>>1094889

Even with the rain forming a veil around you, the smoke from the bonfire will make a fine signal for anyone with the eyes to see it. It's impossible to know for sure how many of the natives live here – even counting the shacks might not tell you much, for you have the growing suspicion that they are purely for show – but you can imagine the alarm spreading quickly once it has been raised. The thought of deformed natives swarming out of the tunnels like bees fleeing their hive is not one you can easily dismiss.

And yet those tunnels are your goal, the mermaid far below your target.

Leading Uriah in a sullen march, you ignore the constant tapping of rain against your hood and descend down into the shanty town once again. The sound of the rain isn't the only thing that haunts you, with the mermaid's squealing call dancing around the borders of your awareness. Little wonder that Schreiber resorted to playing music all the time, with that droning song always waiting in the background. It's strange, the more you listen to it, the more you can hear... words.

No, that's not the mermaid's song, you realise, that's something else – some other song. The words are low and gurgling, too indistinct for anything specific or meaningful to be heard, but the voices – two, if you had to guess – are slowly approaching. Glancing back, you peer out at the fading remains of the bonfire. Fading, yes, but the smoke is still visible against the gloomy backdrop. Even if the smoke dies away completely, there's still the matter of Schreiber's body – waiting in her manor with a cut throat. Disposing of it was out of the question however, as it would rob the Ministry of any proof of her death. Without a body, the uncertainty would fester like an infected wound.

-

When you round a corner and see movement, you quickly duck back into cover, seizing Uriah by the sleeve and dragging him with you. From the brief glimpse of movement, you made out two figures – slouching forwards with a vague burden shared between them, and walking with the slow pace of the unaware.

Closer now, but the words of their song are still indistinct – perhaps because the voices themselves are indistinct, low and gurgling and terrible. Even so, something about the song, the rhythm of it perhaps, feels oddly familiar. Paired with the surreal ambience here, it feels like something plucked out of your own memory.

No time for reminiscing, you tell yourself harshly, you're still on duty – and you're still in hostile territory.

>Slip past the locals. The buildings should offer plenty of cover
>Intercept the locals and kill them both
>Try to capture and interrogate one of the locals
>Other

>>1094890
>>Slip past the locals. The buildings should offer plenty of cover

>>1094890
>Try to capture and interrogate one of the locals

Hope you've been well, Moloch.

>>1094890
>Try to make out what they are carrying.

>>1094890
>>Slip past the locals. The buildings should offer plenty of cover
Gonna burn everything down later right? Might as well be sneaky for now while we can.
Nice to have ya back Moloch. Quick question since I don't know if it was asked last time, did you expect us to kill Gwendolyn like that?

>>1094890
>Slip past the locals. The buildings should offer plenty of cover

>>1094900
>did you expect us to kill Gwendolyn like that?

>I thought it was pretty likely, but I wasn't certain of it. It's certainly one way of being sure, at least!

Still holding onto Uriah's arm, you pull him back and turn away, heading back the way you came. With so many shacks and crumbling buildings crammed together, there are plenty of places to hide and paths to sneak down. Even if you have to pass through open ground at times, the moonless night will work in your favour – as will the sullen obliviousness of the natives. Once again, you find yourself wondering about them, about their minds.. if they can be said to have minds left.

Slipping around the corner, squeezing between two dingy ruins, you get the chance to peer out again as they pass. Robed and cloaked, their figures are indistinct, but this angle does give you a look at what they were carrying between them. A long harpoon, strung with the tiny bodies of snared rabbits. When you see that, you suddenly place their mumbled song – an old hunting song, traditionally sung by those returning from a successful hunt. Rabbits... not exactly ferocious prey, but the meat is good. Not, you consider with a wan smile, that these natives would appreciate it. Within a few moments of eating it, they'll be vomiting the whole festering lot back up again.

Strange instincts these things have. Watching for a moment longer, you gag silently as the wind shifts and carries their scent over. They smell like old corpses, swampy and awful, with a cutting salt tint to the smell. Pulling your scarf back up over your nose and mouth helps, but only a little. With no more encouragement needed, you look ahead for your next path and hurry along. The mines, the tunnels beneath, await.

-

“I'm never going to eat rabbit again,” Uriah curses softly, once you've reached the outskirts of the makeshift town. With no sign of any locals, you don't bother to hush him. Instead, you reply to his complaints with a warning.

They must have been trapping rabbits in these hills, you remark as you gesture around, that means there might be more out there. No way of telling how many, if there really are any out there, but it's a risk that needs considering.

“I understand. I'll keep an eye on the horizon,” with a faintly insolent smirk, Uriah nods towards the gloom, “Any movement, I'll let you know.”

Grimacing at his remark – you know as well as he does that your visibility is cut short out here – you bite back a reply and settle for gesturing up at the path ahead. One of the mine entrances is further up, although getting there is no easy feat. The constant rain has turned the steep path into a deluge of mud, with only a few scrappy bushes still clinging to the soil. More thorn than leaf, you note as you pass one. Well, why not – everything else about Tolnir has been miserable, why should the plants be any different?

[1/2]

>>1094912
It could be worse. There could be eyes growing on the bushes.

>>1094912

A low grunt of surprise causes you to turn sharply around, pistol raised to meet any threat. When you see the cause, you lower the gun. Uriah had simply slipped and fallen, mud splattering across his fine clothes and darkening his face. The scowl he wears, however, darkens it even more. Waving you away when you reach out a hand to help him, he swipes angry hands across his face.

“This miserable place!” he hisses, still possessing enough sense to keep his complaints hushed, “Even being charitable, there is not one single redeeming feature here. Why, burning this entire island to the ground would only be an improvement!”

Sure, you mutter as you both start walking again, no arguments there.

“I'm sick of mud and filth,” the young bastard continues to gripe, “Sick of rain, sick of the smell of fish, sick of-” His complaints are cut off by a shrill scream and the harsh sound of metal slamming together. This time, you turn with even greater urgency and see Uriah once again on the ground – but this time, he didn't simply slip. Gleaming dully in the night, and half-buried in the clinging mud, you see the jaws of a trap closed tight around Uriah's lower leg. Already, blood has started to darken his trousers, and his face is pale beneath the mud.

“I wasn't... wasn't looking... I was... I was...” he stammers as you kneel down by the trap and examine it. A cruel thing indeed, age has fortunately dulled its teeth and weakened the springs. It doesn't look like the boy's leg is broken – a fracture at most – but he's caught fast.

And his scream was loud – loud enough that it could have drawn unwanted attention. Grimacing, you grip the trap and heave, straining to pry it open once more. It budges a little, but not by much. Cursing aloud, you look hastily around at the hills surrounding you. Was it just your imagination, or did something out there... move?

“Don't leave me here!” Uriah pleads, grabbing your arm with trembling hands, “I can still... I can still walk, just get this thing off of me!”

Shaking him off, you take another look around you. Something definitely moved out there, creeping about the rough and broken ground. Uttering a low and wordless moan of despair, Uriah draws his pistol and aims it wildly about him, barely holding the weapon steady as he sinks into panic and hysteria.

>Leave him. The mission comes first
>Keep trying to pry the trap open. You'll drag him out here if you have to
>Put him out of his misery – it's better than being taken alive
>Other

>>1094930
>Keep trying to pry the trap open. You'll drag him out here if you have to
"Easy. Uriah I need you to focus. I'll get this off you but you need to watch my back while I do it. Can you do that?"

>>1094930
>Slap him into calmness
>Keep trying to pry the trap open. You'll drag him out here if you have to

>>1094930
>Keep trying to pry the trap open. You'll drag him out here if you have to

Easy, you tell Uriah in the most reassuring voice you can muster, easy! You're going to get him out of this, you just need him to-

“They're coming!” he whines, his eyes very wide and very white, “You've got to hurry, they're coming for me! I can't-”

A backhand silences him, snapping his head back and causing those panicked eyes to lose their focus. When the glassy look in them clears, there's something approaching lucidity in his gaze. Now, perhaps, he'll be able to listen to you. You're going to get him out of this mess, you tell him firmly, but you need him to focus. Panicking won't help, you need him to stay calm and cover your back. If he can do that, you can get this trap open. He can shoot that pistol of his, can't he?

“Yes, I... yes,” nodding jerkily, Uriah switches to a two handed grip, and his aim steadies somewhat. He's still a long way from being a sharpshooter, but it's a start. With one last backwards glance – those vague figures are still skulking about, as if unsure about something – you bend over the trap and get to work.

-

First of all, you draw in a steadying breath and examine the contraption. A rusting chain is connected to one end of it, leading down below the ground – presumably to some anchor or weight, something to keep it being being carried away. Prying the damn thing open is still your best bet, but if that proves impossible there's always...

“Don't take my leg!” Uriah pleads, plucking the thoughts from the surface of your mind.

You hadn't even considered it, you lie, the thought had never even crossed your mind. Then, ignoring everything else around you as best as possible, you take a firm grip on the trap and push. Sweat gathers in the palms of your hands, mingling with mud and rainwater to foil your attempts at getting a good grip. Every time you start to make a little progress, parting the metal jaws by a few fractions of an inch, your hands slip and the jaws clamp back down on Uriah's leg. The first few times it happens, he cries out in pain. After that, all he can muster are a few weak groans. Just as you're wiping your hands clean, Uriah fires his pistol.

“Missed,” he gasps, “I think. I don't know. Hard to... to see.”

Just focus, you tell him as you draw your knife, do it as best he can. Even a missed shot should force them to keep their heads down. Or, you consider silently, to go running for fresh reinforcements.

Snarling, you dig the tip of your knife into the guts of the trap, jarring the rusted springs inside. If you can just get them to shift a little, maybe you can lever the trap open the rest of the way. Even as Uriah fires again, two gunshots in quick succession, you pour more effort into the rusting metal. Just as you're starting to lose hope, something lurches inside, breaking apart in a crumble of rust.

[1/2]

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>>1094968

Laughing aloud, you thrust the knife back into your belt and attack the trap with renewed strength. Whatever you did, whatever you broke, it loosened the thing's grip enough that you can force it open completely. Immediately abandoning his attempts at covering you, Uriah crawls frantically forwards, putting as much space between him and the trap as possible. Rising from the mud, you haul the boy to his feet and prop him up against your shoulder, wasting no time in charging up the rest of the path. More than once you slip or stumble, but you never lose your footing completely.

Ahead of you, the mouth of a cave looms large – the entrance to the mines. Slowing your approach, you fumble in your pocket for the keys you looted earlier. As you do, you glance down.

A mistake.

With an inhuman screech, something slams into you and drops both you and Uriah to the ground. Mud splashes up, blinding you for a moment as you roll over and shake your face clear. Wiping away the last traces of mud, you set your sights on your attacker. A hunched thing, like all the other natives you've seen so far, the creature is a diseased thing – what little exposed flesh you can see crusted with sore or growths, and the creature's limbs are awkwardly inhuman. The harpoon it carries is rusted and tarnished, but its edge seems keen enough to kill.

Too close for a pistol, and it's already lurching forwards to close what little gap there is between you. Surging to your feet, your dagger already drawn, you meet the unwholesome creature halfway.

>Calling for a Physical Combat test. 1D100+20, aiming to beat 80. I'll take the highest of the first three results

Rolled 46 + 20 (1d100 + 20)

>>1094985
>Calling for a Physical Combat test. 1D100+20
I think we can spend 1 focus here? the birthing blade will give us a freebie later anyway

Rolled 7 + 20 (1d100 + 20)

>>1094985

Rolled 37 + 20 (1d100 + 20)

>>1094985

>>1094991
Welp. I guess we should.

>>1094991
Let's spend focus

Rolled 33 (1d100)

>>1094991
You doubted your roll Anon, but still a good enough roll to pass with focus.

>Writing the next post now, sorry for the delay. Spending focus as well, to clarify

Launching yourself forwards with your dagger poised, you start to drive the blade down into the creature's throat. It counters quickly, moving far faster than you'd been expecting, and brings its forearms up to block you. Your blade meets flesh and bone, a jarring impact running up the length of your arms as oddly thick blood bubbles up. If you had been fighting a human enemy, this blow would have ended the fight in an instant – virtually splitting apart their arms and crippling them for life – but this inhuman thing simply shrugs the blow off.

