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 The normal chatter of songbirds and small animals has been replaced by the ominous caw of crows...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.