[COC] Beyond the Mountains of Madness

July 19th, 1933
Amherst Hotel, New York City, New York





Starkweather paced the floor, his tall lean frame radiating barely suppressed energy. "Have you seen the papers Moore? Have you seen them, by God!" One large hand swept out in a extravagant gesture towards the table, covered in newspapers. Starkweather grinned, eyes feverish with excitement. "By the time I've finished they'll have forgotten there ever was a Miskatonic Expedition.



Sitting across the room, Moore pushed his glasses further up on his nose, his expression quietly bland. "We have several more to speak to this morning." The words were subdued. "One of them a woman." Moore paused to search through a huge stack of papers on his lap. "Ah, yes. " He drew out a sheet to gaze at it. "A psychologist, of some reputation - Miss
Rachel Paulos. Here is a letter of introduction from Dr. Burrhus Frederic Skinner which gives her a glowing indorsement."

Starkweather stood utterly still. "A woman?" This trip is no place for a woman!" His eyes narrowed, suddenly thoughful. "Damn the indorsement, Moore! Has she got any money?"

July 19th, 1933
Amherst Hotel, New York City, New York

The wisp of smoke curled into the air from the end of a long slender cigarette holder. Burning an orange glow, the cigarette flickered and a bit of ash began its descent down to litter the plush Persian carpet, coming to rest beside a very expensive high-heeled slipper. The short-lived smoke blew up against long lean legs, shockingly bare, that seemed to stretch endlessly upwards before coming to the lacy edge of the designer dress. Although the flapper style of the day relished the shapeless waif figure, the body poured into this little number had enough curves to send a train flying off its tracks – willingly. Over that lacey outfit, a thick white fox fur coat draped, though how it hung onto those slender shoulders only she knew.

A pert little hat sat at a rakish angle atop thick brown curls full of golden sheen. The unique face that looked out at the assembled crowd all at once had an air of shrewdness and mischief. Slashes of golden brown eyebrows over emerald green eyes that caught the flicker of lights in the room, pouty lips on the edge of a smirk, and lashes thick enough to rate their own forest ranger.

Everything appeared perfect.

A feminine upperclass rake.

Until she opened her mouth and the accented voice that echoed from there placed her squarely on the side of New York City that society mavens certainly didn’t frequent. It was clear, smooth, and luxuriously husky as if she was ready to dip whoever listened in a naughty vocal bath. A voice made famous ever since the social scandal of the season seven years ago when Joseph Rockefeller, the darling of wall street, married some jazz singing tart from the wrong side of the City.

Jazz singing dancing tart named Roxie Hart.

Of course the murder trial two years ago made for some pesky business, and now the stepchildren, yet another nuisance. But what a boon for her singing career! It seemed everyone wanted to hear Roxie Hart Rockefeller over that radio – sensationalism…that’s what sold the papers and won the hearts of the denizens of this fine fair city.

Resting a ringed hand on one hip, Roxie tilted her head slightly to one side to address the man standing beside her. “So which one of those two do you think’s this Starkweather, Tony?” she asked while jerking her cigarette holder in the direction of the men at the table. “My money’s on the bouncing prick.” Though what she really meant by that was anyone’s guess.

The man beside Roxie was everything she was not. He would have been barely noticable next to the glamorous woman, had it not been for his massive posture. This look was only enhanced by the suit that he wore, a dark-grey double-breasted, well-cut but plain.

His head above the suit was rather round, perfectly complementing the bulk of his body. His dark hair had been combed back, showing clearly the receding hairline that betrayed his age. His eyes were dark as well, looking friendly but not showing much of what he thought. They slowly moved from side to side a couple of times as Antonie made a study of the room and the people who were present.

He wasn't expecting anything to happen, but it was his job to keep an eye out for signs of trouble. He had done so for years, first for Joseph and then for his wife. The survey he did was more out of habit than anything else.

His relaxed stance showed that he was used to this. Even thought he stood a little behind Roxie, his size and bearing made it look as if he was actually right beside to her, watching over her a bit. Nothing too obvious though. Something in his eyes and demeanor caused him to not draw attention too much. He just seemed... uninteresting.

To Roxie's question, he responded in a voice that showed him a foreigner. He sounded more Brittish than American, even though his accent wasn't totally British either. "I think it's the one with the moustache. The other one doesn't look like an explorer too much, more of an academic type. That must be Mr. Moore, the geologist."

The noise in the meeting room dies down for a few seconds as Roxie entered the room. After a short pause the noise in the room rises again with many a glance directed at the beauiful woman. It is a varied mix of men and women in the hall; rough outdoorsmen with deep tans, dapier business men in their finest suits, studious scholars, and reporters with notepads and pencils at the ready. The only other women in the room was a conseratively dressed young woman sitting on a sofa. Cigarette smoke fills the room and waiters circle the room serving coffee.

From behind a large table two men sat. From the newspaper pictures you know one is Starkweather and the other Moore, the leaders of this expedition. Moore stands and clearing his throat calls for everyones attention. "Ladies and Gentlemen, if you would please sign in. We will begin the interview process shortly. I want to thank you for your time and interest in this project." Starkweather stands and adds his voice. "We are looking for the best and brightest to go where no man has gone before. If you have the courage and the know how then your our man! But be warned this is not some picnic in the park." He shoots a glance at the two women in the room. "Antarctica is a dangerous place! But with the right men and equipement we can write ourselves into the history books!"

