That Which Goes Bump In the Night (Vapor Only, IC)

by **Razonica** » Fri Apr 12, 2019 12:47 pm

The Library

When Sevia had been drawing the statuette she had felt a strange calming come over her. Though...it wasn't quite calm. More as if something had entered her mind and simply pushed everything else away. The pattern had a hypnotic effect as she drew it. The more and more time she'd spent drawing it, the more she felt as if it were imperfect. Each time a small part of her own conscience had gotten hold of her and had tried to put the pencil away, an urge drove her to keep drawing it. The urge had almost been a voice. It had begged her,-begged- for its likeness to be perfect. Perfection. Yes. That had been what this was all about. Those who had created the symbols she had seen recently were poor imitations. Even the ones upon the corpses Sevia had seen were but scrawling compared to the immaculate patterns that swirled upon the statue and upon her page. As she drew, the lines seemed to bend and dance, calling for her to continue.

It got to the point where the urge was suddenly a roaring command, crying out for her whole attention. It had been during this most powerful urge that Sevia's pencil had broken and she had simply been dragging the broken tip back and forth. And once the pencil had broken, Sevia had begun to see - at the time - a wonderful sight. The lines had lit up with the crimson hue that only fleshy drawn blood had. The hue mixed with the swirling pattern, crying out in joyous ecstasy, praising Sevia for setting it free. Now, all she had to do was...put it upon something alive.

This urge had left as swiftly as it had come once Mr. Higa covered the statue. Sevia gasped quietly, looking around at her companions, before dropping the pad unceremoniously. She kicked it away from her lightly and sat down, taking care to be nowhere near the notes. Sevia looked up Mireille in a miserable melancholy and sighed "I think this is all affecting me too much somehow." She pointed at the covered statuette accusingly," Whatever that thing is triggered this horrible fancy in my head. I just kept drawing its pattern, over and over and over. It's ridiculous, what happened was not some hypnotic pattern but perhaps some fit of feminine weakness." And, to those listening, it seems as if Sevia wasn't talking to them, but rather reassuring herself. She nodded and repeated quietly, "Yes, just some girlish fancy. Too much on my mind and oh so little breaks between all this work."

Sevia stood wordlessly and scooped up the pad and shook her head. She approached Mireille and turned it to her. "It's silly isn't it?", Sevia asked, "that this caused me to become unfocused. I apologize for that." For the first time now, the group got a good look at the swirling pattern. It was, at the top at least, almost language like. It could almost have passed from some kind of forgotten script, had it not crossed and climbed over itself. But as Sevia had drawn more and more, it appeared to unravel, revealing some kind of monstrous void of maddening curves and swirls. It was...uncomfortable. Worse of all however, was were the broken wood had cut into the pad. It was faint, but still visible. It was not part of the pattern. Sevia had not spoken of it, had not even glanced at it. It was a word, a word in the language they all could understand. It was in Sevia's penmanship but it was also much more unhinged. The word seemed to have been written by some raving, starving thing and it had put some malicious intent into the word. It read: Perfection.

by **Senkaku** » Sat Apr 13, 2019 5:55 pm

Uptown Klippenstaad
Belleau's

Faïçal jetted smoke from his nostrils, lifting a bite of parrotfish to his mouth with his other hand as he lazily tapped his cigarette into the little crystal ashtray beside the table and listened to Longwood. An imitator of some fucking serial killer, singular? Does he think I'm some sort of mental defective?

He realized his dazzling smile and cheerful expression had waned somewhat, and gamely tried to cheer himself back up as Longwood finished, draining the rest of his drink and quickly devouring an oyster before leaning back against the cushions of the booth, like a crocodile lounging in the sun, to regard Longwood. Be nice, be nice, be nice, you don't want to alienate him... ugh.

"Well, forgive me if I find that somewhat difficult to believe, Deputy Commissioner," he said with a good-natured, indulgent grin, widening his eyes and leaning forward conspiratorially. "Did Rayan not tell you my friends and I arrived to see dear old Jackson while the murderers were still on the scene?"

He raised his eyebrows, took a sip of his drink and generally seemed quite amused. "It is a good story, though- isn't it interesting how the famous killers always seem to get imitators? We had one a couple years ago back home who went through the working girls near the port like wildfire, and they're still catching copycats. I suppose to a certain type of mind it's not unlike imitating a painting or a sculpture- the highest form of flattery!", he said with a snort. Another waiter passed by, and Faïçal snapped his fingers at him.

"Could I get another drink? Actually, don't let either of us see the bottom of these glasses, please."

by **Liecthenbourg** » Mon Apr 15, 2019 5:02 pm

Higa's head swirled around in a thousand colours.

Huri protect me, his mind yelled out. A conscious struggle as it aimed to patch itself up together again.

His fingers clutched onto the fabric of his jacket, tugging it as closed as he possibly could. He was not doing it intentionally; but instinctively. An animal protecting its weakest parts in the presence of a predator. Yet the predator was not man, nor was it beast.

Mireille -- the woman who had caused his mind to fragment. No. No. It wasn't Mireille. It was the statue. It was the statue that caused him to think it was his friend.

And he had wanted to harm her? He entertained it for but the briefest moments? Minutes?

In solemnity his eyes darted up, noticing the woman now before him. "What in God's name was all that about?"

His expression changed. It was no longer confused, manic, sad, confused. It was... more reminiscent of a child who had just been scolded. One who had eaten too many sweet treats before the family meal. The facial expressions, the rigid jawline and piercing eyes, that defined a free-lance reporter of any sense of the word had faded away into a husk of a man. A man beset by emotions and a mental attack he had not felt since the waning days of the war.

He swallowed. Hard. He had half a mind to ask for water. "I don't know, Mireille."

Patting himself down at his coat, he looked away from her. Yet he felt he owed it to her to look at her directly. "Its... it's what made madam Sevia and I, awfully not like ourselves. Possessed, almost, by phantasmal spirits of the night. Tainting... tainting the mind."

Yet her words came at him once again: "What on earth is that you've got there, Mr. Higa?", almost as if he was too slow on the draw.

"Its... a statuette. I found it. Looking around." His eyes were heavy. He really wanted to sleep. "We -- we can't look at it." He rubbed at his eyes, every wrinkle and contour on his face standing out a thousandfold. "Its... its the source of madness. It has... " He tapped his forehead. "The symbol. I have it wrapped in cloth, we can't look at it. It wants us to look at it."

"And its beautiful, Mireille."

by **The Biosyn** » Sat Apr 20, 2019 11:45 am

As Anders and Egil made their way back to Emerson’s office,Anders was feeling more than a little frustrated. It’s never easy getting an initial read on non-Court smuggling operations, but he wanted there to be something more, something that would have an obvious connection to Elias or at least a cult. But hopefully Het found out something, however unlikely, in his talk with Emerson.

They left the warehouse after bidding Mr. Emerson good day. As Het headed towards one of the few coaches that were here at the docks, intent on hailing it and getting out of at least the wind, if not the cold, Anders stopped him. “Monsieur Z,” he said quietly in Cynfeli. “It would be better if we walked a few streets over, get to one of the other docks first. I don’t know what you found out from Mr. Emerson, but still, we should be careful and keep ourselves where we can know if someone decides to tail us.”

As they walked, Anders directing them and keeping a discreet eye behind to make certain they weren’t being followed, Anders both asked Het how his talk with Emerson went and briefly described what they found. “Did you find any threads connecting Mr. Emerson with Elias? Egil and I found some interesting crates. Obviously being smuggled, but couldn’t tell why. I will, of course, have to report the smuggling to the appropriate authorities.”

Eventually, they crossed into a different dock district, or at least that’s what Anders told Egil and Het (it would be up to them if they believed this bad part of town was any different from the bad part of town they were in a few streets back). Within a few more streets, they came to a little shop selling nails, hammers, saws, and other hardware. As they entered, Anders asked Egil to remain here in the front portion of the shop to keep watch, and asked Het to remain with Egil, while he asked to use the shop’s phone to report what they had found. After they both indicated that they would keep watch, Anders went to the shopkeeper, spoke to him quickly and quietly in Varen, before disappearing into the back.

Here in the back, it was like a mini warehouse, with rows upon rows of stacks of boxes, all containing different pieces of hardware, that sold in the shop, and that which would be more useful to the Court. In the back corner sat the phone, and getting there required some navigation between the stacks of boxes. Once there, Anders picked up the receiver and mouthpiece and began his call.

“Good day to you, Operator, I would like to make a call. Oh, no number, but if you could hand me over to today’s Greta, that would be wonderful.” A beat later, “Greta! This is Anders here.” He had to pull his ear away from the receiver momentarily to not be deafen by the yelling that was coming through. “And hello to you too. Listen, Volchat’s Pearl, how about we get drinks with some coworkers in a few days and you can yell about how terrible of a person I am then, but for now, this isn’t a social call. Someone is going to a lot of trouble to smuggle Parthan luxury goods through Emerson Imports.” Pause. “I know I know, that place always seemed so boringly aboveboard whenever we looked at it, but I found some crates that are obviously being smuggled, presumably to Rothia, as that was the only printing on theses crates. As of this morning, there were three crates in the back corner of the warehouse.” Pause. “I can’t say if Emerson himself is even aware of what’s happening. Listen, if there’s anything immediate for me to do, call me back at this number within five minutes. After that, leave a message for me at the Klippen-Muninssen.”

Five minutes later, he emerged from the back, and after leaving the shop and walking a few more streets over, Anders hailed them a coach to take them the rest of the way back to the hotel.

by **Fanaglia** » Tue Apr 23, 2019 11:04 am

Mireille started when Sevia dropped her pad to the floor and kicked it away before herself sinking to the floor, apologizing profusely and lamenting her weaknesses.

"Its... a statuette," Higa told her weakly. "I found it. Looking around. We -- we can't look at it. Its... its the source of madness. It has... " He tapped his forehead. "The symbol. I have it wrapped in cloth, we can't look at it. It wants us to look at it." After a pause, he added, "and its beautiful, Mireille."

"It's silly isn't it?" Sevia asked as she stood up, having retrieved her pad from the floor nearby and walking gingerly towards Mireille and Luciano. "That this caused me to become unfocused. I apologize for that."

"I'd hardly call it 'silly,'" Mireille assured her. "Silly" didn't explain what they had just witnessed. "I've heard about curses and such when talking with folks who have had run-ins with the Pannas Tritios," she muttered, taking a look at Sevia's scrawlings, "But I've never put much stock -- oh my!" She brought her hand to her mouth in shock as a word emerged from the loops and the scribbles -- not a scrawling of graphite, but the jagged lines of script carved into the paper, embossed by the young woman's fervent scratching with the broken tip of her pencil. A single word. "Perfection." "Mr. Higa," Mireille asked with no small amount of hesitation in her voice. "Where did you say you found this statuette? Can you show me?"

by **Inoroth** » Fri Apr 26, 2019 1:14 am

Library of Opiskella
Klippenstaad, Varenhold
19 January, 1910

Instead of discreetly drawing Miss Mireille away and expressing his concern that they were all about to be murdered, Luciano found his wrist firmly grasped by his former pupil -- and with unexpected strength. Wrenched back, his sight caught Mrs. Atwright's figure slip into shadow before turning to Miss Sevia and Mr. Higa. Had she been saying something? The Inorothian professor had been too preoccupied puzzling through how the librarian was ultimately out to kill them to pay her much attention in the moment. He didn't have long to ponder, though, because something equally disturbing was unfolding before him.

