In Mucus Drowned

Sorry, all, but I have an upper respiratory infection that is still contagious. To spare you all my misery, I will be staying home tonight. Please enjoy having a designated book reader and under no circumstances will Gus Paul make that Nazi loving commie a new suit.

Chapter 1: The Missing Man

On a cold October night in Boston in the year 1936, a strange reunion took place. Spurred by a mysterious warning from Count Rostov in Berlin and a frantic missive from Buck Martin in Brazil, four men who had not seen each other for a decade joined forces again to struggle against the rising tide of darkness.

Only Spencer Thompson was expected to be absent; his incarceration after a failed burglary attempt was well-known. But it soon became clear that Dr. Robert Harger was missing as well. A hastily organized search of the Doctor's house yielded vital clues: three letters to Professor Rutherford, never mailed, written over the course of several years.

The first letter told of Harger's piecing together of several clues about the horrible fate that befell the Olympia survivors – knowledge of which had driven him to seek forgetfulness in a bottle. The second letter recounted his attempt to find a way to rid himself of the cursed amulet, culminating in a meeting with Gus Paul, an expert on the Jewish Kaballah. In his final letter written several days before the reunion, Harger admitted he had discovered how to rid himself of the amulet, but feared the steps he must take. Now, at last, he had decided to make the desperate attempt, renting a boat and performing a strange ritual upon midnight seas. Should he fail to return, he urged his friends to contact Gus Paul, now under threat due to his association with the doctor.

The investigators made an ominous discovery: Harger had rented his boat near the beach where De Roca had made his final attack a decade past. The boat had been rented a week ago and had never been returned. Still haunted by the memory of De Roca's horrible half-human minions, the investigators did not dare to explore the beach at night. Instead, they turned their attention to Harger's last request and placed a long-distance call to Gus Paul in New York City.

They quickly arranged to meet Paul in New York that morning. Paul was already acquainted with Harger's account of the fantastic events of 1926, and his own mystical studies inclined him to give it some credence. Over a mediocre breakfast at a local café, Paul recounted his own experiences with a man named Conrad Witten, chairman of a veteran's charity called the Beneficial Society for the Care and Treatment of Veterans of the Great War.

Years earlier, Witten had sought Paul's expertise in analyzing a photograph of a mysterious amulet thought to be of cabalistic design. Witten said it was a gift from an anonymous donor, and because of its unique design the Beneficial Society was having difficulty getting it appraised. Paul could offer little help – the amulet clearly had nothing to do with Kaballah – but he readily assented to Witten's request that the matter be kept confidential. Several weeks ago, Witten had returned, angrily accusing Paul of having broken his promise; in recent years, there had been word of several inquiries among scholars and academics about a strange amulet matching the design in Witten's photograph. Paul realized that these must have been triggered by Harger's investigations, but he kept the doctor's confidence, insisting to Witten that he had made no such inquiries. Clearly unsatisfied, Witten left with a vague but ominous threat. Since then, Paul had several times felt he was being watched or followed. Fearing for his and the doctor's safety, he had contacted Harger.

In an effort to learn more about Harger's fate, the investigators called the boat rental shop. To their dismay, they learned that the boat had been found washed ashore in pieces. Furthermore, the shop owner claimed that it was "full of bullet holes." There now seemed little doubt about the fate of their friend, but the pressing matter of Witten's threat left no time for grief.

After some artful maneuvers to evade potential followers, Paul, Rostov and Huxley paid a visit to the offices of the Beneficial Society. There, an apologetic Witten attempted to make amends for "losing his temper" with Paul. He offered to seek his donor's permission to discuss details about the amulet (assisting the investigators in their fictitious attempt to appraise a similar artifact). There was no doubt in Paul's mind that Witten was lying; his years of haberdashery had given him a keen insight into human nature. Nonetheless, the investigators accepted Witten's promise to contact Rostov – whom he seemed to recognize from a lecture years before – with the results of his discussion with the donor.

After the interview, Paul distracted the vacuously charming secretary, Mary Cooper, while Rostov listened at the door of Witten's office. Despite some early successes, Paul's charismatic demeanor ran afoul of Mary's time-consuming hair-care regimen. Meanwhile, however, Rostov was able to discern the sound of furniture being moved within Witten's office. A cautious peek into the office was spotted by Witten, whereupon Rostov boldly entered and remarked upon the curious aquarium he had just noticed, the very piece of furniture Witten had been dragging across the floor.

Witten explained that the aquarium, enclosed on all sides, was designed for deep sea creatures that could not survive the low pressure of an ordinary tank. Within, strange, translucent spidery creatures crawled in an eerie silence. Witten called them "sea spiders," another exotic gift from an anonymous donor. "They are not true spiders, of course," he explained. "Rather some type of polyp. I don't know the scientific name."

There was something else odd about the aquarium, but Rostov could not place what it was. The ghost-like creatures drew him with an uneasy fascination, but he knew he could not push his luck any further. With an aristocratic bow, he bade farewell to Witten and the three men left the office.

Guarding against being followed, the investigators returned to the hotel room that Rostov had secured. It was now time to plan their next move, but Rostov had an unnerving feeling that their time was very short…

Ravenloft Character: Zargosz Duurr

"When all else fails, hit it with a stick."

Name: Zargosz Duurr
Race: Half-Orc
Class: Figther 1/Druid 5
Experience: 15000
Alignment: Neutral Good
Religion: Gatekeeper Druid
Homeland: Shadow Marches
Age: 26 Height: 6'4" Weight: 230 lbs.

