Farewells are said with a sense of uncertainty as no one knows what is to come. Mike and Clarke gather the meager supplies left at the base camp and set off across the clearing. The moon has just started to descend in the sky, letting you know that there are still a number of hours left in the night.

The first sign of the bog comes as Mike feels a slight sting in his neck. Slapping his hand to the spot he pulls it away to find the squashed body of a mosquito. Listening carefully you can hear a low buzz in the background of the night.

Slowly you are surrounded by trees, their gnarled roots sprouting in and out of the ground causing you to watch your step. You are able to follow a small worn path as the canopy filters out most of the moonlight. As the smell of fungus, decay, and stagnant water fills your nose you come upon the edge of the bog.

Lined with a thin film of scum, the waters of the bog stretch out before you. Surprisingly, although the professor suggested as much, there is a rickety wooden dock leading out into the water with a trio of small skiffs anchored by ropes. A number of wooden traps sit unfilled.　The night is filled by the chirps of insects.

Everything seems... calm. No cults, no bloody zombies, no elder gods.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 1):

Clarke looked around the area for any signs of disturbance or danger.

Roll: 86 - Fail

Although he noticed nothing, the unease in him would not depart. The mosquitos buzzed around his ears, making him feel nervous and irritated.

"Can you see anything?" he asked Mike. "There are too many skiffs for a single expedition."

16:17, Today: Jrodimus rolled 100 using 1d100.  Spot hidden. Fail.

Mike looked around the trees and the muddy waters. Now Mike knew that the smell wasn't in his imagination only, but he didn't see anything of note. "Well, we're not exactly going into safe territory. But they did say local fishermen come out here regularly. Probably nothing to worry about." Mike eyed the boats wondering which one was less likely to sink.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 3):

"Well, let's get going then," Clarke said. He attempted to use the bog as cover and hide from visible onlookers, but his plan did not work. There was too much empty space for him and the clothes he was wearing did not help him blend in.

Stealth: Fail

As he approached the jetty, he looked over the boats. They were not in the best condition, but he hoped one of them would hold two weary travellers. He attempted to determine which one the previous expedition had used.

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 4):

While Clarke can't tell how recently they have been used, he can tell that small boats are used frequently. It is likely that the few locals who fish the area use the skiffs to navigate the bog, perhaps fishing for bottom-feeders. The jetty creaks ominously under Clarke's feet has he inspects the vessels. They seem to be able to hold two people but only one would be able to steer, using a pole to push off the bottom of the bog.

Holding on to a post on the jetty, Mike carefully got into a boat that looked to be bogworthy and picked up the steering pole. "I saw people use these in France. A strange people indeed." he said as way of a joke to lighten the mood despite his own nervous fear.

He waited for Clarke to join him in the skiff before pushing off.

19:10, Today: Jrodimus rolled 2 using 1d100.  drive. Pass.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 6):

Undoing the loose knot holding the skirt to the dock Mike grabs the long pole and with a heave pushes the small craft into the waters of the bog. With surprising skill Mike is able to navigate the water. For a long moment the only sound the that can be heard is the low buzz of the insects and the quiet splash of the pole dipping in and out of the water.

As Mike is about to push off again there is a loud scratching as the skiff runs aground something in the water.
This message was last edited by the GM at 11:59, Thu 23 Jan 2020.

"What's this?" Mike asked absent mindedly.

Mike poked around the boat with the pole to determine the depths of the swamp water or to find what they were stuck on.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 8):

Probing the depths of the bog with the pole Mike can tell there is a perceptible drop off. Trying to figure out what the skiff is caught on, he  sweeps underneath the boat, the pole meeting resistance. A sharp tug almost pulls the pole from Mike's hands. The scratching on the bottom of the skiff intensifies.

Mike looked at Clarke, "Whatever it is down there, it's alive and doesn't like to be poked. Perhaps we can push off it and it'll leave us alone."

Mike found purchase in front of the skiff, and pushed the pole in and leaned into it in an attempt at muscling them off whatever it was they were stuck on below the surface.

<i>09:35, Today: Jrodimus rolled 66 using 1d100.  strength check. Fail.<i>

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 10):

Clarke saw Mike struggle with the pole, and attempted to help him. However, his foot caught one of the rungs on the hull of the boat and the pole slipped through his fingers.

Zoe laughed at him. "This is why we can't get an invitation to the yachting club," she said.

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 11):

Without a light source, the party is barely able to see the water around them. Mike's attempts to unmoor the boat cause it to sway slightly. Clarke's stumble only worsens it. After a few unsteady moments the craft settles.

The emptiness of the night air rings. The scratching is gone.

A wet slap is followed by a wild tilting of the ship causing Mike and Clarke to cling to the sides of the boat for balance.

A hand has grasped the bow of the ship. Its nails are long and jagged and the pruned skin is almost falling off the bone.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 12):

Clarke lunged for the hand and grabbed it. Although the fingers had a strength to them, they still belonged to a dead man. Clarke yanked each one of the digits off the boat and ensured that whatever the thing was, it was no longer part of their journey.

"For our eternal souls, get us out of here," he yelled at Mike.

Mike gripped the pole and pushed it into the bog floor pushing away from the drowned man's hand to put distance between them.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 14):

As he drifts deeper into the bog Mike realizes that he has no idea where to go. Stagnant water stretches about him in all directions. Aside from the occasional stunted tree breaching the surface there was little to give him a sense of direction.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 15):

Clarke did not take a chance on his navigational abilities. He already knew they were poor. Instead, he looked around for a familiar obelisk. The previous one had said there would be another they could follow. It made sense that if the boats had been moored at this dock, there would be another sign somewhere ahead of them.

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 16):

Despite the lack of light, Clarke is able to make out a large form just at the edge of his vision. Guiding Mike with a few gestures the small skiff moves towards the large figure which materializes into another large obelisk. Pulling the boat alongside you see that it is also covered in strange runes and markings. After a few moments you are able to decipher them into the direction of the next marker. This process is repeated as you follow the markers deeper into the bog.

The air almost seems to thicken until you can feel the heat and humidity pressing upon your skin. The chirps and drones of insects has disappears. Slowly a large landmass begins to take shape as you come upon a small island. At its center is what seems to be a dilapidated manor, its stone walls broken and cracked. Mike is able to steer the skiff into a smooth landing at the edge of the island.

Mike stepped off the skiff onto the solid moist soil and pulled it up onto the shore after Clarke got off. He put the pole back in the boat and made sure he had his supplies and looked around for any watchers.

01:58, Today: Jrodimus rolled 99 using 1d100 ((99)). Fail.

Not seeing anyone he whispered to his friend, "I don't see anyone, but in any case we should probably try to be quiet."

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 18):

Clarke heard Mike's whisper, but struggled to believe they were the only ones on this desolate island. If the cult was truly preparing for a dark ritual, he doubted they would leave their most sacred place unguarded. He took in the scenery and peered at each aspect of the manor.

Spot Hidden: 3 - Pass

Although it was difficult it notice, he did catch something with his detailed inspection.

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 19):

Looking around, Clarke can tell from the disturbed dirt on the shore that another boat had been here recently. While he can't tell much about the manor on the outside, he does notice that the large wooden door is much newer than the rest of the building. And strangely there is a large patch of freshly overturned dirt roughly the size of a grave plot in what would have been considered the 'grounds' of the manor.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 20):

"The door is new," Clarke whispered to Mike. "And someone else has come here recently. Do you want to hide the skiff or leave it here and chance it?"

Mike considered Clarke's question. Apart of him wanted to push the skiff off to avoid detection from any patrols or passerbys, but he also didn't like the idea of being stuck on the island with their only form of egress in the middle of the bog. "Leave it," he whispered, "Hopefully they'll assume its one of theirs if they see it."

He gave another look around, "Do you see another way into the manor?"

