Saying a short goodbye to Jenny, the three of you climb into Mike’s truck and set off, leaving the dilapidated manse in your dust.

The drive to the cabin sees you traveling through the New England countryside although much of its beauty is lost on you as you dwell on the information you have uncovered. The visit to Jack’s father, rather than make things clearer, has only served to obscure things. It truly seemed that Charles believes that Jack died a week ago. And while you didn’t ask for any proof, you couldn’t disprove it either. All you have are the letters he sent you. The mystery seems to grow deeper and deeper the more you investigate.

Soon you begin to see familiar sights from your childhood: that strange green barn on the hill, that lake where you used to go swimming. Mike slows the car to crawl as you come to a side road with a large sign reading: MEREDITH FAMILY PROPERTY: TRESPASSERS BEWARE. You didn’t remember that sign being there and it gives an ominous sense of danger.

Turning onto the narrow trail, the chirps of birds and the hum of insects fills the air. You pass over a wooden bridge, the planks rattling as you cross. Eventually the road comes to an end at the Meredith’s cabin. Built out of native pine, it has been painted a cheerful white color with red trim, although the colors have faded over time. The roof is steep to keep the Maine winter snows from crushing it. There are six glass windows that seem to have been boarded shut. Dusk has firmly settled in and you can see a slight glow coming from the cracks between the wooden boards covering the windows.

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

Byron steps out of the truck. He hears the soft crunch of gravel and dirt beneath his feet. In his left arm are his occult book and journal. His face has a look of determination as he surveys the scene. He closes the truck door with his right arm.

To his own surprise, his ever present dread has subsided and his old military bearing, as well as his academic curiosity, has taken over.

 He starts to walk along the dirt path toward the small structure with the ominous light shining from the door pane. He says to the others “ let’s head to the cabin, shall we?”

In reply to novissimo (msg # 2):

Noticing the glow between the cracks of the boards, Mike got out of truck and shut the door. He followed Byron, memories floating into his minds eye.

"Well hopefully it's just the Priest in there." He said gesturing to the front door.

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

The chirp of crickets fills the air you reach out and rap on the cabin door. You hear a startled scrabble from inside and the district pump of a shotgun being loaded. The door opens a crack and light floods the night, backlighting the cabin’s inhabitant. You see the partially obstructed face of a man just past his prime, most of it hidden by a wildly unkempt beard and salt and pepper hair. “Who are you?” the man asks gruffly, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 4):

Byron's eyes went wide in reaction. He slowly put his hands out in front of him.

"We are friends of Jack Meredith. We came at his invitation. He said we were to meet a Father Ronald Henesey?"

In reply to novissimo (msg # 5):

The man holds up a small photo and glances between it and Byron. "You don't look like your picture," he says in a deep baritone. He opens the door a bit more and you can see that he is holding a shotgun in his off-hand. "Who do you have with you back there? Step into the light with your hands up!" The man set the butt of his gun against his shoulder and halfway raises the barrel towards you. "And I'm not asking nicely..."

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 6):

Mike raised his hands up and stepped forward slowly, still behind Byron. "Look Padre, we're here because Jack asked us to help you. We were in the war together." Mike looked at the disheveled priest in the eyes and nodded in a way he hoped let Father Henesey know they were friends.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 7):

Father Henesey looks back at the photo as Mike steps forward. A spark of recognition lights his eyes. "Mike? Mike Hudson?" he asks. Mike gives a small nod in confirmation and the father lowers his gun. "Jack said you'd be coming with a few friends but he didn't know when." He steps out of the doorway and waves you inside. "Quick, before anyone notices the light."

The interior of the cabin is much like what you remember, decorated with paintings of hunting, fishing and other nature scenes. There is a collection of camping gear, including folding cots, kerosene lamps, gas canisters, cooking gear, and other common items such as fishing poles. There is even an Army surplus two-way radio along with a conventional civilian radio and record player. Its as if someone had been planning on hiding out in this cabin for awhile.

You remember from your youth that the cabin had neither electricity or indoor plumbing. It seems nothing has changed as lighting is provided by number of lamps. The main area of the room is dominated by a large oak table, carved with even more hunting scenes. You remember Jack's mother arguing with his father about the table. She felt it was out of place in 'her fine house' and Charles was forced to move it out here. Around the table are several well made oak chairs.

The surface of the table is strewn with clippings from what seem to be various newspapers and books. The chaotic mess makes it difficult to see what they are about.

To the back you remember that there this is a sleeping area with a number of beds.

Father Henesey hangs the shotgun on a number of hooks over the fireplace and gestures to the table. "It seems there is much we have to discuss."

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 8):

Clarke stepped through the door last and breathed in the mixture of a man cooped up in a wooden hut, and the freshness of damp mud and wet leaves. He closed the door, gently, behind them to ensure they didn't attract unwanted attention.

Zoe had changed into an ill-fitting checked shirt and wore what looked like a fake beard. She put her hands on her hips. "Well, good men, four-score and umpteen years ago we decided to subjugate entire colonies of people." Propping her foot on one of the strewn chairs, she continued. "Have we not succeed, good sirs? Have we not kept the rabble underfoot and the women producing our baby-faced heirs? Do we not deserve this ..."

Clarke let her voice drone into the background, as if she was an overbearing announcer on the radio. He split his cards, spun them around and looked through the cabin trying to make an assessment. He knew where this path ended. He knew what Zoe, his brain, was telling him, and he didn't need the prattling roundabout way she was trying to pitch it. This place was death. This town, the town his mother had chosen, was the harbinger of Nergal. She had abandoned him to the depths, just like Zoe's father had sent her to hers.

They were, truly, their parents children. They had been made for each other.

With a single flourish, he made a choice, fanned the cards, and slid into a chair.

"Father, I know a journey that only ends in blood and bone when I stumble on it. And I know what men, and women, look like when they're on that path. So before we hear the excuses, the justifications, the religious pathos that goes with genocide - you tell me, look me in the eye and tell me, how many people are we killing here?"
This message was last edited by the player at 17:21, Mon 09 Oct 2017.

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 9):

Father Henesey pulls out a chair across from Clarke and takes a seat, placing the photo he was holding down on the tabletop. Mike recognizes it as a picture from the dinner thrown by the Meredith's back in 1918, before he and Jack had shipped off to Europe.

"You ask the wrong question my son. It is not how many people are we killing but how many are we saving," he says with a tired sigh. "But I do suppose you deserve an explanation. You have been thrust into a reality you can't possibly imagine. So perhaps it is best if I start at the beginning."

In the light of the kerosene lamps you are finally able to get a good look at the priest. Despite his slightly disheveled appearance he exudes a sense of calmness and serenity. His unruly hair, rather than making him seem slovenly, gives him and affable and relatable quality. While the majority of his chest is dominated by his prodigious facial hair, you see the occasional glimpse of his clerical collar.

He scoops up a a number of clippings and organizes them into a neat pile, softly knocking them against the table while he gathers his thoughts, although it does little to alleviate the mess that has taken over the table. "I apologize for the mess," he says, gesturing to the mass of paper. "These meant something to Jack. I've only just been able to start piecing them together." Setting aside his small stack the father folds his hands. "Jack is where all this starts."

"When Jack came to me, he was a lost soul. He came to my church, looking for answers. Sadly, he thought that God had abandoned him. We spoke at length and I must have made some impression on him, for he called on me in his time of need and entrusted me with... an item. I have had some experience with the sort of cult Jack had the misfortune of falling into, so I took what he said very seriously. I am sure the cult places a great deal of value in this item and I am certain that we must not let it fall back into their hands."
This message was last edited by the GM at 18:43, Mon 09 Oct 2017.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 10):

Mike took a seat at the table along with the others and starts to inspect the documents and photos that Father Henesey had arranged on the table. Absent mindedly he said, "Well we're all a little lost."

Then with more focus, "So what is this cult that Jack got himself involved with? Do you know any details? And what is so important about this artifact?"

OOC: Roll for Library check for checking through documents: 13:16, Today: Jrodimus rolled 18 using 1d100 ((18))
This message was last edited by the player at 04:16, Tue 10 Oct 2017.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 11):

As Mike rifles through the papers that litter the table, he notices that most of them refer to strange occurrences that have been happening in the area, abnormal weather patterns and odd animal behavior. But two pieces in particular stand out. The first is a clipping from a newspaper known as The Eye, a skeptical, independent newspaper published in the local town of Salem that focuses on the occult and other unusual matters.

The Order of the Ancient Stone is, despite the “ancient” in its name, a relatively new group. Formed in the early 1920s by Lance Blake, the group meets here in New York City. According to one member, who chose to remain anonymous, the group is dedicated to “ancient secrets, deep mysteries and really good poker games.”

