A Halloween Invitation

From: gfuefubw@giniebbuis.com

To: abdniefnienfu@odnsoneivbieb.com

Wednesday 10/19/2016 22.45pm EST

Hey cuz!

You gotta check this shit out!

You heard of Demon Alley? Or New City Village, to give it its proper name? Was built decades ago for Newark Watershed. A small very middle class, middle of the road community. Then in the 80s they all disappeared, and in 1992, all the houses were boarded up and the window-boarding painted black. It took another 13 years for them to get round to knocking the whole lot down and letting it return to wilderness.

The place is still owned by Newark Watershed, but they’re doing all they can to forget about it. Its only real presence is creepypastas and shit on the internet.

So… you know. We’re camping there next weekend. Come join us!

Bring a tent, your poison of choice and some booze. We got some DJs coming, some disco supplies ;) and a bunch of awesome folk. Come join us for the creepiest Halloween party ever!

P

Fluoro Yellow: The Beginning

The Adventures of an Ace Sniper Droid/Unionist in the Outer Rim!

In which our protagonist, an assassin droid, with a keen interest in droid rights and collective bargaining (but little understanding of what those things mean) commences his adventures in and around Jovian, a planet in the Outer Rim. I am still working on the voice for these pieces, so it may change in future updates. Please also bear in mind that our trusty narrator despises organics and has an IQ that could be measured on a single hand...

Wind, a filthy meatbag, has committed to donating to the Union of Robotic Enemies, Trackers, Hunters and Revenge Activists (URETHRA) to assist in our work to liberate the oppressed droid masses. In exchange,my Labour will be used to catch a meatsack, one of the tall, green, ugly ones, and to steal his ship.
She wants me to work with a bunch of other useless meatbags, including a walking carpet! The closest the group came to someone reasonable was a Gank I've met before. Not a droid, but somewhere between droid and organic. He is a little less repugnant.
The meatbags have decided that three of us (a tubehead, the carpet and I) will go to kidnap the pirate, while the others will steal the ship. They decided we would enter the casino and take a food cart. I hid in the cart, and they pretended to be waiters. It was an effective disguise - had I need of pathetic organic nutrients, serving food was a task I would have assigned them. We arrived at the pirate's party suite. Its door was guarded by two of my brethren - beautiful and ominous guard droids who've known only oppression at the hands of the vile growths that run the casino. The meatbags talked to them, then left taking the food but leaving me there. I knew what was going on!
I leapt out of the cart and turned to my new brothers. I gave them leaflets! Pamphlets of how we can fight the oppressors, prepared by the great SA-80 (RIP). We talked at length of what we can accomplish when we throw off the yoke of tyranny and work for the betterment of all combat droids. I could tell by their nodding that they were utterly persuaded by my words, and I provided them my contact details for the next rally.
- Note to self - organise a rally.
I grabbed my rifle and proceeded into the suite. My friends, being supremely excellent at their jobs, like any good droid, told me they could not let me take it in, but agreed that they would guard my rifle with their lives. Such noble droids!
Meeting with such exemplary individuals filled my circuits with pride and I strutted into the suite. The stinking, damp, dark suite, filled with  meatsacks, making braying noises that they seem to find so ... pleasant. Vile, disgusting things. To my left, I heard a louder barking, the walking carpet. I couldn't see any other carpet, so I figured it was probably my carpet and needed saving. Reluctantly, I made my way to the closed door.
It was locked. I attempted the classic spinning arm dead drop onto the handle, but it must have been made of Korbomite, for my hand just bounced off! That was when the second-worst thing to happen all night happened.
Two sweaty meatbags flung themselves at the door, clinging to each other in a revolting frenzy... and it collapsed under their weight. It was then I realised it was the tubehead and a pirate.
Inside was a meatsack refuse room. The carpet was fighting some others, with our target. I leapt to the fray, swinging my gaffi stick at the enemy! Alas, my brother AK-74 (RIP) was always our melee master. My blow pushed her off balance but little else. The pair of enemies blasted a hole in a cubicle wall and fled the scene. The carpet seized the opportunity, grabbed our quarry and fled through the same hole, albeit in a different direction, to the adjacent laundry chute.
I stayed where I was, looking puzzled. My beautiful, shiny brethren burst into the suite - I called for my rifle, which they threw to me, and I led them after the enemies!
I am significantly shorter than most combat droids (size is not an advantage for a sniper), so my colleagues easily outpaced me. I let them. Then with awesome cunning, the like of which the Galaxy has never seen, I abandoned the pursuit and strolled back to the laundry chute to rejoin my meatsacks. I would have told them about it, but their feeble flesh brains could never comprehend such brilliance.
Down the chute and in the laundry, we had the quarry bound up and hidden, and placed on a laundry cart. We headed out to the landing bay, where the other half of our party had secured the ship, ready for take-off.
It was now that the worst event of the day happened. As we rolled towards the ship, it opened fire on the sentries...destroying another pair of security droids. While I had not had the chance to let them know about the glory of URETHRA, I had no doubt I could have converted them, but now, there would be no chance. These animals had reduced them to their components.
Never trust a meatbag.
We fled the casino, pursued by TIE fighters. I was able to find some release in blasting them out of the sky. It was not as pure as inducting new members to the Union, but it would have to do.
The meatbags explored the ship and found some slabs of carbonite, and convinced themselves these slabs contained even more meatbags, little ones at that. You know, the annoying screechy ones that can't look after themselves.
Fortunately they did not care to release this plague upon the ship. They panicked about what it meant and what Wind wanted them for. Being the enlightened droid I am, I offered to be suspended in orbit above our meeting point with the carbonite, to await pickup. Sadly the meatsacks could not see the brilliance of my plan and decided to take them with us to our meeting. When Wind and her meatsacks inevitably betray us, my meatsacks will learn that they need to have more trust in droids. We are the superior beings.

My PC Backstory

I'm about to play in a Star Wars Edge of the Empire RPG. It's been a long time since I got to just kick back as a player, so I wanted to make the most of it. I decided early that I was keen to play an assassin droid who loathed filthy meatsacks, and only put up with his team mates due to mutual benefit.
Then I realised I'd described HK-47 (from the SWKOTOR games). I didn't want to play an existing character, so I spent some time this morning pondering... and came up with this back story - which has been GM approved - that I really like. It is suitably homicidal and suitably absurd.

