Aftermath.   Posted by The Story Teller.Group: 0
Laurence 'Mute' Reeves
 player, 136 posts
Tue 14 May 2019
at 10:44
At long last, Reeves sits back and rubs his eyes, content with what he's discovered. What a cast-iron piece of shit. He'd never vote Republican again.

Two things remained to do. Mollenew must die, but first he needed to be exposed. They had an interview with this Carrutherrs character, but what more could they get out of him?

As for Galloway... what leverage did Mollenew have on him to have him acting as his bulldog? How would he respond if he felt like the jig was up? They needed to tread carefully there.

Yawning, he turns to Sharon, "So. I figure we need to put some kind of dossier together, all the evidence against Mollenew, get a few copies printed then when it's ready we mail it... everywhere. I dunno, you're the reporter, you know who to report things to, yeah?

I figure we talk to Carruthers, then see what we can get out of Galloway without endangering ourselves."

One thing complicated matters... he couldn't go to sleep now. He didn't trust himself, the hatred and resentment which burned in his heart, every fibre of his being screamed to see the Bodach tear Mollenew limb from limb.

But not yet. Not until his legacy, his good name had been soiled, as Reeves' had been soiled. No sleep until justice had been done and he... and Jenny had been avenged.
Sharon Gillespie
 NPC, 33 posts
Tue 14 May 2019
at 21:26
Sharon mulls over your thoughts for a moment before chiming in. "I can scratch up a collated file on all this in a couple of hours and can have it on the desk of just about every major news outlet without too much trouble. Thing is it's not worth the paper it's written on unless we can get a verifiable source. We're going to need at least one of these douché-bags to fess up on record and, ideally, have hard evidence to back up their claims. This is New York, there's a cry wolf scandal every five minutes in this town and the DA of all people can shut this down unless he's banged to rights. Caruther's talked once, he'll talk again. Maybe the face of the man who's life his report destroyed will convince him to go on the record. Galloway, well that's going to be a tougher sell, he may have had dirt on him or he could just be bent as shepherds crook. He could be the perfect source, or we could just be handing ourselves over to the bad guys. I for one ain't touching that with a barge pole, you're on your own there."
Laurence 'Mute' Reeves
 player, 137 posts
Wed 15 May 2019
at 08:26
Oh sure, she'll help bully a bent coroner if it helps her get her story, but asking for backup against Galloway was too much for the bi-

No. Calm. Breathe. He had to forcibly remind himself that Sharon was on his side, that she was the only person even remotely likely to listen to what he was going through. Let it slide, man. One thing at a time.

"Ok, well let's not stand on ceremony. Time to pay a visit to Carruthers. But first... I'm gonna need some coffee."
The Story Teller
 GM, 121 posts
Sun 26 May 2019
at 22:14
You go to pour yourself one last coffee but the jug is empty. Not wanting to leave anything to chance you put the machine on for one last run. Sharon goes to the bathroom while the machine ticks over. After a few minutes the green light on the machine comes on to indicate that it's finished and you pour yourself a hot steaming cup of hyper-strength tar grade coffee for the road. You take one mouthful and spit it out on instinct, it's a miracle you didn't vomit. The coffee wasn't just bitter, it was rancid. Looking in the cup a layer of filth and mould floats atop the boiling beverage. What the hell? You must have picked up the wrong cup and grabbed one from the pile of dishes you had still yet to finish. You wash the cup (and the accompanying plates and bowls that had been left out for ... how long had they been left out for?)

