Violence - Prohibition Era Skirmish

(This is from a while back, last year I think, thought I'd post it since it was mostly done).

St. Louis, 1929. 

Dusk. The glow of the city in the sky. A railroad bridge looms over a little riverside cemetery; fireflies darting between the gravestones. Higher up: the road. Lower down: reeds, mud, and the Mississippi's turgid waters. A car is parked on the slope,

Three racketeers stand in and around a shallow grave, freshly dug up: Camille, a butch lesbian type, stands with her hands on her hips looking down on the sweating, pudgy Vince, while Tommy, his hair slicked back, chews on a toothpick and leans against a headstone. Wood splinters as Vince pries open the coffin, revealing nestled bottles of liquor. Before they can take satisfaction in the unearthed cache, headlights flick on, drowning them in light.

Up on the road, a car has pulled up, facing down at them. They hear the slam of car doors. And shadows move across the bright headlights. A voice—Dutch accented—rings out and they immediately know who it is. Their nemesis: De Graaf. 

He's standing up on the verge, looking down into the graveyard, his right hand man Nico standing beside him, a sawed-off BAR resting on his shoulder. Two more goons flank them: Lenny and Howard. 

Camille began walking toward the car, hands raised, presenting a sympathetic figure. Tommy edges towards the cover of a thick clump of headstones. Vince, still standing waist deep in the grave, slides his revolver out of its holster. 

Vince fires, Camille and Tommy both dive, Nico lets out a wild shot from the BAR only to grunt and go stumbling back—catching Vince's slug in the shoulder. Howard and Lenny go running left and right respectively, while De Graaf goes to earth. 

(intermediate details lost to history, seems like everyone's taking potshots and Camille creeps up to the gang's car; trying to get a shotgun maybe?)

Camille pulls the back door open, using it for cover, while yanking open the passenger side door. De Graaf fires, shattering the back door's window, but the bullets merely fly over the crouched Camille's head. 

(details also lost)

Suddenly the BAR opens up and chews through the back door, perforating Camille with slugs. She goes down, slumped half over the passenger side seat. 

(further missing details; the rival gagsters were advancing or had split int two groups I think; definetly one or two were downed)

The BAR opens up again, turning the top of the gravestone to stone splinters and downing Tommy who was hid behind.  

 

Vince cowers in the grave, the bottles clinking under his feet. He hears the crunch of footsteps and the rustle of grass as (presumably) De Graaf and Nico approach. The two stop at the car, examining Camille's body. She's alive, just barely, but they don't realize it. They move on, edging closer to the grave.

Stooping, Vince reaches down, grabs a bottle, and with an underhand throw lobs it into the river. Gunshots ring out at the plop. As the last echo dies, Vince twists around, popping out of the grave and firing at either Nico or De Graaf—he's not sure which. It turns out to be De Graaf, but the shot goes wide, clipping a fragment of the Dutchman's jacket. Both De Graaf and Nico open up, the first's shots going wide and spitting up dirt, but the second hitting Vince dead on. 

He's not dead though, not quite, and can only look up dazed as the two mobsters stand on the lip of the grave. He has just enough time to notice Nico is cradling the BAR in one arm, favoring his uninjured shoulder, before they point their guns down, and finish him off.

Sirens in the distance. De Graaf and his men beat a hasty retreat, pile into their car, and are off. Later: policemen with flashlights combing through the graveyard. Camille and Tommy whisked away in a police ambulance; one with several slugs in her chest and the other with a nasty head wound. 

A few days later De Graaf throws down his newspaper in disgust upon reading TWO GANGSTERS IN HOSPITAL AFTER GRAVEYARD GUNFIGHT.

+++++

We didn't end up using the suppression rules, which we should have as they would have been useful. As well, there was a couple times when dis/advantage should have been invoked (Nico's shoulder injury, the bright headlights, etc). Furthermore, we didn't roll for each bullet as an Injury Check—mostly we forgot to, but also it would have slowed things down measurably. Without that however, I think that players survived being down with a bit more regularity than if we were counting each bullet as an Injury received. 