The second seems to be a page torn from a book entitled Ancient Legends and Myths, which is written at the top of the page in pen, almost as if it's a reminder.

There is a brief mention in the works of Lucetus, a little known historian in the Roman Empire, of a Cult of the Ancient Stone. According to Lucetus, this cult was dedicated to finding six stones that were “brought from on high.” It was reported that the stones would “open a door into the world” that would allow “it who waits beyond the wall” to come to earth.
Lucetus reports that this cult was initially popular in Rome, but he notes that the cult died out when most of its leaders were found “torn asunder into bloody bits.”

“… I have a bit of experience with the paranormal you see, exorcisms and such. But I fear that this is much more.” You realize that clippings had distracted you from what Father Henesey was saying. “While I don’t know Jack very well as he wasn’t a member of my flock, I know that he very much feared for his safety. He believed that this cult he was part of intended to do great harm. He sought to stop them and I promised to assist him in any way I could. He entrusted me with one of the cult’s holy relics, which he must have stolen at great risk. He told me to take it here while he attempted to draw away the cult. I fear however that he may have been captured.”
This message was last edited by the GM at 05:17, Tue 10 Oct 2017.

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

Mike slapped the documents down on the table and scratched his beard. "Well Jack always enjoyed a few hands of poker," he chuckled to himself remembering a game in France when Jack literally lost his boots in a game with a farmer. The CO was furious, but that was Jack. At his best at least. "Did I ever tell you about the time..." his voiced drifted off as he realized everyone was looking at him.

He cleared his throat, "Anyways, looks like Jack is in trouble. Did he give you any information about the relic or any clues as to where he was going?"

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 13):

With the popping of aged joints, Father Henesey rises from his chair and retrieves a small but intricately carved box. Despite its small size, he seems to struggle with its weight. "Jack was carrying it around wrapped in a rag but I found a slightly better way to store the relic." With a heavy thud he places the box on the table. "While he might not know, I believe what Jack stole was a fragment of the..."

The father is cut off by a knock at the door. "Hello, is anyone there? We seem to have gotten ourselves a bit lost out here."

The color drains from Father Henesey's face. "You didn't tell anyone you were coming here did you?" He scoops up the box with a heavy grunt. "I have to hide this. Whoever they are, get rid of them."

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 14):

Mike stood up quickly and pointed to the documents and the box, "Father if you'd be so kind, please put these away in hiding."

He checked his revolver in his shoulder holster and looked at Clarke and Byron. "Were we followed?"

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 15):

Clarke tried to remember if he had noticed anything on the way here. A wayward car, perhaps? A lost hiker that seemed out of place? He gave Zoe a quick glance to see if she recollected anything that he might've missed. (Rolled Spot Hidden: 13)

He stood up slowly, to be sure he was not to be heard from outside the door. While his brain kept running through his trip here he put away his cards and pulled out his revolver. He knelt on the floor to steady his aim, and nodded to Mike as if to indicate he was in position.

"I'm not sure," he whispered. "Give me a second to think about it."

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 16):

Clarke racks his brain, trying to think of any clues that might suggest they had been tailed to the cabin. No headlights following us. Nobody made any phone calls. The grip of the revolver feels rough in his hands. Zoe has her fingers posed in a pistol shape, crouched low beneath a boarded up window. There is another knock on the door. "Hello? We were out here hunting and I think we got turned around. We saw the lights and headed over here."

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 17):

Byron’s anxiety spikes. His own natural suspicion is heightened and is fed by everyone else’s reaction.

He goes to the fire place and takes the gun from it’s hooks.

“Let’s give them the same greeting we received.” Byron says, pumping the handle for effect.

“You know, as a precaution.”
This message was last edited by the player at 04:05, Thu 12 Oct 2017.

In reply to novissimo (msg # 18):

"C'mon, we can see the lights on in there." There is another pounding on the door. "If you could just point us to the road that would really help us out," says the voice again, this time slightly frustrated as its pleas continue to go unanswered. Father Henesey can be heard moving things around in the sleeping area as a growing air of indecision fills the cabin.
This message was last edited by the GM at 05:24, Thu 12 Oct 2017.

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

Byron presses up against the wall next to the door, on the side opposite of the knob. With the gun pointed to the floor at a 45 degree angle, he reaches across the door and opens it a cracked, while still being concealed behind it.

"Who are you?" Byron growls.

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

Mike took a knee behind Byron cracking the door open and readied his revolver in case he needed to bring it up quickly to fire through the door way. He nodded to Byron, "let's welcome our guests."

In reply to novissimo (msg # 20):

With a creak, Byron opens the door, a sliver of light piercing the darkness of the night. "Ah thanks," says the voice as a face swims into view, filling the gap between door and jamb. It appears the voice has been coming from an apish man with a heavy brow and close cropped hair. Seeing Bryon, a quizzical look clouds his dull eyes. "You're not the preis.... I mean, can I come in?" A hairy knuckled hand grabs the edge of the door and begins to pull it open.
This message was last edited by the GM at 09:59, Thu 12 Oct 2017.

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

Byron points the gun in the stranger’s face.

“Ahem. I asked ‘who are you?’ “

In reply to novissimo (msg # 23):

"Whoa whoa whoa," says the man, holding his hands up and backing away from the door. "I'm just lost, no need for death threats." You can see he is dressed in plain clothes and doesn't seem to have any weapons. "I've heard that Father Henesey lives out here and I thought he could lend a good catholic hand to someone in need."

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 24):

Byron keeps the gun trained on the stranger.

“If you’re lost how do you know who would or wouldn’t live here?”

In reply to novissimo (msg # 25):

"Well, I mean, everyone in town knows that. Look, I ain't trying to cause any problems, if you could just come out and show me how to get to the road I'd be grateful," says the man, still holding his hands in the air and looking around nervously.

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

Mike kept his gun in the ready, "He's lying," He whispered through clenched teeth, "We need to take care of this. Sooner rather than later."

Something cold had settled in his gut. Something sure that the next inevitable steps were necessary. The kind of necessity that upon release is cathartic. Like taking a piss when you've drank too much at the pub.

It feels good.

There is no God here.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 27):

Clarke carefully backwards, trying not to make a sound. He kept his gun pointed at the door and listened to see if there were other people outside the cabin.

His goal was to check on the Father in the sleeping quarters. He doubted the man's story. None of them had heard a car or truck arrive in the short time they'd been there. No one had heard strangers calling for help or making noise to attract attention as they would have if they'd been lost. Rather, the person had made his approach quietly, sneakily, up to the front and then banged on the door when in position.

He had only three questions:

1. Was there more of him?
2. Would he be more useful alive or dead to the trio?
3. In position for what?

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

Byron keeps the gun trained on stranger's center mass.

Byron's anxiety seems to have melted away once he picked up the shotgun.

He hadn't felt this self-assured and in control since the start of his army deployment.

"Put your hands on your head. Get on your knees."

"Do we have any rope, Mike?" Byron asks.
This message was last edited by the GM at 02:51, Sat 14 Oct 2017.

In reply to novissimo (msg # 29):

Byron
Byron had often read in textbooks about the phallic nature of guns. And while he usually scoffed at the authors, he couldn't much deny it now as he gripped the fore-end of the shotgun and the blood roared in his ears. One twitch, one pull and he could end this man's life, a god among mere mortals, the embodiment of death.

"Fuck this, Karl said nothing about a gun fight," says the man as he backs away from the cabin. With one last look he turns and flees into the night.

Clarke
Clarke can feel the hairs on the back of his neck start to rise. He could swear he heard the scraping of gravel coming for various points around the cabin. Did they have us surrounded? Rushing to the back of the cabin in a low crouch he sees the father moving a large crate back into place. "We can't let them get ahold of the fragment" Father Henesey says in a whisper, sweat beading on his brow. "We need to protect the stone at all costs!"
This message was last edited by the GM at 03:16, Sat 14 Oct 2017.

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

"Get in and shut the fucking door," he hissed to Mike. "Something's scratching at the walls."

Zoe waved at the man running away. The back of her head had started to bleed and fall off in pieces, revealing a trail of flesh on the ground and a large hole revealing her pulsing brain. "Ooh, you can feel it, can't you Clarke? We're about to start firelighting again."

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 31):

Mike looked at Clarke, "what? Do you hear something?"

He stood up and ran to the door and closed it and locked it.

"Who the fuck is Karl?"

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 32):

In a rush Mike quickly closes the door, cutting off the view of the fleeing man. In the place of a traditional lock, the door has a simple latch and small bolt, only intended to keep the door from swinging open. Father Henesey emerges from the back room and begins to gather the papers from the table. "It seems that the Order has found me. We can be sure he isn't alone."

The shadows in the room seem to grow longer as the clock on the mantel strikes midnight...
This message was last edited by the GM at 08:14, Sun 15 Oct 2017.

