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

[jdeleski]

Rejection of Miss Mahoney's Application

June 3, 1933




​

Dr. Annie K. Mahoney
Associate Professor, Division of General Surgery
St. Michael’s Hospital
Toronto, Ontario

Dear Miss Mahoney,


Thank you for your letter of the 1st, which expressed your wish to join my upcoming venture to the icy wastes of the South. Your eloquently written missive displayed all the elegance and craft that our Creator has blessed the gentle sex with. I am certain that your youthful years in Ontario and Manitoba were a delight to your father and that your admiration of his accomplishments in the Canadian Arctic was inspirational and cheered him on through the long darkness , providing great incentive for him to return home safely.

I congratulate you, if I may, in having the courage to beg of me the chance to visit an area of such inhospitable and comfortless peril. It would take a woman of singular characteristics to view the hardships suffered by we Men of The Ice and ask to enter into this world. I am sure that your father would be proud.

However, this expedition is no sightseeing tour, and the company already assembled I fear would be a little rough for one such as yourself. Do you really fancy changing your linens every day in a room with thirty unwashed men, Ha ha?

Please know that I mean no disrespect. I understand you are an experienced Northerner, accustomed to intemperate climes, but I am afraid that I must respectfully refuse your request. The South Pole is a hard place for hardy men, and we cannot afford to chaperone.


Sincerely,

James Starkweather

Expedition Leader

​

Amherst Hotel
8th Avenue and 44th Street
New York City, New York

​

 

[eabha]

The letter was waiting for her when she arrived back at her office at midday. For weeks she had thought of little else, so eager was she to escape the world of operating rooms and equally sterile offices and lecture halls. She ripped the envelope open and began to read, her expression changing almost immediately from one of excitement to one of disappointment and then anger.

Dear Miss Mahoney,


Thank you for your letter of the 1st, which expressed your wish to join my upcoming venture to the icy wastes of the South. Your eloquently written missive displayed all the elegance and craft that our Creator has blessed the gentle sex with. I am certain that your youthful years in Ontario and Manitoba were a delight to your father and that your admiration of his accomplishments in the Canadian Arctic was inspirational and cheered him on through the long darkness , providing great incentive for him to return home safely.

I congratulate you, if I may, in having the courage to beg of me the chance to visit an area of such inhospitable and comfortless peril. It would take a woman of singular characteristics to view the hardships suffered by we Men of The Ice and ask to enter into this world. I am sure that your father would be proud.

However, this expedition is no sightseeing tour, and the company already assembled I fear would be a little rough for one such as yourself. Do you really fancy changing your linens every day in a room with thirty unwashed men, Ha ha?

Please know that I mean no disrespect. I understand you are an experienced Northerner, accustomed to intemperate climes, but I am afraid that I must respectfully refuse your request. The South Pole is a hard place for hardy men, and we cannot afford to chaperone.


Sincerely,

James Starkweather

Expedition Leader

Condescending, ignorant bastard! Annie thought, dropping the letter to her desk in disgust. Chaperone, indeed! Gentle sex!

With a sigh of resignation, she leaned back in her chair and looked at the cramped office she had kept at the university for the last several years. It was the worst office in the department and yet she'd had to fight for even that much. All because she was a woman. She'd be damned if she would keep fighting the same battles her entire life.

“I congratulate you, if I may, in having the courage to beg of me the chance to visit an area of such inhospitable and comfortless peril…”

Snatching the letter off her desk, Annie darted out the door and headed to the secretary's office down the hall.

“Carol, do you have a moment?” she asked, breathlessly.

The frumpy middle-aged woman behind the desk looked up through thick, round spectacles. “A moment? For what?”

“A letter. I need to dictate a letter. It must be sent immediately.”

Carol pursed her lips and shook her head as if wondering what the rush could be, but stopped what she was doing to place a sheet of paper into her typewriter.

“To whom?”

“Mr. James Starkweather. Here's his address.” She passed the letter to Carol who dutifully copied out the relevant information.

Annie began to dictate, all the while pacing back and forth in front of Carol's desk.

“Dear Mr. Starkweather:

“I am writing to express my disappointment with your decision to exclude me from your expedition. Perhaps I did not adequately outline for you my qualifications.

“For example, my letter may have lead you to believe that I spent my youth frolicking across the Canadian shield and arctic tundra – in a tidy pinafore and with ribbons in my hair – for the amusement of my parents. I did not. In fact, I was taught from an early age to hunt and fish, to climb and ski, and to respect the many perils of the North while defending myself against them as well as any human can.

