This is the first scene of the game, good luck and god speed!

On this most unlucky of days you wake to find an overcast sky and intermittent drizzle. The temperature is unusually cool for this time of year but people seem to be going about their business as usual. While you can't quite explain why, the air feels oppressive and heavy and at times it's a labor just to take a breath. The normal chatter of songbirds and small animals has been replaced by the ominous caw of crows...
This message was last edited by the GM at 15:55, Wed 27 Sept 2017.

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

Before long, the morning sun was up shining through Mike and Shelley's bedroom. It was small, but had a bit of closet space. Silently, he absentmindedly watched the dust particles in front of Shelley's wooden vanity reflecting the sun.

There is no god here.

He could still see Jack's face in the faint light of that shed in his mind's eye.

Soon, the faint spatter of a drizzle started tapping on the window. He got up, put his trousers on, pulling his suspenders up over his shoulders. Shelley began to stir, "I'm awake." She said drearily.

Mike grabbed his grandfather's revolver off the night stand and holstered it. "Rise and shine, dear," he grinned as he leaned over to kiss her furrowed brow. "I'll get some coffee on."

The kitchen lay off the side of the hallway. Rays of light illuminating more shimmering dust. Could've been worse. At least they had wooden floors. Better than he had growing up. He put water in the kettle and lit the stove, stoking the kindling until it burned hot enough to boil the water. Shelley came in after the coffee was finished, "You sleep any better, Mike?"

Mike shook his head, "Nah," he grimaced burning his tongue on his mug of coffee, "Something feels off today."

"Must be the rain," she sighed. She looked around taking in the kitchen, "but I admit, it does feel odd. Like the atmosphere has changed. What's with all the crows?"

He hadn't realized the crows were especially talkative this morning. Shaking off a bizarre feeling, he smiled, "Maybe there's some road kill. Maybe we'll be eating a fine meal tonight!"

"Ew, gross!" She protested. "Go open the shop you barbarian."

The rest of the day went on like any other. Mike and Shelley's house was a small attachment to the shop they had built together after the war. When he was younger, his grandfather ran a distillery out of Brattleboro, VT and his father had settled down in Arkham and opened up a shop to sell basic goods and of course, their family moonshine. His mother had passed away when he was only 4 years old. His father followed her to the grave while he was in Europe. Mike got back to find the shop in disrepair. So he took his savings and reopened it. When prohibition started in 1920, he kept his moonshine stocked from the family distillery up North and discretely kept the Roadhouse in business. It was a bit more dangerous, but any issues were settled with a bribe and a wink. In the mean time, he continued attending night classes at the university where he reconnected with Shelley. They were never lovers before the war, but they weren't strangers either.

Nowadays, most of his days were filled with keeping the shop in order. Making sure the few part time employees they had (John Boy and Aaron, a few local toughs with big hearts and sentiments) did their jobs and running up North in his ol' Chevy Pickup Truck to get more moonshine. They made due. They were happy.

As twilight descended, Mike hopped into his truck and drove over to the Roadhouse. The rain began to pick up, and by the time he arrived it was threatening a proper downpour. He pulled into the now muddy driveway. He stepped out into the rain.

Mud. There's always mud.

He approached the front door but stopped as he reached for the handle. He shuddered as he remembered what he saw last night. Well, what he thought he saw.

Mud.

Bloody caved in face. Gaping maw.

Was it Jack?

He realized his hands were shaking again. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath.

It's not real. You've got a vivid imagination is all.

He opened his eyes and the feeling had passed. It was just a dream. It was just his imagination.

Mike entered the Roadhouse, seeing Ivan at the bar he gave him a big grin, "You ready to lose all your money tonight?"

Ivan chuckled, "Not tonight! Lucy said I lost too much last week. Will have to sit out." The two of them laughed robustly, maybe too robustly.

