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[D20 CoC] Beyond the Mountains of Madness Campaign - Prologue
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<blockquote data-quote="The Shaman" data-source="post: 2485938" data-attributes="member: 26473"><p>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.</p><p></p><p>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.</p><p></p><p>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.</p><p></p><p>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. <em>Perhaps this is a good omen for the expedition</em>, he thinks as he strides across the lobby, <em>that Señor Starkweather is a man of such means</em>.</p><p></p><p>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. <span style="color: sienna">“<em>Muchas gracias, señor</em>,”</span> he says with a smile to the desk clerk, and nods to the gawking bellboy, who recovers and leads Paco to room 621.</p><p></p><p>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. <em>Padre</em> 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. <em>Señor</em> 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.</p><p></p><p>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. <span style="color: sienna">“To pick up your suit, sir. To be pressed,”</span> he says, holding out his hand. Paco hands him the rumpled wool garment and his equally wrinkled dress shirt, tentative. <span style="color: sienna">“Back in a jiffy, sir,”</span> 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 – <em>it looks better than the day I bought it</em>, he thinks, amazed at the transformation.</p><p></p><p>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.</p><p></p><p><span style="color: sienna">“Mr. Guerini in room 621 needs assistance with a haircut,”</span> 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.</p><p></p><p>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.</p><p></p><p>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.</p><p></p><p><span style="color: sienna">“Your name, buddy. Find your name and your table number,”</span>, the burly sentinel offers in a deep voice, nodding toward the cabinet. Paco runs through the list of cards, finding himself at last. <em>Table number 35</em>, it reads. He tucks it in his pocket along with the invitation and the letter, and walks through the open door into the ballroom.</p><p></p><p>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.</p><p></p><p>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. <span style="color: sienna">“<em>Señor</em> Starkweather, I presume?”</span> he asks. <span style="color: sienna">“<em>Mucho gusto, señor</em>. I am Fráncisco Guerini.”</span></p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="The Shaman, post: 2485938, member: 26473"] 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. [i]Perhaps this is a good omen for the expedition[/i], he thinks as he strides across the lobby, [i]that Señor Starkweather is a man of such means[/i]. 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. [color=sienna]“[i]Muchas gracias, señor[/i],”[/color] 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. [i]Padre[/i] 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. [i]Señor[/i] 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. [color=sienna]“To pick up your suit, sir. To be pressed,”[/color] he says, holding out his hand. Paco hands him the rumpled wool garment and his equally wrinkled dress shirt, tentative. [color=sienna]“Back in a jiffy, sir,”[/color] 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 – [i]it looks better than the day I bought it[/i], 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. [color=sienna]“Mr. Guerini in room 621 needs assistance with a haircut,”[/color] 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. [color=sienna]“Your name, buddy. Find your name and your table number,”[/color], the burly sentinel offers in a deep voice, nodding toward the cabinet. Paco runs through the list of cards, finding himself at last. [i]Table number 35[/i], 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. [color=sienna]“[i]Señor[/i] Starkweather, I presume?”[/color] he asks. [color=sienna]“[i]Mucho gusto, señor[/i]. I am Fráncisco Guerini.”[/color] [/QUOTE]
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