With a clean cup in hand, you pour another coffee (checking the jug beforehand just to be sure) and drink it down like a fresh beer on a hot day. You and Sharon head out into the morning air, it's sunrise and the nights chill hasn't yet been abated, thankfully she is parked right out front and the two of you jam the heating on the second you get inside. Carruthers lives on the lower side of town and the morning traffic is typically awful. You're journey is ponderous and quiet, not so much awkward rather the pair of you are too tired and have spent too long in each other's continuous company to be bothered with idle chatter. It's just after 07:30 when you make it to Carruthers' town house. It's a nice red-brick affair that's old but not in a raggedy way, a trellis of well kept vines adorns the front face making it look like it would feel perfectly at home in a tiny Italian village with a private vineyard out back. As you park up a little down the street you see a man in his mid fifties in a dressing gown and long pyjamas come out of the house and taking out the trash. He's gone fully bald on top but stubbornly clings to the hair that has survived on the sides and back of his head. He picks up his mail and a the morning newspaper off his porch and says good morning to his neighbour as they go out to take their dog for a walk. He comments to her about the bracing February air before heading back inside.
Laurence 'Mute' Reeves
 player, 138 posts
Thu 30 May 2019
at 10:26
Bile rises in Reeves' gut, piercing through the fog of fatigue. This had been Carruthers' punishment for selling him up the river. A beautiful house in a tranquil end of town.

He will die he will die he will die. You made me rot.

Eyes laden with bags, hair unkempt, shirt creased, teeth stained with coffee, he steps out of the car into these odious people's tidy little world and heads for the door, rapping sharply three times upon it.
The Story Teller
 GM, 122 posts
Sat 8 Jun 2019
at 19:05
You and Sharon get out the car and make your way up to Carruther's front door and you take the lead and knock. The door opens and the man from before stands before you and he gets half way through greeting you before losing his words and standing there in stunned silence, his mouth agape where it got stuck on the 'e' of 'can I help you?'. There is no doubting it, he recognised you instantly.

After a moment that feels like an awkward eternity he manages to pull himself together enough to speak again.

"I thought this day would come eventually. Please ... come in." His voice is shaky ... nervous ... apprehensive. It croaks with uncertainty and more than a touch of fear, yet he invites you into his home. The interior is just as nice as the exterior with hardwood floors running throughout, a double-height ceiling on the entrance hall and main living room with balcony-like landings atop gently curving stairs with a deep-green carpet railed in place. Book cases stacked with all kinds of academic texts adorn the walls as well as art by famous surrealists from Chirico to Dali to Escher, in fact the landings and stairs are somewhat reminiscent of an Escher with his famous 'Relativity' looking almost like a window into an adjacent room as much as a portrait. He guides you to his study unlocking the heavy-set ornate wood door with an old mortise lock key that wouldn't have looked out of place in a fantasy novel and invites you to take a seat, opening a drinks cabinet and taking out a decanter with what looks like brandy in it and pouring himself a glass before offering you and Sharon a glass; the fact that it's 7:30 in the morning and he is still in his pyjamas and dressing gown either lost on him or of negligible importance.

"...So... How mm-may I ... help you Mr. Reeves?"
Laurence 'Mute' Reeves
 player, 139 posts
Wed 12 Jun 2019
at 09:02
Reeves declines the alcohol, nothing could pass his lips which might lull him to sleep. The rage inside him would assuredly loose the Bodach on Carruthers, and he'd enjoy every second of it.

"You have a lovely home," he remarks coldly. The image of Cell D46 flashes in his mind, the piss-stench of the mattress, the whimpering of assault victims floating from the cells around him, promising his turn soon enough.

"We know about Mollenew, the false evidence, the others still locked up. Everything. My settlement cheque came in, amazing what eight years of an American's life is worth, Mister Carruthers.

My lawyers and PIs are putting a case together, it'll help you to come clean and go on the record about what he made you do."

The Story Teller
 GM, 123 posts
Mon 8 Jul 2019
at 17:20
There is a long pause while Carruthers downs his brandy in a single slow and deliberate gulp.

Laurence 'Mute' Reeves, rolled 1 success using 4d10 with the World of Darkness nWoD system with a target of 8, rerolling 10s.  Manipulation + subterfuge (+1 for weight of truthful accusation).

