[IC] Old One Rising (A Lovecraftian adventure-horror RP - Full)

[IndianGiver]

Old One Rising

Early 1925 - Winter - Late evening
Arkham, Massachusetts
Current theme

Upon the shingled, gambrel roofs of Arkham, the cumulative warmth taken from the dying sun over the course of the day began to sink into the homes and hovels of its residents. The winter had been particularly mild, rendering not but a vague bite in the air noticeable mostly to those underdressed for the season. The sun itself cast its fading glow with a brilliant redness this evening, magnified by the reflection of light off the murky waters of the Miskatonic River, but dulled and toned by the increasing concentration of smoke in the air. For somewhere to the southeast, down the river towards Martin's Beach and the Atlantic, something was burning with a mild intensity, but seemingly endless ember. The smoke was light, but nonetheless black, and had pervaded the air quickly with the help of the periodic winter wind. Talk amongst the residency had deduced this happening down to a mere few options, one of which being a controlled burn in Manchester to quell the chance of a great fire in the spring season. Manchester was kept going by its sawmill industry, and it often took an over-enthusiastic approach in preparations for the cutting season. To those who had spent their lives crouched along the Miskatonic, amongst the barges and steamboats, or amid the maze of warehouses on River Street, the fumes held aloft the timid but pungent trace of cheap marine fuel.

Arkham tended to stay still in the Winter, relying on the lessened flow of barges from Manchester and other inter-coastal towns to sustain itself. The Fall semester at the Miskatonic University had just begun, with the administration and students alike excited about the university's involvement in an temporary intercollegiate exchange of professors in the fields of science and arts. Of note to the university's Psychology and Sociology department, which had experienced an internal cultivation of resources due to a lack of funding by the more conservative administration, the Arkham Asylum was offering students a limited glimpse into the sanitarium's facilities and more exotic patient studies. Though they had failed to provide a proper explanation in light of this invitation, the university graciously accepted the offer.

With the cold season, traffic and tourism had slowed significantly, even around the New Year's celebrations which typically gathered comers from the neighboring counties. Just the same, those that had come now found themselves delayed by the inconvenience of the cold and frost. As had been the case in Boston and Salem, the occurrence of bootleggers and illegal distilleries had peaked just prior to the holiday, with many bootleggers purportedly traveling up and down the coast to avoid detection while the police presence was spread thin. It was a time of change, to degrees varying, in Arkham. But as was reflected in the opinions of its population, the more things changed, the more they stayed the same. One could not help but get the feeling that Arkham watched the country, and indeed the world change from outside a window as the same ill-news, rumors and gossip of the day fluttered about the gas lit streets as it always had - with a silence that was indescribable by any word but deafening.

[IndianGiver]

- Everett W. Luden -

Scratched up, waterlogged and dizzy - Confused, in a mild degree of shock

Appearance - minus bandage

Having faded in and out of consciousness for what seemed like only a few minutes past, Everett clung tightly to an eviscerated piece of wooden siding. It must have been the mere response of his hands, a feat of self-preservation by his flesh, latching on to the splintered hull piece that kept him above water, for he possessed neither the strength nor total awareness needed to grasp it on his own. He could feel nothing, but could tell by the audible lapping of water by his ears that he was nigh submerged in water. He'd been subject to this before - that sensation of being almost alive. Fearing perhaps that he'd received some blow to his head, the same instinctual hand with its instinctual reaction tapped the wood piece lazily trying to navigate to his cranium. When Everett finally reached it and ran his hand through the water, oil and blood soaked fibers of his short hair, affirmation though achieved, it was too late for him to realize that removing his hand from its prior position had loosened him off the slimy flank of broken ship, and he slipped under the water.

For a few moments his limp corpse sank into the green-brown waters of the Miskatonic, the film of oil on his clothes and skin beginning to detach and lift from him. His eyelids lifted, at first struggling like a strongman lifting some ungodly weight, until they rose to meet his brow. In a failed attempt to eject the water from his lungs while already several feet below the surface, he grabbed at his chest in pain, calling upon the pool of energy that is doled out by adrenaline and using it to propel himself to the surface. His head threw itself backwards as Everett coughed, gasped and cried, his arms breaching the water and flailing to keep afloat.