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

Byron exhales audibly. His abdominal muscles begin to shiver uncontrollably. The coolness afforded him by the adrenaline rush is rapidly evaporating, leaving only severe nervous tension.

He puts the gun down, and props it up against the wall next to him.

"Perhaps we should leave the premises" Byron suggests.

"But first, Father, let us discuss the issue of the relic. What is it and where did it come from? What is it's purpose?"

Though still shaking, Byron prepares to jot down the details in his journal.
This message was last edited by the player at 11:55, Sun 15 Oct 2017.

In reply to novissimo (msg # 34):

Putting pen to paper usually had a calming effect on Bryon. The written word was something he could control, something unchanging in a world of chaos and entropy. "Perhaps you should start at the beginning father," he says, ready to record Father Henesey's words when he notices the lamp next to him flickering, its supply of kerosene having disappeared.

"Well I suppose that it starts with the day that Jack came to my church," begins Father Henesey. But his words are quickly lost amidst a growing paranoia. Someone is watching us. Byron tries to tell himself to calm down. The only people inside the cabin were himself, the father, Mike, and Clarke... However, as he gazes around, two shadows seem to split themselves from the darkest corners of the room, appearing as tall, horribly thin beings that seem to be composed of nothing more than shadowstuff. These figures twist and writhe unnaturally as they rise from the ground. They have no mouth or nose, but they do have eyes that glow like dying embers. Claw tipped fingers clench and unclench in spasmodic fits.

As the horror of the situation begins to fill Byron's mind, one single thought screams out to him: Cthulhu Fhtagn
This message was last edited by the GM at 23:54, Sun 15 Oct 2017.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 35):
Mike exhaled and turned to the table where Byron had sat at to begin taking notes. But something in the air seemed off, the shadows shimmered and shifted preternaturally. He wiped his eyes, thinking it could just be sleep, but their twisting formations continued.

What the hell?

OOC: role for sanity 13:10, Today: Jrodimus rolled 42 using 1d100 ((42)

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 36):

The room begins to spin nauseatingly around Mike, the shadows distorting till they form grotesque almost human-like caricatures. Wet mud sucks at his boots as he stumbles towards the table at the center of the room. Thump... Thump... Thump The sickening thud of flesh on flesh, shattering bone, the gargling rasp of a man choking on his own blood fills his ears.

A chair clatters to the floor as Mike almost drunkenly sways, gripping the table in an attempt to gain his balance. The face of Father Henesey fills his vision and while the father's lips are moving no sound seems to escape them. There is no god. The father's clerical collar seems to shine like a beacon in the darkness that has enveloped the room.

Mike curiously finds his revolver in his hands. He is going to eat your soul. Suddenly everything seemed blindingly clear. Only you can stop him Mike. Lifting the pistol towards the father, Mike notes the almost comical look of shock on his face as he pulls the trigger.

Mike's next memory is waking up on the ground, his jaw feeling as if he had been in a car accident and Father Henesey standing over him and rubbing his knuckles. "You need to snap out of it my son or we are all dead." The figure of an inhuman shadow looms behind the priest.

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

Sanity Check Roll: 61, Damage Roll: 2

Clarke watched as the light in the cabin slowly become snuffed out. Yet, Zoe shun brighter. Her face elongating somehow, as if the universe was stretching along with the shadows.

He observed Mike pointing the gun towards the priest, but his hands shook and he found himself doing nothing. He could hear the dunes of Egypt and the whistling of its winds speaking to him. Something twisted around his face, a shawl perhaps, but, no, it was Zoe's hands. Her face was a fraction from his, her legs pressing hard against his spine. The bullets entry holes, both of them, dripped with blood.

"Come on Clarke," she snarled. "It's time to come home."
This message was last edited by the player at 07:08, Mon 16 Oct 2017.

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 38):

Clarke could feel Zoe's fingers digging into his face. Focus on the real... Focus on the real... Focus on the... Clarke couldn't seem to remember how the rest of the mantra went. "Don't worry love," whispers Zoe, her voice a soft caress in his ear. Though her fingers block most of his view, Clarke sees Father Henesey slug Mike before a dark shape obscures his view. "Shhhh.... Don't worry Clarke," whispers Zoe. "They have come to return you to me. Don't resist." Almost as if she was never there, Zoe's weight disappears from his back and Clarke feels his mind clear.

Before him looms a nightmarish shadow that seems to be both part of and separate from the shadows around it. Despite his rising panic, Clarke is able to notice that while the figure tirelessly stalks towards him, it avoids the light from the lantern on the table.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 39):

"Well, that was weird," Zoe said as she tilted her head.

Clarke ignored her and made a lunge for the lamp. He picked it up and thrust it towards the dark silhouette. He wasn't certain what incantation might rid the monsters, so he went with something from the pulps. "Get the fuck out of here!"

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

Holding down the bile that was building in his throat, his eyes bulged as he witnessed the the shadow creature looming over the Priest. He pulled his hands from the mud and crouched before tackling Father Hennessy out of the way, trying to get away from the wraith's shambling limbs.

Where's my gun?

"Byron!" He grunted as he and the priest collapsed on the floor, "A little help?"

He turned towards the sound of boots hitting the wooden floor and saw Clarke lunge for the lamp, another shadow creature closing in.

What's happening?

OOC: Mike took 4 sanity damage to previous failed roll.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 41):

Mike pulls Father Henesey down atop of him, grunting from the impact. Mike's quick thinking perhaps saving the father's life as a set of shadowed claws pass through the space that he has just previously occupied. "Your guns won't help," he says in a breathless whisper, jamming a number of glass vials into Mike's  hands. Inside the vials is a silver liquid with thin veins of red running through it that seems to cling tenaciously to the side of the glass. "Use these!"

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 40):

Clarke holds the lamp before him in attempt to ward of the shadow. It seems to work as the monster recoils in pain. "Take that!" shouts Zoe in triumph, throwing a fist into the air. But the victory is short lived as the monster narrows its ember colored eyes and takes a step into the circle of light.

Clarke hears Zoe unleash a crude expletive as the monster swings a long gangly arm towards him.

(Rolled 91 using 1d100: Claw Attack)
This message was last edited by the GM at 15:39, Mon 16 Oct 2017.

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

(Attempt to shoot shadowy figure: firearm roll: 71)

Clarke, his hands shaky, tried to level the pistol and fire. Yet, just as he was about to line up the shot, he heard Mike's cry for a little help and he felt his courage falter.

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 44):

Clarke's attempts to dodge the swing of the monster and to fire off a round prove too much for his skills as a marksmen, his shot lodging itself in one of the wooden rafters.

"I keep telling you that you need to practice, not all your targets are going to be lying asleep in bed," says an exasperated Zoe. The shadow rears to his full height and unleashes a soundless roar that reverberates in Clarke's bones. He can see Zoe peek from around the back of the monster. "Do we run and abandon them?" she asks with a slight nod of her chin to the other occupants of the cabin, themselves engaged in life or death struggles.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 45):

Clarke tried to push Zoe out of his mind, but the images of the bullet holes wouldn't leave. He stared at the gun. A thing that had brought him so much misery. He swung it towards the monster but closed his eyes as he squeezed the trigger, taking a wild shot.

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 46):

Clarke's second shot is as errant as the first, creating a hole in a painting depicting a fox hunt. "Now I have to believe that you aren't even trying Clarke," says Zoe with a pout.

In almost slow motion Clarke watches as the shadow pulls back its arm to attack...

(rolled 19 using 1d100.  Claw Attack, rolled 1 using 1d4.  Damage)

Clarke is barely able to avoid the monster's swipe, although it's claws tears through his jacket and shirt, tracing a trio of bright red lines across his skin.

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

(Roll to shoot monster: Firearms 77)

Clarke shook his head. He steadied his aim and focused on the void in front of him.

"Alhamdulillah," he muttered, trying to juggle the lantern and the pistol. As he leaned to adjust his front sight, pain ripped through his body from the cuts. His trigger finger reacted, closing in on the trigger as a reflex.

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 48):

Strangely, in the back of Clarke's mind, the only thing he can think of at the moment is that his drill instructor would be ashamed as a third shot pings off the nearby wall.

You can almost feel the shadow's mirth reflected in Zoe as she dances around the cabin in a jester's cap, firing an imaginary gun in random directions. Again the monster raises its arm with a sadistic glee.

(rolled 3 using 1d100.  Claw Attack, rolled 1 using 1d4.  Damage)

Clarke is able to brace before the monster's strike and absorbs much of the impact. However, the lantern is knocked from his hands as the claws rake his raised forearm.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 49):

The second swipe brought Clarke to his senses. He narrowed his eyes, thinking about his drill instructor and the months of verbal abuse he underwent honing his marksmanship. While taking a quick breath, he lined up the looming figure and squeezed off his fourth shot.