“In university, I excelled in sport as well as academics. I participated in archery, tennis, track and field, and downhill and cross-country skiing and won several awards for my accomplishments in athletics.

“However, these accomplishments – as well as my medical ones – are beside the point, especially as I suspect the reason you have rejected my application has nothing to do with my credentials or skills. You seem to be of the opinion that my being a woman – and therefore inherently frail and fragile – is a liability to your expedition.

“Have you ever been in a modern surgery, Mr. Starkweather? Have you ever looked at a man cut open before you, his organs in your hands? His very life in your hands? Do you imagine it to be a place for the dainty or weak?

“You suggest that I would be a mere sightseer on your expedition, but I assure you I would not. I am not used to a life of comfort. Rather, I am accustomed to 72-hour shifts on little or no rest and nutrition, up to my neck in gore and blood – ”

Annie stopped herself when she saw the look of alarm on the secretary’s face. She realized that her voice had been rising in pitch and volume and that she was now fairly close to shouting.

“Oh, I’m sorry Carol,” she apologized, bringing one hand up to her forehead. “You’re absolutely right. This is inappropriate.”

From the doorway both women heard the sound of barely contained laughter and turned to see a couple of faculty members who had stopped to listen. Annie felt her rage grow as her colleagues chuckled.

“I’m sure you all find this quite amusing,” she said sharply, tearing the sheet from Carol's typewriter and striding past them back to her office.

There, she shut the door and leaned against it, breathing hard and trying to recover her thoughts. She shredded the letter she had been dictating and let the pieces fall to the floor. It was no good getting defensive. It would only prove his point. In the back of her mind she could hear her mother imploring her to act like a lady.

“You catch more flies with honey than you do with vinegar,” she'd always said.

Well, you are mistaken, Mother. You catch more flies with sh**. And Mr. Starkweather might just be about to get some.

When she was certain she was calm, Annie once again left her office and returned to Carol, who looked at her warily.

“Carol, see what you can do about booking me a train ticket to New York City.”

“For when?” the secretary asked, her eyes narrowing.

“As soon as possible.”

 

[jdeleski]

Initiation

The jagged streak of twisting, blue-white lightning lit the night, rising from the ground near the towering canyon walls to unite the deep, brooding earthworks with the pent-up energy of the dark, roiling clouds above. Briefly lit in stark, contrasting blacks and whites, the tall striated peaks were plunged into blackness in the next moment, as if hidden, looming behind a curtain. A monstrous explosion of thunder crackled and crashed amidst the giant forms, reverberating on and on, buffeted and borne on by strong winds weaving through the canyon.

But not all of the bolt’s force was harmlessly transferred between earth and sky, or transmuted into flash or echo. Far below the shoulders of the giant stone guardians, deep in the cavernous space at their feet, a portion of the blast had been diverted through an unfortunate creature who happened to be directly at its origin, and was now nothing more than a charred, smoking mass.

As it is wherever one observes it, this display of raw power was overwhelmingly and utterly violent. Some minds ascribe a godlike whimsy to Mother Nature’s works; considerably alien, unblinking, and inscrutable in purpose.

The fast-moving clouds moved past the towers, dragging their lights and deafening sound along, leaving behind the warm, smothering stickiness of the humidity. At the base of the walls, deep in the canyons, small, palid beings cautiously emerged from dark openings. They gathered, milling about, zig-zagging around large pools of water and hopping over rushing flows. The electricity in the city would probably not return for hours. Their small, squalid lives lived within the stone towers could now return to their rituals of vanity and deceit.

Soon, a tiny cluster of these beings would travel to the dark ice at the end of the earth to observe similar forces of Nature; unfeeling, capricious and ancient. Their destiny would be complete. Towering egos would soon confront doubt. But for now, the questioning, curious, and quarrelous will be busily organizing.

So begins our return voyage of humanity into the depths of the unyielding unknown.

 

[jdeleski]

The Daily Tribune 3-Jun-33

The Starkweather-Moore Expedition continues to draw attention.

 

[Bobitron]

June 16th, 1933
Drake Hotel, Chicago, USA

Vittorio leaves the Drake Hotel's lavishly furnished bar for the last time, walking slowly towards the elevator. The short-sighted bellhop turns his nose up at first, his eyes sweeping over the short Italian's simple clothing and slouched posture, but his demeanor changes instantly as he recognizes the man.