He lets out a deep sigh, expelling the vapours from his brandy from his lungs and then goes to pour himself another. “I thought I might find myself having this conversation before too long. It was only a matter of time really.” The hesitant stammer that came before has gone, his voice instead draped in what could only be described as relief. “I take it Ms Harper reached out to you before ... before she died? Horrific business that. We had sort of found each other in a way. She had figured Mollenew for a crook, though she had no idea to what extend, and I reached out to her, albeit anonymously, to show her the extent of it by means of repentance I suppose. I became a coroner to catch the bad guys, to bring about some semblance of justice in this world, but ended up perpetrating injustice for the sake of a politician’s career. At the time it was less obvious, the arresting officers were adamant and Mollenew was accusing me of interfering with ‘cut and dry justice’, citing incompetence as the only reason i couldn’t find the evidence. He threatened my career, claimed he could have me arrested for perverting the course of justice. At the time I was terrified and convinced he must have been right; between him, the cops and the media all insisting it was you, I convinced myself I must have missed something and in a moment of cowardice and weakness I submitted the report they wanted to read. It wasn’t until it happened again, and he started holding your case over my head that it became clear what was going on, but by then it was too late. I was under his control. But when I saw his campaign to become Governor I just couldn’t bare it. I’ve long supported Mario Cuomo and the thought of a good man like that being usurped by a corrupt charlatan like Mollenew made me feel sick. I knew that if I came out publicly my career was over so I reached out to Harper anonymously, but the moment I saw she had died I knew what was coming.” He downs the second glass, faster than before and wincing as he does so. This much brandy doesn’t settle well before breakfast it seems.

“Someone would find her notes and trace them back to me, be it her colleagues or the police. The former would hound me down for the story, the latter would either take me in and do the right thing, or bury me on Mollenew’s orders. Either way I’m done, in fact I’m glad it’s you who has found me. You deserve it, my head on the platter.” He looks around the exquisite study, at the mahogany bookshelves and the expensive art, at the $5000 desk and the $300 bottle of brandy he’s been steadily imbibing throughout his speech. He looks at them with disgust. He throws the brandy into the fireplace where it erupts in a flash of cherry red flames that cast elongated and distorted shadows across the room (weirdly, yours seems the most affected; a grotesque malformed gargantua stretched rake thin upon the far wall all the way up to the ceiling ... must be the angle at which you are stood).

“It is a nice place, and I don’t deserve a single stone of it. My story is yours, and once are satisfied I intend to turn myself in. I don’t care anymore, I became a coroner to bring about justice ... I cannot undo my mistakes, nor can I claim diminished responsibility for them, but I can at least help to bring down the son of a bitch who engineered them. Do something good in all this.”
Laurence 'Mute' Reeves
 player, 140 posts
Wed 10 Jul 2019
at 08:52
He doesn't know how to feel. Hearing it from the horse's mouth, that he was innocent, that he was framed, that this had all been done to him for no godly reason... he'd wanted these words for so long and now... emptiness.

Instead he just fixes the crooked coroner with a hollow glare.

"I'm sorry you had to live through all of this," he replies, referring pointedly to the opulent surroundings.

"We're going to need you to say all that again on tape, then we're going to make copies and my friend here is going to post them to her journalist buddies. Then you're going to turn yourself in. You'll cop a plea deal, couple years max. It's not so hard."

And then... ah jeez. The detective. Carruthers was enough to sink Mollenew. But Galloway might know something else. Chances are he had a solid lead to who really killed Jenny before the DA got to him. A name, a face, the Bodach would take care of the rest.

Or Galloway might just put a bullet in Reeves and claim self-defence.

