The night is cold and dark. A light drizzle moistens the air and frigid winds from the ocean seep through the cracks of buildings and streets. It is late summer, or early autumn perhaps. It is nearly impossible to tell in a harbor city like Veroia. A foul stench of sewer and algae and rotten fish is ever so present. The people pass each other by without a glance, almost disgusted by one another. Strange sounds can be heard from dark alleys and corners, and the occasional gunshot echoes from far away. This vile place is cursed.

* = random element of the game.


@pathfinder
Your senses suddenly spur awake. The realization of forlorn surroundings invades your better judgement, inducing doubt and fear, but you resist irrational thoughts and reckless action. As your eyes adjust to the darkness and dim lights, the blur of the world around you sharpens. An alleyway presents itself with some manner of closed restaurant to your right and a storage facility to your right left. Dead ahead you behold a building that is being renovated, and there appears to be a presence to human beings inside.

Upon moving your body it appears as if though you are unscathed, but you have no memory of the past few hours, so how you got here is a mystery. Your clothes are soaked wet—perhaps from the rain, or maybe from being submerged. Beside you is a stitched bag, which contains your personal belongings. Whoever put you in this miserable state surely would not go through the trouble, so you probably managed to collect them yourself. It also appears as if you bagged something particularly useful: an unopened roll of bandages*, neatly wrapped in plastic. You do not recall when you acquired it or how, but it is there nonetheless.

On the top of a streetlight not far away, you see a black crow creaking and crackling. Upon adjusting your eyes to better see its details, you notice that the bird has a third eye in its forehead—perhaps it wants to tell you something. Further, a number of dumpsters and trashcans surround you. They probably contain waste from the restaurant and the storage facility. While both of these establishments appear to be closed, there are probably a number of ways to get inside and warm up.

(!item acquired: Bandages)


@Marik
You wake up with a jerk. Rapid breaths convey a sense of panic and despair. The room is silent and you are the only living soul inside. It appears to be some kind of old, perhaps recently abandoned or closed theatre. Perhaps someone is mocking you with the scenery. Upon closer inspection of the various paintings and engravings you notice that they are slowly moving about, displaying their stories and gestures as if alive. Such a realization seems impossible, however. Maybe you are just hallucinating due to dehydration or hunger, tiredness, or something else. There is no way that paintings being alive can be real.

Despite what your eyes tell you about the reality you are currently in, your body is unharmed. However, your clothes are wet and ragged. Considering that you are inside, it appears very strange; maybe you were submerged recently, or perhaps it is raining and you were recently outside, even if you cannot remember it. Moving about you notice that Karen’s Backpack is tucked away underneath chair close by, and you feel your wallet in your back pocket. There is nothing else in the room except one thing, an axe*. You see it resting against the wall a few feet away. It looks used and suspicious, covered in dried blood and mud. There is no doubt in your heart or mind that it has been used to kill people and whatever else.

The room only has one exit, a door behind the stage. There does not appear to be much else useful to anyone except maybe an actor or actress. From the door in the back, behind the stage, you hear muffled whispers in an indistinguishable language. Perhaps there are people here willing to help you, answer questions. But, then again, maybe they are the ones who did all the horrid things you remember from before you woke up.

(!item acquired: Used Axe)


@Dragonite777
The beating downpour in this part of town forces you awake. You lay on the stone-cold asphalt next to a tiny car lot and what appears to be an equally small pawnshop. On a billboard towering above your head you see an ad that urges everyone to Join the Force, whatever that means. A slight panic grips you at the realization of an alien surrounding and no recollection of how you got there, but you manage to pull through.

As you try to move, you feel your satchel lay next to you. The fingerless gloves you often wear are strapped tightly around your hands. Your beloved cloak has been balled up and tossed at the top of the fence of the car lot, now completely soaked. In your hand, however, you feel a set of car keys*. They certainly are not yours, so perhaps you stole them. Maybe you are lucky enough that the keys are meant for one of the two cars parked in the lot, or perhaps whoever is inside the lit pawnshop knows.