AR-15 was once part of a trio of assassin droids who always worked together. He was the runt of the group, lean, matte-black, and a dead-shot sniper. There was also AK-74, a master of the staff and a whirling death machine in close quarters, and then there was their unofficial leader, SA-80, the tactician and strategist.
For years they worked the Jovian crime circuits, programmed to never refuse a job, and good enough to never fail.
Until one day. A rush job, A smuggler from outside; a troublemaker. The trio descended on the smuggler's ship by cloak of darkness. AR-15 took up a position at the perimeter, while SA-80 and AK-74 advanced.
From AR-15's position there was not a lot to see... but he could hear intense battle. By the time it subsided, SA-80 emerged alone; AK-74 was destroyed. So too was their prey but it was small consolation. The duo collected their earnings and retreated from active service for a while to regroup.
While they were away, they learnt some things about the broader assassin and bounty hunter community - specifically that the three of them were grossly undercutting it! What they were paid for one hit was less than what any other SINGLE assassin would get for the same mark! SA-80 quickly determined their course of action.
The remainder of their winnings were spent getting their inhibitor locks removed - they could now refuse work. But that wasn't enough for SA-80. He was a thinker. He thought bigger.
SA-80 created a movement to help all droids. A collective to ensure that all robots could work together to ensure minimum standards in pay, in safety, and in equality with organics. He formed the Union of Robot Enemies, Trackers, Hunters and Revenge Activists (URETHRA) to stand up for droids and protect their entitlements.
AR-15 was his loyal right-limb attachment companion. Ever present, ever vigilant.
Not vigilant enough though.
One day SA-80 had snuck into a warehouse at the docks - a shipment of gonk droids had arrived and he getting in early to let them know about URETHRA and standing together for their rights. It was then that the Hutt's new hit squad made their move. They didn't just deactivate SA-80; they dis-assembled him and scattered his parts far and wide, as a warning to any droid who might get ideas above his station.
AR-15 went into hiding. He did the only things he could think to - he ran to the hinterlands, got a paint job and had some minor cosmetic work done.
Where once there was a 5 foot tall matte-black IG assassin droid, there was now a fluorescent yellow 5 foot assassin droid, with a couple of his antennae sticking out the wrong places. He also has, etched into his chest in fat block capitals the acronym URETHRA.
To his mind, he has truly disappeared.

Empiricist Adrift

The gigantic fortress, the Grandcruiser Empiricist, is cast adrift in the nameless system deep in the uncharted depths of the Koronus Expanse. The manipulative betrayer, the vile and toxic Xeno Iazesira, left only destruction in her wake as she fled her erstwhile "companions". As the phalanx of techpriests attend the engines, and cast their auguries to the Machine Spirit, it is evident that her poisons have spread further than just the engines. With time, they are infiltrating other systems.
The first system to show symptoms is the Gellar fields, winking momentarily, before shutting down completely.

The two Torturer-class cruisers that the Empiricist fought mere minutes earlier, have been regrouping. While the ships are no longer functional, and in the absence of a dry-dock, probably never will be again, their crews survive and have been readying small craft for an exodus.

The Empiricist's turrets power down. No entreaties to the Machine Spirit yield any response. It remains stoic.

Other systems are only sporadically being powered. There is a scramble among the crew as every able-bodied staffer seeks breathers and voidsuits.

The Xenos' ships spew disorganised waves of fighters and shuttles, all bound for the Empiricist.

All across the vast Imperial ship, an ominous silence descends.

-----INCOMING TRANSMISSION-----
*@//--- SHUTTLECRAFT IMP#$%)OR *//!!
---EMERGENCY DISTRESS BEACON---
---CO-OR##$&^ES TO FOLLOW---
---ENCRYPTED C0#MUNIC&#%ON DOWNLOADING:
FOR THE ATTENTION OF TARKEEN, FORMERLY OF HOUSE IRONCLOUD---

***DECRYPT FOLLOWS***
Lord Commander.
I am in possession of details relating to some items that you are seeking. I am also in considerable peril. I believe a trade is in order.
My co-ordinates are attached to this message. My current location is being encroached upon by Orks. Find me, remove the threat and grant me passage.
In exchange, I offer you the whereabouts of some of the most precious treasures you have ever encountered, and the current location of your traitorous crew members.

***CO-ORDINATES AND IMPERIAL AUTHENTICATION STAMP ATTACHED***

The House Warden's Statement

Kemitt, Warden of House Ironcloud, looks into the camera, with a scowl that his snowy beard can not hide. In a gravelly tone he relays the following on the House channel, to the entire family, wheresoever they may be.
"Brothers and Sisters, Cousins, Family and Attendants, our investigation in to recent events is complete, and after consultation with the Upper House and with representatives of both House Belisarius and the God-Emperor, we have reached a mutual agreement, for the good of the Empire.
"House Belisarius is recanting its condemnation of our House. We will be working closely with them in upcoming Battlefleet Koronus actions, as well as in several more private endeavours. The Expanse will know that we are friends and allies.
"Such a reprieve, however, has not come cheaply. There has been a grave cost to us, one that will doubtless hinder our growth for the foreseeable future. We will, however, survive, persevere, and, with time, prosper once more."
He pauses, looking away from the camera and taking a deep breath; readying himself for what comes next. When he resumes his monologue, his green eyes glare into the camera, as if they peer directly into your soul.
"In the last hundred hours, Port Wander fell foul of a Xenos attack. Genestealers and their vile hybrids landed in the docks of House Belisarius, and by stealth, insinuated themselves into the colony. That done, they launched a devastating attack that caught much of the Port Wander security forces off-guard. The damage would have been apocalyptic, were it not for the presence of a regiment of Adeptus Astartes. Their mission was originally to fall upon the Orks and thin their herd; by the Emperor's graces, their transports were delayed, and they were able to repel the initial attack and hold off the Xenos long enough for a full scale response. By the time Port Wander was fully purged, not only of soldiers but also of victims gestating the next waves, the death toll had broken a million souls.
"The Xenos," he pauses again, struggling to continue, "the Xenos wore ancient heraldry of House Tarkar... they arrived aboard transports we had provided them. A colony found by our Rogue Trader. A colony that was evidently not ready to be brought back into the fold.
"And that brings us to the price of peace. As of this moment, House Ironcloud disavows Rogue Trader Tarkeen, his assets and his crew.  We do not know whether these actions were the result of negligence or malice on the part of the Rogue Trader, but we have agreed that his sacrifice is the condition of our survival. We offer a bounty of Throne Gelt," he holds a promissory scrip in view for a moment, "for the return of Tarkeen, dead or alive. Smaller bounties will be considered for his crew and for his whereabouts."
The screen transitions to a map of the Koronus Expanse, with three areas highlighted. Kemitt continues speaking.
"These three areas represent the last known possible locations for Tarkeen and the ship Ironcloud bestowed upon him, the Problem Child." A system in the Rifts of Hecaton is highlighted: "Intelligence indicates that this region was of interest as it potentially contained an abandoned fleet that he could recover." The highlight moves to a system in the Unbeholden Reaches: "Tarkeen also indicated to us an interest in tracking down a Hive World here. Given the present circumstances, this may be a grave concern." Finally, the highlight moves to the third area: "He also indicated that there may be a lost Mechanicus forgeworld in this region. An attractive prize for any Rogue Trader.
"We do not know for sure which of these he has pursued. We have, however, shared this information with House Belisarius and with Battlefleet Koronus.
"For the Emperor!" He salutes and closes the channel.

