There's a war on. Still, it isn't all blood and bombs.

Life goes on in London, despite the recent bombing. The center of the city is cordoned off. The cordons are patrolled by soldiers and police, who turn citizens back for their own good. At night, the entire district glows blue. However, the city is huge, and many of the districts were untouched. "Keep calm and carry on. There'll always be an England."

The masked heroes who saved the day have a few precious moments to themselves. Doubtless the War Bureau is even now scheming up some vital mission for them to go on. You will surely be contacted in the next few days. Still, there is time.

You may roll to Fit In, or just describe what you are doing in the six days after the Berlin Air Raid.

The Golem, now in his very unimpressive human form, was making sure to stay close to Miriam. Weather getting her food, clothing, or whatever else she needed-he was there. She did have to remind him to blink and breathe, and he tried to show her affection. He had watched other couples do as such. So he attempted to hold her hand, gently touch her shoulder, or just listen to her every word.

He felt like he should be doing these things, but lacked the knowledge why. There was...a fog in his mind. Always there, cutting off memory and detail. He knew her husband...her before husband...knew the things that made her happy. However, he did not. It angered him, that she felt so alone even when he was so close to her. He could feel her emotions, but he could not read her thoughts.

He was bound to her, always and forever. Which was no comfort to this new widow. She who was still in morning, despite the parody of a husband who hung on her every word.

Attempting to fit in with Centipede or his alter ego.
14:01, Today: Devil Dog rolled 8 using 2d6.  Fit In.

Frank went to a bar. He had a whiskey in one hand and was sitting alone. Occasionally he sipped it.

Ljudmil had never been to London before. He had rarely ventured far beyond the outskirts of Oricevo---a country village, and never beyond Austria-Hungary, Yugoslavia, or whichever invading power now laid claim to his Slovenian homeland. He had heard stories about the ancient and modern marvels that existed of the seat of the British Empire, such as gigantic clock towers standing tall above centuries-old palaces. However, seeing these things in person was awe-inspiring.

Seeing the carnage from the aftermath of the bombing was equally horrifying.

The battle might have ended, but the consequences still remain. Buildings are burned out and broken. Families are struggling to make their way through the rubble, doing their best to patch together shattered dreams.

Ljudmil watches the Londoners doing their best to "keep calm and carry on." He sits high above them, his toes tightly gripping his perch. He listens to the worried chatter of the other pigeons beside him. Like the people below, they are struggling to come to terms with what has just happened. Ancient roosts long thought to be safe were laid to waste by Nazi ordinance, and they had no hands with which to carry their eggs to safety. Now they mourn their own dead, and wonder if last night was the end or merely the beginning.

Now, Ljudmil is walking down the street. He picks his way around refuse and debris with feline balance and grace. The Londoners on the sidewalks pay him no heed. A cat is beneath their concern so long as it stays out from underfoot---a lesson Ljudmil remembers with the occasional twinge of pain from his still-tender tail and bruised ribs. He soon reaches the city block the pigeons were discussing. It is cordoned off, with British Bobbies keeping people from braving the ruins. They seem to have no issue letting cats through, and Ljudmil pads past them without nary a word.

Many of the buildings in this block are completely pulverized. Based on their design and neighboring blocks, they appear to be residential. Ljudmil takes a seat and surveys the damage. As he does, he hears the sound of scrabbling from one of the ruins. He gets off his haunches and makes his way in the direction of the sound. As he gets closer, it becomes clearer and clearer that Ljudmil is hearing fingernails scraping on broken plaster. He pokes his head through a gap, and spots the struggling survivor trying to dig his way to freedom.

Ljudmil breaks into a sprint, vaulting over broken chunks of mortar and concrete as he makes his way back to the Bobbies. He has picked a friendlier, less imposing form for making first contact with the inhabitants of this strange new land. Once he spots the Bobbies, he barks and whines. He takes hold of one of their pant legs with his canines and tugs, trying to get the Bobby to follow him. The process feels painfully slow, but it is much simpler than the alternative---speaking a foreign tongue with an uncommon accent, revealing that he has no papers to justify his presence, and that he is acting in accordance with his oath to Old Gods unknown in this land. However, one Bobby soon understands his intentions, and Ljudmil leads a few of them through the debris to the survivor.

Once they hear the person struggling, the Bobbies snap into action. They begin picking through the debris as Ljudmil watches. He could help them, but not in this form. He could change, but such a distraction might do more harm than good. Instead, Ljudmil waits until he sees the Bobbies pull the free. Then, he is gone.

There are others in the city whose lives are still in danger. There are others who will need a Krsnik's help.

13:50, Today: Centipede rolled 9 using 2d6+2.  Fit in Roll. War Bureau .