You're already off-balance from the failed attack, so when the creature twists its body around it doesn't take much for you to lose your footing on the slick ground. Grunting out a harsh bark of frustration, you hit the ground hard and roll a few feet downhill before arresting your fall. When you recover, you see the creature standing over Uriah's body, raising its harpoon for a killing strike. The sight of your blade, still jutting out from one of the monster's arms, ignites something terrible within you – a fury so pure that it shrinks the world down to a single point.

>Focus remaining: 1

Before you know it, you're up and moving again. Forgetting the pistol at your hip, it might as well not exist for all you know right now, you close the gap and slam your shoulder into the creature. This time, it's the one that tumbles to the ground, harpoon spilling from its eerie, skeletal hands. Snapping for Uriah to stay down, you snatch up the harpoon and grimly stalk closer to the fallen native. Scrabbling like a spider, it begins to rise.

With all the ceremony of a man crushing an insect, you plunge the harpoon down into the thing's face. Bone splinters as the long spear pierces straight through the creature's head, emerging from the other side with an oily coating of dark blood. You don't care how much tainted medicine this blasphemy might have taken, it can't survive something like that.

-

As you're leaning down to pull the dagger free, your gaze lingers on the corpse. What you had first taken as sores were really barnacles, either fused into the flesh or growing out of it. Pushing the robes aside, you catch a brief glimpse of a withered fin running down the creature's spine before shuddering and letting the cloth fall back into place. Frankly, you'd rather not know what else those stained, filthy rags might hide. Tugging your blade free, you wipe off the unclean blood and slide it back into your belt. As an afterthought, you tear the harpoon free as well, carrying it at your side.

If nothing else, it'll serve as something for Uriah to lean on.

[1/2]

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>>1095057

Perhaps you should be glad that no more of the deformed natives appear, but you find it hard to appreciate the stillness. All you can imagine are ranks of the fiends waiting further inside, harpoons and other blades held ready in eager hands. They might not even need blades – you wager that they'd be able to strangle the life out of someone easily enough with those long, spidery fingers.

Neither you nor Uriah have said a single word since you opened the door to the mines and stalked inside. The tunnels are not silent exactly – even without the slow dripping of water, there is a low throbbing that you recognise as the mermaid's song – but they are quiet enough to seem deserted. Dark as well, but that's hardly a surprise considering where you are. Shallow yet, barely inside the warren, and you're already walking on ground that has never felt the sun's warmth.

The again, considering the Tolnir weather, that might not be such a rare thing.

As Uriah hobbles behind you, the harpoon taking some of his weight, you lead the way into the tunnels. They seem entirely linear at first, a single path with no diversions, but then you find an old door – the wood rotten and spongy – set into the rock. Cautiously nudging it upon, you sigh in relief at the sight of a resting place. In some bygone year miners would take their breaks here, snatching a little precious rest before returning to work. Now, it offers you a faded remnant of that same comfort. An old oil lantern soon sheds a warm light around the room, and even though this might as well be a beast's den, you feel the tension fading somewhat.

“Rest,” Uriah sighs as he joins you, “Oh, I so needed this. Just a moment, that's all. Just let me rest up a moment.” Without waiting for your permission, he sinks down onto one of the low benches, tentatively glancing at his wounded leg. It's not the worst wound you've ever seen, but you're both thinking the same thing – infection. Perhaps that grim thought is why Uriah speaks up again, to take his mind off it.

“I really do owe you an apology,” he begins quietly, “Old Grey, when I hunted it... him... I never realised...”

That he had been a man once, you ask, that he had been a Hunter?

“Yes,” nodding faintly, Uriah meets your eyes, “I swear it, I never suspected the truth.”

>It's not your fault. Schreiber's already paid for her crimes
>Tell me about it, how it really happened
>Whether you knew it or not, you've still got blood on your hands. Remember that
>I need to ask you something... (Write in)
>Other

>>1095116
>Tell me about it, how it really happened

>>1095116
>>Tell me about it, how it really happened

>>1095116
>first, about your leg-
>How do you feel about cauterizing it? We don't exactly have clean water, and even the booze might be tainted, if we could even get you back to the village.

>>1095116
>Tell me about it, how it really happened
"Frankly what you did is what I'd consider a mercy. Krebs was looking for a cure to avoid losing himself to the beast. No one should have to live like that."

Giving the door one last glance, you sit opposite Uriah and give him a long, probing look. You want to hear about how it happened, you tell him simply, how it really happened. You're willing to guess that there wasn't some heroic struggle, right?

“I didn't mislead anyone,” Uriah protests weakly, before his shoulders slump, “...Much. You're right, there was no battle. It was... perhaps it would be best to start at the beginning. The first two times that I rode out to seek the beast, I only sensed that it was nearby. I never saw it, and I never confronted it. That much was true. It was the third night that things... changed.” He swallows hard, failing to find the right words. As the silence draws out, you gesture to his leg.

That could get infected, you tell him quietly, and you don't trust any of the water around here to clean it out. Even alcohol, if you could find any of it, might be tainted. His only other option is to cauterise the wounds, you add with a gesture towards the oil lantern, how does he feel about that?

“That sounds uniquely horrible,” he breathes, “But losing the leg to gangrene might actually be worse. Oh, I can't believe I'm doing this...” Letting his words trail off, Uriah gives you a shaky nod.

-

Uriah's blade was far cleaner than yours, so that's the one you chose for the “operation”. As you hold it over the lantern flame, you glance back to Uriah. The third night, you prompt, what happened?

“What? Oh, of course,” drawing in a trembling breath, the young bastard picks up the dangling thread of his tale, “As I recall, the moon was particularly bright that night. I wasn't sure if I should have expected anything different, but... I had a feeling. Not just the feeling of being watched, but the air felt so still. Something was going to happen, I knew that much, although I could never have imagined what transpired.”

As he talks, closing his eyes and seeking to lose himself in the memories, you examine the wounds on his leg. Not as deep as you first thought, but the jaws did a brutal job of mangling the flesh they bit into. Once you judge the blade to be hot enough, you quickly press it against the first gash. Gasping and shuddering, his clenched fists rattling against the wooden bench, Uriah almost looks like he's about to pass out from the pain of it. The smell isn't much better, that unique stink of burning human flesh.

Hopefully, you mutter, it won't attract any hungry locals.

“It... it came out of the trees,” Uriah presses on, the words barely making it past his lips, “When I saw it, I... I thought I was dead. I knew that I could not kill such a thing. There and then, I made my peace.”

But he didn't die, you muse, he emerged victorious. Reheating the blade, you gesture for Uriah to continue.

[1/2]

>>1095169

“It bowed down to me,” the young Hunter whispers, as if even now he can hardly believe it, “It circled me for a few short moments, and then it bowed low – like it was some obedient hound! I drew my sword, and it offered itself to me. Even when I drove the blade home, it never so much as whimpered.”

The conversation pauses briefly as you work on cauterising the next few gashes, each one leaving behind an ugly – but sealed – wound. Did he ever wonder about it, you ask calmly, did he ever ask himself why it was so easy?

“Of course I wondered. Again and again, I asked myself why things unfolded in such a way, but I couldn't think of an answer. Have you ever seen beasts behaving in such a way?” offering a weak attempt at a smile, Uriah shrugs, “Have you even heard of such a thing?”

Shaking your head slightly, you leave your answer ambiguous. In truth, you have seen something of that ilk before – a beast brought to heel and pacified. Witchcraft was involved, however, and that always complicates matters. Not something that Uriah needs concern himself with, not now at least. Besides, talking openly about such matters is rarely a good idea. No matter, you tell Uriah as you tear his ruined trouser leg into strips, you'd consider what he did a mercy. Krebs was looking for a cure to avoid losing himself, not... becoming what he did. He didn't deserve to live like that, nobody does.

“Yes, I rather suspect you're right,” wincing faintly as you tightly bind his wounds, Uriah gives the remains of his once fine trousers a forlorn look, “Thank you. At least I won't have to worry about losing the whole leg.”

He'll probably walk with a limp for a while, you warn him, maybe for the rest of his life.

“I'd consider that an acceptable price to pay. For now, though...” Uriah's expression darkens, “I don't know. I'm going to be slow on my feet for the time being. Maybe...”

>Just wait here. It seems safe enough, and I'll be back for you when this is over
>We're not splitting up, even if we have to move at your pace
>Other

>>1095207
>>Just wait here. It seems safe enough, and I'll be back for you when this is over

Don't know what's waiting for us when we reach Glorious. We may need to move fast.

>>1095207
>Just wait here. It seems safe enough, and I'll be back for you when this is over

>>1095207
>Just wait here. It seems safe enough, and I'll be back for you when this is over

>>1095207

Just wait here. It seems safe enough, and I'll be back for you when this is over.
His totally not going to get found then forced to become one of them

Just wait here, you tell Uriah, it seems safe. Safe enough, you correct yourself, considering where you are. Either way, you'll be back to get him once all this is over.

“That seems wise,” Uriah draws his pistol and checks the magazine, “With only one entrance, I can keep myself covered well enough... so long as I only have to deal with one or two of those beastly things at once. Any more than that... well, I dare say that I'd be in trouble no matter where I was.” With a bleak laugh, he slides the magazine back into his pistol and chambers a round. “I really did put on a shameful display, didn't I? Too busy complaining to watch where I was putting my feet,” the young Hunter grimaces, “And look what it cost me – one fine pair of trousers, ruined beyond repair.”

Once again, his strange sense of priorities manages to amaze you.

-

One last search of the break room reveals a second oil lantern, which you waste no time in lighting. Once the flickering flame has settled into a warm glow, you start for the door. As you're stepping out, though, Uriah calls your name.

“If something should go wrong, and if these charmless locals DO find me...” Uriah pauses, a look of determination creeping into his pale, pinched features, “I won't let them take me alive. It's just like you said – nobody deserves to live like these creatures. I won't join their ranks.”

Well, what can you say to that? He's right enough – you'd rather not suffer their loathsome fate as well – but does he expect you to congratulate him for his decision? Settling for a firm nod, you turn away and head out, closing the door behind you.

-

These tunnels do strange things to your sense of both distance and direction. At times it feels as though you've been walking for hours on end, but the next moment it seems like you've only just gotten started. Not only that, but at times you feel like you should have circled back and arrived at the entrance. All the while, you hear nothing but that dreadful throbbing pulse – overall more of a heartbeat than a song, as if you were wandering through the organs of some gigantic beast. You came here chasing the mermaid, you think deliriously, but you ended up swallowed by the thing.

[1/2]

>>1095280

Maybe you should have brought Uriah with you, you think to yourself, his complaints would help anchor you to reality. Then again, with the wounded man slowing you down, you would have made even less progress.

And then the path ahead diverges, splitting off into two directions. The sight of the junction gives you pause – it really did seem to emerge from nowhere, the previously unbroken path shifting before your very eyes. Strange things happening, you mutter, but at least it's different.

The left path curves downwards, the grade growing far steeper as if leading you into the bowels of the island. The right path, on the other hand, is level – and you can hear something, some faint whispering, coming from it.

>Take the left path downwards
>Take the right path towards the voice
>Other

>>1095285
Which one is the road most traveled? Fish freaks aren't exactly subtle with their footprints I imagine.

>>1095285
>>Take the right path towards the voice
Sounds like a bad idea, going for it anyway.

>>1095297

>The right path has more signs of travel.

>>1095285
>Go left
The more travelled path will just lead us to more fishmen. Also the mermaid is singing, not whispering.

>>1095285
>>Take the left path downwards

>>1095313
Eh your probably right. And there is logic that the mermaid would be deeper in to protect herself. At the worst we just have to turn around if there is nothing there.

>>1095285
>>Take the left path downwards

>>1095285
>left

Kneeling down, you hold the lantern closer to the ground and peer at the stone beneath your feet. It's hard to be sure, but it seems as though the right hand path sees more frequent travel – the stone looks worn away, as if it was a busy woodland trail rather than bare rock. That alone gives you one very good reason to start with the left branch. Whatever lies below, at the bottom of that incline, it's less likely to be a horde of angry natives.

Slightly less likely, but you'll take whatever you can get.