"Alright, well lets get the cards and the table set up. See which of the boys wants to take their chances tonight. Someone get me a drink!"
This message was last edited by the player at 16:41, Wed 27 Sept 2017.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 2):

Grabbing an armful of glasses and bottles, Ivan shoulders his way into a backroom as you follow close behind. “Well the weather has put a bit of a damper on things, but most of the usual gentlemen are on their way.” He begins setting up seats at a well-worn wooden table. “Of course Burt will be here, hell or high water. And Anthony Flinders from the university should be here, spending his father’s money of course,” he says with a chuckle. “Oh, and Abner Wick from that antiques place said, and I quote, a little spittle won’t deter him.” A hacking cough shakes his large frame as he pulls out his checkered handkerchief. “Damned weather! Wrecks havoc on a man’s constitution,” he says, wiping stray spittle from his chin.

You notice that Ivan is setting up extra seats at the table. “New players?” you ask with a raised brow. He pauses for a second looking around.

“Old habit I guess, we always play with six. Maybe we can find a few rubes for you to con out of their hard earned money” he says with a smile.

With the ease of familiarity, you and Ivan set up the card table and all the accouterment of a good poker game. While well meaning, Ivan tends to ramble, something in full effect at the moment. Perhaps its because one of the main responsibilities of a bartender is to listen to the woes of their patrons, you muse. Once you get the time to talk about yourself, it’s all you can do. You fade back into the conversation hearing, “you should have seen it, trash everywhere. And I swear the crows were watching me every second,” Ivan says, placing the last bottle of Battleboro on the table. “You know the ancient Romans use to divine the future from the direction the crows would fly?” he asks. A slight shudder runs down your spine although Ivan doesn’t seem to notice. Shelley had mentioned the crows just this morning.

“Well I don’t expect to play for pocket change Ms. Stone,” says a large, fleshy and somewhat effete man as he enters the room. You recognize him as Abner Wick, the owner of Unconsidered Trifles, the local antique shop. He is a man who gives an impression of once having a large powerful physique now undone by years of indulgent living and excess. He has long been a frequenter of these backroom games. “I hope you can find someone to replace our absent guests”. With little notice of you or Ivan he sweeps into the room, draping his coat on a hook and taking a seat at the table. Without asking, he reaches out and pours himself a generous helping of whiskey.
“Could you have picked a worse day?” That grating voice could only be Anthony Flinder, the privileged Miskatonic student. A handsome, if dourly dressed undergraduate, he is one of the university’s more well-heeled students. His clipped upstate New York diction and well-bred air reek of money, his father owning a number of textile factories in the area. “At least I arrived fashionably late,” he says noticing Abner at the table.

Taking a long draw from his glass, Abner smacks his lips contentedly. “Your family has always made an excellent brew!” he exclaims with a slight nod. “But I hope you’ve been able to scrounge up more people for our game,” he says, his mouth puckering into a frown.
With an exasperated sigh Mike opens his mouth to answer he can’t control who does and doesn’t come when he is interrupted by a banging on the front door.
This message was last edited by the GM at 17:57, Wed 27 Sept 2017.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 3):

Clarke glanced at his knuckles. He knew he was getting old, but he hadn't realized that meant rapping sharply on wooden doors would hurt. "Things change," he mumbled too himself.

He had tried to look more like his youthful self by trying on old half-sleeved shirts and a pair of jeans. They still fitted, but they seemed out of place now. A man trying to forget what he had become, and so he wore the grey suit which was loose and concealed his revolver well. On top of it was an off white raincoat, it had been patched: nine times to be precise. He liked that part, the wear of it. The way it reflected a man beaten about by the winds of the universe.

Still, it made one thing clear: he was not the friend Mike had left that fateful day. Worse, it showed he had become untethered. From what, Clarke did not know. He prayed it was not his sanity, but the world had become less concrete and more a shifting void of voices and seedy desires that he provided for a small fee. The road, its sheer vastness, was the only truth he now knew and that scared him.

The door, he noticed, had an almost inaudible creak to it as it was being opened. Something he might need to remember should a client ever need something from The Roadhouse without folks knowing about their indiscretions.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 3):

"Ah," says Ivan at the sudden noise. "That's probably Burt." He continues setting up the table. "Do you mind getting that Mike? I don't trust Abner around the liquor." The portly man returns the light-hearted attempt at humor with a sour frown.
"You know I pay handsomely for what I imbibe," he says indigently as he starts to fill his second glass. With a slight nod you head towards the front door.
"And make sure he brought money this time," Anthony shouts at your back. "This isn't a charity game."
To be honest you don't know much about Burt, not his last name, not even much about his personal life. You know he lost a son in the war. Lucy had told you that it hit him hard, turning him quiet and withdrawn. But ever the loyal customer, the staff of the Roadhouse tended to dote on him, hence his presence at the game. Lucy is quite protective of him and tends to cover his tabs and debts.
Passing into the front of the store you quickly approach the large wooden door.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 5):

Mike stepped to the door and opened it, "Well Burt, good to see - " his smile dropped slightly when he sees Clarke standing in the rain, but he quickly renewed it. "Well Clarke, didn't expect to see you here. Never took you for a gambling man. Never mind, come in from the rain, lets get you settled."

