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.