Dark Nemesis
First Post
Place them here, everybody!
Shadows of the Past RG
- Thread starter Dark Nemesis
- Start date
Capellan
Explorer
Randolph Pickman-Smythe
3rd level
Parapsychologist
STR 12 (4 points)
DEX 14 (6 points)
CON 12 (4 points)
INT 14 (6 points)
WIS 10 (2 points)
CHR 16 (10 points)
2+6+4+6+2+10 = 32 points
HP = 6+1 + 5+1 + 5+1 = 19
Offence Option
FORT = +1 +1 = +2
REF = +1 +2 = +3
WILL = +3 +0 = +3
AC = 12
FEATS
Weapon Proficiency (Pistols) - free as Offence character
Sensitive
Point Blank Shot
Rapid Shot
Bluff (4 ranks) = +7
Gather Information (5 ranks) = +8
Knowledge (history) (5 ranks) = +7
Knowledge (occult) (6 ranks) = +8
Knowledge (religion) (5 ranks) = +7
Listen (4 ranks) = +4
Research (4 ranks) = +6
Search (5 ranks) = +7
Sense Motive (6 ranks) = +6
Spot (5 ranks) = +5
Tumble (6 ranks) = +8
Climb (5 ranks) = +5
BAB = +3
Pistol = +5 (or +3/+3 on Rapid Shot)
30% of starting money available to spend
Starting money = $2000 * (roll of 4 - 2) = $4000
$1200 to spend
Brass Knuckles $1
Colt M1911 Pistol $40
100 rounds $8.6
Handgun magazine (3) $1.5
Silk Dress Suit $80
Chesterfield Overcoat $20
Leather shoes (4 pairs) $20
Shirt & trousers (4 sets) $26
Pencils (10) $0.1
Writing Tablet (2) $0.4
Pockct Camera $16.2
Film (24 x 2) $0.8
Developer Kit $5
Rain slicker & hood $5
Hiking Boots $4
Leather Gloves $1.8
Canteen $1.7
Thermos $5
Haversack $2
Survival Blanket $3.3
Flashlight w/batteries $4
Suitcases (2) $20
Men's toilet set $10
Pocket Watch $15
Randolph Pickman-Smythe was a 'sensitive child'. Which is to say that he was prone to long periods of sullen behaviour and black moods. At least, that was the opinion of his guardians, the Smythes of Glenvale House.
The Smythes were the parents of Randolph's father, Henry, a young dilettante who had (at least in his parents' opinion) shamed himself and the family by marrying a shop assistant, of all things. Mary Pickman had been beautiful and intelligent, but to Randolph's grandparents she was always 'the strumpet', and they took a grim satisfaction from her death in a yachting accident when 'the child' was but two years of age. Their satisfaction was dimmed somewhat when their son took his own life only a few weeks later, but it certainly did nothing to improve their temper toward their only grandchild.
As soon as they were able, the Smythes packed Randolph - whom they considered a difficult, wayward child - off to St Michael's boarding school, which they felt sure would teach him some much needed discipline and obedience.
Randolph - a bright if erratic student - continued to disappoint them. He excelled in the divinities and the study of history, and showed a natural talent for both written and oral expression, but any kind of 'hard' science bored him quickly. He was also constantly in trouble for his money-making schemes and larks around the school: the dark, moody boy seemed to have a gift for persuading others to follow his mad schemes.
It was during his time at St Michael's that Randolph first became aware of his ability to sense things that were invisible to everyone else around him. These 'waking dreams' as the young man thought of them, fascinated him, and he spent many hours prowling the school grounds, seeking out spots that triggered the half-formed visions he was experiencing.
To his grandparents' chagrin, when Randolph finished his schooling he was offered a partial scholarship at Oxford, reading English. Unable to risk the social scandal of failing to send him after he had won even part of a place, they reluctantly funded his - increasingly eclectic studies - for three years, before gratefully cutting him off from all support upon his being arrested for involvement in a 'sacrilegious' organisation.
Randolph, whose crime had been to get caught dabbling in certain semi-Masonic love cults (and what young man wouldn't?), merely shrugged his shoulders and terminated his (by now aimless) studies. He immediately used what remained of his funds to head off to Aleister Crowley's commune in the south of France. He hoped that Crowley might be able to shed some light on his abilities.
