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.