"Speaking of something of interest..." she said, eyeing Mr. Higa. The man seemed to be locked in a trance with the object he was holding. A small statuette by the looks of things. 'Perhaps he's found a clue?' wondered the professor, adjusting his spectacles with his free hand. As things came into focus, however, it became apparent that this was more than intellectual curiosity on their compatriot's part. There was a longing in his face, almost adoration. Miss Mireille's attempts to gain his attention failed at first, and when he did finally look their way, his visage was twisted into an expression of extreme annoyance that was entirely uncharacteristic for the normally stoic fellow. For a brief moment, he was startled and concerned, until he realized what was happening... 'This fellow is playing tricks on us! And at such a perilous moment!'

He wasn't angry, exactly, even considering the imminent danger they were in from the library assassins that were even now probably creeping up on them. No, he was more disappointed than anything else, both that such childish behavior was on display from someone he had sized up as sufficiently mature, but also that Mr. Higa was clearly not the sensible and reliable ally one would want to have about for this sort of situation. Out of the corner of his eye, Luciano noted that Miss Mireille's hand had slipped into the pocket where she kept her gun. Now his eyes really widened, and he voiced his alarm.

"I say, hadn't you better drop the act now, Mr. Higa?"

The man paid him no mind and continued to scowl hatefully, and Miss Mireille spoke again, in a quiet worried tone to him and more confidently to the others:

"Professor, I think you should take Sevia with you. Mr. Higa, would you mind please putting that down and come join the Professor and I for a little private chat?"

Hand still clutched and turning white, though he did not yet feel it, Professor Luciano noticed Miss Sevia for the first time since this entire awkward encounter had begun. She was where she had been before, sketchbook still in hand. However, Luciano had had the unique privilege (or burden, depending on one's perceptive) of observing the note-taking habits of hundreds of youth. Some took laborious notes to capture every single detail, others only jotted down the main points or what remarks caught their fancy, but what Miss Sevia was doing now most closely resembled the absent-minded doodling that the bulk of his students seemed to prefer, the sort of mindless patterns that distracted the hand while the mind is focused on something else. She was also focused on the statuette. Her movements grew more intense with each loop of the hand, until she had pressed the pencil lead to the breaking point and was now tracing the bare wood over paper.

'Good Lord, Mr. Higa has found an accomplice in his shenanigans! Does no one realize the imminent peril we are in? Has everyone decided to make now the time for games?!?

Miss Mireille seemed to finally get through to them, and Mr. Higa's face returned to a semblance of normal, albeit with a tinge of horror and sadness. 'Good, at least he's realized what a colassal misstep it was to fool about so.' Now he was now rapidly wrapping up his prize in his coat and muttering about how 'dangerous and corrupting it was', and it seemed to have convinced Miss Sevia to stop playing along as well.

"I don't know, Mireille." Mr. Higa answered weakly; "Its... it's what made madam Sevia and I, awfully not like ourselves. Possessed, almost, by phantasmal spirits of the night. Tainting... tainting the mind."

The Inorothian snorted incredulously, and Miss Mireille seemed equally unsatisfied with the answer.

"What on earth is that you've got there, Mr. Higa?"

He seemed sluggish to answer further, like a child caught in a lie and unsure how to proceed without heaping more trouble on themself.

"Its... a statuette. I found it. Looking around. We -- we can't look at it, its... its the source of madness. It has... " He tapped his forehead. "The symbol. I have it wrapped in cloth, we can't look at it. It wants us to look at it... and its beautiful, Mireille."

Snapping his head quickly from side to side to ensure no assassins blades were immediately incoming, Luciano leaned in close to Mr. Higa to get his point across.

"I don't know what passes for humor where you are from, Mr. Higa, but now is not the time for parlor antics! You will kindly stop it at once! To think you would be making up tales about magical madness or sentient statues at a time like this! It is now clear to me that Mrs. Atwright is in league with the assassins, and even now we are sitting ducks for them to strike at! What we need..."

Luciano was cut off mid-rant by Miss Sevia, who sheepishly came out in support of Mr. Higa.

"I think this is all affecting me too much somehow. Whatever that thing is triggered this horrible fancy in my head. I just kept drawing its pattern, over and over and over. It's ridiculous, what happened was not some hypnotic pattern but perhaps some fit of feminine weakness... Yes, just some girlish fancy. Too much on my mind and oh so little breaks between all this work... It's silly isn't it? That this caused me to become unfocused? I apologize for that."

So lying about the cause of their mischief was also something Miss Sevia and Mr. Higa shared, wonderful. At least none of them seemed primed to kill one another any longer -- which was more than could be said for the trained killers who were certainly lurking in the shadows! Miss Mireille seemed to soften some as she walked over towards Sevia and comforted the poor girl. His wrist now finally released, Luciano at last felt the needle pinpricks that had probably been stabbing him for some time as the color returned to his hand. Miss Mireille gently stooped and took Sevia's notepad from up off of the floor.

"I'd hardly call it 'silly. I've heard about curses and such when talking with folks who have had run-ins with the Pannas Tritios, but I've never put much stock -- oh my!"

Whatever Miss Sevia had carved into her paper was enough to shock Miss Mireille into stunned silence for a few tense moments. Her voice waivered when she finally found it again.

"Mr. Higa, where did you say you found this statuette? Can you show me?"

Luciano gave the hallway behind them another furtive glance before pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration and letting his exasperation be known.

"Don't tell me you're entertaining the possibility that this 'statue is haunted', Miss Mireille? It is clear that this whole business is just an incredibly poorly conceived attempt at a joke. Clearly these two thought it would be clever to get a scare out of us, down in the dark catacombs of a strange place. Miss Sevia, Mr. Higa, do you really think this is the time for games? We are in mortal peril!"

"As I have been trying to tell you all, it has become clear to me that Mrs Atwright is, at best, an accomplice with the assassins that struck down here. Consider: she has admitted to being the only one working on the categorization project, which was suspiciously convenient. She also described how she scrubbed away the mess behind you, which just so happened to have the effect of destroying any evidence there might have been."

"Then there was her strange explanation for why certain items were missing -- homeless people breaking in? Bah, that is utter nonsense. If all they were searching for were books to burn, why come all the way down here when there are plenty of equally serviceable tomes to torch on every level above? The timing of the murder also coincide's with that of Dr. Elias -- why, one would have to be in almost willful denial to not recognize it. And now she has wondered off. doubtless for plausible deniability while her minions murder us, alone, in the dark, with no witnesses or anyone to enquirer as to our whereabouts for hours."

"So, I would again ask that you two cease your childish trickery, gather what little evidence Mrs. Atwright may have left for us, and then we can start planning how to escape the almost certain death that awaits us!"

by **Fanaglia** » Fri Apr 26, 2019 9:56 am

"Professor!" Mireille exclaimed, surprising even herself with the forcefulness of her tone in the face of the man's panic. "We must keep our wits about us. Look, I don't believe Mrs. Atwright has been telling us the whole truth, either, and I agree that several of her answers have been unsatisfactory. Now, you know me, Professor. I'm a woman of maths, of science. But you cannot spend a lifetime living adjacent to the Marais Pannas and all of the stories shared by those bold enough to venture there without wondering whether there might be some merit to some of those superstitions. Christ, our friend, Jackson, made a career out of exploring superstitions and the occult. And while I may have never seen anything with my own eyes to justify such superstitions, one thing I have seen more than my fair share of is fear -- fear of the soldiers returning from the war, fear of travelers who'd had close calls with the Pannas Tritios, the fear I saw in my father's eyes...every...day..." Her words drifted off as her mind wandered, dipping its toe into dark memories before she was able to pull herself back into the present. "That fear is not something someone can simply fake. I may not understand what our friends have experienced, but I do believe them, and you should, too."

She realized that she must have been red in the face from the intensity of the moment and that her voice was perhaps a bit louder than would be prudent. Lowering her voice, she added in a tone not much above a whisper, "Now, if you could please help us look for any other clues while we wait for Mrs. Atwright's return. Or, if you'd prefer, simply keep watch whilst we search ourselves. You may be right that we may need to leave in a hurry, but I absolutely will not make the mistake I made at the Hotel Novda -- I simply will not leave any hint of a clue behind if it can be helped." Turning to Mr. Higa, she asked him again, "Now, where did you say you found that thing?"

by **Liecthenbourg** » Fri Apr 26, 2019 4:36 pm

The weight of the proverbial familial bartering poll was pressing onto shoulders. Tugging down at his resolve and determination.

He was going to take Mireille to where he had found the statuette. Perhaps that would have fixed everything.

Yet Luciano, in his brilliance, had began to berate and yell nonsensical drivel that-

He opened his jacket. He shut his jacket. One hand slapped another as it aimed to dart into his inner coat pocket.

For a moment his mind was sure it was getting hot. He needed to take the coat off. There was a burning sensation by his left side, just under his arm, and it was searing. Then in an instant it became cold as ice, and he felt no more than a desire to tug his jacket around him.

“Towards the back of the room, Mireille.” He said, almost to no one — unsure of the state of the conservation around him. “Here, this way.”

He patted his face down with a handkerchief, and led Mireille to the straw and cloth covered crates. He would keep an apprehensive distance, constantly ensuring that none would touch his cost — for perhaps they sought to bring about the beautiful statuette to the world again.

by **Yasuragi** » Fri Apr 26, 2019 4:40 pm

The administrative offices of the library were not much at all; a few rows of desks in a long room, with offices at the back. There were windows, but they were small and mean, as if the designers had had to be forced to add them begrudgingly, and a small fireplace that was fueled more by discarded paper kindling and scrap than hearty wooden logs. Nonetheless, efforts to make it more cozy had been made - a halfhearted Christmas tree still stood, as did a small alcove filled with icons of the various divine beasts, and another for various implements of the Drachenkult. Each desk was adorned with the various things that indicated personality; dagguerotypes of children and the like - even the librarians, it seemed, were as dated as the dusty institution in which they worked. Despite this, it was clearly a well-loved place, and it took little imagination to imagine the various men and women smiling and chattering as they bustled around the room each and every day.

Except today.

Today, Atwright walked through the room alone, visible only to the watching eyes of the various portraits of university heads - some masked, some not, but all cold and unmoving. Here were the unwanted leaders, the people neither rich nor popular enough to warrant a painting in the main halls of the building - they were kept here, keeping a watchful eye over Atwright and her people.

Or so she liked to think. It was also terrible to think of them sitting in some hallway alone, with nothing but echoing creaks and foreboding darkness to keep them company. Here, they could see each other and the librarians daily, and be admired or, at the least, acknowledged. It was probably heretical in some way, but it made Atwright feel better in a way that didn't quite make sense.

She made her way across the room and into her office, unlocking the heavy padlock that secured it as she went, careful to restring the key around her neck. Hrm. Heavy bookcases on all sides, a desk situated in the middle, and a safe embedded in a wall, alongside the office's phone - one of the only ones in the library. She hadn't lied; the office was cramped indeed, with the bookcases taking up a good quarter of the room, and the desk another quarter. It'd be nearly a scandal, with poor Madam Mireille or Sevia or -- she blushed -- herself! -- in such close quarters with Mr. Higa or -- she blushed more deeply -- Professor Luciano.