Spitting oil-laden Miskatonic from his mouth, he was greeted by a sight that was scathing and appalling to behold. Bright, nubile flames burnt as in small pyres across the width of the river, with pieces of debris, chunks of ship and a visible oil slick fueling them with small impunity. Smoke from these pyres, as well as from a larger fire some distance downriver from he, smothered the air above him. Some of the tall grass which lined the sides of the river had be singed by small infernos, though the area was far too moist to allow the licking flames to expand out from the water. Everett waded in the water a moment, taking in the disastrous sight with now-wide opened and red eyes. The Almira, the old, time-trusted inland steamship whose freight of lumber was now either burning or laying still upon the bed of the Miskatonic, had not merely ran aground and sunk – she had erupted.

Everett paddled, panicked towards the river bank, his head dipping beneath the water several times. Occasionally his head would turn for a brief moment to see, lingering in the horizon above the small fires that clawed desperately for bits of wood and fuel in the water, the smoke-shined sun that glared at him like some apocalyptic red eye. Still, he struggled to eject water from his lungs as he floundered through the thick waters to reach a landing of mud, rock and trodden grass. Tall, almost ancient red oaks stood apart from the river beginning a tree line some yards away, leaning slightly in the winter breeze and catching bits of airborne ash. Tossing himself to dirt of the river bank, he rolled over onto his back, coughing up the last few gulps of water that sat in his chest. When air could pass somewhat unimpeded through his lungs and nose, he took several deep breaths, allowing some trace energy to return to him. Everett began trying to move each part of his body independently, coming across nothing but some rattled joints and water-washed gashes evenly distributed across him. The water had already ran out of his pockets, making apparent that he still had his knife and marlinspike in the shape of a lump in the side of his coat. Propping himself up with shaking arms, he looked one last time out at the smoldering river before trying to stand up. He couldn’t recall anything about the wreck, which Everett found neither surprising nor particularly unlucky for him. As the small blazes were slowly extinguished by the ebbing river waters, and the evil, almost sanguine sun continued to set, he rose, staggering, to his feet.

Turning away from the carnage, Everett shambled through the grass towards a makeshift dirt path visible some ways off. Whether it was the spirits of his shipmates, the ill-looking sun or some other malevolent presence behind him, he could distinguish clearly through his shock the sense that he was being watched.

[ONL]

Jeremy Arthur Velera
Physical state: Sweating, stiffness, dry throat.
Physiological state: Mildly anxious, feeling of sleeplessness.

--------------------------------------------------------

Shells fell all around Jeremy, the sound of exploding shells more deafening than anything else he knew. He was alone, in that hole in the middle of No Man's Land, waiting for his death. Everything felt dark, cold and frightening around him, even the air felt like it was slowly killing him. His skin itched, but he was unable to scratch it, he was frozen, staring at the corpses staring back at him. From their mouths crawled maggots and rats, both speaking in an unspeakable tongue that darkened Jeremy's thoughts. As the gas seeped into his hole, the corpses woke up from the dead, slowly walking towards him while whispering. It was if the artillery had stopped, no gunfire, no shouting, only their whispers; "It's all your fault, Jeremy. All your fault. Your fault. Fault...fault...you...dead...welcome to hell..." was all he understood before darkness consumed him and his screams. Then He, or It rose up before him.

Jeremy threw himself up from the mattress, screaming from the top of his lungs and clutching the edges of the bed. He screamed for a few seconds before he slowly realized where he was; it was a dream, it was just the same dream as usual and he was home, safe in his bed. In the corner of his eye he saw the door leading to the kitchen opened, a figure standing in the doorway which was shadowed by the lack of light in the room. As soon as the lights turned on though, he saw a friendly face. -"Good mornin' Jay."

It was Oliver MacMillan, one of the men sharing this apartment situation at the edge of Arkham. He was a Scot, a Marxist and like Jeremy himself, strongly opposed to the English; one could say he was the closest thing Jeremy had to a best friend here in America. "How long have I've been screaming, Oliver?"

-"Longer than usual, maybe ten minutes? Didn't want to wake you, not after last time. Get some breakfast and a cup of tea, you got some time before the garage opens." Oliver said to Jeremy, patting him on his shoulder as he passed Jeremy and forcing in a smile. He then undressed and went to sleep, like always. Jeremy pushed himself out of bed and went out to the kitchen.