Statistics: STR 16, DEX 17, CON 13, INT 8, WIS 18, CHA 11, BAB +4, Fort +6 (+8), Ref +1 (+5), Will +4 (+9), (All saves additional +2 vs Aberrations) Init +3, AC 19 (+3 Dex, +1 Two Weapon Defense [w/quarterstaff equipped], +5 Rhino Hide Armor), HP 46

Skills: Climb +1 (+6), Concentration +3 (+4), Craft: Woodworking +2 (1), Handle Animal +3 (+3), Jump +1 (+4), Knowledge (nature) +2 (+3), Knowledge (the planes) +1 (+0), Listen +1 (+5), Profession: Boating +1 (+5), Profession: Fishing +1 (+5), Spot +1 (+5), Survival +1 (+7), Swim +1 (+4)

Class Abilities: Animal companion, nature sense, wild empathy, Woodland stride, Trackless step, Resist nature’s lure, Wild shape (1/day)

Racial Abilities: Darkvision 60'

Weapons/Attacks: +7 melee (+8, 1d6+6, w/+1 Quarterstaff 2-handed, 3d6+6 when charging [Rhino Hide armor]), +7/+7 melee (1d6+4, w/+1 Quarterstaff, two weapaon figting), +7 melee (1d4+3 dagger), +7 ranged (+8, 1d6+3, masterwork throwing axe), +7 ranged (1d4+3, sling)

Equipment:

Rhino Hide armor, +1 Quarterstaff, Cloak of Resistance +1 (figured in), MW Throwing Axe, Sling, 30 bullets, backpack, bedroll, fishhooks x9, fishnet, 50' hemp rope, waterskin, smokestick, Explorer's Outfit, rations - 10 days, climber's kit, spell component pouch, grappling hook, tindertwigs x5, oil x2, sack x2, cheese, piton x2, antitoxin x2, tent, scroll case

Scrolls:

Flaming Sphere, Produce Flame x2, Magic Fand x4, Magic Stone x4, Cure Light Wounds x4, Cure Moderate wounds x2, Lesser Restoration, Longstrider x4, Speak with Animals

Feats: Two Weapon Fighting, Two Weapon Defense, Gatekeeper Initiate, Augment Summoning

Proficiencies: Simple and martial weapons, all armor & shields (metal prohibited)

Languages: Common, Orc

Animal Companion: S'saska
Constrictor Snake
Size/Type: Medium Animal
Hit Dice: 3d8+6 (19 hp)
Initiative: +7
Speed: 20 ft. (4 squares), climb 20 ft., swim 20 ft.
Armor Class: 15 (+3 Dex, +2 natural), touch 13, flat-footed 12
Base Attack/Grapple: +2/+5
Attack: Bite +5 melee (1d3+4)
Full Attack: Bite +5 melee (1d3+4)
Space/Reach: 5 ft./5 ft.
Special Attacks: Constrict 1d3+4, improved grab
Special Qualities: Scent
Saves: Fort +4, Ref +6, Will +2
Abilities: Str 17, Dex 17, Con 13, Int 1, Wis 12, Cha 2
Skills: Balance +11, Climb +14, Hide +10, Listen +7, Spot +7, Swim +11
Feats: Alertness, Improved Initiative, Toughness
Animal Companion Abilities: Link, share spells


History:

Many moons gone came Zargosz Duurr among the First People, on a night with a sky full of portents. Those who bore him, humble fisherfolk of a nameless place amidst the fens, raised him in their customs till he reached the Age of the Trial. He came before the Shaman, as all must, who saw in his Wisdom that he would be One to Walk the Path, and sent him to the Camp of the Wise to learn their Ways.

First, they taught Zargosz the Stick, for Those who walk the Path must sometimes stand and fight. This he learned well, for when steel may be rare, wood is plentiful, and the Stick will always be close at hand.

Next The Wise Ones told him the Old Stories, of the Great Evil that came to this World, and how they beat it back, and closed the Gate, and must now ever be vigilant lest it be openened again. And how they fight this Evil yet, for it was not all destroyed or driven away, but still plagues this World in its Dark Places.

Zargosz learned these tales he also came to understand how the World fights alongside, and aids One on the Path, and tells its Secrets to those Wise enough to hear. And hear he did, for Wisdom was his.

And there came a time when he went alone into the wilderness, as must be done, to partake of Sacred Plants to seek Visions and Knowledge. For many days and nights he chanted and drummed, and smoked the Leaf and ate the Cap, and saw many things. And a Great Serpent came unto him and spake and said, "Fear not, Zargosz Duurr, for I would not harm one such as you" and lifted him upon her head, larger than his raft by far, and bore him to a secret place where lay her unborn young.

She flicked one great green egg with her tounge (larger than his arm by far) and bade him, "Take you this, which is my child. Keep her warm and she will wake and leave her shell. Feed her and protect her and she will be your boon companion and ally in the hard days that lay before you. If you fail in this I shall know. Fail not, Zargosz Duurr, for I would not harm one such as you. Go you now. Snakes weep not, nor say farewell."

And Zargosz Duurr did as he was bid, for Wisdom was his.

And the egg hatched, and came into his care S'saska, his companion and help-meet, all bright green and golden-eyed, and whom he did feed and care for, and who did begin to grow.

Soon came the time of the Great Conclave, when the Wise from many places gather around the Sacred Stone, to chant and drum and tell the Stories, and take the Herbs to seek Wisdom, and Knowledge and Visions. Many Prophesies are made and, as always happens, on the fifth day, as the sun sets and the fires are lit, the Stone awakes and bathes their circle in an eldritch light. Then the Dragons speak to them, saying one thing to this, another to that. To Zargosz Duurr they spake saying, "Go you into the East, to a certain Crossroads, where you will meet Righteous Ones who serve the White Fire. Your paths will join and lead you to a Great Evil wich you must strive to overcome."

And it was given to him from the Wise Elders: a fine and blessed Fighting Stick, to smite the enemies of this World; a fine and blessed set of Hides, to guard him from his foes; and many Magical Words of the Earth, inscribed on fine papyrus, to aid him on this, his Quest.

And Zargosz Duurr and S'saska did leave the Holy Marshes, and go East to find the Righteous Servants of the White Fire, at the Crossroads, where their destiny lay.

In Madness Drowned: Prologue

Part 1



Part 2

Ravenloft Character: Oren Ghastor

Name: Oren Ghastor
Race: Shifter (Wildhunt)
Class: Monk 4/Paladin 3
Experience: 27566
Alignment: Lawful Good
Religion: Silver Flame
Homeland: Thrane
Age: 27 Height: 5'6" Weight: 127 lbs.

