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[D20 CoC] Beyond the Mountains of Madness Campaign - Prologue
- Thread starter jdeleski
- Start date
jdeleski
First Post
Lawrence Loses It
With two rather determined individuals attempting to hold him down, Lawrence begins violently thrashing about, sobbing "No! No! You...Don't...UNDERSTAND!", yanking his arms from the grips of both Paco and Martin. He then uses what seems to be superhuman strength to pull his pistol arm down, tucking the barrel under his jawline, and then ceases his struggles and becomes perfectly still.
Looking directly into the gaze of Martin through bloodshot, pained eyes, he says in a low voice "You're going to die down there. All of you."
"But not ME!", he blurts out, the look on his face changing to one of grim determination, and Martin feels his gun hand move ever so slightly...
With two rather determined individuals attempting to hold him down, Lawrence begins violently thrashing about, sobbing "No! No! You...Don't...UNDERSTAND!", yanking his arms from the grips of both Paco and Martin. He then uses what seems to be superhuman strength to pull his pistol arm down, tucking the barrel under his jawline, and then ceases his struggles and becomes perfectly still.
Looking directly into the gaze of Martin through bloodshot, pained eyes, he says in a low voice "You're going to die down there. All of you."
"But not ME!", he blurts out, the look on his face changing to one of grim determination, and Martin feels his gun hand move ever so slightly...
Camille stared in shock, fork frozen halfway to her mouth; that had indeed been unexpected. Though her earlier thinking HAD been correct, in a way; he wasn't exactly a threat if the only thing he was threatening was himself.
Shaking her head slightly to clear it, Camille gazed with a mixture of sorrow and anger at Lawrence; even if he permitted her help, (which was doubtful, considering that he had just proclaimed her own early and tragic demise) she was too far away to do any good, so she imagined Lawrence's life now lay in the hands of those who started the riot. Pefect. But how dare he give up on everything, regardless of the circumstances?
Camille cursed softly under her breath in a mixture of French and badly pronounced Russian, then sighed and resignedly tried to remember the half-forgotten Buddhist funeral rights just in case (Camille didn't believe in Buddhism, or any other religions for that matter, but it was the only funeral service that was even faintly recalled). Something about picking the bones out of the cremated ashes with chopsticks...
Shaking her head slightly to clear it, Camille gazed with a mixture of sorrow and anger at Lawrence; even if he permitted her help, (which was doubtful, considering that he had just proclaimed her own early and tragic demise) she was too far away to do any good, so she imagined Lawrence's life now lay in the hands of those who started the riot. Pefect. But how dare he give up on everything, regardless of the circumstances?
Camille cursed softly under her breath in a mixture of French and badly pronounced Russian, then sighed and resignedly tried to remember the half-forgotten Buddhist funeral rights just in case (Camille didn't believe in Buddhism, or any other religions for that matter, but it was the only funeral service that was even faintly recalled). Something about picking the bones out of the cremated ashes with chopsticks...
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The Shaman
First Post
It all seems to happen in slow motion.
A fine spray of blood splatters across Paco’s face. The mountaineer can only mutter a shocked, “Madre...” as he stares at the dead man on the carpet.
He’d seen men die before. But nothing like this. Never like this.
A fine spray of blood splatters across Paco’s face. The mountaineer can only mutter a shocked, “Madre...” as he stares at the dead man on the carpet.
He’d seen men die before. But nothing like this. Never like this.
Job
First Post
Disbelief
The echo reverberated in the temporary absence of all other sound, open-mouthed guests staring mutely in disbelief at the scene, then the first of many screams pierced the night.
Martin and Paco could not hear the echo, deafened by their close proximity to the gunshot, but sensed the ripple of horror that followed it throughout the room.
The right side of Lawrence's face was gone, replaced with a mass of bloody pulp and bone and only the vague outline of his left side remaining; an empty eye socket next to the sharp-edged fragment of his nosebone, the shell of his forehead half-empty, rimmed with patches of wet, matted hair. A pool of blood expanded rapidly from the skullcap across the burgundy carpet towards the feet of guests who were attempting to move back from the fluid.
As Martin and Paco looked up from Lawrence's remains, they viewed a room transformed. The stage area was sprayed red, many guests only now registering the horror of the moment and beginning to frantically scramble, yelling. A gentleman had collapsed to the floor clutching his shoulder, his face speckled and white shirt soaked red, a number of people now attempting to help him.
At the forefront of a grouping of guests to Martin's right stood James Starkweather, some spatterings of crimson on his tuxedo, his face displaying aguish. He yelled "Someone get help!", then dropped to his knees, repeating "Oh Lawrence. Oh Lawrence." over and over, shaking his head.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Job (the tortured one).
The echo reverberated in the temporary absence of all other sound, open-mouthed guests staring mutely in disbelief at the scene, then the first of many screams pierced the night.
