Igordragonian's Alone Against the Flames IC

[zingbobco000]

“The Abenaki?” He frowns. “They knew this land and cherished it. They lived here in harmony for their allotted time. Air and earth, water and fire. They accepted every daybreak as a gift and they trod lightly on the land. Yet we came and we ended them. Their time is passed. Now ours, too, must end.”
Arbogast runs a hand through his hair. A wide strip is missing on the left side, displaced by scar tissue. He climbs to his feet.

Arbogast pauses in the shadows. “There’s something about you, something the previous ones never had. Perhaps you can make it through and bring an end to... everything. If you want to hear more, meet me again after dark. Nine o’clock. The graveyard on the other side.” He lifts a gnarled finger. “Don’t be followed, else I won’t be there. This ain’t the time of year for a showdown.”
Arbogast wipes his nose on his sleeve again. “Go now. Their eyes are on me. And stranger? Don’t try to run. You’ll never make it.”
You emerge into the sunlight blinking and more than a little shaken.

You turn back to the road and your core business: getting out of Emberhead and onwards to Ossipee. The ridge gives you a good viewpoint from which you can see the course of the road. It winds with the hills, disappearing into woodland for a while before emerging further on. You lose sight of it somewhere towards a second patch of woodland. By your best estimation, that is at least six or seven miles distant. You see no other settlements or traffic.
It may be worth taking a chance and walking. The weather is still mild. But you will need supplies before you attempt it.

Emberhead, 12:21 PM, September 2nd, 1921

Your morning exertions have left you hungry. You roam the streets of Emberhead looking for sustenance. There is nothing resembling the busy cafés of your hometown, or anything that might be called a restaurant.
It is beginning to look like you will have to get supplies from the general store when May Ledbetter comes down the street with a girl trailing in her wake. This must be Ruth. As she notices you, she races past her mother and approaches you with a smile. This is a different Ruth from the shy creature of last night.
As she reaches you, she stops and stretches her arms up in celebration. She looks up into your eyes. Abruptly the smile drops from her face and she looks several years older.
“Get out before the festival,” she hisses. “Get out!” She blinks hard, then scuttles back towards her mother. May approaches, wrapping an arm around her daughter’s shoulders. She smiles. “How are you getting on? Have you found transport?”
Startled, you explain the frustrations of the situation.
“I’d try Mr. Winters in the village hall. He’s always in of an afternoon. You’ll be hungry by now? Help yourself to any food in the house. The door’s not locked.”
You glance at Ruth where she has squirreled herself behind her mother’s leg. Her eyes implore you to silence.
----

Will you ask her about what she meant? Ask May what Ruth is talking about? Or just... say nothing?

[igordragonian]

It must be just a child's antics.
Quite often, children jealuse at even the slightest chunk of attention averted from them.

I also assume, that asking about it, will make her seems rude to her mother, and no need to embaress both of them. I just nod at Ruth, in a way, that could be understood in many possible ways.

Growing anxiety stormed inside of me, but the morbid curiosity grew into a beast consuming my healthy survivalist instincts.
"Thank you. Your generosity is apreciated." I say, and then dare and ask. "Do you happen to know what has happened to the church?"

[zingbobco000]

May looks off towards the church and simply muses lightheartedly. "Guess people just stopped goin'." She then shrugs and walks off, tugging Ruth along as she does so.

You take your leave of the Ledbetters and head towards their house. The door opens easily. In the low kitchen you make a meal from stodgy bread and leftover stew. A little window offers a view to the mountains.
If you learned one thing this morning, it was that Emberhead’s streets hold little to occupy the visitor from out of town. But there are still about five hours of daylight remaining. You could take some provisions and the bare essentials from your luggage, and set out in the hope of reaching another settlement before dark. Or you could ask advice from this Mr. Winters. What will it be?

[igordragonian]

I'l ask for Mr. Winter.
I now, I should leave, but my curiosity making me delaying further further the sane thing to do

[zingbobco000]

Emberhead, 1:14 PM, September 2nd, 1921

Luckily for Isaac, as he checks the village hall one more time, he sees that now the doors are actually open, allowing him to head inside. As you enter, you cannot help but feel conscious of the oppressive black metal structure framed at the end of the road. The shutters of the hall are open and some windows left ajar. There is no knocker, but a little bell over the entrance tinkles as you push the front door.
Inside, a sturdy door to your right is marked PRIVATE. To your left, an opening leads through to a bright room. You take a few steps inside. Benches line the walls and there are two noticeboards mounted between the windows.
----

Those noticeboards look interesting, of course, someone also might be in the room, or does it seem like nobody is really here and you'd like to prepare to walk out of town?

