You bid farewell to Cedric and board the tramp steamer 'Bremen' to Mombasa in Kenya. It leaves from Port Said to travel through the Suez Canal, and lays over for several days at Aden. The journey to Mombasa takes about three weeks, giving you ample time to recover from your underground ordeals and prepare for the next part of the adventure.

You review Jackson’s notes on the Carlyle Expedition and the tragic massacre that occurred in Kenya. According to his notes, Jackson arrived in Nairobi on July 23, 1924, having followed various leads across Africa regarding the Cult of the Bloody Tongue. Curious as to whether the cult could have any connection to the loss of the Carlyle Expedition, he spoke with Roger Corydon, Colonial Undersecretary for Internal Affairs in Nairobi, who furnished him with the standard account of the massacre. Unwilling to accept the official story, Jackson visited the site himself, noting the barren earth and how the local tribes avoided the area.

Jackson interviewed Johnstone Kenyatta in Nairobi, who told him that the Carlyle murders may have been performed by the Cult of the Bloody Tongue. He also talked with Lt. Mark Selkirk (since deceased), leader of the men who actually found the remains of the Carlyle Expedition—he partially confirmed the official story, but eventually admitted that no white corpses were actually found among the dead. The intrepid author then ran into a 'Nails' Nelson at the Victoria Bar in Nairobi, who claimed to have seen Jack Brady alive in Hong Kong. Elias followed this lead, departing Mombasa and Kenya on August 16, 1924.

During your stay in Cairo, you have kept in touch with Jackson’s friend in New York, Johan Kensington, and informed him of your progress so far. Dismayed by the horrible events in the tunnels under the pyramid, Kensington contacted your old friend, Dr. Arthur Digby, and asked him to meet up with you in Mombasa. He also recruited another person to meet you there and offer his assistance.

Mombasa is Arabic, with famous narrow and redolent alleys, elaborately decorated balconies, mosques and minarets, muezzins, and veils. This famous merchant city and former slave-trading center is only a few centuries newer than Cairo. About 30,000 people live here on the edge of the Indian Ocean, combining aspects of Arab, African, Indian, Portuguese, and British ways of life. Pre-colonial traders built Mombasa on a coral island just offshore, for purposes of defense. A railway causeway and foot-traffic ferries now connect island and continent. The eastern district, known as the Old Town, is a maze of alleys and traditional thatched, mud-brick houses of Swahili construction. Islamic design is in evidence, alongside the more modern British Colonial architecture. Mombasa became a British Protectorate in 1887.





This message was last edited by the GM at 21:38, Wed 22 May 2019.

You step off the gangplank and take in the sights and sounds of Mombasa Port. Above all, the weather is hot and humid. The climate comes down on you like a wet hot blanket.

You spot your old friend, Art, and another, younger man approaching you. "So, I heard you need help with Nyarlathotep?" says the newcomer.

Johan tips up his hat, raises an eyebrow to the man and rests his hands on his cane...should it be needed.

"My name is Tristan Julius Richardson, but my friends call me TJ. I am a professor of English at Miskatonic University," says the man with a smile.

“Help is putting it lightly,” adds Art. “We could use a miracle. Kensington sends his regards, a cigar, let us hope we make it far.”

"Nice to see ye again, doctor. Coulda used ye the last few weeks!" Dermot Murphy lays a hand on Art's shoulder before directing his attention to the newcomer. "Kensington sent ye, did he? Well anyone Art gets along with can only be half bad. Name's Dermot."

TJ chuckles. "Yes, well, he said it's urgent that we meet up with you folks. Can you inform me what happened?"

As he speaks, TJ sees a portly man, dressed in a businesslike manner hobbling closer. He has a cast on his right arm and left leg. bandaged on top of his head, using crutches and has a bit of trouble breathing. He extends his left arm to Art and addresses him in a slightly accented English. “As you can see, we could have used you a couple of weeks ago! 3 bullets in me and I am still alive. Good Bavarian stock!”

Gustav clasps his hands on the shoulders of the Irishman. “This sour potato got us out of the rocks again! Hahahaha cough cough”.

He turns his attention to TJ. “TJ is it? If you don’t want to look like me, I suggest you go back to your books. You look too young for this line of work.

TJ looks curiously at Gustav... "No worries, sir. It's not about the age, but the experience. And wouldn't you find it odd that someone younger like myself is called?"

You talk further amongst yourself and decide to find a place to have dinner. Mombasa has several larger hotels that cater to European visitors. The labyrinthine Manor Hotel is reputable, clean, and affordable as well as new, and surrounded by well-kept gardens. The Manor Hotel is also renowned for its giant pet tortoise, Liza.

Less assuming is the Metropole Hotel (on MacDonald Terrace); with similar amenities, but further from the town center. The Metropole has links with the Norfolk hotel in Nairobi. The 18-room Cecil Hotel also on MacDonald Terrace is opposite the High Court.