Martin and Paco could not hear the echo, deafened by their close proximity to the gunshot, but sensed the ripple of horror that followed it throughout the room.
The right side of Lawrence's face was gone, replaced with a mass of bloody pulp and bone and only the vague outline of his left side remaining; an empty eye socket next to the sharp-edged fragment of his nosebone, the shell of his forehead half-empty, rimmed with patches of wet, matted hair. A pool of blood expanded rapidly from the skullcap across the burgundy carpet towards the feet of guests who were attempting to move back from the fluid.
As Martin and Paco looked up from Lawrence's remains, they viewed a room transformed. The stage area was sprayed red, many guests only now registering the horror of the moment and beginning to frantically scramble, yelling. A gentleman had collapsed to the floor clutching his shoulder, his face speckled and white shirt soaked red, a number of people now attempting to help him.
At the forefront of a grouping of guests to Martin's right stood James Starkweather, some spatterings of crimson on his tuxedo, his face displaying aguish. He yelled "Someone get help!", then dropped to his knees, repeating "Oh Lawrence. Oh Lawrence." over and over, shaking his head.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Job (the tortured one).
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Bobitron
Explorer
Vittorio happens to be ducked behind the table when the clearly insane man frees the gun and fires, but the results are obvious when he rises after the shot echoes through the hall. The man lies in a rapidly growing pool of blood and those nearby are all in varying degrees of anguish. Vittorio turns toward the stage and notes Starkweather has approached the scene. Walking towards the group of people Vittorio takes out a pair on handkerchiefs and hands one to the young woman who had somehow managed to eat her dinner throughout the event.
"For the blood..." he explains weakly, motioning a hand toward her dress.
"For the blood..." he explains weakly, motioning a hand toward her dress.
Job
First Post
Dr. Moore Acts
Dr. Moore rushed up to Paco and Martin and asked “Misters LeBlanc and Guerini? Are either of you hurt?” After they assured him that they were OK, he motioned for them to move away from Lawrence's grisly remains and then, snatching a white tablecloth from a fallen table, draped it over Lawrence’s body.
"Gentlemen, that was a remarkable attempt to stop Lawrence from achieving his horrible purpose!" exclaimed the Professor. "I can only guess at what might have driven him to this sad end, but you should not feel as though you've failed. You managed to keep him from hurting others, if nothing else. And now, if you're up to it, I suppose that we should help our guests collect themselves."
He then turned and began making his way over to the gentleman who had collapsed near the stage, quietly suggesting to guests that they go to the lobby, or to the restrooms if needed.
Shortly afterwards, a hotel manager arrived on the scene and announced that the police were on their way. He asked everyone to report to the lobby and that the hotel would provide quiet areas for everyone to gather and await the police, who had asked that everyone remain at the hotel for some brief questioning.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Job (the tortured one).
Dr. Moore rushed up to Paco and Martin and asked “Misters LeBlanc and Guerini? Are either of you hurt?” After they assured him that they were OK, he motioned for them to move away from Lawrence's grisly remains and then, snatching a white tablecloth from a fallen table, draped it over Lawrence’s body.
"Gentlemen, that was a remarkable attempt to stop Lawrence from achieving his horrible purpose!" exclaimed the Professor. "I can only guess at what might have driven him to this sad end, but you should not feel as though you've failed. You managed to keep him from hurting others, if nothing else. And now, if you're up to it, I suppose that we should help our guests collect themselves."
He then turned and began making his way over to the gentleman who had collapsed near the stage, quietly suggesting to guests that they go to the lobby, or to the restrooms if needed.
Shortly afterwards, a hotel manager arrived on the scene and announced that the police were on their way. He asked everyone to report to the lobby and that the hotel would provide quiet areas for everyone to gather and await the police, who had asked that everyone remain at the hotel for some brief questioning.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Job (the tortured one).
Camille sat uneasily in a leather chair in the front lobby among the crowd of others, still holding the unused handkerchief that nice man had given her; since she had only planned on wearing the dress for one night regardless, it wasn't seen as a great loss when the front of her dress was liberally splattered with quickly-congealing blood. She did, however, attempt to clean up her face a bit with her fingertips, as a few far-flung drops had splashed her face- she succeeeded in smearing it spectacuarly, however.
Still in a state of quasi-shock, Camille spent some of the time waiting for the police stamping down on any feelings of grief, confusion, or shock, burying them liberally in a healthy dose of sarcasm, exasperation, and false naivity; she had found that it was better to react to such things later, when one was alone, in comparison to an emotional reaction in front of, say, the police coming.
Seizing on the next stray thought to occur to her with grim desperation, she wondered for the next ten minutes whether this would impact her meeting with Starkweather in any serious way.