 

One thing that was a bit muddled was calling the number of bullets fired. We tried to mainly do this before rolling but sometimes did so after. I think that it would work best if you treat it as a gut/impulse choice. I.e. "I fire of three shots at him!" At least insofar as flow is concerned (since obviously ammunition tracking is an issue as well). 

 

The BAR definitely chewed people up, what with its ability to really commit to firing off multiple shots (a 20 round magazine) and the +4 to Injury Checks for being rifle caliber. 

A small thought. The +1 for each additional shot does not read that cleanly. When running I might just make it a +1 for 1 shot and then an additional +1 for every shot after to a max of six. This would make the target de facto 15, which is fine I think—25% chance to hit as a default—and it just makes everything read more intuitively.

Three Occult Mercenaries

BOTTOMLESS :

Leering lips. Shaggy hair. A pair of dark sunglasses, tight jeans, and a milsurp jacket. He stinks of liquor. With a dainty, two-finger grip he pulls a new bottle out of the well-stocked refrigerator buried in his bigger-on-the-inside duffel bag. There is an M1911 tucked in the small of his back. His right pant pocket holds a wadded up copy of an archaeological research paper on the Italic bacchanalia.  

The face. Oddly eloquent, even when inebriated (which he always is). Knows a touch of dipsomancy, but mostly relies on his pistol. Equipment—like Razorback's GPMG—gets stored in his magic duffel bag when the trio needs to operate covertly.   

RAZORBACK : 

Shaved head. Broken nose. Rolling shoulders and a glimpse of spreading, mechanorganic tubes beneath his white tanktop. He snorts like a bull and grips the barrel of his Rheinmetall MG 3, the ammunition belt shifting in his lap. The program which implanted the symbiote in his back was cancelled before they worked out the emotional regulation issues. Now, he and it coexist uneasily, dreaming each-other's dreams; a melange of mutual bloodlust. 

The heavy. He goes where the other two point and doesn't think very hard about it. The symbiote has given him boosted reflexes, strength, and inhuman regenerative abilities. He can tank anything short of an anti-material round, given enough time to knit his flesh back together. 

WORMBOY :

Gaunt features. Lank black hair. Drab clothing, perpetually mudstained. His mouth opens and closes like a fish. At his side, a messenger bag filled with skinny mason jars. They contain his brood; a dozen wet, wriggling larva. When released, they seek out the nearest living organism and attempt to wriggle down its throat. 

The brains. Doesn't talk much, but the other two do what he says. He always has the situation scouted out and assets per-suborned. Whatever his larva enter, he can puppet, though each new body adds to his disorientation. 

An Offering For The Goat-Mother - Play Report

Per Weird Writers "Just Run It" advice, I decided to run a little horror-investigation scenario I had written up a while back.  

CW: abuse, suicide

WW played as Alice Kent.

Loadout : Phone, wired earbuds, meds, laptop, change of clothes, pepper spray, printed photo of Cheryl (her missing girlfriend), a Leica brand camera, and spare film
Skills : Photography, Homosexual Underground, Botany, Urban Exploration

Cheryl Wayland—Alice's girlfriend—went up north to visit her family for the first time in three years after much cajoling on their part. That was almost a month ago, and Alice hasn't heard from her since.

SATURDAY. After a four hour drive up from the southern, more urban part of the state, Alice found herself driving past a sign for LAUREN, MI; Pop. 755, "Elk Hunting Capital of the Midwest" and a big statue of an elk.

The town was little more than a main street hemmed in by pine forest. A diner, a handful of bars, a gas station, garage, two motels, a hardware store, and a big building emblazoned with WAYLAND SPORTING GOODS on the side.

Tired, Alice pulled into the parking lot of one of the motels and checked in. As well, she showed the receptionist the photo and asked if she'd seen Cheryl recently. The response was cagey. No the receptionist hadn't seen the Wayland's daughter. But Alice was able to get the family's address.

She left some of her belongings in the motel room, then drove out to the Wayland's house on the edge of town. The place looked to have once been a farm, though not any longer, with a sagging barn and big house built in the last century if not earlier. Alice parked on the verge and crossed through the gate, walking up the long driveway, to the house where a new truck and car were parked.