Once you settle on a place, you discuss your next step. The people Jackson talked to can all be found in Nairobi. There is a daily train to there, and the trip takes from 15 to 18 hours.


This message was last edited by the GM at 20:15, Thu 23 May 2019.

“Well chums, is there anything we want to see before heading to Nairobi?” asks Dermot once you’re all seated around the table at the Manor Hotel.

Gustav asks TJ about his specialization and his experiences with the occult. And what does he know about Nyarlathotep?

"Ask no questions and I'll tell no lies," replies TJ. "All I can tell you is that I have some experience with occult. It had been a particular interest of mine."

Leaning over to Gustav, Dermot whispers, “This guy’s a looney....”

Art announces that he will research what vaccines and medicines you may need to take Nairobi. “I imagine I might as well stock up on tourniquets, antibiotics, bandages, and morphine based on the history of our adventures and well... (looking at Gustav) your recent misfortunes. Gents have you all had your penicillin shots?”

“Gustav’s had plenty of shots!” snickers Dermot.

“Ayyy my man, good to see these shenanigans haven’t dampened your "Spirits", grins Art.

“My dear doctor, Dermot Murphy’s been dampened by a wide variety of spirits, wines, and ales, but that’s never kept him from imbibing yet!”

"Well, I'll keep some penicillin in the bag to help with any delights Nairobi might have in store for us,” replies Art.

“Yes, my companion Dermot does not discriminate on his form of drink....”  Johan drinks a fine German brew from a rather large stein. “However our recent misadventures have been....taxing on the mind...”

"What do you mean by that Johan?" asks TJ.

Johan turns to Dermot “Perhaps you know a good toast? I believe drinks are in order if we are going to retell our journeys...”

Dermot raises a pint o’ the black stuff and intones a toast: "Here's to a long life and a merry one. A quick death and an easy one. A pretty girl and an honest one. A cold pint-- and another one!"

He drinks. “At least, one outta four ain’t bad!”

Art raises his glass as well: “Hear, hear!”

Gustav coughs. “I’ll drink to that cheer! Hear, hear!”
He looks at Rachel and hands her a pint. 'We're still alive, that’s something to cheer about no?'

"A-alive... yes. Of course. Alive." Rachel mutters, eyes darting around suspiciously as she accepts the pint.

Dermot looks at Gustav and stage-whispers, “Better pass her two, boyo!”

"W-Why? I only need one. Why? d-do I seem on edge?"

Johan nods to Rachel, “a toast from the lady then!” Johan takes the next stein he had out.

Gustav gives a small worried look at Rachel before leading another toast. 'How do I even top a toast from an Irishman?' but in jewish - L'Chaim to life - with a slight nod to Rachel, and in German - Genieße das Leben ständig! Du bist länger tot als lebendig! - enjoy life! you are longer dead than alive!"

“Sláinte,” replies Dermot to the toast.

Gustav continues. “I hope the doctors here in Cairo plugged my holes real good. I have a feeling ill get more holes in me before we end THIS or THIS ends us.”

“So where do we begin our tale...”. Johan fixes his coat and sits leaning his cane. His stein are nearby and seem never to be completely full. “Shall we start with our recent engagement...Egypt...”

Art nods to Gustav. “Gustav, let me take a look at your wounds and tell me about this cough I hear on you.”

Rachel quietly downs her drink and resumes biting her nails absently.

Johan continues. “So we arrived in Egypt, following leads from other discussions we could have. We were ...unprepared for what happened. We toured the Capital of this quasi-territory of the great British Empire. Our investigation led us too an excavation. We followed a rather moronic son of a British parliamentarian into a recent find. ....He, it turns out, was a member of certain cult bent on raising its long deceased master...  This parliamentarian’s son led us into a trap....which we broke out of and escaped with our lives....but I fear we failed to stop the aims of the cult....”

“Some of our numbers were hurt in the process...  Johan nods to Gustav and  raises his stein (one of them) to his injured comrade and again nods to Rachel.
Rachel glares at Johan. "I'm fine. The question is how we're going to avoid those... mishaps in the future."

Gustav looks at Rachel sympathetically and looks at his newest bullet scars. 'and where do we go from here?'

Johan leans forward. “Please forgive my own concern that we failed you... but you are right, we must move forward and stop those who threaten our world. ”

"I'm fine. We shan't speak of it anymore." Rachel says as she finishes her drink. "I for one propose a lot of firearms and weapons, and I might as well spend for it since I can't take my wallet to the grave."

Johan raises his stein, “Mögen unsere Feinde wissen, dass wir kommen und sie werden wir sie aufhalten!”

"By the way, do you have any documents or any items that you still have that can tell me what happened with you guys?", asks TJ.

"Some things are better left undocumented.... But we did leave some bizarro masks with Bromley....", replies Dermot.

Gustav snickers. “Glad we now have dark sense of humor.”
This message was last edited by the GM at 15:30, Fri 24 May 2019.