[igordragonian]

First, I'll look at the noteboard. So much can be learned from observing the issues and worries of the town.
It's actually quite a reliable historical note.

[zingbobco000]

The floorboards creak beneath you as you cross the room. You feel a slight spring in your step. Perhaps this room is used as a gymnasium for the village children.
One noticeboard appears to be for the adults of the community, and one for the children. The former looks neglected, featuring handwritten advertisements for household items and a yellowed note about telegraph pricing. There is nothing about the festival.
The children’s noticeboard has a schedule for weekly crèche services, and a number of paintings obviously done by the children themselves. Most are incoherent, though colorful. As best you can tell, they depict fireworks, or perhaps the tale of Joseph from the Book of Genesis. One has lost a pin and hangs upside down. It shows a giant bird attacking Emberhead. Or it might simply be that the artist has not yet mastered the subtleties of scale.
----

Please give me a Spot Hidden (you consider yourself an amateur in this field) roll.

[igordragonian]

Spot

(1d100)[71](71)
(I'll reply by the result)

[zingbobco000]

Sadly that's a failure.

[igordragonian]

I write everything I see down, and describe the drawing in details.
It PROBABLY nothing, but if it isn't, it might be helpful in retrospect.

Also, no requeats fod.volunteerz, or state date for the festival.
...
I wonder.
I decide to try a little prank.
I look right and left, to make sure I am alone, before.

----


Spot?
(1d100)[72](72)

[zingbobco000]

Isaac does not notice anyone else around. Although there might be someone behind that other door.

[igordragonian]

I knock on the other door. "Hello?'

[zingbobco000]

You raise your hand to knock on the door, but it opens before you can complete the movement. The middle-aged gentleman behind it takes an involuntary step back, adjusting his spectacles. You hasten to apologize and introduce yourself. He steadies himself and peers at you.
“I see. I’m Clyde Winters. Just visiting, you say? And you’ve come to see me? Hmm! Care for some coffee? I usually take a cup around this time of the afternoon.”
His invitation seems genuine enough and a good opportunity to ask any questions that are on your mind.

You step through the door marked PRIVATE. The other side of the village hall is in marked contrast to the public space. The room is compact, lined with shelves of books and file alcoves (surprisingly some of the first books you've seen). One corner is reserved for a tiny pantry and what is presumably a water closet.
You study Mr. Winters as he fills the percolator. Although thin on top, his hair is oiled and neatly swept back. His suit is a sober affair, and well-tailored even if the cut is a little old-fashioned. A lesser man working alone might have loosened his bow tie for comfort.
On the desk against the opposite wall, you notice what looks like a telegraph set.
----

Would you like to make small talk first? Or would you like to immediately ask about the telegraph set?

[igordragonian]

"Your generouse hospitality is noted, and I thank you.' I say, as I take a seat, a bit nervously. Looking again at my photo, to remind myself, that I am not grotesquly ugly as in my self image.
"My name is Issac Warshawer.' I present myself.
"This place has a... mysteriouse charm to it. I would like to learn more of it.'

[zingbobco000]

The pot begins to gurgle as you exchange pleasantries with Winters.
“Yes, and living here is quite a trade-off, like so much in life.” He looks past you at a high shelf. “I could wish for access to a proper library, of course. But I know myself well enough. I’m strictly a dabbler. And the cities...” His face wrinkles in distaste. “Too many people. Everybody rushing and shouting. We have a special place here in Emberhead. And someone must accept responsibility for keeping it so. That was my father before me. And now the duty falls to me.” He lifts his chin and straightens up.
“This evening, as the sun sets, look out at the landscape around the village. We have peace up here, halfway to the stars. Are we not privileged? Is this not worth the hardships we must accept?”
He looks at you speculatively. This seems a good time to ask about the telegraph.

“The telegraph? Mmm. Much as we value our isolation, we do need the link sometimes… you were hoping to send a message? I must apologize. The line has been down for two weeks. I reported the fault, but of course, they’re not so speedy when the problem lies in a rural area. I’m expecting a repair the day after next. I do appreciate how frustrating this must be. The coach is due, in what, three days? But I think he’s going west. Perhaps you might engage a wagon? One of the farmers might...”
You explain that you have asked a few of the residents already, but to no avail.
“I tell you what.” Winters pours you a steaming cup of coffee. The dark liquid smells rich and strong. “When the repair crew arrive I’ll ask them to take you back with them. How would that be? They might want a dollar or two to grease the wheels...”
The day after tomorrow? It’s less than ideal. But it’s the first real opportunity you’ve had.
----

Would you like to thank Mr. Winters and go? Or ask about his library?

