job. When the owner went into his warm house, the dog remained out in the cold, keeping watch.

He drew the revolver from beneath his coat. Slowly, he checked the cylinder, making certain the gun was fully loaded.

Gavigan. Duty.

He had to see this through. To try and stop the cult leader. To keep him from harming the Eliases, if he was able. It was the right thing. The rare, admirable choice in a life filled with heinous ones.

He returned the gun to his waistband, not bothering to conceal it, positioning it where it would come to hand easily. Looking back at Cockburn, he addressed the corpse.

"There is a man that I believe will come down here soon," he said, his voice hoarse and small. "His name is Gavigan. I will whisper his name when he arrives. You will grab him. Hold him. And when I tell you, you will open his throat with your teeth."

He pointed to the shadowed area behind and right of the staircase. "Stand there," he said, pointing, "You will move when I whisper his name."

He glanced up at the ceiling, wondering about the time. Stooping down, he took the liquor bottle and moved to the same spot he ordered the dead man to go. Keeping the spirits in easy reach, he leaned against the wall and waited.
This message was last edited by the player at 20:15, Fri 19 May 2017.

The dead man stared at him, his comprehension of Vincent's instructions uncertain, as it gave no acknowledgement of any thing. Only when he issued it a command to stand in a particular place, did it do as he instructed, moving to stand where he guided it.

---

OOC:

Vincent would recall that the Zombie will only order simple commands; there's no telling what it will make of his instructions.

If you are waiting on Gavigan, this thread will go on pause for a bit while I reconcile what the others are doing.

Though his thinking remained tangled with his raw emotions, Moretti recognized that the dead man could not comprehend his complex commands.

He pointed to the space beside him beneath the shadow of the staircase. "Come," He said, "Stand here. Wait."

The animated corpse did as he said, standing in the indicated place.

Hours passed, and the night was still and quiet, Vincent remaining alone in the basement with the haunting animated corpse of the man he killed.

---

OOC:

Give me two 0/1 SAN rolls for hanging out quietly in a basement with the zombified corpse of a man Vincent killed earlier for a matter of hours.

Also, please give me a Listen roll...for things and stuff.

I'm still waiting on some PMs to properly coordinate what is happening when, so bear with me for a bit - but I figured I'd expedite things by getting some rolls out of the way.

As he waited, his eyes kept returning to Cockburn, the man he'd killed, the man he'd murdered standing beside him, robbed of what rest eternity could offer, forced to serve the one who had taken his life as a lackey, a prisoner of another's ruthless will.

Waiting there, in Gavigan's hideous, shadow draped study, Moretti began to see Cockburn differently. Just as he had said when he visited the watchman's empty flat, they were much the same, soldatos assigned to guard the possessions of evil men. But now, in death, he felt an even greater kinship with the ex-soldier.

Cockburn stood by the means of dark magic yet, in many ways, Moretti felt he closely resembled the watchman, the pulse that threaded his veins the thin line that separated them. But in spirit, they were brothers. Though it was painful to acknowledge, the truth was he had long been a vacant husk himself, reduced to carrying out the commands of others, long bereft of any real reason for living, save the purely physical instinct for survival.

At times, he closed his eyes, trying to rid himself of the weight of his thoughts, listening for any hint of Gavigan's approach.

12:33, Today: Vincent Moretti rolled 88 using 1d100 with rolls of 88.  Sanity - Sanity 55%.

12:33, Today: Vincent Moretti rolled 94 using 1d100 with rolls of 94.  Sanity - Sanity 54%.

OOC: Just as a bookkeeping reminder, with those two failed rolls, that's a total of 12 points lost for the "game day" against a starting total of 65. One more point will bring it to a loss of one fifth/20%.

12:38, Today: Vincent Moretti rolled 12 using 1d100 with rolls of 12.  Listen - Listen 25%.

The hours ticked by slowly in the company of the dead man, and Vincent waited quietly in the dark, the macabre presence by his side slowly gnawing away at the edges of his sanity even as he pushed back on it. There was simply no ignoring that he was waiting in a dark room with a man he had just killed, and then raised from the dead by some sort of unholy ritual using his own blood. There were times when there was just no corner of one's mind to retreat into, and this was one such.

Checking the time, when his watch read 8:20, he could hear very faint signs of noise from the ground floor of the building. The sound didn't obviously come from directly above him, being generally hard to pin down. The only thing apparent was the presence of someone else in the building.

Suddenly aware that his own breathing had become ragged, Moretti did his best to calm himself, settling his respirations into a slow, even rhythm. Reaching into his coat pocket, he slid his fingers into the brass knuckles, then bent down, retrieved the bottle of liquor, and opened it. He gave a sidelong glance at his dead companion, then focused his attention on the ceiling, listening for any hint of someone approaching the false sarcophagus, hoping against hope that the early morning visitor was Gavigan, and that the guard's absence would cause him enough worry that he would overlook caution.

Another ten minutes pass, but no one attempts to enter the basement. Yet another ten minutes pass, though no change seems imminent.

After another hour passed, Moretti settled with the idea that Gavigan wasn't going to descend into the study, at least not anytime in the immediate future.

Switching on his flashlight, he stepped over to the bookcase, taking down a pair of books that appeared to be more recent publications. Placing them on the floor in the center of the room, he doused both with a generous splash of Gavigan's liquor.

Glancing over at Cockburn, he said, "Attack anyone who comes in. Not me." He gestured and shook his head to emphasize his commands.

Stepping over to the staircase, he pushed the button to open the sarcophagus above, then turned, lit a match, and tossed onto the alcohol soaked books.

He climbed the stairs, then stepped across the storeroom to the secret door that led into Gavigan's office and pushed it open.

If needed:

11:47, Today: Vincent Moretti rolled 55 using 1d100 with rolls of 55.  Stealth - Stealth 80%.

As he quietly ascended the stairs, he could already smell the book burning and the first hints of smoke. Moving quietly through the secret door, he found himself in Gavigan's dark and empty office, the door still ajar as it had been before. It appeared as untouched and unchanged as they had left it.

Muttering a curse under his breath, he glanced around the office for a moment, his eyes primarily trained on the desk, hunting for any piece of stationary or correspondence that might reveal Gavigan's home address. That done, he moved back through the concealed door, closed it, and returned below.

Stomping out the small fire, he buttoned up his coat and moved back to the stairs. Looking at Cockburn one last time, he said, "Kill anyone who comes down here."

Returning upstairs, he pushed the buttons to close the sarcophagus. Moving to the hallway door, he looked out, searching for any movement in the hall. If all was clear, he stepped over to the back door to make his exit.

Both failed.

12:26, Today: Vincent Moretti rolled 88 using 1d100 with rolls of 88.  Stealth.

12:25, Today: Vincent Moretti rolled 67 using 1d100 with rolls of 67.  Spot Hidden.

Light streamed into the building from its windows now, and Vincent no longer had the cover of darkness to sneak about in, leaving him exposed as he made the short few steps to the back door.

"Oy, who goes there?" called a voice at Vincent's retreating form. "Cockburn, is that you?"

With the gnawing pain in his side, Moretti didn't have to fake sounding haggard. Even so, he pulled his scarf up to muffle his voice and tried to affect the best British accent he could muster. Without turning around, he gestured haphazardly in the direction of the storage room.

"Need some air. Got a gulp of smoke in there. You need to call the fire brigade. I think there's a blaze starting up."

Summoning a hacking cough, he kept his eyes forward, searching for the quickest exit from the Foundation's rear courtyard.

Vincent was able to make his way out of the building without incident, finding a quiet London morning awaiting him.