[D20 CoC] Beyond the Mountains of Madness Campaign - Prologue

SETPIECE EVENT: Entering the Fundraiser

At the appointed time, you check your appearance in the deskside mirror one last time before leaving your room. You pull the door tightly closed behind you and lock it with your key, then walk down the hall into a small anteroom and press a metal button on the wall to call the elevator. Looking through a small glass window in the elevator door, you initially see only darkness, then the lighted interior of the elevator cabin descends into view and stops. You hear the elevator’s metal gate pulled back, then the elevator door is slid open by the operator.

“Good evening!” the operator says with a broad smile. He is wearing the standard, deep burgundy uniform with gold trim, but also sports a small black cap. “To which floor would you like to go?”

You enter the elevator, asking him to take you to the Amherst Ballroom level.

“Very good!” he says, and reaches up to grab a handle and pull the the outer door closed. Once satisfied that the outer door is secured, he grasps the collapsed metal gate and pulls it across the elevator entrance. Next he rotates a circular metal disk on the wall to point its embossed arrow downwards and pulls a floor lever in the corner towards him, whereupon the cabin begins to slowly move downwards. You descend past a number of levels and eventually the operator slows and stops the elevator in front of a door bearing a large numeral “2”. The operator gently taps the lever to align the cabin floor with the bottom of the doorway, then finally pulls both the gate and the door open for you as he professionally announces “Second floor, Amherst Ballroom.”

As you exit the elevator, you spot a gleaming brass sign on the wall directing you to the right towards the ballroom and walk down the hallway. At the far end, you see a pair of dark brown, polished wooden doors, above which is a large, burnished bronze metal plate declaring “Amherst Ballroom”. Directly in front of the doors is a matching pair of large, somber-looking gentlemen in dark suits, each with a trim haircut and arms clasped behind him.

As you approach nearer, you hear muffled talking, laughter, and the tinkling of a piano from beyond the doors. Along the right hand wall is a brass-and-glass-encased sign, hand-lettered in perfect calligraphy, proudly stating “Starkweather-Moore Expedition Fundraiser”. There is also a long, low, black wooden cabinet with a few folding cards atop it.

The large man on your left asks to see your invitation. The large man on your right looks on impassively.

OOC - If you tell the man that you left your invitation in your room, you are politely asked to return to your room and retrieve it before you will be allowed in. If you tell the man that you did not bring your invitation with you to New York, he politely asks you to go to the hotel lobby desk to verify that your name is on the list and please return with a letter of confirmation. If you were hoping to crash the party, then you will surely test his manners.

Once he has seen your invitation or a letter of confirmation, the gentleman on the left who is apparently willing to speak allows the barest hint of a smile to cross his face and asks you to look on the nearby cabinet to find your namecard. After briefly scanning the cards, you locate one that is printed with your name and “Table Number 35”. The large gentleman on the left then turns and opens the door for you, and the ballroom’s loud chatter and music spill through the doorway, filling the hallway. He sweeps his free hand towards the doorway, gesturing you to enter.

"Sorry, I can't help you..", "Sorry, it's by invitation only...", "Why don't you just read the article on it in the paper?"

Those were the typical responses she recieved not only from Turiau (after she had found him) but from St. Joseph's University as well.

How completely unlike herself to forget that this sort of fancy hullabaloo required an invitation or two. Normally her mind excellantly stored such minor details while glossing over major ones. Hmm. Well, on to next idea. Perhaps if she hid herself in the room beforehand...

She sat herself down with a sigh outside Le Bernardin, the closest French restauraunt she had been able to find. Surrounded by the comfortable, homey music and language, she was content- and better focused. Camille always thought better when surrounded with a familiar atmosphere, and she certainly needed it now, if she wanted any hope of outwitting the horrid guest list.

Chewing on a thumb in thought, Camille absently ordered a baguette and tea. Perhaps if... No, that plan needed an invitation. But what if... No, so did that plan. How about if she... Wait! That DID require an invitation, or at least the closest thing to it.

Those dignitaries going to the fundraiser had invitations, didn't they? So what was stopping her from claiming theirs? All she had to do was say her name and that she was on the guest list; and since the name she'd be using would be some sort of politicians, her name would be!

Pleased with her own idea Camille took a final gulp of tea, paid for her meal, then hurried to the hotel to check the guestlist.

The taxi discharges Paco in front of the Amherst Hotel. The mountaineer gazes up at the impressive building for a moment as the driver, sweating and swearing in the noontime heat, wrestles Paco’s trunk to the sidewalk.