[igordragonian]

"Well, I guess the hardships of mobilizing is part of what make this place unique and mysteriouse." He sighed. "Thank you, is there any chance I could take a pick at the library?"

[zingbobco000]

Winters blushes with pleasure.
“Well, of course they’re not my personal collection. They belong to the village,” he says. “But I did select most of the recent items. This is the community’s library, you see. I put up the PRIVATE sign to stop people just wandering in from meetings in the other room. But this is really a public space.”
You scan the shelves. There is a sparse but respectable collection on mathematics and the sciences, passable sections on history and arts, and a shelf of literature. He has a few lowbrow novels tucked away in a corner, with tatty copies of Bizarre Tales magazine.
“Quality does not always equate to popularity, I’m afraid.” Winters gives you an apologetic smile.

Winters is happy for you to spend the rest of the afternoon in study and offers you an upright but comfortable chair. You have enough time to pursue one line of research in depth.
----

Would you like to read about the history of the area, the festival, something from the sciences, or some of the weird fiction?

[igordragonian]

(Heh. A good ref, I would have missed it, few years ago
And sorry, I have knew this was a simple matter of choice, I would replied long time ago)

IC:
The Wierd Tales do facinate me, but to understand the festival seems to me more urgent.

[zingbobco000]

It's all good, I understand sometimes it can be challenging to muster up the effort of posting. My only goal is to ensure that you're actually enjoying this game.
----

You are not surprised to find there is no published work on Emberhead’s Festival. Winters pokes around and finds a cased monograph, handwritten on yellowing paper by a Dr. Aniolowski. “An acquaintance of my father’s, I believe,” Winters says.
The manuscript is somewhat difficult to read and you make slow progress. Aniolowski speculates that the Festival has its origin in Pagan rites brought over by Celtic settlers, which celebrate the ancient festivals of Beltane, Samhuinn, Imbolc, and Lughnasadh. There is some discussion of the struggle between the seasons and a couple of oblique references to “the alignment” in Emberhead. Aniolowski suggests that the meaning of the Festival slowly changed around the turn of the century.
The monograph terminates mid-sentence at the end of page 28, just as it begins to discuss the modern practices. You ask Winters if he has the remaining pages.
“No. I’m afraid those have been misplaced,” he says. “Perhaps they are still in the library somewhere, but...” He shrugs. “I must make the time for a thorough stock take.”

The afternoon wears on. You have not quite finished your reading when Winters glances out of the window and stands up. He clears his throat.
----

Please give me a Credit Rating roll.

[igordragonian]

I am having fun!

(1d100)[14](14)

[zingbobco000]

“I’m happy to leave you in charge for a half-hour or so.” He smiles. “Please don’t issue any books without a valid library card.”
You thank Winters for his trust and continue with your reading for a time. As the light dims, you find yourself yawning in the closeness of the room. Perhaps it is time for a change of material.
----

Please give me a Spot Hidden (you consider yourself an amateur in this field) roll.

[igordragonian]

I am tired. Maybe I'll take my mind off with some fiction.


Spot
(1d100)[35](35)

[zingbobco000]

You're just getting into the climax in the fiction (stilt-men stride through a steaming swamp beneath the moon's surface, and the protagonist has just uncovered their lunar base) when the door opens and Winters re-enters the library. He wears a small, satisfied smile. His gaze shifts to you where you stand at the shelves. “Exhausted our stock already? Of course we accept donations.” He chuckles. “I’m afraid it’s closing time.”
You leave the building with Winters and wait as he locks up. You thank him for the coffee and the access to the library. He strolls away down Silbury Street.

Emberhead, 6:29 PM, September 2nd, 1921

As the light fades, you return to the Ledbetter house and eat a light supper. May is unusually taciturn. Ruth’s eyes flick to yours several times during the meal. There is an urgency there you cannot quite interpret. Afterwards, May ushers the girl into their room.
You have been in Emberhead for barely one whole day and you already feel confined by it, both geographically and socially. The evening seems to offer little.
----

Would you like to do some stargazing as Mr. Winters suggested? Attempt to speak to Ruth about what she said earlier? Or do you want to try and meet up with Arbogast?

[igordragonian]

Meeting Agrobast is the scariest, yet.. morbidly attracive choice.
This feels like a fairy tale.


Or a fiend tale.

[zingbobco000]

Arbogast is not at the appointed meeting place. You give him ten minutes, but he doesn’t show. You curse the old crank and head back towards May’s house.
“Psssst.”
A hand snakes from a doorway and grabs your arm. You jump at the sight of that half-face, glimpsed in starlight.
“One of them’s near,” he whispers. “Watching. Come with me.”