The decision loomed... but it wasn't here yet.
The Story Teller
 GM, 124 posts
Wed 10 Jul 2019
at 17:24
Carruthers sings for the dictaphone. He recites his story and repeats everything he’s already told you, going into deeper detail for the recording as Sharon probes his responses and digs into the finer points, as he does so you pace about the study mulling over what comes next. The drone of The cononer’s drivel fades into background noice, barely more noticeable than the crackling of the fire, and your senses wander as your mind does, looking for anything that may inspire a course of action. You absentmindedly run your fingers over the mantle-piece a thick film of grime and dust clinging to your index, he clearly doesn’t allow the maid into this room ... it’s filthy! Now that you’re up close to the walls you can also see that the wallpaper is old and tired and wearing thin in places, though it really doesn’t look it from a distance. Your gaze wanders once more to the painting above the fireplace, when you first entered the study you had disregarded it, looked like one of the ones you see on fancy art magazines from time to time “Decent into the Mediterranean” by Vladimir Kush, but looking at it now you see that while clearly inspired by its likeness, this portrait shows a different scene. The silhouette of the man descending the stairs is quite distorted, tall and thin and malproportioned and the trees that line the stairs that part to form said silhouette are rotten and dead. The stairs themselves, while still white are a more yellow stained ivory shade than the marble white of Kush’s famous masterpiece and the scene the man walks toward is a hellscape of ashen skies and inky black oceans. Vague black winged creatures fly in place of gulls and stood upon an island in the black figure tiny to the point of being merely the suggestion of a figure but the closer you look the more impossibly detailed the figure appears to be, as though you are in fact gazing upon a figure far off in the distance. You lean right in, hypnotised by the figure upon the island, a man, kneeling over something, his face in his hands wracked with grief and panic. The edges of the painting pass beyond your periphery, with you taking the place of the abominable silhouette descending the steps towards the island. What is the man stood over ... and did he move?

The absurdity of that thought snaps you too, your head bobs forward and comes dangerously close to slamming into the stone hearth. You experience that peculiar rush of blood to the head that comes about when you’re bobbing in and out of consciousness and snap awake too fast. You hear Carruthers finishing his tale, no one seems to have noticed anything untoward and now you look back at the painting it’s just Kush’s Decent to the Mediterranean. The lack of sleep is catching up on you.
Laurence 'Mute' Reeves
 player, 141 posts
Thu 11 Jul 2019
at 14:01
God he feels terrible. How long since he'd slept? Had he even slept then? What toll was being taken on his body; how long would it take to return to normality when it was all over?

...There's a thought. What happens now? Sharon has the story of her career, Carruthers' conscience would carry the case.

Was it... was it over? The official investigations, the courtroom drama, that was all window dressing. The evidence and testimony to bring down Mollenew, the hard work, that was done.


No, that's a lie. It would never be over while Jenny's killer walked free. He knew what he had to do, but it was hard and he doesn't want to.

But Carruthers can say the same. So can Sharon. So could Harper, Christ... what must it have taken that piss-scented bitch to admit she was wrong?

Everyone else was doing the right thing. Everyone else got to be their own hero in their own sick, twisted little way.

Reeves was innocent, he hadn't done anything... but he hadn't done anything. He'd been dragged along - a literal puppet - while others won redemption and the thought filled him with such unutterable burning envy.

...Ah jeez.

"Sharon? Sharon are we done? I need you to drop me off somewhere."

This message was last edited by the player at 14:02, Thu 11 July 2019.

Sharon Gillespie
 NPC, 34 posts
Fri 12 Jul 2019
at 19:36
Sharon, content with her takings, finishes one last note before putting her notebook and pen away and turning off her dictaphone.

“Yeah, can do. I can take you wherever on the way to dropping this guy off with New York’s finest.” She answers matter-of-factly, the weight in Reeves’ voice seemingly lost on her in this moment of success. This step forward, while no closer to solving the deeper mysteries involved, is the biggest one she’s made in years and in the moment she’s going to take it, for now.
Laurence 'Mute' Reeves
 player, 142 posts
Mon 15 Jul 2019
at 15:31
"Yeah, uh... Galloway. I need you to drop me about a street away from Galloway. Figure this might be the last chance anyone gets to find a lead on who really killed that girl I went down for."

He's shuffling his feet and staring at the ground while he talks, unable to meet Sharon's gaze. In his head, he's leaving the details vague, playing the humble modest hero. Instead, the words come out cracked, faltering, hollow.