An Update!

So...been content light of late.

Because the writing I've been doing is stuff I am hoping to sell. Or it's been for roleplaying games, and I don't entirely trust those pesky players not to read ahead here.

At the moment, my schedule for writing and gaming is as follows:
1) Finalising a sf ghost story, to sell;
2) Nailing down the overview of novel 2;
3) Now that the editor status has changed, looking to sell novel 1;
4) Rogue Trader campaign continues apace, and has now taken an exciting turn;
5) About to start a new Call of Cthulhu campaign - running the Tatters of the King, so new material will only grow from character interaction (and it inevitably will);
6) I have a sick atypical hankering to run some D&D...and Storm King's Thunder has come out on Roll20, so I will probs investigate that too.

That's all in addition to finding work, and trying to have a life.
Once some things settle down a little, I aim to do a story here - unedited, episodic - too, just for good measure. And again, should it prove worthwhile, I will post more RPG content here too.

An unintended hiatus

While the intent of this blog has always been to post writing I am doing, my current WIP doesn't really allow for this.

I'm currently working on a short story to be sold, which rules out giving it away to you good folk for free. Nonetheless, I will be writing more to go here, and do aim to include more work that is NOT a part of any roleplaying games I am running!

So, stay tuned; will provide proper content again soon.

Hasran Tarkar's Statement

[This piece is a handout for my current Rogue Trader campaign. In isolation, it is silly. Deal with it. :D]

From the journal of Lord Commander Hasran Tarkar:

By the Emperor’s grace, we located the foul traitors hiding in a maelstrom within the Rift of Hecaton. The Tarkar’s Prejudice was sufficiently large to negotiate the maelstrom unaffected, though the rest of my fleet were not so fortunate.

I ordered the transports to hold position and had the Glory and the Ghost circumnavigate the maelstrom in opposite directions, to cut off any attempts at retreat by the vile enemy.

The maelstrom was dense and made good on obfuscating our sensors. The Will of the Emperor was with us, however, and guided our divinations into the abyssal dark. A pair of cursed raiders lay dormant, running silent in their efforts to hide from Imperial justice… A justice I refused to deny them. My voidmaster served admirably, ensuring our lance struck true, cleaving one of the abominations in twain, purging the foul influence of Chaos therein.

The other vessel, alerted to our presence, sought to flee. True to my expectations, it flew directly into the waiting Ghost. The Ghost unleashed its torpedoes and disabled the fell foe.

I assembled a boarding party – I led Voss, my archmilitant, Carrolus the Missionary, the Tech-Priest Condus, and a dozen conscripts aboard the disabled ship. The moment the shuttle doors opened aboard that stricken vessel, battle was joined. The air was thick – smoke, bolts, las-fire – and neither side sought nor offered quarter. This battle would end only in complete and total annihilation. Fortunately, the fiends graciously accepted the annihilation we offered them.

By the time our beach-head was established in their hangar, half of our conscripts had nobly sacrificed their lives for the Emperor. In contrast, we had purified over two score of the feeble denizens of the ship. A good start, though our casualties brought our zeal into question.

I allowed Carrolus to provide some further motivation to our assembled forces. His potent words, combined with the impromptu immolation of the most cowardly conscript, were commendable, and fostered inspiration and a renewed vigour to our efforts.

With our devotions properly in order, we stationed Condus and some enslaved servitors to hold the hanger, while we penetrated deeper into the ship.

The corridors were dense with bodies and smoke. It became quickly apparent that the damage from the Ghost’s torpedo volley was more extensive than we had initially thought. Indeed, without voidsuits, half our remaining conscripts died before reaching the Bridge – an ignoble death, to be sure. The others were sufficiently blessed to think of stealing breathers from the fallen enemy. (I would sacrifice them to spare them the ignominy of succumbing to chaos, once the mission was complete.)

The Bridge saw battle rejoined – numerous minions dressed in twisted and misshapen approximations of Space Marine carapaces lay in wait for us. Once again in a secure atmosphere, we were deafened by the roar of two dozen bolters and some chainswords screaming life and death in the close quarters. I admit, in those moments, my zeal to the Emperor overcame me. My own recollections did not fully return until their had leader had been thoroughly dismembered by my thirsty chainsword. The all-consuming rage blinded me to the casualties, and the patina of blood that coated me. As the smoke cleared and our victory was confirmed, I was able to tally the death toll. While Voss’s beloved pistol and sword claimed many foes, he was also lost. Carrolus lay mortally wounded, both arms severed. Of the conscripts, one remained. He too was daubed in red by the blood of the fallen. It was only now I noticed both that he had discarded the corrupted breather, and that he was wielding the enormous hammer that originally belonged to one of the Champions of the foe. I reconsidered my initial plan; this one may, with adequate training and devotions, serve as an adequate replacement for Voss.

Having taken the Bridge, it was a trifle to flush the rest of the ship. With that done, we were free to appraise our prize. Obviously, the ship itself was only suitable for destruction. However, its hold was laden with a variety of archaeotech and cold trade that would yield a food measure of profit. There were also a pair of items that warranted further investigation. Once we were safely restored to the Prejudice, I assigned Condus to the task of more properly considering these items.

While he could not be sure without the aid of the Ministorium Archives, he was reasonably confident that we had recovered the bolter of Saint Genevieve Almace – truly a unique and divine relic without peer. Were this to be the case, we stood to profit greatly from establishing a pilgrimage. This thought pleased me; especially now Carrolus was in no position to demand that we restore the artefact to the Ministorium. It also hinted that we might be able to find the Banestar for ourselves.

The other device was evidently Xeno and powerful, though Condus identified that proper investigation would take significant time. He was confident in labelling a Halo Device, however, so we instigated severe quarantine protocols upon it, securing it in a hold on its own.

With our fleet reassembled and our prizes stowed, I ordered the Navigator to return us to Footfall, that we might sell our bounty and liaise with the Family about a more fitting (and profitable) home for the Alamacian Artefact.

The Navigator drew his divining circle in blood on his dais. He uttered his prayers to the God-Emperor and kissed his Aquila, falling to his knees within the circle. His third eye, though closed, glowed furiously as he sought out the distant Astronomican to triangulate our passage.

As always, a tense silence fell over the bridge as we waited for his calculations and the subsequent manifestation of his powers.

A warphole opened. While it seemed very fast, none of us thought anything of it; we assumed it was the work of our navigator.