Peering inside, she didn't notice anything interesting in either, and so walked up to the house itself to try and look in the front windows. She'd just caught a glimpse of a living room when an "ahem" turned her head. A middle-aged woman in a floral print dress and apron ("tradwife chic") was standing on the porch, looking down at Alice with a suspicious expression.

Alice introduced herself and explained she was a good friend of Cheryl's and was looking for her. The woman's face twisted into something like worry and she asked if Cheryl was alright. Alice explained that the last she heard she was here with her family and things were going well but then there had been nothing but radio silence since then.

Oh but she left weeks ago! We had a big fight and she stormed out and, well, she doesn't ever call us (this last part said with a note of accusation). Alice nodded along. A boy shouted for mom from inside the house. Just one minute Arthur Jr! Well, if you hear from her please call us... With that Patricia Wayland (Cheryl's mother) closed the door.

Alice pretended to leave, but in fact sidled up against the house to try and eavesdrop. She saw Patricia twitch the curtain aside to look out on the driveway (luckily not noticing Alice pressed up against the clapboard) and then heard muttered conversation between Patricia and a gruff voice, mentioning her name, Cheryl, and expressing concern. Alice decided to slip away and walk back to her car.

Getting in, she didn't yet start the engine but sat and watched the house for a while, pretending to mess with her phone (terrible signal out in the backwoods). All was still, nothing stirring. Eventually, a police car with the words LAUREN COUNTY SHERIFF on the side came round the bend and slowly drove past. Alice took this as a sign and left, driving back to the motel where she parked.

Hungry (it being mid-afternoon) she walked over to the diner, a place which looked like a time capsule of the 50s. Inside there were one or two patrons and a waitress—her name tag said Mindy—serving them while someone else worked a grill in the back. Alice ordered an egg, toast, and coffee and as she was being served showed the waitress the photograph.

Oh my gosh. You know Cheryl? We used to be best friends in high school.

Mindy, it turned out, well, used to be best friends with Cheryl—"even if she did become a lesbo." Was she really missing? I thought she was still at her family's. Yeah they had a fight, Cheryl had come into the diner crying afterward but her mother had come and convinced her to come back.

Alice managed to convince Mindy to meet with her after Mindy's shift finished in two hours. Then she finished her meal and headed out.

At the gas station, she poked the young clerk a little. He vaguely remembered Mindy from high school, couldn't remember having seen her since but hey did you remember what car she drove? I always remember cars. And in fact he did remember seeing Cheryl's car a few weeks back and it being towed later on. When asked where car's got towed to in Lauren he laughed and hiked a thumb at the garage next door. Only one place miss.

The garage, unfortunately, was closed (it being a Saturday). She skulked around and looked into the fenced off lot. There were several cars, in varying conditions, and few under tarps. Not immediately seeing Cheryl's, she tried calling the number on the garage's sign, to get some one to let her in, but got an automated message asking her to call back later.

Moving on, she walked down to the hardware store and, after some fake browsing, showed the old clerk a photo of Cheryl. He definetly recognized the photo but said he didn't. As she was leaving she saw him picking up a phone and dialing it.

At Wayland Sporting Goods, which was open and the busiest place she had yet been to in Lauren, she found a clerk and went about purchasing a handgun. After seeing her hesitancy about waiting for an ID check, the clerk offered a shady deal to get her one now, which she went through with.

She'd killed enough time by then and walked back towards the motel, espying Mindy leaving the diner as did, and caught up with the latter. After some cajoling, she managed to convince Mindy to come along with her and stake out the Wayland's place. They packed into to Alice's battered white sedan and drove off.

They parked on the edge of a road a ways away and then walked through the woods till they came to the fence/treeline of the Wayland's Place and hunkered down to watch. The evening wore on and nothing much happened. Eventually, they saw a man—Mindy identified him as Arthur Wayland—come out of the house, get in the truck, and drive off. A while after that, around dinnertime, they watched Patricia Wayland come out of the house carrying a big crock pot. She walked across the yard and over to the barn and to a cellar door opened it, and disappeared inside. After a while she came back out with the crock pot and went back to the house.

I think they're keeping Cheryl in there.

What? Mindy was incredulous. Why would they do that. But Alice had already gotten up and was creeping her way out of the woods and across the wide expanse of mowed lawn.