Statistics: STR 14 (16), DEX 14, CON 14, INT 14, WIS 18, CHA 14, BAB +6, Fort +7 (+11), Ref +4 (+8), Will +4 (+10), Init +4 (+2 Dex, +2 Shifter Instincts), AC 18 (+4 Wis, +2 Dex, +1 ring, +1 amulet), HP 58

Skills: Balance +2 (+6), Climb +2 (+8), Escape Artist +3 (+5), Heal +4 (+8), Hide +6 (+8), Jump +5 (+11), Knowledge (religion) +7 (+9), Listen +5 (+10), Move Silently +6 (+8), Sense Motive +4 (+9), Spot +4 (+9), Tumble +6 (+8)

Class Abilities: Evasion, Still Mind, Slow Fall (20 ft), +10 ft. move, Ki Strike (magic), Aura of Good, Aura of Courage, Detect Evil, Smite Evil 1/day (+2 hit/+3 damage), Divine Grace (+2 to all saves, already included), Lay on Hands (6 hp/day)
Action Dice: 6
Racial Abilities: Low-light vision, +2 on balance, climb, jump (already included), Wildhunt (+2 Con, Blindsight, 2/day for 8 rounds)
Weapons/Attacks: +9 melee (1d8+3, unarmed), +7/+7 melee (1d8+3, flurry of blows), +9 melee (2d6+4, greatsword), +9 melee (1d6+3, kama), +7/7 melee (1d6+3, kama), +9 ranged (1d8, masterwork longbow), +7/7 ranged (1d2, shuriken)

Equipment:

Gauntlets of Ogre Power (already figured in), Ring of Protection +1, Amulet of Natural Armor +1, (2) Potions of Hide From Undead, (1) Potion of Heroism, Masterwork Longbow (w/58 normal arrows, 20 adamantine arrows, 20 alchemical silver arrows), (15) alchemical silver shuriken, 50' silk rope, waterskin, 10 days rations, (2) flasks of holy water, silver holy symbol, monk's outfit, Valenar Riding Horse, 56 pp, 9 gp, 30 sp, letter of credit (750 gp), jewelled silver ring (200 gp)

Feats: Monastic Training, Deflect Arrows, Stunning Fist, Wildhunt Elite, Shifter Instincts
Proficiencies: Simple and martial weapons, monk weapons, all armor & shields (except tower)
Languages: Common, Elven, Sylvan

History: From the journal of Oren Ghastor:
Many of my race call me traitor. Many of my faith call me abomination. Too many others are ready to look at only what lies on the outside and judge, when the true nature of good and evil is underneath the flesh and bone, in the hearts and minds of others. My heart and mind are good, and pure, and true. This I know, and this I have dedicated my life to.

My life before the Silver Flame is so long ago, so alien to me, that it might as well not exist at all. Indeed, I don't remember my parents. I grew up in a Silver Flame monastery, part of the Order of the Argent Fist, raised by the monks there. When I was old enough to begin asking questions about why I was different, they told me the story of how I came there. That two shifters, a man and a woman, stumbled into the range of the sentries. That when they reached them, the shifters were dead of a variety of wounds, but they had a living, if badly wounded, baby with them. The monks took me in and prayed for me, believing that I would never survive. Not only did I survive, I manifested a patch of silver fur in the shape of a flame on my back. They viewed this as a sign, and from the moment I was old enough, they began teaching me.

Some of my first words were a request to become a Seeker of the Argent Fist. It is my calling, and I know that I have a great destiny. I am the Silver Flame's weapon against evil. But I am also a messenger, one of a few who can bridge the gap between my race and my faith. If more shifters knew the true danger the lycanthropic invasion presented, they wouldn't judge the actions of the Inquisition quite so harshly. By the same token, if those more fanatical proponents of the religion could only see that there is a difference between being touched by the beast and being a beast, they would realize that shifters are no more inherently evil or wicked than men.

It is my destiny to seek out evil and destroy it. Whether the danger be undead, mad warforged, corrupt humans or vicious tainted beasts, I will be ready to meet it, with fist and arrows and shurikens.

Oren died in battle with giants and a hag who was one of the Ravenloft Fanes. The hag killed him with her final attack before her companions destroyed it.

Upcoming Schedule - December/January/February

OK, it's about time to update the schedule again. This is all more tentative than usual, as we're coordinating more schedules and three (!) GMs and games in the upcoming months. It's also extended further out, since I wanted to have some idea when we might start Ravenloft But here's how I see it.

December 22nd - Gaming Off
December 29th - Call of Cthulhu

January 5th - Gaming Off
January 12th - Eberron: The Wrath of Vulkoor
January 19th - Eberron: The Wrath of Vulkoor
January 26th - Call of Cthulhu (or Ravenloft?)

February 2nd - Call of Cthulhu (or Ravenloft?)
February 9th - Call of Cthulhu
February 16th - Call of Cthulhu
February 23rd - Poker Game

Ravenloft character idea

Hey, everybody. Wanted to run this past you all. I was thinking of basing the party (since you all would have been adventuring together for some time) as something close to a covert task force for the silver flame. Since the church's reputation was tarnished by the purge, maybe they keep certain individuals around to handle tasks they'd rather the public not know they're involved in.

Just an idea...

A letter regarding the power of letters

Tobias Rothman
12006 Houston Street
New York, NY 10016

Dear Mr. Rothman,

Please allow me to first state that this letter is intended only for the eyes of Mr. Rothman. If you are a friend, associate, business acquaintence or family member of said gentleman, I urge you to put this letter down now and deliver it to him forthwith. I will not be held responsible for any damage that may come to your life after you read my story, but rest assured, once you know of these things your world will change in ways you cannot imagine.

At the very least, I assume I now have your attention, sir. I should begin with an introduction. In fact, this letter shall serve as little more than an introduction. It is my intention to begin a correspondence so that we might share information and perhaps meet one day soon when my business brings me to Manhattan (as it often does).

