[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.
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