(Roll for Firearms: 39)
This message was last edited by the GM at 17:19, Mon 16 Oct 2017.

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 50):

Always aim center mass. The words had been drilled into Clarke. The recoil of the gun kicks the revolver back as sparks leap from the barrel and a slug races towards the monster. His feeling of elation and Zoe 'whoop' of excitement quickly die as the bullet passes through the shadow.

"Is it still too late to run?" asks Zoe in a meek voice.

The monster lashes out again (roll of 67 using 1d100 for a Claw Attack) but narrowly misses Clarke, digging deep furrows into the tabletop with its claws.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 51):

"Mike! Byron!" Clarke yelled, picking up the fallen lantern and backing up towards his friend. "Bullets aren't working. You better have secondary plan and fast."

Zoe rolled her eyes. "If you're counting on that PTSD survivor, I hope you've already written out a will."

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 42):

Mike looked down at the vials and bit his lip.

Fuck it.

He pushed the priest away from the shadow creature, "Get out of here!" He snarled through gritted teeth. Blood pumped in his ears sounding like a frantic war drum. He hefted one of the vials into his throwing hand and attempted to smash it where the shadow's feet would be. He heard a gun go off.

OOC: Roll for Throw - 21:40, Today: Jrodimus rolled 24 using 1d100 ((24)).

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 53):

The sharp crack of the gunshot throws off Mike's aim as the vial smashes  a foot or two from the shadowy creature, its contents splattering across the floor with a hiss. The monster takes a distorted hop away from the spreading puddle of ivory liquid. It turns back towards Mike swinging a long clawed hand.

(Wood Shadow 2 rolled 73 using 1d100)

However, seeing the father rise from the floor and rush for the door of the cabin it seems gripped by indecision as its strike passes through the air between the feeling father and Mike.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 54):

Byron’ stares in utter wide eyed horror as Clarke wildly fires his revolver at nothing.

Byron is paralyzed with fear. Was the power of the relic making his friends see frightful visions?

Suddenly, Mike, for seemingly no reason,  takes a silver vial from the priest and rolls forward . He cracks it  against the floor.

The alchemical vapors released from the glass container, a substance derived from some ancient and half forgotten knowledge, are enough to bring Byron back from his paralysis.

“Father, what is going on here?”
This message was last edited by the player at 13:38, Thu 19 Oct 2017.

In reply to novissimo (msg # 55):

Byron
In his haste Father Henesey nearly bowls Byron over. "My son! You need to help me remove the relic from this cabin. It cannot fall into their hands." He almost manhandles Byron into the backroom and begins to move a pile of supplies. After a few moments he pulls aside a loose floorboard reveling the carved box.The father turns around and Byron sees he has another white vial in his hand, same as the one Mike had thrown. "We have no time to waste. I'll keep them at bay."

Mike
Knowing that climbing to his feet would leave himself exposed for a moment, Mike grits his teeth and heaves himself up off the floor. And as expected, the shadow lunges forward, arms outstretched.

(Wood Shadow 2 rolled 18 using 1d100, rolled 2 using 1d4)

Mike doesn't so much feel the impact of the blow but more the searing pain as the monster throws him against the wall. Drawing a ragged breath, he is able to stay upright, keeping a hold of the vials and his gun.

Slightly dazed from the impact, Mike's head whirls. As the monster approach he can't help but notice that it's eyes burn like the cherry of a cigarette in the dark of night...

1918 Somewhere in France

They had caught him trying to steal food. He and Jack and been going to pick up some coffee, an extra ration for pulling night duty. He was a scrawny thing, malnourished and bony. While he wore the uniform of a German solider, it hung about his frame like a shroud. The boy had made a run for it but Mike had managed to tackle him at the door, the two of them sprawling into the mud outside. He heard Jack unholster his pistol. "Its ok Mike, I got him covered." Mike arose, his already dirty uniform caked with mud.

"I just want to go home... I didn't ask to fight," whimpers the boy in clear but accented English. "Please..."

"Fucking krauts thinks you can steal?" snarls Jack. A kick to the jaw snaps the boys head back, blood flying into the air. Jack holsters his pistol and looks back at Mike. "Time to have a little fun" he says. Deep in his eyes, Mike can see that sadistic gleam that had come to inhabit them. A darkness so deep that he could almost feel it trying to pull him into its dark world. Jack slips out of his pocket the brass knuckles he had bought in town last liberty and slowly slides them on his fingers.

"No... please... Mother..." whispers the boy has Jack looms over him like a specter of death

Clarke
Clarke takes his eyes of the monster to survey his predicament and manages to see Mike's errant throw, the vial splashing against the wooden floor. "Eeeewwww... What's that?" asks Zoe crouched low over the spreading puddle. "What do you think it's made of Clarke? Probably something esoteric and occult!" His attention snaps back to the monster just as it attacks.

(Wood Shadow 1 rolled 57 using 1d100)

Which perhaps saves him from being eviscerated as he able to throw himself back. "Stop dancing around and do something!" says Zoe. You see she is now wearing bloodstained pants and a loose shirt, her hands taped up like a gypsy boxer. "Stick it a good one," she say throwing a quick hook. The monster rears back to strike again.
This message was last edited by the GM at 14:41, Thu 19 Oct 2017.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 56):

Mike shook his head against the memories searing through his mind. Keeping his back to the wall, he began to move away from the shadow gliding towards him. He gripped another vial in his right hand and again threw it down at the shadow. It smashed against the wood floor in a fit of hissing steam, but was wide of the Shadow. It continued it's approach unabated. His desperation growing, Mike started to look around the room a broom or bat, something he could use as a blunt weapon.


OOC: 00:24, Today: Jrodimus rolled 55 using 1d100.  Throwing Vial.
This message was last edited by the player at 04:19, Sun 22 Oct 2017.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 57):

Clarke reached into his bag and counted out four more bullets from his spare supply. He didn't understand what the liquid was, but if Mike was throwing it then it had to be important. In a couple of steps, he closed the distance between him and the puddle. Leaning down, he coated all four bullets in the liquid while constantly checking on the approaching monster.
This message was last edited by the player at 10:25, Sun 22 Oct 2017.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 56):

Bryon quickly moves toward the object. He orientates himself as he crouches to lift the thing out of the floor space.

rolled 16 using 1d100.  lift thing.

Bryon hoists the box out of the floor space. Its heft if greater than its size would suggest.

While Byron is intensely curious and his desire to open the box is almost irresistible, his caution gets the best of him, given the serious nature of the power the object presently has over his friends.

Heeding the Father's advice, Byron bolts toward the door.

In reply to novissimo (msg # 59):

Mike
After a quick sweep of the room, Mike notices a fire poker hanging on a small rack next to the fireplace. Its only a few strides away but he would have to pass one of the shadows to get there

Clarke
Rolling the bullets in the spilled liquid, it feels as if they almost begin to heat up. "Ohhh, looks like someone has an idea," says Zoe, seated upon the large table, swinging her feet like a small child. Scooping up the bullets, the liquid seems to clings to them but strangely not your hand.

Byron
Hefting the box, Byron turns and runs out of the sleeping area and towards the cabin door. Entering the living area, he is met by an earsplitting shriek that seems to come from nowhere. He sees Mike moving towards the fireplace and Clarke crouched over a strange white liquid on the floor. The shadows seem to stretch in unnatural ways, stretching towards the light at times and moving seemingly on their own.

OOC: The following is what Mike and Clarke see.

As Byron enters the room the shadows unleash a bloodcurdling shriek, turning towards the academic as he enters the room carrying the small box the priest had shown you earlier. From the backroom comes a vial spinning end over end towards one of the shadows...

(Father Henesey rolled 32 using 1d100)

Which the monster dodges with an inhuman twitch, the vial breaking against a painting on the wall, surely ruining it. As one, the monsters move towards Byron and the box. A rhythmic and pounding chant fills the cabin. "Cthulhu Fhtagn..Cthulhu Fhtagn..Cthulhu Fhtagn..."
This message was last edited by the GM at 16:11, Sun 22 Oct 2017.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 60):

Clarke snapped the cylinder open and loaded the bullets in with a single motion. (Firearm roll of 33)

Zoe let out a low whistle. "You keep trying to impress me hon,  but I'm dead. I'm impressed enough as is."

He steadied his aim, spinning the cylinder so all the coated bullets would fire in succession. With a single squeeze, he shot at the monster heading towards Byron and the priest. (Firearm roll of 66)

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 61):

With lightning quick speed, the shadow spins around as the bullet narrowly misses it. A strange high pitch squeal fills Clarke's ears. With a cry of pain, Zoe fall of the edge of the table, clasping her ears in pain. "Why do you fight the order?" asks a voice in Clarke's head. "You are nothing more than an insect, and amoeba. Below the notice of an elder god and one to surely be crushed." The shadowy creature lashes out with a clawed hand...