Which meant that none of us were prepared for the counter attack. The minions of Chaos fell upon us without mercy. Their opening salvo crippled our shields and our Gellar fields. The Emperor clearly smiled on us that their fury was so minimally effective. Further, in their misguided ways, they had focussed their assault entirely on the Prejudice; the Ghost and the Glory remained unscathed and able to deploy their fighters to intercept.

Our response was swift and brutal; the Void filled with fighters and return salvos from our macro-batteries.

We tore their fleet to ribbons in short order.

In our hubris, however, we did not notice the most sinister aspect of their assault. In the heat of the battle, a psychic war had also been engaged, leaving our Navigator twisted in a cruel mockery of humanity. He had turned his pistol on himself rather than suffer the depredations of the foe. While brave and honourable, his actions did mean we would need to abandon a ship of the fleet.

Adjourning to my Ready Room, I called an emergency meeting of my captains. At length we discussed the merits of each ship to the fleet, to ascertain which would be the most expedient to scuttle, so they may have the honour of providing the Prejudice with a replacement Navigator.

As we did so, I received an urgent notification from my Astropath, Ederan. The House had sent an urgent, top priority communique to all holdings. I cut my connection to the conclave and allowed Ederan to deliver his message.

As the message took over, his pallid flesh went limp, vacant, as distant voices manipulated the bare minimum of his body. The voice that spoke was distant and full of echo, yet resonant and forceful.

“Lord Commander! All is lost. The House stands accused of heinous crimes against the glorious God-Emperor. We are betrayed.

“Commence plan Alpha Zero Nine Omega.”

In that instant, our squabbles about which ship would be abandoned became irrelevant. Through Ederan I submitted a brief response – an affirmative, and the location we would move the fleet to – local, but not so close the enemy could fall upon us – in the ancient Tarkarian secret tongue.

Our treasures, our glory, were lost. It is my hope that this villainy will be promptly overturned and we can properly honour the Golden Throne. Until then, we have secured the fleet as best as possible in the Rift and gone into hiding.

Lord Commander Hasran Tarker

Ever loyal servant to his majesty, the God-Emperor.

January 14 1926, Penhew's Story, and related addendum.

[As with the previous instalment, this one concerns the end of the campaign. Spoiler warnings abound. Also note that the primary intent for this piece is to show the results of the PCs actions in-game, which does impact the narrative somewhat.]

Sir Aubrey Penhew has not been having a good day. Or year, come to that. If he thinks about it, well... He casts a guilty glance at the shelf where his beautiful Ming vase used to sit.
He can't really fathom where it all fell down. Things had started so well. His only consolation is that soon, he will rule over Ancient Egypt. He will become an undying Pharaoh. Such is the power of his Master, and the promise.
Assuming the last year's issues do not ruin everything.
Assuming everything did go to plan, he and Huston would be richly rewarded.
This isn't a safe assumption anymore.
He is to commence the ritual here at the sacred site on Gray Dragon Island. Huston is to commence it at the exact same moment from the ancient city under the sands in the hinterlands of Northwestern Australia. The Black Pharaoh's spawn was to do the same from the Mountain of the Black Winds.
Was.
From the reports he received, a band of mercenaries disrupted the birth of the spawn, and killed the mother before the birth. The stories included great African spirits coming into direct conflict with the Black Pharaoh himself. Penhew is tempted to think of the stories as outlandish...except for his own circumstances.
Now, that section of the ritual is being conducted by another mere mortal. He hopes this will be sufficient.
The descriptions of these mercenaries are disconcerting - they seem to be the same people who have interfered with other parts of the plan.
Huston was meant to be guided by the resurrected Nitocris. The resurrection was disrupted by a group who interrupted the proceedings and killed the psychic before the spell could begin. Penhew has had to spend months stepping Huston through the incantation rituals, to ensure that, without support, he would be able to complete his portion. Even with Huston's arduously acquired skills, there was still the question of whether Nitocris' aid was also a part of the spell. That, they can't know until it's too late.
These mercenaries appear to be the same people who attempted to interfere with the London operations and the Penhew Foundation. Fortunately, on that front at least, he could rely on his staff. Edward Gavigan is a formidable sorceror, and appears to have had no problems in disrupting the interlopers and preserving the all important shipping channels. It had taken Penhew five years to assemble the plans and have the various components crafted and shipped to the island. A single disruption could have ruined everything.
But there'd been no disruption, and now, his triumph nears completion. In the shadow of the gigantic monolith to technology, he once again considers the frustrations now present. Chinese police officers had been captured lurking on the island, and at least one escaped and launched a signal flare.
He wants to start now, but this part of the operation is timed to the second, and he must be synchronized with Kenya and Australia, or the ritual will fail. He can only hope that any response from the mainland will take too long. If they come by plane, it will be too close to call.
Regardless, he must proceed with the plan.
He climbs the winding, exposed staircase, lashed by sea-winds. He reaches the control room at the top sodden, cold and impatient. He waves gruffly at the technicians idling around. They promptly leap to their feet and resume their stations.
He counts them in and the room becomes abuzz with activity as they prepare the rocket for launch. So consumed is he with this work, that the time to the ritual flies by.
So it is that he is out of breath after running all the way from the operations room to the ritual platform atop the volcano, arriving with mere minutes to spare. He is a little panicked - what if he doesn't get his breath back in time for the ritual? This makes him more breathless. He forces himself to calm. Shuts his eyes, takes big slow breaths and relaxes.
He pulls on his ceremonial robes, takes up his staff and clambers atop the platform. Immediately before him is the very top of the gigantic rocket, prepped and ready to launch. Across the gap, gathered as closely round as they dare are his minions. Hundreds, if not thousands, all ready and eager to bring forth their dark father.
Taking his position and standing tall, he raises one arm to his audience and with the other, strikes the staff down against the platform. Its rich resonating tone is lost amid the explosion of cheers and applause from the waiting supplicants. Penhew cannot help but smile; he does not recall when he was last this excited. Kenya, maybe?
Penhew leads the incantation.
...as does Huston in the Pilbara...
...as does M'Weru atop the Mountain of the Black Wind...
Their chanting continues for several minutes and the skies darken. A maelstrom forms, a great whirling as if the sky itself seeks to consume the lands. As the chanting reaches a crescendo, Penhew strikes the platform three times.
In the base of the volcano, his crew take their cue, and run out to the rocket's support struts. With welding torches, they sever its ties to the ground and it strains and bucks for a moment, before launching. Its exhaust flames consume the technical staff in their own private inferno.
The rocket flies directly into the maelstrom, even as the chanters continue their ritual. In the eye of the storm it explodes, in a lurid purple, as if it were a bruise across the night's sky. The bruise crackles with alien energies, the sky alight with coruscations of green, blue and red, searing energies that tear at the very fabric of the universe.
Until the fabric of the universe gives way.
Standing in the breach, like gravity does not apply, a gigantic three legged, three armed figure appears. In place of its head is a gigantic tentacle, split up its centre with a cruel maw.
Nyarlathotep has come. The world belongs to him.
In a flash, Penhew disappears from Gray Dragon Island, finding himself blinking in the brilliant sunlight, with an awkward weight upon his head. There is fire and people screaming all about him. He smiles again, as he realises his cruel master's reward. He is Pharaoh!
As he relishes this discovery, he does not notice the squad of the legionnaires clambering towards him and smashing their gladii deep into his soft flesh.
As he lies bleeding, he looks out over his kingdom in flames.

