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Light born of Light, whose sacred flesh hath transcended Death,
Bring unto thee three smiles worse than sorrow;
All the world desires thy wishes shall soon follow.

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The laughter of a woman, after she has been with another...

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In the City before grey has darkened to sleep, the lingering light before sun and rain ask for secrets.

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When you hand him the address from your pocket-book, the driver of the carriage gives you a sly, knowing glance; you think he wants to ask for more, the price of discretion.

The carriage driver peers at the ink-smeared location; mutters to himself in the calloused speech of labourers:
- That be wild William Hooke's old haunt, Bill Hooke and his Grueller gang - those that stray in, leave with a sharp trimming and a good grinning - from ear-to-ear! (the Coachman motions strangely, akin to a barber with a razor scalping someone unaware). I hears it from them blabbing glimjacks, they be learning it from the colonies, them mulattoes slanged about the hulks o' the dockyards abound for the New World, revolts and the burning of many a patroon house along the Skuytercliff shore. But here by old Saint Matfelon's, old Mary Mad Felons (har har) the Whitechurch, and the Spittle Field - best be staying away. Even the Peelers and the Catchpoles of New Lanthorn Yard, the Lambskin men and the Constabulary, they knows better than to venture in; for amongst that den of cribbing cutthroats, maundering thieves and filching whores - there is no Law.

The cold glint of bridle-ring and harness, as a dray-horse jostles and turns its head against the champ and fret of reins with a furtive restlessness.

The carriage driver cackles:
- Now, I would not ordinarily make for this address... it lies athwart the disreputable part of town, see. It makes for those lost souls who seek... low company. What would the wife of a young gentleman think, knowing where you be found?

>Say nothing, but present this greedy carriage driver with the wordless bribe of more coin, as an offer for his silence.
>Retort with annoyance: My affairs are mine own. I know the City well, better than you do, I'll warrant. You, sir, however, have a foreign manner to your bearing. Are you from the colonies?
>Explain haltingly with embarrassment: er... no, it is not that. No scandal, no malversation of trust. It is... a mere soiree, a... seance.
>(change the address, snatch it back quickly) you are mistaken, my dear fellow! Do you know The Cenacle Club, near Chattel House? By Mayerling Park Gardens?
>Reply: I felt the lurch and halt of her heart in my tightened arms; but I was not there - I was never there. I know my Beloved is dead.

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(optional)
A sodden weight of mud and metal pressed close to your inner pocket. The peculiar hinged length, the lever-armature of its trigger-guard, prods uncomfortably against your chest. What could this be?

>Reply (feign boastful drunken street slang) well blow me tight, guv'nor, I'm jiggered meself. I knows a way 'round a skewer and a barking iron. Feast your leerers on this - (brandish the revolver carelessly) six-tooth bulldogs dug out the muck o' the Old Armistice - that there was a war worth a drop of piss on the foot of a flea. I ain't no bantling actin' the deceitful - I sees a Skinner, a bilking Whitebeak, I sends them a cripple to the Duke o' Limbs, sluice their gobs by the Nunnery; darken their daylights i' the Black Cove.

(QM: if you can recognise the make of this firearm, you have a feeling your swaggering deception will prove more successful)

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(optional)
A peculiar wooden box of dovetail joints, mahogany and brass and an aperture of glass, with the appearance of a tilting rear; swing-out, collapsible bellows casing and screen - a board clamped in position by a threaded metal bar. A memory swings across your scattered thoughts like a pendulum, as you examine this device - something about it fills you with unease, as if you were delicately handling some combustible powder, accompanied by a fear of it startling the horses.

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You discern faded lettering etched along the side of this horse carriage - a heraldic crest bearing the shapes of gilded beasts, and a faint motto HOMO HOMINI LUPUS EST - but the mark has long since been worn away.
>urgh, you are not getting into some "homo" carriage. Leave the brougham and the Coachman, and wander the streets alone (to where?)
>Ask the Coachman a question: Have we met before?
>You recognise the purpose of the mysterious box. What's in the box? Write-in what you think it is

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You possess: Pocket-Book
Make this book thine eyes, where all pleasures live that Art would comprehend.

A small journal for recording private, personal affairs, pecuniary details and also a calendar of social engagements.

This pocket-book appears well-worn with use, and is filled with many addresses and acquaintances, yet the identity of its owner appears mysteriously elusive. If only there were some means to combine a likeness of the persons described alongside their description and name!

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>>5682944
The first few pages appear to include excerpts of verses - perhaps from a religious tract? - diligently copied in a calm hand. It reads:
(excerpt)
No evil passions, no jealousy, no avarice, no impure desires will disturb the serene might of those glorious creatures. Sin, shame, and sorrow will have no place among them. Their minds will be in a state of perpetual calm, the contentment of a spirit that knows no wants, is disturbed by no regrets. Ambition will never torture them. Ingratitude will never cause them the uneasiness of a moment. The guilty conscience, the hope deferred, the pains of exile, the insolence of office, and the spurns that patient merit of the unworthy takes—these will be entirely unknown to them. (...the handwriting here becomes illegible...) they shall want for nothing.

The second excerpt seems to comprise of a fondly remembered romantic poem:

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AEDH THINKS OF THOSE WHO HAVE SPOKEN EVIL OF HIS BELOVED
Half close your eyelids, loosen your hair,
And dream about the great and their pride;
They have spoken against you everywhere,
But weigh this song with the great and their pride;
I made it out of a mouthful of air,
Their children’s children shall say they have lied.