Shaking your head to clear away the whispering, you start down the steep incline. It's slow going at first, considering that you have to pick your footing with care, but soon the slope starts to take on the more regular pattern of steps. Ancient steps, if you were any guess – their edges have been worn away to almost nothing. With the same unhurried pace as before, you descend the staircase as if it might collapse at any minute, scanning the walls you pass for anything worth examining. More than once, you pass a crudely hewn alcove, but that's just about the only thing that stands out.

Lower you go, curving around as the stairwell ambles deeper into the island. The air takes on a cold, damp note as you go further down, and more than once you catch the smell of salt. Not the rotting stink of the deformed locals, but the honest scent of the ocean. Another hallucination, you ask yourself, one more sign of the mermaid's influence? If so, you must be getting closer. You're on the right track.

-

Fish bones, bound together with filthy string. No particular shape or design, nothing that seems like witchcraft, but... it's certainly something.

The totem hangs in one of the alcoves, shivering faintly at a breeze too slight for you to feel it. You couldn't even guess how old it is, but the black rot spreading across the bones suggests a very great age indeed. As you continue downwards, you start to see more of the fish bone totems, each in worse state than the previous one. By the time the stairwell is opening out to a great cavern, they're little more than a few tattered remnants hanging from rusted hooks. By the time you reach the bottom, however, the totems are the last thing on your mind.

Ahead of you, stretching out like a sheet of leaden glass, the underground lake awaits. In this cavernous hollow, your lantern seems like a single feeble candle. The light doesn't even reach up to the roof of this cavern, even though your sense of logic and reason protests against such a sight. Surely, you think, your path must have passed through this vast hollow? How, then, can it be stretching upwards ahead of you?

With your attention drawn upwards, it's a long time before you notice the ripples starting to spread out across the surface of the lake.

[1/2]

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>>1095402

What first breaks the surface of that dark, unwholesome lake is just barely recognisable as a hand, although not a human one. Tendrils rather than fingers waver at the end of the webbed paw, while the palm of that inhuman hand is easily big enough to swallow your head whole. A long arm is next, skeletal thin but without the firmness of bone. Muted grey and glistening with a skin of oil, the flesh you see before you has a rubbery look to it, something that inspires an almost instinctual loathing.

A second arm is next, joining the first as it slaps wetly down against the bank of the lake. Surging up out of the water, the blunt bullet head of the mermaid is next to appear. Neither fish nor frog, nor anything else you can recognise, it has a singularly disgusting look to it. Four eyes flick lazily around the cavern before settling upon you, intelligence shining behind their glassy veneer. As the mermaid's eyes lock onto yours, a bolt of pain rips through your head. It's like a radio suddenly blurting out static, only infinitely more shrill.

As you reel, clutching your head and wincing at the pain, the shrill squeal warbles and fades first into a more tolerable drone, and then into something even less noticeable – a simple background hum.

The mermaid stares into your eyes, and you stare right back.

>I'm going to pause things here. I'll pick this up tomorrow, and I'll stick around in case anyone has any questions or comments
>Thanks to everyone who joined us today!

>>1095487
Thanks for running Moloch. Gosh that thing is ugly and spooky. Wonder how we're gonna fight it and if we'll have to roll for composure and such.

>>1095487
Kos or some say Kosm

Thanks for running.

File: ok.jpg (49 KB, 400x392)

49 KB JPG

>>YFW the blade is actually cooler here than at the village or does not cool after the mermaid is dead

>>1095487
>>1096332
Yeh let's check the blade.

Maybe it's being held captive or something and we can help. Get rid if the fishbowl totem or something.

>>1098239
It's her. Remember we had an extra focus point last session

Longer and longer, this moment of silence and stillness draws out. It's not true silence, even though the mermaid's song has faded below audible level – you know that the song is still there, somehow dirtying the air around you. Until this very moment, you've never thought that a silence could be unclean, but now you know better. It's a silence that teems with hideous thoughts, like a sheet of white silk draped across a bed of writhing maggots. A silence that mocks the very idea of silence, just as the mermaid's song mocks the very idea of a song.

Loathing fills you, but something stronger than that keeps you anchored to the ground. It takes all your effort to sway faintly to one side, and even then the mermaid's glassy eyes follow you. As you stand fixed in place, the bloated creature stretches out one long, sickly arm. Fingers yawning wide, it reaches towards your face with unhurried ease. With the slick, oily feel of something dragged up from the ocean's greatest depths, one of those sinuous tendrils brushes against your cheek. That's enough to snap you back to your senses, and you jump back just as the hand begins to close. Drawing your dagger, the blinding heat of the blade burns away the last of the mermaid's influence.

As if angered by this unexpected show of defiance, the squealing song stabs you in the mind once again, a brief scream that causes you to finch back. Like a radio being tuned, the squeal wavers between shrill buzzing and a low hum before settling on... something new.

A rich baritone voice.

“Gwendolyn Schreiber is dead,” the voice rumbles, rising up more from the depths of your own mind than from your ears. Behind the deep baritone voice, you hear other sounds – mad laughter, forlorn sobbing, more voices than you can properly count.

Communication – genuine communication, with real human words. This is not what you had been expecting. Watching the mermaid closely, ready to strike out at any new attempt to seize you, the thought of humouring the beast comes to mind. Schreiber IS dead, you agree, is that a problem?

“Her dreams were this one's dreams. Her thoughts were this one's thoughts,” a pause here, and you feel a kind of amusement – contemptuous in nature, cynical and dismissive – radiating off the mermaid, “She was not the first. She will not be the last.”

You might just disagree with that, you think to yourself. As the thought crosses your mind, that wave of amusement pulses stronger for a moment. A reaction – either it was able to guess your thoughts, or it plucked them right out of your mind.

This could be interesting.

[1/2]

>>1098386

“The lost always find a master to serve,” the mermaid's curious “voice” continues, “Fallen leaves, one and all, drifting downstream to the ocean depths. This one accepts all who wish for guidance, for their doubts and woes to be stripped away. This one offers... purpose.”

Purpose, you snap back at it, like those deformed things out there? Like Schreiber?

“This one accepts all who wish for purpose,” the words ooze up from the back of your mind, “Gwendolyn Schreiber had a heart filled with spite, malice and poison. She would not let go of her grudges, even as this one urged her to serve a higher purpose. Regardless, she too came to serve in time.” Stirring the dark waters of the lake, the mermaid drags itself further up the bank and regards you with those alien eyes. Looking at it now, you see wound scattered across it's bloated head, puckered holes where a needle had been thrust repeatedly into it.

Well, you think, Schreiber needed to get the blood for her “medicine” from somewhere. Was it a willing donation, or did she take it by force? You can't quite picture Schreiber wielding her syringe like a dagger, but stranger things have happened. This higher purpose, you point out, what was it? Bowing to whatever perverse whims the mermaid might entertain?

“This one is also a mere servant, a vessel for the True Divinity,” sluggishly moving, the mermaid's hands join together in a parody of prayer, “The True Divinity, before which your pagan northern gods are pale imitations. This one has always been a servant, even venturing to the roof of the world and slaying a great demon at the behest of the True Divinity. That this one was lauded and celebrated as a prophet...” Leaving that thought unfinished, the throbbing pulse of smug satisfaction you feel rising up from the mermaid tells you everything you need to know.

Still, the mermaid's words give you a moment's pause. A great demon at the roof of the world – you've heard that old story before, in some form or another, but always with the dubious reliability of myth. Even Artemis herself can't offer you a reliable account, but this... prophet might have answers. Then again, it might say anything to make men bend the knee and obey. For some, it might offer a cure to any wound. For others, it might offer forgiveness and absolution. The price might differ, but men can always be bought.

>You're no prophet – you're a fraud, and I'm here to kill you. Talking won't change that
>What was this “great demon” of yours?
>You and Schreiber – who was really in charge?
>Then let me ask you something... (Write in)
>Other

>>1098388
>What was this “great demon” of yours?
>And this True Divinity. Who ordered you?
Demon is probably Art and Divinity is probably that giant that led the twelve Knights.
>You're no prophet – you're a fraud, and I'm here to kill you.

>>1098388
>>What was this “great demon” of yours?
Long as we don't buy into it too hard it shouldn't hurt to ask. Then we can kill it.

>>1098398
>>1098388
This, get another perspective of the past, flawed and biased as it's going to be then blow its head off.

>>1098388
>What was this “great demon” of yours?

Its memories are probably warped through the years, it won't be more reliable than the myth.

>>1098388
>What was this “great demon” of yours?

Distract it while we get ready to kill it.

>>1098388
seconding >>1098398

So what was this “great demon”, you ask, and why did it need to be slain so badly?

“A woeful gargoyle that feasted on men and swallowed their very souls, so that they might never be united with the True Divinity,” the mermaid groans slowly, the rubbery flesh of its face splitting open to reveal a gummy, toothless maw. Probing like a finger, the mermaid's tongue slips out to waver in the air, fibrous strands peeling off from its tip until more than a dozen sinuous tendrils dance around. “This one was happy to serve as executioner,” it continues, “And men rejoiced when this one departed, knowing that their salvation was at hand.”

As its words coil within your mind, pictures start to form – vague, true, but growing clearer with each passing moment. You see a looming figure, human but head and shoulders above the men around it, gesturing with fiery zeal. No words can be heard, but words are not needed – all too well, you can see what's happening. The prophet himself, whipping his flock up into a frenzy of fear and horror at the thought of this “demon”. Little wonder that they were so grateful when their leader resolved to slay it, they were simply playing their appointed roles.

“All men fear that which hunts them, and bless that which protects them,” the mermaid gurgles, the faint laughter that backs its voice swelling into a brief roar of bitter humour, “And so the sheep follow their shepherd, even to the slaughterhouse, for they fear the wolves that prowl the night.”

As the mermaid's hideous tongue slaps down against the bank of the lake, fresh images flicker through your mind. A new figure, taller even than the prophet. A ship, and a long journey through bleak and foreboding waters. An old stone temple, crumbling under the weight of time. Last of all, not an image but a sensation – a hunger that bit down to your very core. Shaking off the feelings with a grimace, you try and clear your mind. And what of the True Divinity, you ask, what is it?

“It is all the world, and it is all men. The True Divinity is the highest will of all, and this one speaks with its voice,” the tongue creeps closer towards you as the mermaid talks, slipping and slapping against the stone underfoot. Every so often, one of those filmy strands breaks off and squirms away like a maggot, writhing back towards the lake. “And so men, breaking under the cruelty of their masters, raised their voices to the heavens and asked for deliverance. Mercy was shown to them, and they pledged to serve the True Divinity for all time.”

To serve however the prophet instructed, you scoff, very convenient.

“This one is but a servant,” the mermaid repeats. As it hisses this, the tongue brushes wetly up against your boot. “All must serve,” it adds slowly, “Even if they must be taught piety...”

[1/2]

>>1098440
It's stealing my plan!

>>1098440
All returns to the flower, huh? I wonder what the mermaid thinks of the Spirits, but it looks like we'd give too much ground if we talk any more.

>>1098440

Forcing yourself to hold the mermaid's gaze, you ignore the tongue slipping up your leg. Just a little bit more, you think, just distract the thing for a few precious moments more. It's no prophet, you scornfully announce, it's nothing more than a common fraud!

“Insolence!” the beast squeals, its tongue tightening around your leg as you pull the pistol from its holster. Stamping down hard, pinning the tongue to the ground, you fire a pair of quick shots into the meaty appendage, filthy blood and ichor spurting out as the tongue is blasted in half. What hits you then is more than a sound, more than a scream – it's a solid wall of force, as if a gale of ice and broken glass had been cast into your face. A heartbeat passes before you even register it as pain, as anything other than a yawning hole in your mind. When the pain does hit, though, it drives you down to one knee. As you struggle to rise, the mermaid raises one webbed paw high to crush you.

Spitting out an unheard curse, you shake off the severed tongue and kick yourself into motion, throwing yourself aside as the hand comes crashing down. Just before it hits, you catch a glance at the severed tongue – still wriggling and flopping against the stone, still wavering like a fistful of worms.

Then you're up again, moving clumsily as the mermaid raises its hands again to strike out at you. The hideous squealing has faded slightly – or perhaps you're growing numb to it – but still it haunt you, gnawing at the edges of your mind and distracting you.