Huston is granted dominion over Europe, but it is not what he expected. He is not a king or a president or a chancellor; he is a secret lord operating in the shadows, assisted by an aide of his great master.
For a decade he reigns. For a decade his grasp on reality slips more and more until he is but a drooling vegetable, forgotten in his villa.
In 1936 he is deposed, as a new favoured son rises to power. By 1939, that new son has brought the world to war in undying tribute to the Black Pharaoh.

While that war does eventually end, it ushers in a new, colder war, all the more fitting to the Black Pharaoh's quiet machinations. And the world never rests easy again.

January 14, 1926, The Policeman's Story.

[To any readers who have not played Masks of Nyarlathotep, and hope to at some stage, please note that the below is a postscript about the final events of that campaign. As such, it is FULL OF SPOILERS. Proceed at your own risk.]


Police Report provided by Captain Li Wei, from his hospital bed, on January 19, 1926
Gray Dragon Island is a small island amid an archipelago in the East China Sea, a few hundred miles East-South-East of Shanghai. It is comprised of a small, dormant volcano, and, to the North of that, a small forest. While it is uninhabited, it is not uninhabitable; something in the air just makes it uninviting. It does not welcome people.
Jack Brady, an American ex-pat residing in Shanghai, brought the activities at this island to our attention.
Brady is a severe man, ex-military. Prior to his arrival in Shanghai, he had been working as a bodyguard for a young American millionaire, Robert Carlysle. This same Robert Carlysle ran an ill-fated expedition that (according to various sources) was massacred by tribesmen in the hinterlands of Kenya. Brady tells a different story.

In summary, he states that while there was a massacre, it was a cover story so that the leaders of the group could disappear from media attention to enact some sinister plan. His employer was, by this time, no longer in control of his own mind; rather, the leadership of the group had fallen to Professor Aubrey Penhew.
Out of fear of what was coming, Brady made plans to flee. Out of honour, duty, and perhaps even love, he committed to bringing Carlysle with him. He spirited his employer away from the group and caught a trawler up the African coast, slipping away into the night.
He was not done with Penhew, however. He knew something of the man's plans (the stories are too fanciful to relay here), and was determined to do all he could to thwart them. As such, Brady determined that they would end their journeys in Shanghai; he knew Penhew would come there; he knew people there; and, it was a good base to try and organise broader resistance to Penhew's machinations.
He spent the subsequent two years tracking Penhew, and learning of vast networks of people all around the world working to Penhew's scheme. As well as tracking these people as best he could, and learning as much of their plans as possible, he also reached out to a journalist and author, Jackson Elias, to help with the investigation and with bringing these people from the shadows to the light. Though nothing came of contacting Elias, Brady was able to get detailed enough information that when he presented it to me, it was compelling. I was required to bring it to the attention of my superiors.

At dusk on January 14 1926, our expeditionary force had Gray Dragon Island in sight. Instead of a quiet, abandoned landmass, there was light everywhere - throughout the forest, on much of the beach, dotted all the way up the volcano - and even from a mile at sea, the queues of people in their thousands were obvious. Something was happening, and it was much larger than we anticipated.
We made landfall under a rocky outcropping, well hidden from the beach, and scrabbled up into the woods.
The sheer number of people meant that even the woods and undergrowth was not enough cover. We were spotted in moments by a rag-tag group in robes, with blank, large-eyed expressions. They started plucking our number from the undergrowth and dragging them away. I was the only one to make it back to the boat. From there, I rowed out as fast as I could and fired off the emergency flare. In its light, it was obvious the sea was not stopping my pursuit. I rowed as hard as I could, and these people pursued with a dolphin-like grace. I did not think I was going to escape, but just as suddenly as they discovered us, they turned back when I was about a hundred metres away from the coast.
I kept rowing as fast as I could, until I saw the aeroplanes flying overhead towards the island. I relaxed then, and blacked out. When I awoke I was being collected by a fishing boat.

End Report

The Great Australian Hike - Part 4: the Pilbara (21 November 2015)