Paco fumbles with the money in his pocket, selects what he hopes is the right amount for the fare and a tip, and hefts the trunk over his shoulder in one fluid motion before walking through the grand doors of Amherst.

The three days in the Shawangunks had been pleasant indeed, despite the oppressive heat and humidity. The crags lived up to Weissner’s description in every way, and Paco was glad to feel the stone beneath his calloused hands, let the summer warmth drive the winter’s tightness from his muscles, to sleep beneath the night sky and enjoy the freedom of the hills. Catching the one and only daily train to the city, Paco arrived at Grand Central Station rested and happy, ready to face the responsibilities of the expedition.

Entering the sumptuous lobby with its thick maroon velvet curtains, polished wood trim, and glistening marble floors, Paco can only gape for a moment before a rotund woman in a dark blue dress harrumphs at him for standing in the doorway. The Amherst is every bit the equal of the Hotel Carrera in Santiago, the climber decides, and maybe a bit more grand at that. Perhaps this is a good omen for the expedition, he thinks as he strides across the lobby, that Señor Starkweather is a man of such means.

The desk clerk is polite and efficient, directing Paco to his room, handing over the room key with a flourish, and gesturing to the bellboy to carry the mountaineer’s trunk. Paco looks over the slender young man in his crisp uniform and smiling, picks up the trunk himself. “Muchas gracias, señor,” he says with a smile to the desk clerk, and nods to the gawking bellboy, who recovers and leads Paco to room 621.

Inside Paco sees sign of the second occupant, clothing carefully hung in the closet or folded neatly in the dresser drawers. A meticulous man, he decides. Tipping the bellboy a dime, he settles in to unpacking his own trunk. On seeing his suit, stowed away in the trunk for more than three weeks, he blanches slightly beneath his tan face – no amount of smoothing takes away the wrinkles. Padre Juan was never particular about how Paco appeared for Mass, but the priest himself had grown up in a small village, the son of a shepherd, and he was unlikely to consider such niceties among his humble parishioners. Señor Starkweather must be an influential man accustomed to the social graces, Paco decides, and this worn suit with its deep wrinkles simply will not do.

The Chilean hesitates a moment, then reaches for the phone. Explaining his plight to the switchboard operator, he is surprised when a bellboy knocks at the door a few minutes later. “To pick up your suit, sir. To be pressed,” he says, holding out his hand. Paco hands him the rumpled wool garment and his equally wrinkled dress shirt, tentative. “Back in a jiffy, sir,” the bellhop says, and Paco closes the door. With nothing else to be done for the moment, he draws himself a hot bath and washes away the grime of three hot, sticky days in the hills. He is barely out of the tub when a knock comes at the door – the bellboy with his suit, smartly pressed. Paco thanks the young man profusely, staring at the suit and the shirt for a moment after the door is closed – it looks better than the day I bought it, he thinks, amazed at the transformation.

Glancing at his pocket watch, he dresses quickly, admiring the look of the suit in the mirror. It’s then that he notices his hair, several weeks of brushy growth protruding from his scalp, a scruffy wreath of whiskers gathered about his face Again the phone rings at the hotel switchboard.

“Mr. Guerini in room 621 needs assistance with a haircut,” the operator tells the concierge. Sending a bellboy to retrieve Paco, he alerts the doorman to summon a cab, which whisks the bemused Chilean off to a barber’s shop a few blocks away.

It’s a few minutes past 6:00 p.m. when Paco is let off in front of the Amherst again. His hair has been thoroughly clipped and combed back with a touch of Brylcreem, his face lathered and whisked clean with a straight razor, then patted with Burma-Shave after-shave, his shoes shined and his black suit brushed for lint. Feeling quite grand and very self-conscious, he asks for directions to the ballroom.

Fumbling with his pockets, Paco retrieves his invitation, as well as the letter from Starkweather – a stranger in a strange land can’t have too many references – and offers them to the dark-suited man at the entrance to the ballroom. Beyond the doorway are the sounds of music accompanied by the bubbling murmur of conversation. The man hands the invitation and the letter back to Paco, a ghost of a smile crossing his stony visage, and motions to the cabinet. Confused, Paco simply stares for a moment.

“Your name, buddy. Find your name and your table number,”, the burly sentinel offers in a deep voice, nodding toward the cabinet. Paco runs through the list of cards, finding himself at last. Table number 35, it reads. He tucks it in his pocket along with the invitation and the letter, and walks through the open door into the ballroom.