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-She is a fair excuse for a foul deed...

Lord Huntingtower

He murmurs, setting aside the broadsheets as he glances upon her photograph.
-My, my, such a coquette! You know of whom I speak! She is an exquisite. That old goat Streynsham no doubt would be after her, were he not preoccupied in his affairs at the War Office. But my dear Cyril, you must be forthcoming. What do you take me for - Cophetua and the Beggar-Maid? Nay, not I! I cannot be seen to take any part in this sordid play. I have heard amongst the lower orders there is quite a popular production, of their zoetropes and kinematograph, the tale of which concerns a gentleman who makes a lady out of a flower-seller. From the street! Can you imagine - imagine anything more absurd! Beyond the mere conceit of such metamorphosis of genteel manners being quite impossible amongst those who engage in trade...

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Cyril Darnay
(tapping his elegant fingers delicately against a slender pearlescent cigarette case)
-You know, I should quite like to witness the opposite. Take some Highborn lady, in all her finery and airs, and cast her amongst the lower orders, amidst misery, poverty, debauchery. Trial by corruption, I say. Would she retain her hauteur, her vanity and composure, through the ordeal, as it were - or would coarseness inevitably stain her...

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Le Cenacle Club, The Gallery (Interior)
Located near Mayerling Park Gardens, private membership to this exclusive society is strictly by nomination only. No women are permitted entry. Le Cenacle is distinguished in its political affiliations owing to the patronage of the current Lord High Intelligencer.

The brooding glow of gas lamps flaring orange with the sudden blown damp air of arrival, the glow drifting in the fire dancing, the half-shades cast among ormolu candlesticks, glint of garniture and gentle groan of wainscotting that swaddles the intimate interior of these walls in the lurching luxuriant infallibility of Empire.

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>>5682950
Aloysius Ambrose, trembling a little
-How can you place such shameful imaginings upon Beatrice Wentworth! She is so virtuous and fair!

Cyril responds with an implacable, dissolute languor:
-Beatrice comes from no family of worth, none that merit any attention. Her father, Isambard Wentworth - he of the ironworks, ordnance and foundry - is indecorously wealthy, of course - the war has made it so. Yet her upbringing must have been insufferably vulgar, contemptible as it is for all those given in common tribute to the pursuit of commerce. She could be descended from pirates, or brigands, for all we know! Now when I heard that Lady Temperance Annesley had invited this Beatrice to her Water Banquet, and not myself, of course I concocted the perfect act of revenge. I shall ruin her new favourite! After all polite society sees what comes of the friendship of Lady Temperance and Beatrice Wentworth, all will shun her!

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Lord Huntingtower quivers a little in anticipation, but then collapses in a little sigh of resignation:
-My dear Cyril, I cannot but await the commencement of your scheme with anything other than delectable trepidation. Yet I shall not assist you in your endeavour; I cannot be seen to have slighted Annesley - that aggrieved old witch Lady Temperance, there would be no end to it. Now Cyril, you are on the verge of making some tasteless jest of the marital bed, concerning how Temperance "comes before" The Tower - no need, Cyril, all here know that Lady Temperance Annesley is my wife. Still is, for that matter. We are estranged, shall we say. She detests me. But she remains high in the esteem of old Streynsham; they are very close, and I must keep up appearances in public. So I cannot join you in your complot and intrigue!

Besides, the streets are full of photographers these days. Everything exists to be made into a picture. An indelible, incriminating record of guilt. It is surely not at all possible to alter a photograph, as the images of our incredible war triumph over the Great Powers and the enduring sanctity of the Old Armistice attest. Ever since Leopold Verne popularised his infuriating strobolume, and made it far easier to load a camera than even a musket, the populace have become obsessed with photographing everyone and everything. I suspect we could have saved ourselves the trouble of conscription, the expense of all muniments and fortifications, had we but armed the common man with cameras and permitted them to tediously photograph the Enemy to death.

Gone now is the solace of Art. And I suspect your profession has become quite useless, Aloysius, no? What use poetry, in the emulous eye of that Gorgon, the camera? What use are your verses, when the pictures these days practically draw themselves? When for a half-farthing pentacle given to some boorish booth vendor of optical theatre in the street, one can purchase a view of such animated delight, (Cyril Darnay smirks a little in recognition) such transporting pleasures as to spurn the beauteous caresses of even this Odalisque herself... (Lord Huntingtower gestures suggestively to Beatrice Wentworth's photograph)
>>5682946

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Aloysius tearfully replies,
-You will not address Beatrice in this demeaning manner! Her innocence, her modesty, her beauteous virtue - she is utterly unworthy of your jibes and denigrations! And whilst the painter and his visions may have joined the ranks of the trade-fallen, vanquished by industry and mechanical progress, the eloquence of the lyrical word will never fall to a mere machine. Never, never! It is impossible! It will not happen! My poetry, my words, will outlive me - your corroded soul shall never even outlive the scurrility of your lusts!