>Strike its hand when it moves to attack you
>Attempt to shoot out its eyes
>Destroy the severed piece of tongue
>Other

>>1098474
>Attempt to shoot out its eyes

>>1098474
>Shoot it in the throat while we rush forward and stab it

Its stupid voice is the real danger

>>1098474
>>Shoot it in the throat while we rush forward and stab it
Go beast mode

>>1098474
>Attempt to shoot out its eyes

>>1098474
>Attempt to shoot out its eyes
Go for eyes Boo!

pinning the hand down could help us, ripping the thoat could also help us same with blinding it.

>>1098474
>Strike its hand when it moves to attack you

Fuck me it probably doesn't need eyes that much out of water anyways.

> We should try to lure it out of the water and also back away from the severed tongue.

>>1098474
>Attempt to shoot out its eyes
>Grab the tongue and run out the tunnel, smacking it on the walls the whole way
If we take out the eyes and safely dispose of the tongue, we can take our time and kill it at a distance.

>Going with shooting out the eyes first. Calling for a Firearms check, 1D100+20, aiming to beat 80/100, and I'll take the highest of the first three
>Focus is currently unavailable for use

>>1098474
>>Strike its hand when it moves to attack you
I have a sinking feeling it will detach like the tongue.

Rolled 48 + 20 (1d100 + 20)

>>1098538
Guess we better roll real nice then.

Rolled 86 + 20 (1d100 + 20)

>>1098538

Rolled 49 + 20 (1d100 + 20)

>>1098538
BOOM HEADSHOT

>>1098547
it's been some time since we got an actual good roll

Even with the squealing, screaming song cutting in and out of your mind, you still manage to steady your aim long enough to draw a bead on the mermaid's bulging, glassy eyes. Down the sights of your pistol, they look like dinner plates - flat and lifeless, without a hint of warmth or feeling in them. The moment seems to pause, drawing out longer as you hold your aim over the creature's inhuman face. Not a flicker of doubt or fear, nothing that even suggests that it knows what a gun is.

You fire, and the frozen moment shatters back into noise and chaos. Recoil punches at your wrist as you snap off a pair of quick shots, shifting your aim between two of the mermaid's four eyes. Good hits, both of them, the glassy orbs burst apart in a splatter of oily blood and slime, and that shriek pierces your mind once more. Stumbling, you duck forwards as the mermaid's arm swipes through the air, passing overhead as you shift around to the beast's other side. The second round of gunshots are harder, with the mermaid's blunt head rearing back and away from you, but you aim and fire without delay.

A triumphant hiss escapes you as you see the two remaining eyes burst apart, but your moment of victory is a short one. As the mermaid draws back, webbed paws clasped to its face, a blade pierces through you like a lance of pure ice and pain. No, not a blade – that song, honed into a weapon and driving you down to the floor. Agonised tears fill your eyes as your vision splits, the sight of the underground cavern flickering between unworked stone and the yawning expanse of an open ocean. Salt fills your mouth – blood or seawater, you can't tell which – and you feel warmth on your upper lip.

But still, you rise. The mermaid has drawn back, stunned and blinded by pain, and you've got an opening – a chance to strike.

>Get close and gut the thing
>Pull back and destroy the piece of tongue
>Fall back, retreat while you have the chance
>Other

>>1098651
>>Get close and gut the thing

>>1098651
>>Get close and gut the thing

>>1098651
>>Pull back and destroy the piece of tongue
we might want no surprises

>>1098651
>Pull back and destroy the piece of tongue

>>1098651
>>Get close and gut the thing
Got finish things up fast before it beats on us some more.

>>1098651
>>Get close and gut the thing
Can we throw our lantern at the tongue to immolate it?

>>1098671
I can back gutting it if we do that. At least the tongue will be busy with SOMETHING while we have our back to it.

>>1098671

>Yes, that sounds like it should work. Good idea!

>>1098671
This does mean losing our light source if we don't kill the mermaid soon as the fire will run out fast once out of the lantern.

>>1098731
We can turn on Beast Mode to compensate. I'm sure our natural night vision gets enhanced substantially.

Stumbling forwards a few steps more, you turn and look out at the severed tongue. Kept alive by some hideous vitality, it pulses and throbs, clutching at the air with countless ribbons of flesh. A disgusting thing, you think with a snarl, it has no right to exist. Drawing back your arm, you hurl the lantern at the flopping rag of flesh, the tumbling light causing every shadow in the cavern to dance and cavort. Glass shatters and burning oil spills out, hungrily consuming the oily flesh. As the fire takes hold, that awful song reaches its peak and your consciousness grows thin.

Then, just as you feel the world growing distant, the song is snuffed out and your mind clears. The difference is as plain as night and day, but you don't have time to celebrate the relief. You'll celebrate when this is over and the mermaid lies dead.

You won't have long to wait.

-

With the stench of burning flesh still hanging heavily in the air, and the light failing, you rush close to the mermaid and grip your dagger with both hands. Blindly, the mermaid swipes through the empty air as you approach, missing you as you slip neatly inside its guard. With brutal strength you drive the blade down into the mermaid's head, tearing through the rubbery flesh with sickening ease. It feels almost boneless, barely resisting your strikes at all, but neither do your blows seem to achieve very much. You might as well be slashing at wet paper or mud for all the difference it makes.

Snarling like a beast, you dig down harder and push aside another layer of blubbery flesh. There, finally, you see something with the blood red sheen of vitality, some wrinkled organ that pulses with life. The creature's brain, it has to be. All you need to do is pierce that, and-

As you're raising your dagger to strike, the mermaid's grasping hands find you, ensnaring your torso and lifting you up into the air. Its grip has the terrible strength of a desperate, dying creature, tightening around you.

>Calling for a Physical Combat roll, 1D100+20, aiming to beat 90. I'll take the highest of the first three results
>Focus is now available for use

Rolled 16 + 20 (1d100 + 20)

>>1098800

Rolled 20 + 20 (1d100 + 20)

>>1098800

Rolled 30 + 20 (1d100 + 20)

>>1098800

Rolled 52 + 20 (1d100 + 20)

>>1098800
Jesus these rolls.

>>1098802
>>1098809
>>1098812
not with thes rolls we not killing it

Hey we failed a roll.

That's...new.

>>1098812
So is it worth it to use focus if we're gonna fail the DC anyway?

>>1098825
Nope.

>>1098825
Nah.

>>1098825
we wil fail any ways just hope next roll will be better

>>1098802
>>1098809
>>1098812
Is it time for Henryk to lose an eye?

>>1098888
Probably going to get tossed around like a ragdoll or the life crushed out of us.

File: Nihilo.jpg (204 KB, 2400x1374)

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Grunting with desperate pain, you bring the dagger down on the mermaid's flabby paws again and again, stabbing and gouging at the rubbery flesh. For every wound you make, an older one seems to close up again as the vile flesh knits itself back together. Tighter and tighter, the mermaid's grip closes around you as you continue your fruitless, futile attack. Even when your breath is cut off, and your head grows light, you keep stabbing at the cloying grip. Even when hope starts to fade, you keep stabbing.

Something inside you breaks – you couldn't say what. It doesn't really feel important, and neither does the sudden rushing feeling that sweeps over you. Falling, maybe? Are you falling?

It doesn't really feel that important.

Everything goes black.

-

Nihilo.

It feels like a long time since you were last here. It feels good to be back here, calming in a strange way. Lying back, you stare up at the black sky for a while longer and enjoy the stillness. When the time to rise comes, though, you find yourself unable to move. The longer you lie paralysed, the more you become aware of some awful feeling slowly spreading through your body. Warmth, but not a pleasant kind of warmth.

“You're in a bad way,” Artemis murmurs, her voice coming from some unseen direction, “Shh, don't try to talk. You wouldn't be able to anyway, so don't waste your strength. You're going to need it.”

The faint whisper of cloth reaches you, and you feel the presence of another. Cool hands find your head, lifting and moving you so that you lie in the soft cushion of the goddess' lap. You still can't see her, your gaze fixed on the empty sky above even. Despite her warning, you try to ask her a question, ask her what's going on, but all you can summon up is a faint croak.

“I told you, didn't I?” Artemis sighs, her voice low and melancholy, “Let's just... sit here and rest a while. You've been working hard, haven't you Henryk? You deserve a bit of rest, so let's make the most of this. Are you tired?”

You can't answer that, but you do manage a small nod. You ARE tired – a terrible, bone-deep fatigue that weighs down your entire body. Just nodding seems to take all your energy.

“Just rest,” Artemis whispers, “Save your strength.”

Again, you try to nod. This time, though, the effort is too much for you. The last of your stamina bleeds away from you, like blood rushing from a wound. Closing your eyes, you let the pain retreat back into the distance.

You rest.

>Okay, I'm going to pause here for a little bit – maybe an hour. I have a pretty good idea of how to handle things, but I need to do a bit of planning. Your patience is appreciated!

>>1098924
thanks and this dosnt look good

File: An eye-patch for you.jpg (19 KB, 500x500)

19 KB JPG

Rolled 41 + 20 (1d100 + 20)

>>1098888
let's see now that the result is known.

>>1098924
> Liz Quest!

Uriah

Your leg isn't as bad as you thought, now that the wounds have been sealed and bandaged. It hurts, there's no denying that – that moment when Hanson pressed the hot metal against your flesh had been, without a doubt, the worst pain you had ever experienced – but now the pain has drawn back a little. It retreats enough that you feel confident in walking a little, crossing the length of this dreary little room with your harpoon as a crutch. A mistake, as it turns out – by the time you're halfway back to your starting point the pain has flared back up, and your skin pours with sweat.

Not for the first time in your life, you have to wonder if this hunting business is really for you. Oh, the glory of it is fine enough – when you get the appreciation you so richly deserve, at least – but all the filth and pain is just awful. You were not meant for this life, no matter what the fools who tested your blood seem to think. It's an old wound, but once again you feel your damaged pride boiling up within you. At least you're alone here, so your blurt of uncouth profanity goes unheard.

Finally, you make it back to the bench and slump down, panting for air and shaking with exertion. Considering what you've been through, it's little wonder that you feel a wave of exhaustion rising up to claim you. Falling asleep here would be a terrible mistake, an error of the most fatal kind, but you still have to fight to keep your eyes open. A losing battle, as it turns out – despite your best efforts, you feel something tugging you down into a deep sleep.

Well, what's the harm in resting a little? Just a few moments can't hurt...

-

Disorientation is the first thing you feel upon waking up. What else would you think when you fall asleep underground, only to wake up under the open sky? Even calling it a “sky” feels like a stretch – that infinite starless expanse, like an ocean of blackness, has only a passing similarity with the sky you know. True, they might be so different to look at, but it feels like an utterly alien thing, a sky that no man has ever seen before. The rest of this land isn't much closer to normality, with black plains of ice and glowing rivers of white light. In the distance, you see lurching shapes – inhuman things, but wisely keeping their distance.

Looking around you, your gaze finally falls on something recognisable – a woman, draped in white robes, Hansom lying with his head in her lap. Her gaze is on him, slowly running a hand through his hair like a mother comforting her ailing child.

As you walk slowly towards the pair of them, you dimly notice that your leg feels... better. The pain has not followed you here, and for that you are grateful.

[1/2]

File: Artemis.jpg (72 KB, 540x576)

72 KB JPG

>>1099135

Approaching them slowly, you pause just briefly as a beastly little creature scuttles past you – an insect of sorts, only bloated to the size of a large dog. Loathsome thing, you mutter aloud.

“It's the worst, isn't it?” the woman replies quietly, her ears apparently keen enough for your words to have reached them, “Of all the beasts and creatures to come here, I hate that one most of all. My furtive little foe... Excuse me, never mind that. I confess, I was the one who brought you here. I need to-”

She brought you here, you ask, what vile witchcraft is this?

This causes the woman's head to snap up and, just for one moment, the melancholy is replaced by a furious anger. Her grey eyes flash, and her lips part to reveal teeth like a jumble of razors. As soon as it appeared, the wild anger vanishes and is replaced by the mournful mask. “Don't interrupt me. Lives are at stake – his life,” the woman stokes Hanson's face again and he shifts in his sleep, groaning faintly as if in pain, “So I need you to listen carefully. Find him, go as low as you can. Find Henryk, and get him out here. I think he'll recover... if he gets the chance to do so.”

Wait just one minute, you protest, you're injured as well! You're in no shape to risk life and limb on some rescue mission!