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 22):

"Nothing that sticks out. However, there is something that resembles a grave plot in the ground. Perhaps we should avoid it after our recent run in with the dead. There is a chance one of the windows is open."

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 23):

Trying to maintain their stealth, Mike and Clarke circle around the building looking for an open window. Unfortunately there doesn't seem to be one. However the walls look to be badly damaged enough that with a little work it would be possible to squeeze through into the interior of the manor.

Mike sucked in his gut and managed to squeeze into the crack in the wall. Dust filled his lungs as the buttons on his jacket slowly scrapped against the cracked walls. With his best effort, he managed to crawl forward and wiggle his hips through to get inside the manor grounds.

00:14, Today: Jrodimus rolled 52 using 1d100.  Dexterity. Pass.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 25):

After a few claustrophobia inducing moments Mike squeezes past the craggy hole in the wall and into the manor. Taking time to orient himself he looks around to find himself inside a large atrium. A dry and broken fountain dominates the middle of the room. The once smooth tiles have been broken apart by weeds and vegetation. On the far side of the room is a large archway leading deeper into the manor. Two doors, battered and slightly off their hinges, block his view into the other rooms. Whatever frescos had been craved into the walls and columns have been defaced with strange runes if not outright destroyed.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 26):

At first, Clarke attempted to follow Mike in the same way. However, his larger frame prohibited from moving through the smallish entrance. Inspecting the framework, he attempted to remember his military training on how to enter derelict buildings for surveillance ops. Although it had seem pointless at the time, Clarke had taken copious notes and recollected an old technique.

Roll to enter building: Pass - Education

Pulling out a piece of paper and his crucifix, Clarke ran his finger along the crumbling stone. He found the section that had been corroded and eaten away the most, and chipped away around the stone. The limited mortar that was holding the stone in place, turned to dust and with the careful movement of his notepaper in the gap that appeared, Clarke was able to loosen several key bricks. As he moved them out of the way, the hole to enter became large enough for him to sneak in without any major difficulty.

The process took about ten minutes. As he entered, he looked around for Mike to see if his partner had stayed put or gone slightly ahead.
This message was last edited by the player at 10:56, Wed 29 Jan 2020.

As Clarke worked on filing down the edges of the wall, Mike leaned against the wall and took stock of the room. When Clarke finally finished and squeezed inside, he pointed to the defaced frescoes. "These runes mean anything to you?" he whispered to Clarke.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 28):

After hearing Mike's request, Clarke looked hard at the runes on the frescoes. He adjusted his glasses and tried to read the engravings in the dim light. There was not much to go on, but the text appeared vaguely familiar. He was certain there was a spell book he had recently glimpsed that had contained the same phrase.

Occult: read runes 20 - pass

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 29):

Walking along the walls of the room, Clarke studies the defaced frescoes. The runes scrawled over them are of negation, meant to eliminate any influence they might have had. The manor must have previously served as a religious site before it was taken over. Strangely, rather then a blessing, the defaced images seem to have been meant for containment. Their purpose was to keep something here.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 30):

"There's no clue here about what we will face," Clarke said to Mike. "But they are attempting to contain something evil. It is likely the same thing the cultists are hoping to raise."

Mike pulled his revolver out and held it at the low ready. He was expecting to be outside, hence why he bought the rifle. But it seemed that his fate had different plans. "Let's find the bastards before they can raise whatever it is they hope to contain."

Quietly, he proceeded deeper into the manor into the lengthening shadows and decrepit halls.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 32):

It is obvious that the manor hasn't been inhabited in years as dust and cobwebs fill every nook and cranny. However, there are a few signs of life: patches of dust that have been disturbed, pathways cleared in the rubble. Holding his revolver before him Mike carefully moves down the hall. The rooms he passes are mostly empty, the few pieces of furniture that remain have fallen apart, ravaged by the passing of time...

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 33):

Mike feels a tug on his lead foot...

*CLANG*CLANG*CLANG*

The loud clatter of metal fills the air. Looking down Mike see that he has stepped on a trip wire that had been stretched across the hall. Silence reclaims the night as Mike and Clarke hold their breath.

"Ughn.... Wnha... Cthla..."

The pained moans come from the end of the hall which splits into a T. The left branch is suddenly lit by a faint swaying light...
This message was last edited by the GM at 06:25, Fri 31 Jan 2020.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 34):

Clarke noticed the light coming down the corridor toward them. Whether it was a cultist or a stumbling person from the dark yonder, he did not know. Nor could he be certain the path that would lead them to victory. They had precious seconds to act and any noise could be heard in the empty building.

Stealth roll: 67 - Fail

He searched around the room for a place that could hide from the light but found nothing. Reluctantly, he withdrew his weapon and found cover behind a crumbling wall. Unless Mike had another plan, they would have to fight it out with the lantern holder and pray few could hear their screams in the night.

Hearing the moaning lantern holder coming down the hall, Mike sought cover behind a dusty stand in the hallway and prepared to open fire when and if it was necessary.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 36):

You watch silently as the light grows larger and larger, swaying from side to side.

"Ugn...Wgnk... Bwka..."

What rounds the corner is truly a horrific site. While Gustav had been... freshly dead... This couldn't be considered anything but a walking corpse. The tattered remnants of its clothes hang limply on its skeletal frame. In places the decay and rot is so bad that you can see through its torso.

An ungodly smell accompanies the zombie, washing over you like a cloud and causing you to gag. It raises the lantern as its murky eyes scan the hallway. Its eyes lock on the poorly hidden Clarke, turning in red pinpoints of hate and evil. It lets out a tortured moan as it advances towards you.

Mike was aghast at the sight of the walking decomposing corpse with burning embers in its sockets. He saw the zombie lock its hateful gaze onto where Clarke attempted to hide as it started towards his friend. Mike took the initiative and squeezed the trigger of his revolver.

So much for a quiet entrance.

12:11, Today: Jrodimus rolled 65 using 1d100.  gun combat. Fail.

The shot went wide, splintering the frame of painting hanging on the wall near the zombies head.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 38):

Clarke withdrew his pistol and fired at the lumbering monster rounding on him. Once again, he was forced onto the side of angels despite the demon inside.

Gun combat: 52: Pass

Unlike last time, his shot went pure and straight into the target. The new revolver felt solid and comfortable in his hands. They would be in for a long night, but he hoped it would bring an end to this journey once and for all.

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 39):

The shot splatters congealed blackened blood on the behind the zombie as it jerks from the impact. As it closes in on Clarke it swings its arm like a club...

However, its sluggish movement give Clarke the chance to dodge out of the way.

Up close Clarke notices that the zombie seems to be covered in a thin sheen almost as if it was moist. In the lantern light he can see the damp footprints of the zombie arranged in a staggering trail behind it.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 40):

Clarke weaved his way through the attack and took another shot.

Roll for Gun Combat: 81 - Failure


As per his usual luck went in combat, he missed the near shot. The bullet ricocheted harmlessly on a wall in a different direction than Mike.

"We need to follow the zombie's trail," he said to Mike. "Go on ahead." He was certain the more shots they fired and the longer they took to end this battle, the increased likelihood someone would hear them and they would end up in a much worse situation. The goal was to save the world, not their lives.

Mike heard Clarke, but didn't feel right about fleeing only to have the shambling corpse come up on them from behind later. Once again he looked down the barrel of his revolver at the zombie and squeezed the trigger.

22:47, Today: Jrodimus rolled 37 using 1d100.  gun combat. Pass.
22:47, Today: Jrodimus rolled 5 using 1d8.  revolver damage.

His aim was true and he saw black liquid splatter as the bullet strike their undead assailant. He slipped behind the zombie and took a few steps towards the corridor the light bearer had come from.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 42):

Clarke
The walking corpse jerks again as Mike's shot blows a hole in its torso. But it remains focused on Clarke swinging a rotted arm...

14:02, Today: The Keeper of Secrets, for the NPC Lan, rolled 41 using 1d100.  Attack. Pass
14:03, Today: The Keeper of Secrets, for the NPC Lantern Zombie, rolled 2 using 1d3.  Damage.