The house's windows watched her like blind eyes and she was acutely aware that any moment someone could look up and out and see her, but she made it safe to the barn and around the backside to the cellar door (which was out of view of both house and driveway). Said door was locked shut with a big padlock and chain.

Unsure what to do at first, she decided to creep around and slip inside the barn. Within, she found some rakes, shovels, deflated inner tubes, tools. Searching the last, she turned up a hacksaw and crept back outside with it and back around to the cellar door. She started sawing.

It was loud and tiring. Within minutes her arms ached. She had gotten two-thirds of the way through when she heard the sound of a car on gravel, coming up the drive. Stopping, she sidled over to the corner of the barn and peeked out. Coming up the driveway was Arthur Wayland's truck followed by the sheriff's car.

She watched five men in total get out of the two vehicles and go inside the house. After a few minutes of silence, Alice returned to the door and began sawing again. She had just finished, the chain falling to the ground, when she heard the slam of a screen door and voices. Again to the corner and peeking out. The men were now dressed in white robes and followed by Patricia. They were walking right toward the barn.

Quickly, Alice ran to the cellar door, opened it, descended the steps, and gently closed it again. She was in darkness and spent a moment fishing out her phone and turning on its flashlight.

Strange carven figures—deer and beasts of the forest—leapt out at her. Then she heard the rustle of cloth and swept her phone light around. In the back corner was an insensate figure in dirty clothes, leashed to the wall with a dog collar. Alice hurried over. It was Cheryl.

There was a dull, glassy look in Cheryl's eyes and she didn't really respond to movement. Some dirty plates sat on the floor nearby.

Alarmed voices from the doors above. Alice quickly shut her phone light off and darted to the other side of the room. The doors were wrenched open, letting in the fading twilight, then silence. No movement. Alice slipped out her handgun.

Down the stairs came the sheriff, his gun out, squinting in the light. Behind him another man. Alice waited a beat, then, aiming at the sheriff, pulled the trigger. The bark of the gun surprised her and the shot went astray. In a snap the sheriff had twisted and shot back at her but missed. She fired again and the sheriff dove for cover while the second man did the same. Quickly, she spun and shot at where the sheriff dived and heard him yelp. She shot again, this time greeted with a meaty thud. Alice ran to where he had fallen in the shadows of the cellar, but as she did the second man came barreling into her and they both hit the wall hard. She kneed him in the groin and he keeled over moaning. On her hands and knees she scrambled over to the sheriff—he was dead, shot twice in the chest—and grabbed his handgun, discarding her own (now empty).

She spun and aimed at the doorway, but there was only silence from up the steps. A minute passed. Two. She crept over and unhooked the leash from the wall and hauled Cheryl to her feet, putting her in front of her. Cheryl stumbled along, mutely. Up the stairs, one step at a time, and then out into the fading daylight.

Someone cried out "Don't shoot, we need her!" To either side of the cellar door: Patricia Wayland, Arthur Wayland (with a hunting rifle), and the hardware store man (holding Arthur back).

Alice demanded to know what was going on. Arthur said it was none of her goddamn business. Carefully, Alice began backing away keeping Cheryl close to her. The Wayland's followed, dogging her. They contained like this around the edge of the barn and half way across the property. Again Alice demanded to know what was happening. Arthur just told her that she'd killed the sheriff and the state police would hunt her down like that. The hardware man rambled something about god needing Cheryl to save them all.

Alice made a decision. She put her gun to Cheryl's temple and pulled the trigger. A blossom of blood and Cheryl's body fell to the grass. Arthur Wayland bellowed in rage and another shot rang out. This time Alice fell, the wind knocked out of her as she hit the turf. It had gone through her shoulder. A long stretched out moment. She managed to look up and see and the Wayland's advancing, Arthur working the bolt of his rifle. Raising her pistol, she fired and caught him in the leg. He fell to one knee cursing and the hardware man grabbed a hold of him. Again she fired and Arthur toppled, shot through the chest. Patricia screamed and the hardware man took off running.