Mike ushered Clarke in and turned towards the bar, "Would you like something to warm you up? I know you weren't much of a drinking man before, but things change." Mike grabbed a bottle and started pouring a drink for Clark. "Sorry I haven't stopped by your shop over the past few years. We had the business to run," Mike gestures in a round about way, "well you know how things go."

I'm rambling.

Mike turns and offers the glass to Clarke, "Well, I guess I expected to see you sooner than later."
This message was last edited by the player at 14:04, Thu 28 Sept 2017.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 6):

Clarke took the glass and swirled it. "I've heard a lot about your family's classic brew over the years." He downed it in one gulp. "Like always, as good as your other brags."

"Somethings do change though." He glanced over the room and took in the table with one of his infrequent customers making no bones about eavesdropping on their conversation. He heard the distant and half-faded sound of cards being shuffled as if the action was being done on the other side of the wall.

"For example, I didn't originally come here to lose money, but if you are short," he motioned to the empty chairs...
This message was last edited by the player at 14:21, Thu 28 Sept 2017.

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 7):

Mike nodded appreciatively of the compliment, "Well my cousin Jed always had the mind of a chemist. I daresay he improved on Granpa's recipe over the years."

He took the bottle and refilled Clarke's glass. "Old friends' are always welcome to the table as far as I'm concerned. It's a game between friends and deviants really." Clarke smiles.

"Well we can talk now or get a few hands and glasses in first. I don't mind making the boys wait, though they do get rowdy if drink gets to their head before I've taken all their money." Mike winks and chuckles.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 8):

Clarke clinked the ice against the glass. Running his index finger around the outside, he wondered which group Mike put him in now. He knew his friend's easygoing smile could be both the invitation to a heaven or a hell.

"I've never been a rich man, Mike," he said before taking a slow sip. "I like the sound of torn notes in my wallet more than a lot of other things these days, but ... I'm going to ask about Jack. And I don't know if you'd prefer it while robbing me blind or standing here with whiskey only an arm's reach away."

He took another sip of the liquor.

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 9):

Mike nodded thoughtfully, but he didn't need to consider it much at all. He didn't relish talking about Jack in front of his poker buddies at the Roadhouse, let alone talking about him at all. But there was the envelope with that note in his jacket pocket. Truth be told he hadn't looked at it all day. Some things are better left buried.

"Alright," he said, "Let's not bum these guys out with the war talk. Once Burt gets here they should be alright to play. Though with a bit less personality at the table."

He grabbed a glass for himself and the bottle from the bar and making eye contact with Clarke, gestured to a dusty table in the corner.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 10):

As the two of you head to the corner table, you are startled by an overly loud shout. "Where do you think you're going?" You look back to see the large figure of Abner leaning heavily against the doorframe. "I came here to play poker," he pushes off the doorframe, swaying slightly. "And I find you out here clucking away like a hen. Come now, I won't be kept waiting any longer. " He gestures back to the room, "bring your friend too." You can tell Abner has a head-full of whiskey as he stares at you impatiently, his eyes momentarily slipping out of focus at times.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 10):

"Mr. Abener," Clarke said while raising his glass to his patron. "What a fortuitous surprise to see one of the best poker players in the region here. Perhaps you might give poor old Mike a reprieve from one of my boring games in which he takes all my cash."

Clarke raised his glass as a sign of respect to his irregular, but very demanding customer.
This message was last edited by the player at 15:56, Thu 28 Sept 2017.

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 12):

Mike sighed, remembering how Abner Wick has a tendency to get good and drunk at poker night and boast about his rare collection of antiques and their fantastic histories. To be fair, Abner could tell a good tale. He was annoying at his worst, but eccentric and interesting at his best. He was like the uncle one could have growing up that had the best stories.