(Wood Shadow 1 rolled 77 using 1d100)

Despite the disorienting squeal, Clarke is able to stumble out of the way of the monster's strike. Suddenly the squeal disappears as the monster turns back towards Bryan and the box.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 62):

The monster's hand, a jagged black monstrosity with long tendrils that seemed to cut through space and time, came at Clarke slowly. To him it felt as if the world had become an interconnected frame, a part of those films they showed at the flop house. His heartbeat played the role of band.

He was waving goodbye to Mike, Jack and Byron so he could prove he loved this country more than the Senators said he did.

Thump.

He missed another shot at the range. He received another crack to the back of his head.

Thump.

The wind whistled as he felt alone in the universe. All he could see was yellow dunes and the horizon.

Thump.

Zoe kissed him and her hair flowed over his nose and shoulder. It smelled like lavender.

Thump.

Mike shook her hand and talked to her. Only for a few minutes. He smiled, and congratulated his friend but didn't ask her name. He had no idea what she meant or what she would mean.

Thump.

The gunshot.

Thump.

The bordello with all its smells and incense he had been forced to go to.

Thump.

His contact cried while holding a bloody knife. He swore he had meant to do no harm. The man with a full beard sobbed as he told Clarke how the woman had made him do it. How she hadn't understood his condition. He she had said the wrong thing.

Thump.

The feeling of a hand passing through his hair in the present.

Thumpthump.

Another gunshot.

Thumpthump..

All the white men yelling at him. Telling him how they 'had done him favours' and 'how lucky' he was. How he should be removed or fired or any other word they could think of that meant the same thing.

Thumpthumpthump.

His empty cell and the coldness that it had left in his bones. A coldness that had gone in all the way so he couldn't feel warmth. No matter how many times Zoe had touched him, nothing happened.

Thumpthumpthump.

The creak of a door as it had opened.

Thumpthumpthumpthump.

The letters: E G Y P T on a map in a small room filled with cigar smoke and books too damned for anyone with a soul left to read.

Thumpthumpthumpthumpthump.

A screech. "Clarke," a person said. A melancholic one. One who had fallen down a well and couldn't get out. "Clarke. I need you. I love you. You can't leave me yet." It was a blend, a mix, between the gruff overtones of Jack and the sultriness of Zoe. Somewhere in the middle, undecided on who was more important.

Clarke found his footing, the room shifted back into focus. All the wooden furniture was there. The light and darkness. Zoe. She was on the floor, splayed out in a mocking way.

"Time to be lucky hon," she said. "Time to kill these fuckers."
This message was last edited by the player at 17:32, Sun 22 Oct 2017.

Mike noticed the shadows were distracted by Byron and decided to take his chance while they weren't looking at him. He edged over to the fire poker and grabbed it firmly in his hand and quickly uncapped one of the vials and poured it over the iron, covering it from half way up from the handle to the end as best as he could. The iron steamed and hissed, bubbling on impact with the liquid.

He brandished the steaming iron and swung into the closest shadow.

20:58, Today: Jrodimus rolled 87 using 1d100.  Attacking with Iron.

His swing went wide and slammed into the leg off the table. The wood chipped away into spiraling splinters, the iron vibrating in his hands.
This message was last edited by the player at 12:00, Mon 23 Oct 2017.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 64):

If it had been human, Mike would have sworn a look of annoyance crossed the monsters face as he futilely swung at it with the fireplace iron. With an almost lazy backhand the monster swings at him..

(Wood Shadow 2 rolled 22 using 1d100, rolled 1 using 1d4)

It's claws scoring Mike's forearm but not doing any serious damage.
This message was last edited by the GM at 12:40, Mon 23 Oct 2017.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 65):

With the heavy box causing him to adopt an awkward gait, Byron runs for the door. He feels the bile rise in his throat, seeing Clarke fire into the darkness and Mike swinging a poker like a madman. The door. That's the one thing he can focus on. He sets off at an ungainly sprint for the cabin door. Suddenly the shadows seem to loom in front of him. He can almost see long claws reaching out towards him...

(Wood Shadow 1 rolled 1 using 1d100, critical success, 4 damage)
(Wood Shadow 2 rolled 61 using 1d100)

Suddenly a lancing pain pierces Byron's arm as his sleeve tears from cuff to elbow and sharp red lines cleave his skin. The pain causes him to drop the box as he clutches his arm in agony...
This message was last edited by the GM at 13:52, Mon 23 Oct 2017.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 66):

"Ach mein Gott!" Byron bellows in pain. He clutches his wounded arm and stares at the blood on his hand in disbelief.

"Did Clarke shoot me? Did Mike throw something at me?" These half formed thoughts flit into Byron's mind.

"This is a lot of blood." Is his second thought. He feels woozy.

He is in agony over the pain, but he doesn't think his arm is broken.

"I may need a splint." He swoons and props himself against the wall on his non-wounded side.

"Where's the box?" He looks around confused.

He sees the box and moves to pick it back up.

rolled 39 using 1d100. lift thing.

Bearing through the pain, Byron lifts the box and makes another dash for the door.

"I need to get out of this God forsaken madhouse"
This message was last edited by the player at 15:42, Tue 24 Oct 2017.

In reply to novissimo (msg # 67):

"Get out of there!" Clarke yelled after he saw Byron take damage from the monsters. "I'll try to distract them."

He took a couple of steps and lined up his shot again, targeting the closest shadow monster. "Please Allah," mumbled. "Let me get it right this time."

(Firearms - Roll of 43, damage roll of 7)

Whether it was the prayer, or Zoe's mocking that had made him hit this time, he didn't know. Either way, they had worked and the bullet found its target with clean precision.

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 68):

Clarke's bullet hits the monster clean in the chest, tearing a large gaping hole. The wound sizzles and smokes at its edges as the monster howls in pain. Rounding on this new threat, the shadow lashes out...

(Wood Shadow 1 rolled 52 using 1d100)

It's claws barely missing Clarke as he throws himself out of harms way. The monster seems to be gravely wounded as it staggers forward, leaving a trail of ichor in its wake.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 69):

Mike grimaced as blood seeped from the scrape on his forearm. He planted his feet and took another swing at the shadow, drops of the pungent liquid trailing behind the iron.

13:38, Today: Jrodimus rolled 20 using 1d100.  Attack with Iron.13:38, Today: Jrodimus rolled 20 using 1d100.  Attack with Iron.
Damage: 13:39, Today: Jrodimus rolled 1 using 1d6.  Damage bitch.

Despite the monster's gaseous appearance, the iron met solid resistance as it swung into what passed as its arm.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 70):

While Mike is only able to land a glancing blow on the creature, it pulls back its arm in pain as the patch of flesh that was touch by the iron sizzles. An unearthly wail fills Mike's ears as the shadow lunges forward...

(Wood Shadow 2 rolled 37 using 1d100, 1 damage)

And he is barely able deflect the blow with the poker, the monster's claws grazing his shoulder.

"Be gone you foul beasts!" Mike hears Father Henesey's shout from the back room. From behind the monster Mike sees another vial spinning through the air...

(Father Henesey rolled 30 using 1d100)

And watches as it smashes on the nearby table.

There is no God

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

Byron
The lacquered wood makes gripping the heavy box difficult but Byron is able to hoist it off the ground. Is this what hysteria looks like? Byron had never put much stock in Charcot's attempts to dispel the belief that hysteria had anything to do with the supernatural. Something unexplainable was happening right now, he just couldn't wrap his mind around it. Either that or Mike and Clarke had gone crazy at exactly the same time. I just have to get out of this cabin. Strange shapes seem to be forming in the shadows, only to disappear moments later. GET OUT OF THE CABIN! Byron races for the door...

(Wood Shadow 1 rolled 9 using 1d100, damage 4)
(Wood Shadow 2 rolled 42 using 1d100, damage 4)

In his haste, Byron jostles the table, knocking over the few standing candles, extinguishing their flames. The shadows of the room seem to engulf him, tearing and ripping at his skin. His world becomes a whirl of blinding pain as if his very soul were under attack.

Clarke
"It's about time you quit messing around," says Zoe, looking at Clarke through the wound in the monster's chest. The smell of gunpowder fills his nostrils as he watches the shadows converge on Byron as he dashes across the room, nearly upending the table. DO SOMETHING his mind shrieks.