On top of a nearby closed dumpster you hear a cat moaning. Upon closer inspection, you can see that its fur is pitch-black and that it has a third eye situated in its forehead. You know that such a thing is not possible, so you must be hallucinating. However, the cat does not appear to wish you harm, rather to tell you something or have you follow him.

(!item acquired: Car Keys)

A foggy blur of darkness fuels the void. Fire burns and yet no light emits from it. Wesley can only stare at the two dark beings in his line of sight, unsure about their identities. One thing is certain, one of them is James. Was he the one beating the other with the bat, or was he the one cowering, the life spilling from him with every blood splatter after impact? Faceless, the attacker turned to Wesley, and slowly approached.

But then he burst into consciousness, breathing heavy from what was just experienced. Dreams like that have been ever so frequent ever since this whole mess started. Wiping the sweat from his brow, Wesley removed his cap and attempted to fan himself with the bill, only to stop and notice the strange dampness of it and his clothes. He grasped at his button-up, noticing tears and holes scattered around the fabric. Damn, this was one of his favorite shirts. Although that should be the least of his worries, due to the moving paintings that lined the walls. It was a mixture of confusion and worry that overtook the boy, rubbing his chin as eyed these strange animations. Something about it didn’t feel right, and the nervousness that it instilled in Wesley wasn’t wanted.

Intending to escape this building as soon as possible, Wesley found great relief at the sight of Karen’s backpack. He’d grab the bag and give it a quick lookover; yep, everything was just as he left it, and it still smelled like Karen. Tossing it on his back, Wesley looked around for his other belongings. His bike would be rather useless in this environment, but you never know when a metal bat could come in handy. Although, that axe that leaned against the wall seemed like a sizable upgrade, sentimental value aside. Picking up the dirty weapons with both hands, a muffled whisper shook Wesley, the unknown language making him all the more wary. He’d near the door with caution, and crack it, peering through to see who or what lied inside.

In his unconsciousness David floated in a void. Every now and again he'd see something flash before him like a festering wound with jagged teeth or a dodecahedron with eyes and the screams of many but none. This nightmare was fairly tame in the grand scheme of things, alcohol and experience having blunted the cut of the long sleep.

Speaking of sleep, it was time to awaken. The damp dirtiness of a random alley was something David had awoken in more times than he would like to admit but there was something more to it than a hangover, this hole place was wrong. He could feel it in the air, beyond the invading stench of fish and garbage there was something worse. This is a dangerous place.

Quickly he pulled himself together, pushing the headache towards the back of his mind. So, his notebook got a little wet between before unconsciousness and now but everything else was unaffected. Which brought him to the book. It was old, that much was for sure, and bound leather although he did not know which kind. A nagging thought gnawed at him, telling him that it was human hide that held these secrets together. However David would ignore the gnaw, instead focusing on his surroundings as he gently put the odd book away.

Taking everything around him, David concluded that he was in a rough spot. Not a lot of options in his current state, which left the bird....thing. The third eye didn't Mitch bother him as the spark of something more behind its eye, digging through all his knowledge of the occult David true to get the bird to do anything besides cackle.

It could have been hours, or days. Maybe just a few minutes. It's unnoticable how much time has passed while I was unconscious. They tried to kill me. I learned so much about their ways, but there wasn't anything on this ritual. What the... Where am I...? Wait- keys? Where did I get...? Oh! My satchel. Is my... No. It's empty. Except for these papers. Everything the library had on these occult people. Well, I learned all I could. They're pretty interesting. Oh, my tools are still in here. I'll just slip the picks back into my glove. Never know when I'll have to break in to some place. And it's not wise to open this secret compartment to many times. Someone might see, or it might just get too worn to be a secret. Anyways, let's see... Where am I?