Either way, he had no interest in poker tonight. But the game must go on.

Mike looked at Clarke and shrugged, "Well, I guess either way I'm gonna' be taking your money tonight." He smiled and poured himself a drink. Taking a swig he turned to Abner still smiling, "Alright, lets see how much we can squeeze out of you tonight."

As an afterthought he turned and whispered, "This guy is something special, isn't he?"

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 13):

Whispering, Clarke replied, "Sometimes he orders items inebriated and then discovers he already owns one in the morning."

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 14):

Mike let out loud laugh. "Now that, my friend, I believe."

He clapped Clarke on the back in camaraderie. "It's like they always said, 'into to the breach we go'."

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 15):

You follow him to the table where he takes a a seat, the chair groaning ominously under him. Next to a deck of cards you notice an empty bottle of whiskey, a five dollar note tucked neatly under it. Snatching up the deck he slaps it in front of Anthony. "Deal!" he says.
Reaching into the breast pocket of his jacket he pulls out a large cigar and surprisingly politely asks "Ivan, a book of matches if you please." Within a few moments he has the cigar lit and Anthony has the cards dealt.

"Why are you here Mr. Walsh?" he says around the cigar, examining the cards in his hand, carelessly tossing in some chips into the pot. Anthony, brow furrowed in concentration soon follows suit.

OOC: You have the choice to buy in or not (which will affect NPC responses). Three lost hands and you are out of the game, a simple highest opposed roll win.
This message was last edited by the GM at 16:27, Thu 28 Sept 2017.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 16):

Clarke pulled out a chair and sat down. "I'm here for the best moonshine in town and to see the best poker faces in the state."

Opening his wallet so nobody could see the notes, he placed ten worn dollar bills on the table. "I take it we are playing for cash, not chips?"
This message was last edited by the player at 16:40, Thu 28 Sept 2017.

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 17):

Mike took a seat at the table and lit up a Lucky Strike with a match. He slapped a dollar down on the table from his jacket pocket and said to Clarke, "Don't put your money where your mouth is too soon, Padre. Deal me in Anthony."

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 18):

Clarke Walsh
"Rubbish," says Abner, waving his hand through a cloud of smoke. "I know you Mr. Walsh. And I know you have no interest in our game. So you are either here to needle me for work or you have some other motive. I find it peculiar that one of our regulars is missing and his wife's employer just so happens to show up?" His previous drunkenness seems to have disappeared and he looms over the table. A haze of smoke has begun to fill the room. Its cloying scent fills you nose and begins to stir a long buried memory. You attempt to grasp, but just like smoke its slips through your fingers. Where I had you encountered that scent before? it was quite unlike any cigar you've experienced...

Mike Walsh
Anthony expertly deals you a hand before turning back to his cards. You notice he has ignored the glass next to him. "And you Mike. Ivan tells me you were acting strange the other night?" Over Abner's shoulder you see Ivan shrug apologetically. "People have been acting strange in Arkham lately. I'd hate to think you'd fallen for their gossip."

He places his hand of cards face up on the table. "So what is it boys?"
This message was last edited by the GM at 17:04, Thu 28 Sept 2017.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 19):

Clarke tried to recollect where he read about the smell before, in some distant book perhaps. Or was it a recipe Ida kept lying around his apartment? He was unsure. (Roll for Occult: 95)

"I think you have me pegged wrong Mr. Abner. As you know, I'm simply a busy man who is mediocre at cards. However, like all war veterans I know, we still have the itch. And when I heard there was a game going on up at the Roadhouse, well, how could I resist such an urge?"

Clarke leaned slightly back, as if to rest not only his case but state his confidence in the hand he held.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 19):

Mike took up the cards that Anthony dealt him and examines them thoughtfully. He always hated Anthony. Snot-nosed brat who didn't know much of anything and expected the world to cater to him. He took a drag from his cigarette, ignoring Anthony's question, "Must be the weather."

He gave Abner a look, "We grew up together and were in Europe together," gesturing towards Clarke. "Give him a break for wanting to come and reminisce."

He laid his cards on the table.