Begun in 1896, the railway traverses 600 miles (965 km) and climbs 3,800 feet (1,150 m). The sleepers are made of steel, as termites would consume those constructed of wood. Thirty-two thousand workers were shipped in, mostly from India, to build the railway. By 1899 the railway reached a water hole where, perhaps due to sheer exhaustion, it was decided that the main railway station should be established. Thus, Nairobi was born.

On this line, seating is by class and by color. The flatcar, directly behind the locomotive and its tender, is left for baggage, light freight, and poor people; the third-class car is mostly left for Asians and Arabs, better-off black Africans, and poor whites. The last car, the one furthest from the smoky, smelly engine, is reserved for white people, as well as Arabs and Asians of wealth, at the discretion of the conductor.

The dining car serves Asian and Arab passengers once between Nairobi and Mombasa (the tablecloths are removed and the nice china and silver jealously hidden — reflecting the racist attitudes of the day). Black Africans on the flatcar have to stay there; there is no way for them to get to the dining car. In those days it was perfectly normal to encounter deliberate racism. Rare protests against it were taken by authorities to indicate tendencies toward idiocy, bomb-throwing, and criminal madness.

The train to Nairobi is arranged in the following order. There is no Pullman-style sleeping car.

The journey from Mombasa to Nairobi takes 15 to 18 hours. After climbing out of a narrow coastal belt of open forest and dense brush, you can see the wide plains of Africa. The temperature is still hot, but the air is less humid. Though farms can be spotted, exotic animal life is much in evidence: elephants, rhinos, giraffes, lions, hyenas, herds of various herbivores, and so on, are all seen at one time or another from the train.

The land is gentle and rolling, broken occasionally by precipitous ravines and canyons. Dry grass spreads everywhere, interrupted by thorn and baobab trees, their bulbous trunks grayish and shiny. The rainy seasons center on April and November; travelers during those seasons probably see verdant green plains, and may imagine that they are in Eden, if religiously inclined.

The line climbs steadily. Halfway along, a great snowcapped peak can be seen to the west: Mount Kilimanjaro looms high in the sky, though it is 50 miles (80 km) distant. As the train winds away to the west or east for a few minutes, glints of more great white mountains may be seen far off to the north.

Long after sunset, less than an hour from Nairobi, you hear screams and shouts of astonishment from your fellow passengers in the first-class car. Outside, like two living stars, two small fiery sparks hover in the night just outside the windows, then drifts down the length of the train. Once these swirling, flaming apparitions are near you, the walls of the coach begin to buckle, discolor, and smoke as the merciless things burn their way in…

[SAN roll, please; 0/1D4]



This message was last edited by the GM at 21:43, Fri 24 May 2019.

“What in the bloody blazes?!” cries Colonel Whiffinton-Smythe, who has been boring you with his hunting stories during the long trip.

As the side-wall near him buckles and melts, he pulls out his service revolver and fires several shots at the closest spark. The bullets pass harmlessly though it, but it changes direction and alights in the Colonels hair, quickly setting it on fire.

Roaring like a mad bull, the Colonel flails and tries to extinguish the conflagration on his head.
This message was last edited by the GM at 23:41, Fri 24 May 2019.

As the two floating sparks cause havoc in the first-class cabin, you look around for ways to extinguish them.

There are fire buckets and ashtrays in the passageway filled with sand, and large metal pitchers in the toilets each contain nearly 4 liters of water. There are nearly 180 liters of drinking water available in the dining car. No fire extinguishers, but there are two seltzer bottles nearby.

Art quickly grabs a small bucket of sand and throws it on the bluish spark in hopes of suffocating it. [Causing it to lose 3 HP]

Johan grabs a thin sheet from a sheet and pours water over it, attempting to cover the red spark. [It loses 2 HP]

Rachel also grabs a bucket of sand and flings the sand towards the red spark but misses and instead throws the sand over Miss Persephone Lovett, a wealthy socialite, causing a shriek of outrage.

The red spark zig-zags towards Dermot, quickly closing the distance!  [Dermot, Dodge roll please or take 5 damage from burns]

TJ, taken aback from seeing these apparitions, runs towards the dining car, intent of finding something to defeat them with.

https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Afk...0/Fire%2BVampire.jpg" data-lightbox="images-msg-6">https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Afk...0/Fire%2BVampire.jpg" alt=''>
This message was last edited by the GM at 14:10, Sun 26 May 2019.

"Oi Shillelagh!" hollers Dermot as he hops away from the charging spark. "Keep at it, boys!"

Art mixes the sand buckets with some water and throws it on the blue spark again, while Johan continues his towel borne attack.

Meanwhile, Dermot gets behind his bucket-wielding companions and surveys the dark landscape. He's looking for any distant lights or signs of magic, anything that could be related to these sparks, but he fails to spot anything out of the ordinary.