And striking Clarke across the shoulder causing him to stumble.

Mike
Slipping behind the zombie, Mike glances down the long hallway. However, its far end is shrouded in darkness, the swinging lantern failing to provide enough light.

Mike turned and fired again at the corpse.

03:42, Today: Jrodimus rolled 99 using 1d100.  gun combat. Fail.

His shot missed again.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 44):

Despite the hit to the shoulder, Clarke was still in full control of his body. He was close to the zombie and attempted to take out its head with a final, killing bullet.

Gun Combat: 67 - Fail

Despite the shot being much closer to the zombie than the previous one, it still went wide and flew harmlessly through the night air.

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 45):

With the mindlessness that could only be possessed by the undead, the zombie again lashes out at Clarke...

23:30, Today: The Keeper of Secrets, for the NPC Lantern Zombie, rolled 40 using 1d100.  Attack. Pass
23:30, Today: The Keeper of Secrets, for the NPC Lantern Zombie, rolled 3 using 1d3.  Damage.

Landing a strike that nearly knocks him through  a loop. His vision swimming, Clarke is barely able to keep on his feet.

"Ugnh... Naghn.... Ptagh..."

The zombie continues its advance.

In an attempt to distract the zombie Mike said, "Hey, over here!" and took another shot.

23:45, Today: Jrodimus rolled 94 using 1d100.  firearms. Fail.

As the zombie flailed about in the dim light, the shadows made it difficult for him to lock on, and his shot once again went wide.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 47):

Despite Clarke's momentary dizziness, the distance between him on the zombie was only an arm's span. This meant his quivering gun-arm had little impact on his next step. He shook off the damage and aimed, hoping the pounding in his ears would not distract him this time.

Gun Combat: 58 - Pass
Damage: 7

The shot echoed through the stone mansion and found its target. It went straight into the monster's brainpan, leaving a significant wound, and, hopefully, killing it.

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 48):

After the deafening crack of Clarke's revolver, the hallway falls silent.

"Ughn.... Ch..."

Clarke's shot has blown away a large portion of the zombie's brain and it slowly ceases moving, like a film put in slow motion. With a final feeble reach, the walking dead falls to the ground, the lantern ringing on the ground as it hits the stone, the flame extinguishing. Silence fills the air.

"Nice shootin', Clarke," Mike whistled quietly in the dark corridor. With practiced ease he pulled out a few rounds and refilled his revolver cylinder. He considered checking the dead again corpse, but as the smell of it's rot filled his nose as he went to pick up the lantern he thought better of it.

He opened the lantern's little door and lit the wick of the candle before he made his way to the end of the corridor, looking down the hallway the zombie had come from.
This message was last edited by the player at 19:05, Tue 04 Feb 2020.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 50):

A long dark hallway stretches out before Mike. Unlike the rooms behind him, this hallway seems to slope slightly downward. A wet dank smell fills the air. Either the manor had been built before the surrounding land became a bog or somehow they managed to tunnel through the swamp.

Mike felt the dank air on his face as the bog stench wafted up his nostrils. He looked back and realized that Clarke was wounded. He set the lantern on a stand and cut a piece of cloth from his shirt. He leaned forward to help bandage Clarke's wounds.

00:53, Today: Jrodimus rolled 79 using 1d100.  first aid. Fail.

Though the bandages were tied well enough, Mike doubted their effectiveness.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 52):

As Mike winds bandages around Clarke's wounds, they soon turn crimson with blood. While not life threatening, gashes and wounds caused by a bog corpse can't be good.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 53):

"I appreciate the gesture," Clarke said. "However, the night is still young and we must press on. We are here to stop a tragedy."

Clarke holstered his weapon and lit the dark lantern he had purchased earlier to make it harder for them to be seen. He moved down the corridor and toward his prolonged fate.

Stealth: 73 - Fail

Even though he attempted to move relatively quietly, his wounds caused him to grunt at intermittent moments. The sounds echoed down the long corridor.

Mike lifted his lantern again and followed after Clarke, "Sneaking around seems to be moot point now. If they didn't know we were coming before, they do now." He took the lead with his revolver in his hand and lantern in the other. "You're hurt. Take it easy for a bit and watch our backs," before heading back down the way the zombie came from.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 55):

The long hallway lead you deeper into the manor. What was likely meant as an escape tunnel, the signs of age and disrepair are obvious. Mold and slime coat the walls. However, it comes to a sudden end as a solid steel door blocks the passageway. It is heavily reinforced and does not look like it can be forced open. The door has five heavy set locks, each seems identical and evenly spaced from one another. The only thing that sets each of them apart is a series of runes engraved next to each lock.

Mike turned to Clarke and lifted his shoulders in a shrug, "Can you make out these symbols on the locks?"

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 57):

Clarke peered at the lock symbols intently. There was a certain familiarity to their structure and engraving, and he was a certain with a little focus he could remember them.

Roll for Occult: 58 - Fail

Despite lingering in front of them for a few minutes, nothing sprung to his mind. Clarke turned to Mike and said, "These runes are beyond me."

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 58):

Mike heaved a sigh, "Well we could try to pick the locks but I'm not too handy of a locksmith myself." He scratched his beard as he contemplated their next steps. Even if they were able to break or pick the locks, the runes filled him with a sense of dread. These locks were likely enchanted with some eldritch magic he figured.

5 Locks need 5 keys...and a legend.

"Perhaps we should explore around the building more, see if we can find the keys or at least something that can help us identify the markings on the locks."

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 59):

"That sounds like a solid proposal," Clarke said. "It makes me curious, however, where did the living dead come from? If this room is locked, where else could it have arisen from? Whence was it heading?"

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 60):

Mike and Clarke begin the painstaking process of combing over the manor for the keys to the locked door...

Mike
After the first few rooms Mike begins to become frustrated. This was more than searching for a needle in a haystack. This was like searching for a needle, in a haystack, blindfolded, while falling off the side of a mountain. He frustration over the search, over the whole situation boils over and he punches the stone wall.

THUNK

The idiocy of the decision and the flaring pain in his knuckles is masked by the dull thunk of the stone. It's hollow! Grabbing a nearby jagged piece of stone, Mike carefully chips at the mortar holding it in place. After a few minutes it falls free with a clatter. Reaching inside the uncovered hole, Mike pulls out three strangely shaped keys.

The first has a head shaped like a man in tattered and worn clothes with a long spade. On the shoulder of the key are carved the numbers 2 and 4.

The second has a head shaped like a hooded and cloaked figure, its features shrouded. On the shoulder are carved the numbers 1, 4, and 5.

The final is shaped like a jester who seems be in mid-dance. On the shoulder is carved the number 6.

Strangely, all the key are tipped by a simple square.

Clarke
Setting aside the magically appearing zombie for a moment, Clarke begins his search for the keys to the door.

"Two heads are better than one as they say," announces Zoe before she strides ahead of Clarke. "Now if I were a key, where would I be hiding?"

"If you were a key you'd be inanimate," says Lara dismissively as she appears off to the side. "Therefore you'd be incapable of hiding. Most likely you would be put aside and forgotten over time."

While Clarke knows that the figments aren't REALLY searching for the key, he has come to realize that they a way for his mind to express his subconscious thoughts. Slowly he pours over inch of each room, shifting through piles of rubble and broken furniture with little luck. As he moves to the next room, something strange catches his eye. While everything in the room has fallen apart, one single painting remains hanging on the wall.

Whatever had been displayed on the canvas lost the battle with time and is an incoherent mess of faded colors and the details on the frame have been worn away. Crossing the room, he attempts to lift the painting from the wall but finds it stuck. With a heave, the weakened wood gives way revealing a small alcove. Inside are two keys.

The first is shaped like some sort of religious figure in long flowing robes. On the shoulder is carved the number 3.