He tried to fit in and become a local.  To blend in and learn and be a Londoner.  He tried to check in with his team, especially since a few of them were from around here as well. But his accent always made his stand a little apart even in the middle of a crowd.

Of course, it wasn’t all play with him. He checked in with the War Bureau from time to time to ensure he wasn’t needed elsewhere, file reports, and do the other duties of special forces operative.

Centipede spent some time walking around and trying to enjoy London.  Of course, several buildings were bombed out and the food wasn’t great, which he hears is a condition before the war came to the city, but he had an appreciable time. There was still some nightlife and a mix of people to speak with and drink at pubs, so he wasn’t bored.

Going into a pub one of these nights he saw a familiar face with a familiar accent. “Frank, how’s it going?“ he waved over to the bartender and using hand signals ordered two of whatever Frank had been drinking. “I’ll tell you something brother, everywhere you go, whiskey always good. One of the great equalizers. Haha”
This message was last edited by the player at 23:07, Fri 08 May 2020.

For Barbara Wells, the aftermath was far more emotionally profound, and very heart wrenching.

She was native English, and just a foreign national of the US.  Born and raised in Brighton -- an hour and forty five minute drive from London, along the southern coast.  The first two days that followed were consumed with desperate, urgent phone calls, in an attempt to learn the state and condition of anyone and everyone that mattered to her here in London.   For each one that answered, she breathed a sigh of grateful relief.   For each that didn't -- she used what resources she had, civilian or otherwise, to get information.

Once that contrastingly grim and hopeful process was complete, it came down to three:

There was a young secondary school teacher, of ancient history, whom she'd remained friends with, and who had relocated to London, around the time Barbara had left to attend university.   Barbara was shattered to learn that she'd been killed, and spent a pair of hours just grieving, and reliving memories of such wonderful conversations. She wrote to the family, and offered her help, if there was anyway in which it was needed.

There was an ex-boyfriend -- married now, whose legs had been crushed, and who was in the hospital.   For the moment, he was stable in a medically induced coma, surrounded by family, including his wife.  There was nothing she could presently do, but sent a get well card for him to read when he woke up.      She contemplated her ring, after she wrote it.  She could heal injury -- up to a point. And it needed painstaking focus and concentration.  So something such as that?  She wasn't sure -- but did plan to explore the possibility, at some point after he was released from the hospital.

Then there was her cousin, Sally Addington.   Yes...the lovable, goofy blacksheep of the extended Wells family.   And the nearest to a sibling that Barbara had.   Sally was missing.  As was her live in boyfriend.   And her aunt and uncle, as well as her guy's parents were frightened, almost wrecked.  Of course, Barbara assured them she'd do what she could...

After some time, she learned that they'd gone camping out in Dartmoor National Park, over two hundred miles away, and simply neglected to tell anyone.  It was so like Sally that Barbara enjoyed a good laugh, along with some tears of relief once she found out.  Needless to say, all four parents were too overjoyed in getting the news to hold even a trace of anger.

Once done, she was emotionally fatigued.   But that didn't mean she was going to relax just yet.   She ventured out into the community, and helped out in volunteer capacities, both in alliance with the local authorities, as well as independently.
This message was last edited by the player at 19:32, Sat 09 May 2020.

It has been one week since the Berlin Air Raid, and the subsequent London Bombing. The masked heroes of the night have been kept out of the limelight. The official story lauded the brave soldiers of the British army and the heroic leadership of the king himself. The War Bureau sent instructions early on: keep quiet, and wait for instructions.

Instructions came on the morning of the seventh day. Still in civilian guise, you assemble in a hotel in Knightsbridge. Previously your meetings were much closer to the War Office, but that area is too close to the epicentre of the bomb blast.

You enter the hotel's main floor and are greeted by your contact. He introduces himself as Agent Hamadi, and beckons you to follow him.

You take the stairs down into the basement. Hamadi reminds you of the primary rule of protocol in a War Bureau audience: The War Bureau will not address you directly, nor are you to address them directly. All communications go through the Agent.

Although you are in a basement of a hotel rather than a large hall in the centre of London, the differences are less prominent than the similarities. The room is dark. An oval table has been set in the middle of the room with an electric light on it. Six chairs are set around it; five are on one side, while the Agent's is on the far side. When he takes his seat, his back is to the bench behind him.

The bench is similar to the mighty, intimidating benches of the Justices of the Privy Council. It is semi-circular, allowing each member of the War Bureau to see everyone at a glance.

The other odd thing about the War Bureau's protocol, although it does not impact you directly, is that none of them have names. Rather, they have titles. These titles indicate what part of the war they are responsible for overseeing. A question might be directed to 'Munitions' or 'North Sea.' Each one of the five has several titles in their portfolio.