Arbogast leads you across the thoroughfares, slipping between houses. The metal structure looms at the end of the street. “Silent now,” he says. “But the Beacon will come alive tomorrow night.”
He ushers you into a little alcove behind the village school. Arbogast glances behind you, then sits down. Again you feel uncomfortable in proximity to that scarred visage. One melted eyelid lifts.
“You don’t have long. Understand this. I was the conduit, the interpreter. Before that fool Winters and his fancy words. The things which come to Emberhead care not for words. Those idiots think this is a ritual of sacrifice!” He spits on the grass. “It is a ritual of control. They know the words, but they do not comprehend the forces they call.” He sniffs and sits back. “No! You have no time for more questions. I will teach you how to end it, in the moment when all is lost. You can return this hill to the earth, to the death that came forty years ago. I have tried it myself. But...” his head sags, “I no longer have the concentration. The chant is simple; it I can teach you. But you must perform it with a clarity of mind that I have lacked for years.”
----

Shall you stay and learn this chant? Or have you had enough of the ramblings of this crazy, scarred, old man.

[igordragonian]

It must be a grave mistake.
But I can't stop now.
I weakly nod, and pant, taking a look again at my photo- will I remain the same person after all that?
Or be at all?

[zingbobco000]

Part of you imagines your photo, but changed, with half of your face horribly burned and utterly ruined. What would everyone think of then?

You feel very dislocated from reality, as you sit on a cliff top behind a school at night, learning a chant by rote from a madman. Arbogast is careful to teach you it in sections.
He glances into the sky. “Won’t work right now. Cloud covering the star.” But he still takes care not to pronounce the whole thing at once. It has a rhythmic beginning and various elaborations, but the core passage is repeated three times:
Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthugha Fomalhaut n’gha-ghaa naf’l thagn! Iä! Cthugha!
In time, Arbogast listens to your recital and nods. “Remember every sound. But never speak it if you have plans left on this Earth.”
Arbogast leans back. “It will make you one with the Living—”

A black shape lunges from the dark. It wraps an arm around Arbogast’s throat and drags him backwards, out of the alcove. He grabs at the arm, kicking empty air. You see the gleam of a long blade in the moonlight.
----

Please give me a Dodge (you consider yourself an amateur in this field) roll.

[igordragonian]

I am hypnotized by this lesson in.. magic?
Only for a moment I consider myself mad, for entertaining this burnt man, but then I rationalize it as part of my anthropologist research.

I shriek with horror at the sudden violence.



Dodge

(1d100)[63](63)

[zingbobco000]

Something smashes you on the temple. You reel back. You hear Arbogast yell, and see the knife flash: one, two, three times, its shiny surface darkening with blood. Something strikes you again, and as you sink, flames leap from the ground, painting the night with infernal color. They pick out three dark figures…
----

You take 1 point of damage from the altercation.
----

You awake with a jolt, wrestling the blankets, ready for attack—
The Ledbetter guest room is quiet, painted with morning light. There is nobody here but you. You release the blankets and wait for your heart to stop hammering.

The Ledbetter kitchen is empty, although bread and eggs have been laid out for your breakfast. There is a note from May explaining that she has taken Ruth out for a few hours.

Concerned about what happened, you feel skittish as you approach the spot where you and Arbogast were attacked. Your memory of the encounter is shaky, but you remember one or two vivid images.
At first you think there is nothing to see: no discarded weapons or figures lying unconscious. But upon closer examination, you find sticky, congealed patches and blackened lines in the grass.
If the village had a police station you could go there. But something tells you events have gone beyond that.

You make a quiet circuit of the village, pausing in unobtrusive places to watch the villagers. It is rather busy for this time in the morning. Yawning locals stream back and forward along the roads, carrying bundles of split logs to the site of what you’ve heard referred to as the Beacon. You see two figures already up in its superstructure, arranging the wood. The Festival bonfire will be most impressive. But do you intend to stay to see it? You suspect by now that something is amiss here.
While the villagers are distracted, you may do some illicit investigation. Or you may simply leave town without looking back.
----

You may check out May Ledbetter's bedroom, go alone to the village hall, take a closer look at the artisan's courtyard, spy on activity at the beacon, or just get out of here and flee the village?

[igordragonian]

I still shaken in dreamlike state.
I decide to spy on the activity. This festival has to be more then "an old cletic ceremony."
I also write the spell in one of my littlest notebooks.
Just.. in case.