He returned even more perplexed than when he had left. So much of Crowley seemed the charlatan, and yet there was a sense of power about him. In the six months he had spent with the self-styled 'Beast', Randolph had picked up a smattering of rock-climbing skills, discovered his almost freakish aptitude for handguns (a result of Crowley's keeping several in the house) and resolved that he would explore his possible psychic abilities to their fullest.
His immediate concern, however, was money. He had very little of it left. And so he did what any self-respecting go-getter with more gumption than class would do.
He went to America.
Thousands of miles from home, he reinvented himself as 'Professor' Pickman-Smythe, an expert theologian and historian, with an acute interest in gnostic and supernatural beliefs of all kinds. It should come as no surprise, then, that in time he found his way to the justly famous Miskatonic University ...
3rd level
Parapsychologist
STR 12 (4 points)
DEX 14 (6 points)
CON 12 (4 points)
INT 14 (6 points)
WIS 10 (2 points)
CHR 16 (10 points)
2+6+4+6+2+10 = 32 points
HP = 6+1 + 5+1 + 5+1 = 19
Offence Option
FORT = +1 +1 = +2
REF = +1 +2 = +3
WILL = +3 +0 = +3
AC = 12
FEATS
Weapon Proficiency (Pistols) - free as Offence character
Sensitive
Point Blank Shot
Rapid Shot
Bluff (4 ranks) = +7
Gather Information (5 ranks) = +8
Knowledge (history) (5 ranks) = +7
Knowledge (occult) (6 ranks) = +8
Knowledge (religion) (5 ranks) = +7
Listen (4 ranks) = +4
Research (4 ranks) = +6
Search (5 ranks) = +7
Sense Motive (6 ranks) = +6
Spot (5 ranks) = +5
Tumble (6 ranks) = +8
Climb (5 ranks) = +5
BAB = +3
Pistol = +5 (or +3/+3 on Rapid Shot)
30% of starting money available to spend
Starting money = $2000 * (roll of 4 - 2) = $4000
$1200 to spend
Brass Knuckles $1
Colt M1911 Pistol $40
100 rounds $8.6
Handgun magazine (3) $1.5
Silk Dress Suit $80
Chesterfield Overcoat $20
Leather shoes (4 pairs) $20
Shirt & trousers (4 sets) $26
Pencils (10) $0.1
Writing Tablet (2) $0.4
Pockct Camera $16.2
Film (24 x 2) $0.8
Developer Kit $5
Rain slicker & hood $5
Hiking Boots $4
Leather Gloves $1.8
Canteen $1.7
Thermos $5
Haversack $2
Survival Blanket $3.3
Flashlight w/batteries $4
Suitcases (2) $20
Men's toilet set $10
Pocket Watch $15
Randolph Pickman-Smythe was a 'sensitive child'. Which is to say that he was prone to long periods of sullen behaviour and black moods. At least, that was the opinion of his guardians, the Smythes of Glenvale House.
The Smythes were the parents of Randolph's father, Henry, a young dilettante who had (at least in his parents' opinion) shamed himself and the family by marrying a shop assistant, of all things. Mary Pickman had been beautiful and intelligent, but to Randolph's grandparents she was always 'the strumpet', and they took a grim satisfaction from her death in a yachting accident when 'the child' was but two years of age. Their satisfaction was dimmed somewhat when their son took his own life only a few weeks later, but it certainly did nothing to improve their temper toward their only grandchild.
As soon as they were able, the Smythes packed Randolph - whom they considered a difficult, wayward child - off to St Michael's boarding school, which they felt sure would teach him some much needed discipline and obedience.
Randolph - a bright if erratic student - continued to disappoint them. He excelled in the divinities and the study of history, and showed a natural talent for both written and oral expression, but any kind of 'hard' science bored him quickly. He was also constantly in trouble for his money-making schemes and larks around the school: the dark, moody boy seemed to have a gift for persuading others to follow his mad schemes.
It was during his time at St Michael's that Randolph first became aware of his ability to sense things that were invisible to everyone else around him. These 'waking dreams' as the young man thought of them, fascinated him, and he spent many hours prowling the school grounds, seeking out spots that triggered the half-formed visions he was experiencing.