His mind flashes back to the subway, the invincibility he felt with the gun in his hand, the cathartic flashing rage as he opened up on the crowd... except the memory was false, a glorious nightmare. Could he summon that rage again if he needed it?
Sharon Gillespie
 NPC, 35 posts
Sun 21 Jul 2019
at 20:51
"Ok, sure." Sharon can tell that something is weighing on Reeves, not that there isn’t constantly something weighing on him, but in particular she gets the impression that being in Carruthers’ presence, in his beautiful home, surrounded by his success, was getting a bit much. "You go wait in the car, this schmuck needs to get out of his jimmy-jams so I'll stick around while he gets himself pretty."
Laurence 'Mute' Reeves
 player, 143 posts
Mon 22 Jul 2019
at 09:07
Wordlessly, Reeves heads out to the car. God, Sharon really does drive a rusted old jalopy, doesn't she. The thing looks barely functional, worn bare tyres and ripped, musty seats.

He sits himself upon the dank foam of the passenger seat and closes his eyes... just for a moment... just to rest t-


No, gotta stay awake. Gotta be a hero. He gets out of the car and stands beside it instead, removing the temptation of a cosy chair while Sharon returns.
The Story Teller
 GM, 125 posts
Mon 29 Jul 2019
at 20:47
You stand beside the car and take a deep breath of the cold February air to try and wake yourself up a bit. The ice cold moisture of the morning fog fills your lungs almost making you cough from the thin film of water coating them. It’s funny, you don’t remember it being this foggy on your way over here, in fact it must have rolled in while you were in with Carruthers because you can barely see a thing now, save for the snow now gently falling all around. The snow clouds above must be thick and dark because nary a glimmer of sunlight can be seen and it’s only the light from the street lamps that give you even the slightest chance of seeing anything out here; the eerily dim, sporadically flickering street lamps...

It is at this moment that you begin to realise that you cannot hear anything save for the snow gently falling on the ground and your boots crunching in the snow on the floor. No car horns, nor the sound of car engines sat idle in the morning traffic; no shouting or road rage, no street conversation, nothing. You can’t smell much of anything either, normally the streets of Manhattan are permeated by a thick haze that’s a mixture of petroleum, coffee, bacon and hot bread but right now all you can smell is the cold crisp air.

A horrible feeling starts to sink deep into your bones; you can feel it tangibly moving through your being, like a stone slowly sinking to the bottom of a thick tar pit and embedding itself in the silt below. You beg and plead with yourself to have not dozed off in the car a moment ago, but as you think it through a strange logic works its way through your thoughts. You’ve never been consciously aware of being asleep before, the notion has never deliberately crossed into your full awareness, even if sometimes it feels in hindsight like maybe it had been lingering on the periphery. Additionally you still feel just as shit as you did a moment ago; you head hurts, your eyes are sore, your bones ache and a deep and cumbersome lethargy wracks your entire body.

Sharon’s car is a wreck: a rusted shell of a thing with perished tires, broken windows, and a rotten interior. Of the street itself you can see little through the fog, simply the tall looming silhouette of buildings all around you, their lack of detail and feature making them appear more like walls trapping you in this uncanny prison of a reality. Trapping you with the cold and the dark and the quiet.

This message was last edited by the GM at 20:50, Mon 29 July 2019.

Laurence 'Mute' Reeves
 player, 144 posts
Tue 30 Jul 2019
at 08:03
Eyes practically bolted wide open as the horror seeps in around him, Reeves does his best not to pay attention to the assault of flashing lights outside the car.

He'd been inside when It was released, but something about the phrase 'deadlights' had seeped into his consciousness, and loomed large in this moment.

"Uh... Sharon?" he asks, voice laden with an unmaskable shiver, "is... is it misty out there? Can you, like, describe what's going on outside the car for me please?"
The Story Teller
 GM, 126 posts
Tue 30 Jul 2019
at 08:41
Your question is left unanswered. Sharon hadn’t yet left Carruthers’ town house and as you edge closer to the door to call on her again you find the building to be a dilapidated wreck with its doors and windows all boarded over. Sharon isn’t here, wherever here is.