OOC: For the cards: 02:31, Today: Jrodimus rolled 18 using 1d20 ((18)).

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 21):

"Well maybe you should have resisted that urge Clarke," says Anthony placing his hand on the table. The pot is split between Anthony and Mike and they both rake their winnings into a small pile.

Clarke Walsh
The smoke has become so thick that you can feel your eyes start to itch. You have difficulty seeing the cards as they are dealt, their shape being reduced to hazed rectangles. You attempt to brush it aside but it just seems to cling to your hand. "You know Clarke, you disgust me," whispers Abner. The hair on the back of your neck rises. Lost in the smoke, he appears as little more than a looming shadow. "All the terrible things you have done. The people you have killed..."  The figure shakes his head. "What would Zoe think?" You hear a soft drag on a cigar followed by a low guttural chuckle. "Oh wait! You took care of that didn't you?"...

Mike Hudson
Putting out your lucky strike in a nearby ashtray, you pick up your next hand. "You know, my dad is considering running for mayor next year," Anthony says smugly. "So maybe I'll be hosting these games in the mayor's manse pretty soon." Picking up his glass for the first time, he takes a sip, his face twisting into a grimace. "Perhaps we can serve better beverages then too," he says pushing the glass aside. "You know, Professor Roach was saying the other day that my writing was some of the best he has ever seen. He asked me to help on his new book. You know Professor Roach right Mike? I mean, I know you ONLY studied law, but I'm sure you must have heard of him." Anthony continues his passive aggressive rant as he starts to look through his hand.

OOC: Trahern has lost one hand, he has two remaining. Jharrod, you don't hear the conversation that Clarke and Abner are having, nor do you notice the smoke and vice versa.
This message had punctuation tweaked by the GM at 02:58, Fri 29 Sept 2017.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 22):

Mike raises his eye brows and looks at Anthony bemusedly when he remarks on the drink as he picks up his hand. "Well, fortunately for me, that's the best you can get for now."

He begins to look through his cards, "Roach is the psychology professor isn't he? I seem to remember he was quite the hard ass, but he was fair. What do you research Anthony?"

Mike lays his hand on the table.

OOC: Roll for hand of cards - 18:39, Today: Jrodimus rolled 12 using 1d20 ((12)).

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 23):

Flinders eyes narrow in suspicion, seemingly looking for an insult in your words. Eventually he seems to brush them aside. "Psychology professor," he scoffs condescendingly. "I suppose to a lay person he may seem as such." With a sigh he rearranges the cards in his hand. "I doubt you'd understand his work. It is transcendent within the field. Professor Roach is on the verge of a breakthrough. It will revolutionize the way in which we view the world. Its really all anyone can talk about at the university."

With one last calculating look at the cards, he lays his hand on the table.

20:03, Today: The Keeper of Secrets, for the NPC Anthony Flinders, rolled 10 using 1d20.
This message was last edited by the GM at 11:06, Fri 29 Sept 2017.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 22):

Clarke closed his eyes and put two fingers on his left wrist. He had been here too many times and had too many day terrors for another to throw him. The military psychologist, before his discharge, had said to focus on the 'real'. So he did.

He concentrated on the sound of Abner breathing out the smoke, and its unique properties. He tried to remember what it was again. (Roll of 62) He listened to the sound of his pulse, its erratic beating and he breathed in and out. He closed his eyes and thought of Zoe when they'd first met and how she had made fun of the Major's beard. He thought of the Egyptian beach that they'd walked along after both of their first assassination missions, their nerves jittery as they talked through their emotions. His pulse steadied.

Feeling for his cards, he picked them up and refused to look at Abner: only the cards. (Roll of 19)

"A very elaborate way of trying to throw my game Mr. Wick. However, I still have a little left in the tank."

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 25):

As the smoke curls around you, you try to recall where you know it from. It vaguely reminds you of Egypt. "You're right Clarke, this is a game, one we have been playing millennia," growls the inhuman voice. "Many have tried to stand against us and have been broken. Meredith is no different. He may have set us back but the end is inevitable. Cthulhu Fhtagn!"