Mike
Swinging the iron poker, Mike can't help but laugh at the absurdity of the scene. A mere mortal attempting to strike down an otherworldly beast with a metal stick coated in magic water. God would probably have laughed if he existed. For a moment he seems to drift outside of himself, an observer to the horrors of the cabin. Is this how it ends?
This message was last edited by the GM at 08:09, Wed 25 Oct 2017.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 72):

There is no God.

Mike felt the laughter vibrating up from his gut, he could hardly contain it. The sheer absurdity of it all. Surviving the war, seeing unspeakable horrors and the complete psychological breakdown of his best friend, all of it seemed inane in the face of what he stood against now. Swinging at shadows wildly.

Still, it felt good to feel the poker hit something solid. To hear the scream of pain emanate from the dark specter. The otherworldly shriek rang in his ears, hitting notes and octaves he had never heard before in a spiraling crescendo.

The edges of his vision went red, and he cackled as he took another swing at the apparition.

22:57, Today: Jrodimus rolled 37 using 1d100 ((37)).
22:57, Today: Jrodimus rolled 3 using 1d6.  Damage bitch.

He felt it hit home again and he grinned wildly.

We are the small Gods here.

The shadow shifts and the light reflects off the dark silky apparition, for a moment he imagines Jack's face pressing outward from it's midsection in a wide mouthed grin.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 72):

rolled 72 using 1d100. Lucky Dodge  (Failed)

Rolled 29 using 1d100. Lucky Dodge II (Succeeds)

Byron screams in anguish.

He can feel himself starting to panic from spontaneous violence afflicting him.

Reeling from the unexplainable and unexplained agony and in mounting terror he continues to struggle to the door...
This message was last edited by the player at 15:15, Wed 25 Oct 2017.

In reply to novissimo (msg # 74):

The world broke into frames once more. Zoe was smiling, her left arm through the monster. She was saying something, Clarke couldn't hear her. Faint wisps of smoke emanated from the revolver's barrel. He aimed a little higher, where there wasn't a hole. The darkness was in front of him. He could see nothing else.

Firearms roll: 71


His hand quivered and dropped the shot low. It went straight through the gaping hole. He had one bullet that make this pain go away.

"Our Father," he muttered as he heard the cartridge click into place. "Who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name..."

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 75):

Mike
Mike's euphoria rushed through his veins, causing his pulse to race and his vision to blur. The phantasmal face of Jack twists in mirth. "Join me won't you Mikey? There is a seat waiting for you in hell." Before his eyes, the monster seems to twist and shift, becoming a blackened and etherial version of Jack. "Never leave a man behind right Mikey?" The mirth on his face is quickly replaced by a snarl as he unleashes an overhand blow.

(Wood Shadow 2 rolled 39 using 1d100, damage 4)

Searing pain crosses Mike's chest as he is throw back against the table by the impact of the blow.

Clarke
Clarke's prayer must have fallen on deaf ears as the shadow rounds on him. He could almost read something in the trail of smoke emanating from the barrel of his gun. However his fascination is soon cut short as the monster swings at him, Zoe mimicking it in the background...

(Wood Shadow 1 rolled 3 using 1d100, damage 1)

He is able to deflect most of the blow with his offhand. "You know, there is a rather poetic quality to all of this," says Zoe, dressed in a Shakespearean tunic with a wide ruffled collar. "You've traveled the world and seen sights few have seen. Yet you will die in a forgotten backwoods cabin."

Byron
Byron bursts through the front door of the cabin and into the night, Father Henesey right on his heels. However he is forced to stop short and throw up a hand to shield his eyes as he is nearly blinded by the flood of light coming for the headlamps of a car. "Motherfucker," Byron hears someone exclaim from the cab of a vehicle, although the figure is lost in the flood of lights. The opening of a door and the crunch of gravel let Byron know that someone has exited the car. "Hand over the stone and no one has to die," says a raspy voice.

Mike and Clarke
As Byron bursts through the front door, light fills the cabin, causing the monsters to hiss in pain. Miraculously, the light seems to surround Mike and Clarke, forcing the monsters into the corners of the room.
This message was last edited by the GM at 02:21, Fri 27 Oct 2017.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 76):

Mike raised his arm to block the sudden bright lights. He still gripped the iron as he watched the monsters retreat into the shadows.

"What the hell is that, Byron?" He shouted against the searing light. Suddenly he became aware of the pain in his body. Blood dripped from his arm and splattered on the wood floor.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 76):

Still clutching the box and squinting against the light, Byron senses eminent defeat.

Byron feels as though he may collapse from the weight of the box and the pain throbbing from his strange wounds.

He recalls the panic he felt the first time his forward position had been shelled.

Dazed by his short episode in the cabin and on the verge of panicking, Byron’s mind clears and is left with one thought.

Run

Byron dashed to his right and sprints with all his might parallel to the outer wall of the cabin.

In reply to novissimo (msg # 78):

"Oh for fuck's sake, don't just sit there you idiot. Go after him!" Byron hears a car door swing open and the footfalls of someone in pursuit as he sprints into the forest surrounding the cabin. The heavy wooden box makes it slightly difficult to run at full speed and Byron can already feel himself becoming winded due to the extra weight. Despite the danger of the situation, his mind flashes back to a lecture by Professor Leiter on the Jungian "fight or flight" response...

Pacing before a chalk drawing of a human brain Prof Leiter, hands clasped behind his back, continues his lecture despite the sweltering heat of the classroom. "This response is characterized by rapid heart rate, rapid breathing, flexed muscles, and an automatic focus on reacting physically. Once the chemicals released in the blood stream start to work, we are hardly aware of what is happening to us physically. We are simply in a reactive state controlled by the autonomic nervous system. All we want to do is run away from the fear agent or attack it directly." The scratching of pens on paper fills the gaps in his speech. "The process generally starts in the thalamus which collects sensory data coming from the five senses during the intrusion of the fear stimulus. The sensory cortex receives the data from the thalamus and interprets it; stages it for processing by the amygdala, the hippocampus, and the hypothalamus. It is the job of the hippocampus to store and download memories that help it analyze the context of the situation. The amygdala has a store of fear memories and begins interpreting emotions and evaluating the threat level. Finally, the hypothalamus is responsible for ordering the response; either run or attack..."

Byron had always wondered what his response to a fear stimulus would be. The brush and brambles that tugs at his clothing as he dashs through the woods seemed to answer his question.
This message had punctuation tweaked by the GM at 08:45, Sat 28 Oct 2017.

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

Byron blindly sprints into the woods at the edge of the property.

(Survival check 92 (fail))

He can see nearly nothing in front of him.

He is almost immediately slapped in the face by low hanging boughs of the elm trees.

He trips on exposed roots and his steps falter, significantly slowing him down.
This message was last edited by the player at 03:12, Wed 01 Nov 2017.

In reply to novissimo (msg # 80):

Unlike Byron, a bookish academic, the man pursuing him seems to be a natural woodsman as he easily navigates the low hanging branches and protruding roots of the forest surrounding the cabin, closing the ground between the two of them. "Get back here!" roars the man as he hurdles a fallen log. Byron's heart thuds in his chest as he struggles to both maintain his grasp on the heavy container and stay upright. Clutching the box close to his chest, he hears a small voice, almost lost in the cacophony of pursuit, whisper in his head... OPEN ME...
This message was last edited by the GM at 15:45, Tue 31 Oct 2017.

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

"Go after him!" Mike heard a man's voice shout shortly after he saw Bryan's silhouette in the blazing headlights take flight. He heard a door slam.

He felt torn. He didn't want to abandon his life long friend Byron. But he was exhausted and bleeding. He knew he couldn't go into another fight and expect to make it out alive. He glanced at Clarke, who looked disheveled, something about his eyes made him look wild.

He looked back at the headlights and something clicked. He steeled himself to the task and moved out of the doorway, motioning to Clarke to come closer, "I need you to trust me," he whispered.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 82):

Clarke, although not physically damaged, could feel the strain of the night on him. He was exhausted from missing and drained from every near miss attack that had happened. He wanted time to think and to be one stop ahead of whatever cult was trying to kill them.

He moved over to Mike and replied, in the same tone, "What do you need?"

While he was doing this, he kept his eyes on the shadow monsters, his gun still half trained on the one with a gaping on in its middle.

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 83):

Mike took his truck keys out and handed them to Clarke. "I'm beat up and bloody. I'll make a good hostage." He whispered, "Can you get us to my truck?"

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 84):

"You want me to try and use you as a hostage?" Clarke asked, his eyes shutting slightly without his permission.

"And then get us both to the truck like a couple of mad fuckers?"

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 85):

Mike nodded, "Aye. We need to get to the truck and we need to get Bryan. Our best bet is to get out there and put ourselves in a position to respond. But I'm in no condition for a siege or a long fight." He winced as he felt the gauge in his back rub against his shirt.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 86):

Clarke wrapped his arm around Mike's neck and pulled tight. It was enough to elicit a wail from his pretend hostage, a good sign that those outside might buy it.