"Mr. Liuzzi! Good day, sir. I have your bags ready and a secretary waiting in your room to transcribe the letter, as you requested."

Vittorio slips the man a small handful of change from his woolen trousers and steps intot he elevator. "Thank you. My train leaves tomorrow at 3pm. I would appreciate if you had a taxi cab waiting for me."

Reaching his room, he greets the young woman sitting patiently at the desk before a typewriter. "Good afternoon, Miss. Are you ready to take this down?" As she nods her agreement, he speaks. Once the letter is complete, he sends her off to mail it. Stretching out in the vast feather bed, he falls into a deep sleep.

June 17th, 1933
Drake Hotel, Chicago, USA

"Mama! I already explained, it will be some months before I am able to speak to you again! Do not worry for me, Mama. Yes, yes, I will wear the long underwear. Mama, don't be silly, now. Yes, Mama. I will write as soon as I can." Hanging up the phone with a deep sigh, Vittorio makes his way to the waiting cab and onto the train for New York. Arriving in the metropolis, he soon finds himself staring up at the fascia of the Amherst Hotel, clutching a pair of well-worn travel bags and flanked by a pair of boys carrying the remainer of his luggage.

 

[Bobitron]

June 16, 1933

Mr. James Starkweather
Amherst Hotel
New York City, New York
USA

Dear Sir;

Buon giorno. I am pleased to accept you offer of a position on your brave journey into the pages of history. I am certain you will find my experience and particular skills to be of great use.

I have a request that I have been considering for some time. I have been in contact with Mr. Carl Eliason of Wisconsin, who has patented an invention that I am sure we will find to be of vast use on the ice plains of the Antarctic. The Eliason Motor Toboggan will carry a team of 2 researchers and nearly 300 pounds of gear in speed and reliability over snow and ice. It utilizes a four cylinder Indian 45 CID 25 HP engine that has proven very reliable with a minimum of upkeep to drive a track positioned at the back of the sled. The Motor Toboggan has been proven to reach speeds of twenty miles per hour with a full load, and considerably faster with a lighter complement. It can be configured to hold up to four crew if needed. My team in Alaska used one of these machines and found it to be an excellent form of transportation. The benefits over traditional, dog-pulled sleds are obvious. They need no food, operate in extremely low temperatures, and can be operated easily by novice drivers.

While Mr. Eliason is under great pressure to produce a number of these transports, I have managed to make available a set of four Motor Toboggans for our journey. They can be in New York within 2 weeks.

I can understand if you are reluctant to use such new technology on a vital journey. If you will not consider bringing a full complement of Motor Toboggans, I strongly urge that you consider equipping us with one of the machines to prove its usefulness to future expeditions. If funds are growing tight due to the strenuous preperations, I will pay for the Toboggans out of my own savings. The price for each is $550.


Sincerely,

Vittorio Liuzzi

Vittorio Liuzzi
The Drake Hotel
140 East Walton Place, Chicago
USA

 

[jdeleski]

Accosted in Chicago

Before Vittorio was able to climb into his cab on the way to the train station in Chicago, he was approached by two individuals; one was a middle-aged gent in a short-sleeved shirt, tie, and dark slacks, carrying a large, complicated-looking camera. The other was an attractive young brunette wearing a grey skirt, matching blouse, and a brilliant smile. The woman quickly stepped in front of Vittorio and asked “Mr Liuzzi?”, pronouncing the last name perfectly, then waited attentively.

Vittorio, caught off-guard, nodded and responded “Yes?” He noticed that the woman was carrying a small notepad and pen.

The young lady then touched his arm, smiled, and said “Oh, I am so glad that we were able to find you, Mr. Liuizzi! My name is Amanda Wilson and I’m from the Chicago Tribune. Would you be willing to make a few statements for our readers? Our contacts in New York mentioned that you were staying here at the Drake Hotel and that you were handpicked by James Starkweather as one of a select group of courageous explorers who are departing for Antarctica! How absolutely thrilling!”

“Smile for the Tribune!” said the kneeling cameraman who had worked his way opposite the reporter, and quickly snapped a picture of you just as you turned your head towards him with a quizzical look.