It is then that you hear something, for the first time in a few minutes. A low simpering howl, like that of a wounded dog, echoes through the fog from the end of the street. It’s quiet, it would barely have registered were it not for the total absence of any other noise, though there is something about the tone of it that makes it difficult to gauge over what distance it has travelled.
Laurence 'Mute' Reeves
 player, 145 posts
Tue 30 Jul 2019
at 09:26
The tortured howl pierces... everything. The oppressive fog, the taunting glare of the distant lights, even Reeves' psyche.

He still aches, he's still bone tired and angry, but the sound of a wounded beast stirs something in him, something old and half-forgotten. Something remembered only in the darkness of a quiet cell, where men become animals once more.

Against all logic, reason, and good sense... he follows the sound.
The Story Teller
 GM, 127 posts
Sat 3 Aug 2019
at 18:22
You wander down the street, following the pained wails through the fog. The density of the mist means you can't see more than a couple of feet in front of you and ruins your perceptions of how far you've travelled. After what feels like far too long you stumble across what you conclude to be where the noise is coming from, the entrance to a subway station. You stand atop the stairs looking down into an ominous darkness obscured by the fog as it sinks from the street down into the subway below, from up here you can't see the bottom.

Following the sound deeper you decend down the stairs which bizarrely begin to wind and undulate the deeper down you go, more like how stairs carved into the sides of a cliff or hill would be. At some point you become aware that the steps are stained with blood as if some large wounded thing had been dragged along them. After almost ten minutes of marching down these stairs, the cries of something resonating up the stone tunnel who's architecture has long since stopped looking like New York underground and more like something much ... Older, you see a light dancing and flickering at the bottom. The stairs open out into the train platform below which again looks more like what you would get if they had trains in the dark ages. Grime ridden stone slabs form the floor and walls of the area with ornate gargoyle affixed stone pillars hold up the tall arched ceiling and torch-baring sconces light the room. Stylistic choices aside, the layout is identical to the platform where you Morgan encountered the Ovine horrors during your last dream and this journey here is no less nightmarish as you stop off the stairs and onto the platform proper and cast your eyes upon the source of the noise.

Before you lies a horrific beast, almost 15 feet long and of a vaguely canine nature, though with proportions more akin to something like an alligator as its enormous maw makes up almost a quarter of its length. Countless razor sharp teeth line its colossal jaw and a huge tongue flaps around barely contained within its toothy prison. It has three sets of beady eyes line its face, buried amid the thick, gunmetal grey fur that covers its entire body save for its underbelly, or rather its like thereof. Where its torso and abdomen should be is instead open and exposed; long, sharp ribs protrude out like the teeth of a bear trap with no sternum holding them together in the middle, it almost looks as though it could use this 'rib cage' as a second even larger mouth. It's trying to hold itself up on its long and lanky limbs but it is gravely wounded with long metal chains impaled through it, which are anchored to the floor, ceiling and to each of the pillars on either side of it. Stood behind the gruesome lupine monstrosity is the unmistakable form of the Bodach. It looms behind the beast, holding its tail out the way while it repeatedly and violently impales it with a long rusty metal spike.

18:59, Today: The Story Teller, on behalf of Laurence 'Mute' Reeves, rolled 1 success using 4d10 with the World of Darkness nWoD system with a target of 8, rerolling 10s.  Breaking point: resolve + composure +1 (integrity) -2 the visceral sexual violence. You hold your resolve and are not irrepairably affected by the sight, though the horrifying encounter does take its toll in the short term.

You watch in an almost voyeuristic fashion as the horrifying act unfolds before you.

This message was last edited by the GM at 18:26, Sat 03 Aug 2019.

Laurence 'Mute' Reeves
 player, 146 posts
Mon 5 Aug 2019
at 11:00
Unmitigated dread and loathing flood Reeves' senses... but not panic. This place was too alien, the sight too unearthly, his body too wracked with fatigue for panic.

If anything, he steps onto the platform with a doomed resignation. His pathetic attempts to resist the coming of the Bodach have led him here... the creature was inescapable.

Watching his own actions as if from the perspective of a puppeteer pulling strings, disassociating completely from this awful moment, he stands where he judges to be a safe distance from the chained beast and observes.

