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Message: <blockquote data-quote="kookalouris" data-source="post: 4252462" data-attributes="member: 23872">This is your pilot speaking...(OOC: Notes to follow...)"And every man knew, as the Captain did, too,T'was the witch of November come stealing."Gordon Lightfoot -- The Wreck of the Edmund FitzgeraldThe young couple looked at the bar and the bar looked back at them.  Not just the curious staff and regulars but the stone, glass and painted eyes of the various morbid decorations, unblinking and cyclopean.  Constant whispering and chitterring, the sound of an unseen radio distorted by reception and the echo of the odd architecture, seemed to mock the pair.  The two had subconsciously arrayed their possessions on the empty bar almost as defensive bulwarks against the sheer eerieness of the surroundings.  The titles of the books and brochures stood out in blythe optimism to the gothic surroundings; "Fordor's Massachusetts 1941," "Old New England for Young Lovers." and "Hyannis Port Honeymoons.".  The silver wings pinned above his heart glittered wanly in the flickering firelight, as did her new ring.Keeping her eyes on all of the others, she learned near the man's ear and whispered "Why did we come here?"He smiled at her selective memory.  "You wanted to see mysterious old Arkham.""I didn't think it would be this old or this mysterious.""Fine.  We'll go after the drink."The groom eyes suddenly snapped in rapt attention, his eyes darting from place to distant place after the bar.  Amongst the alien and strange decorations were some artifacts he recognized.  A well-marked map, aerial photographs of places the world knew, a sextant here, a suitcase with a world's worth of baggage stickers.  The physical spoor of a pilot who had merrily skipped across the world, the known and the unexplored.  There were no pictures of a pilot or flight crew yet the decor had been chosen with a pilot's care."Refills?  More food?  The local fish stew is quite popular.  And we can certainly extend discounts to honeymooners, even on our historical suites."  The words were slightly too quick, the grim earnestness of a struggling establishment.The young marrieds both looked sharply at their hostess.  "Sorry, business has been a little slow."The bride stared at the other end of the bar where a group of Negroes were drinking openly with regular people.  "I guess you have to allow everyone in."The hostess reacted through suddenly but gently gritted teeth, "All are welcome here."  "But," she said, looking the girl straight in the eyes, "you would be surprised at the ignorance we have to tolerate sometimes."  The bride, thinking her pity appreciated, accepted the insult with a princesses' grace.The groom, choked slightly on his drink but said nothing.  Instead, he studied the barkeep.  She had been beautiful once, still pretty despite the scars of some past accident.  He had seen a few similar scars and burns on others in the USAAF, so the faded burns were merely recognizable to him, although they seemed in some strange way almost patterned.By this time, the pale woman had refilled the couple's drinks gratis and her hands became visible.  He noticed the woman's watch, the Longines aviator by Lindbergh.  She noticed the gap in the scarring where a ring might have been.  Rumors and tales suddenly coalesced in the man's mind."You wouldn't happen to know of a Captain Ripley, would you?  A pilot hereabouts."  He asked.The hostess almost dropped a glass, her hands showing agitation her face deliberately wouldn't."Who?" she said, with a practiced calm."She used to be a celebrity pilot.""Yep.  Famous for crashing.  Stewardesses don't belong in the front of the plane."  The girl's drinks had oiled her tongue and stilled her brain.It was a moment before the bar's owner spoke with a distance.  "Oh, yes.  Now I remember.  She used to visit the bar but she hasn't been here for awhile."  She met the man's sympathetic eyes with a determined stare, "And I don't think she'll be back."  She held the man's gaze until he relented with a nodded understanding.The two paid for their drinks and left, the man carrying the slumped, still-muttering woman.Sam looked at the bar, a generous tip was left under the man's glass.  She smiled, every little bit counted.Somewhere, an ancient clock mournefully doled out the hour.  It was time.  Sam waved to her two staff, she would be taking her break now.  It was unlikely that there would be a rush.  The honeymooners had most likely been it at this late hour.Sam spent a few moments adjusting her glasses and making a show of finding her cane.  Such a display would make it then less likely for friends to notice just how much 'Irish' Sam snuck into her coffee's Dewar flask.With that, Samantha Ripley crossed her bar, passing by the ancient coffin-sized radio.  One of several devices she and he had put together in happier times.  Her fingers skipped fondly over the eldritch deco styling.  In return the radio broadcast the news of the great war across the sea.But by then, Sam had moved to the table where her friends were.  Maybe this time she could even meet his gaze.  Believing in the supernatural, the Witching Hour 'coven' had not immediately assumed Samantha was necessarily delusional.  For that, wrong as they were, Samantha treasured every moment of their companionship, every odd esoteric tangent.She sat in her favorite chair and smiled back at the smiling faces.  From a nearby table, she picked up a steno book with her handwritten shorthand.  "You wouldn't believe what's been on the copper's squawk box since last time.""First off,  there have been some reports on 'ghost cars' near where the police have been investigating reports of missing persons..."Gerry(OOC:First, David, let me congratulate you on your magnificent prose.  Very descriptive, very moody.  I just wish I had the time tonight to give you a post worthy of such an opening.Second, I am taking the first post easy and focusing on just a illustrative intro to Sam.  I don't want to commit the game group to actions before you have even had a chance to react.  Also, I will build off of your posts, refining my character as I understand yours.Notes on the post:I assume Sam will not discriminate at her bar, given her unsuspected 'mixed' origins, she will be tolerant to the point of bankruptcy and beyond.I had an idea that the big radio has some airplane batteries within and would continue to work even through Arkham's common power outages.  This could be a plot device in that folks who wouldn't normally enter the Witching Hour might if the bar had the only working radio nearby.   Also, this could give the radio the nickname "The Whisperer in Darkness."  <img src="https://cdn.jsdelivr.net/joypixels/assets/8.0/png/unicode/64/1f642.png" class="smilie smilie--emoji" loading="lazy" width="64" height="64" alt=":)" title="Smile    :)"  data-smilie="1"data-shortname=":)" />  Again, it's up to David and the group.What station do you think the radio plays.  My guess:  "This is radio KULT, out of Arkham.  All chanting, All the time."David, would it be possible for Sam to have a dictaphone or similar piece of equipment, even if it was one of Adam's inventions.  The reason I am asking is that if the police scanner is a way for the Scoobies to get clues and plot hooks, Sam is likely to be the only person to hear it as she is more often at the bar.  As the information is unlikely to be repeated, Sam would have to record it first.  Currently I am assuming a fast, barely legible shorthand.Let me know what y'all think..Gerry</blockquote>

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