Art begins to feel the familiar dread he felt in Peru and England when he faced encounters with the group. "This seems to be too targeted to be coincidental, I dare say the forces at play here are sending us their welcome party, rolling out the red and blue carpet if you will". "Indeed, doctor," replies Dermot, and squints harder

Seizing that moment, the blue spark veers towards Rachel, while the red spark attacks Dermot again. He dodges, and Rachel spritzes the red spark into oblivion!

TJ finds himself in the dining car - there's a small, fairly well-equipped kitchenette. He begins looking for baking powder and soda to defeat the sparks.

The blue spark, glowing less intense now and radiating less heat, hovers up towards the ceiling of the first-class car, hesitating a moment, before diving down towards Johan. He uses muscles that hasn’t used since the Great War and jumps aside. Rachel tosses Gustav the seltzer, and he douses the blue spark.

Pausing to gather your breath, you survey the damage. It looks fairly chaotic, with two large burnt holes in one side of the cabin. The colonel managed to extinguish the fire, but he's badly burned. Art manages to calm the colonel and give him something for the pain.

Rachel apologizes to the lady she covered in sand, while Gustav helps the other passengers in the coach. He quips 'Well well well, did we pay extra for a side show?” He then proceeds to check the other passengers for any injuries after making sure with a quick glance, that Ms. Katz is not hurt in any way.

Tj returns from the dining car, having failed to find any baking soda and vinegar. Art mixes some drinks for the group with what's left of bar and says "Down the hatch everyone, doctor's orders"

The conductor arrives, drawn by the noise. He sternly chastises you for carelessness with your cigars and threatens you with a bill for damages.

I'm sorry… STERNLY CHASTISES US FOR BEING CARELESS WITH CIGARS! fumes Rachel, tempted to throw the seltzer water at the conductor.

"Let's just get to Nairobi in one piece. Down the hatch!" says Dermot and kicks back his drink.

Art turns to the conductor "My apologies, sir, but I do believe most of these burn holes were here prior to our arrival, but of course we will be very careful not to burn holes through the steel train with our cigars…"  He raises glass at the conductor and says "Down the hatch"

Rachel secretly thinks, "I still have the 17 inch knife somewhere in my purse..."


It is nearly midnight when the train finally rolls into Nairobi Railway Station: a dusty and hot building, built of stone with a tin roof.

NAIROBI
Nairobi is a conscious attempt to create a British city in an African setting. The settlement is not yet three decades old in 1925. Perhaps 10% of the population is European (mainly British) with a third being from India (this group is usually called “Asian” by the whites), and the remainder being natives. In appearance Nairobi is a town of wooden or corrugated iron buildings, interspersed with more important brick or stone buildings. From the mid-Twenties onwards a more permanent architecture prevails and officially sanctioned town planning is introduced.

Nairobi is a town of several parts. The oldest part of Nairobi consists of the railway station, workshops, and quarters in the south. Government Road forms the backbone of Nairobi’s central business and civic area. Asian settlement is permitted to the east of Government Road. Male Africans are not officially allowed to live in the town, but do so, especially in Kibera to the south. There is no restriction on female Africans living in Nairobi, other than their race and their wealth. European settlement is segregated by class. Railway staff live around the station, civil servants live in Parklands, the middle class in Westlands, richer settlers live in the hills to the west and Kilimani.

HOTELS
Unlike New York or London or even Cairo, the selection of hotels is unsurprisingly more limited in Nairobi. The finest establishment is the Norfolk Hotel, which sits on the edge of town and commands an impressive view of the local countryside. The hotel’s fine bar is a social hub for Nairobi’s white community and is a good place to make helpful friends. The members of the Carlyle Expedition, as well as Erica Carlyle later, stayed at the Norfolk.

The New Stanley Hotel, sitting in the center of town, lacks the society cachet of the Norfolk, but makes up for it as a meeting point for Nairobi society.

Torr Hotel on Sixth Avenue is Nairobi’s third notable hotel. Its bar doesn’t close until 2:00 AM, and attracts Nairobi’s cafe elite after other hotel bars and clubs have shut. Due to its late opening hours, the Torr also attracts police custom. With its Swiss chef and fashionable bands, the Torr is the place to access influential people.

Other hotels include the Avenue Hotel on Sixth Avenue, the Central Hotel (formerly the
Victoria) on Victoria Road, and the Hurlingham Hotel on Hurlingham Road.





This message was last edited by the GM at 17:45, Mon 27 May 2019.

"Well, that was a tiring journey,” says TJ, looking back at the rest of the group. “You guys have any idea where we should check in this late in the night?"

There are plenty of guides clamoring for your attention, each claiming to know the best hotel at the best rates, even at this hour.

"Due to the lateness of the hour I suggest we find lodging,” replies Art. “Perhaps something that will put us among our at least close to the locals so as to allow us to get information from them. Based on our previous ordeals, the higher in the social ladder the more they have to lie about and the more incredulous they are about the forces at play here. A shower and a night of shut eye should do me some good."

Johan nods. “Ahhh yes...a shower and scrub might get the burning smell out”

You arrive safely at the Norfolk and manage to book some rooms. Gustav announces that he would prefer to stay here. He feels like he’s not that 100% and would take this opportunity arriving to take a rest. He won’t be drinking tonight.