Cyril Darnay gestures dismissively at the poet:
-I had thought, Aloysius, that you would be on our side. Have I not heard your sympathies dwell very much upon those layabout scoundrels, the Syndicalists picketing the wages of good workmen outside her father Isambard's foundry, with the incessant nonsense of their protests and contradictions, the confounding outrage of their demands? Radicals, rabble-rousers, agitators and anarchists the lot of them, who have never earnt an honest day's livelihood through the misrule of their slovenly, rebellious natures! (Cyril picks nonchalantly at his fingernails with a jewelled cravat-pin). The workhouse is far too good for all of them, they should all be sent over the top if you ask me - yet you apparently feel their plight is very much undeserved, their impoverishment unfeigned. So what better means for you to frustrate the war-profiteering of the father, other than through participation in the ruin and disgrace of the daughter?

Mission:
>Warn Beatrice Wentworth that Huntingtower and Darnay conspire to bring her to shame and disgrace,

OR

>Aid Huntingtower and Darnay in their plan to ruin Beatrice's reputation.

>>5682938
>>Retort with annoyance: My affairs are mine own. I know the City well, better than you do, I'll warrant. You, sir, however, have a foreign manner to your bearing. Are you from the colonies?

>>5682940
I'm not sure a rusty, muddy M1870 would harm the user or the intended target more souv.

>>5682964
>Aid Huntingtower and Darnay in their plan to ruin Beatrice's reputation.

Souv if you're looking to read Victorian quests then I am sure that you will enjoy these threads

>>5654217

>>5671876

>>5682938
>Explain haltingly with embarrassment: er... no, it is not that. No scandal, no malversation of trust. It is... a mere soiree, a... seance.
>>5682943
A camera? Or portable cinema projector?
>>5682964
>Warn Beatrice Wentworth that Huntingtower and Darnay conspire to bring her to shame and disgrace,

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>>5682941
>>5683213
Instantograph (J. Lancaster & Sons 1890)
Loud, Blinding, Choking Fumes, Dangerous, Short Range, Delicate, Cumbersome (when opened) Slow (needs preparation), Inconspicuous (not recognisable as a weapon)

Mahogany and brass field camera with patented see-saw shutter and swing-out focusing screen, with lens board on a rail mounting.
This camera is accompanied by a tripod and magnesium sachets mixed with potassium chlorate - combustible flashlight powder, reflectors and a sparking trigger mechanism ignited by electric wire within the flash tray, intended for illumination and the ability to freeze motion. The preparation and handling of this metallic fuel and oxidiser should be treated with the utmost care, given its explosive and incendiary capacity for injury.

(QM: This is correct, well done!)
>>5683213

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>>5682940
Braendlin-Sommerville / Galand 1868 Revolver
??? / 6, 12mm
Concealable, Short Range, Loud, Fast Reload, Mobile;
Mud-clogged (Unreliable)

Open frame (no topside enclosure over the drum) double-action revolver with a distinctive hinged long extraction lever, that also comprises the loop of the trigger guard; pulling forward this lever separates both the barrel, cylinder and frame in three parts from this firearm, ejecting spent cartridges and enabling swifter reloading than side-gate revolvers, although a long trigger pull inhibits its accuracy.

(QM: please could a player roll 1d6 for available starting ammunition? Thank you!)
>roll 1d6

Rolled 5 (1d6)

>>5683351

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>>5683351
>>5683352
(You pull open the trigger lever and see that the mud-clogged Galand revolver is loaded, although one chamber is empty, appearing to have been already fired. This troubles you a little, as you have no recollection of how this came to be. But perhaps merely a safety precaution, avoiding the carrying of a firearm hammer-down upon a live round?)

Galand Revolver
12mm
5/6 bullets in chamber; 0 reloads remain

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It is the age of splendour and squalor.

Banquets in the townhouses of Mayerling Park; gruel in the workhouses of Cheapside Rookeries. There is love but it is not Love known amongst men and women. Consternation prevails at the War Office, even as the lathes of the armament factories spin.

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By dockyards laden with iron, the lurid light of coal-barges, furnace fires lit by gasworks and the sulphurous path of cinders, chimneys uncoiling serpentine plumes of smoke and soot. Witness the dismal prospect of derelict warehouses and decrepit scaffolding, where pleasure has gone and labour has come. Railroads the veins of this land, the enervation of dreams caught in the violent passage of conquering engines; the trembling harp of telegraphic dispatch wires in the wind, the discordant shriek of the electric bell.

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Yet far from the latticework of the docks, where looming struts of gantry and trellis cast angular shadows upon a leering audience of hoist and chain, all things are transformed from their bulk and crudeness, their ungainly corpulence and enormity, to delicacy and exquisite refinement.

A haul of grease has become the fragrant scent of musk daubed demurely against a whitened neck and embroidered chemisette. Bales from distant plantations unspool into soft twists of ribbon against curled lapels of waistcoats in silk and satin.

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Outside, as the echoing clink of glass and the flourishes of frivolity and laughter recedes, the streets are thronged with bleary eyes and meagre faces, vagabonds and drudges lost to unthinking toil or unfeeling oblivion. The stalls and emporiums impecunious, vacant to the trade-fallen. Pale and haggard, the scowls of the wretched at the nonchalant passing of black barouches and phaetons.

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The garish and raucous goad of the zoetrope, the clattering spin of its lantern cylinder: the tick-tock whirling of a revolving drum of dancing stroboscopic images, accompanied by printed Pages For You. Oleographs of the Lord High Intelligencer, raised high above advertisements and billboard ink still wet from the letterpress. Placards and pamphleteers amongst them; syndicalists and agitators; orationists, theosophists, militant suffragists; rumourmongers and polemicists of the gutter press; The Society For The Suppression Of Vice, The Benevolent Institute for the Transformation of Charitable Housing (BITCH), The Paribus Preventative And Reformatory Institution For Relief Of The Infirm... They will change nothing.