Piano music wafts in and around the conversations and laughter of the fashionable crowd. Paco stands quietly for a moment, his reverie interrupted by a smiling waiter offering a glass of something fizzy and tart to the mountaineer. Paco takes the flute absently as he studies the party-goers – though feeling self-conscious about his unaccustomed sprucing, Paco remains blissfully unaware that though clean and pressed, his suit is some ten years out of style for a gala in New York City.

One man seems to be drawing a disproportionate share of attention, Paco decides, and glass still in hand he approaches the figure, navigating among the milling guests. The guide waits for a brief pause in the conversation, then clears his throat. “Señor Starkweather, I presume?” he asks. “Mucho gusto, señor. I am Fráncisco Guerini.”

A tanned and lean Martin stepped out of the taxi and walked into the foyer of the Amherst. Dressed in a tuxedo, he was the epitome of the dashing journalist that lead a life of adventure. The ride up the elevator was brief and he soon found himself at the doors to the ballroom. Without missing a beat, Martin handed his invitation to the big brute at the door and strode into the ballroom. Surveying the room, he thought to himself, "This is going to be one, interesting evening."

Walking towards a distinguished gentleman in the center of the room, Martin extended his hand and said, "Mr. Starkweather, I presume?"

Jim follows the bellhop to the room. He hands him his tuxedo and shoes, and asks that they be pressed and shined as soon as they can. Tipping him well, Jim turns and enters the room. Seeing evidence of another guest in his room, Jim moves his bags in and tries to make as light of a footprint as possible.

He quickly and quietly unpacks some essentials into a lower dresser drawer, and retrieves his dob kit. A quick look through the closet as he hangs his jackets and suit, he grabs a robe and proceeds to shave and shower. This is one heck of a nice room, he thinks to himself as he puts on his robe and dries his hair while he walks back to the bed. Finding his tux and shoes waiting for him, he immediately gets dressed, slicking his hair back with a health glob of pomade. Looking one last time in the mirror, he sigh, thinking to himself, Cessie always did say that you cleaned up well, James, my boy. With that, he straightens his tie, takes his keys, as well as the invitation, and heads downstairs. "Bawlroom, please." he says with his western accent, his nervousness bringing it out all the more.

The doors open and Jim steps out to the landing, and quickly turns to the ballroom doors. He is early as usual. He approaches the doormen, saying, "Yes. I'm here for the fundraiser." He presents his invitation, and nods and thanks the man as he heads over to table number 35.

He walks slowly, as he looks around at the well appointed surroundings of the Amherst Ballroom. He lets out a sigh, ahh...the Mrs. would just kill me for not inviting her along on this one.. He strolls along, nodding to any and all that make eye contact. Upon reaching Table 35, he stands behind an empty chair. He tries to drop his accent, but still sounds a bit simple. Tying to sound simple, but not foolish, he says to the gathering crowd, "Good Evening. I'm James Poole. I'm guessing that we're all here for the same reason, right? Mr......?"

Mr. Starkweather, I presume?

Upon entering the doorway, your senses are initially overwhelmed. Moving amidst a layer of shifting smoke are dark-clothed shapes and those in glittering colors. Bright lights above cast shadows between the mingling forms to the deep red at your feet. The room is filled with sound, a cacophony of male and female voices, laughter, coughing, hurrahs and soft moans. An ethereal fluting reverberates, lightly dancing within your mind and then overcome by the voices.

Those shapes nearest you come willed into focus. Faces turn; eyes alight on yours, a nod occasionally accompanied by a smile. Groups of men in ties and somber formalwear are gathered in tight groups and contrast with dazzlingly-arrayed, radiant ladies who sparkle and exclaim.

The room is large and well lit; you estimate approximately 40-feet wide by over 100-feet long. Pairs of huge, white pillars march down the room, white walls are trimmed in gold, and a plush red rug soothes your feet. The room is filled with dozens of tables covered in white linen; each is set with 4 dark wood chairs. Uniformed serving staff mill about the room delivering beverages and an assortment of Hors d'oeuveres. Near the doorway, off to your right, you locate your table.

At the far end of the room, beyond the bodies and your field of vision, the band plays a low, haunting melody, a prominent flute marks time with a piano, string bass, and violin.

The Shaman said:

One man seems to be drawing a disproportionate share of attention, Paco decides, and glass still in hand he approaches the figure, navigating among the milling guests. The guide waits for a brief pause in the conversation, then clears his throat. “Señor Starkweather, I presume?” he asks. “Mucho gusto, señor. I am Fráncisco Guerini.”

Click to expand...