"I think you've been body-snatched," states an incredulous Rachel.

The rest of you take a couple of motor taxis to Torr's Hotel bar. It’s one of those places where the elite 'drank champagne and pink gin for breakfast, played cards, danced through the night, and generally woke up with someone else's spouse in the morning.' There are plenty of shady character around, as well as several well-dressed gentlemen and ladies, and the ever-present and very loud flappers. A jazz band is playing. The bar is thick with smoke and conversations in different languages.

TJ listens in on a few conversations and overhears lots of talks about safaris, the political situation, society scandals, sports. Nothing untoward but he keeps his eyes and ears open.

“Well my friends,” says Johan. “I would imagine that if we were to speaking one of these establishments of interest in the expedition or more directly of the people that we are looking for ...that they would come to us.”

Dermot looks around for a poker game and soon spots a likely opening, as one player leaves a table. There is an Egyptian, an Englishman and a Belgian left. The Englishman explains the rules. “It's Five Card Stud, with One Down, Three Up, One Down/1-3-1.”

“Nobody's more of a pushover than an Englishman, except maybe a Belgian. This should be a piece of cake,” thinks Dermot to himself.

Art leans over to talk to Johan. “Would you advise we buy some drinks so as to blend in and mayhaps inquire for anyone with information about the Bloody Tongue?"

“Indeed,” replies Johan. “I’m suggesting such but first we would need to make that we are in control the ground we choose to bring them too”. Johan sits, requests two stouts from the help whenever they come by, fixes his coat and hat, nods to Art and when the pints arrive gives one to Art. “Now, who do we know who get extremely intoxicated, loose on the lips, and will not mind being bait....”

Art buys a drink at the bar and makes his way toward the likeliest of the likely prospects and eaves drops until he can find a natural opening to engage him. The man, a quite drunk minor government official, happily chats with Art for a while but yields no useful information.

Rachel hangs back and just listens to conversations. She overhears one man talking about a Colonel Endicott, and how guests at his game lodge have been killed and partially eaten. She also overhears the name Jomo Kenyatta mentioned, along with disdain for his campaigning for African nationalism.

It is getting to around 2 AM in the morning, and the bartender loudly calls for last orders.


Typical patrons at Torr's Hotel bar


This message was last edited by the GM at 15:54, Tue 28 May 2019.

Stifling a yawn, Rachel shakes her head, refusing the call for a last order. Instead she continued to sit at the bar, watching Dermott's game absently, politely turning down any drinks offered.
This message was last edited by the player at 16:27, Tue 28 May 2019.

In reply to Rachel Katz (msg # 9):

Being the lowlife that he is, Dermot manages to win a few hands at the poker table and bring in a tidy sum of pocket change. He hasn't gained any information when the last call rings out from the bar, so he drops some bait.

"Well gents, I'd say I'm sorry to clean ye out like a foreign expedition by tribal Africans, but I've got my sights set on a Harley, ye see."

The Belgian scoffs. "Harley. Hah! You should get a FN 285TT. Great Belgian quality!"

"I'll consider your advice at the dealership. Perhaps the Belgians make better mechanics than gamblers."

"Like takin candy from a wee babe," thinks Dermot as he scoops up his winnings.

With no information to show, he heads back to the Norfolk with his companions.

Dr. Arthur Digby arrives back at the majestic Norfolk hotel shortly after 03:30 in the morning. The grandeur and beauty of the building likely a benefit from its proximity to the less than regal places of business around it. Walking into his room, he notices a slight drop in the temperature, with some the African heat remaining outside his door waiting for him on his departure. Placing his keys down by his bed, he slowly removes his footwear, stretching out his toes and legs. He finds a small mirror in his bag and holds it at arm's length by his side so as to see the reflection of his lower back in it. Carved into his back are several small crosses in differing states of healing. The skin tissue on one of the more prominent scars is wholly scarred over with new more recent cuts placed hurriedly and erratically over it.
Cold sweat begins to bead on his forehead, and the mirror in his hand starts trembling, the memories of Peru and England tearing again at his psyche.
If God real, then WhY?!! If God not real but dark Gods Real, THEN wHY?!.
Arthur hoped that some time apart from the group would make the memories less real and bring back his sanity, but the primal fear that he now carried in his soul always seemed to linger just slightly out of reach of his control.
The mirror shatters as it falls from his now shaking hands, the glistening shards of glass glint as they catch the light in the room. Arthur grips one of the shards and begins to slowly trace over two of the crosses on his back, the pain making him wince and grunt. He shoves a handful of the bedsheets into his mouth to muffle his screams and continues to carve. Tears roll down the side of his cheeks, his eyes red and puffy.
Why did I come? I had to come back. I must be here to end it, to stop it. I know it's real and so do my friends. I can't survive this alone, and they deserve the best chance to beat it and if that means me facing the horrors of the night once again then so be it.
His hands slowly cease to shake, the shard makes a loud clack sound as it hits the ground. The pain from the cut no longer a discomfort but a soothing reminder that he should not be afraid of being hurt because he already is hurt.
Walking over to his medicine bag, he treats his cuts to prevent infection and contain the bleeding. While the depths of the cuts are only superficial, the process allows Arthur the illusion of control and a way for him to remain grounded in a world whose rules he no longer understands. He showers and gets some rest knowing full well that tomorrow he must present a strong and composed and façade in front of his friends. He does not know how all these horrors have affected them, and he was glad to be able to join them again since it was only together with them that he had survived. He did not want them to think less of him if they discovered the state his mind had sunk to.
The afternoon sun wakes Art, outside his window, a Palm tree slowly sways back and forth in the wind.
Me too old boy, me too.
Collecting his equipment and grabbing his keys, he heads out the door. The African heat welcomes him back as soon as he steps outside of his room. He makes his way down to meet his friends rushing and slightly worried that he has overslept. He runs into Rachel and TJ who inform him of their plans to follow up on a lead they obtained the night before. He joins them, wincing a bit as the cuts on his back become agitated by a slight bump from his bag.
“Onward then my esteemed colleagues let us seized what's left of this day.”