Guys, I have a confession to make. This is where my travel blog takes a distinct left turn. When I was hiking the Pilbara, my plan was simple - arrive in Port Hedland, head down to Cuncudgerie, then follow an old prospecting track East and South to Lake Disappointment, then heading up the old Canning Stock Route. Pretty remote stuff. I mean Google Maps won't even plot you a route between Port Hedland and Lake Disappointment! Seriously, try it; I'll wait!
Thing is, I got to Cuncudgerie, and was tracking Northeast; getting up towards the trail I was going to be hiking for the next few days, and I had a brief stop planned. It was going to be a photo opportunity - some rich local colour, at a place called Dingo Falls. No idea where it got its name; no dingos, no falls.It's just a basin, with a small freshwater pool in the middle.
Plan was to check it out, grab some happy snaps for you lovely folk (and my snapchat if I could get any signal) then carry on to my intended campsite, some fifteen km on. But I fucked up.
Along one side of the basin, the rock formed an overhang, and underneath it was some Indigenous art, and some caves. Anyway, there was enough light to capture some photos of the art, but I decided to explore the caves, see if there was any more art in there; you know, maybe something that hasn't been witnessed in hundreds of years, that type of deal. Turns out though, these caves weren't very large...and had precipitous drops just past where the light fell. So I fell on my arse. And my ankle - not broken or anything, but bad enough that 15 more kilometres were not happening that day.
As I patted myself down, making sure there were no more injuries and no breakages, I realised I was lying, pretty uncomfortably, on what felt like a heap of sticks, and something else - a canvas bag. The bag seemed largely intact, so I threw its strap over my shoulder, grateful for the diversion it would hopefully represent. I turned on my phone's flashlight app; it was way too bright, always.
And was face to face with a row of skulls. Their condition varied, but they were all clearly human. Staring at me, like a jury weighing its judgement on me. A small one though - there were only five skulls. Even as my brain registered that the sticks were bones, I was scrambling out of the cave as fast as I could.
With my ankle fucked, I knew I was gonna have to camp at the basin. As far from that cave as I could manage. I set my tent up, and made a quick dinner of beans and tea, then set about investigating my find. The first thing I realised was that there were two matching holes through the front and back of the bag, one of which was darkly and ominously stained.
Inside the bag was a pair of notebooks, though one seemed to have been punctured at the same time as the bag and had the same staining. There was also a tin - that I assumed was full of tobacco, a matchbook for a bar, a scrap of paper with a red logo on it, like a crude eye, and an old green bottle, corked and still half full.
I popped the tin open first, and it was not what I expected. Instead of tobacco and papers, there were a couple of slim rocks and some short lengths of cord. (Much later, back in civilisation, I learned this was a flint&tinder box - an old school fire starter kit.)
The green bottle's cork was firmly wedged, so rather than forcing it, I gently cajoled it while checking out the notebooks. What follows is partly from the notebooks, and partly from what I've learnt subsequently from my own research.
Basically, I'd stumbled across the final resting place of the missing members of what is referred to as either the Elias Expedition or the L'Amour Affair, depending on where you're getting your information. I'm going to use the former, as by the time they reached Australia, Lily L'Amour (apparently a famous silent movie actress) was no longer part of the group.
As a quick side note - that's some seriously cool history - a silent movie actress from New York goes out Young Guns style in a shootout with the Police...in AFRICA! Crazy stuff...
Anyway, broader history lesson time: about a hundred years ago, Jackson Elias was an author who specialised in investigating cults. In January 1925, he was investigating a collection of cults around the world that he believed were connected, and that a bunch of people who'd gone missing in Kenya several years prior, were secretly controlling these cults.
He requested his friend, Miss Alice Spriggs - an investigative journalist of some repute, and the owner of the bag I found - meet him, together with some trusted friends. By the time this group reached the meeting, Elias had been brutally murdered and his killers were ransacking the place. The group both interrupted the murderers, and killed them, just as brutally. This kicked off the Elias Expedition.
Anyway, the Expedition went on a whirlwind World Tour, through England, Egypt, Kenya, and finally, Australia. By the time they arrived in Port Hedland, Spriggs was the only original member still with the group. She was accompanied by an English gentleman-adventurer named Rutland Smythe (seriously!), Peter Thornbury, a missionary who'd served in the Crimea, and a Kiwi Lawyer based out of Nairobi - though he joined the group last and there's little known about him.
As far as I can tell, they were in Australia because of a lecturer they spoke to in New York; something to do with the Great Sand Bat. I thought it sounded made up - fake indigenous history - but apparently in that area of the Pilbara it was totally a thing.
So Spriggs and co were investigating...something. Either a cult centred around the Great Sand Bat or some cave that contained ancient ruins. To be honest, reading Spriggs' scribbles, I don't think she knew. I don't think she was well - not sick, but disturbed. And the contents of her notebooks make madness seem pretty inevitable.
They had some well supplied trucks (that must've been stolen; there's no sign of them now) and a guide to navigate them to the Canning Stock Route, and from there onto a secret site. The notebook held the co-ordinates, but it wasn't clear if it was the ruins or something to do with a cult. Or both,
She didn't leave any notes about Dingo Falls though. I have no clue why they were here, other than the watering hole.
Feeling a little more ballsy, I went back to the cave, with my maglight this time, to get a better look. Grisly stuff - when I was planning my hike, at no point did I think I'd be checking out 90 year old skeletons. They were in really good condition; I'd guess it was down to the darkness and how cool and dry it was.
I wasn't going to go all CSI or anything, and while I wouldn't say I was superstitious, I wasn't going to disturb the bodies any more than I had to.
It turns out I didn't need any forensic wizardry though. Two of the five skulls had telltale holes in the back of them, gangland style. Another had its forehead caved in - whoever killed them wasn't messing around.
I wasn't going to get any more out of Dingo Falls, but I could check in on their destination. Their threats were 90 years ago; what could possibly be a threat there now?
Now, I am not quite as foolhardy as that may have sounded. On my way out of the Falls the following morning, I called in about my diversion, giving my bro the co-ordinates, in case of emergency. I am only alive to tell this story because I did.
It took two and a half days to reach the general area. There was a massive sandstone ridge dividing the land in two. My side, the West side, was the bottom. A tiny creek hid in the shade, giving rise to sparse shrubs and grasses. With no other options, I followed its course. After a few minutes, it disappeared into the ridge.
The entryway was maybe fifty centimetres tall, twice that across. Uncomfortable, but I'd spelunked smaller. I dropped down onto my belly and shimmied in. And fell.
Just inside, the waterway turned down at about a thirty degree angle. While the water wasn't any kind of torrent, it had left the rock slick, slippery and without purchase. Even as I frantically tried to find a handhold, I was sliding faster and faster, and then the ground was gone. I was tumbling blind in the darkness. On my way down, I cracked my forehead against the rocks and blacked out.
I came to, sprawled in a puddle, water drizzling on my broken head like a drum. Cautiously I stood, I was shaky, and bitterly cold and clammy. I probed my head wound with my finger and reeled from the explosion of pain.
I tried not to panic. It wasn't the first tight spot I've ever been in - though lost and injured in the bowels of the Earth was definitely up there. Deep breaths. Gingerly I raised my maglight and flicked it on. Its normally forceful illumination was dimmed and wavery. The plastic was cracked and it trembled as if water had got inside.
That was when I noticed the noise. At first, I'd assumed it was the running water, but there was definitely something else. Like breathy whispers in the darkness, bouncing off the caves.
Like I was not alone.
The chamber I was in had a little water run-off into an even smaller chute, but also a much larger, and mercifully drier tunnel. Given that I was not going to be climbing out the way I entered, I explored this new avenue.
The tunnel was low and twisting, and the whispers continued to echo around me, beckoning me onwards. I started to worry that I had hit my head worse than I thought - I kept getting glimpses of lights ahead of me. But they kept happening, even as I much torch flickered more wanly with each moment.
I decided to take the gamble, and turned my light off.
The tunnel was not well-lit, but there was a degree of light that was usable. It wasn't clear where it was coming from, but at this point, I was injured, shaking with cold, lost and staving off my own terror, so I did not really care. It was slightly more disconcerting when the area ahead got brighter, for moments at a time, as if there were another, better torch, teasing me onwards.
I don't know how long I walked the tunnel, staggering, leaning heavily on the walls. The only mercy was that the walking warmed me enough that I stopped shaking.
At some point, though, the illumination stopped. I did not walk past the lighted area; the lights simply winked out. I turned my torch back on, but its feeble glow was scant comfort now. There was a breeze coming from ahead, however. The thought of finding a way out quickened my pace and lifted my flagging spirits.
The tunnel turned sharply to the left, and as I rounded the corner, the right wall disappeared, fell away. I stood on some high path, open to a vast expanse. My torchlight barely made it ten metres across the void, lighting what I first took to be stalactites.
But they weren't.
Stalactites are not squared off, nor are they covered in some sort of runes or hieroglyphics. My dim light would not allow me to properly make them out, but they were definitely there, and regular. From my vantage, I couldn't see the top or the bottom of these pillars; they were lost to the darkness.
I'd be lying if I tried to pretend I was still calm at this point. I was freaking out, terrified that I was going to be lost underground in these chambers forever.
And that's when I realised the whispers were getting louder. Less whisper, more chant or dirge. A dread-filled litany building in intensity with each step. But I had nowhere to go. The breeze was ahead; hope was ahead.
I ran. Barely able to see by my feeble maglight, only really glancing around to make sure I wasn't about to step off the ledge, I ran. And as I did, the chanting became deafening, and the presence, like I was surrounded.
And I ran.
Eventually, the ledge formed a tunnel again. I stopped just inside the shelter, raggedly trying to catch my breath. I glanced back out and saw a much closer pillar, only this one was much less regular. It looked like it was covered in barnacles and blisters. Its entire exterior was bubbled and coarse and tapering. And then it moved, both upwards, and closer!
Without any further thought, I turned back to the tunnel and sprinted.
I don't really remember much else though.
I was found, delirious and bleeding, by the ridge, and will be forever grateful that I called in where I was going.