The lineup of the War Bureau changes with every audience. Some members are the same for awhile, but the only one who has been the same for every meeting is the one they call Central. He has other titles too, but he seems to be the one who gives the orders and receives their reports.

"Logistics, status on mechanization?" asks the brown-skinned, grey-haired man of indeterminate ethnicity.

Logistics, a deeply dark-skinned woman, opens one of her many files. "Twenty-eight percent complete overall, but almost fifty-eight percent for the air force."

"Good. Colonies, send word to PM King calling for an update on the steel we were promised."

The ongoing meeting of the War Bureau continues as you take your seats. The Agent faces you, waiting with baited breath. It's hard not to be nervous with the electricity in the air.

Frank had trouble placing Centipede. He knew the voice but couldn’t figure from where. ”Have we been introduced? You know my name, but...I cannot place you. I apologize.”

In reply to Editor (msg # 7):

Avram walks in, quiet as his earthen counterpart. His black suit looks no worse for wear, despite the fact he never seems to change clothes despite the situation. He takes off his hat, and only sits when he notices everybody else sitting. He stares at each person at the table, unblinking and unbreathing. However, Miriam is in another part of the room, trying to gesture to him. Using her hands to make the 'breathe' signal, which he then proceeds to do.

Ljudmil quietly takes his seat. He does his best to stay quiet and unobtrusive, feeling quite out of place in the buzzing War Bureau. The British officers all appear to be dressed in sharp uniforms or elegant suits. Ljudmil, on the other hand, is dressed in the clothes of his past life: a simple cotton shirt, brown trousers, and well-worn leather boots.

He smiles nervously at the Agent Hamadi.

"Dober Dan---uh, er---Good day," he says in thickly accented English.

A smile flashes across his face as he takes his first sip. “Apologies bud. I guess you don’t recognize me without my other 98 legs. “ The second part of this he says sotto voce, so no one else can hear, and looks Frank in the eye waiting for a sign of recognition. “Sam. Let me buy you a drink. “

---

War Bureau
Sam takes a seat near his comrades but apart. Hidden in a bit of deep shadow. He’s privy to these meetings in a way some of these others are not, so he’s not terribly impressed anymore.

These are never fun, but always enlightening if you can put enough clues to get or stay e long enough.

Frank is still baffled. OOC: Investigation is +0, so yea not his bailiwick

”Legs? I’m sorry...”

[Private to Centipede: LOL, just cover everything but your eyes. He will figure it out. LOL]

Your brief catch-up pauses as the one called Central passes down a thick folder to the Agent. "Agent, catch them up and brief them on Operation Eagle."

The War Bureau resumes their discussion, veering between topics like foreign elections and the climate.

The Agent takes the file and opens it on the table. He clears his throat and begins.

"Several months ago, the Nazis began work on a new project code-named 'Magos.' It seemed to require exotic materials and had little in common with conventional projects. It was considered a tertiary subject for espionage.

The agent looks uncomfortable. "That has changed. The bomb last week was an example of a 'Magos Bomb.' The Magos bomb is capable of previously-inconceivable levels of energy release. In addition, it seems to have unpredictable effects on the environment. Materials, including dust, saturated with its energy will remain dangerous to anyone who is near them for any length of time."

Agent Hamadi looks up at you, one to the next, uncomfortably. He clears his throat again.

"We have located the origin point of the bomber that dropped the Magos bomb. It originated at a new airbase on the northern coast of France. It is one of the closest points to London that the French coast offers.

"We have deduced from this that the Magos bomb is difficult to transport to a bombing target, perhaps because it is volatile or very heavy. It follows then that if the Nazis intend to drop a second bomb, they will use the same airbase."

Hamadi passes a few photographs around the table for you to look at. "Some of these are aerial photography, and others were provided by sympathetic locals. They show the new base, which has been called Startrampe Grau by the Luftwaffe and is designated Target Bronze for your next mission.

"Your mission is to conduct reconnaissance on the base. The time has passed for subtlety, so use whatever force is required. Determine if another Magos bomb is on the base, and any other information you can related to the Magos project. As a secondary objective, ruin the base. In particular, destroy any anti-aircraft weapons."

Agent Hamadi finishes speaking, and he folds his hands in front of him.
This message was last edited by the GM at 00:46, Thu 14 May 2020.

Barbara was dressed in a white blouse and navy blue pencil skirt -- decent quality, nothing frilly or ostentatious.    Unlike most of the others, she seated herself in the middle, right out in the open.   This kind of thing was a foreign world for her, and she well recognized her ignorance. However, she had stood in the remains of an ancient, advanced civilization and had dialogs with a computer. And recently stood fast and prevailed against the undead, amongst other threats.   So while she was mindful of the fact that she was on unfamiliar turf here, she also did not find this to be the least bit intimidating.