When Jeremy looked at his pocket watch, it was a quarter to six in the morning. He felt like he hadn’t slept at all that night, like he had been lying in the bed curled up like a child, stiff and tired. It made his cup of tea all the better, the sausage on the bread was just the same. It was a known secret that Jeremy sometimes had trouble sleeping, screaming in the middle of the night and waking up sweating and tired. However, as of lately it had gotten much worse; his screaming got louder, he got stiffer and sweatier every time the nightmare returned, and waking him up was not an option after last time. Nevertheless, Jeremy had somehow gotten used to it, after nearly ten years of suffering it.

Jeremy finished his breakfast and cup of tea, got on his winter jacket, and headed outside. When he would return, it would Oliver and the rest’s turn to wake up and go to work, it was their cycle of life. Jeremy entered Armitage Street, just across from the railroad, and walked down the street. It was early winter without any snow, but as a sane Irishman, he dressed properly for the season. The weather was after all not that much different in Arkham compared to Dublin, though he still dearly missed home. He came to a newsstand with headlines such as; “Italian prime minister speaks to parliament, fascism on the rise”, “Norwegian capital name-change”, “First female governor elected”. Little of this interested him, but he bought a newspaper either way for later when he had his break.

He looked at his watch again, twenty-seven minutes had passed, and he still had a little while before the garage opened. So he decided to walk to the riverside of the city, he enjoyed just standing there and watching the water flow through. It was when he got to more open ground that he noticed a chimney of smoke in the distance, and that people were actually pointing towards it. He did not know what it was all about, but something deep inside of him told him something was very wrong. As he leaned against the railing on the riverside, he overheard a couple of men mention a boat, and a fire. He scratched his eyes, like many times already through that early morning, having that terrible feeling. That feeling would only turn worse.

[Odysseus]

Joshua

One months ago
Streets of Boston, Mass.

The cars zipped by him, all eager to get to their destination. The red one turned on first street. It's probably going to work. The offices are that way, Joshua thought. The young man stood on the sidewalk, back slouched but head held high, viewing every detail of what was around him. The men in their suits and women in their dresses walked briskly by him, never paying him a passing glance. At first, Joshua was confused by this. He thought there was something about him, something everyone was able to see, that made people stare. That's what it seemed like in Arkham, anyway. Everyone stared at Joshua when he ventured outside his home. Everyone knew he was different. But in Boston? Nobody knew. Or nobody cared. Either way, Joshua liked it. Everyone was different in the city. Joshua liked to think that, in a way, that made him the same as everyone else. That was something he never was able to feel in Arkham.

It's getting late, Joshua realized as he saw the sun dripping lower into the horizon. I'm far out from home. It'll probably take around 22 minutes by walk. I better set out now. Joshua's friends were coming over tonight. Johnny and Patrick, two members of the Dunn gang. They said they liked Joshua because he was different. Nobody ever said that in Arkham, either. Every Wednesday the three played cards, even though they complained Joshua always won. Tonight, Joshua considered letting Patrick win. Patrick never wins.

Two months ago
The York Apartment

Joshua arrived, 25 minutes after he had set off. He would have been exact, but there had been a fire that blocked off a section of the street. Joshua had to walk around the block. When he closed the door, he noticed that Johnny and Patrick weren't waiting for him. Strange. I'm ten minutes late. They should be here by now. He stepped into his apartment, when he saw the figure on the couch. "Press!" Josh exclaimed, stirring his brother from what was obviously an alcohol induced sleep. Preston groaned, but when he saw his brother, he smiled and staggered up from the couch.

"Hi, Joshy," Preston murmured, as Joshua ran to embrace his brother. Preston had been away from Joshua for weeks, travelling from town to town to spread the Dunn brand. It was the longest the brothers had been apart in years. "I missed you,"

"I missed you too," Josh smiled, releasing Press from his hold. "I thought you'd be away for longer. Also, have Johnny and Patrick stopped by?"

Press nodded. "Yeah, they came up just before you got here. I sent them away."

Josh's face dropped. "Oh." He paused, unsure of how to continue.