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For the instrument of government is not the ballot, but the bayonet. The sempiternal dominion of Empire presides over one quarter of the orb of the world; her colonies span beneath the path of the sun. The bastion of order and civilisation to one; indurated tyranny and ruin to another. A solis ortu usque ad occasum.

She goes not abroad, in search of monsters to destroy... a laughing child sings, chasing a trundle wheel toy.

After the Old Armistice, they say there are no monsters to be found in this land. No one remembers them anymore.

This is the age of great motion within the soul of mankind, where reasoning appears only afterward, in that cavern of darkness the mind. The sheer utterance of Life, of which men are mere happenstance; how Empire imitates her eternal gestures, as they live once more, fulfilled in memory. Perhaps this history is an interruption of nature. To which does the soul belong?

In this Empire, all Engelond is made vassal.

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-Oh please can we have a story?! Please, please!

-Very well, darlings, I will tell you one story. One - and only one, and then you must promise to settle down and wash your faces and be very quiet and good.

-Can it be a scary story? With lots of arms being chopped off and things?? (Boy grins wickedly in mischief)

-I am not afraid! (Girl pouts petulantly)

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-It is the story of The Raven Prince And The Faery,
Beatrice recounts patiently,
-Someone very wise from the New World told it to me. You see, there was once a beautiful faery of light - she was all the world's desires, all that anyone could want from the world.

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This faery was very beautiful but also very cruel; it was said she stitched shut the mouths of those who even dared to whisper any words of Love, and sewed shut the eyes of any who dared look upon her. And the faery damsel lived in an iron castle -

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-An iron castle? Like the dirty people at the ironworks factory? The little girl asks curiously.

-No dearest, an iron castle in the sky, in a realm that no mortal could enter, a No Man's Land if you will. The Land Of Birds, because no living thing could enter this realm unless they possessed wings. The Raven Prince -

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-A Prince? Is he like our King Searlas The Turd, who abdicated because of the war-?

-King Searlas The "Third", dearest, and no, the Raven Prince -

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-Was he really a raven? Or was he a crow? What is the difference between a raven and a crow? I like crows better...

-If you keep interrupting me, my darlings, it will be bedtime before we get to the end. Now where was I? Oh, so the Raven Prince was very vain - his feathered plumage was entirely white, completely immaculate and radiant white, but when he learnt of this proud faery the Raven Prince was very jealous of her, with her beautiful wings of light. So he tricked her - he flew into her iron castle, under pretense of courting her you see, he pretended he was in love with her - but the Raven Prince stole the secret of her light, stole the fire of her stars, carrying them away like burning jewels wrapped in a spangled banner tied to his beak. But he soon grew tired of his heavy, fiery burden - carrying the stars themselves, so eventually he dropped them, and their cinders were scattered across the sky. But not before the burning embers in his beak had singed his white plumage utterly black, and that is why the raven has black feathers now. So you see, the lesson of this story is...

>>5683016
(QM: hehe, I liked this crow story of yours, Geber QM!
>>5673541 )

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The children have fallen asleep.

Lady Temperance

has been watching silently from the nursery door, her eyes brimming with admiration:
-You are so good with children, Beatrice. I don't know what I would do without you... ever since their father and I... (Lady Temperance suppresses a painful recollection, and pauses before recovering herself) ...I mean to say, you are truly invaluable. If there is anything I can do for you Beatrice, you need only ask... perhaps... perhaps I can find you a husband? At my gathering, at the Water Banquet? There will be so many dances and beaus, so many handsome and eligible young gallants there - of that you may be well assured!

Beatrice replies impassionately
- I thank you, Lady Temperance. But I do not think I will ever marry. I am my father's only child, his only heir, and when he bequeaths upon me independence I shall wish to be freed from the tyranny of love. Every amorous advance is truly a shackle, beginning with the mere gift of one ring, but ending in the links of a long chain of entreaty, abasement and obligation. And I shall never see my will fettered to another. After all I think that is what the story of the Raven Prince teaches us, is it not? Love is just a trick by those who want to take something from you!

Lady Temperance can see the colour rising in Beatrice's cheeks, the fire in her eyes, and so she changes to a more teasing, conciliatory tone:
-Well it almost sounds like you have been conversing far too ardently with Herman Sucklinge-Bell, and his brigade of militant suffragists! He is very fond of independent women, you know... Herman likes his women a little mannish, if you ask me. Perhaps I shall invite him to my Water Banquet...

(optional, as Beatrice)
>(Stammer and blush furiously) I... I have barely even ... even met him! I ... I was only hoping... that he would be able to speak to the workmen... the ones protesting outside my father's foundry. Herman.. he ... he is very good at giving speeches, I had thought... (consent to Lady Temperance's matchmaking)
>(retort angrily) You, Lady Temperance - you have no right to be foisting nuptial engagements upon anyone! After all, look at what came of your own marriage to Lord Huntingtower...

>>5683410
QM: as anons seem a little undecided here,
>>5682966
>>5683213
with divergent motivations,

I will offer the choice to write-in any ideas you have for enacting some plot to ruin Beatrice Wentworth's reputation (for example, you could
>Investigate Beatrice's parentage. Is she truly Isambard Wentworth's only heir? (As hinted at by Cyril Darnay, here)
>>5682956
How might you go about doing this?