To his grandparents' chagrin, when Randolph finished his schooling he was offered a partial scholarship at Oxford, reading English. Unable to risk the social scandal of failing to send him after he had won even part of a place, they reluctantly funded his - increasingly eclectic studies - for three years, before gratefully cutting him off from all support upon his being arrested for involvement in a 'sacrilegious' organisation.
Randolph, whose crime had been to get caught dabbling in certain semi-Masonic love cults (and what young man wouldn't?), merely shrugged his shoulders and terminated his (by now aimless) studies. He immediately used what remained of his funds to head off to Aleister Crowley's commune in the south of France. He hoped that Crowley might be able to shed some light on his abilities.
He returned even more perplexed than when he had left. So much of Crowley seemed the charlatan, and yet there was a sense of power about him. In the six months he had spent with the self-styled 'Beast', Randolph had picked up a smattering of rock-climbing skills, discovered his almost freakish aptitude for handguns (a result of Crowley's keeping several in the house) and resolved that he would explore his possible psychic abilities to their fullest.
His immediate concern, however, was money. He had very little of it left. And so he did what any self-respecting go-getter with more gumption than class would do.
He went to America.
Thousands of miles from home, he reinvented himself as 'Professor' Pickman-Smythe, an expert theologian and historian, with an acute interest in gnostic and supernatural beliefs of all kinds. It should come as no surprise, then, that in time he found his way to the justly famous Miskatonic University ...
sellars
Explorer
Charlie Johnson, Age 22
3rd Level Musician (Defensive)
HP: 16
San: 70
Initiative: +1
Speed: 30 ft.
Space/Reach: 5 ft./5 ft.
Armor Class: 13 (+1 Dex, +2 Defense Option), Touch 13, Flat-footed 12
Base Attack/Grapple: +1/+0
Attack: +1 Melee or +1 Melee (1d3, fist) or +2 Ranged ()
Abilities:
Str: 10 (+0) 2 points
Dex: 12 (+1) 4 points
Con: 10 (+0) 2 points
Int: 12 (+1) 4 points
Wis: 16 (+3) 10 points
Cha: 16 (+3) 10 points
Saves:
Fortitude +1
Reflex +4
Will +6
Skills:
Bluff (Cha) 6/+9
Craft(songwriting)(Cha) 6/+9
Diplomacy (Cha) 4/+7
Intimidate (Cha) 4/+7
Gather Information (Cha) 6+9
Knowledge (Art) (Int) 2/+3
Sense Motive (Wis) 4/+7
Spot (Wis) 6/+9
Performance(Cha)6/+9
Listen(Wis) 6/+9
Drive(Dex) 4/+5
Feats:
Sharp-Eyed (of course
)
Drive-by Attack
WP/Pistol
Money:
Equipment:
Languages: English
*A tall handsome black man enters the room. He is clad in a perfect suit, wearing a fashionable hat and carrying a guitar case in his right hand. A cigarette hangs loosely from his lips. When he puts his case besides the table and hangs his coat over the chair, a bottle of rye and two glasses can be seen in his left hand. As he pours out the rye, you notice the eye you have heard about. This wild staring eye seems to lead a life of his own, and you can’t help but wondering whether the rumours are true
“So,”
*he begins, as you desperately try not to stare at his eye
“You wanted to know about Charlie Johnson?”
“I shall begin with what I once believed where my grandparents. Charles and Harriet Dodds and Gabriel and Lucinda Brown Majors were all born into slavery--Mr. Dodds in North Carolina, all the others in Mississippi. I can tell you right now, being black in those days was even harder than it is now. It is even a wonder they survived long enough for me to know them. My would-be father Charles Dodds, Jr. and dear sweet mamma Julia Ann Majors, married in Hazlehurst, Mississippi, in February 1879. Mr. Dodds was a mean man. He used to beat mamma.
This Mr. Dodds became a successful and well-respected, land-owning farmer and a fine carpenter. He and mamma raised six daughters and a son. Alas, a personal vendetta by the prominent Marchetti Brothers forced mr. Dodds to flee Mississippi and take up residence in Memphis around 1907 under the assumed name of Spencer. After his successful, yet clandestine departure, he sent for mamma and her daughters. However, Sweet mamma with two of my beloved sisters remained in Hazlehurst, where the Marchetti's soon uprooted them from their house and displaced them from their land.