With each mounting stab of the Bodach, his own body seems to jerk involuntarily, identifying with the violence it uses to spear the hellhound again and again and again.

Before long, he finds himself fully mirroring the actions of the thing, arms sliding back and forth in hideous jerks, in perfect time with the thing's senseless, visceral attack.

Through the mental fog, one sentiment cuts through: he hasn't felt as satisfied in a long time.
The Story Teller
 GM, 128 posts
Tue 10 Sep 2019
at 22:25
You mimic the Bodach in its visceral thrusting, transfixed by the violence of it. The beast notices you, it’s rows of black, beady eyes catch yours and you see them noticeably widen with a mix of realisation and horror... it recognises you. It stirs, lifting its limbs weakly to a stand before letting out an ear piercing scream. In one last act of defiance it wrenches itself free of the bodach’s grasp and lunges at you, roaring and snapping its gargantuan maw.

There is a loud clang as the chains binding it snap taught, the beasts jaws crashing shut no more than an inch before your face, it’s hot breath blasting against your skin. It thrashes and snaps and writes before you, falling just short of tearing you to shreds before collapsing to the ground, through a combination of succumbing to its injuries and  realising its failure.

There is a long pause where only the beasts raspy breathing fills the silence. Then the painful screeching of metal scraping against stone echoes through the chamber as the Bodach lumbers slowly towards you, dragging the sharpened metal pipe along the ground behind it. It stands alongside the wolflike creature and stares at you with its gaunt, dead face, it’s pale-white eyes staring right through you, and then it lazily throws the pipe at your feet.
Laurence 'Mute' Reeves
 player, 147 posts
Wed 11 Sep 2019
at 12:13
Straddling two nightmarish worlds, Reeves is numb to the evil which seems to have saturated all of existence. A treasonous thought flickers across his mind, does he prefer it here? Here, where the monsters at least wore honest faces?

His reaction at the lunging beast had been less than the merest flinch. If it was going to swallow him, it would swallow him... as it had done once before, he supposes.

Knowing the drill, he kneels to pick up the weapon. He has no agency in any of this; he's a puppet, a dumb vessel for the monster's justice. In this moment he surrenders his sanity at long last to the Bodach.

"Heh..." he chuckles to the creature, "guess the coffee wasn't going to work on you, was it? Should have tried that Bull stuff, Red Bull or whatever, supposed to buzz your ass off.

Look, before I do this... Jenny. I'm gonna do it, I'm gonna find who killed her. But I really do not want to speak to the cop. Could you just, like, tell me who did it? We both want reve- justice, sure. I just don't want some old cop to blow me away on his porch and call it self-defence. Can I get a pointer on this one?"

The Story Teller
 GM, 129 posts
Sun 15 Sep 2019
at 21:29
The Bodach slams its fist into the cold stone, shattering the pavers as if hit by a sledge hammer and roars at you, it’s mouth agape so wide it’s a wonder it’s jaw doesn’t tear itself off. The inside of its mouth is a pitch dark void with no definition nor feature nor form. The sound bellowing from it resonates through your soul, shaking it like an earthquake razing the foundation of your being, it’s fury is a tangible force that you can feel as vividly as any sight or sound or smell. It has nuance and complexities, like the flavours in an oriental meal or the individual notes in a chord. It’s a blend of impatience and indignance, like it’s offended you would dare show such ingratitude.

The lupine monster cowers before the Bodach’s display, shuddering in abject terror.
Laurence 'Mute' Reeves
 player, 148 posts
Mon 16 Sep 2019
at 13:20
"Jeez, alright alright."

Those moments spent gazing into the gaping hungry nothingness within the Bodach's bowels did little to remind Reeves of the gravity of his situation. The beast might smear him across the platform like it did to Harper, it might not. It wasn't up to him so why worry?

Raising the weapon, his hollow gut once more fills with loathing, rage, righteous anger. The motion he uses to bring the jagged steel down into the beast's skull is one clinical swoop. Then another. Then another.

In a flurry of catharsis, he performs his role.