I was referred to you by Mr. Shelton Rabin, with whom I believe you are quite well acquainted. I understand that in addition to being one of the finest sources of diamonds in the United States, you are something of an expert in matters regarding the Kaballah and mysticism as well as other occult matters. It is upon this subject that I write to you.

Matters of the occult are not unknown to me. I grew up in a small schtedle in Poland where I learned the Torah as a matter of course and the secrets of Kaballah at my father’s side. Though I found the mystic teachings of our People interesting, I never thought that I might find a practical use for such skills. Then my brother Hyram and I went to war.

At first the war was like any other. We were trained in combat and learned the art of pugilism from our bunk mates even as the officers tried to drill us in other forms of hand to hand combat. I myself found that a pistol felt as natural in my hand as the Talmud.

One night found Hyram and I as the last surviving members of our unit, deep inside enemy territory. We knew then that we had no hope of survival. Yet we remembered the teachings of the Kaballah. We went to a local stream and there we found clay. Using certain methods that I’m certain you know as well as I, we fashioned the clay into the form of a man and upon his brow we wrote in Hebrew the word for truth, “Emet.” (Damn these American typewriters! What I wouldn’t do to have the holy letters upon these keys.) I must admit that we were nearly surprised when the golem actually stood up, ready to protect us from our enemies. And protect us it did. Before that day I thought that I had seen war, but I had never seen violence such as this. The creature’s strength was inhuman and without a soul there was no limit to the amount of harm the beast lay upon our enemies’ bodies. But when there was no one left the fight, the monster turned on its masters.

We ran all night trying to evade the creature, but as dawn rose over the mountains it caught up to us, lifting Hyram off the ground by his throat. I had no choice but to destroy the creature. And so I lifted my pistol (with only one bullet left, mind you) and took careful aim on the letters we had inscribed on the creature’s forehead. I shot the first letter, the Aleph, thus changing the word “Emet” (“truth”) to “Meit” (“dead”). The golem was no more and my brother yet lived.

But from that point on, I could not avoid the things that walk unseen in our world. It was as if summoning that magic had left a mark upon me. Even here in America it finds me. I have since married as has my brother. We live in Oklahoma City, having joined one of the Land Runs, you see. If you are not aware (as many outside of this young state are not), the Land Runs were executed to encourage settlement in this area that was at the time Indian territory and not even a state. Families and individuals lined up on a marker, each of holding a handful of wooden stakes and measured lengths of rope along with all our other worldly possession. A gunshot rang out and we ran to use our stakes and rope to measure out a parcel of land. A parcel of land that is our own to do with as we will. Hyram and I have built a fine house for our families and I am proud to say that our habidashery, Sir’s London Shoppe, is the finest in town. We’ve recently built a deck raised above the sales floor so that we can keep an eye on our customers and our sales people.

But I digress, sir. I am contacting you to enquire about certain symbols I have seen upon the body of a creature words cannot describe. I hope that you will write me back soon so that we can begin a dialogue on matters beyond the mortal world. Perhaps we will both learn answers to questions that have plagued us for far too long.

Sincerely yours,

Gus A. Paul


P.S. I would also like to discuss the purchase of a small portion of diamonds from you. I would like to present my lovely wife, Birdie, with a necklace and earrings that she might wear for certain social events. I am certain that in time the jewels will be handed down to our children and their children, perhaps making their way into wedding rings and the like as jewels so often do.

Blood On The Trail: An Autobiography by Buck Martin

(Notes for an autobiography found two years after Buck's death, dated June 14, 1928)

If'n you go asking around about my life, you might get some folks who say my recollections here ain't entirely right. But those folks are damn liars and fools, and you should spit on them and punch 'em in the face. If they ask why, tell 'em Buck Martin sent you, then kick them in their dangly parts just for good measure.

Anyhow... I was born in the 1860s in Kansas. I don't rightly know which year, as my folks weren't too keen on keeping track of specifics like that, but I do know we were a proud part of the Union. Which doesn't make me a damn yankee. I just don't see anything right about one man owning another count of his skin color. If that man is dumber than you, or slower than you, or maybe owes you money because he's worse at gambling than you, maybe you can own him. But not just because he looks like he spent a few turns too many poking his face into the oven to see if the biscuits were done. That just don't make any sense at all.

When I turned 14, I went to work. I rode with the Pony Express, delivering messages all over Kansas and a few other states besides. I was the best at my job, on account of I only needed to sleep for 2 hours a day, as long as I spent two more hours drinking whiskey. Which, y'all might be interested to know, you can easily do on horseback at a full gallop, if'n you're talented enough. Anyhow, after a few years riding across the state, I first met Buffalo Bill, when he brought his traveling show through to Kansas. I didn't know exactly what I was getting into when I paid my nickel and walked out into those bleachers, but when the show was over, I sure as shooting knew what I wanted to do.

So I went up to Mr. Buffalo Bill and asked for a job. He wasn't sure about a scrawny kid like me, but when I showed him that I could shoot, ride, tell funny stories and had the biggest pecker of anyone at the show, he gave me the job. I was the youngest rodeo clown they had, and they only gave me that job on account of they felt bad for all the leads in the show with their tinier peckers. Or at least, that's what I suppose. It would have been rude to ask.

For the next ten years or so, I kept on moving up in the show. I got to be the indian who yelled "How! We come in peace!" right before the cavalry gunned us down like the red-skinned savages we were. Then I was the man who tried to punch a cow, only to have the cow kick him square in the nether region as hard as it could. T'weren't a real cow, you understand, just two jealous fellers in a cow costume who did their best to break my magnificent pecker. But it was too strong for 'em. I think I broke their kicking foot on more than one occasion. Eventually, I got to be one of the cowboys, shooting, roping, riding and all that type of thing.

I met a lot of folks in that show, from Annie Oakley and Calamity Jane on to Wild Bill Hickok. It's a shame about old Bill, but it's like I always told him. "Bill, someday the injuns are gonna get ya." And they did, when he was playing poker and a band of wild injuns rode right in and scalped him on the spot. Leastaways, that's the way I heard the story.