>Is there some way of exploiting the protests and stoppage at the Wentworth Ironworks, her father's foundry? If you wish to pursue this, you can investigate the situation by giving this location: Wentworth Ironworks & Foundry to the Coachman, as prompted previously.

Alternatively, you can simply observe and see how events proceed, in order to avail yourself of whatever might arise, as you judge the conduct of the various personnages that may appear.

>>5683410
>>(Stammer and blush furiously) I... I have barely even ... even met him! I ... I was only hoping... that he would be able to speak to the workmen... the ones protesting outside my father's foundry. Herman.. he ... he is very good at giving speeches, I had thought... (consent to Lady Temperance's matchmaking)

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>>5682966
>"I know the City well, better than you do, I'll warrant..."
>>5683213
>"It is... a mere soiree, a... seance..."

Cadastre Of The Inner Eye
Knit a map in memory, from the mere mention of a place or Name - for the best outcomes, a True Name is preferred. Some cartographers profess a belief that the graticules and meridians that trace the contours surrounding prominent landmarks in the City form a loom of lines, an ascending hachure that directs footsteps to climb into the maze beyond, the Pathless Labyrinth.

At the very least, it might help you from getting lost, or from being led astray...

QM: You may choose to attune to this ability at any time, even unprompted or when the the choice to do so is not presented. Concentrating upon this ability may fatigue you. Your current threshold is Very Poor. You feel that this ability may become strengthened through repeated use, and manifest greater and more surprising power.

(optional)
>Ok QM, we have spooky 19th century googl maps / GPS / augmented reality psychogeography now hooray. The signal seems a bit weak though.
>Choose the Name of a place or location, and evoke the rite: Cadastre Of The Inner Eye

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>>5682966
>>5683213
07 VII: The CHARIOT
Enoch Lusk, a brawler, coachman and carriage driver.

The driver suddenly lunges forward with a choked, gargled roar and for a moment, you fear he is about to seize you by the throat, hurl himself at you in the fisticuffs of some pugilist affray. You are on the verge of raising your arms to defend yourself, but you see he has fallen short, having doubled over with what you now realise is laughter, convulsions twitching the length of his squat yet sinewy neck.

-Ha! I have been stabbed I have, stabbed with laughter! Aha ha ha! Me? Me?! You be taking me for some meat-smoked Yengeese foreigner? Ha, ha! I am saying to you, I swears I have become a stranger in my own country, I have. This city is full of too many foreigners, farlanders. Them that knows not how we wot spake proper and have you. Like them Fenians. The bomb-throwers, from the Fens. Heathens the lot of them, pagans - famine take them! though I hears the oldest of them fled over the sea to the colonies and they made him emperor in his white house over there. Then there are the Gorsedd - them of the lilting voice that worships fairy foppery and trees, and the dour Dalriada, the kilted mountain men. They are fond of wearing skirts and showing their knees...

(optional)
>write-in an enthusiastic xenophobic tirade to gain the trust of Enoch Lusk

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As you are pondering whether to respond to or indulge in the peculiar prejudices and rants of Enoch Lusk, you hear the sudden tolling of the Clock Tower's bells from the courts of Witenagemot House, ringing throughout the city.

You recognise this as a call to commemoration, a call to remembrance in honour of the sacrifice of those who surrendered their lives to achieve the Old Armistice in the War against the Great Powers.

The commemoration typically calls for one to face the cenotaph of the Hecatomb Pillar, and bow one's head in observance of one minute of silence.

(You notice the carriage driver Enoch Lusk staring at you intently)

>Turn to the shadow of the Hecatomb Pillar in the distance, and solemnly bow your head towards it, in commemoration and contemplation of the Old Armistice, the Great War, and the sacrifice of the dead

>Calmly carry on as if nothing has happened. Maybe now would be an apt moment for a xenophobic tirade... (QM: can write in as above)

>You feel a sudden need for the lavatory. Find a nearby monument and relieve yourself.

This is by far the hardest quest I have ever read, both as an esl and as player in general.
>>5683389
>The Benevolent Institute for the Transformation of Charitable Housing (BITCH)
lol
>>5683410
>(optional, as Beatrice)
I don't want to retort, but I'd like not to agree either.
>>5683412
I don't really want to ruin her reputation until we learn if she really deserves it, so
>Try to find out if she has any hidden embarrassing pastimes
>Generally try to get close to her
>>5683618
So is a True Name the name of the corresponding place irl? I have no idea where any of what you mentioned is located lol.
Let's try
>Cadastre Of The Inner Eye to the War Office

I'll reply to the rest later.

>>5683661
>Turn to the shadow of the Hecatomb Pillar in the distance, and solemnly bow your head towards it, in commemoration and contemplation of the Old Armistice, the Great War, and the sacrifice of the dead
Was going to write-in a xenophobic tirade but I don't think we should be a xenophobe character. Maybe the other anon has some ideas though? I'd support it if it were secretly insincere, just to placate Enoch Lusk.

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>>5683769
Hecatomb Pillar
The cenotaph monument commemorating the Nameless that surrendered their souls in ultimate sacrifice against the Great Powers during the War. Of the many that fell, not all their remains could be recovered, with some interred elsewhere, such as in the cairns of Gravecliff or the distant desert sands of faraway Al-Ghurab. Consequently the Hecatomb honours not any one parricular individual, but the memory of collective sacrifice. Many present wreaths of flowers or observe a minute of solemn silence in contemplation. The form of the Hecatomb Pillar is a massive, featureless monolith slab in grey-black, with no visible adornment or discernible features. Nothing can be seen on the surface of this ominous landmark at all - as if the Hecatomb had been cut from the blackness of the abyss, the very Chasmata themselves. In the Sempiternal Empire it is a death-crime to deny that the Hecatomb ever occurred.