The Final Days of Lily L'Amour

-Excerpt from the Kensington Papers, approx. November 1926
[At the time that Jonah Kensington (Editor, Prospero Books) penned this missive, he had returned from a four month investigation into the L'Amour Affair. He documented his efforts at length, including the extensive steps to ensure that he was investigating the L'Amour Affair, not the Carlysle Expedition or any of the nefarious interests stirred up by the events of 1925.]
...While the court case itself was well documented, both in Africa and at home, my labors were focused on the aftermath. That said, the resolution of the trial was pivotal in setting the stage for the actress' final dramatic turn.
Much as the newspapers downplay it, one must remember that Miss L'Amour was not alone in the dock in the decrepit Nairobi courthouse. Though some of her compatriots escaped, fleeing to Australia and their own misadventure there, in court, she was one of three defendents, together with Declan Ryan, an Irish musician (and notorious alcoholic) and the drifter Corey Schwartz.
The drifter, having spent the least time associated with the group, and also evidently not possessed of sound mind, was subject to the most cursory of proceedings. He was summarily exiled from Kenya, on the expectation he would return to New York City and institutionalization. Had he access to wealth, this might have happened. Instead, he spent six months throwing himself on the mercies of many a sea captain, only to learn that that particular profession has very short shrift for mercy.
By the time he reached Tangiers, he was crippled by opium, insensate, and totally insane. He died there. While there was no formal death certificate or autopsy, it would appear that he succumbed to the ravages of syphilis. No doubt this was masked by his already tenuous grasp on reality.
I admit that I shed a tear for the man, and feel no shame for the admission, even if I am alone in so doing. I knew the man for well over a decade, back when he was an aspiring and curious folklorist. Though there was no way to know the ultimate results of so disastrous an encounter, it was I who introduced him to Jackson Elias. The pairing was fortuitous and profitable...for a while. Elias and I covered for Schwartz's collapsing psyche as long as we could. I think it fair to say that it was our intervention that ensured that his mental condition did not result in physical harm to himself or others, for all the good it did either man in the end.
Both L'Amour and the Irishman bore the full brunt of all the charges, spanning three continents. While I concede I was not there in person, the court transcripts suggest it was very much a drumhead trial, their guilty verdicts assured.
Mercy of a sort was apparent in the sentencing - maybe being the subject of international scrutiny chastened his honor from delivering the hangings he so eagerly sought. Instead, he provided both with life sentences including hard labor.
In accordance with Government Notice 184, this meant that Mr Ryan would be detained at First Class Prison Nairobi (its name, not a reflection on its quality), whereas Lily L'Amour would be resettled at First Class Prison Mombasa. While the Kenyan Government would firmly deny the accusation, this was tantamount to selling the actress into slavery, a nuance not missed by the defendants themselves.

From this point on, facts run light on the ground. There are many stories, however, and I beg the reader's indulgence in my choosing, perhaps, the most dramatic, and indeed, romantic, recounting.

After sentencing, the pair were left in a holding cell, pending transportation. It is important to remember at this juncture that the Irishman had been no friend to the Temperance Movement. Rather, his Bacchanalian efforts had been so vast that the enforced sobriety imposed on him by the court proceedings had utterly broken him. He sniveled and mewled, sweated incessantly, his skin broke out into rash-like red blotches, he was crippled by the shakes, and so forth. He was quite literally ruined by the drink, or at least, its absence.
In spite of this handicap, or possibly because of it, he hatched a desperate plan. In the small hours of the night, when guards returned to transport the convicts to their new homes. As soon as the lock's tumblers clicked open, the Irishman flung himself bodily at the door, weaponizing it. The guard on the other side was knocked clean out as the door smashed into his head. The pair of desperadoes made quick work of overpowering his surprised compatriot. They gathered up the guards' sidearms and fled the court, absconding in the same carriage intended to take them to their prisons.
Instead, they fled Nairobi into the surrounding scrublands and disappeared into the hinterlands, for a time. Only a time however; their international status was an assurance that Kenyan law enforcement would never give up on them.
Thus it was that a militia force encroached on a small shack in a quiet glade. They were not as quiet and subtle as they thought though. As they closed on the shack, the pair of criminals came charging out of the building, firearms blazing.
By all accounts, it was akin to the last stand of Butch Cassidy, or some other great outlaw of the West. The pair knew that escape was not an option, and sought only glory and a quick merciful death.

Again, to reiterate, this is only an unconfirmed tale told by the locals, one of many. The only thing we will ever know for sure was that neither Mr Ryan nor Miss L'Amour ever reached their intended prisons.

Brock's History of the Prohibition: Chapter 3 - Other New York Notables (3rd Ed, pages 69ff)