Well, after a few years, I found that show business was getting to be too much for me, and I needed somewhere to settle down. I decided that other than his untimely death and mild drinking problems, Wild Bill might have had the right idea, and I went into the lawman business. Started out as a deputy in one town, had to leave over some unfortunate misunderstandings about whether or not a lawman was due free pussy at the local whorehouse and if so, how often and then moved on to another. There were always little misunderstandings like that. Drinks too much. Shot the mayor's favorite cow. Burned down the hardware store. Slept with the bank owner's wife. Broke into the bar to get whiskey. All trumped up charges by people jealous of my talents and my enormous pecker, by the by. I think it was the tenth town finally had the wisdom to make me sheriff, after their previous sheriff died in a fight with a bear. I killed the bear, took its pelt and claimed the star.

Or it might have been he died of dysentery on the trail, and I took the star off his corpse. Can't rightly remember, it was a long time ago. Pretty sure it was the bear, though.

I was sheriff for a good long time, at least until the turn of the century. Got it in my head to try my hand at some of them dime novels, and turned out I was pretty good at them. Writing true tales of the wild west started to get a little dull, though, so I branched out into writing monster stories like the young'uns like. Got pretty rich doing that, and had to quit my sheriffin job to write all the time. The town was real understanding, leastaways I heard they were. I had to move to the city to further my writing career, and didn't have time for formal resignations and such. But I'm sure everything went fine. I made sure and open up the jail when I left so nobody would be wrongly imprisoned, and I left my sleeping deputy my best bottle of whiskey and a shiny gold sheriff star, not to mention a fully loaded Colt peacemaker, to deal with any troublemakers. Last I left, those escaped convicts looked plenty scared, and I doubt any of 'em even tried to leave.

Well, my writing career just took off, and pretty soon I was rich and famous. Traveled all over the country spinning yarns, performing in shows and doing good deeds. Even inspired some other writers to follow in my footsteps, like Lucas Huxley, the man who wrote the spookiest damn lifeboat massacre story you'll ever read. I didn't ever dream I might come face to face with real monsters, just like the ones out of my storybooks. But I did, and I'm pretty sure I'll be writing true tales of western adventure and fighting monsters for the rest of my days. Think I'll probably invest my wealth in that new stock market, because a man should plan for a more stable future, and my friend, what they call a broker, told me there ain't nothing more stable than the stock market.

Telegram from Buck

The following telegram was received by Lucas Huxley on September 27, 1936 (although it was sent much earlier, the lack of an address delayed its delivery - despite the sender's insistence that, "He's a famous writer, everyone will know where he lives!"):

Another Cold October

Country mouse or city mouse?

Born in the cold Russian October of 1892, Nikolai Ivanov Rostov, son of Count Ivan Antonovich Rostov was raised in the best of both worlds. The wealthy and influential Count Ivan possessed expansive rural estates outside Kolpino, where Little “Koyla” spent his happy childhood. These also had for several generations provided much of the family’s income from farming, berry orchards and the breeding of some of the finest cavalry mounts to be found in the region. As all the actual work was performed by the peasants that had been attached to the land for as long as or longer than the Rostovs, Nikolai had plenty of idle time to learn the rustic arts of hunting, horsemanship and other such manly pursuits.

During Russia’s harsh winters the family would retire to the relatively warmer and decidedly more cosmopolitan graces of nearby St. Petersburg, and their opulent villa at its heart. Here Nikolai was educated at the finest schools and universities, becoming an accomplished rapieriste, and learning the courtly customs of Russian high society, with all the intrigue and romance one might expect from such a glamorous setting.

Nikolai thrived in these environs and this charmed life, which fit him like a tailored glove. He was exceedingly popular among his peers. Men admired him for his athletic prowess and adventurous spirit. Women for his dashing good looks and abundant charm, which were never more evident than at the numerous gala occasions held in the grand ballroom of the Rostov’s Petrograd pied-a-terre, whence the cream of Russian nobility convened in sartorial splendor.

It was at one such fete, in the year 1909, that a 16 year old Koyla had his first eerie encounter with the supernatural. In attendance as guest of honor, was the Tsaritsa Alexandra Fyodorovna, Empress Consort of Nicholas II, last Tsar of the Russian Empire. She of course came accompanied by her retinue, which included the infamous Grigori Yefimovich Rasputin, her mystical aide-de-camp. The party was nearly ruined when, into the midst of a Viennese Waltz, Rasputin, eyes agog and arms akimbo, charged and assailed the young Nikolai with a stream of vulgarities, then fell into a seizure at his feet.

Quick thinking Nikolai and another nearby young man carried the incoherent spiritualist, who was apparently in the grips of some sort of psychic fugue state, to a nearby antechamber and arranged him on a settee. The second man ran to fetch a glass of water and/or vodka while Nikolai kept watch over the Tsaritsa’s freakish pet.

Thus alone, Rasputin began to regain some reason. His gaze penetrated Nikolai, and with weakly whispered words and a gesture he beckoned the young man closer.

“Closer. Come closer. You...you have a great destiny. Your future...the earth...the sky...the sea...and a world...BEYOND!”

As Rasputin had softly spoken his hands had drifted from Nikolai’s shoulders, slowly down, down, so that the shouted “BEYOND!” was punctuated with a salacious squeeze of the teenager’s burgeoning manhood. A shock of freezing cold ran through him, and a glimpse of an unfathomable black void flashed in his mind. Nikolai recoiled in horror and shame as the Mad Monk cackled with maniacal glee. He backed warily from the antechamber, and never spoke of the incident to any living soul.

On the outskirts of St. Petersburg, Russia’s “Gateway to the West”, the Rostovs also owned a produce warehouse and jam cannery, as well as, coincidentally, a glue factory, where the less stellar output of their equine endeavors would sometimes end their days.