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>>5683674
>Cadastre Of The Inner Eye to the War Office
(QM: hehe, very clever!)
Even as your invocation of the Ancient Rite: Cadastre Of The Inner Eye occurs, as it snatches at your thoughts and as your limbs shudder with rhythms and resonant gestures that are not your own, you feel something is very, very wrong.

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Perhaps, at this very time and this very place, you have unleashed power beyond the command of your mortal frame. As the sepulchral tones of the Clock Tower bell reverberates through the shadows of the city, the seeping penumbral blackness of the Hecatomb Pillar bleeding into the streets and architecture, the serrated shapes of the surroundings, you see space unfolding in unravelling ribbons, as if light had illuminated a great hissing tunnel of silk, fluttering and unfurling in an unseen hurricane.

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For a mere moment, you see a glimpse of what you believe was the target destination of your scrying, The War Room - ranks upon ranks of calculant engines, a vast linearithmic abacus within a vaulted chamber, interpolating columns of analytical gears meshed in helical wormshafts and hypoid wheel configurations. You think you see an enormous, floodlit table, which appears to display the isopleth contours of terrain with accompanying coloured formations of battle-ranks and unit miniatures.

The room itself is empty of any occupants, but you see heaps of what appear to be billboards or propaganda announcements, stacked alongside desks and furniture, proclamations that have yet to be issued. The notices read:

By SPECIAL PREROGATIVE Of WITENAGEMOT HOUSE
His Most Honourable Excellency,
The Lord High Intelligencer, Streynsham MORTMAIN,
Beginning In The Month Of Epagomene,
DECREES The Rightful Disallowance And Interdiction Of All
Timepieces, Clocks, Calendars, Chronometry;
And Any Horological Mechanisms Otherwise Unmentioned And Aforesaid,
Upon Sufferance Of Ultimate Sanction - DEATH.
All Contrivances Of Acquisition, Possession And Inquiry Shall Be Met With The Same Penalty.
Vigilance Prevails Over All

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Streynsham MORTMAIN
Statues and oleographs depicting the Lord High Intelligencer in various heroic actions from the Great War are a common sight throughout the City, though Mortmain himself has not been seen in public since the abdication of the former Child-King, Searlas III, as dictated and ratified by the terms of the Old Armistice. It is commonly believed that Mortmain has dedicated himself to vigilance against the Great Powers of old, having received a debilitating war-wound during the course of fighting at Al-Ghurab. Across the city there are some who maintain that Streynsham died long ago in the trenches during the opening salvoes of the Great War, but if this were the case, no remains or evidence have ever been found.

QM: A strange scrawled message has appeared in your pocket-book journal. It reads simply,

-The Horned Crow Hunts For You.

It is bookmarked by a brief telegram dispatch ticket, that reads

ARRIVAL DELAYED / TWO MORE WEEKS / AWAIT CONTACT PRECLUSION / MORTMAIN

Perhaps this message was already present in your pocket-book, and was merely waiting to be read and found?

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You are straining towards your vision of the War Office, trying frantically to discern in greater detail a glimpse of the interior, when the walls of the room itself crack and fissure, splintering in jagged runnels towards the abyss.

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You stand in a Dead Land, a vast land without end where the ground seems to have been rent from the furious blows of a great hammer. There is no sound, only the stillness of desolation.

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Land Of Birds
No Man's realm, yet those who seek to enter might witness slivers of their flesh carried there in the cruel beaks of carrion birds. A flooded wilderness pockmarked with craters and filth, filled with iron trees and rusted thorns, raked with trenches of delirium and regret.

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Brotherhood Of Eankke
Upon the barren horizon you can glimpse armoured riders, silhouetted in the distance against the pale persecution of sky; mounted riders hunting for anyone left alive. They appear to have the form of helmed knights, bearing what appear to be - long spears??

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Far beyond this mounted line of riders, you can see a maze of ruined and broken walls, perhaps all that remains of some factory or foundry after heavy bombardment. Sunken trenches and even more coils of barbed wire encircle these ruins.

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Ahead of you there is a mount, that has the appearance of some strange hippidion or hardy pack-breed of the mountains. There is rope enough for a makeshift harness, and a discarded iron bridle trodden into the ice and frost of the earth.

Winter here is the thief of warmth in the blood; where the wind is a wolf gnawing cold marrow from the bones.

The horse snorts and its warm breath mists in the cold air; its temperament seems a little restless, but overall the creature appears calm.

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Immediately before you in the earth is a tangle of razor wire, that appears to have ensnared a small helpless carrion bird. A sudden sense of anxiety seizes you, as you contemplate the likelihood of decoys, snares and baited traps. The dark feathers of the bird twitch a little, and you are unsure if it can remain alive.