The other is shaped like a king, an ornate crown gracing his head. On the shoulder are carved the numbers 1,2, and 4.

Both keys have simple square tips.

Grasping the keys tightly Clarke turns to sprint back to Mike but freezes at the sound of a familiar voice:

"Hey mister! I can read those weird squiggly symbols. You wanna know what they say?"
This message was last edited by the GM at 13:18, Sun 09 Feb 2020.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 61):

Clarke held the keys in his hand and let them jangle together. He had heard his spiritual daughter's offer of assistance but it was as if a thick curtain had been between them. Once again, he moved the keys so they clinked together.

Somehow, the artefacts in his hand reminded him of his childhood. Where he had lived in Arkham, superstitions had abounded on every street corner. Celts decorated their homes with wards, the Irish fought off faery spirits and those from the continent had rituals involving fire. Very few were concerned with his family's five prayers a day routine.

Embedded deep inside his religion, and perhaps all religions except the unimaginative Christianity, were a series of riddles. The heroes of their belief's myths often had to match wits against a trickster demon, who sought their eternal death. His uncle loved these stories, perhaps even more than the Koran. Unlike Clarke's pious father, clinging to his day-to-day routine and complete submission to the almighty Allah, his Uncle carried a faded and worn copy of 1,001 Arabian Nights. He had said it was the only book worth believing in. It had been written in Arabic and each time they met, Clarke could get to hear one of its tales.

Unlike the Occident's love for happy endings at any cost, most of the narratives ended bittersweetly. Characters did their best, but it was often not good enough for the demons and devils lying in wait for them. They died, faintly remembered by their friends and lovers.

Clarke jangled the keys together a final time.

Their tale was an Arabian nights' tale. His inevitable death would be heroic ... but futile. The genies would continue to laugh and the sands would continue to swirl. Without a doubt, he would turn into the babbling fool for another adventurer lusting after fame and glory. His final years, if he lived, would be mumbling unbelievable stories to kids who made fun of him when he was out of earshot.

"Mysteries and riddles," he said to himself. "Mysteries and riddles."

He turned to his daughter and delayed the pact with the gods no longer. "What do the symbols say?" he asked.

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 62):

Despite being prepared, the full presence of his 'daughter' nearly knocks Clarke to the floor. Something in his mind seems to stretch and stretch, being pulled apart by endlessly powerful forces. Just as the breaking point is reached, it stopps.

(3 sanity damage)

Suddenly the world comes back into focus. Clarke finds himself on one knee, arms outstretched towards the little girl and tears streaming down his face. The girl bounces on the balls of her feet and hugs her stuffed toy tightly. Her beaming smile is almost hungry.

"Not yet Mister, I still have Mr. Bunny. But soon you will replace him! C'mon, follow me," she says as she begins to skip down the hall. Wiping his face with the back of his sleeve, Clarke stumbles after the apparition.

Soon they are in front of the large steel door. "It's simple unless you're a dum dumb," the girl says with a giggle. She frowns as she steps in front of the door which is over three times as tall as her childish frame. Looking up at the inscriptions she pouts, her bottom lip jutting out. "A little help Mr. Bunny." She places the rabbit on her shoulders and lifts its arm towards the inscription at the top of the door.


"But someone added something later," says the girl pointing at an engraving closer to her level. "It says 'never trust a knave' and 'you can't count on a fool.'" The girls lips purse in thought for a moment. "Mister, what's a knave?"
This message was last edited by the GM at 02:32, Tue 11 Feb 2020.

Mike shoved the keys into his jacket pocket and set about trying to find Clarke since the two had gotten separated during their search for clues. He looked wandered through the dusty rooms, looking for his friend and taking in the creaking floor boards and the dilapidated piano sitting in one room. He noticed footsteps in the dust, but unable to discern any aside from Clarke's. He followed them and eventually found his friend staring at the door with the locks with his back turned to Mike.

"I found three keys. How about you?" He asked quietly not trying to scare his friend.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 64):

He ignored his daughter's question and she faded from his view. As she did, Clarke could feel the world slip away from him. A shadow loomed in his periphery vision, hovering at the edges. Laughter echoed out from it. Laughter from the people he had murdered. Zoe, all those merchants in Egypt, the man in the forest, both zombies - all of them giggled, and chortled. The shadow flickered in and out with their sounds, a representation of their joys cut short. They called to him. They begged him to head where he belonged.

His hands shook as he turned and held out the keys to Mike. "I found two," he said. "Two demons in the darkness."

Zoe placed her hand around his shoulder, sympathy creeping into her voice. "This is not how he should join me," she yelled into the darkness. "This is not what you promised when you said we could have a daughter."

Something that felt like a chill ran up and down Clarke's body, making him shake involuntarily. "I also have ... news. The symbols ... they talked to me. They told me their secrets."

He dropped the keys into Mike's hands. "Never trust a knave, and you cannot count on a fool. We have to solve this," Clarke whispered. "Death and darkness are here, etched into every brick. They are etched into the ground beneath us and the clouds above. If we fail, there will be naught left for us to see. Only the skies of oblivion will lie above our tombstones while the sprawling tentacles pick at our corpses."

Mike noticed Clarke shiver as his eyes darted to and fro while he was speaking. He felt a pang of sympathy for his old friend. All of them had been to hell and back, only to venture into its waiting and gnashing jaws once again. Too many times, Mike found his own sanity cracking and fraying, only barely picking up the pieces between one unbelievable and traumatic event to the next. He feared that soon both he and Clarke would be in the same way as Byron, their poor old chum who had succumbed to his own traumas into a vegetative state. He felt his fingers twitch as he reached into his pocket to bring out the three keys.

"Well, this one appears to be a fool." He said, pointing the one with the jester, "So this one can't be counted I guess since it has a 6 etched in there and there are only 5 locks. Which one do you think is the knave?"

As his thumb rubbed against the keys in his hand absentmindedly, his mind drifted to Jack. Their long lost friend risen from the dead, or so it seemed, only to thrust them into this obscene quest. At the expense of their sanity and livelihood. The small lives they had managed to carve for themselves after the blasted trenches in Europe. The cold metal of the bullets in his hand glinted in the lantern light, revealing the numbers and old mystic illustrations.
This message was last edited by the player at 10:32, Tue 11 Feb 2020.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 66):

Clarke stared at the keys for a while. Tarot cards were a tricky business because they had a long history ... and dozens of different varieties that came along with it. The knave could be holding many things: a cup holder, a sword, a staff or a baton. None of them clearly resembled such a card. The man with the pole was too tattered and the religious figure too vague.

Although his brain was rattled, the knowledge was up there - all he had to do was recall it correctly.

Roll for intelligence: 50 - Pass

Going back and forward over the keys, he spied one that filled the role of a knave for this riddle.

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 67):

Looking at the collected keys, Clarke takes the time to examine the other keys. The one with the crown is obviously a king. The one in the robes is likely a prophet or priest. The man in the tattered clothes most closely resembles a peasant. That leaves the hooded figure to be the knave.
This message was last edited by the GM at 01:32, Wed 12 Feb 2020.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 68):

Clarke thought the puzzle over for a moment. He had never been the strongest in the use of logic, after all, that was why he had specialised in languages. However, there was a poetry and mystery to the riddle, so he pressed on.

After a while, he believed he had figured it out. He told Mike the solution, but his friend seemed distracted. It felt as if the environment they were in was wearing down the psyche of both of them. Perhaps neither really wanted to know what was behind the door, perhaps they did not wish to know if the murders they had committed were truly worth it. There was a chance they were fighting against a group of cultists who had nothing except their delusion magic was real.

Or, as his counsellor had cautioned before he had been released, there was always a chance he could have descended into insanity due to the trauma he had been through. If that was the case, then there was no cult. There were no magical powers. God lay dead at Darwin's hand and the age of mysticism was over. Clarke had murdered because something in his brain had misfired and the people he had killed were regular folk caught in the crossfires of his engulfing madness.