“You'll do what I tell you to do!” the woman hisses, a whisper with the force of a shout, “Witchcraft will be the least of your worries if you leave him to die, I promise you that! Now go, hurry!”

You start to protest again, but she cuts you off with a curt gesture of dismissal. You might not have any intention of leaving quite so soon, but this strange world seems to have other ideas. Before you can shout, some terrible force yanks you back to reality, and you find yourself jolting upright.

-

Awake again, you breath as you look about the tunnel, it was just a dream – a nightmare. But... what if it was something more, what if Hanson really has been injured? The idea rankles at you, refusing to leave your restless mind. The lower part of these tunnels, your dream said, that's where you need to go. Swallowing hard, you rise to your feet again and test your injured leg once more. It feels... like you could walk. Slow going, maybe, but you can walk.

Come on, you murmur, it was just a dream. What else could it have been?

Even so...

>Travel to the lowest section of the tunnels. You owe Hanson that much, at least
>Wait here, as you decided. It was just a dream, nothing worth changing your plans over
>Escape the tunnels. You can walk, you're not sticking around here any longer
>Other

>>1099140
>Travel to the lowest section of the tunnels. You owe Hanson that much, at least

>>1099140
>Travel to the lowest section of the tunnels. You owe Hanson that much, at least

Only real option unless we are going to change MCs permanently/end the quest.

>>1099140
>>Travel to the lowest section of the tunnels. You owe Hanson that much, at least

>>1099140
>>Travel to the lowest section of the tunnels. You owe Hanson that much, at least

When you were caught in that trap, Hanson could have left you there to die – he didn't, he stayed to pull you free. Then later, when that disgusting native accosted you both, he fought back and saved you for a second time. Considering that, you hardly see yourself as having a choice – perhaps it was just a dream, but you owe Hanson enough to check it out. Abernath, that old brute of a teacher, always did tell you to trust your instincts more. Well, perhaps now you'll finally listen to that advice.

Turning the lantern flame down to the lowest level you can, you step out of the break room and look about. Allowing your eyes a moment to adjust to the gloom, you lean heavily on the harpoon, your makeshift crutch, and set off down the tunnels.

As you walk, you notice something – or, to be more specific, a lack of something. Your mind feels as clear as a mountain spring, with no trace of intrusion or outside influence. That song, as it had been described to you, has gone. Does that mean that Hanson was successful, that he found the mermaid and destroyed it? If true, he may have been injured in the process, which is why-

Stop this foolishness, you chide yourself, you don't really believe in this nonsense. This is just duty, so that you can put this superstitious ignorance aside and rightfully dismiss it. That's all it is.

Despite yourself, your doubts and scorn, you start to hobble a little bit faster.

-

Up ahead, you hear something. Metal scraping against stone, perhaps. No, you're certain that that's what it is, even if the echoes are twisting and distorting the sound. Fumbling in place, you hook the dim lantern around the harpoon blade and ease your dagger out of its sheath. It's a fine blade, your dagger, thinner and lighter than the average hunting knife used by your ilk – more of a ceremonial piece than a weapon, although its deadliness is undeniable. Not quite a sword, but it's certainly enough to cut a man down with. With the weapon held ready at your side, you continue down the tunnels.

A branching path, one fork leading downwards. Pausing only to confirm your suspicions – yes, of course that grinding sound is coming from the downward path – you steel yourself and keep moving forwards, easing yourself down the incline. By the time you've reached worked stone steps, the scraping sound has grown louder still – it's close now. Gently setting down the harpoon and lantern, you tighten your grip on the dagger and limp further down.

Soon, your eyes have sharpened enough to just about see by. A moment more, and you see the hunched figure of an inhuman native, harpoon hanging listlessly to drag against the stone underfoot.

[1/2]

Wouldn't that be a bitch to find out that the song mindfucked us into cutting our own tongue and blowing our own eye?

nah four eyes

>>1099238

Even when you quicken your pace, the heels of your fine boot scuffling against the stone steps, the deformed wretch doesn't turn – it simply carries on stumbling forwards, occasionally letting out a faintly mournful whine or pausing to clutch at its shapeless head. The next time it pauses, you take your chance.

Lunging forwards as best you can – it's more of a controlled fall than a proper thrust, but your old duelling teacher isn't here to scold you for the clumsy attack – you bury your dagger in the creature's back and drag it down to the ground. When it lets out a thin, keening screech and twists around, abandoning the harpoon in favour of grabbing at your throat. Sliding down the ground with it, all thoughts of elegant fighting vanish from your mind, replaced by a wild and desperate struggle for dominance. The deformed fiend tries to get a solid grip on your throat, and you try to slide the dagger into theirs.

Pain shoots up your wounded leg as you drive a knee into the creature's gut, and the blow barely gives it pause. That brief moment is enough though, just enough for you to rear back and plunge the dagger down into the thing's neck. That keening cry is cut short as your blade finds its mark, jarring through bone and shocking the native to stillness. The sound of your heavy breathing, rasping in great lungfuls of the damp air, seems very loud in the following silence, so loud that it seems like shouting.

Forcing yourself to quieten down – the last thing you need right now is to summon any more of those things – you take up the harpoon once more and continue on down the stairs. As if the mud hadn't been had enough, you note bitterly, now your clothes are filthy with blood. This island really is an affront to everything that is decent.

-

When you heard there was an underground lake here, you were expecting something a little more... impressive. The ceiling is low, and the lake itself has all the grandiosity of a puddle. At one point the stone is blackened by fire, and a certain oily residue, but that seems the only...

Then you turn the lantern flame up higher, and a gasp of horror slips from your lips. Two bodies are slumped on the bank of the lake, but only one them belongs to something you could name. The human body, Hanson, is closest, but you can barely spare it a glance compared with the other thing. Long and rubbery limbs, a bullet shaped head carved up and left to the open air, blasted remnants of eye sockets... it defies comparison, explanation, even understanding. This, you sense, is part of a world you do not belong to.

[2/3]

>>1099391

Then it moves, one arm lamely dragging across the rough ground as the sinuous tendril fingers probe for any signs of life. Those “fingers” slip across Hanson's motionless body, pausing for a moment before moving on. Blind, you realise, it's blind. Not exactly a hard guess to make, considering the blasted eye sockets, but still – with something so alien, taking anything at first glance would be an error of judgement.

So you'll have to be quiet – silent, even. Slowly lowering the harpoon, you take the lantern off and set it aside. One less thing to rattle about, one less source of noise. Then, picking your steps with care and pushing the throbbing ache in leg out of your mind, you approach the crippled beast. The mermaid, you suppose, although it hardly deserves such a fine title. Why couldn't it have been more like the stories said?

As that rueful thought passes through your mind, a careless step causes a few loose pebbles to skitter away. The sound is tiny, but it still causes the mermaid to turn its blind face in your direction, dragging one crippled arm towards you. A moment of blind panic strikes you, but then something – perhaps instinct, perhaps the memories of your training – takes over. Reaching down, you grab a few loose shell casings and hurl them away from you, throwing them into the furthest corner of the cave. As the beast lurches around, you stumble forwards and raise the harpoon high.

Crying out, abandoning the thought of stealth, you plunge the rusting blade down into the mermaid's rubbery head. One final spasm, one final gurgle of blood bubbling up, and the mermaid is finished.

Behind you, Hanson groans softly.

Well, he's alive at least.

>I'm going to pause things here. I'll continue this tomorrow, and I can stick around for a while in case of any comments or questions
>Thanks to everyone who contributed today, and sorry for the delays!

>>1099391
>The ceiling is low, and the lake itself has all the grandiosity of a puddle.
Jesus that thing was messing with us really badly huh?

>>1099529
We did a good though Uriah did alright and saved us.

>>1099529
Thanks for the thread, I guess Uriah will start training seriously once he's back.

>>1099529
Thanks for the run.

So Hanson getting plucked up by Artemis made his body appear dead to the mermaid?

>>1099544

Just a little illusion to make the cavern seem that much grander, yes. Theatrics are important!

>>1099562

It helped to suppress any signs of life, yes.

>>1099609
thanks for the thread!
glad to see uriah not being a incompetent dickwad

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>>1099529
Thanks for running.

Moloch have you heard of 'failing forward'? It's where failure doesn't immediately end the current plot/fight or worse stalls it, but instead is where failure is a setback but pushes the plot /fight forward though with a slightly different twist due to the new parameters that the players have to deal with.

Before I go further let me say I'm not bitter about what happened. It's a interesting turn of events with Uriah and Artemis and I look forward to seeing how it pans out.

I just wish combat failure in NBQ (and a bit of SGQ) wasn't so...boring. And I don't mean it's not extreme enough. Just the opposite really. I want to do something about losing a dice roll. Damage mitigation, planning our next move, changing tactics, etc. I want to do more than just go 'Welp' and half serious, half joke about how we are going to get crippled. This is hindered by NBQ's somewhat dull mechanics of which there is only one: toss a +20 on it, which is why I am thankfully you gave us combat prompts for this fight instead of it just being a roll. SGQ had some options by virtue of it's spell card system but even in that sometimes a single failed roll would mean a knife in the cut one hit KO.

Let's take this fight for example. You could have had the mermaid start to crush us, us fail to do any lasting damage but hit somewhere painful for it to throw us around, break the same bones you did in canon but still be conscious. From there we could have a situation where it can't find us due it being blind, us sluggish from being injured and have the players come up with a plan which would have probably been the exact same thing Uriah did with the fakeout noise. Go into Beast mode for extra movement and stealth ability as well.

Just my opinion though, I personally like back and forth fights so I have some bias. That said you are conditioning your players to want to be perfect during fights which is why we liberally spend that focus even if we make the 1st tier DC and such. Winning all the time is boring too, but when the alternative is losing a limb or instantly getting KO'd then we'll take winning every time.

>>1099888
i agree a lot of fights seem one sided. (mostly due too very good rolls). of course this isn't really a combat oriented quest. it would be nice to have a bit more input on fights and change in difficulty based on plans and weakening opponents. i also feel that a single failed roll shouldn't end a fight, unless it was a critfail or against a very powerfull enemy.
but i'm no qm so take from that what you will

>>1099888

No, I think you make a lot of sense, and I definitely recognise the problems you're talking about. Combat, and the consequences of failure, are something I'd consider to be something of a weak area. I have been trying to work on it - using combat prompts here as one example - but there's still a lot of room for improvement.

I do know about failing forward, as a concept, but it's not always something I manage to keep in mind when it comes to writing combat. Taking a few extra minutes to take it into account would be a good use of the time, however, I can't deny that.

I will certainly try and keep this in mind, though - it makes a lot of sense, and I do think it would improve things. Thank you, as well, for taking the time to give me some well thought out feedback, I really do appreciate it.

>>1100022
Anytime

>>1100022
This was better than the previous ones. The main issue is more of granularity: there are too few rolls for any one thing to NOT be vitally important.

But it's a tad late to change things up that drastically.

>>1100022
All you really need to do is cut down the size of updates during combat. Ask for player input and rolls after every action and reaction, let us take a more active role while you are less cinematic.

You have enough active players that a 5 or 10 minute vote window can work, so it doesn't come to a halt.

>>1100022
Thanks for running!

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Hanson is alive, true, but he's in a bad way. Although apparently undamaged, his face is veiled behind a mask of red – as if his nose, ears and even his eyes had been leaking blood, but you could not dare guess how or why. Some things, you sense, are better off left unknown. Even after he stirs back into waking life, he remains silent. Letting his eyes do the talking, Hanson first gives you a long and piercing look before deliberately glancing across to the corpse of the mermaid – the harpoon still jutting like a flagpole from the beast's head.

Don't look so surprised, you tell him with a note of haughty pride, you ARE a Hunter after all.

Shrugging, wincing at the gesture, Hanson reaches up to gently rub his throat. “Not bad,” he croaks after a moment of hesitation, “Blind and crippled... but not bad.”

Smirking faintly to yourself, you reach across and hold your hands up to the lantern's meagre warmth. It's not much, but it's better than nothing. How does he feel, you ask without looking away from the flicking flame, where does it hurt?