The smoky haze of the room suddenly deepens. You can no longer see the silhouette of Abner, let alone the cards in front of you. A gentle pulsing fills your ears and you feel as if you're being stalked by a predator, a mouse being toyed with by a cat. "Focus. On. The. Real.... Focus. On. The. Real..." you repeat to yourself. Just as you feel yourself about to loss your grip on the rising panic, the front door bangs open and a breeze dissipates the suddenly thin cloud of smoke around you. Each of the of the players at the table jump in surprise, Abner spilling whiskey down his front as he had been in mid-drink. Another figure from your past strides into the room.

OOC:Abner WIck, rolled 6 using 1d20.
This message was last edited by the GM at 05:14, Sat 30 Sept 2017.

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

"Son of a whore," hisses Abner, grabbing a towel to dab at the front of his shirt. "This is European," he grumbles. Anthony, who had halfway risen out of his seat in an attempt to escape, sheepishly sits back down white as a sheet.

"Jesus!," says Ivan, running a hand over his face. "You sure know how to make an entrance Byron. I was afraid the captain had finally decided to crack down and this was a raid." He bustles out from behind the counter. "Come on in and shut the door behind you. We've already started."

Clarke and Mike  both see one of their oldest friends, Byron Neville, standing in the doorway, his hand outstretched after the wind ripped the door from his grasp, slamming it loudly against the wall.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 27):

"Greetings!" says Byron, "Mike and Clark. My, it's been quite some time, hasn't it? Wonderful to see you." He gently coughs against the acrid air. His eyes water.

While pleasantly surprised by the appearance of his old friends, Byron also feels pangs of embarrassment. He hopes he can conceal his nervous desperation from his old friends.

"How are you both?" Byron asks as he shakes their hands. "May I join in?" He ignores Abner and Anthony for the moment.

In reply to novissimo (msg # 28):

Thankful for the respite of having to listen to Anthony's indulgent self aggrandizement, Mike stands and offers his hand to Byron, "Of course, friends are always welcome at the table. Care for a drink?" Mike grabs an empty glass and fills it before offering it to Byron.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 29):

Clarke stood, unsure of how much of his life was delusion and how much was real. For all he knew, he could be sleeping in bed and having the worst nightmare of his life.

"Byran, I'm glad you saved me from that interesting smelling cigar Mr. Wick is smoking." (Occult Roll: 89)

He paused and glanced at all the hands placed on the table. Through sheer luck, he had eked out a victorious hand despite the ... issues.

"I heard you were studying at the university now. How are those ratbag professors?"

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 27):

"Well this is surely ruined," mutters Abner whose white dress shirt, despite his best efforts, is now sporting a large brown stain. "More of your friends Mike?"

"That's Byron Neville," says Anthony, his face pinched as if he just came across a rather unpleasant odor. "He attends one of Professor Roach's lectures. Lets just say his marks are... unimpressive."

"I must say that your attempts to conspire against me are rather transparent. Burt is mysteriously absent and replaced by two of your 'friends'" With a heavy grunt he leverages himself to his feet, grabbing one of the few remaining bottles of whiskey on the table. "While I applauded the effort, perhaps next time you want to swindle me you should be a little more subtle." With a wave of his hand he gestures at Anthony. "Come Mr. Flinders, I believe we have business to discuss." The two retreat to a side parlor. After the door closes you hear the distinct clang of a bolt being thrown.

Sweeping up the nearly half dozen empty bottles that litter the table (mostly on Abner's end), Ivan gives a shrug. "You guys are welcome to use the room, I feel like there is some catching up to do. Just ring the bell if you need anything." He turns to walk away but stops. "Oh, and Lucy has thrown together supper if you are so inclined."

With that the three of you find yourself in a now empty room, lit by a few dim bulbs hanging from the ceiling.

OOC: Mike can add $4 to his character sheet and $8 for Clarke
This message was last edited by the GM at 05:22, Sun 01 Oct 2017.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 31):

Though not much of a socialite, the sight of his old friends puts Byron in a brighter mood, despite the dimness of the room, the trailing edge of his nervous energy and the shrill pettiness of Abner and Arthur's sniping.

"Thank you kindly, Mike. Haven't been seeing much of you lately. The business keeps you quite occupied, I take it? I heard there have been crack-downs..."

"Ratbags indeed, Clarke. The faculty seems on edge with the new exhibit the university  is hosting. There was a strange occurrence among the students as well, today come to think of it... But anyway, how have you been? When did you make your way here to Arkham?"