Even as she approached the safe, her gaze lingered on the phone. She should. She had promised to. Even though it had been long ago - very long ago - she had said she would.
And she had forgotten, until Elias' arrival had reminded her. Even then, she had failed; dithering, assuming it was nothing other than feminine naivete bothering her. And Elias had died.

She reached out to the phone, dialing a single trio of numbers, the memory becoming clear as she did. Surely no one would answer. It had been a decade ago, after all. Yes. It was foolish. She should return to them, especially since --

Yes?

Atwright paused, her heart racing. Yet the voice did not repeat itself, instead waiting patiently, as if it knew the thoughts racing through Atwright's head before she herself knew, and was simply waiting at the end for her to arrive at the same conclusions.

"Hello. This is Miriam Atwright, at the University of..."

She talked for a minute, no more, then fell silent to await a response. Several seconds passed, but just as she was about to speak again to prompt a response - an answer, questions, anything! - the voice spoke again.

I understand. Thank you for informing us. And with a decisive crackle, the conversation was over.

Atwright was left hanging, mouth open in mid-question, staring ahead at the wall. She put the phone down slowly -- it had been most unexpected. A decade's worth of waiting, for so little? Had she even done the right thing? A slight chiming from outside the office interrupted her thoughts as the office's clock struck the hour; she was taking too long. Clearing her throat slightly, she turned to face the safe and began spinning the dial with a practiced hand, a slight smile of satisfaction as the tumblers fell into place just so.
Opening it with a small - and unladylike - grunt, she quickly reached inside to gather up the bundled package that encompassed all of Jackson Elias' notes - carefully and neatly straightened, of course.

What they would think of the notes, she didn't know. She hardly knew what to make of them herself; she couldn't even finish reading half of them. Perhaps she could quickly separate them, removing the unnecessary ones. There was nothing useful in that portion anyway. Only... no. That would be silly. Perhaps Elias had written them in code, and that was why they were so.... bizarre. She hauled out the bundle fully, having paused mid-motion, and turned to place it on her desk. A movement in the doorway caught her by surprise.

"Oh!" She exclaimed. "I beg your pardon, sir. This is my office, and I was not aware we had an appointment. Do I know you?"

There was little time to search for more clues before Atwright returned, bearing a lantern in one hand and a large package under her other arm. Wrapped in cloth and tied with neat string, it looked like the epitome of a picnic lunch or some other suitably normal object for a lady to carry about -- an image reinforced as Atwright undid the bindings and flipped back the many cloth layers. Papers lay within; papers and journals.
Exactly what she had promised.

There was much to glean here. Quite a bit. It was almost overwhelming, to be so suddenly given so much information; before they had been hunting and pecking for mere scraps of clues and leads, and now here they were poring over Elias' own journals -- and they were his. It was distinctly clear, from the strong and decisive penmanship to the occasional turns of phrase scattered throughout the pages that occasionally made each of them smile in recognition or in fond memory. And yet, unusually, the notes had nothing of Elias' usual panache and decisiveness - he was remarkably cautious, coming to
few, if any conclusions throughout his early investigation.

7-29 -- Last night I finally arrived at Ndovu village, the closest settlement to the site of the massacre. My guide, Thomas, and I came on foot from the capital; there are no roads or even rivers to journey on. The natives are friendly enough, and my guide is a capable translator -- I think he speaks more languages than I do. Had him teach me some useful phrases, just in case. He obtained lodging for the night in one of their small thatched houses; it is in that house that I currently writing and scratching my various itches. It is about six in the morning, and we are about to set off, before the heat of the day sets in. If my directions are accurate, it will be a long walk; If they're not, it will be even longer.

Later. I had to go alone. Even Thomas abandoned me -- Thomas, who, just a few hours ago, I would never have imagined to be so credulous. The villagers call this place "the corrupt ground" and none of the local tribes will go near it. Superstition is truly the bane of mankind.

I have finally arrived within sight of the crime scene, so to speak. It's quite dark out and has been for some time. The walk through the forest was pleasant, and the local flora is even more beautiful than I had expected. The air here is quite temperate so my journey was more comfortable than I had anticipated. The cool mist of the morning hunt delicately on the majestic trees; the smells of the forest - olives, figs, cedar - were enchanting; everywhere I heard the buzzing of insects and the songs of birds and saw the footprints of deer antelope. Things grew quieter as the day wore on and grew hotter and I made my solitary way through the underbrush; my machete was needed only intermittently. I think I'll make camp a little nearer to the site itself. As far as I can see, there's nothing to be afraid of here, yet the animals and the people both seem to avoid this place. In fact, there isn't much here at all. I'll explore a bit and make some more detailed observations in the morning.

7-30 -- My sleep was uneasy and I do not feel rested. Still, I woke later than I had planned. Exhausted by yesterday's journey. Looking at the massacre site in the daylight I can begin to understand how this barren plot of earth has generated such fear in the tribesmen. The last leg of my journey was difficult; the underbrush here is much thicker and thornier. The silence here is disturbing after the cacophony of the forest, and a rancid smell hangs in the air.

The clearing itself is about a half-mile wide. Everything here is blackened and barren. The moist soil sucks gently at my boots; nothing grows here. I refuse to give credence to the locals' primitive fears, but there is no doubt that this clearing has borne witness to terrible deeds. Even breathing the air here leaves a bitter aftertaste in my mouth. On the advice of my guide (we had discussed the matter before I left), I decided not to seek out the burial pits nearby, as those have been turned over and refilled by the authorities. In truth, I was glad to leave. If there is some secret here, it eludes me.

7-31 -- I reunited with my guide when I returned to Ndovu, and with his help asked a few more questions of the villagers. According to Thomas, the villagers say that the massacre site is cursed by a malevolent local deity, the "God of the Black Wind", who lives atop one of the nearby mountains to the north. They would say little more. I'll do some more digging when I return to the city. I think I'll rest in the village for a few hours before beginning the trek back to civilization, or what passes for it here in Parthan -- I'm quite tired.

Interview with Mr. Jimson Keniatia
Mr. Keniatia is a Parthan folklorist and political agitator here (an odd combination if you ask me). Agreed to speak with me about the Carlyle expedition.
Having been warned by Ms. Smythe-Forbes that Keniatia possessed some radical political leanings, I tried to keep the conversation on the murders. Unfortunately, Keniatia professed to only have limited knowledge of them. He suggested that the massacre may have been perpetrated by a group known as the Cult of the Bloody Tongue. This cult is supposedly based up in the mountains north of here, no more than a day or two's journey from the expedition's massacre site. He also claimed that the cult is led by a high priestess who is 'part of the Mountain of the Black Wind'. This sounded like a garbled repetition of the superstitions of the villagers of Ndovu; I for my part had encountered no signs of a death cult, and the villagers had never mentioned a 'Bloody Tongue', although they had mentioned the mountain of the same name. I expressed my skepticism, but Keniaitia was adamant, asserting that the regional tribes "all hate and fear the Bloody Tongue -- more than famine or sickness or even the government" (a good quote for a book!). I carefully steered the conversation back to the topic of my investigation.

Although Keniatia is one of the most impressive Parthans I have ever met (he was really quite educated), I couldn't help but be disappointed by his credulity. How could such a seemingly civilized gentleman spout such nonsense about 'tribal magic' offering no protection against the Cult? I'd bet those native shamans wouldn't be able to offer much protection against a .45 or phosgene gas, either. At this point, Keniata rose to leave, saying he had a meeting to attend. As we shook hands, he grasped my fingers a touch too long and too tight, and stared at me intently. "The God of the Bloody Tongue is not of Parthan," he said quietly, "Not of Parthan." Although I can't imagine what he meant or even how he could know that one way or another, I returned his earnest stare and thanked him for his cooperation. On his way out, he told me to come back to Parthan in the future, once things were "different". I would, he said, always have a place to stay here. I can't say that I entirely understood his friendliness - perhaps some local custom? But it seems to me that he was just grateful to have someone listening to his account. I'll do some follow-up interviews tomorrow.

Interview with Lieutenant Selmir
Lt. Selmir led the men who actually found the remains of the Carlyle Expedition.
Lt. Selmir is a tall, bearish man with a thick accent. He came to Parthan during the Eastern War, and fought against the brilliant Asterdan commander Vettown. After the war, he remained in Parthan under the local government. He's is quite a personable fellow, and we talked for much of the day.

He and I commiserated over the unpleasant trek to the massacre site, and the decidedly less pleasant destination. Selmir's men had more trouble than they had expected in finding the site -- they'd hoped to simply follow the stench of decay, ubt it was entirely absent, despite favorable winds. When Selmir arrived at the killing grounds, he was startled to discover the corpses still in remarkably good condition. Given the amount of time, they must have lain there -- "almost as if decay itself wouldn't come near the place" I think he said.

That was the only sense in which the bodies were in good condition, however. The gore was unspeakable, and even the heartier men were made sick to their stomachs at the sight. The corpses had been torn apart and scattered haphazardly across the clearing as if by wild animals, but Selmir could not think of any animals in the area that would take such care to systematically dismember the bodies without eating them. "Unimaginable", Selmir called it, staring dully at his tea, "uncanny". Recalling the incident was obviously unpleasant for him, so I hastily moved on to a new topic.

Lt. Selmir clearly believes that the official court account of the massacre was probably correct in stating the tribesman was involved somehow, but he confided to me that he suspects the charges against the "ringleaders" were trumped up. "It wouldn't be the first time," he said darkly. Perhaps this is simply the way things work here. Typical.

He also confirmed for me that none of the bodies of the non-native members were ever found. Only the corpses of Parthan bearers were strewn across that barren plain. I didn't want to reopen any more old wounds, so I turned the conversation to other topics: the weather (infernal), local nightspots (the same, but for different reasons), and local sporting activities (terrible, apparently). When the sun began to set, I bid the lieutenant good day, and set off.

The last half of the notes were not as neat, not nearly as neat at all. Written from - according to the headers on each - Rothia, the pages are folded and stitched together or even torn out entirely, smeared and blotted with ink as to become nearly unreadable in many places. Frequently, a page or a dozen pages are left entirely blank, before being replaced by dense, nearly illegible script repeated, a cycle repeated many times. Sometimes a single word is repeated in a scrawling hand that barely resembles Elias', or written large across multiple pages, so as to take up all the space. Most of these pages are so dirty and frantically written that they're nearly illegible, and what little is legible is nearly incomprehensible regardless. Some of it can be made out, with quite a bit of effort of picking through the pages and reading carefully through the loops and inkblots.
"Many names, many forms, but all the same in the end" is repeated throughout, but sometimes the ending is changed to be "toward one end" instead of "in the end". In the middle of this section, "NEED HELP" is written in ghastly largely letters across two pages, flanked on either side by pristine pages that have no evidence of writing on them. "...ghastly. These dreams... dreams like Carlyle's? Check that psychoanalyst's files" can be made out underneath a particularly large inkstain that almost seems intentional for how meticulously it blots out the top third of the page but nothing below a precise line.

"ALL OF THEM SURVIVED" is a later discovery, similarly writ large across two pages, a subtitle barely discernible below -- "They'll open the gate -- but Why? Why?"

Finally, the last page comes as a surprise, being written in a mostly clear hand, with little to obscure the writing. Yet, despite the legibility, it is no less confusing to read. "so the power and the danger is real. There. Many threads begin. Others end. The books, in Carlyle's safe. They're coming for me. Will the ocean protect? Will I be safe here? Ho ho no quitters now."