>Reach your hand into the barbed wire, try to free the bird

>Search the broken timbers and see if you can scavenge any items (QM: this takes time. I will list items only afterwards, if you choose this)

>Examine your firearm, the mud-encrusted Galand revolver
>Aim and fire your revolver immediately at the distant riders

>Make a rope halter, lead the horse quietly away
You believe this takes more time, and risks discovery, but success affords greater stealth afterwards

>Seize the iron bridle, place it upon the horse and mount the beast immediately
The fastest option; if done quickly and resolutely, you can probably flee the area before the warriors can even react. But how confident are you of your own horsemanship?

QM: I will always consider write-ins or alternate choices
>write in / something else?

>>5683943
>>Reach your hand into the barbed wire, try to free the bird

We are so back!!!

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Eankke
The origins of the bloodthirsty war god of postbellum raiders, warband slavers and marauders is shrouded in mystery. Some scholars claim the name derives from Ang-ke, "red river", and cite the legend of a warrior king who was said to have found a sword buried in the grass steppe, having followed a trail of blood from a limping and injured sheep straying from a nomad shepherd's flock. Others claim that the word is a corruption of "Yangji", 洋疾 in the runes of Old Sioloc and Ancient Khimaire, well-known from the tales of the insane moneyer-prophet Ialle Ergusen; a land of chimerical beasts born of lion, goat and dragon. In those myths, the name Yangji in ancient bone oracle runes is attributed with the meaning: "goat-headed (beast) men from across the water, bringers of the (plague) swift sickness (injury)". Yet another explanation attests that the word Eankke is an adaptation of the tribal utterance for coward, turncoat or slave; and that the barbaric ravagers of the Dead Land are the last remnants of those who were once a loyal legion of enslaved warriors, turning renegade only after they were betrayed and abandoned in battle.

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>>5683936
>>5684318
Atakam, Vehmgericht Cataphract Commander
Barbed wire protrudes from the hollow sockets of his eyes. His slashed face is disfigured with a latticework of knotted sutures.

You hear snatches of what he speaks carried upon the wind:
- ... we must anoint this Land, brothers. Anoint it with the flesh of the Blessed Lamb... bring forth the sweet, sacred incense...!!"

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(behind him, the groans of slaves and clanking of chains, the sound of large canisters being rolled forward, and the flare of ignited torches)

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You see the following items scattered nearby amidst the rotted and burnt timbers
(QM: please wait whilst I upload some pictures and brief descriptions, thank you!)

>1 Trench Axe
>2 Rückentrage (Cable Reel And Drum)
>3 Chain Mask
>4 Bizarre Bent Rifle?
>5 Matchbox (with matches)
>6 Orilux Torch
>7 Looking Glass
>8 Magnifying Glass
>9 Chaos Warrior Helm (Pickelhaube)
>10 Trench Whistle

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>1 Trench Axe
Entrenching tool for sapper and tunnelling expeditions. Hammers, axes, spades and improvised maces or nail-studded batons are a common sight within the claustrophobic environs of trench passages.

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>2 Rückentrage (Cable Reel And Drum)
A trundling wheel worn upon a backpack harness, that could carry a spool of wire for a field telephone, or the lengthy fuse of a detonating cord.

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>3 Chain Mask
If someone intended this to act as a gas mask, it is quite possibly the worst design that could ever possibly be conceived. A dangling coif of rusted metal links offers some slight protection to the face. There is an odour of urine, as if someone had relieved themselves on the face covering of this mask.

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>4 Bizarre Bent Rifle?
A carbine that appears to be in working condition, but as you examine it, you see that it appears to be impossible to fire - or even to hold, for that matter. The wooden stock is warped and contorted into a twisted and enlengthened rectilinear form, that could not possibly be held or shouldered by an ordinary human. Perhaps it was intended for some hideous hunchback or ogre?

(QM: You cannot pick up, carry or fire this rifle, unless you understand its operation. If you know the purpose of this weapon, write in.)

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>5 Matchbox (with matches)
Even for those who are not superstitious, in the trenches it is best not to be the third man when lighting one of these.

(QM: you think this item may be able to affect your luck somehow. Best saved for those life and death situations... Why not light a match before a roll and see?)

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>6 Orilux Torch
A metal capsule lamp covered in pebbled leather wrap, with a bulbous protruding circular front glass lens.

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>7 Looking Glass
An elegant lady's handheld mirror. There is only one of these. Perhaps a keepsake, or a distant reminder of home? It would make for a fine and romantic gift.

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>8 Magnifying Glass
Dropped from a dispatch case of documents. When held up close to your face, it makes your eye look very big. Very big indeed! It almost makes you feel like a detective!

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>9 Chaos Warrior Helm (Pickelhaube)
A horrifying ornate horned helm with the design of a simurgh or mythic bird adorning its front. It might be useful as part of a cunning disguise, though snipers are drawn to the allure of its golden sheen.

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>10 Trench Whistle
Useful for issuing commands with an air of authority. Who's to know, in the confusion and din of bombardment? Three short, shrill blasts - and then it's over the top.

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>>5684069
QM: Some brave anon needs to roll this please
>roll 1d6

1 The clink of a ringed loop of metal tripwire being pulled from a prong. It is, of course, a trap. A schrapnellmine detonates next to your hand!

2 You reach desperately with probing fingers into a lacerating funnel of rusted wire. The bird is already dead. And your arm is ensnared in the razor coils! You are horribly stuck, and the barbs pull at your flesh...

3-5 You free the feathered bird, and it gazes at you dispassionately with a beady eye. The carrion crow flies away.