In the meantime, yours truly was born May 8, 1901, in Hazlehurst, Mississippi. However, we didn't stay in Hazlehurst long. Still a babe-in-arms, my mamma took me and my baby sister, Carrie, and signed on with a Delta labour supplier. After a couple of very hard and unsettling seasons in migrant labour camps, we were living in Memphis with, and as, the family of Mr. Spencer, who really still was that mean old Mr. Dodds.
And so, Memphis became my home for the next couple of years. I lived there in Handwerker Hill residence until around 1913, when it became apparent working was not entirely my cup of tea, if you catch my drift. My “father” was discovered to cheat on mamma with a local woman. After a drunk night when Mr. Spencer laid his hands on me, sweet mamma took me to Robinsonville. We lived here for a few years, and mamma remarried Willie Willis. At my fifteenth birthday, mamma told me that my real father was a man by the name of Noah Johnson, the man whom she favored in Mr. Dodds absence from Hazlehurst, back in those dark days. From then on I would use the name Johnson, and I tried to forget that mean Mr. Dodds.
At school I took nothing but beating. They said I wouldn’t listen, and wasn’t paying attention. Well, sir, they were wrong. One day the teacher hit me so bad, my shirt was red with blood. It was then that I cut him. I didn’t mean to, but I was so scared. In the end, I think I should have done it much sooner.
So there I was, running with nothing more than my guitar, and an old dirty suit. I even hadn’t a hat. I’ve been running for four years now, and I still got that guitar. Got me a new suit though!”
* Charlie picks up the now half filled bottle of rye and pours another glass. Nervously you stare at his eye.
“Ok” * Charlie continues “I suppose you want to know everything about the eye, don’t you? You want to know if I really sold my soul at that crossroad, right? Well who knows, right? Since I met that man there, my guitar ‘s been treating me good. I got this new suit and all. I don’t hear you complaining about no rye either. So now you know as much as I. I just want to make it another day, you know? And besides, most of you whites don’t even believe we have souls, right? So that’s settled. Finish your rye and leave me be. I’ve been in this town for three days now, and the ground is getting hot.”
3rd Level Musician (Defensive)
HP: 16
San: 70
Initiative: +1
Speed: 30 ft.
Space/Reach: 5 ft./5 ft.
Armor Class: 13 (+1 Dex, +2 Defense Option), Touch 13, Flat-footed 12
Base Attack/Grapple: +1/+0
Attack: +1 Melee or +1 Melee (1d3
Abilities:
Str: 10 (+0) 2 points
Dex: 12 (+1) 4 points
Con: 10 (+0) 2 points
Int: 12 (+1) 4 points
Wis: 16 (+3) 10 points
Cha: 16 (+3) 10 points
Saves:
Fortitude +1
Reflex +4
Will +6
Skills:
Bluff (Cha) 6/+9
Craft(songwriting)(Cha) 6/+9
Diplomacy (Cha) 4/+7
Intimidate (Cha) 4/+7
Gather Information (Cha) 6+9
Knowledge (Art) (Int) 2/+3
Sense Motive (Wis) 4/+7
Spot (Wis) 6/+9
Performance(Cha)6/+9
Listen(Wis) 6/+9
Drive(Dex) 4/+5
Feats:
Sharp-Eyed (of course
)Drive-by Attack
WP/Pistol
Money:
Equipment:
Languages: English
*A tall handsome black man enters the room. He is clad in a perfect suit, wearing a fashionable hat and carrying a guitar case in his right hand. A cigarette hangs loosely from his lips. When he puts his case besides the table and hangs his coat over the chair, a bottle of rye and two glasses can be seen in his left hand. As he pours out the rye, you notice the eye you have heard about. This wild staring eye seems to lead a life of his own, and you can’t help but wondering whether the rumours are true
“So,”
*he begins, as you desperately try not to stare at his eye
“You wanted to know about Charlie Johnson?”