He shoved his hostage out of the door, and into the night. A partial part of a shadowy figure could be seen from just above Mike's shoulder. He seemed solid, the kind of person who could put down a few folk without trying that hard. Clarke decided to get his interest.

He looked back and found the shadow creature he'd almost killed. Lining up the shot, he took aim and fired.

(Roll for firearm: 69)

Like all of us luck that night, it went wide and straight into the planks. He decided to play it straight anyway.

"Go on," he yelled to Mike as he pushed him out. "You see what I did to your friend Clarke? You lying about that shit in the truck and I'm doing the same to you."
This message was last edited by the player at 07:25, Fri 03 Nov 2017.

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 87):

Clarke's push sends Mike stumbleing and sprawling onto the gravel path. Below the direct beam of the headlights, he finally catches a glimpse of the shadowy figure. Only to find a man in his mid-forties spinning in surprise. He almost loses his balance as his cane shifts on the small stones of the path. With brown hair and eyes, he might have been called handsome by some if it weren't for the permanent sneer that pulled at his lips. He is finely dressed and a number of rings decorated his fingers, craved with strange and mystical sigils. His left leg ends in a stump just below his knee, the rest of the pant leg rolled and pinned to his thigh.

"And who the fuck we have 'ere?" He says, bracing himself against the side of the vehicle. Although surprised by your appearance, he doesn't seem overly concerned.
This message was last edited by the GM at 10:07, Fri 03 Nov 2017.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 88):

Mike groaned as his face planted into the gravel driveway. He gritted his teeth and brought himself to his hands and knees and spit the dirt from his mouth.

"Take it easy you crazy bastard," He groaned before coughing. "It's in there."

He looked around warily to size up the situation and what they were facing. He knew it was a gamble. But hell, the whole damn plan was a gamble.

Where the hell did Byron go?

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 89):

Mike
The soft idling of the car's engine fills the night. The man looks from Mike to Clarke with a slight frown. "I was told that only the preist would be here," he says pointing a finger at Father Henesey who has pressed himself up against the wall of the cabin. The man straightens, leaning heavily on his cane. Strangely, despite the danger of the situation, Mike notices that the man's teeth have been blackened by some sort of ink. His eyes trace the jagged wounds the shadows tore into Mike and for the first time a smile lights his face. "Seems you've had... a bit of a rough night, so let me rephrase my questions." A deep pause fills the night. "Who. The fuck. Are you?"

Clarke
The night seems eerily quiet as Clarke carefully watches the man. A slight scratching draws his attention to the father who has pressed himself against the cabin, a look of fear on his face. "Clarke," he says in a whisper, not turning his head. "That man is extremely dangerous. The Order has found us..."

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 90):

Byron begins panting as he slogs through the brush.

His body aches from his wounds. The weight of the box starts to compound his fatigue.

Open me...

Bryon hears the ethereal whisper of a hushed breath. He realizes that he thinks the sound is coming from the box.

OPEN ME

He is jolted by the more forceful tone. He doesn't know if it's his own mind or if he is really hearing it.

The edges of his vision begin to blacken...

(rolled 17 using 1d100.  Strength check.)

Byron digs deep and finds the strength to keep running, he just doesn't know how much farther.

"What power lies in this box?" he thinks to himself.

"Is it friend or foe? My end may be near either way..."
This message was last edited by the player at 15:42, Sat 04 Nov 2017.

In reply to novissimo (msg # 91):

Byron's second wind, while not enough to separate himself from his pursuer, is enough to maintain the distance between them. "Get back here you idiot! If you run any farther into the woods we're gonna get lost!" Thankfully the faint moonlight that drifts through the forest canopy is enough to light the path in front of Byron. Leaping over a fallen log, he seems to freeze in midair as a vision feels his mind's eye...

The man's heavy weight crushes Byron into the forest floor and his heels futilely scrabble for purchase. The man's hot breath, smelling of shitty tobacco and gin, seems to fill the world. The man's thick, ape-like fingers are wrapped around Byron's windpipe, strangling the life from the academic. As his vision begins to blur, his head is filled by a passage from Thoughts for the Times of War and Death by Freud.

It is indeed impossible to imagine our own death. Whenever we attempt to do so we can perceive that we are, in fact, still present as spectators. In fact, we could say that we assist at our own death, as if the one who dies in our imagination were a different person. We can't imagine how we would be like dead, without being able to think or see, for example. We can't accept our own death, as at the bottom no one believes in his own death. In the unconscious, every one of us is convinced of his own immortality. There is no sense of the passage of time; time does not work chronologically in our unconscious. This unconscious belief that nothing can happen to us may be seen as 'the secret of heroism'.

So much for being a hero...

As the last bit of consciousness begins to fade from Byron's mind, his murderer leans down and whispers in his ear. "Open. The box..." Almost as if of their own control, Byron's eyes shift to the box, lying in the leaves where he had dropped it. The carved reliefs on the box seen to dance in demonic glee, throwing their hands in the sky in supplication to an unseen deity. Slowly the lid swings open on silent hinges...

Thump Byron lands on the other side of the log, nearly losing his balance in the process. The box seems to grow heavier and heavier in his arms. Open. Me.
This message was last edited by the GM at 05:21, Sun 05 Nov 2017.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 92):

Clarke pushed Mike towards the truck. "This man said he had a note from Jack. We were just going to pick it up."

As Clarke moved, he kept the lights between them so his face couldn't be seen.

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 93):

A quizzical look passes over the man's face for a second, only to be replaced by a horrendously fake smile, fully displaying his blackened teeth. "Ah, so he's one of Jack's," says the man. He takes a few unbalanced hops towards the cab of his vehicle steadying himself against the hood. "I had forgotten that Lance had put another man on the mission. Just let me grab something and I'll help you with that traitor."

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 94):

Jack's alive...?

Mike resisted the urge to rush the crippled man full speed and lurched forward towards his truck.

Just need to survive this...Jack could be alive...that fucking crazy bastard.

Mike continued moving to the truck, "Look guys, I don't know whats going on. Jack sent a letter and a box...he said not to open the box..." He really coughed, not just for dramatic effect.

Am I losing blood?

He continued on until he got to his truck, and leaned against the hood.

"Do you want the box or not?" He said to Clarke motioning him over in what he hoped appeared to be resignation.

23:44, Today: Jrodimus rolled 25 using 1d100.  Fast Talk.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 95):

"Yes, the box... That's what I want..." The one legged man reaches into the cab of his vehicle. "But perhaps you should ask my children," he says in an almost ominous gloat. A sudden click sending a sicking shudder through Mike as a headlights of the car switch off and an inaudible scream fills the night. Despite what may be taught in the world of science, Mike can feel the shadows grow unnaturally around him. As his heart races, he can feel that he has to make a decision now or put everyone in danger.

Clarke's lantern stopped everything from turning dark. Although he couldn't see the area as well as before, he definitely could make out the key shapes of the people in the area.

He took a step back towards Mike's truck and fired a shot towards their mysterious antagonist. Although his monster killing bullets were gone, Clarke thought the man seemed to be made of blood and flesh.

(Firearm roll: 30)

After all his bad luck that night, Clarke's shot went straight and true. It whistled through the air heading directly at the shadow representing the man with golden knuckles.

"You're always a little late with that luck," Zoe said, scratching her nose. "Should work on that."

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 97):

Clarke's shot takes the man in the shoulder, spinning him around as he falls to the ground with a grunt. An unearthly wail fills the night, as night replaces the brightness of the headlights. Clarke can hear a rustling coming from inside the cabin. Dressed in a chemise and clutching tightly to a blanket and a plush bear, Zoe peeks into the open door of the cabin. "I think you made them angry. Though you do tend to have that affect honey."

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 98):

Mike saw the one legged man go down as Clarke's shot rang true. He sprung into action and moved opened the drivers side door and slid into the seat and jammed the key into the ignition and turned it.

00:04, Today: Jrodimus rolled 72 using 1d100.  Drive check.

And the engine didn't turn over.

Fuck.

Leaving the key in the ignition, Mike quickly leaned over to the glove box and opened it. He groped frantically about in the darkness until he found his headlamp and put it on over his forehead and switched it on.

He peered around looking for slithering and shifting shadows.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 99):

While brighter than Clarke's lantern, Mike's headlamp does little more than illuminate the direction he is looking in. Unfortunately what it does shine light upon is the monstrous shadows as they surge towards the cabin door.