Morpheus said:

Walking towards a distinguished gentleman in the center of the room, Martin extended his hand and said, "Mr. Starkweather, I presume?"

Click to expand...

The silver-haired gentleman turns and smiles, warmly extending his hand, saying “Ah, if only I were so adventurous and successful! Mr. Starkweather has not yet blessed us with his presence. I’m afraid that my occupation is much more pedestrian; I’m John O’brien, mayor of this fair city. How do you do?”

OOC – Picture attached

The mayor introduces you to a number of men surrounding him and politely inquires about your involvement with the expedition. He seems genuinely curious about what drove you to join such an adventure and how you came to know “Commander Starkweather”. Many of the group also join in the discussion, drawing you in with questions, making you feel quite at ease.

Camille's fourth attempt


Calling herself irritated would be an understatement. Not only did she have to flit around all of the day researching American politicians (whom she did not have much respect for), Camille had had to sink to the lowest depths possible: buying an evening gown from a Madame Margaret Hefti of Fashion Field Fabrics as well as a curly blond wig, assorted facepaints, and the accompanying nicnacks, a ritual that thoroughly stamped out any remaing pride from the heinous afternoon.

Finally Camille found herself standing in front of the desk clerk of the Amherst again, this time outfitted in the whole hideous ensemble, which American women seemed so fond of.

She was counting on the clerk being fooled by a typical female question into complacency. Attempting to smother her accent, Camille politely asked the clerk, "Excuse me, Sir. I was wondering what other women were going to the fundraiser aside from myself?" Saying that small phrase in itself was an ongoing battle against her habitual sarcasm. "You see, I expect I would soon grow bored of men's talk and would wish to talk to other women." Saying that had made her wince internally. 'Men's talk', her foot! Hopefully the man would respond like any typical desk clerk and forget that she had talked with him a scant six hours earlier.

James Poole's Entrance

taitzu52 said:

He walks slowly, as he looks around at the well appointed surroundings of the Amherst Ballroom. He lets out a sigh, ahh...the Mrs. would just kill me for not inviting her along on this one.. He strolls along, nodding to any and all that make eye contact. Upon reaching Table 35, he stands behind an empty chair. He tries to drop his accent, but still sounds a bit simple. Trying to sound simple, but not foolish, he says to the gathering crowd, "Good Evening. I'm James Poole. I'm guessing that we're all here for the same reason, right? Mr......?"

Click to expand...

A number of nearby guests turn and smile, extending their hands, and offering introductions. Amongst dozens of handclaspings and shared Hello’s, a few are more memorable than others.

Adjacent to your table, you meet Hubert Broughton, a retired newspaper executive and fellow of the American Geographic society, along with his wife, Amanda. Hubert has a strong handshake and a sharp wit. He is keenly interested in the expedition and very forthright about his hopes for your trip; his wife listens intently and asks a few pointed questions about what might motivate someone to “climb the Himalayas, or travel to Antarctica.”

Douglas Halperin

You also meet Douglas “I prefer Douglas, not Doug” Halperin, a fellow crewmember. Douglas is quietly good-natured, appears bookish with his round glasses, and is a one of the expedition pilots. After getting to know each other a bit, he declares somewhat jokingly that “I sure hope that a certain geologist will ensure that my landing strip is based on a solid rock foundation!”

Camille's Ruse

Taokan said:

Attempting to smother her accent, Camille politely asked the clerk, "Excuse me, Sir. I was wondering what other women were going to the fundraiser aside from myself?" Saying that small phrase in itself was an ongoing battle against her habitual sarcasm. "You see, I expect I would soon grow bored of men's talk and would wish to talk to other women." Saying that had made her wince internally. 'Men's talk', her foot! Hopefully the man would respond like any typical desk clerk and forget that she had talked with him a scant six hours earlier.

Click to expand...

Camille's Bluff Attempt
[SBLOCK]Camille's charisma bonus (+0) for her bluff check, along with a +1 for her expensive disguise, was opposed by the Desk Clerk's wisdom bonus (+0) for his Sense Motive check. I decided to be nice and not to assign a penalty for Camille's attempt to disguise herself as a polite lady. This time, Camille succeeded.[/SBLOCK]

The desk clerk, having been approached by a lady of obvious means and high station, was initially unsure of what to do and decided to err on the side of well-delivered service. He looked over the guest list, saying “Hmm. I see that the ladies are far outnumbered by the men at this event, but we have Mrs. Morganstern, Mrs. Lockhart, Susan Fitzgerald, Mrs. Whitford…” he trailed off, looking up at Camille. I’m sorry, and you are?”