"You know that isn't true," Lara said. "You watched me disappear into thin air."

But had he? Egypt was scattered and disconnected memories filled with ghastly sights and flowing blood. The psychologist who had treated him when he had returned State-side had read Clarke's journals out to him; they had been the ramblings of a madman. Demons, vampires, shadows that had whispered and long tentacles, which had toyed with his companions: were these the thoughts of a well-adjusted veteran?

Had he, as the military had claimed to close his file, killed Lara as well as his team? The flickering lights, the hours spent pouring over ancient evils, the winding and claustrophobic tombs - had they led to him cutting her up and hiding her where no one could discover the pieces of her flesh? Had he, as his supervisor had claimed, butchered the group to perform an ancient ritual that had not worked?

They had said that they had found him on the floor of his apartment after the mission - naked and covered in blood. Whose, they had not been able to determine, but someone's. Or many-one's. To Clarke, the blood had been unnatural. A thick goo like substance that had glittered in the light. Zoe had comforted him then. She had held him as he had screamed in Arabic and called for forgiveness. He remembered the teeth, a single pair, that had gnashed their way through his comrades and Lara yelling as she had clambered to escape. She had been running, running, running. Running, from what? What had she been running from? He remembered a darkness. He remembered a final scream as he had tried to persuade her it was not his fault.

What had happened to his team?

If he was sane, why had he never stopped having hallucinations?

"They lied to you," Lara said. "The demons took me. You read that book and the demons took me."

Clarke took the keys from Mike's open hand and started inserting them into the locks. Zoe, somehow, stood in front of him. She was naked, but blood ran out from where he had shot her. It slid and dripped down her body, creating a design that one might find on an expensive dress.

"You murdered Lara," she said. "There's nothing through this door. There's an empty room. You've travelled halfway around the world to put a bullet in some backwater logger."

"Listen to me," Lara yelled. "Everything you've felt is real. The demons are real. You can save me. You can save all of us."

Perhaps his comrade was telling the truth, Clarke thought, but was this not his childhood fantasy? All that racism he had endured from the so-called progressives in his school. All the hatred he had swallowed and consumed from the second-generation of white immigrants over the years. He had wanted, needed, to prove to them that he was better. He had always wanted to show that he could be more than the dog they had said he was. An all-consuming evil that only him and his friends could stop? What a ridiculous notion. A hallucination who always has the right answer at the night time - so convenient. What a perfect fantasy to descend into when his life was brutal in its mundaneness.

Was there a chance, a slim one, he had sent Jack's letters and forged their old friend's signature? Jack was dead. What kind of courier arrives in the middle of the night?

The last key went into the lock and it clicked.

Zoe pushed her finger into the bullet hole and drew it out. It was covered in a deep crimson. She ran her blood-soaked finger from the top of Clarke's forehead to the bottom of his chin. Then she lifted her digit again and stuck it, slowly, into his mouth. He could taste the bitterness and copper of it. "You are a misogynist, a woman-beater and a butcher," she said. "Your death will save us all."

He went to stroke her face, but she turned away. "Zoe," he whispered, indifferent to whether Mike could hear or not. "Zoe. I'm not crazed. I cannot be. Not after everything I have seen."

She did not answer.

He looked at the keys in the locks. They were as following:

1: King
2: Knave
3: Priest
4: Peasant
5: Jester
This message was last edited by the player at 13:26, Fri 14 Feb 2020.

Mike heard Clarke's explanation of the puzzle and gestured absent mindedly as he stewed over their predicament. He trusted his friends intelligence enough and he had suspected a similar outcome though he hadn't reached any conclusion like Clarke had. He watched Clarke's shaky hands put the keys into the locks, and he held his breath, half expecting the door to explode or turn into a wooden golem and smash their frail bodies into dust.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 70):

Slowly Clarke places the specific keys in the various locks on the door. Each slides in with a solid clink. He looks back at Mike who gives a firm nod. Taking a deep breath he begins to turn them one by one.

King..... A low grinding fills the air for a few moments.

Knave... A loud thud causes the door to quiver.

Priest... The deep gong of a bell sounds.

Peasant... A rush of air fills the hall.

Jester... Cracks appear as the door begins to lower into the floor and a loud blaring sound fills the air:

Pppppphhhhhhhffffffffrrrrrrrtttttttt-pppppppphhhhhhhhreeeeeee-pppppppphhhhhhuuuuuuuut

The sophomoric sound of flatulence goes on for far too long, finally ending as the door disappears into the floor. You can't help but shrug before you hold up your lanterns to illuminate the uncovered passage.

Unexpectedly, the passageway doesn't continue much farther. It ends in what looks to be a roughly hewn portal in the stone floor and a descending spiral stairway. While the stairs are obviously not manmade, there isn't an easy natural explanation to their formation. However they do give evidence of the first signs of activity in the manor. From the unseen depths of the spirals stairs comes the faint glow of firelight.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 71):

As the firelight provided Clarke with sufficient illumination, he extinguished his dark lantern and hung it from his pack. He withdrew his weapon and reloaded it - making sure each bullet was sufficiently inserted as to cause no potential jam.

Holding it in front of him, he started working his way down the stairs and toward the inevitable. Zoe followed him, walking backward so her naked form stayed precisely in front of his vision.

Mike followed Clarke into the unearthly spiral staircase after extinguishing his own lantern. Though it seemed that their element of surprise had been completely lost, he was ready to take any steps he could to get the jump on any would be attackers. He kept his revolver in his hand, the heavy cold steel providing some comfort as they descended into the depths of the manor.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 73):

The winding staircase leads the party deeper into the depths of the manor. Various niches and alcoves are decorated with dilapidated vases and urn, most of which have fallen apart with age.

In short order the staircase ends in an archway that seems to have been plastered over. Light faintly shines through and you can see shadows lurch about on the other side.

With his revolver at the ready, Mike looked at Clarke and shrugged. He then took a few steps back and then forward, throwing himself through the plaster. He felt the cheap material give way beneath his weight with a crash as shards scattered about him.
This message was last edited by the player at 11:17, Mon 17 Feb 2020.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 75):

Clarke steadied his weapon and prepared to shoot anything that moved on the other side of the plaster.

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 76):

The plaster easily gives way under Mike's charge, spilling him into a giant cavern...

And amidst a number of undead who slowly turn around, their murky eyes focusing on the intruder among them. But what is more surprising is the startled yelp that comes from a robed figure standing at their head.

"What the fuck?!" says the figure in a stranded whisper, reaching for a knife that is tucked into its belt

Mike got his feet under him as he took in his bearings, then raised his revolver at the hooded cultist and said, "Sorry to crash the party."

17:16, Today: Jrodimus rolled 8 using 1d100.  firearms. Pass.
17:18, Today: Jrodimus rolled 2 using 1d8.  damage.

He squeezed the trigger and the shot rang through the cavern. A wicked grin pulled at the corners of his lips as he saw the cultist wrench in pain.
This message was lightly edited by the player at 08:26, Thu 20 Feb 2020.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 77):

The resounding bang of the revolver echoes in the cavern as Mike fires at the cultist, striking him in the shoulder and sending him spinning to the ground. While his features are obscured by hood, you can see the man's eyes gleam from the shadows.

"Take them!" he snarls in a whisper and the zombie begin to move forward.
This message was last edited by the GM at 08:24, Thu 20 Feb 2020.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 79):

Once again, Clarke found himself firing shots at half-dead monstrosities. And, once again, he found himself missing. The shot went wide and cracked against the stone in the room.

Seeing the zombies start to move at the cultist's command, he figured that if he could take the head out now, the zombies might prove to be less of a threat. He took the time he had to line up a shot at the cultist as he lay on the ground.

4:59, Today: Jrodimus rolled 14 using 1d100.  firearms. Pass.
15:00, Today: Jrodimus rolled 4 using 1d8.  damage.