“I shall begin with what I once believed where my grandparents. Charles and Harriet Dodds and Gabriel and Lucinda Brown Majors were all born into slavery--Mr. Dodds in North Carolina, all the others in Mississippi. I can tell you right now, being black in those days was even harder than it is now. It is even a wonder they survived long enough for me to know them. My would-be father Charles Dodds, Jr. and dear sweet mamma Julia Ann Majors, married in Hazlehurst, Mississippi, in February 1879. Mr. Dodds was a mean man. He used to beat mamma.
This Mr. Dodds became a successful and well-respected, land-owning farmer and a fine carpenter. He and mamma raised six daughters and a son. Alas, a personal vendetta by the prominent Marchetti Brothers forced mr. Dodds to flee Mississippi and take up residence in Memphis around 1907 under the assumed name of Spencer. After his successful, yet clandestine departure, he sent for mamma and her daughters. However, Sweet mamma with two of my beloved sisters remained in Hazlehurst, where the Marchetti's soon uprooted them from their house and displaced them from their land.
In the meantime, yours truly was born May 8, 1901, in Hazlehurst, Mississippi. However, we didn't stay in Hazlehurst long. Still a babe-in-arms, my mamma took me and my baby sister, Carrie, and signed on with a Delta labour supplier. After a couple of very hard and unsettling seasons in migrant labour camps, we were living in Memphis with, and as, the family of Mr. Spencer, who really still was that mean old Mr. Dodds.
And so, Memphis became my home for the next couple of years. I lived there in Handwerker Hill residence until around 1913, when it became apparent working was not entirely my cup of tea, if you catch my drift. My “father” was discovered to cheat on mamma with a local woman. After a drunk night when Mr. Spencer laid his hands on me, sweet mamma took me to Robinsonville. We lived here for a few years, and mamma remarried Willie Willis. At my fifteenth birthday, mamma told me that my real father was a man by the name of Noah Johnson, the man whom she favored in Mr. Dodds absence from Hazlehurst, back in those dark days. From then on I would use the name Johnson, and I tried to forget that mean Mr. Dodds.
At school I took nothing but beating. They said I wouldn’t listen, and wasn’t paying attention. Well, sir, they were wrong. One day the teacher hit me so bad, my shirt was red with blood. It was then that I cut him. I didn’t mean to, but I was so scared. In the end, I think I should have done it much sooner.
So there I was, running with nothing more than my guitar, and an old dirty suit. I even hadn’t a hat. I’ve been running for four years now, and I still got that guitar. Got me a new suit though!”
* Charlie picks up the now half filled bottle of rye and pours another glass. Nervously you stare at his eye.
“Ok” * Charlie continues “I suppose you want to know everything about the eye, don’t you? You want to know if I really sold my soul at that crossroad, right? Well who knows, right? Since I met that man there, my guitar ‘s been treating me good. I got this new suit and all. I don’t hear you complaining about no rye either. So now you know as much as I. I just want to make it another day, you know? And besides, most of you whites don’t even believe we have souls, right? So that’s settled. Finish your rye and leave me be. I’ve been in this town for three days now, and the ground is getting hot.”
Maerdwyn
First Post
William Blair
William Blair, Age 32
3rd Level Defensive Character (Unemployed Lawyer. Recovering Drunk)
HP: 19
Initiative: +2
Speed: 30 ft.
Space/Reach: 5 ft./5 ft.
Armor Class: 14 (+2 Dex, +2 Defense Option), Touch 14, Flat-footed 12
Base Attack/Grapple: +1/+0
Attack: +0 Melee (1d4-1, pistol butt) or +0 Melee (1d3-1, fist) or +3
+3 handgun (1d10, x3, 20ft, 9 shots)
Abilities: Str 8, Dex 14, Con 12, Int 14, Wis 14, Cha 16. San: 70
Saves: Fortitude +2 (base +1, Con+1), Reflex +5 (base +3, Dex+2), Will +5 (base +3, Dex +2
Skills:
Bluff (Cha), 6/+9
Concentration (Wis), 5/+2
Diplomacy (Cha), 6/+13
Intimidate (Cha), 6/+11
Gather Information (Cha), 4/+9
Knowledge (Law) (Int), 5/+7
Knowledge (Occult) (Int) 3/+5
Read Lips (Wis) 6/+8
Research (Int) 6/+8
Sense Motive (Wis) 6/+8
Speak Other Language (Int) 3/+5
Spot (Wis) 4/+6
Feats: Wealth, Trustworthy, WP/Pistol.