After being briefed, she ventured to agent Hamadi: "The Magos Bomb is a uniquely horrific weapon. All four of us can testify to that. And any mission aimed at preventing more of that is utterly critical.  These exotic materials you mention...I don't suppose you know what they specifically are?  Is there a list we might read?"   

Barbara was aware of the other two faces she didn't recognize.  The brunette, who'd gestured at Avram...she strongly supposed that was Miriam, whom he'd spoken of a number of times.  Whoever it was, the composed poker face she wore hinted at little.  The man who spoke in what sounded like a Slavic accent...she had no clue at all.
This message was last edited by the player at 23:19, Wed 13 May 2020.

"We will not let another city fall under its power." Avram said. While not having the Golem's deep ponderous voice, he had the same slow, emotionless manner of the earthen giants speech.
This message was last edited by the player at 02:52, Fri 15 May 2020.

Meeting
”Listen, this isn’t some party, this is a military operation. We need some kind of cover. I can fly us in there, but that is a very heavily fortified area. Alternately we could use a boat, I can pilot a small one well enough. We were just in the right place at the right time before, but this will require planning and precision.” Frank took a long look at whatever intelligence was available, trying to get an idea of where they might insert.

”Regardless, we need an exit strategy. Perhaps fly in and boat out?”

08:40, Today: Devil Dog rolled 8 using 2d6.  Investigate - Examine.
What here is not what is appears to be?
This message was last edited by the player at 12:42, Thu 14 May 2020.

"Information on the Magos program is... spotty. It seemed to be one of several research and development projects competing for resources. Even now that we know one of the products of the research, it is hard to put together the pieces. We can scarcely credit its speed. In just a short time, the Magos bomb has gone from a proposal to a completed project. One would think it would take years for something like that. The Nazis are so disorganized, but this time..." Hamadi shakes his head.

Devil Dog looks through the photographs. They are long-range shots taken in a hurry, so details are hard to make out. They best depict the outside perimeter.

The enemy airbase is on a hill on the coast. The edge of the base borders on the cliff that descends fairly sharply down into the sea.

The base is built on a hill. Once it was three hills close together. Earth-moving efforts dismantled one to get enough spoil to fill the gap between the other two. Now it is a wide escarpment. There are two walls ringing the base itself.

The furthest one was little more than a chain-link fence, perhaps eight feet high and topped with barbed wire. It rings the entire hill, just as the ground begins to rise up. There were several points of access from the nearby dirt roads. These positions are guarded by soldiers who have set up machine-gun nests behind sand-bags.

Between the two walls is a half-kilometer's walk up the hill. Signs are posted that warn of land mines planted under the grass.

The second barrier is much more intimidating. It is a flat steel wall, perhaps twelve feet high in most places. There are several towers standing just inside it. The pictures do not depict the towers' canopies well, but these would seem like ideal places for sharpshooters and machine-guns. They have a commanding view over the minefields.

The interior of the airbase is only depicted by spotty aerial photography. You can make out a single runway that ends at the cliff-side. There are several buildings around it, and several tiny structures that look a bit like towers.

Devil Dog peers at one picture that stands out. It is the worst one of the lot. It is dark, blurry, and distant. This one's note reads that it was taken by a local on a very small boat off the coast, at the bottom of the cliff. Clearly the sea was not calm that day. It just looks like a picture of rock, in any case. If there weren't a trace bit of sky at the top, it would be hard to tell what direction was up.

Devil Dog is fairly sure he could climb that cliff.

Ljudmil grits his teeth as he listens to the briefing, making sure that he understands everything that the War Bureau presents them. He lets the others speak first, hoping that they can answer some of his own questions. He appears perplexed at the word "Magos."

"Sorry, I ask question," he says with a sheepish grimace. He places his hand on his chest. "I speak English little." He follows this phrase by pointing to his ears and his temple. "But I hear and here more English. I try ask. You say 'Magos.' Is this mean 'magic?'"

"'Magos' is the name the Germans gave the research project that produced the bomb. We've adapted it to refer to the Magos bomb that was used on the attack on London, one week ago. Apparently it means 'wizard' or something similar, so you're not far off. It could just be a code-name."

Agent Hamadi doesn't enumerate the obvious alternative: that the project is actually some sort of magic. For most people in the world, the idea of a magical bomb is absurd. To the people in this room, magic is a reality, even if it isn't well understood. Could the Nazis be working with magic to create weapons? Could it be that they have a better understanding of magic than you?