 

[Morpheus]

June 20th, 1933

Martin stepped off the train from Track 27, Montreal-to-New York. Grand Central Station was always busy-even at 2 am. He hurried from the platform and up the steps carrying his 2 suitcases. He wanted to surprise Erica and he knew just how to do it.
Knock, knock.
A minute passed before Martin heard footsteps behind the door. The door opened slowly and...
"Who the hell are you?"
"Pardon moi, I seem to be lost. I was looking for Madam Erica LaMontaigne."
"This is her apartment. I'm her husband, Bob."
"Her husband?!? Here, give her these." and Martin shoved the dozen roses into his hand and walked away at a brisk pace.
This trip was not starting out well. Not well at all...

 

[The Shaman]

June 21st.

It is cold at the end of the world.

The fishing and whaling fleets are gone from the harbor, sailing north over the steel gray ocean. Under drifts of snow dormant turf waits for the return of the sun to send out green shoots, and shepherds struggle to feed their flocks through the dark, raw austral winter. The streams are low in their banks, the spring flood stored in the dense blanket of snow that covers the jagged mountains that form the skyline around the small town.

Sitting in a small shed surrounded by nets and ropes hanging from the roof beams, Paco re-reads Starkweather’s letter a third time before folding it and tucking it into the pocket of his shirt. He picks up the marlinspike and deftly resumes mending a hawser left to him by one of the captains of the fishing fleet. Fixing nets and ropes was a way to pass the time in winter, to keep the nimbleness in his fingers and to endure the long dark winter hours. It also gave him the freedom to put on his skis and enjoy the brief hours of daylight, to keep the tension in the muscles of his legs and arms, to glide over the snowy landscape, to push into the foothills and feel the pull of gravity balanced by the exhilaration of the skies.

The wind shakes the little shack, and whistles through the cracks – the kerosene lamp flickers, but Paco doesn’t feel the chill as he patiently mends the frayed strands of hemp.

Later, at the hosteria, he sits down at the small table in his flat, and pulls out a paper and pen. Chela, the clerk at the clinica familiar, would type the letters for Paco later, in exchange for the bundles of wildflowers wrapped with string he carried back from the mountain meadows during the spring and summer. In his plain hand, Paco began to write.

21 June 1933

Padre De Agostino,

I hope this letter finds you well.

It is with much regret that I must tell you that I will be unable to join your expedition this season. I have been invited to participate in an expedition to Antarctica, an American expedition. I plan to leave for New York City in August and I do not expect to return before the following fall.

Please accept my sincerest gratitude for the opportunities you have extended to me, and I hope that I may join you again in future expeditions. May God keep you until we meet again.

Sincerely

Fráncisco​

Paco re-reads the letter. His mother had been very particular that he should learn to write well, practicing with the boy in their home in Valdivia while his father clanged his tools in the workshop. Whatever you do in life, Paco, she said, you will need to express yourself. Then she would patiently watch as he wrote his letters again and again.

Unconsciously he fingered the St. Christopher medal around his neck before picking up the next sheet of paper. The next letter was to José Monrovia, the secretary of the Club Andino de Chile.

21 June 1933

Dear José,

I have received exciting news today – I am going to Antarctica! I have been invited to join an expedition – I leave for America, for New York City, in August.

José, my friend, have you any maps you can spare of the southern continent? I should like to study them on my journey. I will of course reimburse you and the Club for any expenses. Also, if you have any guidebooks or maps of the Shawangunks of the United States, I should like copies of these as well – I read about the climbing here in one of the journals you so thoughtfully sent me last fall. Anything in English is fine.

Wish me luck, my friend, and thank you for your help as always.

Your good friend,

Paco​

The mountaineer folded both letters and placed them on the table under his pocket knife. He would leave them at the clinic in the morning, and Chela would have them ready for him at the end of the day.

The wind rattles the windows as Paco lies back on his bed and drifts off to sleep.

 

[Bobitron]

“Smile for the Tribune!” said the kneeling cameraman who had worked his way opposite the reporter, and quickly snapped a picture of you just as you turned your head towards him with a quizzical look.

Vittorio smiles weakly long after the flash goes off, then turns back to Ms. Wilson. "Ahhh... yes, I am pleased that I have been chosen to journey into such an incredible place with such a distinguished group of explorers. Mr. Starkweather has an excellent reputation, and I'm sure we will provide plenty of exciting news for your readers. Right now, however, I'm sure you understand that I have a cab waiting. Good day, Ms. Wilson." He nods to the photographer and rushes into the waiting cab.

Once safely inside, he lets out a deep breath of relief. That could have gone worse. I practiced those lines nearly two hours to get them right. It has been a long time since I have had to practice anything!

"Driver, to the train station."