Even their most exemplary steeds, however, did not course quite swiftly enough for young Nikolai, and so began his lifelong love with automobiles, and the pursuit of pushing them to the limits of their performance. Since St. Petersburg lacked a proper raceway, he and his friend’s had to make do with its cobblestone streets, and, once banned from those, the back country roads which surrounded it. He also made several trips to the Continent to compete in the European circuit during the early ‘10’s, and though he never won, he’d generally fare much better than most, and always better than bad.

As much as he loved auto racing he still found himself unsatisfied with mere accelerated horizontal movement, and developed a keen interest in the more vertical pursuits of aeronautics, and ballooning in particular. At the country estate he assembled an enormous specimen of gaseous flight for which he envisioned multiple purposes, including military applications. Many scoffed and said it was his head that was filled with expanding gas, and it was a useless endeavor, but this was put to the lie much sooner than anyone could have anticipated.

An idyllic existence then, for our young Rostov, but all good things do come to an end.

And so it was, as WWI turned Europe to a charnel house, and drained Russia’s resources of men, money and food, another cold October came in 1917. While Bolsheviks were storming the Parliament in St. Petersburg, Nikolai pushed his roadster to breakneck speeds, returning his father to the relative safety of their lands near Kolpino. A very few short days later the Revolution began to spread throughout the countryside, and the peasants that once brought bountiful bushels of blackberries to the ancestral home, now converged there with pitchforks and torches. Nikolai loaded his family, along with as many of their valuables as they could safely carry, into the small cabin of his balloon, and so spent his 25^th birthday asky, floating above the fiery burning face of the Red Menace.

A strong Southwesterly wind carried them aloft for the next two days, crossing more than 200 miles, over Lake Peipus, and into Estonia. There they called upon some distant relations, and regrouped with other Noble Rus who had fled. Tragically, Count Ivan contracted a pneumonia on their frigid passage, and languished for some months before expiring. As eldest, Nikolai assumed the hereditary title, even though technically, his “county” no longer existed. At least according to the Bolsheviks, that is.

The young Count participated in the White Army’s attempts to retake their lost ground. He soon found himself more effective as a fundraiser and public figure than a soldier, owing to his natural grace and the harrowing tale of his incredible escape. He even achieved some moderate celebrity, appearing across Europe and eventually the U.S. retelling his adventure to rapt audiences. Sadly it was all for naught. The White’s military campaign failed utterly, and a war-weary world turned away from the East to nurse its own bitter wounds.

The Count to this day still speaks out vehemently against the threat of Communism, unions, and Marxist agitation, but few really listen, and so he consoles himself with racing, champagne, and those starlets and showgirls that cannot help but find themselves charmed in his presence. He lives on their grace, and that of influential friends who may still find him useful from time to time, dreading all the while, another much, much colder October, in the world beyond.

Telegram from Count Rostov

The following telegram was received by Virgil Rutherford on September 19, 1936:

Eberron Character: Rochus d'Kundarak

Name: Rochus Kraal d'Kundarak
Race: Dragonmarked Dwarf
Class: Fighter 2/Rogue 3/Silver Key 2
Experience: 24,500
Alignment: Neutral
Religion: Kol Korran
Homeland: The Mror Holds
Age: 52 Height: 4'1" Weight: 141 lbs.

Statistics: STR 14, DEX 18, CON 16, INT 16, WIS 12, CHA 11, BAB +5, Fort +4 (+7), Ref +6 (+10), Will +4 (+5), Init +4 (+4), AC 19 (+1 armor, +4 Dex, +1 ring), HP 61

Skills: Appraise +6 (+9), Balance +3 (+7), Bluff +5 (+5), Climb +4 (+6), Craft (Trapmaking) +3 (+8), Disable Device +6 (+13), Escape Artist +3 (+7), Gather Information +4 (+4), Hide +4 (+7), Intimidate +4 (+4), Jump +2 (+4), Knowledge (Architecture and Engineering) +4 (+7), Listen +5 (+8), Move Silently +5 (+9), Open Lock +4 (+10), Ride +3 (+7), Search +5 (+8) (+11 with traps) (+10 with stonework), Spot +4 (+7), Swim +2 (+4), Tumble +4 (+8), Use Magic Device +5 (+5), Use Rope +5 (+4)

Class Abilities: Trap Finding, Sneak Attack +2d6, Trapsense +1, Evasion, Heir’s Mark (Silver Key levels count toward DM caster level), Trap Master (+1 to disable device, search, and spellcraft when dealing with traps), Warder’s Keys, Wardsense (use search to locate traps w/ DC higher than 20, use disable device to bypass trap or disarm magical trap), Crafty Hands (open locks of disable device at 60’, manipulate objects under 5 lbs.)
Racial Abilities: Darkvision, Stonecunning, +4 vs. trip/bull-rush, +2 vs. saves on poison or spells, +1 attack vs. orcs and goblinoids, +4 dodge vs. giants, +2 on Appraise or Craft (stone)
Weapons/Attacks: +8 (1d8+3 + 1d6, Shocking Battle Axe +1), +8 (1d6+2, Masterwork Handaxe), +7 (1d4+2, Dagger), +8 (1d4, Hand Crossbow)

Equipment:

(1) Potion of Cure Serious Wounds, (2) Potions of Invisibility, (2) Potions of Cure Light Wounds, +1 Ring of Protection, +1 Shocking Battleaxe (Giant Splitter), Warder's Keys, Traveler's Outfit, Masterwork Thieves' Tools, backpack, caltrops, flask of whiskey, 2 good locks, masterwork manacles, waterskin, 1 week rations, signet ring, Letter of Credit (2500 GP), gems (500 gp and 400 gp), 90 gp, 60 sp

Feats: Dodge, Combat Reflexes, Alertness, Investigate, Least Dragonmark (Warding: arcane lock 1/day)
Proficiencies: All Simple & Martial Weapons, All Armor & Shields
Languages: Common, Dwarven, Giant, Goblin

History: The son of Vorik d’Kundarak, Rochus was born a member of the warding guild. His father wanted for him to carry on the proud family tradition of providing security for those who wish their assets to remain their own. He began his training, supervised by his father, at an early age, and was soon one of the fastest and most nimble dwarves in all of the Mror Holds. In later years, he trained as a warrior for a short time, hoping the strength of his arm might benefit the House as much as his cunning and agility.