Richard Lawton cursed under his breath as he entered the back of the room. Damn, I knew I should have gotten a cab. Blasted trains are never on time. He weaved his way through the tables, hoping for an open seat near the front. He made sure to pass by the press section in the process, trading handshakes and quips with the reporters he knew. He finally took a seat on the other side of them, near the society lady who seemed to be drawing so much attention.

Rich also stands out a bit. He's fit and slightly tanned, and looks like an explorer trying to sneak into a social function. Not too hard, mind you, since he hasn't even bothered with a suit- just khakis, an Oxford shirt and an worn leather aviator's jacket. He's topped it all off with a brown felt fedora, which he tips to the lady before removing it and placing it on the table. He then settles in and tries to figure out what he's missed.

Bleary-eyed and crumpled. That described John Rayburn to a tee. He shuffled into the room with a yawn, and ran his fingers through his hair, mussing his hair even further than before. He slipped a cigarette between his lips and lit it in one smooth motion. He gazed across the room, as if unsure as to his destination, and then started towards Starkweather whom he recognized from the newspapers. He took a long drag off his cigarette and reached into the pocket of his overcoat. His fingers slid around the handle of the blade concealed within his pocket.

He cut his thumb on the blade, and calmed as soon as he felt the nick. He noticed a nice looking dame hanging around the team leaders, and wondered what she was doing there. She looked vaugely familiar, but he dismissed the possibility that he knew her. Then he spied a face he was positive he knew.

"Richard Lawton? I dare say I am impressed to see you here!" He pauses for a moment and flicks some ash onto the floor before transferring his cigarette to his other hand. "I'm John Rayburn, and have been an admirer of yours for quite some time. I do believe that this expedition may turn out to be exciting after all."

July 19th, 1933
Amherst Hotel, New York City, New York

Exquisitely painted lips curved into a wicked little smile that included the hat-tipping man and his friend in its width. “Tony, honey, I think Starkweather’s gunning up for a little bit of reckonin’ here. Don’t seem to want no dames on his little ski trip…what do you say we rock his little world?” One expensively attired foot in front of the other, Roxie moved with the assurance of a woman who knows she’s attractive and knows how to use it every advantage.

Right. Left. The undulation of hips beneath the slinky fabric created its own little beat that led into an illegal harmony all the way to the table and the two men.

“Hello, darlings.” A puff of smoke curled into the air between them. “Why don’t you put my name right there on the list.” One manicured finger, done in crimson, traced a pattern on the paper in front of Moore. “Because if you two plan on making any kind of history - everyone knows men are useless without women to kick some sense into them.”

At their look, she gave them a wicked wink. “That would be under Rockefeller, Roxie Rockefeller, Mr. Moore. R-o-x-i-e.”

A small smile appeared on Antonie's face at hearing the woman in front of him plot her entrée. Despite this smile on his mouth, his eye brows made a bit of a curl and Antonie's dark eyes looked tense.

People might think that this worry was professional, and that he thought about protecting the dame in this large mass of people.
That wasn't it, though... Nope, this was personal, something was at stake here.
Roxie's brash behaviour would usually amuse Antonie. He could watch the confusion that she created in the people around her, the outrage at her extravaganza and inappropriate behaviour, but it would not touch him. He could just watch and leave when Roxie did. This time, that was different. This time, things involved him and he had to trust Roxie to take care of it. And that made him tense...

Silently, Antonie followed Roxie across the room, to the table with the two men. He stood behind her when she spoke, watching around him to see how the others present would react. He carefully listened to Roxie's words, anxious to hear how she would approach the two expedition leaders:

Wah. Ouch...

Starkweather's face turns a bright shade of red. Trembling with pent up anger he begins to rise. "No way in hell are...!" he blurts as Moore's hand comes down on Starkweather's shoulder and he turns to Roxie. "Why Mrs. Rockefeller. It's so nice to meet you finally. I knew your husband well. I wish to give you my condolences on his untimely passing." Moore pauses and he gives Starkweather a pleading glance. "The funding that your husband has provided has been a godsend to our endeavor."

After hearing Moore's speach, Starkweather sits back down and he seems to be attempting to control himself. Though his hands are balled up into fists and a ugly scowl seems to be trying to erupt on his face.

Roxie flashed Starkweather the most a charming smile. "Didn't your momma ever tell you that if you kept that up, your face is gonna stick that way?"

Perching on the edge of the table, the woman let her fur coat fall behind her to land on the table and scatter a couple of papers onto Starkweather's lap before diverting her attention to Moore. "Thank you for such kind words, Mr Moore. At least one of you is a gentlman."

She pursed her lips thoughtfully as she crossed her long lean dancer's legs and tapped one foot in the air. "Now, really though. I think this trip will be lots of fun as long as we get the right combination of people together. I know you both will enjoy having a bit of womans' touch...don't you think so?" She cast a sidelong glance at Starkweather, a puff of ringed smoke drifting in his direction.

Oh yes, honey. I'm your worst nightmare.

"Oh! I like her...let's take her with us, too," Roxie suddenly exclaimed as she pointed one crimson fingernail at Rachel Paulos' application. "It'll be like the grandest most exotic slumber party ever!"