He saw blood splatter where the bullet hit his human nemesis.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 81):

The zombies close ranks upon the party, a whirl of grasping hands and gnashing teeth. One seems to be wielding a jagged tree branch. One scores a minor gash (1 damage) in Mike's forearm while another lands a tooth-rattling blow (3 damage) with its cudgel. The last is a little slower moving than the others, allowing Mike to dodge its clumsy blow.

Looking at the knife in his hand, the cultist looks back at the party before clutching his shoulder as he flees down the passageway.

Strangely, between the bursts of gunfire, the room is deathly quiet. Even the echoes of the gunpowder explosions seem muffled before they quickly fade away.
This message was last edited by the GM at 00:53, Wed 26 Feb 2020.

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

Clarke looked past the two zombies attacking Mike. They seemed to be controlled by the man sprinting away and if we could get a good shot off then there was a chance, a small one, they would survive the overwhelming odds.

Clarke took aim and fired at the fleeing man's leg. He hoped to pin him to the spot. The bullet shot out of the gun and scored a direct hit (3 damage).
This message was last edited by the player at 15:39, Tue 25 Feb 2020.

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 83):

With a flash, a bang, and a puff of smoke, the bullet zips from the barrel of Clarke's gun with pinpoint accuracy. As the metal slug meets the fleeing cultists leg, he lets out a pained cry. Strangely, rather than clutch as his wound or grasp at the wall for support as he topples over, the cultist immediately clamps his hands over his mouth.

Mike took a few steps back to put some distance between him and the zombies and took a shot at the nearest one.

10:10, Today: Jrodimus rolled 3 using 1d100.  firearms. Pass.
10:11, Today: Jrodimus rolled 5 using 1d8.  damage.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 85):

Mike's shot blows a massive hole in the nearest zombie, causing it to stumble and reel across the room. The other zombie raises its wooden cudgel and unleashes a blow that swings wide, slamming into the nearby wall. The last attempts to latch onto Mike, its arms outstretched (grapple extreme success). Mike feels the sickeningly clammy skin of the zombie as its arms wrap around him. Its putrid smell envelops him, nearly causing him to gag. Looking into its eye Mike can see the unmitigated hate that fills them.

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

Clarke watched as the cultist fell to the ground, clasping his hand to his mouth. As an immediate threat, the cultist was no longer an issue. However, the zombie holding Mike was a much bigger problem.

Shot: Success, Damage: 7

Clarke took aim at the Zombie grabbling his friend and focused. Although their enemy could not move fast, if Clarke aimed a few inches wrong then Mike could end up in a far worse situation. With sweat sliding down his forehead, Clarke pulled the trigger. The bullet punched itself out of the revolver and perfectly found its target.

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 87):

Trapped in the embrace of the zombie, Mike hears a loud bang fill the air and feels his captor suddenly jerk. However, it doesn't loosen it's death grip on him.

Mike attempted to twist out of the zombies grasp, but the corpse's rigor mortis proved too firm to break out of. "Get this fucker off me!" He cried out through clenched teeth.

20:30, Today: Jrodimus rolled 61 using 1d100.  fight brawl - get out of grapple. Fail

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 89):

Flailing uselessly against his capture, Mike feels a searing pain in his neck as the decaying zombie sinks its jagged broken teeth into his neck (1 damage).

The other two zombies turn towards Clarke, whose revolver just blew a hole in their companion. They both take wild swings, the first with its bare hands and the second with the broken branch, both missing.

Mike felt the teeth break the skin in his neck and he cried out in pain and disgust. He struggled harder but still wasn't able to free his arms from the monster's deadly grasp.

07:25, Today: Jrodimus rolled 62 using 1d100.  fight brawl. Fail.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 91):

In all honesty, Clarke was not certain what killing the cultist would do to the zombies. This was not, as they often said in novels, a penny dreadful. He had no idea if the man's murder severed their psychic link or had no affect. However, he had little choice. Fighting and murdering two zombies with his rapidly depleting ammunition and poor run of luck seemed more akin to wishful thinking than a strategy.

As the zombies closed in on him, he blinked and lined up his shot. Sweat stung his eyes and Zoe laughed mirthlessly from a corner of the room. He pulled the trigger, the smell of gunpowder making him twitch.

The shot went true and went into the wounded cultist. Finally, at long last, one of their true enemies - or an imagined antagonist - lay dead on ground. One more man chained to the devil to add to Clarke's doomed soul. One more grieving widow and resentful son in the world wishing for inevitable death.

Clarke hoped his gambit would pay off.

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 92):

The bullet strikes the cultist with a dull thud. His heels dig futilely at the stone floor for a few moments before falling still. The cavern falls quiet as the two zombies halt their attacks, their eyes fixated on the cultist.

The silence is deafening....

AHHHHHH!!!!!

Mike's cry breaks the spell as the zombie's teeth dig deeper in to the sinew of his neck. (1 Damage)

Once again mike struggled against the monster as it's teeth sunk deeper into his neck. He felt blood welling up and spilling down his collar bone. But he was growing tired and his muscles started to cramp from fatigue. He was helpless under the heavy dead weight.

8:01, Today: Jrodimus rolled 97 using 1d100.  fight - get out of grapple. Fail.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 94):

Clarke holstered his weapon and dashed over to Mike. He was not a strong fighter, but he had above average strength and so went for the brute approach. He grabbed the zombie's head and yanked it back - away from Mike's shoulder. It was not a fighting move; it was barely a strategy. All Clarke was doing was hoping and praying the sheer force of his grip would give his friend another chance to live.

Roll for strength: 38

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 95):

With a wet squelch, Clarke is able to pull the zombie off of Mike, a piece of the latter's flesh in its jaws. However, now he finds himself the focus of their attention. While the mass of bodies keeps one from reaching him, the other two turn their red hate-filled gaze on Clarke. While he is able to dodge the grasping hands of the first, the second brings down the branch in a strike that nearly knocks Clarke silly, causing his ears to ring and his eyes to swim. (3 damage)

Grateful for the reprieve, Mike's hand went to his neck as he struggled to his feet. He took a few steps back and once again aimed at the  zombie who's attention had turned towards his friend and pulled the trigger. But his hands shaking from fatigue prevented him from taking proper aim and the shot went wide.

07:42, Today: Jrodimus rolled 69 using 1d100.  firearms. Fail.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 97):

Clarke saw an opening in the mild swipe from the zombies and made a dash for it. "Come on, Mike," he yelled as he pelted towards where the cultist had fallen. "We have larger demons to fight."

Adrenaline pumped through his veins and he hoped that he could make it without another attack.

Now with some distance between him and the Zombie that hungered for his flesh, Mike took the opportunity to flee after Clarke.

"You don't have to tell me twice!" He called out to his friend ahead of him.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 99):

Clarke and Mike, despite his various wounds, are able to easily outpace their shambling pursuers. However, their flight only leads them deeper and deeper into the labyrinthian cavern. Without any markers or signs they quickly become lost. Twists lead to turns which leads to even more. The sounds of pursuit are quickly replaced by the strangely dead silence of the cavern.

Mike stopped running and leaned over with his hands on his knees trying to catch his breath. He coughed and spit, blood oozing down the side of his neck. He didn't want to start thinking about what kind of diseases he may have gotten from the zombie. After a few moments who straightened himself up and tried to take stock of their bearings.

"Where are we?"

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 101):

Despite the darkness, Zoe and Lara shimmered in a translucent light. Both of them looked at him with pity in their eyes, pity at what he had become and was becoming.

"What have we done with our lives?" Clarke asked Mike as he pulled out his dark lantern to re-light it. "After the damnation that was the Great War, surely we must have treated them as precious. Except I cannot find a memory of where I have truly lived. I spent my veteran years shuffling from existence to existence, eking out scraps tossed at me from those wealthier than ourselves. What are we hoping to save in this morbid cavern? Our souls? A society as vile as it is vast? What is worth exhausting our last strength for?"