Jomo Kenyatta lives on Marianna Street, though most of the time he can be found in the office of the Kikuyu Central Association, a black African organization devoted to gaining black representation in the colonial government. Anyone in the area, Kikuyu tribesman or not, can direct you to the KCA offices.

The Kikuyu Central Association, is a political organisation in colonial Kenya formed in 1924 to act on behalf of the Gĩkũyũ community by presenting their concerns to the British government. One of its greatest grievances was the expropriation of the most productive land by British settlers from African farmers. Most members of the organisation were from the Gĩkũyũ tribe.

At the KCA office, you wait for a short time before Mr. Kenyatta comes out from an office. Despite the heat in the building, he is dressed in a suit. His beard is short and tidy, and his English is excellent.


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https://i.ibb.co/TcVcVxz/Capture.jpg" data-lightbox="images-msg-12">https://i.ibb.co/TcVcVxz/Capture.jpg" alt=''>

 In reply to GM (msg # 12):

As soon as Mr. Kenyatta steps out of his office, Rachel rises to greet him.

"Rachel Katz. And this is my companion, TJ Richardson and Dr. Arthur Digby. Thank you for taking time off your schedule to speak to us." She says, and waits for him to hopefully offer his office so they can talk privately.


Once there, Rachel immediately gets to the point. "Mr. Kenyatta, I've been informed that you have extensive knowledge about The Cult of the Bloody Tongue up in the mountains of Nairobi. Could you tell me about them?"
This message was last edited by the player at 00:50, Wed 29 May 2019.

Kenyatta studies you all intently and then invites you into an adjacent room, “Where it is more private." He closes the door to the room and offers you a drink. "I may indeed know of such things. What is your interest in this, if I may ask?

"The Carlyle Massacre." Rachel says flatly. "You came highly recommended."

Kenyatta studies you all intently. "Are you detectives perhaps?" he asks. "This is a subject that is not spoken of in public."

"Nothing of that sort," Rachel waved, suddenly glad Gustav wasn't around. "Private researchers."

"We came here, as a favor per se." TJ says.

"Favour?" replies Kenyatta

Rachel raises an eyebrow at TJ and motions for him to answer the gentleman's question.

"Well, in my case, I'm just here to accompany these folks out of a favour," TJ gestures at everyone. "But I wonder how you can help us."

Art chimes in "We are doing follow up on the Carlyle murders we believe the Bloody Tongue is involved and that they are responsible for the murder of our friend Elias Jackson”

"Our research led us to you a highly regarded local figure, who we believe may be able to help us on our venture”

"Murder?!" exclaims Kenyatta. "I'm so sorry. I had a feeling he would meet a violent end. The cult has eyes and ears everywhere."

“It is a deeply saddening and heartbreaking turn of events which is why in his memory we arrive here in search of answers”, says Art.

"'I would, he said, always have a place in Nairobi,' is what I believe Jackson said," Rachel added. "Now we'd like to know if that offer still stands. We need your help to understand this better."

“Please, says Kenyatta. “Tell me how you come to be here. And let's drink to his memory. I will of course help you as best I can.”

“The exquisite and lovely Rachel can better fill you in on the full details, my good sir” replies Art.

Rachel tells him the short version of events, cutting out the more hair-raising parts, worried that it might scare Kenyatta before he could tell them what they need. "With all this, you can understand why time is of the essence. What is the Cult of the Bloody Tongue? Why do the tribes fear it? Where did it come from, if this god of theirs isn't from Africa?"

“These old ways are cruel,” says Kenyatta, “and my knowledge of them imperfect. More than 20 years ago I fled my home where I heard many such stories, for my grandfather was a great murogi, a diviner. I have tried to leave that world behind, and to enter yours. How ironic that, as I strain towards your heritage, you reach towards mine.”