"Must tell, and Make the Readers Believe. Should I scream for them? Let's scream together..."

There the notes end, and Atwright sighs after seeing the group finish perusing them. "You can see why I did not.... know what to do with these," she gestured at the journals and papers. "There's nothing relevant in the first half, and the latter, well." She hesitated. "You understand why I couldn't possibly let the papers see them."

Faical, Longwood

Longwood's gaze naturally followed Faical's movement as he snapped for a waiter, and his stare lingered overly long in the direction the waiter had disappeared to, as if reluctant to return to the conversation - and when he did, he did so begrudgingly, as if reluctant to respond to Faical's comments. He hid his hesitation - not well enough, but there you have it - with a long sip from his glass, but Faical noted that the amount of liquid remaining after Longwood put the glass down was not substantially different from how much had been in there before. The man was not in a hurry to drink, but was clearly putting in an effort to be.

"Rayan was..... not too forthcoming," he said slowly. "The nature of our relationship, you understand. He tends to ask more questions than he wishes to answer. I assumed you were the same way. So no, Mr. Teck, to answer your question, I did not know you were on the scene." He paused again, taking a bite of his skivet, savoring the taste of apples and cinnamon before resuming. "In that case, ahem, I can dispense with the official line and be more.... forthcoming. You understand, of course, that Mr. Elias was quite the, er, character, and is well known internationally and within our country. Many are interested in his death, especially when supposedly connected to such a well known series of murders." He spread his hands, as if to indicate 'well what can you do'. "I've personally reported to no fewer than three representatives of the Council, and my superiors will no doubt have to do the same in coming days. We'll be quite fortunate if this does not escalate into a full-blown inquiry."

"So: the facts. Elias was at his hotel for a period of several days under an assumed name. He paid - barely, according to the clerk, and repeatedly tried to offer the man coins and scrip that originated everywhere from the Empire to Rothia. This matches the few records from the Port Authority, which will be the start of the laborious task of trying to track our well-traveled friend on his journeys." Again, he spread his hands in his quasi-shrug. "His behavior within Klippenstaad however, appears to have been quite erratic, with several trips to the docks, Opiskella University, and a long stint in Ransom Court, where his whereabouts were unaccounted for for nearly a day and a half - the bulk of his time since he returned, I imagine. We have policemen in the area, asking various vagrants and louts if they've spotted him, but I've little doubt they'll uncover nothing. It's the nature of the business."

Another pause, another bite of the skivet. "We will, of course, be investigating the men who were captured at the site of the crime, but we already know there will be little. They're recent immigrants, newly arrived on our shores within the past six months or so. They found work at a warehouse," he waves a hand, "Emerson Imports, I believe, or Exports. We'll be interrogating him quite closely, and interrogating the remaining workers in his employ."

"What more do you want to know? Rayan has made.... assurances about the cost of tonight, but as you have already discerned, told me almost nothing of the circumstances. I can provide everything from addresses to names - if only you ask."

Het, Anders, Egil

Het would say little, save to pass Anders a small scrap of paper upon which someone had written an address and a pair of names: Ju-Ju House, 1 Ransom Court; Ahja Singh and Silas N'Kwane. Anders would recognize the latter name immediately -- it was the same name Elias had written on the back of the card that had led them to Emerson Imports in the first place. It was a confirmation that they were not on a trackless path, but instead were likely treading in the same places that Elias had, likely only days prior. He wasn't quite sure how to feel about it.

The first name, Anders did not recognize; it sounded Parthan, or perhaps Pahadan, and Het would confirm as much; apparently it was the name of the man Emerson ran many accounts for. His largest account that traded within Klippenstaad - and Rothia, and Asterdan, too. Emerson had never met the man, apparently, dealing only with his factotum, Silas N'Kwane instead. N'Kwane was apparently the proprietor of the 'Ju-Ju House', his primary job, where he likely sold the imported wares to the Parthan community within the city. This fit with Anders' knowledge of Ransom Court; a fairly run-down area of city blocks, it was relatively new and old at the same time, built as it was on top of demolished tenements and factories. It had been intended as cheap post-war housing and shops to cater to that class of people. He was't overtly familiar with it, being outside his stomping grounds, and he doubted the Court would be much more help either. The people within were simply too insignificant and poor for even the Court to care.

Perhaps it would be worth paying Mr. N'Kwame a visit. The rest of the group was not due to return for several hours yet, and Faical and the rest had shown no sign of rousing themselves from their beds when Het and the rest had set out. Anders doubted they would be any more upright now, judging from their inebriation. And Silas surely knew more of the strange artifacts he had seen, given his position managing a Parthan import account -- or at least he'd be able to offer greater insight or maybe identify the objects if Anders and Egil were to describe the objects to him....

On the other hand, they would be venturing off without the rest....

by **Fanaglia** » Wed May 01, 2019 10:18 am

While Higa Kenkichi was making a clear effort to keep distance between himself and the crates he had indicated, Mireille tentatively made her way towards them. Merde, she swore under her breath as she was interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps, soon followed by the light of a lantern. Her hand, still in her pocket, tightened around the grip of her weapon -- perhaps the professor was right!

Alas, it was only Mrs. Atwright, and she arrived carrying a package tied with string, not the death on swift wings Professor Raminotto had predicted. Joining her at the table where she opened the package to reveal the notes she had promised, Mireille flipped through the pages, eager to learn anything and everything she could. She was, however, not prepared for what she found: Jackson Elias' normally well-crafted and well-organized approach to writing gradually decayed into a mess of frantic, disorganized fragments and rambling thoughts before the desperate realization scrawled madly across two full pages, reading, "ALL OF THEM SURVIVED." There were some fevered lines about opening a gate, of some horrible power, of...danger. But most ominous of all was the last line Jackson Elias recorded in these notes, as unsetting as it was opaque: "Must tell, and Make the Readers Believe. Should I scream for them? Let's scream together..."

Mireille shuddered when she read that line as Mrs. Atwright commented, "You can see why I did not.... know what to do with these," she gestured at the journals and papers. "There's nothing relevant in the first half, and the latter, well." She hesitated. "You understand why I couldn't possibly let the papers see them."

"Yes," Mireille agreed. "Yes, absolutely not. I wouldn't hazard to assume that there is nothing relevant in the first half, though, Mrs Atwright. Jackson Elias was not someone about whom one could make assumptions." She couldn't help but wonder about the connection to Josef Baas -- Elias had certainly thought it worth investigating. Perhaps some of the people Elias spoke to while in Jiaoying could make some sense of what he had been up to before he died, or at least point them in the right direction. She recalled the matchbook they had found at the scene of the murder and the photograph of the yacht and wondered how they were all connected. She kept these thoughts to herself, though. It may have been anxious nonsense, but the professor's mistrust of Mrs. Atwright was contagious and, with what they had witnessed, there was no real way to know who could be trusted.

by **Razonica** » Wed May 01, 2019 8:05 pm

Though only moments ago Sevia had blamed her fit on a fit of fancy, she took great offense at the professor's suggestion that she was playing along in some stupid joke. The young woman had crossed her arms and given Professor Lucino a stern look, "Though we don't know for certain whether or not my fit has something to do with black magic or nerves, I can assure you it wasn't some joke. What would I have to gain by trying to play a prank on you? To frighten to? And is the mere presence of some dark scribbles enough to make you laugh or be scared Professor Lucino? Then, there's simply nothing for me to gain from playing a joke on you. And as for the lack of evidence for black magic, we've seen people cut up with ritualistic symbols on them. If it's not magic, then perhaps it's hypnotism, which we all know is still being scientifically investigated by many a government." She kept her stare awhile longer, though offered no more commentary.

Upon the return of Mrs. Atwright, Mireille took the strangely bound journal of Elias Jackson and read it. Sevia asked for it second and read along slowly as she listened to Mireille. Sevia took great interest in the actual records of the journey, rather than the mad ramblings of Elias Jackson. Sure, they were concerning, but less could be learned from them than notes made by a sane man.

"What was this massacre that Mr. Jackson was looking into?" Sevia asked, "He made mention of some lost expedition but gave no context for his reason for looking into it or even what the expedition was about." Sevia went quiet for a few more moments, but made a slight sound of discovery when she reached a part discussing the possible causes of the massacre.

"So the locals believe some dark god caused this massacre? Not sure if that's the exact reason, but who knows? The people of Razonica believe in two married gods, and my people - the Razmas- believe in many spirits. And this Cult of the Bloody Tongue, could they be the worshipers of this dark god? After all, these wounds must have been caused by someone, and I doubt that gods often do that."

Sevia paused a moment to think about the bodies. While she had not directly studied them, nor committed them to memory properly, Sevia had a nagging feeling that something had been wrong about the tongues of the victims. Perhaps they had been marked or perhaps removed entirely. It would make sense, being that the cult that may have had a hand in the massacre was called the Cult of the Blood Tongue.

"Was there something odd about the victims tongues?" She asked, "I can't remember, I didn't want to. However, if they were removed or marked, it only gives proof to the possibility that that cult is continuing to hunt anyone who knows about them down."

by **Liecthenbourg** » Sat May 04, 2019 1:08 pm

From seeing the world in a thousand colours, now Higa could not keep his head fixated on a particular point. He tried to read the documents, but it was a constant blur of text and text. His mind tried to piece it together with what he could recall, but nowhere he found the name 'Silas N'Kwane' that he saw in the room with the deceased Elias.

SILAS N'KWANE he was adamant he saw, but it was not to be true. He rubbed his eyes and the words reformed and dissipated on the paper. No. No. Anders was dealing with Silas N'Kwane.

But then another word came to his mind. Jiaoying. Jioaying, in Clockwork. With the photo of the yacht and the matchbook with the tiger on it. JIAOYING! OF COURSE!

"Jiaoying! AH-HA!" An idea formed. "Madame Atwright, I have... I have a request if you would be so kind." He darted towards her, a flurry of suit and well-to-do-trousers. "Do you know anything of Jiaoying? Is there anything in this university I could read on this city? Perhaps there would be..." For a moment his face turned to Mireille, the best composed he had seemed in quite a while, and gave her a crafty wink. "Perhaps there would be some texts or tomes, or anything, on that fabled city? That glorious city? Surely you've known something of it here. For you see I think it has to do with--" He was interrupted as he overhead Sevia ask:

"Was there something odd about the victims tongues?" She asked, "I can't remember, I didn't want to. However, if they were removed or marked, it only gives proof to the possibility that that cult is continuing to hunt anyone who knows about them down."

"No, no... not that I recall. They had stained teeth, that I can recall. From opiods or narcotics of some kind."

Turning on the spot, he turned to Mrs. Atwright again. "A thousand pardons, madame. But another request. Do you know the tongue of the Parthans? Perhaps there is a mistranslation involved? It seemed in his work the natives themselves knew not of what this 'Bloody Tongue' was? Also, the Dark God and the mountain -- a similar name, too..."

His trance seemingly washed over him again before he fluttered his eyes awake once more. "The symbol on his forehead... was... was that a tongue?"

by **Fanaglia** » Sat May 04, 2019 8:58 pm

"Jiaoying! AH-HA!" Came Mr. Higa's sudden cry.