Clarke had managed to light the lantern and held it up to look around the walls. He could hear water trickling, but paid little heed to it. Hell, in his mind, had always been a damp and ever-present darkness. The devil awaited the saints in shadows, not in fire or flame.

Mike held up his own lantern to look around their surroundings.

"Sometimes survival is enough. Who else will remember the sins of the war for the countless legions that died? It is our burden to remember and live, and so it is also our burden to stop this menace from unleashing whatever horrors lie in the shadows waiting to destroy a world already consumed by suffering."

He turned in a direction he thought was away from where they had just come from. "Come, let us carry our burdens into the dark."

15:46, Today: Jrodimus rolled 42 using 1d100.  intelligence roll to guess best direction to go. Pass(?)
This message was last edited by the player at 06:46, Thu 12 Mar 2020.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 103):

Carefully following the scuffs and prints made by their flight down the tunnels, Mike is able to guide the party back towards where they came. However, before long they reach an intersection and the sounds of dragged and shuffling steps begins to fill the tunnel ahead of them. Other branches head off on either sides.

Mike stopped to get his bearings, looking at his options on either side of them. But he was urged to quickness when he heard the shambling zombies who were apparently still searching for a midnight snack. He pointed Eastward, "This way."

16:26, Today: Jrodimus rolled 13 using 1d100.  intelligence check. Pass.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 105):

The party sets off at an awkward jog, doing their best to keep from drawing attention. As they venture deeper into the cavern, Mike notices that water is running along the bottom to stone walls in the same direction as they are fleeing. The sound of pursuit has faded, once again replaced by a stifled silence. After a few minutes you approach a fork in the tunnel that splits off in three directions.

Not wanting to give their pursuers a chance to catch up, Mike took note of the water running along the bottom of the stone walls. Thinking a throughway would likely be the best way to go, he waved his hand to his friend Clarke and set off in the same direction.

21:04, Today: Jrodimus rolled 46 using 1d100.  intelligence roll to guess best direction to go. Pass.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 107):

Following the trails of water across the stone floor, the party is lead into the branch on the right. Slowly the craggy walls of of the tunnel begin to smooth out, first by worn stone, and then by craved brick. In the first sign of light, a soft glow begins to appear at the end of the tunnel.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 108):

Clarke, with his hallucinations still flickering in and out of his vision, flagged Mike down. "Let me go first," he whispered while immediately taking the lead.

He crouched down, feeling his weary limbs and tired eyes betray their age. A long time ago, he had been a master of stealth. Recently, he had struggled to sneak past sleeping guards. With a goal clear in his mind, and the cost of his failure obvious, he attempted one final foray into the world of the covert.

Roll for stealth: success

His footfalls and movements quietened as he crept forward.

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 109):

You move forward into an elaborately carved cavern with strange non-euclidean geometry covering nearly every surface. The air is filled with the smell of stagnant water which must come from the large pool of at the center of the room. From the middle of the water rises a large pillar wrapped in basalt stone tendrils.

Around the pool kneel a group of hooded figures in robes, their foreheads touching the stone in supplication. One figure paces around the pool, long staff in hand like some sort of overseer. They use the staff to tap one member on the shoulder. The figure excitedly jumps to their feet. They grasp the overseers hand in both theirs and shake it vigorously. The overseer lowers the figures hood revealing a young man whose mouth is stretched into a beaming smile.

The supplicant quickly shuffles over to the edge of the pool before turning back to face the overseer.

"Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn"

The flat toneless words are the first sound you've heard since entering the cavern. The overseer reaches out with his staff and gently pushes the young man in the chest causing him to fall back into the pool.

There is barely a ripple as he hits the water. Within seconds he disappears beneath the water. This is no sound... No bubbles...

"Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn"

The words fill the cavern again, this time from a chorus of voices. Silence quickly refills the stone cavern and the overseer resumes his passing around the circle.

Mike's body felt stiff and sore, though his wounds had ceased bleeding during their foray through the dark tunnels. He lifted a hand to the bite on his neck and winced. Watching Clarke creep forward deftly, he checked his revolver and prepared for Clarke's signal as he leaned heavily against the wall breathing heavily.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 111):

Clarke stared at the ritual. He could sense Mike's hesitation and fear. He could feel the cavern and its darkness. He knew, more than anyone else, the evil that lurked here.

The ritual seemed familiar and he cast his mind back to his days desperately seeking ways to revive Zoe. There must have been some mention, some hidden text he had read that described its purpose ... and weaknesses.

Roll for Occult Knowledge: 46 - PASS

As if he was opening a box of terrors, bright reds and dark blacks flashed through his mind. A wail, one that he would have sworn was real, penetrated his ears and made him shiver. Yet, he remembered. He remembered the pure, horrific spell they sought to cast.

After catching his breath, Mike crept up to join Clarke. He peered out into the pools of water, the water reflected the lights onto the wall casting an eerie shimmering across the strange shapes and symbols.

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 112):

Clarke felt his blood run cold as the realization came to him: they were performing a summoning ritual.

Although he couldn't tell what they were summoning, it was obviously some form of evil. Human sacrifices meant that they were using their life-forces to bring.... something into this world.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 114):

Mike quietly slid the rifle from around his shoulder, made sure a round was chambered and took aim at the man who he assumed to be the ring leader. He took a deep breath, and squeezed the trigger.

22:47, Today: Jrodimus rolled 66 using 1d100.  firearms. Fail.

The shot echoed through the chamber, but as the smoke cleared, Mike saw that he missed.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 115):

As the shot rings out in the cavern the cultists seem to almost scream out in agony. As one they turn towards the now revealed Mike. The leader raises his staff and his off hand moves in a strange jerking fashion as if communicating to the rest of the cult. They rush towards the party, some unsheathing blades while other raise scum stained hands with jagged and broken nails.

Mike fired another round at the ring leader as his cohorts approached them.

07:20, Today: Jrodimus rolled 65 using 1d100.  firearms. Fail.

Again the shot went wide. He cursed under his breath through clenched teeth.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 117):

Clarke followed Mike's lead and let a bullet fly toward the leader of the cultists. Despite the sudden turmoil, his aim was keen and his shot true.

Firearms: Pass, Damage 4

The bullet struck the cult leader and Clarke smiled for the first time during the night. Dark oblivion and death awaited him and he was ready.

He began to strafe for his second shot.

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 118):

The bullet strikes the cult leader with a dull thud causing him to jerk slightly with the impact. As the cultist race towards the party he raises his staff slightly before slamming it back to the ground, causing a strange clang to echo in the cavern. The cultists instantly come to a halt, rigid and stiff. One of them turns towards their leader, hands gesticulating rapidly. Judging by the long slender fingers it seems to be a women. The sharp jerking motions of her hands clearly display her anger.

"Enough daughter... It is them."

The cultist reluctantly part leaving a clear aisle.

"A bullet isn't a traditional greeting but times have changed I suppose." He touches the wound and lets out a slight hiss. "In the stories heroes like you supposed to give a warning of some kind. A 'stop vile fiend, justice has arrived'!"

His voice while strangely quiet fills the room. The rest of the cult stands motionless aside from the occasional hand movement, an obvious form of communication.

Anticipation fills the air.

Mike felt the stone in it's case in his ruck sack start to vibrate against his back. He kept his rifle trained on the man speaking. "Heroes...more like executioners," he muttered, "For what trouble you and your little club here have caused us, I'm not feeling particularly heroic at the moment." His finger rested in the trigger well, ready to squeeze.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 120):

"And what, pray tell, would you care to share with us?" Clarke asked the cult leader, uncertain about the relationship between the man and the woman. Perhaps, as he had feared, this cult was not the devil incarnate. Rather, it was a man's religious harem. A man who used the unknown to bend women to his will so he could have his way with them.

These type of cults were as common as murders in penny dreadfuls. Groups with rare magical power were few and far between. Clarke felt the world warp and reality slipping away from him. Lara and Zoe hovered in his peripheral.