He thinks for a while. “Much of what you say I do not understand, and even more of it I find hard to believe. But I perceive something about your group. Perhaps traces of my grandfather cling to me. If you are willing, you should meet the great Bundari. It is from him that I learned of the Bloody Tongue. I did not send Jackson Elias to him, for Jackson seemed doomed to me, and I could not burden my friend with such a difficult gift. But your destinies are unfinished; perhaps you have great victories to live for. Or, perhaps, you will undergo tragedies as terrible as can befall mortal man.”

Rachel nods. "We'd like to meet up with the great Bundari. Where is he?"

"Please excuse me for a moment," says Kenyatta and rises from behind the desk. "I will need to make arrangements. it will only be a minute."  He leaves the room.

Rachel stands up, pretends to admire a photo near the door, while putting her hand in her bag, gripping her knife tightly. She glances out the door to check if she can see Kenyatta from where she stands.

Kenyatta appears to have left the building but returns after a few minutes. He's together with a remarkably tall black man in white shirt and pants but without shoes.

Rachel relaxes, but doesn't let go of the knife in her bag, waiting for Kenyatta to introduce his companion.

Kenyatta returns, saying, “A friend waits for you outside. You must follow him at a distance. He will make sure you are not left behind. If he stops and waits, then you also must stop and wait. The door he enters will have yellow paint; that door you will enter also, swiftly and without hesitation. I am glad to have met you.” He holds out his hand to each of you.

The tall black man does indeed wait for you outside. He smiles and turns to walk away, as Kenyatta motions the investigators to follow the tall man, and calling out, “Good day, my friends.”

"I... didn't think we'd meet him so soon. We have companions that will have questions for him. Is it possible to call them?" Rachel asks, surprised. She finally lets go of her knife, slipping her hand out of her bag quickly.

"That's a good thing, right?" asks TJ of Rachel.

"Ah, of course," says Kenyatta. He speaks a few words to the tall man who nods. "He will be here waiting for you to return."

Rachel looks at TJ uncertainly. On one hand they could be walking straight into a trap. On the other hand, perhaps the man had the answers to their questions. Thankfully, she was saved from conveying her doubts by Kenyatta.

"We had better call the rest." Rachel calls the hotel and gives Gustav a quick update and insist they come quickly.

"Can you pick up some sort of gift for this great Bundari?” she adds. “I'm sure the hotel has something there."



This message was last edited by the player at 02:33, Wed 29 May 2019.

While you wait, Art turns to Rachel and TJ. “While this gentleman seems very forthcoming, a healthy bit of caution might do us well to prevent us from walking into an unwanted situation. This is, however, the first bit of progress we've made so good on us so far. Now if we can just avoid a double cross, gunshots, and the horrors that prey in the night, then we might make out of this one yet.”

"Yes, I do agree. If we stick with a safe plan, what can go wrong?" smiles TJ, still kind of shaken by the appearance of the tall, black man.

"WHY?" Rachel says a little too loudly and a little too high-pitched. Glancing around to make sure Kenyatta, your guide, and everyone else was out of earshot, she lowers her voice quickly. "Why? Do you think this might be a trap? Did you see something we didn't? What do you know?" Rachel whispers rapidly as her eyes darts around the place furtively.

”I have developed an unshakable bout of suspicion whenever someone in our adventures outside of our party is helpful,” says Art. “I have no real reason to suspect foul play, and I do look forward to meeting the great Bundai however let us remain ever vigilant we are far from home in a world that grows queerer with each passing day.”

"Y...yes..yes, of course, that makes sense," Rachel agrees absently, biting her thumbnail once more, fidgeting. Gustav and Dermott had better be along soon.

After about an hour, both Gustav and Dermot have arrived, and you all follow the tall man through Swahili Town. As you make your way, it dawns on you that your guide is mindful of your surroundings; he seems to be watching for people following you while leading you to… who knows whom?

This part of Nairobi is poor, but its people are cheerful and have not given up hope. Most of the houses are one-room, mud-wall buildings, roofed by bundled grasses and broad leaves. Occasionally, the larger home of some entrepreneur makes a striking contrast. Prosperity is mostly judged by how well one’s roof sheds water; roofs made of shingles, tile, or amalgams of packing crates and hammered-out metal sheets have higher status than those with moldy straw bundles.

Eventually, your guide stops before a yellow painted door, turns to look at you, and then steps through. When you follow, you find yourself in a small shed, beside a high-wheeled, yellow Rolls-Royce roadster of indifferent condition. Your guide holds open the door and motions you to sit in the car. In a few minutes, you are bouncing along a dirt track several miles outside of Nairobi, scattering bicycles and animal-drawn carts as you go, and leaving a long cloud of dust in your wake.