Patricia Wayland ran to her husband, grabbing at his body, and screamed slurs and abuse at Alice. One last time, Alice demanded to know what was happening. Patricia, screamed some more, then began ranting about deer, god's chosen prey, the things in the dark of the woods, her daughter being corrupted, etc. Alice, from the ground, raised the gun again and shot her too.

Silence.

The squeal of a car pulling out and hurtling away down the road.

Mindy running out from the tree line, hand over her mouth. Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god. Alice handed her the car keys and told her to go.

Silence.

She checked to make sure she had a bullet for herself.

Silence.

It was dark now and oddly peaceful. The woods alive with animal song. Alice couldn't quite say how long it had been. She stared up at the stars above. They seemed to be blurring, twisting in on themselves and performing a strange dance. She couldn't tell if it was the bloodless or something else. Out from the tree line stepped tall, shaggy shapes with thin limbs. They were as tall as the pines. One by one they came—a closing circle. Till they stood nearly over her and Cheryl like a ring of standing stones. Then there was a pressure like the pressure of a storm rolling in and the stars disappeared, blotted out by some black descending form and for the briefest moment she felt its alien scrutiny. Then it passed. The tall things turned and left. In the distance a police siren could be heard. Quietly, Alice slipped from consciousness. She would not wake up.

+++

Notes :
The main issue with things was that Alice, a pregen character I had thrown together about ten minutes before play, and her skill set were a bit ill-suited for the scenario. Likewise, there weren't enough threads or leads for WW to pursue to learn more about the cult or interact with the locals. But other than that, it was a good time.   

I Ran The Ultraviolet Grasslands! - Session One

 

Another duet game played with M., this time taking a break from the Iron Coral for some caravaneering.  

The Cast : 

The Decapolitina Twins, Ala and Juan, both yellowlander climate migrants, driven by dreams of machine demons and internal abnormalities.

Origano, a wine vampire priest with inebriated hypnosis powers, indebted to Juan and pursued by loving enemies (his former coven?). 

It was early morning in the Violet City and the party found themselves in a palatial chamber, sitting upon an uncomfortably plush couch. Before them was a dais beneath a skylight (through which they could hear the market bustle and distantly see the citadel) and lounging on a cushion, attended by glassy-eyed servants, sat Brighteyes one of the city's mercantilist cat-lords and current owner of the party's rather large debt.

 

Of the three, Juan was standing, pacing up and down the couch, acutely aware of the burly enforcers guarding the door. 

 

Brighteyes explained with care that while she could simply have their knees broken, she'd much rather put healthy hands to good use. As such, she had a little task for them. See, her idiot nephew, Twinkles, had gotten it into his head that he wanted to take a tour of the far grasslands and make a study of the strange fauna; an aspiring natural-philosopher. What she wanted the party to do then, was to be his escort and keep him safe. To that end, she had prepared mounts and supplies. 

Having little choice in the matter, the party agreed wholeheartedly and one of the cat-lord's lackeys led them out of the manor and down the Violet City's twisting, cobbled streets to a large caravanserai (owned by Brighteyes of course) just beneath the city walls. 

There they acquainted themselves with their caravan: four mules, a horse (for the nephew), seven sacks cheap supplies, a vet kit, and an adventure kitchen. The party also invested in three cat-rifles and a laboratory kit. 

Having looked over their little caravan, they set out to find Twinkles, using the address Brighteyes's manservant gave them. 

Shortly, on a little alleyway off the Rue des Pattes they found the Grinning Moon Bordello. They entered with awkward nods to the half-naked entertainers; "We're looking for the pussy.' and found the madame who waved them outside into a little walled garden in the back, There they found Twinkles, a suave black cat, in the lap of his manservant Bertram, studying a pair of insects on a rock. A scantly clad woman reclined next to them, looking bored. 

The cat talked (telepathically) liked a British playboy, albeit of an intellectual bent. There was a brief argument over eating luncheon or setting out now—which Juan favored—settled by Twinkles insistence that they eat lunch and set out the next morning. Then they collected the cat's bags and ate at a little cafe overlooking the sea. 

That night they slept in the caravanserai and left early, passing through the morning mists past cat coffee plantations and little freeholds. By the end of the day even these began to dwindle away, replaced by tall grass and isolated copses. 