As the years past, Rochus’s dragonmark manifested, and it became obvious that his future did not lie in combat, but in security. Rochus became a Silver Key under the employ of House Kundarak. He is a field specialist in security and investigation. There is no security system in place that Rochus cannot strengthen.

To celebrate his new role as a Silver Key, Vorik gave Rochus one of their family’s most prized possession: the magical battleaxe known as Giant Splitter. The axe was first owned by Rochus’s grandfather Deltak, who had the weapon enchanted and in later years felled many giants with it. Vorik then had a second enchantment bestowed upon the axe, allowing it to shock any it strikes with a great deal of electricity. Vorik explained that it is now Rochus’s duty to use Giant Striker and to one day have an additional enchantment bestowed upon it.

There is nothing more important to Rochus than the love of his father. In truth, he sees his role as a Silver Key as another honor he can pay Vorik. His life creates a sad paradox, in that his role within the House keeps him away from his father. Rochus has not seen Vorik in many years, but he continues in his field, still hoping to honor his father in the best way he knows.

Action Points? We Don't Need No Stinkin' Action Points!

Just a reminder - anyone who posts his character's bio will receive an extra action point, representing the insight that comes from self-reflection, or some such contrivance. Remember, action points can mean the difference between a quick death and a slow, agonizing one!

New Blog (Sort Of)

Hey all,

When I signed into my blog today, it told me to switch over to Blogger Beta, which converts the blog over with new features, etc. and more importantly links it to your Google account (since Google bought Blogger). These are all things I wanted, so I did it... but I didn't notice until too late that it also converted over any blogs that I started, which means y'all will have to switch your blogger accounts to post on this blog. Sorry, and I hope the conversion process isn't a hassle... it was easy on my end, at any rate.

Delay of Game

I won't be available this Friday, December 8. The roll-out of a new system at work got pushed back to this weekend, and since I'm out of town Saturday/Sunday, I'll have to do the roll-out Friday night.

Sorry for the delay, guys. I'll try to add some extra horror to the following session to make up for it.

In the future: Ravenloft?

Hey, everybody. I just ordered Expedition to Castle Ravenloft off of Amazon. It's an update of the old Ravenloft module, designed for use as a one-off adventure or a campaign. How about, after we have our next Eberron adventure, I take a shot at DM'img, take you guys through this bastard? Sound cool?

"Fightin'" Tommy O'Flannery

Tommy was born in 1895 somewhere in the Illinois countryside under mysterious circumstances. He didn't discover the truth until he was older but it seems that his biological mothers name was actually Brigid, last name unknown; and that she was ritually murdered on the night of his birth by her dead husband, attending the birth in spirit, as it were. The next part of the ritual was intended to take Tommys life as well but he was surreptitiously rescued by another Tom O'Flannery, Tom o' Diamonds, an explorer and renowned adventurer. No one knows what the dark ritual was for, or what became of the cabalists after Big Tom locked them in a burning barn, (one would surmise that Tommy's ghostly bio-patriarch survived). Little Tommy was adopted and raised in the fairly well-off O'Flannery household where he was adored by his new father, his mother Margaret and his elder brother Marcus. Big Tom was employed by a "Social Action Group" called Fair Shake, which was really a front for the highly secretive, catholic splinter organization known as "Occulus Diem," the Eyes of God, an organization dedicated to the elimination of "otherworldly" threats to the Church. As an investigator and enforcer of the will of the "Luminus Sacralogos" the guiding council of the order, he was involved with many anti-occult activities over the years. He fought for country and church in the Spanish-American War and then settled down to a life of politics in order to extend the reach of his secret organization. --Little Tommy had several more incidents in his life. At 12 he happened upon a robbery attempt in his family home. The thief was stealing an artifact from one of his Dad's adventures and Tommy interrupted him. The thief was leaving the house with a box marked "Tommy-1895." Tommy tripped him on the stairs and the box fell to the ground. Tommy grabbed the box and the thief grabbed the amulet that had been it's treasure. The thief drew a long curved dagger and slashed Tommy's face. Just then a car pulled up outside. The thief, a one eyed man with a black moustache, ran away with the amulet, not the box. Tommy looked into the box and found a letter detailing the events of his birth. There they found him, drenched in blood and tears. He carries the scar to this day.--They told him the truth and his adoptive father began to tell him of his work, eventually Tommy joined him.--When Tommy was 16 he was captured by a group of cabalists who drugged and ritually tortured him. It broke him, he would never be the normal lad that every parent dreams of. The anger flowed through his veins, the burning against evil was so intense that some, including his father, thought that Tommy was a danger to himself and everyone around him. He was sent to a military school to finish his prep days and then received an appointment to West Point, where he graduated from just in time for WW1--Lt. O'Flannery earned the nickname "fightin" in the military. He fought like a demon with no thought to his own body and earned a new scar on his throat that gave him the voice to match his scarred face. It was during his time in a German work camp that the "Occulus" contacted him about being a full member. They saw to his escape, the telling and re=telling of his heroics, and his father's continued rise to power. Upon returning to the U.S., Tommy became an operative of the order, investigating, reporting, and eliminating whatever "occult" activity the order found threatening. He has mostly chased Red Herrings. But now........new assignment...........cover, veteran's hospital fundraising. Investigate incident involving..............Walk in the Blessings of St Jude, my son.

But Not of Man

Prologue

In 1926, the wealthy industrialist and shipping magnate James Harrington summoned several friends and acquaintances to a dinner party sponsored by the American Businessmen’s League. From that night forward, their fate became bound together. They were:

• Count Nikolai Rostov, an ex-patriate Russian nobleman and staunch anti-Communist. He was the keynote speaker at the dinner, warning against the dangers of worker’s unions.
  