After an hour or so in the hot and stuffy interior of the car, you drive into a remote village and stop just beyond a circle of huts. The guide gets out, but motions for you to remain in the vehicle. A young, delicate looking man approaches, and he and the guide talk at length. While the conversation cannot be heard, it appears that your guide is speaking in persuasive tones, attempting to convince the delicate-looking man of something. While the conversation plays out, village children gather around the car and peer inside, their bright round eyes polite but curious. If you wave or speak, the children giggle and whisper; some of the less brave may even run away.

Your deal apparently concluded, the guide haltingly introduces you to the young man: Okomu, who asks, in passable English, why you wish to speak to Old Bundari.

Art eyes up Okumo and signs not relishing having to convince yet another person of their good intentions but still, he understands some can never be too careful they are arranged here after all

”Pleased to meet you, Okumo. I am Dr. Digby, and my friends and I are here to try to resolve the murder of our friend Elias Jackson. Our journey has led us here, and it seems the bloody tongue is responsible. Mr. Kenyatta believes that our destinies are unfinished; and that perhaps we have great victories to live for. As such, he has sent us here to seek wisdom from the great Bundai. As a doctor, if I may assist with anyone ailments that any of your townfolk may have I humbly extended my services and will do what I can to try and help them.”

After listening to Art, Okomu accepts that you are worthy to speak with his master. He asks you to exit the vehicle and follow him to Bundari’s hut.

From the outside, Bundari’s home has the smooth curves of a Maasai hut, although it is larger and constructed in a different fashion to the conical mud dwellings of the rest of the village. A gated fence surrounds it and the door is a simple curtain. The house is formed like a snail’s shell: the entrance passage winds all the way around the outside of the single central room before opening into it. The way is unlit but everyone sees fetishes, signs, masks, and so forth arranged on both the inner and outer whitewashed walls of the passage.

In the central room, more signs and symbols can be seen, carefully arranged into arcane patterns. Across from the interior door is a small old man, sitting so still that he seems to be dead. As you enter, Okomu goes to the man and unfolds one of his legs and rubs it (to restore the circulation), then folds it back to its original position.

Okomu explains that as Bundari worked to strengthen himself, the magician had to become more conjoined with the Other Sides. The presence of the great magician is now in flux between this world and many others. It is Okomu’s job to guard this reality for Bundari and to protect his shell (his body). Bundari has other (unimaginable) assistants who perform similar functions at the loci of his presences on the Other Sides.

Okomu directs you to sit, saying you must wait patiently for the old man’s attention to focus on this reality. The process could take hours. If you wish to speak with him, you must sit beside Bundari’s shell or the great one may not be drawn out of his meditative state for days.

You are invited to sit across from Bundari and wait. During this time, Okomu offers unshelled peanuts, baked plantain, and milk, but warns that you must not converse, for that would “too rapidly” draw out Bundari from his interdimensional voyages.
This message was last edited by the GM at 17:32, Fri 14 June 2019.

In reply to GM (msg # 17):

Dermot can't help but be impressed by Art's persuasive demeanor. He gratefully accepts the snacks and sits back to wait, chewing quietly and thinking his own thoughts. The place is calm. Even after waiting several hours, Dermot isn't startled when Old Bundari's body flushes back to life. Now, to see what they can learn....
This message was last edited by the player at 00:57, Thu 30 May 2019.

"By your great wisdom, o Great Bundari, do you know why the Bloody Tongue is making a sacrifice?" asks TJ.

"We're told this Tongue god is not of Africa,” adds Dermot. “Is it more powerful that the African gods, or does Ngai have some success against it?"

Three. Whole. Hours. Rachel shifts in her seat a little bit. She rifles through her notes before asking, "What did the Carlyle expedition find that led them here? What reason did they have to be here?"

In his soft whisper, Bundari speaks, and Okomu translates a terrible story;
The Cult of the Bloody Tongue was responsible for the massacre of the Carlyle Expedition. Unnatural beasts were summoned from the Other Sides to kill and carry off the victims. Those carried away were brought to the Mountain of the Black Wind, a terrible place shunned by everyone.

The Mountain of the Black Wind is so called because a dread god inhabits it. Others know the mountain as Mount Satima. Even the greatest of spells cast against the mountain have no effect. Once per year, the Black Wind is unleashed, which brings plague, famine, and disaster.

To satisfy their god, the cult abducts villagers and sacrifices them. After the sacrifices, the god appears in all its terrible glory, attended by creatures not of this earth. As tall as the mountain itself, the god has no face; only a blood-red tongue hangs down from where the top of its head should be. The mere sight of this hideous god drives men mad. The god’s priestess is called M’Weru. She lives in the mountain. It was she who prophesied the coming of a child of the god, a part human monster, who is soon to soak the land with blood.

Ancient tales speak of a great sign, the Eye of Light and Darkness, which could forever chain the cruel god within the mountain. No one knows what the sign might be. Some farseeing magicians say that the sign existed until a few years ago, when the god tricked men into destroying it. If the sign can be found, perhaps it can chain the god once more.

[Please roll INT, all of you]