“Hurts just about everywhere. Hurts to talk,” finally noticing the blood on his face, Hanson digs a rag out of his pocket and scrubs at some of the stains, “Broken ribs, probably. Internal injuries, maybe. I don't know, I'm no Scholar – never a Snake around when you need one. I don't rate my chances very highly if it comes to fighting, though. Hell, I don't even know if I can stand upright.” Throwing aside the rag, he awkwardly lifts his shirt and peers down at the mottled bruises coiled all around his torso. As he winces, your eyes fall upon a particularly gnarled patch of scar tissue stretched across his gut.

“It's old,” he says bluntly, letting the shirt fall back down, “And I don't want to talk about it.”

No, you agree, you don't suppose he would. That looks like the sort of wound with history behind it, and a great deal of unwelcome memories.

“Right,” Hanson gives you a cold look, “Which is why I don't want to talk about it.”

Of course. Nodding to yourself, you shuffle a little closer to the lantern and peer down at your leg. There's a little fresh blood clinging to it – maybe one of the wounds split open, or maybe you cut yourself at some point – but it doesn't appear serious. A fine pair you make, you think, there's maybe enough between you to make one healthy Hunter.

“You know, I told you to wait up above,” the older Hunter points out after a moment, “I'm glad you didn't, but what changed your mind? Did something happen?”

Would he think you mad, you wonder, if you told him about your dream? Such things can stain a man's reputation, following him for a great many years. Perhaps an excuse would satisfy his curiosity.

>Does it really matter?
>You were gone a long time. I thought best to check up on you
>I had a dream. There was a... a woman
>Forgive me, but I had a question... (Write in)
>Other

>>1104868
>>You were gone a long time. I thought best to check up on you

>>1104868
>You were gone a long time. I thought best to check up on you

We are normal! Normal!

>>1104868
>>Does it really matter?
I'm not crazy I swear

>>1104868
>>I had a dream. There was a... a woman

>>1104868
>I had a dream. There was a... a woman

>>1104868
>I had a dream. There was a... a woman

No, a man's reputation – his good name – is the most important thing he can have. Perhaps it's a foolish hope, but you yet long for the day when you can take your rightful place in society. Having ill rumours and talk of madness clinging to you like a miasma can only harm those aspirations. For the sake of your future, you can't afford to reveal these wild suspicions – and in any case, it WAS just a dream. A fortuitous dream, perhaps, but nothing more than that.

Does it really matter, you ask, how you found him?

“It matters,” Hanson says firmly, flatly, “Humour me.”

Fine - an excuse will have to suffice. He was gone for a long time, you tell Hanson with a bland smile, so you thought it best to check up on him. As for how you find him, you add, it was obvious – an underground lake would naturally be at the lowest point, and where else would a mermaid make its lair?

Grunting in the particularly uncouth way of his, Hanson's mouth twists into a wry half-smile. “That right?” he asks himself quietly before looking back up to you, “Good enough, I suppose. I'll take whatever I can get.”

It's not exactly the greatest display of gratitude that you've ever been given, but you weren't optimistic enough to expect much else. So long as it settles the matter, you don't see much point in forcing the issue. He has things he doesn't want to talk about, you have things you don't want to talk about. Well then, you decide aloud before he can question you some more, you've rested long enough. It's about time you got a move on.

“Wait,” as Hanson slowly and painfully rises to his feet, he holds up a hand to stop you, “Something I need you to do first. That beast – cut a bit off it, would you? I want something to remember this by.”

A souvenir, you ask incredulously, that's barbaric!

“Old Grey. You lashed it to a cross and paraded it through the Artyom marketplace. That's barbaric,” he points out, “This is just... taking a little trophy, nothing more. Plenty of Hunters do it.”

Well, you can't argue that point, no matter how much you might like to. Certainly Abernath had plenty of trophies, eerie things hung up on the walls of his home. You always hated them, and the fact that he felt the need to live up to every savage stereotype imaginable. Still, in the interests of avoiding an argument, you grudgingly nod. Limping over to the slain beast, you pick a finger at random and hack it off, shuddering a little at the rubbery feel to the flesh.

“Good,” Hanson nods slowlyas you pass it over. Before you can turn away, however, his hand shoots out to seize your arm. “You didn't nod off at all, did you?” he asks quietly, “Sleep for a little, maybe?”

Your mind goes cold. That's far too accurate to be a simple guess – he knows. You couldn't guess how or why, but he knows.

[1/2]

>>1104943

Silence falls over the pair of you as you think, but then Hanson tightens his grip on your arm and the moment passes. Tugging your arm free, you look him in the eye. Cold, probing eyes – not accusatory, but certainly curious. Maybe you did sleep a little, you admit slowly, it's been a long time since you last got any real rest.

“Right,” that same half-smile passes across his face again, “And you had a dream.”

Once again, it's too good to be a guess. The twin desires for secrecy and answers war within you for a moment, but then you find yourself jerkily nodding. You had a dream, you agree, there was a... a woman. But it WAS just a dream, you stress, and you would not dare to suggest otherwise. It would be wise for him to do the same thing.

The order – all too easily, you slipped into the imperious manner of speech that you spent so long practising – causes Hanson to offer a faintly amused smile. “Of course. Just a dream,” he agrees, without a single trace of sincerity in his voice, “You're better off telling yourself that, Uriah. Believe it, if you can. Life is simpler that way. Oh, and don't worry – the official reports don't need to include any of this. If you keep your mouth shut, I'll do the same.”

Relief washes over you, and you can't quite suppress a grateful sigh. As you start to leave the cavern, both limping and shambling, you give in to your curiosity and ask one last question. That woman, you ask, who was she?

“My guardian angel, I suppose,” Hanson laughs, wincing and pressing a hand to his side soon after, “Although I wouldn't be in this mess in the first place if it wasn't for her...”

What?

“Never mind,” he grunts, dismissing the issue with a curt gesture.

-

“Can't hear a damn thing,” Hanson mutters, “No whispering. Strange.”

Still out of breath from the tortuous process of climbing the stairs, you look across. His gaze is fixed on the other branch of the tunnel, one that you passed by with barely a glance. True enough you can't hear anything from the tunnel, but is that really so surprising?

“I heard something earlier, sort of a whispering sound” he explains, “Didn't check it out at the time. Want to take a look now?”

>I hardly think we're in a fit state for that. We should focus on getting to the surface
>Very well, you've piqued my curiosity
>Other

>>1104986
>Very well, you've piqued my curiosity
Fuck it. Since it got brought up again it might be something important. Fish freaks should hopefully be preoccupied that their mermaid song got cut off.

>>1104986
>I hardly think we're in a fit state for that. We should focus on getting to the surface

>>1104986
>>I hardly think we're in a fit state for that. We should focus on getting to the surface

You hardly think that either of you are in a fit state for that, you tell Hanson primly, your focus should be reaching the surface as soon as possible. Injured as you are, you don't have the luxury of entertaining your curiosity.

“Bullshit,” Hanson groans, “I'm fine, I can-” His words, and his attempt to march ahead down the tunnel, are cut off as a coughing fit grips him. Almost bent double by the force of it, he claps a hand to his mouth. When he rises, he quickly wipes his hand on his trousers – but not quick enough to hide the thin spray of blood that had gathered in his palm. “So maybe you're right,” he admits, “Let's keep moving.”

-

Steadily, the tunnels wind upwards towards the surface. It seems different now, compared with what you saw before, although the difference is hard to describe. If you had to put a name to the difference, you'd have to say that everything feels more solid, more real. Distance seems more consistent, and you find it easier to trace your steps back.

“Like waking from a bad dream,” Hanson mutters when you mention the feeling, “Like that cavern roof. It was far higher when I saw it. When I thought I saw it.”

Schreiber warned you about hallucinations, you muse, but you hadn't been expecting anything quite like this. Admittedly, you didn't quite know what you had been expecting, but it certainly hadn't been this. Nevertheless, you're glad that it's over. Shrugging off the issue, you focus on putting one foot in front of the other – a task that seems to grow more challenging with every step you take.

-

When you finally arrive at the surface, there is a pleasant surprise awaiting you – it's no longer raining, and the clouds above have thinned a little. Now, they have parted enough to let a few weak, watery rays of light shine through. At the sight of the light, however, a strange thought strikes you. Good lord, you mutter, how long were you down there?

“Hard to guess,” Hanson shrugs, “I passed out, and you took a nap – even without anything playing tricks on us, it's hard to tell. Hell, I'm not complaining – I'm just glad to see some better weather.”

Well, you agree, you can't argue with that. Even the weakest sunlight would be a welcome change compared with the previously dismal weather.

“Let's see if we can find a vantage point,” Hanson suggests, “Get a better look at the town with this light. See what we're dealing with.”

Just watch the ground, you mutter darkly, it wouldn't do to step in a trap.

[1/2]

>>1105080

If the streets had been deserted before, they almost seem crowded now – no matter where you look, you can see at least one of the deformed natives shambling about at random. Even at your most charitable, you could not call it an organised search, but it still poses a significant threat. If they stumbled across you, even as a result of their aimless wanderings, you have no doubt that they would attack. That's something you'd rather avoid, considering.

You could try and move through the town, you suggest, and get back to the bus. From there, you could drive back to civilisation. Relative civilisation, you correct yourself, but you'll not be too harsh on the town. Anything would feel like civilisation compared with this ruinous place.

“If the bus is still there,” Hanson points out, “It might not be.”

Well true, you admit, there's no way of knowing without making the trip back up to the far side of the town. What other choice do you have, though?

“I wonder,” Hanson leans on a rock and hold a hand to his side, wincing for a few minutes, “Wait, listen a moment. Do you hear that?”

Frowning, you strain your ears and listen hard. It takes a while, but then some distant sound reaches you – a faint ripple of gunfire, crackling sporadically. The Ministry, you guess, have they arrived?

“I can't think who else it might be,” Hanson shakes his head, “We could hole up somewhere, wait for the soldiers to arrive. Saburakh knows we're here, he'll want to meet up with us again.”

Schreiber's manor, you suggest, that might work. It hardly deserves such a grand title, but it's the most secure building around. That said, there's no way of knowing how long it'll take for the Ministry soldiers to arrive – it was hardly a short trip between here and Tolnir's main town, to say nothing of whatever resistance the locals might present. Neither option is a flawless one.

“Go on then, impress me,” Hanson offers a crooked smile, “What do you think, Uriah?”

>We'll sneak through and seize the bus... if it's still there
>Let's take the manor and hold until the Ministry arrives
>I had another plan... (Write in)
>Other

>Sorry for the delay, I was called away on an errand.

>>1105207
>We'll sneak through and seize the bus... if it's still there
Let's both go Wolf for this. It should compensate for our injuries and keep us more aware while sneaking.

>>1105207
>>Let's take the manor and hold until the Ministry arrives

Who's going to drive the bus, the cripple or the cripple? The road is going to open every damn wound and then some.

>>1105207
>Let's take the manor and hold until the Ministry arrives
The bus might not even be there. Let's just barricade inside, prepare a few traps.

>>1105207
>Let's take the manor and hold until the Ministry arrives

>Okay, going to close the vote here. Looks like we'll be holing up in the manor. Writing the next post now.

Bit late but can we make some sort of sign that shows we're hiding out in the manor? Don't know if they'd be in shoot on sight mode and the folk up here don't seem like they can read all that well.

>>1105405
We can just take a sheet and fly it out of a window and write WE ARE HERE on it, or something

>>1105405
We should wait until the Ministry assaults the town before doing that. While we wait we should stay incognito as possible.

Neither of you are fit to travel far, you point out, and that bus would hardly do your injuries any favours. The Ministry might take their own sweet time getting here, but they're far better equipped to deal with this mess.

“You might be right,” nodding slowly, Hanson listens to the distant gunfire for a moment more, “Least we don't need to worry about the manor going anywhere, and we should be able to fortify it with some of the old furniture. Besides – I can't drive. Never did bother learning. What about you?”

You know the basics, you admit, although it's not something you take much pride in – it's a rather uncouth thing to do, involving yourself with all that filth and engine oil.

“Right, you'd ride a horse,” Hanson smirks, “Much cleaner.”

-

When you arrive at Schreiber's manor, a foreboding sign awaits you. The gate hangs wide open, wide enough that two large men could walk side by side and still pass easily through. It wasn't like that when you left it, you'd swear that on your honour. That could only mean that the natives have been here. Could they have found Schreiber's body? It's a thought that you don't need to voice aloud – one glance at Hanson's face, tight with displeasure, is enough to tell you that he has reached the same conclusion.