• Dr. Virgil Rutherford, Professor of Linguistics at Harvard. Harrington had earlier asked his help in translating a hand-copied fragment of an occult text from German.


• Dr. Robert Harger, M.D., a prominent local physician.


• Lucas Huxley, a struggling writer. Huxley’s complex allegorical tales of societal decay had failed to spark much interest from the public or publishers. To date, his only success was the short story “Lifeboat Massacre,” a pulp story about the horrible fate that greets the survivors of a sunken luxury liner. This story aroused the interest of Harrington and earned the admiration of fellow writer, Buck Martin.


• Buck Martin, a former lawman and writer of Western dime novels. Martin was a celebrity guest at the dinner.


• Spencer Thompson, an occasional piano player and frequent thief. He knew Buck from a stint as the saloon player in the All-American Wild West Show. Buck invited Thompson to the party.

At the party, Harrington suddenly grew frightened. He begged his guests to protect his wife from a mysterious threat, and to keep safe the strange amulet he kept hidden beneath his shirt. All at once he collapsed, vomiting enormous quantities of seawater. Moments later, he died, his lungs filled with water as if he had drowned. His dying words were a choked warning about söhne des meeres – the “sons of the sea”.

The Depths of the Past

Bound by their promise to the dead man, Harrington’s guests began to investigate his death and the mysterious threat to his wife. Suspicion fell on a Harrington family friend, the unctuous Captain De Roca, skipper of the Brazilian tramp steamer Oscar, but Mrs. Harrington insisted that he had been a loyal friend to her and her husband.

Clues appeared in Harrington’s past, linked to a chain of events begun in 1917 when the Olympia, an ocean liner on which he was a passenger, was sunk by a German U-boat. Some survivors were taken aboard the U-boat, only to be trapped when the submarine struck a mine and plunged to the bottom of the sea. Incredibly, Harrington and two other men, Tom Barnes and George Wilson, survived.

None of the survivors could shed any light on their miraculous escape. But as the investigators dug deeper, they discovered that all three men were afterwards changed in some strange and awful way. There were hints of a horrible, hidden deformity, and terrible urges. One of the survivors, George Wilson, was arrested multiple times for assault and attempted rape, and finally committed suicide in prison by castrating himself.

The other, Tom Barnes, had become a morphine addict. Like Harrington and Wilson, he wore a strange, greenish-gold amulet of bizarre workmanship. They were wearing them when they were rescued at sea, but none could say where they had come from. They could not bear to remove them, and the few times Barnes had tried, it had always returned inexplicably as he slept. This fate was now shared by Dr. Harger, who had donned Harrington’s amulet.

Barnes warned against the machinations of De Roca, whose designs appeared to be centered on Mrs. Harrington. They seemed connected with Harrington’s insistence that his wife never bear a child; the doctor who supplied Barnes with morphine, Lohmann, had performed more than one secret abortion for Mrs. Harrington. Barnes feared that De Roca wished to use a Harrington child in some horrible occult ritual.

Troubled Dreams and Troubled Waters

A midnight raid on the Oscar provided several tantalizing clues, including the complete hand-copied text of an occult tome, Unaussprechlichen Kulten. Dr. Rutherford studied this intently, and found himself immersed in strange and horrible rituals he did not dare to practice. But one night he awoke to find his hands covered in cat's blood, the book open before him, and he realized the decision was no longer his. Strange, prophetic dreams haunted him. He heard warnings of disaster, gurgling from the lips of drowned men. And he saw the figure of Captain Cook, the 18th century South Seas explorer, who insisted cryptically that, “They were plainly the jawbones of fish, and not of men.”

Soon after the Oscar raid, the investigators were attacked at Rutherford’s home. Water gushed from the faucets, moving as if alive, trying to engulf and drown the men. Fleeing outdoors for safety, they were attacked by shotgun-wielding sailors from the Oscar, aided by a mysterious figure that lurked in the shadows and showed hints of a shape that was only partly human. The investigators managed to drive off their attackers and badly wounded the shadowy figure.

The next day, Barnes was kidnapped by De Roca’s minions. De Roca proposed an exchange: Barnes for the amulet now worn by Dr. Harger. Fearing for Mrs. Harrington’s safety, the investigators persuaded her to proceed with a planned sea cruise and escorted her safely aboard ship. That night, they drove to the seaside rendezvous to meet with De Roca.

Lost at Sea

De Roca’s treachery was immediately evident; Barnes’ mutilated corpse was found by the shoreline. Then the sea suddenly surged and rushed inland, flooding the small beach. The investigators remained safe on high ground, but then De Roca appeared, rising from the waves. Moonlight gleamed on the grayish-green things that came with him, slipping through the water like fish but then rising to walk like men. A pitched battle followed. Some were driven mad by the horrible half-human fish things, others were stricken with terror by De Roca's supernatural gaze. But even De Roca's occult powers could not save him from the withering hail of bullets that were turned against him. He sank at last beneath the waves as the investigators fled from the amphibious horde.

It was not until the following day that they found the letter from Mrs. Harrington to DeRoca, telling him of her pregnancy and pleading with him for help. "I love my husband, but I love my unborn child more," she wrote. "Please help me, Captain - do you what you must to protect the life of my child." A few days later, Mrs. Harrington was reported lost at sea after falling overboard. Her body was never found, and she was presumed drowned.

Of the many unanswered questions that remain, some clues may lurk in the strange poem found in De Roca's cabin:

The Other Messiah

Up rose that scourge, the fishers of the deep,
But savage minds hearkened to ancient fears;
With timeless runes upon their stony spears,
They sent the god-king to his endless sleep.
His Titan corpse rotted upon the earth,
While his children beneath the haunted seas
Hissed evil curses and croaked blasphemies
And prayed to sunken gods for his rebirth.
In unknown depths His monstrous seed was spawned,
To be born of woman but not of man.
They looked upon His bloated face and ran.
Darkness oozed in His wake, and no day dawned.
Cities trembled and fell, as all around
The world quaked with horror, in madness drowned.

(from People of the Monolith by Justin Geoffrey)

One week away!

That is all.