"And speaking of old friends I only just received a letter from Jack..."

In reply to novissimo (msg # 32):

Mike chuckles at Byron's remark, "Eh, nothing a few greased gears can't help." He winks slyly. "I wonder if that exhibition is what Anthony was talking about."

At the sound of Jack's name Mike's smile fades. "Aye, I guess everything comes back home in the end."

There is no God here.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 33):

Clarke ran his hand through his hair. "You got a letter too, did you? Mine came at a ridiculous time of the evening. A courier had to drop it off."

He chuckled bemusedly, mostly to himself.

"You wouldn't happen to be having terrifying visions of monsters as well? Jack always did bring out the worst in me."

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 34):

Mike rocked back slightly on his heels, the memory of his vision flashing in his mind. "You know Clarke, it's funny you say that." He looked around to make sure nobody was eavesdropping and lowered his voice, "I came in here last night, and I could've sworn him or something like him was out there with me." He pointed towards the door that led to the front room of the Roadhouse.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 35):

"What an odd coincidence."

Clarke moved over to Abner's side of the table and looked for evidence of cigar ash or a piece of the strange cigar that had been smoked earlier. (Keeper of Secrets: Do I need to roll for anything?.)

"Do you think it was a vision? A hallucination? A recall from the war triggered by something unexpected?"

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 36):

Clarke finds the butt end of Abner's cigar in a small pool of liquor in an ashtray, which formed after the rotund man had spilled his whiskey in surprise. On closer inspection it seems to be a high quality roll up with well dried and cured tobacco leaves.

OOC: No rolls are needed to find the cigar. However an actual analysis would require such.
This message was last edited by the GM at 11:45, Sun 01 Oct 2017.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 37):

As if continuing on the conversation, Clarked stated, "Say, you don't mind if take the cigar do you Mike? I would like to track down some more and treat us all to the finest smokes West of Europe, let's say to celebrate fortune favouring old friends."

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 38):

Mike scratched the back of his head sheepishly, "You know Clarke, I don't know. I didn't eat much yesterday. Could've just been a daydream. Sometimes my imagination gets the best of me since the war."

His hands fall to his sides and he gestures to the cigar, "I take it Abner isn't going to finish it. Go ahead."

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 39):

Clarke picked up the cigar, wrapped it in a page from his notebook and pocketed it.

"I originally thought so too," he added to Mike's comment. "I have some terrible nights. And some awful days. Reality can be significantly more malleable after taking another's life. Something about this though ... something feels off. More off than more usual disconnects."

"How about you Byron? Any visions before or after you received your letter?" Clarke, pulled out his copy from his pocket and showed it to the group. It was still in the envelope.

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 40):

Byron looks at the floor and furrows his brow.

"Well I had a peculiar instance this afternoon." He looks up as he speaks.

"A class I was attending broke into hysterics and directed an almost cultish hostility towards me. They were chanting a phrase I can't recall." Byron makes a mental note to research the phrase in the university library. There was something familiar about it, though he can't fathom why.

"The episode may have been the manifestation of the collective subconscious of a tight knit group of colleagues. I'm not too popular at the university, as Anthony alluded too. Though the experience seemed to warp the very environment itself. Fascinating. And I can't rule out that I may have simply hallucinated it..."

Byron almost goes on to explain his financial pressures but stops short out of personal embarrassment. He nervously straightens his tie and looks at the floor again.

"From what I can gather anecdotally, there's been a substantial surge in negative emotional energy in this town. Abner and Anthony are a symptom of it as well. It may have much broader implications than any of us realize."

"We've three all had visions, whether we choose to believe they were real or not" Byron glances at Mike.

"This fact seems of significant import either way, I fear."

In reply to novissimo (msg # 41):

Mike coughs nervously, not entirely believing what he's hearing from Byron's mouth.

"In any case, our ol' friend made a request. I got the Chevy, should probably get the breaks checked, but after that we could make a trip up North in a fortnight if you guys can spare."

Mud

"I sure as hell ain't going alone."