Preparing your weapons, you enter the manor and scan the immediate area. Nothing to see, but you can hear something – a wet gurgling sound coming from above, from Schreiber's study. “Check the book,” Hanson mutters, nodding to the open tome at the door, “Maybe they signed their name.”

His attempts at humour are both unnecessary and tasteless, you mutter back, and you do not appreciate them. With the low sound of his laughter grating on your nerves, you start to limp up the stairs with your pistol drawn. As much as his vulgar laughter irritates you, it gives you something else to focus on. When it stops, that choked gurgling sound rushes right back to fill the silence. It's a revolting sound, like listening to man emptying his stomach over and over again.

The door to Schreiber's study is hanging open, and even though the lantern has long since died, you can still see something moving in the gloom. A hunched figure, slumped at Schreiber's feet and shuddering. Then, at that moment, you realise what that gurgling sound had been – sobbing, albeit in a slurred and inhuman way. The native, as deformed as all the others, clings to Schreiber's corpse... and it weeps.

Of course, you think as your hand slips down to your dagger, she was a healer to these people. They would mourn her, just as any subject might mourn their beloved leader.

Even as you draw the dagger, it feels all too heavy in your hand.

>Kill the native quietly
>Try and speak with it. Maybe it'll listen now
>Tell Hanson. Let him decide what to do with it
>Other

>>1105463
>>Kill the native quietly
We're not fit to mess around on a chance that will likely get us and Henryk fucked over. Gotta man up and put it down, towns gonna get razed anyway.

>>1105463
>Kill the native quietly
Like Schreiber, it's an execution now or later. The Ministry won't let any of these things live. At least this way we can make it quick and painless.

>>1105463
>Kill the native quietly

>>1105463
>Kill the native quietly
It's going to burn later, anyway

>>1105463
>Kill the native thoroughly

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>>1105463
>>Kill the native quietly

purge them all

>>1105463
>>Tell Hanson. Let him decide what to do with it

>>1105463
>>Kill the native quietly
As much as I want to try diplomacy, this is just too dangerous of a time.

It might be sobbing now, but that could turn to murderous rage all too quickly, especially since you're an outsider here. The native is still a threat, no matter how distraught or despairing it might appear. Even if it never rouses itself, it's as good as dead anyway – when the Ministry arrives, this native will be destroyed like all the others. Killing it now, no matter how distasteful it might seem, is a show of mercy.

That's what you tell yourself, at least, as you tighten your grip on the dagger. Swallowing hard and picking your steps with care, you quietly approach the slumped native. You needn't have bothered with stealth – the thing is dead to the world, oblivious to everything around it. Maybe a gunshot would have roused it, but you have no plans on shooting the thing. A blade through the back of the neck is as clean a death as anyone could hope for.

When you make your move, it's done with speed and efficiency. With one smooth motion, you clamp a hand over the deformed creature's mouth and stab the tip of your blade through the back of its neck. Convulsions grip the native as you saw though its throat, but they don't last long. After a mercifully short struggle, it grows still and heavy in your arms. All too aware of how hard these things are to kill, you saw the blade back and forth until the head comes free from the body, hitting the carpet with a muffled thump.

Dirty business, being a Hunter, but it's best to be thorough.

-

There was one of the natives in the study, you announce as you return downstairs, but you took care of it. Hanson is sitting on the stairs, one hand pressed to his side, and at first you wonder if he didn't hear you. A moment passes, and then he shakes his head.

“You took care of it,” he repeats, “Good. Did you make sure that it's dead.”

Rather sure, you assure him, is he okay?

“Just resting. Feeling a little weak,” finally looking around, Hanson gives you a weary attempt at a smile, “Just give me a minute, I'll be back on my feet soon enough. Are you up to moving some furniture? I don't want to risk... well, you know. Tearing anything open.”

No, you reply briskly, that would be far from ideal. So, as Hanson directs you from his seat on the stairs, you heave furniture across and pile it up against the front door. What about a sign, you ask as you work, something to let the Ministry know that you're inside? There should be sheets or something of that sort somewhere, and you could probably find something to write with.

“Good idea,” this time, Hanson actually looks faintly impressed, “Go on then – see what you can find upstairs.”

In retrospect, you probably should have expected this.

[1/2]

>>1105626

The first few upstairs rooms you check have a few possibilities – curtains, rugs, that sort of thing – but nothing ideal. Too dark, too difficult to stain. With that thought in mind, you keep searching until your explorations bring you to what you assume is Schreiber's bed chamber. The door swings slowly open as you push it, but then you linger in the doorway. Propriety tugs at you, the same noble restraint that made reading Schreiber's diary an unwelcome prospect. Still, curiosity – which made learning the content of the diary such a tantalizing possibility – wins out. Scoffing lightly at yourself, you step into the room.

Within the first few seconds, you find what you were looking for – the bed has light sheets, exactly what you need to make a crude banner. The makeshift laboratory downstairs should have something to use as a dye, so you won't need to worry about that. As you're leaving, though, your eyes fall on a half-covered lump, some long and narrow shape hidden beneath a discarded blouse. Averting your eyes, you lift the blouse aside and pick up the object beneath. A rifle, old but obviously well-made and engraved with the initials G.S. Another quick search reveals an equally old box of cartridges.

Smiling at your stroke of luck, you sling the rifle over one shoulder and return downstairs.

-

As Hanson fiddles with the rifle, stripping it apart with a practised hand and examining the parts for rust or damage, you paint a sloppy wolf's head on the bed sheet. It's more subtle than writing a message, but any Ministry soldier – anyone in the League, in fact – would recognise it for what it means. It's not perfect, you decide when you're finished, but you never were much of an artist. It will serve the required purpose, and that's all it needs to do.

With the sign prepared, you head upstairs to find a suitable window to hang it out of. As you're working, you glance up at the horizon. There, rising high in the distance, you see a great pillar of black smoke.

The distant town is burning, and anyone with eyes can see it. Looking back down to the dismal collection of shacks before you, you see figures shambling through the streets – all of them heading in the same direction.

They're coming this way.

>I'm going to have to pause things here. I'll continue on Tuesday, and I can stick around in case of any questions or comments
>Thanks to everyone who contributed today!

>>1105805
thanks

>>1105805
Thanks for running.

Looks like we are going to reenact Home Alone on the fish people.

>>1105805
Thanks for running!

File: [Witchering Intensifies].gif (112 KB, 500x500)

112 KB GIF

>>1105805
>you paint a sloppy wolf's head on the bed sheet.

>>1105805
Lets hope we're properly holed up, good thing we put up some furniture I guess. Thanks for running Moloch.

>>1105878
I imagine a really bad, that loops back into cute, wolf. Uriah has changed quite a bit from his initial debut.

>>1105907
He's still a little shit but at least he had a real taste of what his duties as a wolf entails, wheter he likes it or not.
He reminds me a bit of Koa/Sho with the son of the Azure Dragon's priest mixed in.

>>1105805
>They're coming this way.
Well, of course.

>>1105907
He's at least more competent than he was given credit for, but hey when your life is actually in danger you do try to perform.

Henryk

Winding up from the decaying settlement below, trudging through the muddy streets like a forlorn parade, the train of shambling natives draws slowly closer. More than you thought possible, they come in several trickles that merge to form one unbroken line. A sad, leprous pilgrimage worming its way towards you. Many of the natives brandish harpoons or other equally crude weapons – tools really, although that would do little to diminish their deadly power. No guns, at least, nothing to stop you watching the approaching crowd from the upstairs window.

As you watch, you notice something strange – the group of natives does not yet have the air of an approaching army. Instead they seem more like children, frightened and confused, seeking guidance from their leader. The smoke rising in the distance must have shaken them and sent them running.

“Maybe if we stay quiet and still they'll leave us be,” Uriah suggests grimly, “They might think that nobody is home.”

It won't be that easy, you warn him.

“I rather thought that might be the case,” sighing, the young Hunter shakes his head, “I suppose we'll have the chance to make the first move. Maybe we can drive them back for a little – any extra time we can earn ourselves is not to be wasted.”

You just need to hold out until the Ministry arrives, that's all. Burning towns and wiping out populations are their speciality, after all. Either way, you'll buy yourself as much time as you can – time to see if a little rifle fire can convince the locals to keep their heads down.

-

Metal jangles as you pour the rifle cartridges into your pocket. There's not many of them, nowhere nearly enough to take out all of the natives, but that doesn't bother you. As you sit at the open window, you feel a strange calm descend over you. It hurts to move, you're facing down a lurching horde of deformed natives, and your supplies are running low... but you feel calm, accepting it all without a hint of panic. Maybe this is how men feel when they make a last stand, you consider, when they face death in the eye.

So be it. Throwing the butt of the rifle against your shoulder, you take a moment to gauge the steadily diminishing distance between you and the natives before taking aim. One of the deformed creatures has paused, looking sluggishly about in confusion, and this is the one you pick to be your first target. Settling the sights over it's lumpen brow, you squeeze the rifle's trigger. Recoil kicks against your shoulder, sending a shudder of pain running through your entire body, but you let out a savage grin regardless. As your chosen target drops and confusion descends upon them, you swing your rifle around to the next native.

A second shot causes their advance to halt, while a third breaks their resolve. Turning away, the natives slink back to their hovels. They'll be back soon enough, but you've bought yourself some time.

[1/2]

>>1113265

Setting the rifle aside for now, you press a hand to your mouth and cough, trying to shift the weight in your chest. As before, you hand comes away misted with a faint dusting of blood – blood that you wipe away with a grimace. It's unpleasant, but hardly surprising – you're fairly sure that something inside you broke when the mermaid got its hands on you, although you couldn't say exactly what. You can still walk or fight, just about, and that's enough for you.

“They're retreating, they-” Uriah announces as he hurries up to meet you, pausing when he notices your discomfort, “Are you... well?”

Well enough, you lie, he doesn't need to worry about you. Right now, the priority should go to preparing for their next attack. Next time they come, you guess, the natives won't be so easily driven off.

“Preparations. I see,” nodding, clearly unconvinced by your lie, Uriah gestures down to the entrance, “I was checking the records downstairs, looking to see if there was anything we might have overlooked. It mentioned a supply shed outside, something originally meant for trapping equipment. We may be able to use anything left behind.”

Uriah pauses, both of you falling silent as the dull chime of a bell starts to ring out. “There's still some furniture left over, I could see about reinforcing the barricades,” the younger Hunter continues after a moment, “Failing that, I might be able to find some extra supplies hidden in this mess. More ammunition, perhaps, or some medical supplies. I dare say that we might need them before the end of this day. In either case, I believe one of us should keep watch. We can't risk letting them sneak up on us.”

You'll stay here and keep an eye out, you agree, watch for any sign of the next attack. As for what you'll task Uriah with... You'll admit, some painkillers would certainly not go unappreciated, and neither would some extra shots for the rifle. Shoring up the defences would be helpful as well, be it with traps or barricades – anything to keep the natives out.

As you consider your options, you see a few hints of movement down in the town. You won't have long – only enough time for one thing. Where, then, should your priorities lie?

>Search for ammunition or medical supplies
>Prepare traps outside the manor
>Reinforce the barricades

>>1113267
>Prepare traps outside the manor

>>1113267
>Search for ammunition or medical supplies

>>1113267
>>Prepare traps outside the manor

>Closing the vote now, going with setting traps. Writing now.

>>1113267
You know we could lay the healer's body outside. Respectfully. They might still get angry and attack anyways, but there is a chance they'll just mourn outside and have even less of a cause since the person they were going to for guidence is dead.

>>1113294
Good idea, then trap every other way in.

>>1113294

>That's certainly possible, and we'll be able to do it along with laying traps. I'll add that in

>>1113304
Be sure to put it a bit ahead of the traps. Rather them not get provoked if they do end up going docile and mourning.

See to those traps, you tell Uriah, you want to try and slow those things down as much as you can. If there's anything else useful in that shed, bring it in as well – anything could help in a situation like this.

“Understood. I just hope the locals haven't taken everything for themselves. They seem quite fond of their traps...” Uriah mutters that last part, looking resentfully down at his wounded leg, “Regardless, I'll get to work. Shout if you see anything, I'll get back as soon as I can.” Having said this, Uriah turns and limps away, his uneven footsteps clumping down the stairs. Furniture scrapes as Uriah moves some of the barricades aside, and then silence. Leaning out the window, you watch him scurry around to the back of the manor.