Merde. Mireille shot the reporter a sharp and disapproving look as he continued to excitably and frantically speak about Jiaoying and attempt to pry information from the unsuspecting librarian. She could have throttled the bastard until she noticed the subtle wink he gave her. You clever idiot! While she would have rather kept the Jiaoying connection between them, she realized that now that both he and Sevia were eagerly interrogating their hostess with a thousand questions (and hardly giving her a moment to respond), it was her best opportunity to slip away from the table unnoticed and resume her search of the room.

She made her way directly to the crate from which Higa Kenkichi had retrieved the statuette, a small mess of straw still littering the floor around it. She knelt down and examined the crate closely, attempting to discern any clue as to its origin -- a return address, a name, a stamp, a serial number, the name of a shipping company, perhaps a written note somewhere inside, amidst the hay and scraps of cloth...anything.

by **The Holy Dominion of Inesea** » Mon May 06, 2019 3:54 pm

"Anders, Egil, we have two names and an address. Let's return to the rest of the group before we investigate more. I doubt that moving on this information now or in a few hours will make a difference. Let's not forget that the last room we blundered into in our search was filled with angry parthan savages. Lets gather the rest of the group, see what they've found, and then investigate this Ju-Ju voodoo place."

by **Inoroth** » Wed May 15, 2019 12:45 am

Library of Opiskella
Klippenstaad, Varenhold
19 January, 1910

Luciano now found himself in the isolated minority since Mr. Higa had found that statuette. Miss Mireille had been the most upset by his incredulity, but Miss Sevia also seemed earnest. On the backfoot, Luciano was growing somewhat defensive:

"You must understand -- try seeing it for my position: this whole business at least sounds completely preposterous. There have been no credible cases where an everyday physical object has a meaningful and constant paranormal link to... well, to whatever it is that causes the phenomenon. There just haven't. In the hundreds of instances of the unusual that I have come across in my dalliances with the mystical and supernatural, both in Pia and now Fanaglia, every single example that wasn't mere bunk involved brief, imperfect contact.

A pale phantom darting into shadow, the laughter of a loved one long dead, creaking of the upstairs floor when no one is home, a street sign guiding one to safety that no one has seen before or since: these are the sorts of connections that I can conscience, because they are impossible to explain satisfactorily otherwise. If any more stable or permanent connection with the nether world (or worlds) were possible... well, why hasn't it become our one true religion yet? Lord knows enough charlatans try to hawk their gimmicked versions to the ignorant masses, what could an enterprising fellow who actually had a magical artifact accomplish?"

Luciano let his point hang in the air for emphasis before rambling on with his impromptu lecture.

"Not to mention the mind-altering effects both Mr. Higa and Miss Sevia claim is has. The data again overwhelmingly supports the pattern that those who experience something of the paranormal are always in the same state of mind before, during, and after the event, perhaps shaken but never dominated or controlled as you both suggest. One must again wonder why, if such a device were a possibility, why it has not gone on to rule the human race. The leading minds in the field of the paranormal all tend to agree that the cause of these events must be tied in some way to a sort of weakness of the barriers of our reality, which the aberrations can break through for a time, but only for a short time and rarely with any consistency or even repetition. Now, Dr. Elias and I disagree... disagreed..."

The flow of his thinking ground to a halt as he processed again the grisly scene back at Dr. Elias' hotel room. His stomach dropped as the realization that his pen pal and reliable debate opponent hit him fully for the first time. Elias. Was. Gone. There would be no more letters, no stimulating point and counter-point, no more books about fraudulent cults unmasked... Luciano, knowing he had lost all momentum, merely waved one hand in both frustration and dismissal, pinching the bridge of his nose with the other.

"No, in this I am afraid I cannot see the plausibility. I don't know what to make of your experiences, perhaps some sort of temporary hysteria from all the stresses we have been under, but that statuette is -- can only be -- inert."

The group was quiet for a moment, likely all remembering Dr. Elias. Miss Sevia broke the silence.

"Though we don't know for certain whether or not my fit has something to do with black magic or nerves, I can assure you it wasn't some joke. What would I have to gain by trying to play a prank on you? To frighten to? And is the mere presence of some dark scribbles enough to make you laugh or be scared Professor Lucino? Then, there's simply nothing for me to gain from playing a joke on you. And as for the lack of evidence for black magic, we've seen people cut up with ritualistic symbols on them. If it's not magic, then perhaps it's hypnotism, which we all know is still being scientifically investigated by many a government."

Backing her up, Mireille added:

"That fear is not something someone can simply fake. I may not understand what our friends have experienced, but I do believe them, and you should, too. Now, if you could please help us look for any other clues while we wait for Mrs. Atwright's return. Or, if you'd prefer, simply keep watch whilst we search ourselves. You may be right that we may need to leave in a hurry, but I absolutely will not make the mistake I made at the Hotel Novda -- I simply will not leave any hint of a clue behind if it can be helped."

Luciano nodded, gazing back out to the shadowy bookshelves once more.

"Very well, Miss Mireille, I shall keep watch."

It wasn't long before Mrs. Atwright returned, her face and upper torso illuminated in torchlight. Luciano suspected she was the distraction while her accomplices (or minions, as perhaps she was even the mastermind) would strike from the shadows. He was almost disappointed when no such attack manifested, and instead their ally procured what she had managed to save of Dr. Elias' belongings. Luciano was still wary of an ambush, however, and examined the notes while frequently looking over his shoulders.

The notes themselves were rather unilluminating and bland at first. A strange mountain that the locals called a god and had an uneasy feeling about (superstitious minds would be fooled by just about anything though), the same god, something about black wind, tied in some way to the Carlyle Expedition, and a rough outline for the book Dr. Elias was working on. The only thing of any note at this point was the interview with Lt. Selmir.

I say, didn't our friend Dr. Het serve in Asterdan as well? It is likely a long shot, but perhaps he is acquainted with the good Lieutenant?"

However, as they continued looking, things became more alarming. Entire sections were blotted out or written over, the bits about Rothia proved illusive even after Luciano investigated them with great care. What could be read suggested a mind on the brink, and nothing at all fit the character of their friend. The three most jarring statements for the Inorothian Professor revealed that Dr. Elias was having dreams described as similar to Carlyle's (suggesting he had access to some diary or other link to them that their team had to obtain as soon as possible), the enigmatic "ALL OF THEM SURVIVED", which could only be understood to mean the six unaccounted for members of the Expedition, and something about books in Carlyle's safe.

Whatever Dr. Elias had uncovered, it had been too much for the poor man. To honor his death, to bring his killers to justice, and to solve the mystery of the Carlyle Expedition, it was clear to Luciano that, one way or another they had to get into the Carlyle estates and find that safe. A smile cracked in the corner of his mouth as he thought that Mr. Anders, whom he had had reservations about form the beginning, would likely turn out to be the most useful member of their party for that objective.

Miss Mireille and Miss Sevia made conversation with Mrs. Atwright, but Luciano wasn't listening, instead already working on the problem of entering a noble estate and retrieving highly sensitive documents. He did notice when Mr. Higa began asking a rapid-fire series of questions of Mrs. Atwright, and looked on with some amusement, trying to determine if there was something else afoot. The Professor noted that, as the man continued, Mireille slipped away and returned to the box where they had first been led... curious. For his part, Luciano would continue to watch out for any movement in the shadows or other signs of impending doom. The sooner they were out of here, the better.

by **Yasuragi** » Wed May 15, 2019 7:19 pm

Atwright had been regarding Mireille with some worry as the woman leafed through the notes carefully, but turned as Sevia spoke. "The massacre, dear? It was the, er, Carlyle Expedition. The focus of Mr. Elias' research. He was convinced a death cult was behind it in some way, given how they had vanished while on safari in Pahada. It was in all the newsheets a few years ago, dreadful business." She tsked lightly, her arms crossed, gently rubbing her elbows as if she were cold, or nervous. "Several dozen dead, but they never recovered the bodies of the Varenholt, or even the Rothian involved. They suspected they had been taken elsewhere, desecrated in some way. Madam Carlyle -- the sister of Rutpert Carlyle who led the expedition --," Atwright interrupted herself, adding some needed context for Sevia, "-- went in search of her brother, but found nothing. Local authorities eventually hung some tribesmen, but that was really the end of it. What I really remember, though, was the confusion over why they were there in the first place."

She laughed, a low, warm chuckle. "Rutpert of course, was a playboy, his exploits all over the newsheets on a weekly basis. No doubt he became bored at playing Mehmetologist once they arrived, and wanted some hunting adventures, but how in the world he dragged the rest with him, I do not know. Certainly the Comte and the doctor, the, er, psychologist. Could you see such people traversing the wild Pahadan jungles?" A slight smile again.

She was interrupted in explaining more on the Carlyle expedition by Higa, who darted to her side, coat all aflutter, peppering her with questions on Jiaoying. Madam Atwright was of little help here - "my expertise lies with Mendean and Fanaglian history, I am afraid," - but confusion was writ across her face as she spoke. Higa was from the Empire; how would she know more of Jiaoying than he, a native? The distraction worked, however, forcing Atwright to contemplate the surrounding rooms and collections if she could recall any topics on Jiaoying, or the southern coast of Tungnir in general. At length, she ventured that -- "there might be a few topics on native Tungnir development of the region, prior to the establishment of the Protectorate? The city has developed so quickly in recent years, though, I cannot imagine much information in our collection remains relevant to the present state. Has it not quadrupled in size in the past few years alone?"

Higa answered her questions, perhaps with further questions of his own, his rapid-fire demeanor keeping Atwright from spotting Mireille as she examined the crate carefully. The straw and cloth within the crate was quite disorderly, but she was able to spot multiple pieces of pottery within, each adorned with quite striking black and white geometric patterning. Removing the cloth within would uncover a small slip of paper lying inside each, written in Varen - and on the reverse, Fanaglian. Mireille could not decipher the Varen, which was more terse, but the Fanaglian was much lengthier and densely packed. Reading a few lines, she saw that these were almost postcards:

"Dearest cousin, I write to you from the sandy beaches of Parthan, in the Nirni Raj. It is last leg of my quite arduous journey, before I return home to Cynfel, but I simply could not resist purchasing some lovely items I saw in a local market here. Supposedly these are sacred pots from Tungnir, used in one of those savage elaborate rituals. How exciting! Fulmian says it's a load of poppycock, of course, but you know my husband has no romance in his soul!

I do hope you and Karl are in good spirits and hopes, and you'll come to visit me this winter! The warmth will do you a world of good!"

Naturally, of course, the card for the statuette could not have been placed inside, as that card had been for the bowl, but it must be nearby -- and sifting through the straw, Mireille quickly spotted the note for it, turning it over to read the Fanaglian in anticipation.

"Darling cousin! We've arrived in Asterdan, and I must assure you, all the horrid stories are absolutely true! The desert nature of this hideously savage town is horrific, and simply ruins my hair! And the men are simply so boorish and rude, leering at me from all angles! I hardly can sleep without fear of them breaking in to steal our valuables and ravish me! I've insisted Fulmian sleep near the window, but that hardly brings me peace of mind.

The sole positive note are the bazaars here - that means market, coz - which are absolutely packed full of artifacts like you have in your collection. I've found a particularly nice one, a lovely statuette that supposedly comes from somewhere in Pahada - I could barely understand the man, jabbering away in his foreign lingo. Was nearly outbid by some Rothian fellow from some Foundation or another, but I simply knew this would be a lovely addition to your collection.

Hope you enjoy, darling!"