Cecelia takes her satchel and grabs her cloak from the fence. Puting on the dark cloak over her ragged clothes, Cecelia places the keys in the pocket and raises the hood, shivering at the rain's chill and how soaked her clothes and cloak were. Taking in her surroundings a bit more, the side of the pawn shop has a "Join the Force" ad plastered on its bricks. Not remembering any "Force" that needed to be joined before she was taken as sacrifice, it seemed strangely out of place. Noticing a cat's voice, Cecelia turned, but had to stifle a yelp when it looked at her with three eyes. Her knowledge of the occult helped her realize that three-eyed beings were supposedly enlightened. Maybe this cat meant to lead her. It didn't look particularly dangerous or threatening.

Well, things are off to a weird start... Maybe the pawn shop owner has answers? Nah, better not to bother him. Or her. This cat is creeping me out... I'd probably better not, since it has occult roots. Yeah, I see where occult knowledge has gotten me so far... Well, I think a quick drive might help me cool off. I've driven enough to know how. I may not be the best, but I'm safe. Well, here goes. If it works I'll take it. Finders-keepers and all that.

With that last thought, Cecelia nimbly pulled the lockpick set from the glove she usually stores it in and starts to pick the lock to the car lot, looking around for people. After the fifth click from the tumbler, the lock releases the hook bar and allows Cecelia access. Opening the gate, she goes in to try her luck and see if she could win herself a new car.

@Marik
A foul stench seeps through the crack of the door. It is infested with that of burnt skin, rotten intestines, and putrid saliva. The muffled whispers previously audible have been replaced by a heavy panting emanating from some dark presence. As Wesley cautiously peers through the bantam split, he beholds a nightmarish creature that he never thought imaginable or possible to exist in the physical world. It resembled a dog with ragged fur and slender limbs. Its body was clad and soaked in what could only be a sickening mixture of pus and flesh from human beings. The creature was horrid.

Wesley cannot believe what he is seeing. Whatever was depicted in the paintings in the other room coming alive was one thing, but this had no logical explanation at all. Where did this beast come from? How did it find Wesley? Nothing was for certain; nothing could overcome the contradictions at this point. The beast simply stared at Wesley. There was nothing the man could do to hide from this eldritch horror, nor was there anything he could do to communicate with it, or calm it down. And then it happened, the beast lunged at the door and impacted it with its body and massive claws.

The door was nearly pulverized by the creature’s attack and Wesley was taken by surprise, being hurled through the air backwards and into a row of chairs behind him. He did not sustain any major injuries, but the realization of the nightmare horror’s existence has taken a toll on his sanity. Luckily, Wesley is somewhat equipped for a fight. The nightmare hound stands in the door way, growling and observing his prey. The paintings in the room have reacted to the dark presence and are wailing a strange sound that seems to upset the otherworldly creature.

Note: Change your Madness attribute to C-.



@Pathfinder
The three-eyed bird suddenly takes flight from the top of the street light and lands on one of the dumpsters next to David. It screeches loudly and frantically, flapping its wings about and dancing with its legs. The display is a bit unsettling, but David has probably seen stranger things in his life. At the end of this tiny ritual, the bird spits a black mass of saliva in David’s face. The taste and stench is foul and the contents immediately invade the man’s body through mouth and nose. It is an extremely unpleasant experience and parts of your body come under extreme duress. However, the pain is over within a matter of seconds and now, the bird’s crackling makes perfect sense to you. What was once screeching is now speech that you can understand: “You better look out, human! You better look out, human! Dark things stir in the corners of your eyes! Dark things stir in the corners of your eyes!” said the Bird and then took flight.

Moments later, the sound of a lone chime echoes throughout the alley and incomprehensible muttering fills the air. The steps of whatever approaches are floundering and heavy. An old woman appears around the corner of the restaurant. The movements of her body are spasmodic and irrational. Her dark robes are ragged and seemingly of ancient, Victorian styled fashion. She mumbles pestilent words of incantations and curses, while occasionally playing her chime. In one of her hands the old woman grips a ceremonial dagger. There is no other explanation other than this hag being a member of the cult, and she has come to claim David’s body and soul. As her muttering and playing of the chime stops, she raises the dagger above her head and charges her prey with incredible legerity, while wailing akin to a weeping banshee.