 

For a week they travelled along a rough, but well used track the land gradually flattening out; a sea of yellowish grass. Somewhere along the way Ala turned her ankle, but eventually they made it to the Low Road and the High—an ancient viaduct from the Long Ago thrust up out of the steppe. 

 

On the Low Road they overtook a Rainbowlander caravan, hundreds strong and piled with silks and fruits, heading for the Porcelain Citadel. The party joined in with them and spent the next week in the caravan's boisterous company. They variously picked up rumours of a lost gate and tried to convince the caravaneers to gift them some food (Ala and Juan were splitting a sack between them; +1 fatigue for both) but the Rainbowlanders had made this trip before and knew how punishing the steppe could be. The merchant-owners, strutting about with their ledges, kept a careful tally of supplies and wouldn't part with a morsel; though the party received a few kindly scraps.

At the weeks end as they approached the Porcelain Citadel they passed shambling human-like forms and the other caravaneers whispered about the Porcelain Prince's used up polybodies and profligate tastes. Passing through the ring of defensive golems, they came at last under the white bulk of the citadel. 

Twinkles immediately shacked up in a second-floor suite in the caravanserai, leaving the party to squat with their animals in an empty  in an empty shack among the scrappy, unaffiliated outlanders who haunt the Lowest Line. For several days they sold themselves to the orchards, picking cherenkov cherries just to pay for food. All the while they listened to the raucous noise of drinking and song from the Two Serais and watched the distant, duplicated forms of the Porcelain Princes walking about their manors.

 

Eventually, Twinkles came back round, satisfyingly tired and having seen the sights to his content. Bertram, the manservant, was sporting a shiny new ceramic prosthetic; very chic. At this point the party was muttering and plotting—the cat was going to have to go. They convinced him, with tales of strange vomish mechanisms ("Really, I've heard that they're not nearly as a violent as people claim.") to head into the deep steppe on the Trail of Vomish Dreams.

 

After finagling funds for supplies out of the cat, they plunge into the grasslands. A week travelling deep into tall, yellow grass through thick haze, beset by swarms of biomechanical locusts. Once, they came across the spoor of some huge biomech beast, which they spent an extra day avoiding.  

They'd heard rumours, back at the Porcelain Citadel, of a rusting metal obelisk, toppled on its side and covered in strange glyphs. Twinkles was, predictably, excited by this concept and so they spent three days following game trails and odd markers till they found the iron monument. 

Bertram begin copying down the glyphs in Twinkles's journal, at the latter's direction, while the party set up camp. As the sun set—a red fiery glow over the steppe—biomech prairie dog-crabs begin to appear out of their burrows to dance an eerie ritual around the obelisk. The parry watched their bioluminescent antenna swaying in unison from a safe distance around their campfire. 

Later that night, the moon high in the sky and washing the world in silver, Juan and Origano rose from their sleep rolls and crept over towards the cat and its servant, with garrote-lengths of cord in hand.

Origano slowly wrapped his garrote around Bertram at the same time Juan made a lunge for Twinkles. Chaos! Bertram groans and paws at his neck as the life is slowly strangled out of him while Twinkles leaps away, telepathically bludgeoning Juan, and disappeared into the tall grass. The harsh but distant call of a biomechanical beast howled through the night.

With one last shudder, Bertram expired. Quickly the party broke camp. From Bertram's corpse they retrieved a heavy purse (over $800), a holdout pistol, and the cat's journal. Then they dragged the body a ways away and hide it in the grass.

 

With Ala riding and Juan and Origano guiding the mules they spent a week trudging in silence, heading southeast toward the Grass Colossus, dodging roving beasts the while. Eventually they crested the green capped ridge surrounding the vale and walked down into it towards the colossus, rising from its mound.

 

As they passed through the outer fences and into the teeming nomad tent city which surrounds the Colossus, they met a band of drunk, broke journeymen with whom they made camp. Their incongruous joviality seemed to break the silent spell which had hung over the party, and they plunged into the tent city with refreshed spirits. 