Mireille was shaken out of her reverie with a small gasp from Atwright. "On his head? My heavens!" The librarian was clearly startled with something Higa had said, and visibly swayed as she clutched the edge of a table behind her for stability. It would be the work of but a moment for Mireille to pocket the card that accompanied the statuette and stand, brushing stray straw from her clothing as she did so. By the time she had returned to Atwright's side, the woman had recovered slightly, and waved away any helping hands from Mireille or Higa. "I am... fine. I will be, thank you. This has simply been.. quite a shock. Mr. Elias' death clearly affected me... more than I had expected. My deepest apologies." She straightened slightly, but it was clear that her face was a bit paler, and her chest rose and fell a bit faster than normal. "I think it may be best if I retire, but... before I do, if you could leave some paper with the symbol sketched, to the best of your knowledge..." she paused, closing her eyes before rushing on with her words, as if forcing them out to avoid thinking about what she was saying, "... I can examine our records to see if we have any information on similar occult symbolism, and have the results sent to you post-haste."

She would end there, responding to follow-up questions quiet tersely. It was clear that her nerves were fraying, and that the group was dangerously close to overstaying their welcome - not necessarily because of what they had done, but due to Madam Atwright's own mood. Pressing her for more information would likely not succeed, or may, but at the cost of an amiable relationship with her in the future. She was so shaken, as a matter of fact, that she did not even notice that she had quiet forgotten Elias' notes, giving anyone the opportunity to discreetly scoop them up and conceal them, if they so desired.

Assuming none had made a fuss or attempted to break away from the group, they would shortly find themselves outside the library of Opiskella, shivering in the wind and cold as Atwright locked and bolted the doors behind them. Where they would head to now - in either the short or long term - was up to them....

Anders and Egil shared a look and muttered back and forth in Varen whilst waiting for a coach to prepare to depart, the cabbie unbuckling the feeding bag from his horses. As Het seated himself inside, bundling himself in his coat and warming his toes on the charcoal heater, Anders spoke to the driver, giving him the address before slapping the side of the coach. "We," he said through the window to Het, gesturing to himself and Egil, "will return shortly; cheaper food here than at the hotel." The lie came easily, and the coach would set off before Het could inquire further. Anders and Egil were free to do what they wanted.

Which was, in part, to get food. In that sense, Anders had not lied. He had not specified where he would get his food, however, and that made all the difference - Ransom Court.

A run-down series of tenements built so densely that the inhabitants were practically jowl to jowl even through the paper-thin walls, the area had been unpleasant when it was brand-new. The twenty years since had not been kind, but even if they had, it wouldn't have made a difference. The streets between were crowded for the current hour, but most people were suspicious and cold to Anders and Egil, despite chattering to each other, and hailing each other up and down the street. It was an insular neighborhood, closing ranks to a perceived outsider - at least one that had not proved itself. The men, their skin color marking them as anything from Drachen to Pahadan, mostly were dockworkers or factory laborers, their faces chapped with sun and wind exposure, and even the women's dresses were more suited to hard labor in an steelmill than a high society gala. Street-level tenements had been converted into shops, selling everything from hides and shoes to butcher cuts and stale bread; strands of rope carried all manner of laundry overhead to dry, even in the bitter cold.

1 Ransom Court proved to be the oldest of all the tenements, build in a square shape around a central courtyard that was no more than a few dozen square feet in size. Calling it a courtyard would be a generous statement; the cobbles had long since been torn up, either by man or by nature, and the weeds and grasses ran amok. A few chickens clucked in a desultory fashion, no doubt avoiding the watchful eyes of the overly thin volchats that lurked in the shadows. Here, most of the shops had closed and shuttered, boards and paper blocking their windows. Only two remained accessible - an old pawn shop, also closed down and empty, but not yet boarded, and JuJu house, standing alone, the tired survivor.

A few drunks lay around the yard, slumped over themselves or a bottle they clutched in their mittens, and the smell of urine and ammonia was strong; clearly this was their hideaway, a place to drink, pass out in their own urine, only to wake and begin the cycle anew, away from the punishing weather or public gaze.

Anders and Egil would have little luck with their chosen avenue of investigation, casually questioning a street vendor that passed them some roasted potatoes and chestnuts in cones made from discarded newsheets. The man would shrug at Anders' invented story of a friend's drunken adventures, offering little comment save that -- he was a "bit surprised ya friend went to the Juju place, 'ssuming he's one of us," he gestured to the trio, indicating their whiteness. "That place's for darkies, mostly, tho' it ain't seeing much luck," he smiled, exposing a mouth missing a few teeth, and foul, rancid breath. "Gets mebbe a few a day, but guess they're flush to keep the old darkie in business. Shouldn't rightly be there anymore, you ask me. Gives everyone the creeps." Not much else could be gleaned; the vendor's path took him to many streets and many shops. Only the oddity of Juju house made it stand out overly much, and should the duo attempt to press him about specifics of the visitors, he would shoot them both a suspicious glare before attempting to pack up his cart and move away at a rapid clip.

by **Liecthenbourg** » Wed May 22, 2019 5:58 am

He tugged either side of his suit jacket close to him, doing up the buttons as best he could given that he was harbouring the statuette close to his chest.

Whether it was the cold or the breeze, his mind felt clearer again. Perhaps it was leaving that dreary and bleak part of the library. Perhaps it was he no longer feared some rebuttal and confrontation with the Madame Atwright, who he felt was somewhat passive-aggressive. Could he blame her? He had stomped across the entirety of her floor in search of some compartment that wasn't there.

The smile that spread across his face was too genuine to fight back, or tug away into a neutral expression. "I can't believe that worked." Turning to the others, Sevia and Mireille, and Professor Luciano. "We did well to distract her there, indeed." he added in a hushed tone as he began walking away from the library doors.

"It... Hm, the others. We know not how their progress goes." Reaching into his pocket for a pen, he began to scribble down some important details onto a note-pad. Any good key pieces of information, what he could recall from his less-confused time in the library. "Maybe it is wise to return to the hotel and regroup there? Or perhaps head down to the... docks, was it? To find Mr. Anders and Company?"

He blinked, not once or twice, but thrice. As if he was trying to spur something to come back to him. "Oh, and Mireille -- what did you find? Perhaps something of use to us, something of value and information relating to this... accursed statuette?"

by **Inoroth** » Sat May 25, 2019 9:45 pm

Library of Opiskella
Klippenstaad, Varenhold
19 January, 1910

Further conversation with Mrs. Atwright proved futile, and by some act of divine fortune they were not assailed as they left the catacombs of the library and once again entered the chilling wintry winds of Klippenstaad. Professor Luciano drew his scarf up over his face, not used to the bitter cold. His breath began forming frozen flecks almost immediately -- he hated that sensation, even as a young lad on ski retreats. However, he out the discomfort out of his mind by going over what they had just learned, as well as what their next step might be. Mr. Higa broke the silence with an elated grin as he declared:

"I can't believe that worked."

Professor Luciano nodded from behind his bundled scarf, fidgeting with his gloved hands.

"Indeed, despite a few close calls, we have learned a great deal of pertinent information without tipping our own hand too much..."

Mr. Higa, quite pleased, added:

"We did well to distract her there, indeed."

The Inorothian wasn't sure when, exactly, they had distracted her, but he politely shrugged his shoulders with a nod.

"We certainly did right to distrust her, at least. She is closer to this whole nasty business than she let on, I have no shred of doubt about it. As a precaution, we should change the floor we are on back at the hotel, or at least instruct the staff not to reveal our location to any callers, but to announce them to us instead. Elias seemed to know that his killers were coming, and it did not save him -- we cannot afford to be too cavalier, even though we have greater numbers."

Luciano removed his glasses, procuring a handkerchief from his pocket to polish off the layer of moisture that had fogged them. As he did so, he seemed lost in thought, speaking a sort of checklist aloud to himself before then addressing the group once more.

"Elias was descending into madness before the end, right. We have 'supposedly' found a statuette that seems to cause temporary madness, right. We have an etching of the carved symbol made into the brass, right. Mrs. Atwright, even if not directly involved, is suspiciously connected to this whole business and should not be trusted, right. We have uncovered leads here, in the Empire, and back in Rothia, any of which could prove vital, right. Our friend Dr. Het may know something of the Lt. Selmir and we ought to ask him when next we meet, right. Elias seemed to be killed over something he and/or the Carlyle's uncovered in Parthan or Pahada, right. Elias' notes clearly indicate that the Carlyle's survived, all of them, right. Elias' notes mention both a 'Mountain of Black Wind' and a 'Cult of the Bloody Tongue' several times, which might well be part of this killing business, right. We strongly suspect that one of the Carlyle estates contains a safe with further information, right.

I trust we are all in agreement, then, that once we rejoin our compatriots, the next step is to, ahem... 'access' the Carlyle safe, by whatever means are most expedient, if you catch my meaning?"

Mr. Higa seemed perplexed for a moment.

"It... Hm, the others. We know not how their progress goes. Maybe it is wise to return to the hotel and regroup there? Or perhaps head down to the... docks, was it? To find Mr. Anders and Company?"

Luciano coughed from the cold.

"Oh, the hotel of course. If they have managed to gain someone's trust, it might complicate matters for a half dozen new figures to turn up midway through deliberations. Dr. Het is far more capable than he lets on, and while I do not trust Mr. Anders or his silent friend in many respects, when it comes to skullduggery and sleuthing I expect they are also quite adept at their trade."

As though he had forgotten about it, Mr. Higa also blurted out:

"Oh, and Mireille -- what did you find? Perhaps something of use to us, something of value and information relating to this... accursed statuette?"

This, in turn, reminded Luciano of the statuette.

"Ah yes, there is also that little matter. Mr. Higa, and Miss Sevia too, I suppose... I know you both have, well, concerns about showing anyone else what you found, but now that we are out of the dark, perhaps it is safe to show Miss Mireille and myself what, exactly, we are dealing with? If it truly has some fantastic link to the paranormal, it would mark a breakthrough in our understanding of both the aether and it's denizens."

by **Fanaglia** » Sat Jun 01, 2019 9:55 pm

As Mrs. Atwright led them out of the room, Mireille could not help but notice Elias' notes had been forgotten on the table -- or were they left there on purpose? The librarian was already well into the darkness beyond the threshold of the collection's doorway. Clearly, the four of them were not the only ones interested in these notes; surely, they shouldn't be simply left out here, where anyone could find them. Besides, what if they'd missed something? It wasn't as if they truly trusted Mrs. Atwright, anyway. With a quick flip of the wrist, Mireille silently whisked the stack of notes off of the table and tucked them into her coat.

As she walked behind the rest of her associates, however, her conscience began to niggle at her. While Mrs. Atwright had still not earned their full trust, they at least seemed to have earned hers. And she did not appear to be taking Elias' death any better than they were. For now, she was an asset who could tentatively be relied upon. Mireille was not ready to burn that bridge -- at least not yet.