Notes: Change your Madness attribute to C-, and add ‘Understand Crow Speak’ to your Talents.


@Dragonite777
As Cecelia enters the empty car lot, she is a bit startled that the three-eyed cat now sits upon the roof of a car. As the young girl hesitates, she fails to mind her treading and gets her foot caught in a bantam crack in the pavement. The fall is particularly harsh on the ankle and knee of her right leg. The occult animal simply stares at the helpless lad as she lay in agony for a minute, and then it vanishes into the dark night.

The keys in Cecelia’s possession belong to one of the cars in the lot, but it might be unsafe to drive in her current condition. The street is still suspiciously empty and there is no other sign of life except the pawnshop, but there is no telling what kind of person that dwells therein. However, no other oddities seem to have found Cecelia at this time and she remains hidden from the cult and the dimensions beyond.

Note: Change your Madness attribute to B-. Your character now has a ‘leg injury’. The pawnshop might have Pain Killers to sell, but you currently have no money—perhaps some kind of trade might work.



@DJAtomika
Ryan’s senses jolt awake from a sudden breaking of a bottle nearby. Some manner of homeless man is rumbling through the garbage, but he appears to be harmless. As the world is slowly brought back into focus, Ryan beholds an empty street and a beating downpour. He feels a sting on his neck; the brand is pulsating pain as another soul akin to himself is nearby.

Upon moving his body and attempting to stand on his feet, Ryan appears to be unharmed, but his memory of the past few hours is hazy. His clothes are soaked and torn. A few feet away lay his brown leather bag with all of his belongings tucked inside. However, another object rests beside it. Upon closer inspection, Ryan discovers that it is a hand grenade*. There is no logical explanation to why such a destructive weapon would casually litter a city akin to common garbage. Perhaps it is what the homeless man is looking for, or maybe Ryan stole it from somewhere?

The street appears endless in both directions. To Ryan’s left rests the sight of life and some manner of establishment and the homeless man, but the brand on his neck pulls to the right where he will find a man named David Cohen. Ryan does not know what the pain in his neck means, but his gut tells him that he should follow its call.

Intent on putting as much distance between him and this creature, Wesley cautiously sidles over to the isle that flanks the seating on the left end of the room, eyes locked on the beast and axe raised so it knows that he means business. But as he backed away, for every step back that thing took one forward, never letting Wesley gain any distance. It was probably the most disgusting thing the boy had ever seen, the sickening display of human remains forcing a gag reflex.

That and the incessant wailing, that seemed to be coming from the paintings… A noise that seemed to upset the creature. With that, Wesley got an idea. Tearing one of the paintings from the wall, he’d grip it like a shield, blocking his body from the beast as he advanced forward with weapon in hand. Going around its right side, Wesley strikes, once, twice, three times, Bringing down the heavy weapon on the monster’s back. With any luck he'd kill, or at least make the thing know that he did not want to be fucked with. Going around it and heading for the door was his intention, always keeping himself and the painting facing the monster.

Ryan awoke with a throbbing pain in his neck and a fuzzy feeling in his head. The past few hours, no days, no minutes, no...how long had he been out?

Around him was a dark, grey alleyway. A man nearby rummaged around in a trash can, looking for something possibly. He didn't really mind or care. His bag was nearby.

As he reached over to pick it up, his hand brushed against smooth plastic. He picked up the mottled green sphere and almost immediately dropped it in surprise from what it was. The grenade clattered onto the concrete and came to rest against his satchel bag. With shaking hands he picked up the lethal weapon again and gingerly pushed it into the bag, which he then slung on his shoulder. Time for travel.

He stood, overcoming the dizzy feeling from being on the floor so long. His neck stung and tingled, a vague feeling pulling him to the right. Was the homeless man there? Was his name David Cohen? Cause that was what this weird feeling was telling him.

He turned right and headed down the alley. No telling what might be down there, but at least he knew he had something to defend himself with, if a little excessive.