With much haggling and a confusion of languages—none of them had ever heard such outlandish permutations of the trade tongue—they managed to buy another weeks rations, plus two sacks extra, in yogurt, cheeses, and jerky. Then, contemplating the heavy purse of Rainbowlander currency, they decided to buy two more horses for their caravan.

The only nomad willing to take their foreign currency was Draganogac, one of the judges of the Colossus who mediated disputes, and a rich man besides. He gave them two fine steppe-horses for their money and reminded them that the judge's would always pay good mead and salt for vomish trophies.

The talk of the tent city was that the next night, the Colossus would dance! Already there was an air of festivity, with new nomad clans arriving by the hour and drink and song loud to be heard. The party decide to stay for the ritual and the next day watched a wicker wagon wheeled toward the Colossus with a shivering, wretched man inside—an adulterer condemned by the judges—fed beef and spices by force.

That night, torches and bonfires flared and the drink was hot. Around the Colossus the priests and magicworkers took their places. Then began the dances. The party, beside their journeymen friends, watched in awe as the sacrifice was lifted—bound and gagged—into the burnt heart of the Colossus. And the it was alight! The flames of the bonfires seemed to burn higher and the priests danced more frenetically, drumming and chanting.

With a shudder, the Colossus moved! Burning bright with the living flames at its heart it began to dance a stomping dance.

The nomads cheered, and laughed, and cried. And then, as the Colossus's dance grew more energetic, they one by one began disappearing into their tents. The Colossus began to dance more wildly, stepping down off its mound. The party deemed it prudent to also take shelter and hid away in their tent. The night passed uneasily, with the sound of rustling, dancing grass, the gutter of flames, and the occasional screams of terror.

The next morning, half tent city was already gone. Detritus from the festivities was everywhere and the fire pits still smoked. The Colossus stood once more upon its mound, but its chest was blackened and its hands bloody. Shivering in awe, the party quickly broke camp and trekked up and out of the vale and away towards the South-Facing Passage...

 

+++

 

This was essentially one long introduction and setup session, despite the caravan getting five weeks deep into the Ultraviolet Grasslands.  

The initial setup was a bit janky, M. spent a lot of time looking to the cat-lord for direction as to what the party was doing (something M. brought up herself at the end of session). The betrayal, murder, and escape ended up nicely setting up a proper game with the players fleeing deeper into the grasslands, etc. M. said she was looking forward to more freely being able to riff off the setting and characters. 

There was also some jank with the resolution system (a modified version of Was It Likely's Impact) I was using. Some misapplication, forgetting to use it, etc, but by the end we'd ironed it out and are looking forward to the "and then" energy it brings to the table. Specifically, we worked out that it works best just straight up rolling on the impact table and forcing the player to spend HP (in this case renamed to Luck) to avoid/alter. Creating a sort of cascading chain of consequences. 

I had a bit of trouble at times running straight from the book (for example: there aren't rumour tables for every location) but I think I will have honed my method by the next time. At the Porcelain Citadel in particular, I didn't dangle enough hooks out. M. was a little aimless as to what to do. Hopefully the party, now sheared from their escort mission, will get more dynamic and we'll be better able to explore the characters. 

 

We're talking about giving the party some more tools for interacting with the world and maybe some more adjective traits. The necessary texture, for building decisions and descriptions. Also we might make XP from discoveries and carousing feedback into recovering Luck.

 

Five Investigators

Pauline L. Wozniak :

Frumpy sweaters and a pair of glasses like bottle caps. Keeps a loaded revolver in her purse; likes to finger it on the bus while watching the other passengers get on and off.

 

Howard Loose :

A dirty man in an ill-fitting grey suit. Fiddles endlessly with a cigarette while smoothing back his lank hair. Fat lips smack over words. Keeps a dozen fake IDs in his wallet, including an FBI badge.

 

Gabrielle Alimilla Pilar :

Jangling charms and a ratty denim jacket adorned with patches. Bites her nails raw; fingers covered in band-aids. Descended from an ancient Basque sorceress (so she claims).

 

Carl Boxwood :

Wire-frame glasses, greasy apron, and a dog-eared sci-fi paperback. Pursued  by the insidious smell of fried fish. A facade of incredulity hides naked curiosity.