Shuffling a bit inside her coat in the darkness just before they reached the entrance, Mireille produced the notes and said to Mrs. Atwright, "Ma'am, sorry, but you'd forgotten these back in the collection room. Wouldn't want them to get lost, possibly fall into the wrong hands. Of course, we have an upcoming appointment with Elias' publisher, Johann Kinder -- perhaps he could help provide some more information about what we've read within these notes? You need not worry about the possibility of these notes being reproduced in print -- Jackson Elias was a dear friend and a swear that neither I nor his publisher would wish to damage his reputation by doing so." She hoped Atwright would let her keep the notes, especially since they seemed to have been such a burden to her before, but she would freely give them back if she was asked to. She was not entirely honest in her request, though. Before offering the notes to Mrs. Atwright, she had hastily removed a few pages she found to be of note (the page in which he details his meeting with "Nails" Nelson, the structure he laid out for the book, the partially blacked-out page that made mention of a psychoanalyst's files, and one of the several madly-scrawled pages in which he repeats the line, "Many names, many forms, but all the same in the end") and shoved them in her coat pocket, hoping that, unless the librarian had memorized the entirety of the volume of mad ramblings (which she found unlikely), she should never notice their absence.

With that matter settled and once they were all outside with Mrs. Atwright nervously walking away in the other direction, Higa Kenkichi was the first to speak, keeping his voice down, "I can't believe that worked."

"Indeed," Raminotto commented, "despite a few close calls, we have learned a great deal of pertinent information without tipping our own hand too much..."
"We did well to distract her there, indeed," Higa added.

"You did good, Mr. Higa," Mireille thanked him before he wondered aloud as to their next destination, suggesting perhaps joining Dr. Z and the others at the docks. Raminotto disagreed, suggesting (after an extended aside as he ran through a mental checklist of all they had learned) that they return to the hotel to regroup, as well as take the extra precaution of moving to a different floor. "I think Professor Raminotto is right -- we can't bee too careful. To be perfectly honest, I don't exactly trust the people who run the hotel, either. New rooms are not a bad idea, but that may not be enough." The idea of continuing to rent rooms at the Klippen-Muninsson while secretly staying at a completely different hotel crossed her mind, but their motley crew of foreigners would likely attract attention wherever they went, so she doubted such a ruse would even be very effective. Besides, Jackson Elias trusted these people enough. On the other hand, he also trusted his accommodations at the Hotel Novda...Mireille stopped when she realized that her companions were staring at her. She'd been muttering to herself, thinking out loud without realizing it.

Changing the subject, Higa Kenkichi asked her, "Oh, and Mireille -- what did you find? Perhaps something of use to us, something of value and information relating to this... accursed statuette?"

"Ah yes, there is also that little matter," Raminotto replied. "Mr. Higa, and Miss Sevia too, I suppose... I know you both have, well, concerns about showing anyone else what you found, but now that we are out of the dark, perhaps it is safe to show Miss Mireille and myself what, exactly, we are dealing with? If it truly has some fantastic link to the paranormal, it would mark a breakthrough in our understanding of both the aether and it's denizens."

"I'm not sure..." Mireille replied to Mr. Higa, ignoring the professor's suggestion in an attempt to avoid an argument; what to do with the statuette could be sorted out once they were safely back indoors at the hotel. "I found a couple of postcards, written in both Cynfel and in Varen. I can't read Varen; could you translate this for us, please?" Mireille handed the cards to Sevia to read. "I could read the Cynfel, though; at first glance, it seems like nothing of note, but does make mention of a bidding war over the statuette between the writer and a Rothian man from 'some Foundation.' Elias had a Penhew Foundation business card on him when he was killed, and he was preparing for a whole section of his book to be titled 'Penhew,'" she said, producing the page from Elias' notes listing the headings. You're from Inoroth, Professor -- do you know anything about this foundation?"

by **The Biosyn** » Thu Jun 06, 2019 10:13 pm

Anders let the street food vendor go without any more questions. He knew better than to stoke more suspicion than necessary. There was nothing to be done about the lack of information on the Juju House, though he mentally filed away that it seems to be afloat when maybe it shouldn’t be. He and Egil headed back towards the place, making their way the few streets over. Entering the shop, fully expecting a place of several less savory varieties, they instead found… a shop. The display window outside held Parthan artwork, carvings and pottery of they would guess are religious icons, though neither Anders nor Egil really were familiar with anything Parthan.

As they enter, a normal bell above the door tinkled, thereby alerting anyone already in the shop that there were new potential customers. The shop was tiny, dusty, and cramped. Very very dusty, in fact. Shelves piled high with tribal artifacts and figurines, carved wildebeest scattered amongst ivory warthogs and elephants, all of which seemed caught in an eternal migration across the shelves. Stacks of books were put where they happened to have been begun, topped off with devil masks, more alien and sinister than even a Varenholt or Drachenvolk would be comfortable with. And nestled in the corner, if it could be called nestled since it filled the corner in its entirety, was a great stuffed giraffe neck and head. And all of it, the shelves, the wildebeests, the books and masks, the giraffe, all of it was covered in more dust than Anders would have expected of a shop that managed to move enough merchandise to stay open, especially one that supposedly had multiple import/export orders with Emerson.

Anders’ attention was quickly pulled from the dust to the people already in the shop, however. A trio of Parthans arguing in a Parthan dialect over where an ivory tusk came from briefly glanced with some amount of suspicion at the two Varen/Drachen that just entered before returning to their argument. A man, also Parthan, seemed intent on inspecting some dulled prahangs, hooked knives, long since rusted with disuse. The fifth and last man already in the shop seemed to be the proprietor of the shop, standing as he was behind tiny desk, equally laden with books, figurines, and other such knick-knacks, all covered in the same layer of dust found everywhere else here. An old, balding, Parthan man, the hair he had left white, back bent with age, and a suit impeccably kept, if old-fashioned and well-worn, squinted at them through the half-moons that sat upon the bridge of his nose. Anders noticed a leather thong around the proprietor’s neck, holding something that lay hidden beneath his tie and vest, perhaps, he thought, holding a key.

All in all, nothing really seemed out of order in this little Parthan shop called Juju House, nothing except the dust, the Varenholt, and the Drachenvolk. Anders wandered around a few of the shelves, ostensibly looking at the ivory wares, but keeping an eye on the others in the shop discreetly. Though these men didn’t seem suspicious themselves, he and Egil were led here from Emerson’s, from the corpse of Elias; that, combined with an itch in the back of his mind he just couldn’t quite scratch, meant Anders felt, not quite ill at ease, but certainly not safely comfortable. After inspecting some wares on a couple shelves for about five or ten minutes, asking Egil, in Varen, from time to time, what he thought about this carving or that animal, whether or not he thought his (nonexistent) sister Greta might like this one or that one, Anders selected a piece, ivory carved into an elephant trumpeting into the sky and made his way to the desk of the assumed proprietor. “Good afternoon!” Anders said cheerily, as one usually does when having successfully found a gift they think the recipient will like. “I have found myself quite taken with this ivory elephant figurine, and would like to purchase it. I think it will make an excellent gift for my sister.”

by **Yasuragi** » Thu Jul 11, 2019 7:42 am

Atwright/Mireille

"Oh, heavens," Atwright said, a hand flying to her lips in horror. "I had entirely forgotten the notes. To think that I had left them out, where anyone could have seen them, and after lecturing you so intently about the need for discretion. I am.. truly sorry, Madam Mireille," she dipped her head in apology, before reaching out a hand to take the notes Mireille proffered. "You must think less of me for this, but I promise, by the Lord's name, that this is solely due to the unusual stress which has taxed me, and not due to a deficiency of our sex or my own mind. I just, truly, shudder to think on the terrible things you and Mr. Higa have informed me about -- not that I begrudge you for doing so, but they were terrible to hear, and I'm certain, even more terrible to witness." She paused, a hand on the notes, staring into Mireille's eyes. A moment passed, and then another, but before Mireille could do more than shift slightly, Atwright nodded slowly, as if coming to a decision. "Madam, I think it is best if these notes go with you. For whatever reason - God, fate, coincidence - you and your compatriots seem to be perfectly poised to investigate this gruesome matter. It would be unbecoming of my friendship with Mr. Elias to hold back this information from those that seek to emulate him - to understand more about this world and the hideous forces that lurk in the night." She removed her hand from the notes and journals, leaving them with Mireille, a wan smile dawning on her face. "Mr. Elias trusted you, and it seems only right that I do the same."

Sevia

Flipping the cardstock over, Sevia was able to make out the text easily, despite the slight yellowing of age. The cards were clearly intended as little slips, notes added to crates or artifacts by amateur archaeologists or tourists seeking a memento of their time abroad. She had had much experience with them, working on curating similar collections filled with such things. It had been all the rage a century or so ago, to loot and traipse across the land in search of 'funny looking rocks' and posing with 'even funnier looking men'. Fortunately, times had changed, and the sciences had now revitalized archaeology, leading to new and exciting methodologies that she had been trained extensively in.

Despite knowing all this, the terseness of the writing was still irksome to her. A few words, scrawled in elegant cursive, was not nearly enough information for any sort of rigorous study on any artifact at all!

Most were similar to the following: Tungnir Chief religious bowl, likely from Jiaoying. Acquired in Nirni Raj in 1845.

Religious bowl? Sevia would have to suppress a scoff at that; half of the would-be vendors made up ludicrous backstories for their ill-gotten wares, the better to peddle them to unwary or gullible tourists passing through their bazaars. The Tungnir didn't even have chiefs, and as far as she knew, there were no bowls involved in any sort of religious ceremonies of that people -- although she was a bit rusty on the particulars. It was likely an even chance that most of these bowls and vases were in fact, modern replicas or fakes entirely.

The statuette's card, however, was odd. The first word was crossed out -- "Pahada" had been replaced with "Parthan" -- a correction on the statuette's origins. Odd, given the lackadaisical nature of the rest of the collection. Secondarily, this slip had two lines; the first, Parthan deity statuette acquired in Asterdan in 1844; unusual soapstone carving was nothing out of the ordinary.

The second line, added nearly at the bottom of the slip, was written at a later date, for the ink had not faded nearly so much, and the handwriting was different, bolder, and more masculine. Removed to attic after the passing of darling Anni, 1845.

Curious indeed. The statuette had apparently been in this woman's collection for scant months - perhaps weeks or days - before being removed and placed in an attic, no doubt to languish there until the family perished decades later in the Eastern War. But why? What was this about a death, and why would it have caused the statuette to be removed? The Varen were not a superstitious lot, despite their strange religion; they would not be spooked by the eerie nature of the statuette, so something further must have occurred. Yet, Sevia had to wonder at the coincidence: Jackson Elias, murdered at the hands of presumable cultists, given the nature of his investigations, had been investigating myths and legends of Parthan, leading him to the Widener collection, which had contained an ominous statuette. Yet the documents he sought had been stolen, leaving nothing more than a foul and persisting smell in its wake, while the statue remained... Elias had fled in fear -- they had assumed due to the smell, but....could he have seen the statuette too? Was it possible that the cult they sought worshiped this strange carving?

Her mind was whirring along like a finely tuned pocketwatch, the gears clicking and turning as she pondered the situation, fitting pieces of a theory together, discarding that which seemed not to fit, inching closer and closer to what she was sure was a clue.

Luciano

Luciano did indeed know much about the Penhews and their Foundation, which it should be assumed he disclosed at this point.