Money: $26520.34. (Potential Salary of $7000 - currently none)
Residence
Apartment building on King St., Jamaica Plain, Boston, owned by St. Andrew's Catholic Church Rectory. The building has many small rooms for rent, as well as a first floor which serves as a shelter for drunks. William has given money to the Church, which covers his stay for the year and a donation ($1000)
Equipment
Carried/Worn:
...Handgun, 9mm, 9 bullets. $30
...Wool dress suit, looking rather in need of a cleaning. $30
...Shoes. $5
...Shirt. $1
...2 Pencil and Paper. $.22
...Lighter, and Cigarrettes $.60
...Key to padlock
...Cheap Watch $6
...Rain Slicker (If Apporpriate) $5
...Handkerchief
...Folding pocket camera, 24 Exposures. $18.00
In apartment:
...In Expensive trunk and padlock. $15
......5 Dress suits, beginnig to look a little shabby: $150
......8 Shirts, $16
......Tailored Silk Suit, good condition, needs alteration to fit well again. $100
......Bible. $4.00
......Personal (badly done) drawings of "fly" that killed the Old Man
......Umbrella. $1.79
......Flask of Whiskey. $2
......A few law books. $50
......82 Bullets
...Flower pot with silk flowers, $1
......Handgun, 9 bullets. $44 (includes cost of 100 bullets) Hidden under
......flowers
With Father Gregory:
...Extra key to trunk
languages: English, Latin (3/+5)
*************************
The election. That’s where it all started going downhill for me, Reverend. Shoulda been a means to an end – a necessary, but ultimately insignificant, step on my path to the governor’s mansion. Or maybe Washington. Either one, no matter. Yeah? Well even that speakeasy on Washington Street’d be just Jake with me, now. Who wants to be mayor of Manchester anyway? Not me.
Hey, d'you know I didn’t even drink back then? I wouldn't touch it! Nope – not me, eldest grandson of the esteemed Henry W. Blair, former senator of the Great State of New Hampshire! Me being a Blair doesn’t mean much to you down here, but believe me, up there, back then, being a Blair meant you were dry as a bone, and expected everyone around you to be, too. I’d bought into it early on – helped that great state pass it’s ratification referendum. Went to a hundred-and-sixty-flippin’-four of those damned town meetings. (Hmmph. Nine people, six cows and whole gaggle of…chickens standing around in a barn. That’s your town meeting in most of New Hampshire’s little places.) But we passed it, and I was a damned shoe-in for mayor. I tell you what: voting for Prohibition, then, felt a lot better to people than living under it does, now! After being mayor, I was going to be governor. Grandfather practically guaranteed it. And only thirty years old, just like old T.R. in New York, Grandfather said. Of course, that night, he died. And they asked me how, and I told them. And that’s when things really went downhill for me.
See, Grandfather didn’t die like the records said. He didn’t get sick, didn’t even die in the arms of some younger woman like most of the other New England roylaty. That old man got his insides chewed up by a horsefly that was truly the size of a horse. At least, that what I think it was. Looked like it, to me anyway. I tried to shoot it – Grandfather kept a loaded pistol mounted on the wall of his library, but the damned thing misfired. The fly stuck it’s tongue or whatever down my grandfather’s mouth and pulled up what had to be his heart – maybe some other stuff, too, I don’t know. (I know you don’t believe me – no one does. Not sure I do, some times. Maybe if I’d shot it there’d have been proof…) Anyway, the thing flied out the window after it…after it turned to look at me, straight in the eye… and I just stood there for I don’t know how long, until my brother came in.
He didn’t know what’d happened; just that it was something bad and something bloody, and that I’d been there. I still couldn’t talk – I just stood there stupid while he cleaned everything up and put Grandfather on the washroom floor – like he’d fallen or something. Then my brother sat me down and tried to bring me out of it. Didn’t work, though. Just sat there stupid until the bulls arrived and asked what happened. That was the first time I opened my mouth. Before my brother could come up with a story about the washroom floor or something harmless, I told them about the big fly. And how it ate my grandfather’s heart and turned to stare me down before it flew away out the window. They looked at me as if I was blotto – wish I had been. The family doctor arrived a little later, but while the bulls were still there, and pronounced it a heart attack after whispering with my brother for a while. I laughed out loud, and the bulls we even surer that I was flozzled, so that went into the official report, too.