Still in a state of quasi-shock, Camille spent some of the time waiting for the police stamping down on any feelings of grief, confusion, or shock, burying them liberally in a healthy dose of sarcasm, exasperation, and false naivity; she had found that it was better to react to such things later, when one was alone, in comparison to an emotional reaction in front of, say, the police coming.
Seizing on the next stray thought to occur to her with grim desperation, she wondered for the next ten minutes whether this would impact her meeting with Starkweather in any serious way.
Job
First Post
Damage Control
The Amherst Hotel was quick to act. As Fundraiser guests entered the lobby, their names were checked off at the front desk and they were asked if there was anything they needed; in most cases, they received it. All guests were escorted away from the lobby to comfortable lounges, to suites of rooms, to medical areas, to the Amherst restaurant, or even to private rooms if the need appeared urgent; food and drinks and washcloths and changes of clothing were all arranged. All guests who were staying at the hotel were allowed to return to their rooms if they so desired.
All managers were called in; dozens of hotel staff members were called in--cooks, waitresses, waiters, bellhops, laundrymen, cleaners, aides, and drivers. The list of names of Fundraiser attendees was being checked and crosschecked against lists that were kept at the front desk.
Other, somewhat less noticeable security measures were also taken, as requested by New York City's Chief of Police. All exterior doors were locked tight and large, athletic Hotel staff members were posted at each until the police arrived. The doormen cleared the sidewalks and waved taxis away. All incoming and outgoing calls were screened and restricted.
The wail of sirens filled the night air.
The Amherst Hotel was quick to act. As Fundraiser guests entered the lobby, their names were checked off at the front desk and they were asked if there was anything they needed; in most cases, they received it. All guests were escorted away from the lobby to comfortable lounges, to suites of rooms, to medical areas, to the Amherst restaurant, or even to private rooms if the need appeared urgent; food and drinks and washcloths and changes of clothing were all arranged. All guests who were staying at the hotel were allowed to return to their rooms if they so desired.
All managers were called in; dozens of hotel staff members were called in--cooks, waitresses, waiters, bellhops, laundrymen, cleaners, aides, and drivers. The list of names of Fundraiser attendees was being checked and crosschecked against lists that were kept at the front desk.
Other, somewhat less noticeable security measures were also taken, as requested by New York City's Chief of Police. All exterior doors were locked tight and large, athletic Hotel staff members were posted at each until the police arrived. The doormen cleared the sidewalks and waved taxis away. All incoming and outgoing calls were screened and restricted.
The wail of sirens filled the night air.
Attachments
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The Shaman
First Post
Paco sat back on the floor in stunned disbelief, a ringing in his ears. It took a moment for Dr. Moore’s words to cut through the white noise. “I am not hurt, Doctor Moore,” the mountaineer replies at last. “Por favor, a napkin...”
Wiping the blood and tissue from his face and hands, he rises and offers what aid he can to the others, willing himself to focus on the task at hand and pushing the horror of the sudden, violent death deep into a remote corner of his conscious mind.
Soon the hotel staff begins to arrive and instructions are given. At an opportune moment, Paco excuses himself and returns to his room. Fumbling with the key in the lock, he enters and closes the door, taking a deep breath as he sits on the edge of his bed, then looking himself over.
His rough ablutions with the dinner napkin and a glass of ice water had succeeded more in turning the drips of blood and bits of grey matter into reddish streaks than it had in removing them from his skin. His once-clean and neatly-pressed suit is stained, his freshly shaved face smeared crimson, his trimmed hair filled with flecks of tissue. He strips away his jacket and shirt and tie, and looks to the claw-footed porcelain tub in the bathroom. Before he can begin to wash away the marks on his body, however, there is another cleansing that must come first.
From his trunk Paco removes his rosary and kneels beside his bed. “Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum, benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui Iesus. Sancta Maria mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae...”
Wiping the blood and tissue from his face and hands, he rises and offers what aid he can to the others, willing himself to focus on the task at hand and pushing the horror of the sudden, violent death deep into a remote corner of his conscious mind.
Soon the hotel staff begins to arrive and instructions are given. At an opportune moment, Paco excuses himself and returns to his room. Fumbling with the key in the lock, he enters and closes the door, taking a deep breath as he sits on the edge of his bed, then looking himself over.
His rough ablutions with the dinner napkin and a glass of ice water had succeeded more in turning the drips of blood and bits of grey matter into reddish streaks than it had in removing them from his skin. His once-clean and neatly-pressed suit is stained, his freshly shaved face smeared crimson, his trimmed hair filled with flecks of tissue. He strips away his jacket and shirt and tie, and looks to the claw-footed porcelain tub in the bathroom. Before he can begin to wash away the marks on his body, however, there is another cleansing that must come first.
From his trunk Paco removes his rosary and kneels beside his bed. “Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum, benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui Iesus. Sancta Maria mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae...”
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