As the pause stretched longer and longer, Zoe ran a finger along Clarke's neck. It felt as if the entire universe had stopped. Although he attempted to ignore her, her ponderous movement found its way around to the front of his vision. For the first time, bar his dreams, she stood in front of him with only her hair and the universe to keep her warm. Her curves and form shone in the flickering light with youthful abandon, and he found himself longing for another world. He longed for a fair universe. A universe that was kind to the downtrodden and beaten. A world without mud.

"All of this can be yours," she said, stepping closer. "Blood and sweat, pleasure and pain -- all of it. We can mingle until the heavens explode in us." Her hand rubbed his crotch. "All you have to do is take the stone from Mike. Take it and give yourself to the reality beyond our senses." When he did not respond, Zoe hissed. "TAKE IT YOU UNGRATEFUL MAN! TAKE IT AND LET US SHOW YOU THE TRUE PATH!"

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 122):

While the cult leader doesn't advance towards the party his pacing continues as he weaves between his followers, at times pausing to adjust a cowl here or push back a lock of hair there. While you can place anything wrong about the man, besides hosting a religious cult in the middle of a bog, there is something... palpably wrong, something you can feel pressing on the world around the man. The shadows of his hood obscure his face, the torch light glinting off his eyes.

"Why do you run?" While the question seems to be asked to the ethers, it is clearly pointed towards you. "One who has escaped the despair and chaos of the world yet feels himself drawn back into the mud. The other who has never really left, who has constructed a world around him to shelter his mind for the realities of what he has done, what he has seen." He holds out his hands and the sleeves of the robe fall back for your first glimpse of the man's skin. On his left hand his fingers seem to be fused into uneven chunks with a thin yet growing webbing spread between them. The other, rather then display smooth pale skin can only be described as the underside of a ship, jagged and rough.

"Here you are fighting your fate... And you don't even know why..."

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 123):

Mike kept his grip on the rifle steady, still trained on the cult leader. It would be so easy to squeeze the trigger. To snuff out yet another life just as easily as all the rest. But something in the man's words and tone made him hesitate.

"And what do you know of us and our fate, you sonofabitch?"

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 124):

"You, of course, are part of the sacrifice your friend made." The cult leader seems unfazed by the rifle pointed towards him. "The Taker doesn't accept meaningless offers. Many think they can simply give a small token. But a sacrifice must be..." He waves his deformed hands around as if searching for the word. "Complete. He cares little if it is volunteered or coerced."

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 125):

Clarke immediately grasped the meaning behind the cult leader's words. They were the ultimate sacrifice. Jack, ever the selfish rich boy, had doomed them in his salvation fantasy. It was fitting they would be used and tossed aside in his last and final action.

Staring at the cult leader, Clarke tried to remember anything he could from the vast tomes he had read. Perhaps locked deep in his mind was some solution to this riddle. There was something "off" about the man. Something deeply unnatural and if Clarke could determine what it was then ... well ... he could die laughing.

Roll for Occult: 38 - Pass

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 126):

While Clarke is unable to fathom what unholy rites had been conducted upon the man, he knew that he was most likely vulnerable to magic as it played a continued role in his transformation into this unholy abomination. The cultist had made some sort of Faustian bargain and was slowly gaining the aspects of his abysmal patron.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 127):

"Here's your sacrifice," Mike mumbled as he squeezed the trigger.

19:55, Today: Jrodimus rolled 26 using 1d100.  firearms. Very near miss.

He scrambled to find cover as soon as the bullet explodes from the chamber as he slings the rifle and pulls out his revolver.

Should have gone to a damn rifle range.
This message was last edited by the player at 11:00, Sun 12 July 2020.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 128):

Clarke stared long and hard at the group around him and the way they had been assembled. The man was transforming. Transforming into the dark regions of the world. There had to be a counter, a chant, a way of stopping the progression.

He tried to recall the sounds he had heard from before and deduce the spell's earlier patterns.

Roll for intelligence (93): fail

Nothing immediate sprang to mind.

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 129):

"Come now, you must see the futility in resisting," cried the cult leader. "You are lost and alone. Give in to his embrace and end the meaninglessness of existence."

His unwebbed-hand flashes through a series of gestures and the milling cultists around him suddenly spring into action, returning to their places around the pool, resuming the ritual.

The air in the cavern filled with a humming vibration that slowly increases in intensity.

Slowly the leader stalks towards you. "Surrender now and I will end it for you quickly. Struggle... and be obliterated."

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 130):

Seeing the cultists resume their ritual and not immediately attacking he or Clarke, Mike guessed that they needed to be stopped before the leader's transformation was complete. He takes aim at one of them and squeezes the trigger of his grandfather's revolver again.

23:15, Today: Jrodimus rolled 23 using 1d100.  firearms. Hit.
Damage: 23:15, Today: Jrodimus rolled 1 using 1d8.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 131):

Clarke looked at the unblinking metal in his hand. It held the weight of death. There was no flame nor light able to penetrate it. In the end, it was a lump of the unending void. The substance life began from and ended at.

While listening to the mumbled chants rising and falling throughout the room, Clarke lifted his pistol and targeted the nearest cultist. He squeezed the trigger gently.

Shoot cultist: 85, fail

The gunpowder sputtered and the bullet flopped out of the novel. It landed in the dirt a few paces from where he was. A sign of how his life had burned all the fire in his soul.

"Cross the bridge," Zoe whispered to him, her voice serpentine. "Cross it and we'll welcome you home."

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 131):

While Mike's bullet flew try, it had little impact on the cultist who jerked at the impact but didn't stop their incantation. Instead, they placed pressure on it with one hand to staunch the bleeding.

But this allowed the cult leader to close the distance, wielding his staff in both hands. Once within range, he swings the large staff towards Mike...

(Attack, succeed: damage 2)

Landing a solid blow in his solar plexus, nearly knocking the wind from his.

The water in the pool begins to roil...
This message was last edited by the GM at 10:01, Sat 02 Jan 2021.

With the wind nearly knocked out of him, Mike stumbled away from the cult leader raising his revolver towards the now more immediate threat and firing.

22:29, Today: Jrodimus rolled 89 using 1d100.  firearms. Miss

The shot went wide, and Mike kept backing away trying to keep his distance from the man.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 134):

As Clarke reloaded his pistol, he listened to the sound of the chanting and mumbling from the priests. Snippets of an ancient text tugged vaguely at his memory. The words seemed to turn tangible and dance around in the air in front of him. He could see the sounds twisting, weaving, heaving and burning as they combined into something darker, deeper and more lucid.

Roll: Intelligence - 28

BUT, then, there was light. And the characters transformed into a phrase he could use. A phrase so pure that it called to him and purged his sins. He reached out and touched it -- the statement blazing brightly into his mind.

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 135):

Clarke
As the light burst into form in Clarke's mind, he was nearly overwhelmed by its complexity. He instantly understood that such an undertaking would shred what was left of his mind.

But more chilling, Clarke finally understood the true nature of the spell. They were summoning... him...

Mike
As another shot missed, Mike resisted the urge to examine the barrel of his gun to see if it was crooked somehow.

"I understand now how Jack lost his way. He thought he had sacrificed his humanity to the Taker. But it seems a fragment of it remained in his memories of your friendship. But it is over now. With your death, his sacrifice will be complete," says the cult leader.

Strangely he doesn't push his advantage, as if he is waiting for something.

Is Jack dead or alive? Mike thought to himself. The cultist leader's words stirred a longing to know the truth within him. So many years had passed, yet he couldn't forget old friendships so easily. Blood was thicker than water, but in Europe there was so much blood it was hard to tell the difference any longer.

He knew that the cultist was probably baiting for time at the same time he knew that these were probably his last breaths on earth. Still, he took the bait.

"What happened to Jack?" He asked, his revolver still aimed toward the cultist.