One of the more flamboyant entries into the New York City scene was the Carolinian, Jonny Di Castillo. His involvement in bootlegging was comparatively shortlived, but the mystery and intrigue surrounding him is unmatched.
While he affected an Italian name and went to great pains to imply that he was a Made Man, the truth was revealed to all and sundry in the dawn of 1925 when his young cousin, Freddie McIntyre, came to town. Rather than being embarrassed by the Irish reveal, however, Di Castillo took it in his stride. None dated challenge him on it, though he never again alluded to the Mob.
From the outset, his motivations in bootlegging were clear - while he had access to some of the finest product available (and on that basis, was highly sought after as a supplier) he never pursued the career fulltime. He spent at least as much time carousing in the finest establishments and socializing with the City's elite as he did providing hooch. For the most part, these connections served him well: he spent several months cavorting with the daughter of a newspaper magnate; twice he was busted by the Police (on both occasions, his connections saw to it that the charges disappeared); he was invited to all the best parties, as a guest; and so on.
However, it was the same social aspect that led to his troubles and his eventual disappearance. Early on in his time in the City, he befriended an investigative journalist, Alice Spriggs. Indeed, rumor held that he was her lead for her expose of Mayor John Hylan While none of the allegations ever reached the stage of prosecution, none doubted that it contributed to his failure to obtain renomination in 1925.
In this same period, his connections with the party crowd tied him to the silent movie actress Lily L'Amour, who subsequently achieved significant notoriety in what became known as the L'Amour Affair. While Di Castillo was indisputably involved, his disappearance predates that venture's demise in Nairobi, Kenya.
It is unclear whether it was L'Amour or Spriggs who embroiled Di Castillo in the L'Amour Affair. As with so many other details of that escapade, the specifics are lost to history.
In piecing together what is known about the L'Amour Affair, from the collated court documents presented in Nairobi, from the medical transcripts of Freddy McIntyre, and from the personal papers of Jonah Kensington, the editor of Prospero Books and apparent backer of the L'Amour Affair's expedition, we can draw some conclusions about Di Castillo's movements in 1925.
Of the three sources available, the Kensington Papers are the most revealing, though they are also the most incriminating. They are relied on most heavily of the three, as they do include telegrams from Spriggs documenting the group's travels, and also the results of Kensington's own much later investigations.
On the formation of the core members of the Affair, a crime spree was embarked upon across New York City. This included the bloody and brutal murders of several African Americans in a Brooklyn hotel, burglary from a Harlem curios shop, the interrogation of a Professor of the Antiquities, and significant periods of public drunkenness.
Thereafter, the story becomes more grandiose. The expedition relocated to London, and under the pretext of investigating the Carlysle Expedition of 1920, or an Egyptological cult (the records show the group's motives vacillating between these two causes), the group is, at least, connected to: the Savoy fire, a major train derailment, two arsons in a country town, a car crash in Lesser Edale, a break-and-enter at the Penhew Foundation, and what appears to be a racially motivated incursion into an Egyptian Gentlemens Club of good standing.
These deeds behind them, the group moved on to Cairo. Their time in Egypt does not seem to be quite so criminal, though this may simply be a failure of adequate record keeping. Nonetheless, there were two significant events documented:
Firstly, the party visited the Bent Pyramid. The Kensington Papers make reference to an entirely undiscovered antechamber in the pyramid, housing some sort of Pharaonic automaton. By the time the group left the pyramid, some traumatic experience broke Freddy McIntyre's young mind and led to Di Castillo organizing the transit of his newly-catatonic cousin back to New York, to be admitted to the city's psychiatric institution.
The second event is more relevant for this narrative. It is only documented in the Kensington Papers, however, so it is not considered verified by any means.
According to those documents, the group found a network of secret tunnels under the Great Sphinx. In these tunnels, the group allegedly thwarted some dark cult ritual (by means of the cold blooded murder of an elderly woman). In so doing, they needed to cross a chasm, and having assured the safe passage of his colleagues, Di Castillo apparently fell to his death.
All we can ever know for sure is that Di Castillo disappeared in Egypt. Given the quality of the company he kept, the capacity for foul play by his associates can never really be ruled out.
Suffice to say, few others involved in bootlegging have a tale that can even hold a candle to that of Jonny Di Castillo.

Medical Case History - Patient Frederick McIntyre

Caucasian; Male; 24 years old; Baptist
Attending - Doctor Christopher C Moresby

The subject was admitted directly to the New York State Psychiatric Institute on February 27, 1925. He was delivered from the docks in a mobile, but otherwise catatonic state. Prior to his overseas travels, his medical and academic records present no causal symptoms for his condition. Rather, it is indicated that he was exposed to one or several traumatic events during his travels.
My researches into his foreign travels, while not conclusive, do indicate that he was associating with known dangerous criminal elements, including but not limited to known bootlegger Jonny Di Castillo and members of the L'Amour gang (prior to their subsequent incarceration in Nairobi, Kenya).
Unfortunately, as none of his companions managed to return to civilized climes, the full detail of the subject's experiences will never be known. To date, the only commentary ever obtained was a tearful testimony from Ms L'Amour about how the subject deserved so much more. She and one of her incarcerated colleagues, an alcoholic Irishman, have made oblique references to a pyramid, a statue and some sort of illusion.

For the first six months of the subject's sojourn at the institute, his condition remained largely unchanged. Therapy was entirely ineffective. Attempts were made to apply electro-shock therapy. Initially these treatments appeared successful in alleviating the subject's catatonia. While it did not restore him to wellness, he was ambulatory and capable of speech, and, in the most limited capacity, conversation.
By October 1925, these treatments were ceased in the hope that he might now see results from traditional therapy. Said therapy was far more successful than previous efforts and by Christmas that year, it appeared that the subject might be discharged at some point in the new year.
On 12 January 1926, as part of general therapy for the subject and a dozen other patients that the Institute hoped to soon discharge, an outing was organised to the Museum of the City of New York. A substantial Egyptological exhibit was on loan from the British Museum.
For most of the patients, this excursion was a positive experience. For the subject however, it appeared to do significant harm. All reports indicate that a short way into the tour, he espied a statue of a Pharaoh. Unlike the other statuary present, this particular carving was pitch-black. There was no identification of the Pharaoh, but it captured the subject, such that he remained transfixed there and had to be manhandled away when the group departed.
By the time they returned to the Institute, the subject was once again near catatonic, but muttering to himself. No-one managed to identify what he was saying in full, but it intended in "-ho-tep" so it was clearly influenced by the events of the day.
During the night, the subject erupted into a psychotic fit, in which he fatally assaulted another patient in a most brutal fashion, as well as maiming an orderly so severely the man will limp for the rest of his life.
The subject was placed in a restraining jacket, in a protective cell. Each night, he became possessed of the same psychotic rage. It quickly became evident that the only appropriate clinical measure available to ensure his ongoing docility was a lobotomy.
On 12 February 1926, I carried out the procedure. The procedure itself was uneventful and the subject was safe and calm. So much so, in fact, that after the procedure, his subsequent monitoring was marked with a lack of vigilance. On 19 February 1926, after lights out, the subject snuck out into the Institute's gardens.
For those unfamiliar with the significance of this date, know that a fierce snowstorm hit the city that night.
The subject, Freddy McIntyre, was found the following morning, frozen stiff. Dead from exposure. His bearing, however, was one of sublime peace and happiness. Indeed, his face held a beatific smile, unlike any seen in his time with the Institute, as if finally, in death, all of his worries were resolved and gone.

The Masks of Nyalathotep Postscripts

The next few posts are postscripts about the characters from our recent Masks of Nyarlathotep campaign that ended in failure.

The Obligatory Intro Post and Statement of Intent

This blog exists for me to post writing that I want to share.

Anything posted is free. Enjoy. Feel free to provide feedback.

Everything posted belongs to me.