And that’s how I lost the race to become Mayor of Manchester in the Great State of New Hampshire in 1920, the Year of Our Lord. My opponent got the Union Leader to print my statement to the police on Sunday morning. He said I could disavow it and admit I’d been drunk or stand by it and admit I was crazy. I, rather convincingly I thought, maintained that I’d been “distraught”, but the damage was done. I mean, it’s a lot easier to believe that an old man fell and that his Prohibitionist grandson was actually a raving drunk, than it is to believe a five foot fly came in through the window and sucked down the old man’s heart before giving his grandson a thousand Evil Eyes and flying away, right? It was a landslide.
So I left Manchester – came down here and set to the task of becoming what I’d been accused of being – a raging drunk. In between benders, I’m trying to figure if I was crazy, or whether there really are pony-sized flies flitting around sucking out old men’s internal organs. When I get an answer I can trust, I figure things will either take a turn for the slightly better or one for the much worse. I will certainly let you know..
Now, I know you’ve done a lot for me, Father, I appreciate you drying me out, and I appreciate the kind offer of job at the Diocese. But I’ve got money, enough, Father (it’s pride and character I lack.). After tonight, I’ll even keep my promise and stay dry. But that thing killed my grandfather in front of me four years ago tonight, and tonight.... tonight, I’m going to drink.
William Blair, Age 32
3rd Level Defensive Character (Unemployed Lawyer. Recovering Drunk)
HP: 19
Initiative: +2
Speed: 30 ft.
Space/Reach: 5 ft./5 ft.
Armor Class: 14 (+2 Dex, +2 Defense Option), Touch 14, Flat-footed 12
Base Attack/Grapple: +1/+0
Attack: +0 Melee (1d4-1, pistol butt) or +0 Melee (1d3-1
+3 handgun (1d10, x3, 20ft, 9 shots)
Abilities: Str 8, Dex 14, Con 12, Int 14, Wis 14, Cha 16. San: 70
Saves: Fortitude +2 (base +1, Con+1), Reflex +5 (base +3, Dex+2), Will +5 (base +3, Dex +2
Skills:
Bluff (Cha), 6/+9
Concentration (Wis), 5/+2
Diplomacy (Cha), 6/+13
Intimidate (Cha), 6/+11
Gather Information (Cha), 4/+9
Knowledge (Law) (Int), 5/+7
Knowledge (Occult) (Int) 3/+5
Read Lips (Wis) 6/+8
Research (Int) 6/+8
Sense Motive (Wis) 6/+8
Speak Other Language (Int) 3/+5
Spot (Wis) 4/+6
Feats: Wealth, Trustworthy, WP/Pistol.
Money: $26520.34. (Potential Salary of $7000 - currently none)
Residence
Apartment building on King St., Jamaica Plain, Boston, owned by St. Andrew's Catholic Church Rectory. The building has many small rooms for rent, as well as a first floor which serves as a shelter for drunks. William has given money to the Church, which covers his stay for the year and a donation ($1000)
Equipment
Carried/Worn:
...Handgun, 9mm, 9 bullets. $30
...Wool dress suit, looking rather in need of a cleaning. $30
...Shoes. $5
...Shirt. $1
...2 Pencil and Paper. $.22
...Lighter, and Cigarrettes $.60
...Key to padlock
...Cheap Watch $6
...Rain Slicker (If Apporpriate) $5
...Handkerchief
...Folding pocket camera, 24 Exposures. $18.00
In apartment:
...In Expensive trunk and padlock. $15
......5 Dress suits, beginnig to look a little shabby: $150
......8 Shirts, $16
......Tailored Silk Suit, good condition, needs alteration to fit well again. $100
......Bible. $4.00
......Personal (badly done) drawings of "fly" that killed the Old Man
......Umbrella. $1.79
......Flask of Whiskey. $2
......A few law books. $50
......82 Bullets
...Flower pot with silk flowers, $1
......Handgun, 9 bullets. $44 (includes cost of 100 bullets) Hidden under
......flowers
With Father Gregory:
...Extra key to trunk
languages: English, Latin (3/+5)
*************************
The election. That’s where it all started going downhill for me, Reverend. Shoulda been a means to an end – a necessary, but ultimately insignificant, step on my path to the governor’s mansion. Or maybe Washington. Either one, no matter. Yeah? Well even that speakeasy on Washington Street’d be just Jake with me, now. Who wants to be mayor of Manchester anyway? Not me.