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 42):

Mike remembers the summers spent with the Meredith's camping up in Maine. Fond memories of swimming in the lake, meals around the fire, ghost stories. It was only about an hour drive.... No wait... Or was it three hours? Come to think of it, everyone always seemed too caught up in the excitement to remember where the cabin exactly was.... You seem to remember first you took the highway North and then took...
This message was last edited by the GM at 15:22, Sun 01 Oct 2017.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 43):

"Are you sure we can't go there quicker?" Clarke asked. "It seems urgent, and from memory it is only a few hours away."
This message was last edited by the player at 00:51, Mon 02 Oct 2017.

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 44):

Mike scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Well I suppose we could head up tomorrow. But we'd need to get directions." He peers around the door and raises his voice, "Hey Ivan, where's old man Meredith these days?"

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 44):

Byron experiences a nervous eye twitch at the sudden suggestion of leaving for Maine. But on a second thought, he realizes that this spontaneous meeting of old friends in this place, in conjunction with the letter and visions, is too serendipitous to be accidental. There must be some greater meaning to it. And as he had just said, this may be far too important to leave for a later date.

"I agree, Clarke. We should go. And as soon as possible. Though if we wait a day we can do some preliminary research at the university."

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 45):

"I thought Lucy told you the other day? He's been a shut in since his wife died. All his businesses run themselves at this point. Basically cloistered himself from the rest of the world. I'd assume he's just in his manor up on the hill." Ivan sketches a rough map on a napkin and hands it to you.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 47):

Mike took the napkin and thanked Ivan. "She did mention something about it. Wasn't sure if he was still at the old house."

"I agree with Byron. A day to get the brakes looked at and to prepare. I don't want to just leave Shelley hanging either. I'm sure I'd get an earful when we get back."

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 47):

"Byron I've always been the first to compliment you on your earnest pragmatism. And stars above, I know that I don't want to rush in wild person style with a whip and a cattle gun. However, I received this letter late at night. In miserable weather, I might add. What kind of courier does that? How much does one have to pay for it to be delivered in such haste?"

Clarke paused. He tapped his chest twice. "What type of evil would inspire a man like Jack to be so hasty in the first instance?"

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 49):

Byron stares straight ahead of him. Stares at nothing in particular.

"Clearly the forces that are harassing us have perturbed Jack far more. I suggest we prepare for our departure in the morning. I will visit the library for research, Mike can fix the brakes, and Clarke can get the cigars ready. Then in the evening we can meet again. Perhaps we can visit Old Man Meredith together."

Byron secretly agonizes over the need to spend his meager savings, but concludes it can't be helped. Other than the need to investigate and stop what ever dangers are lurking in this predicament, the potential to experience first hand and research a genuine super-natural occurrence of such intense magnitude is too fascinating for a budding parapsychologist to pass up.

The first proper investigation into the paranormal would not only validate the field of parapsychology in the annals of science but, perhaps, lead to personal fortunes as well.
This message was last edited by the player at 16:21, Sun 01 Oct 2017.

In reply to novissimo (msg # 50):

Mike nodded with his arms crossed over his chest, "I agree. I can pick you guys up, say around 15:00 tomorrow and we can head over to the Old Man's."

Mike checked his watch, and realizing how late it was decided it was time to return home. He said his good byes to his old friends and Ivan and Lucy, then made his way home. His thoughts clouded with memories and ghosts, he drove against the night time rain coming down.

It's all mud.

In reply to novissimo (msg # 50):

"If you strongly believe preparation is better than urgency, I'm not going to die on this hill," Clarke said. "Like everyone here, I wish these were better circumstances. However, it was good to see you both again. Till 3 tomorrow."

Clarke trudged out of the store. He was not looking forward to the walk home, especially in the dark with his mind already causing problems, but there was no other way to do it. He took the pace briskly, the rain pattering on his head and reminding him that beauty always lay within the stars, if nothing else.
This message was last edited by the player at 00:52, Mon 02 Oct 2017.

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 52):

"Right. Let us reconvene tomorrow."

Byron shakes hands all around. A practice he prefers to avoid with strangers but is glad to do with friends. As he walks home he sighs in regret that the late night rain will mean his shoes will be soggy in the morning.

Byron reaches home and lays down for the night. As he does so, he realizes that, despite his mild fear at not knowing whats to come, this is the first time in a long time that he will sleep with eager anticipation and excitement for the days to come.