Anders/Egil

"Ahh!" the man exclaimed. "A wonderful selection, I'm sure. Allow me?" He reached out a hand, wrinkled and callused, for the carved elephant. "Yes, an excellent choice indeed, and congratulations to your sister for her recent nuptials," he looked up and smiled, his eyes twinkling over the glasses. "This elephant, the good god N'jume, is the god of the jungles, famed for bringing the life-giving waters of the sky and the rivers. He will be an excellent blessing of fertility for darling Greta," the man continued, accidentally disclosing that he had been eavesdropping on Anders and Egil for some time. His Varen was polished, and excellent, surprisingly plummy, even. "All the way from Parthan, delicately wrapped in hand-woven linen by Parthan tribeswomen, the better to ensure its purity is unblemished. Even if your sister does not care to invoke the blessings of a strange Parthan god, it still makes for a lovely conversational piece, does it not? Look at the skillfully carved tusks, and the intricately marked skin. No comparison to the real thing, mind you," his voice dipped briefly, as if slightly sad, before returning to his brisk nature, "and I do mean the real thing, the wonderful elephants of Parthan. Not the flea-ridden things in zoos here. Poor things suffer from the cold and cramped quarters; you should see them when they roam free, as the gods intended. Mighty, majestic creatures, the kings of the land." While talking, he had been unconsciously caressing the back of the carving, something Anders and Egil noted - but as soon as they had noticed, he had noticed them noticing him, and snatched his hand away with a sheepish smile.

"Well then. Normally I'd price this fine fellow at 45 marks" -- Egil stifled a sputter at this point; that was nearly half the cost of a frigidaire, a week's worth of wages for an average man -- "but since we N'Kwanes are generous and kindly, and Greta is so recently married, I shall set it at 35 marks." Silas looked across the counter with a wide smile, eagerly awaiting the inevitable haggling that was to follow, unaware that the two Varens he was discussing had been seeking him for several days now --- or did he indeed know? Were those eyes gleaming with greed, or perhaps anticipation? Was that smile a friendly one, or a knowing smirk at their expense?

by **The Biosyn** » Tue Jul 23, 2019 7:41 pm

Anders smiled and listened attentively as Silas N’Kwane rambled on, hoping for a lucky break and there be an obvious connection to Elias. But alas, nothing yet. Even as he chatted with the proprietor, ignoring, for now, the incredible leap in logic that N’Kwane made about Greta’s marital status, nothing more seemed out of place…. yet… After saying he would pass along the well wishes for his ‘sister’, asking when the last time N’Kwane had seen an elephant in the wild, and inquiring about whether N’Kwane had family to help him with his business venture here in Varenhold, he paused as he thought about the price quoted for the elephant. His smile quirked some in anticipation of his first good dose of haggling for a handful of weeks before a grimace of chagrin replaced it in ‘surprise’ at the still-high price. “Goodness! If Greta ever found out I paid that much, even on a gift for her, my friend here,” he said, gesturing at Egil, “would have to make plans for my funeral.” Anders pondered for a moment. “In the interest of avoiding that, how about 13 marks?”

by **Liecthenbourg** » Fri Jul 26, 2019 12:11 pm

It had been some time since the members of Elias' 'family' had reconvened in the illustrious Klippen-Muninssen Hotel. They had arrived back in the groups in which they ventured out in. Some were peppy and excited, others were drained and confused. Professor Luciano seemed silent, distant and utterly absent in mind -- and in physical presence -- as he had ascended up to his room first.

Yet here they were now, the lot of them, having gathered in the Munissen's library -- a beautifully ornate section of the first floor. It was well lit, both with natural and artificial light. Its seats were well furnished and wonderfully cushioned in red fabrics, the chairs themselves made of a wonderful wood. Every aspect of this library screamed efficient and effective: books were cataloged twice over: by genre and by author.

Higa, who had had a bellhop rap on every one of their doors to summon them to the library, had sectioned themselves away in a portion of the library that was well ventilated. He had inquired before hand if he was able to smoke. The emotionless expression from the library's receptionist masked any personal distaste with the remark, but the curt nod said otherwise.

The group had taken their seats around this long table, with Higa having taken the head of it in a bold, if not assertive, move to convene what he wanted. The wisp of his pipe smoke gave an allure to the man, making him seem far more confident and in control than he'd let on. Atop the table was the statuette, now covered in three layers of cloth and a pillow-case the Korukkan had taken from his own room.

Once all were present, the reporter began.

"You're all probably wondering why I convened you here in the librar-"

"Sssshhhh!" the librarian let out, unable to stop the innate desire to bring a finger to where his lips would be.

He took another breath from his pipe, now sheepishly looking at the librarian before continuing his conversation in a lower tone that seemed to please the book-keeper. "You're probably all wondering why I've convened you here in the library." The few nods that came across were enough for him.

His sleeves were rolled up, and his jacket lay strewn across his chair. His tie was loosely hanging from his neck, and his signature hat lay atop the jacket. "Its the statuette. And the Penhews. And Elias." His confidence built on every word, holding those who might've interrupted with a gesture of an upright finger. "The Penhews were, are, clearly attached to the Occult, to mad magics and darker arts. MIreille informed me, too, that in the box with the statuette came a postcard with the name of a man from the Penhew Foundation; wanting that statuette. It is clearly magic and supernatural, given what it has done to Sevia and I." He pressed the pipe against his lips and took another drag. "Don't touch it. Don't remove the sheets."

"I brought you all here to discuss where we go from here. I believe Elias crossed the Penhew Foundation after stumbling across this statuette -- which could have been retrieved from the depths of Partha, during the Carlyle Expedition by the Penhew on the journey. The Parthans in Elias' room could very well be common thugs and mercenaries employed by the Penhew Foundation, or unfortunate retrievers caught up in something they too were unaware of. The obvious port of call is to investigate the Penhew Foundation, in Rothia."

He paused, for but a moment.

"But Rothia is alien to me. Which brings me to our other port-of-call, Jiaoying. I am familiar with the city, and it is far too.. 'exquisite' for you Easterners to merely be a place in passing. Something must have happened there -- more clues to find and things to uncover." He mentally clicked. "Shit, was it not there that Rupert Carlyle's Aide-de-Camp, something Baas, was spotted? He is as close to perhaps the Carlyle expedition we can currently get to!"

The glare from the librarian did not come across from behind the mask, but even Higa could feel the stare. Yet for now the floor was open to the others.

by **Razonica** » Sun Jul 28, 2019 12:17 pm

Sevia

The young Razma young looked over her discoveries again. Just like people, assuming they know how other civilizations should or did function The way in which people made wild conjecture about other people always amazed her. The ethnic Raz has always made assumptions of the Razma and Kapame cultures based on bias and belief in their own ideals and gods. Like these items before her, many were their own gods, right in all they put together. Yet...this piece had been first given away, then put away. Interesting. When people went off and dug up artifacts, they displayed them. It was a matter of pride.

Sevia looked over the items she held, knowing that the only thing she knew about its past owner was their family name. The Widener family. What had happened to make these people hide something discovered and oh so carefully “documented”. Well, it must have been something dire to make people abandon their idols, their vanity. Finding out who they were was probably the next step to finding out the truth.

Without much effort, Sevia could assume that these Wideners were wealthy. After all, who else but the affluent could travel to far off bazaars? Still, that did not tell her who they were, what they did. And trying to make leaps and bounds to puzzle it out would waste time. Sevia was a modern woman, she had resources all around her.

Stealing off deeper into the library, Sevia dug through some censuses of the past decades. Widener. Widener. Here they are. She smiled as she spotted her targets. Censuses did not contain much information but it told her enough. Let’s see if they have Burke’s Peerage around here. Yes there was always Who’s Who. But only the uninformed used such frivolous scribbles.

Despite the popularity of Burke’s Peerage, it took Sevia some difficulty to find it. She turned done this bookshelf and that, reading titles and numbers. She knelt down low, stood on her tippy toes. She checked under alphabetical listings, cultural history, anything remotely linked to the tome. Frustrated by the small library, Sevia hissed and growled, pacing like the very Razma savage stereotype that she loved to dismantle. With a sigh, she gave up and walked to the reference desk to try to look up the book again. And nearly dropped. In a neatly written hand were these words:

For ease of reference, look-up books - such as Burke’s Peerage - are behind the counter to avoid frustrating searches.

Sevia nearly ripped the doors of the counter off to grab the book, but resisted the urge. She took a deep breath and opened the book she’d searched for. It didn’t take too look to find them. The Wideners were a Drachen aristocrat family that lived in Varenhold before the Great War. They were just below the upper echelons of society but were always trying to get there. And then their luck changed for the worse. Money problems, a daughter, Johanna, who went missing and was later found dead in a boarded up well. And...a mother who went mad. The family had no main branches after these Wideners. Sevia pondered over the fates of the family. Madness. Right around the time of the artifacts removal. Sevia’s spine shivered. Her mind snapped back to the feeling that she felt staring at the odd statue. She began to wonder if there were some connection.

Resolved to ask Ms. Atwright whence the statue had come, Sevia retreated back towards the lobby, holding Burke’s Peerage. On the way, she spied Mr. Higa. He’d felt the statue too. The young woman approached him and opened the book to the pages on the Wideners. “Don’t you think it’s odd? First Johanna dies, then her mother goes mad, yet Arthur feels the need to remove an oddity from display? What reason could there be but that he held some belief that it had a hand to play in the death and madness? You saw that thing too, you know what it does. Could what we saw have caused this ruin? I think we should ask Ms. Atwright for more information. Unless you think this far fetched.”

by **Fanaglia** » Sun Jul 28, 2019 10:09 pm

Mireille listened to her compatriots as they laid out the connections they had made thus far. Sevia's particularly wild conjecture was fascinating, if a bit far-fetched. Although...was it really that far-fetched, after how she had seen it affect both Sevia and Mr. Higa? Living so close to the swamplands of the Pannas Tritios, Mireille grew up around stories of curses and magic, eventually learning, as she got older, to write them off as nothing more than that -- stories. That being said, however, there was always that what if? lingering in the back of her mind. Whatever this statue was, it was the closest thing she'd ever encountered to hard evidence of an honest-to-God curse.

"Had you asked me a week ago, Sevia, I'd have said yes, that is one wild assumption. However, I've seen enough wild things in the past few days that...well, who knows? However, I don't think we should bring this up to Mrs. Atwright -- we didn't exactly have her permission to remove our little...friend from her collection, and I feel that I took enough of a risk negotiating to borrow Elias' notes that I would worry about jeopardizing our good standing with her. I think Mr. Higa is right -- our best leads currently are this foundation in Rothia and whatever mysteries await us in Jiaoying."

Mireille sighed and withdrew a cigarette. In the quiet of the library, the soft crackle of the tobacco washed over her bundle of nerves as she stared blankly at the silhouette of the figure beneath the pillow case, her brow furrowed in thought. "What if..." she trailed off, wondering how to choose her words as she spoke. "Mr. Higa, you're a photographer. Is there a way...could we get a photo of this statuette? Maybe we could set up your camera while it's still covered up, then remove the sheet, take the photo without making eye contact with it, then cover it back up?" She took another drag of her cigarette, slightly trembling at the idea, not taking her eyes off of the pillow case. "I just...I just have this idea. These Penhews? They're presumably interested in this thing. If they know we have it, maybe we won't have to waste time going all the way to the other side of the world; maybe we can post the photograph to the Foundation to let them know we have it, make our way to Jiaoying to begin our investigation there, and make the Penhews come to us? It could be dangerous, sure, because who bloody knows at this point, but we'd be prepared. Set it up like a trap, you know? Mr. Higa, maybe you know a place? Or someone who could help us out?"

That Which Goes Bump In the Night (Vapor Only, IC)

That Which Goes Bump In the Night (Vapor Only, IC)

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