We reconvened at the usual and favored time and place. Lilia and I were the first to join Ned, and we were quickly followed by Arcturas on an autumn afternoon. It was a pleasant debriefing and a few light beverages and some hostess munchies went down nicely with the bags of chips we set ourselves to devour. Soon, Urien arrived with some chicken breasts, big breasts. It wasn’t long before they were smoldering away – and we were joined in quick succession by Silverwind and Felkin…and before the breasts were ripe, Nobo arrived bearing blueberry treats – more goodies galore. All were now present and accounted for.
Ned busied himself with the distillery contraption occupying the middle of our gaming space, and all were duly excited and engaged in its workings and product – a few brave souls even sampled a taste of the raw distillate.
Soon, we slide the still aside and wiped our mouths, setting to work again in pursuit of Mr. Grenoble. Mr. Grenoble the cultist perpetrator of nefarious actions – actions grinding us in the deadly gears of some dark plot. We dusted off character sheets, welcomed our two returning comrades and began to roll. Oh – and there was something about a chair…
And then, of course, Urien had a nap.
Meanwhile, the rest of us applied our investigative powers in attempt to follow the trail left by corpses of cultists and victims. Piecing together fragments we discovered we had all been in the audience of a play nearly two weeks earlier – some sort of Asian curiosity show. We tracked down the booking agent and some of the “thug and hooker” hired hands – it was one of these fine, though slightly sticky, characters which led us to the home of Mr. Grenoble.
As we rolled in on the mansion-like house we noticed it was in flames. (Who owned this property?) Our armed entourage showed up in time to spread out and surround the place. Those rushing to the back witnessed horrible monsters and fought for their very lives against the beasts. The largest winged horror served as mount to some dark figure. Those present repeatedly fired on him but to no effect. Urien returned from slumber just in time to follow in pursuit, only to be crushed to death in a departing insult from the giant winged horror. We did manage to kill one of the lesser things and brought it, and Urien’s body, along with us as we abandoned the scene of the burning house. Those who stayed in the front yard and guarded the cars witnessed, or thought they overheard, some sort of argument from within the burning building, “you have failed me for the last time,” I believe was the quote.
We investigated some of the outbuildings, a gatehouse and a garage, to not much effect. We learned nothing at the gatehouse and only got a whiff of cultist presence at the garage – a few bits of paraphernalia including a calendar with what appears to be an impending D-Day some ten days from now.
We came up rather dry and had no idea as to where to go from there – so we returned to Mr. George Thompson’s and questioned him – whereupon he produced some addresses of potential cultist collaborators – why he didn’t produce these earlier must be part of some game we have yet to unravel. We tracked the first to the home of some lady financier – which was booby-trapped, full of natural gas, and we were unable to enter. We cleverly called the authorities and retired for some rest while they resolved the danger. Miraculously, we didn’t detonate the block in our pursuit of information.
We lost Silverwind to another venue about half way through the evening. Ned also had to depart – but then returned to quench the fire of the steaming still – which led to some down time and general lounging. The presence and ongoing activity of the distillation was a source of distraction – distraction that our band of ADD investigators can little resist. We feasted on twinkies and cupcakes, donuts and chips, beer and ginger, and chips and ice-cream, and blue-berry cake… We all fought to stay conscious at times against the daunting task of staying on top of such challenges. In spite of these obstacles, Felkin performed a yeoman’s job at furnishing us with an evening of entertainment.
When we reconvene, we will crack the door on the gassy lady’s house. We will search her underwear and drawers for clues. And then to the next address… the troops are restless. What the cultists don’t know is that their hoped for D-Day ten days hence will never arrive if we don’t start to get some answers. And, if we do get answers, then surely it won’t come – either way – it looks grim for them.