"I'm just stopping by, Josh, because I want you to come with me to my next stop. It'll be a road trip!" Press smiled. "That's good, right? You'd like that, bud?"

Josh backed away from Press, his face still. "Um. Yeah. Sure. I mean, I've really enjoyed Boston..."

Preston cut his brother off. "Forget Boston. It's too big for small town guys like us, I think. I thought I'd like it here, but I think I'd prefer a smaller town to settle down in. And I can only imagine how you feel!" Josh pursed his lips, but didn't respond. "We're going home, Josh! We're going to Arkham! Wouldn't it be great to see our old haunts again?"

Josh began to breath heavily. He looked around, lost for words. "I really enjoyed Boston..." He repeated meekly, but Press waved him off.

"Yeah, but you need a break. Pack your bags, Joshy. We're leaving tonight."

[RBYDark]

Amanda Smith

Physical state: Healthy, no notable symptoms
Mental state: Nervous

Arkham certainly had its upsides, in Amanda's opinion, and who was she to name them all? There was the beautiful architecture with the kind of diversity begotten only by the forces of humanity battling the forces of time and decay; the way the sun turned the river multi-hued, from glittering orange at sunrise, to the brown of the riverbed and blue of the water and white of the light on cloudless days, to the brilliant shade of red that accompanied every sunset; or even the, ah, colorful rumors that flitted about the city with the speed of a hummingbird, the duration of a fruit fly, and the intensity of an oil fire. She supposed if she wanted to, she could settle in Arkham, make her position at the Arkham Sun more permanent, and declare the city her new home. It would be a welcome reprieve from the months of travel and anxiety and guilt, and the city surely had room for another storyteller in its streets to chronicle the lives its inhabitants lived. But no, a patch was not the same as a cure and so, as much as the streets' tales called to her, it was just another stop. Another stop, and another story to pursue for her employer.

This was a good one, though. She could feel it in her bones, to borrow the cliche. It wouldn't be easy by any means, and when her boss agreed to publish her results, she ended up vomiting in the women's bathroom shortly thereafter. A week had passed though and the sickening anxiety passed with it. She had chatted with a few beat cops, but it was time to find those directly involved.

The business was formerly a bar, but Amanda was so sure they were still being supplied that she didn't feel comfortable calling it anything else in her mind. Not that she was going to ask directly. Things like this, trust had to be made, promises of anonymity ensured, and then maybe she could ask how they were being supplied. She nudged the door experimentally, hearing a faint ringing, and then pushed the door open and entered. Despite the fact it was still early day, the establishment was poorly lit. Even with sunlight streaming in, the dark wood tables and seats looked almost black. She counted three people - a man behind the polished countertop that most certainly no longer had any alcoholic bottles beneath it, the man sitting at the counter drinking what looked like a carbonated drink that could've been tonic water, and a woman sitting at a table near the front with a glass of her own and a small plate of stuffed mushrooms. When she let the door swing shut behind her and her eyes adjust to the dim lighting, Amanda realized there was one more gentleman near the very back, reading a newspaper. She wondered if he was a regular. That would be answered with simple observation. For now, best to adjust to the place. None of them looked dangerous, and only the man sitting at the counter seemed confused by her arrival. She straightened her stance and approached the counter, shoulders straight, expression blank, and doing her best to look braver than she felt. She just had to remember, she needed to first act like she belonged. No odd stares could wilt her composure, no raised eyebrows would catch the words in her throat, she was here for a tonic water, bitter lemon if the man knew how, and there was nothing wrong with that.

As she leaned against the counter, she glanced towards the back until she saw the sign for the restrooms hanging over the entrance to a corridor with an end she could not see from her position. Right then. She cleared her throat.

"Tonic water, splash of lemon, sir." The man behind the counter raised his eyebrow, and Amanda kept from attempting to sink through the floor. Instead, she cleared her throat. "I was informed it was served here?" She couldn't keep the words from coming out as a question, though. The man stared a few moments longer before ducking down beneath the counter and slamming a glass down that nearly shattered her nerves. Bit too quick, bit too loud. She wasn't ready to quit yet, but the world sure didn't seem interested in helping her succeed. Though she suspected she shouldn't expect anything less.