Hey, d'you know I didn’t even drink back then? I wouldn't touch it! Nope – not me, eldest grandson of the esteemed Henry W. Blair, former senator of the Great State of New Hampshire! Me being a Blair doesn’t mean much to you down here, but believe me, up there, back then, being a Blair meant you were dry as a bone, and expected everyone around you to be, too. I’d bought into it early on – helped that great state pass it’s ratification referendum. Went to a hundred-and-sixty-flippin’-four of those damned town meetings. (Hmmph. Nine people, six cows and whole gaggle of…chickens standing around in a barn. That’s your town meeting in most of New Hampshire’s little places.) But we passed it, and I was a damned shoe-in for mayor. I tell you what: voting for Prohibition, then, felt a lot better to people than living under it does, now! After being mayor, I was going to be governor. Grandfather practically guaranteed it. And only thirty years old, just like old T.R. in New York, Grandfather said. Of course, that night, he died. And they asked me how, and I told them. And that’s when things really went downhill for me.
See, Grandfather didn’t die like the records said. He didn’t get sick, didn’t even die in the arms of some younger woman like most of the other New England roylaty. That old man got his insides chewed up by a horsefly that was truly the size of a horse. At least, that what I think it was. Looked like it, to me anyway. I tried to shoot it – Grandfather kept a loaded pistol mounted on the wall of his library, but the damned thing misfired. The fly stuck it’s tongue or whatever down my grandfather’s mouth and pulled up what had to be his heart – maybe some other stuff, too, I don’t know. (I know you don’t believe me – no one does. Not sure I do, some times. Maybe if I’d shot it there’d have been proof…) Anyway, the thing flied out the window after it…after it turned to look at me, straight in the eye… and I just stood there for I don’t know how long, until my brother came in.
He didn’t know what’d happened; just that it was something bad and something bloody, and that I’d been there. I still couldn’t talk – I just stood there stupid while he cleaned everything up and put Grandfather on the washroom floor – like he’d fallen or something. Then my brother sat me down and tried to bring me out of it. Didn’t work, though. Just sat there stupid until the bulls arrived and asked what happened. That was the first time I opened my mouth. Before my brother could come up with a story about the washroom floor or something harmless, I told them about the big fly. And how it ate my grandfather’s heart and turned to stare me down before it flew away out the window. They looked at me as if I was blotto – wish I had been. The family doctor arrived a little later, but while the bulls were still there, and pronounced it a heart attack after whispering with my brother for a while. I laughed out loud, and the bulls we even surer that I was flozzled, so that went into the official report, too.
And that’s how I lost the race to become Mayor of Manchester in the Great State of New Hampshire in 1920, the Year of Our Lord. My opponent got the Union Leader to print my statement to the police on Sunday morning. He said I could disavow it and admit I’d been drunk or stand by it and admit I was crazy. I, rather convincingly I thought, maintained that I’d been “distraught”, but the damage was done. I mean, it’s a lot easier to believe that an old man fell and that his Prohibitionist grandson was actually a raving drunk, than it is to believe a five foot fly came in through the window and sucked down the old man’s heart before giving his grandson a thousand Evil Eyes and flying away, right? It was a landslide.
So I left Manchester – came down here and set to the task of becoming what I’d been accused of being – a raging drunk. In between benders, I’m trying to figure if I was crazy, or whether there really are pony-sized flies flitting around sucking out old men’s internal organs. When I get an answer I can trust, I figure things will either take a turn for the slightly better or one for the much worse. I will certainly let you know..
Now, I know you’ve done a lot for me, Father, I appreciate you drying me out, and I appreciate the kind offer of job at the Diocese. But I’ve got money, enough, Father (it’s pride and character I lack.). After tonight, I’ll even keep my promise and stay dry. But that thing killed my grandfather in front of me four years ago tonight, and tonight.... tonight, I’m going to drink.
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