While he works, you return your gaze to the makeshift settlement below you. It's like watching an ant's nest, locals moving about in a kind of controlled chaos. Calling it “organised” would be a stretch, but there's certainly some kind of system in place. How that could be, you don't know – you've not seen anyone giving orders or commands, and they don't seem to discuss anything. As one single mind, the natives go about their own preparations.

-

Another round of scraping signals Uriah's return, and he wastes no time in coming to speak with you. “Only a few of those larger bear traps,” he says, launching straight into business, “But I was able to find a sack of caltrops, they should help slow down their approach. I'll lay them out in front of the manor now.”

Good, you tell him, but wait a moment – there was something you wanted to ask him first. That native that was inside the manor, what was it doing?

“It was in the study, with Schreiber's body,” Uriah answers you, looking away and frowning slightly, “It was... mourning her. I didn't think these creatures could do such a thing, but... it was grieving. Why do you ask?”

Because you've just had an idea, you tell him, maybe her body is all they want. If you give it to them, it might just buy you a little extra time. You'll bring the body out while he lays the traps – you'll be able to keep an eye on the locals easily enough, so you can get back inside at the first sign of trouble. That's the plan, you finish, now it's time to put it into action.

-

Schreiber's body is lighter than you thought it might be, although it's grown stiff and cold in the time since death. Cradling it in your arms, like a groom carrying his new bride, you stride out into the cold, damp air and march down the ridge. There, a good distance from the manor, you set the body down, carefully folding her arms across her chest. With her eyes closed and her face calm, Schreiber could almost be mistaken for a woman in a deep sleep.

Almost. The red smile across her throat somewhat ruins the illusion.

[1/2]

>>1113316

Leaving the body behind, you help Uriah scatter the caltrops before the manor. If the body of their beloved healer doesn't stop the native advance, they'll find a ring of sharp iron waiting to slow them down. The caltrops might not kill any of them, but they'll give the natives pause – that's all you need. Adding in the bear traps, and the fact that you'll be shooting at them, and defending the manor starts to feel like a genuine possibility.

“That's the last of them,” Uriah announces, “Time to move – are they still down there?”

They are, you reply as you carefully pick your way through the field of caltrops, but it doesn't look like they'll be long. Already, they're starting to gather at the edge of their crude settlement, brandishing their weapons rather than simply carrying them. This time, just as you suspected, they'll be out for blood. Just as you get inside the manor, pushing the barricade back into place, the bell sounds once again.

-

With the rifle at the ready, you watch the natives swarming up the hill towards you. Faster this time, they waste little time in marching onward. Along with the crude tools and harpoons, you see many of them carrying lit oil lanterns – a strange choice, considering the gathering daylight.

Then they reach Schreiber's body, and the advance falters. Holding your breath, hope warring with grim pessimism, you wait to see what they'll do. The natives gather around the corpse, the sounds of their collective grief – moans, wails and sobs of despair – drifting across to meet you. As you watch, a number of them lift the corpse up and start to carry it away, perhaps a third of the total force breaking off in a grim funeral procession.

The rest of them, though, they press ahead with what seems like renewed determination. A silent resolve sweeps through the remnants – no cries of rage or fury, but a quiet and murderous strength that drives them forward. Lanterns are held high, harpoons are brandished, and their advance gathers speed.

Sliding a fresh cartridge into your rifle, you prepare for battle.

>Aim for the easiest targets
>Focus on specific targets (Write in)
>Other

>>1113352
>>Aim for the easiest targets
Don't really see any to focus on. They have no leader and are all relatively the same armament wise.

>>1113352
>Focus on specific targets (Write in)
The ones with the oil lanterns, since it stopped raining fire is a danger.

>>1113352
>>Focus on specific targets (Write in)
The ones bearing fire.
We can't exactly run away if the house starts burning.

>>1113352
>Focus on specific targets (Write in)
the lanterns

Of course, you think grimly, the lanterns aren't there for light – they're trying to burn you out, trying to force you to flee. All the time you spend building your defences will be for nothing if you let them get too close.

Well then, the answer is simple – keep them from getting too close. Setting your sights on one of the lantern bearers, you squeeze the trigger. Another aching jolt of recoil shudders through you but the native drops, their lantern falling and shattering in a flourish of burning oil. A few rasping squeals sound as the closest natives shy away from the short-lived flames, but soon enough they close ranks once again.

The next lantern bearer drops just as easily at the first, but then the mob of natives breaks into a charge, seeking to reach the manor before any more of their number can be shot down. It's a very brief charge, however, as they run into the field of caltrops and falter. Some fall, wailing and clumsily pawing at their legs, while the slower members of the group hesitate. Skulking in place as they gather the courage to push forwards, you see a few of the rearguard taking surreptitious steps backwards.

As you're taking your next shot – a hit, but not a fatal one – the charge resumes, albeit in a more reluctant fashion. Sweeping the ground ahead of them with their harpoons, a pair of the largest natives lead the way, clearing a path for the rest to follow. Emboldened, the native army pushes forwards and reaches the barricades. From down below, you hear the crashing sounds of bodies slamming against the sealed doors, mixed throughout by the crack of Uriah's pistol. It should hold – for a while longer, at least.

A glint of light draws your eye, pulling your attention away from the immediate threat at the barricade – one of the last lantern bearers has got close, and as you bring the rifle up they draw back their arm to throw.

No time for precise aiming, you just need to bring it down NOW.

>Calling for a Firearms check, 1D100+20, aiming to beat 70/90. I'll take the highest of the first three results

Rolled 60 + 20 (1d100 + 20)

>>1113403

Rolled 90 + 20 (1d100 + 20)

>>1113403

Rolled 60 + 20 (1d100 + 20)

>>1113403

>>1113407
Boom
Headshot

At this short range, even with a hastily aimed shot, it's easy enough to get a bead on the creature's head and squeeze off a shot. Shooting the thing clean through the forehead, you drop it in an instant, cutting its throw short and sending the lantern to shatter harmlessly on the ground below. With the immediate danger taken care of, you cast an eye about for any other lantern bearers – just one, and that problem has solved itself. Caught in a bear trap, the native has abandoned his lantern in favour of trying to prise his leg free.

The barricade, then. Rummaging in your pocket, you pull out a new cartridge – one of only three remaining shots – and load it into the rifle. Before you can lean out and take the shot, however, Uriah calls out your name, his voice a piercing cry from below.

“I don't know much longer we can hold!” he shouts, the noble composure slipping away from his voice, “They're breaking through!”

Cursing aloud, you turn away from the window and hurry downstairs, glancing across at the barricade as you do so. Uriah is working as fast as he can, stacking the furniture back up only for it to get knocked back down almost immediately. With each thunderous crash of bodies striking the door, it opens that little bit wider. Harpoons jab clumsily through the opening, swiping blindly at Uriah as he works to keep the door closed.

“I don't think we can last much longer!” the younger Hunter hisses, “I don't-” His words are cut off by a thin cry as one of the harpoons grazes his arm, tearing through the sleeve of his coat and drawing blood. As he falters, the door barges open a little wider and a greasy, scabrous arm reaches through the gap. Lashing out with your knife, you slash at the arm until it pulls back, a shrill squeal coming from the other side. Throwing your body against the door, you slam it shut – for now.

“Damn it,” Uriah curses, clasping a hand to his cut arm, “First my trousers, now my coat...”

He'll need a whole new wardrobe when all this is over, you agree grimly.

“And I'll send the Ministry the bill!” he declares angrily. Scrabbling at the ground, he seizes a long piece of broken wood and jams it under the door handle. You step away from the door, watching as the makeshift jam shudders against the assault from outside. It'll hold – for a few minutes.

>I need to pause this here, maybe an hour. Sorry about this

>>1113468
If there is one staircase we can make a chokepoint there while having the high ground.

Taking one of those precious minutes to gather your breath and think, you point back to the upper level. There, you tell Uriah, you'll fall back to the stairs and hold the natives off there. It's a natural choke point, they won't be able to swarm you from there.

“We won't have anywhere else to run,” the younger Hunter warns you.

There's always the window, you offer humourlessly. Privately, you have to doubt if you'd even survive a fall like that - it might not be all that high, but you're in a pretty bad shape as it is. Either way, you'd rather not have to find out the hard way. As that thought flashes through your head, a thunderous blow strikes the door, almost shaking it from its hinges and cracking the makeshift wooden prop holding it shut. Enough wasting time, you snap at Uriah, go! Without waiting to see if he obeys – although you're fairly sure that he will, considering the circumstances – you start back up the stairs yourself.

Halfway up, and you hear a second crashing sound, this one easily outweighing the first. Breaking under the weight of so many bodies throwing themselves against it at once, the door flies open in a shower of splintered wood to reveal the malformed, wailing natives beyond. Some stumble and fall, clumsily sprawled out in a tangle of limbs and ragged cloth, while others push through into the doorway and stalk up the stairs after you. Two abreast, as many as the narrow stairs allow, they approach.

Turning mid-step, you raise the rifle to your shoulder and fire, knocking one of the approaching natives off its feet and sending it sprawling back down the stairs, the falling body knocking the next rank of creatures back. They flounder as you reload, faltering until they can trample the carcass underfoot and carry on up the stairs. Your next shot is less effective – almost as soon as it hits the mark, the body is seized by the rest of the natives and thrown aside like so much garbage. As you're drawing back the bolt to load your final round, one of the creatures lunges forwards and swings a rusted hatchet down towards you. Stopping the blow with the rifle – ruining the weapon's fine craftsmanship in the process – you kick out and drive the native back. As it stumbles Uriah shoots it dead, two shots at close range that turn its inhuman face into a raw mess.

Before you can nod your thanks, the next native pushes ahead to face you, barging past its fellows. It's probably the largest of all the natives you've seen so far, and probably the most hideous looking. With a lumpen face masked by running sores and barnacles, it has only the slightest resemblance to the man it once was. With a muted grunt of effort, it pulls back to swing the heavy pickaxe it wields as a weapon.

[1/2]

>>1113609

Pushing Uriah back out of the way, you pull out your pistol and snap off a quick shot. Too low by far, the bullet catches the hulking native in the chest, punching right through and barely staggering the freak. Before you can get a second shot off, the native swings his weapon down in a sweeping arc. Only a hasty step backwards keeps it from caving in your skull, the rusting point crashing through the stairs instead.

As the creature starts to rip its weapon free, you seize the moment and spring forwards. Lowering your shoulder, you barge into the native and knock it back off its feet. As you both fall back into the next rank of natives you feel their hands pawing at you, tugging at your clothes as they try to pull you away. Shaking them off, you rip your dagger out of its sheath and drive it over and over into the hulking native, stabbing until you hit something vital. As the freak goes limp, you hear Uriah's pistol cracking – close enough that each shot sends a stab of pain through your ears – and some of the other natives flinch back.

“Come on!” Uriah calls out, grabbing you by the arm and pulling you upright as he fires again at the faltering natives, “Just a little longer, we just need to hold on for a little more!”

What, you snap back as you rise, what does he mean?

“Gunshots, I heard gunshots – it must be the Ministry!” excitement – along with a mad, desperate relief – dances in Uriah's voice. His enthusiasm is dampened somewhat by a native nearly taking his head off with a sickle, only just missing as he hastily ducks low, but a wild smile remains spread across his face as he shoots the native dead. Their attack is faltering now, confusion spreading up from the rear of their ranks and sapping their momentum. When the next native falls dead, no-one steps forwards to replace it. When you retreat to the top of the staircase, the natives make no move to follow you.

When the first native splits off from the mob and shambles away, you know that the battle is over.

It's all over.

>I'm going to cut my losses and finish this here. I'll start a new thread on Friday and continue things then.
>Sorry about the rough session today

>>1113714
It's alright man.
Thanks for running!

>>1113714
Thanks for running Moloch. Missed the entire session but it was a nice read.

>>1113714
thanks man, today's episode was great.

>>1113714
Now we just gotta kick back on the stairs and strike a pose surrounded by corpses when the soldiers get here.

Thanks for running.

>>1113784
PAINT OURSELVES IN BLOOD.

>>1113714
Thanks for running though! Short but sweet.