 

Joey Burgess :

Bald, bearded, head like a battered thumb. Ex-marine. Keeps a collection of unguents, ointments, powders, proteins, and potions in his hefty duffel bag. Refuses to drink fluoridated water. 

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Art by Ollie Jones. 

A SICKNESS IN THE STOMACH

CORINTH, MI.

Population 1,543.

A small township in northern lower Michigan, somewhere between Gaylord and Atlanta. It sits on the edge of Miller Lake. Every July tourists come for the brown trout festival.

It's winter and unseasonably warm. The sky alternately slate grey and brilliantly sunny. The roads are black slush and patches of dead green show through the patchy snow-melt. Snowmobiles sit abandoned in yards. The conifers stand bunched together, still clad in their dark green raiments.

There is a rot in the trees. Needles turning sickly yellow. Swathes bare, denuded, like dead pillars. The forestry officials aren't sure why.

You arrive in town, on main street. It stretches for two blocks. Cinder-block bars, shuttered cafes, and little shops selling ammo, liquor, and lottery tickets. A big truck with a snowplow strapped to the front trundles past.

There is sleep in your eyes and a craving for coffee in your belly. A dossier sits in your glove-box, stamped with the name Harry Konikowski. White, middle-aged, owns a small time construction company out on Willow Road. Three times charged with battery and assault, each case settled out of court. His Facebook page is endless pictures of fish he's caught and anti-vaccination conspiracies.

You're here because the precogs back at headquarters picked up something odd. A gyre, something psychic, spiraling inward on this town. A deepening sink of rage, fear, and distress.

Find out whats causing it. Stop it if you can.

Proceed with caution. The locals are, as a rule, paranoid and armed. 

WHAT YOU DON'T KNOW

Konikowski's daughter, Jenny, a high-schooler pregnant before her time. The thing in her belly terrifies her; a tumorous parasite growing, leeching. Abortion is a sin she daren't commit, so the fear festers.

Since thirteen she's been on a cocktail of anti-depressants proscribed by a doctor in Gaylord. They keep her mind muddled. Her parent's think there is something wrong with her. They blame the flu shot and pray for her deliverance.

In fact, she is a grade-A psychic. One of a hundred in the whole country. No one could possibly know this. She certainly doesn't.

Jenny takes refuge in the backwoods, when she can sneak out. Cans of beer and her best friend Eva. Sometimes, in the smoke of a bonfire, through the haze of liqour, they steal soft kisses from each other's lips. Vague dreams of flight and escape bubble up and fade away in the light of day.

She's stopped taking the pills. Each morning they're washed down the bathroom sink. The world feels so much more acute now. People find her observations uncanny, lacking in tact. Her parents whisper, when they think she can't hear, about a visit to the Church psychiatrist. Her classmates call her a crazy bitch behind her back.

In three days, a freak ice storm will knock over trees and break power-lines. In five days asphalt will boil and bullies bleed from their ears. Pets will birth malformed offspring. In seven days, reality breaks. Corinth becomes a nightmare-scape, its people lost and maddened amid houses twisted into kitsch labyrinths and devouring trees that crowd you in like a jeering mob. At the eye of the storm, Jenny. Tormented by parents become ogreish grotesques.

The Agency will cordon off the township and expunge it from the records.

This is the worst case scenario. 

+++

Use Violence. Else, the fiction reigns. 

I made the art. 

A Farmhouse

Thatched roof and fieldstone walls, barn nuzzled up against the south end. Nailed to the door is the farmer. Flies languidly buzz around his head. 

 

You feel as if you are watched.

Inside, motes of dust hang in shafts of light. A dim impression of rafters, hanging bunches of garlic, stacked cookpots, the pervasive smell of spoiled milk.

The witchfinder and his two lackeys hide behind an overturned table. They have heavy wheellock pistols and basket-hilted blades. The farmer's wife and his two twelve-year old sons lie gagged and bound on the floor. They have long since cried their throats raw.

Lurking in the tall grain, a seventeen year old girl. There is a fat black rat perched on her shoulder. It has terrifyingly intelligent eyes. Together, they have spent the last three hours carefully drawing an elaborate sigil around the farmhouse with dirt and pebbles. She will drag them all down to hell if she can.