"Begone demons!" bellows Father Henesey, throwing a handful of vials at the doorway, completely coating the entryway in the shining viscous liquid. The shadows pull short of the door hissing in annoyance. "We need to retrieve the box," says the father, running over to the truck, panting in exertion. "Your friend has no idea what kind of danger he is in!"
This message was last edited by the GM at 14:10, Wed 08 Nov 2017.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 100):

"What's happening with the truck?" Clarke yelled as he moved backwards towards the vehicle. He thought he'd heard a click, but it was difficult to tell in such a large open space.

He fired one last parting shot towards the mysterious figure who had disrupted their lives. His life.

(Firearms roll: 8)


He staggered back into the truck. His body making contact with it. "We gotta get out of here Mike, pick up Byron the way."

He could see the priest making a dash for their vehicle in a way that showed he was not a man who had needed to run for a very long time.

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 101):

Clarke's shot rings off the wheelhouse of the car, the man having managed to drag himself behind cover. "You can't escape," comes his voice from behind the vehicle. "By now my associate has caught that friend of yours and wrung his neck." These is a slight pause as the man stifles a groan. "Put down the guns and I may even let you go, we just came here for the priest."
This message was last edited by the GM at 03:56, Thu 09 Nov 2017.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 102):

"Well, what are you waiting for? Get in!"

Once Clarke and the priest were in the truck, Mike put the Chevy truck in reverse and backed out of the short gravel driveway into the small road in front of the cabin. "Hey padre, you know how to use a gun?"

He put the truck into drive and slammed on the accelerator. "Which way did Byron go?"

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 103):

"I may be a man of the cloth," says the father, bouncing around the back of the cab as the truck leaps into motion, "but I have no desire to meet my maker sooner than I must." As Mike starts to navigate the truck down the gravel road, the father grabs the back of the driver's seat and pulls himself forward. "We can't leave the box behind. If they regain possession of it, all will be for nothing. And your friend can't run forever. As I'm sure you can guess, the Order doesn't take prisoners."

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 104):

Ah, hell.

Mike took his best guess and steered his truck into the treeline carefully, avoiding the first trees that lined the road. "Watch our back padre, let me know if you see anyone." He turns to Clarke, "Hold on!"

01:03, Today: Jrodimus rolled 98 using 1d100.  Drive check.

The truck bottomed out with a loud screeeeeeee and stopped dead in it's tracks.

"Fuck!" He exclaimed in rage.

"Well We're fucking hoofing it now. Let's get that bastard."

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 105):

Panting and wheezing his way through the brush, his legs burning and the pit of his stomach heavy with pain and fear, Byron dares not look back.

"I really haven't run this much in a while" he thinks to himself as he regrets neglecting calisthenics all these years.

His unexplained gashes still oozing blood, he redoubles his grip and girds himself to keep running from the crazed cultist on his trail.

novissimo rolled 23 using 1d100

Byron catches his second wind and manages a slight sprint.

Suddenly his sense of hearing clears and, as if his pace puts him in a meditative state, he comes to realize the rhythmic thudding of his feet sound like chanting that is growing progressively louder...

open me open me open me open me open me open me OPEN ME OPEN ME

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 105):

Mike
The sound of metal on stone grates in Mike's ears. He can only hope that no lasting damage has been done to the truck. Getting out of the vehicle he can see that the front axel is caught on an outcropping. Given time, he could probably get her loose, but for now the old Chevy was stuck. Shelly isn't going to be too happy.

He notices that the air isn't filled with the usual crises and calls of nocturnal fauna. Instead, a low buzzing fills the night. As he tries to find his bearings, Mike thinks he can hear some shouting off in the distance.


Byron
As the chanting seems to rise to a crescendo, Byron suddenly breaks through the tree line. He finds himself in a small clearing, a large stream separating the two banks. At first glance, Byron figures that he might be able to wade across, although the box would make things difficult. The thrashing in the underbrush behind him and a muffled curse remind him of the gravity of the situation. The box gives a sudden almost impatient twitch in his arms.

Clarke
Clarke helps the woozy father from the rear of the cab, noticing the giant knot growing on his brow. "You see Clarke, this is why they should leave the driving to the French," says Zoe, a cigarette holder dangling from one gloved hand and racing goggles pulled low over her eyes.
This message was last edited by the GM at 21:07, Thu 09 Nov 2017.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 107):

"How are you holding up?" Clarke asked the Priest as he helped him down from the truck. "When we're done with this, Mike should take a few extra driving lessons."

As the priest started to reply, Clarke opened the chamber to his pistol and ejected the bullets. He started to reload them one by one as they walked deeper into the forest.

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 108):

Mike motioned for Clarke to be quiet and listened carefully for the shouting.

"Must be Byron or his pursuers. Time to be heroes." He said as he took off into the forest heading towards the voices.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 107):

Not wanting to risk a trek through the waters, Byron finds a large bush to hide behind.

novissimo rolled 96 using 1d100.  Hide.

He snaps several  twigs and branches loud enough for anyone in ear shot to hear.

He hopes his assailants are far enough behind him that they didn't see where he went.

The twitching of the box, after the hearing the disembodied voices, drives Byron over the edge.

"What is in this thing?" he angrily asks himself.

He places his hand on the lid...
This message was last edited by the player at 03:22, Sat 11 Nov 2017.

In reply to novissimo (msg # 110):

Byron's pursuer crashes through the trees, stopping with his hands on his knees, panting as he catches his breath. Despite Byron's efforts, the man easily spots him in the bushes. "So..... you've finally... come to your senses..... Now.... give me.... the fucking.... box," he says drawing deep ragged breaths. He pulls a knife from his belt and begins to stalk towards Byron.

Seeing his death in real time, Byron's mind reels. The incessant chanting of the box seems to have disappear, almost as whatever was in the box had left him to his fate. It sits heavily in his hands, it's silence almost like a stinging and disappointed rebuke...

The tiniest voice seems to penetrate Byron's conscious mind. In almost a childlike plea he hears the words, perhaps for the last time... Open ME...

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 111):

Eyes wide in terror, stricken with panic, the words come to him as an oasis.

With a face of grim defeat and befuddlement, he stares at the box as he pulls the lid up...

In reply to novissimo (msg # 112):

As Byron pulls open the lid of the box, the world around his seems to become deathly still. Almost immediately  he notices that the walls of the box seem to be lined with lead. Fully opening the box reveals a large shard of stone nestling in a pile of cloth. It appears to be made of gray slate but has an odd metallic sheen to it.

Looking at the shard, Byron's mind is bombarded with strange images. Like water rushing into the lungs of a drowning man, his mind is flooded mathematical and geometric symbols, odd curvings and anomalies of space-time, and brief, but horrific, manifestations of indescribable things. Just as his sanity is pushed to its limit Byron feels the images start to withdrawal.

As he comes back to his senses, Byron finds the stone in his hands, the box lying discarded on the ground. Smooth and oddly cold to the touch, he can feel the presence of the stone in his mind, turning slowly as if measuring him.

"Gimme that stone boy!" Shouts the man as he continues to approach.

Again Byron's mind is flooded with images but this time the message was crystal clear. Use Me
This message had punctuation tweaked by the GM at 11:01, Sun 12 Nov 2017.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 113):

Mike's foot caught on a root and he nearly tumbled forward. He felt blood run down his back and the cold air where his shirt was ripped. He wasn't sure if he could still hear the shouting with the wind in his ears. Branches whipped by him, reaching to claw at his face and flesh.

He had suspected Jack might still be alive, and it seemed true given by Peg Leg's reaction.

Should've made sure the bastard was dead.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 113):



Byron's fear melts away as he feels the power radiating from the stone in his hand.

His head is filled with a static whitenoise that start to build.

A sense of glee surges through him as a realizes the tables have turned.

The noise breaks, Byron holds the stone out in front of him.

He focuses all his will into activating the stone with his mind.

"Fire away" he says

In reply to novissimo (msg # 115):

It only takes a moment. Byron feels a dark energy surge through his body, emanating from the stone.

"For the last fucking time! Give me the..." The thug freezes in mid stride, his face the picture of abject horror. We don't fear death. The man is only able to whimper in fear before the stone's magic takes him. In the blink of an eye he seems to age decades, hair falling from his head in clumps and skin wrinkling and darkening with liver spots. "Ugh..." the man moans through a suddenly toothless mouth. A cracking fills the air as his bones break under there own weight. In a matter of moments the once dangerous criminal is reduced to a pile of dust, no more than would be a corpse left to the elements.

Byron watches in horror as the wind blows to dust towards him, coating his skin and clotting his wounds. Reflexively covering his eyes, he stumbles back a few steps. When he lowers his arms he is amazed by what he see. While his clothes are still tattered by massive rips, the skin underneath is once again solid and seamless. We are god.

A sudden crashing through the trees startles Byron as Clarke, Mike and Father Henesey break through the tree line.
This message was last edited by the GM at 14:38, Sun 12 Nov 2017.