6 As you delicately perform a careful extrication of the bird from the barbed wire, a sudden cacophony on the horizon draws the attention of the mounted riders away from the vantage of your vicinity. You see a large swarm of black wings, talons and feathers, taking off from a flooded bombshell crater far away from you, that goads the mounted riders to give chase. (QM: the warriors are distracted and drawn away from your position for the time being)

QM: if you survive, you can carefully assess the options provided here
>>5683943
and the items here
>>5684325
regarding how you intend to evade the mounted riders, the Eankke Warband, and their mutilated commander Atakam.

Bear in mind that some items may have hidden or multiple uses, or could be saved later for trade. You can take as many items as you wish (QM: The Bizarre Bent Rifle cannot be carried or taken unfortunately) but bear in mind these items may affect your appearance, or encumber you in other ways...

You can also write in any other ideas or intended actions. You could, for example, attempt to call out or negotiate passage with the hideously scarred Warband commander Atakam...

(optional)
>Jump up and down, waving your arms and cheerfully calling out a happy "Hello there!" to the mutilated warband commander, Atakam. Is there some way to negotiate with him, or give / provide him with something he might want?

>write-in an idea of how you might bypass the Eankke warband, thr mounted riders and their mutilated commander

>just fight everyone. Draw your revolver, take aim (at who?) and open fire (QM: if this is chosen, I will explain the fight rules in a separate new section)

Rolled 4 (1d6)

>>5684347

>>5684332
This rifle is meant to be fired from a trench without exposing the soldier. One would see the enemy through the mirrors mounted on the bent stock, and pull the trigger through the lengthened lever.
>>5684347
>Equip Chaos Warrior Helm and Chain Mask
>Take everything except the rifle and Cable Reel and Drum
>Attach the Orilux Torch somehow to the inside of the mask, so we appear to have a burning eye (I think it works like that, but I'm not sure)
>Make a dramatic appearance out of some crater by using the fumes and bright light from the camera >>5683350, as well as the trench whistle, as if we are some vengeful ghost, and scare the riders away
>Take the horse and escape
Retard plan, but I can't come up with anything more reasonable except outright fighting the entire warband.

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>>5684332
Periscope Rifle
Fusil Lebel Mle 1886 M93
8x50mm smokeless Balle P (Perforante, Armour Piercing)
1 / 8 chambered, 0 reloads remain

Bolt-action infantry rifle, the first to use smokeless nitrocellulose compared to black powder. It can be fitted with a distinctive Épée-Baïonnette, a thrusting sword with an X-shaped cross-section blade. Upon its introduction, this rifle boasted over one-and-a-half the rate of fire of rivals, at 43 rounds per minute.

>>5684402
QM: Well done, you correctly identified the use of this periscope rifle, a sniper weapon with a bent stock and mirrors designed to be fired from behind cover, beneath the recess of the trench. This weapon has only one round left in the chamber. You could aim and fire it, and automatically kill their commander Atakam (no roll required to kill him, but I will instead make a morale roll for the remaining warband troops to see if they flee, or fight back...) However, you notice that the mirrors of the periscope rifle are broken. To enact this plan, and automatically kill the mutilated commander from behind cover, you could break the Looking Glass
>>5684336
in two, and use the shards as a makeshift substitute for the periscope aiming mirrors...

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>Kill the warband commander:
>Break the Looking Glass (this permanently destroys the mirror)
>Use mirror pieces to repair Periscope Rifle
>Fire the weapon
No roll is needed to automatically snipe and kill the commander. I will instead make a morale roll to see if the remaining armed riders scatter; you believe the likelihood would be in your favour, with at most one or two warriors remaining, but there is a small chance that the entire warband will regroup in a berserk frenzy for a massed attack. Were this to occur, you think it is likely that the riders would be forced to dismount as they search the trenches for your sniping position. QM: importantly if you choose this option, any survivors remaining will not be aware of your position, because you fired the periscope rifle from one of the many trenches in this area

OR:

QM: this plan
>>5684402
>Make a dramatic appearance out of some crater by using the fumes and bright light from the camera
is not bad at all, I will definitely allow it! And well done for remembering the camera flash, hehe. The intent appears to be to use the flash pyrotechnics into distracting and frightening the warband riders whilst you make an escape.

If you choose this plan, you will have to make a very fast escape once enacted. There is a chance that you will escape before the riders can even react. You have some time to prepare beforehand, so decide: (this affects the roll probabilities)
>fast getaway:
>mount horse with iron bridle
>rig the camera flash to fire, but you must leave behind the camera on its tripod afterwards (lose Instantograph camera)
This option offera the most favourable escape probabilities

>slow getaway
>mount horse carefully with rope harness
>rig camera as above, but you can retrieve it afterwards
This option offers a less favourable escape probability, but you will keep the Instantograph, tripod, magnesium flash powder etc. There is a higher likelihood some of the warriors will see you and open fire

QM: so to summarise (unless any anons want to modify and adapt the plan) the options are

>Fire the periscope rifle
the repair breaks the Looking Glass mirror,
>>5684336

>Fast horse getaway with iron bridle
you lose the Instantograph camera
>>5683350

>Slow horse getaway with a rope harness
keep all items, but higher risk of alert

QM: after you make your choice, please roll 1d6, thank you!
>roll 1d6

Rolled 3 (1d6)

>>5684476
>Fire the periscope rifle

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>>5684485
Tree Of Thoughts
A mysterious divination rite of the druids of the Gorsedd, nurtured over centuries in the Old Forest Of Idols. Offerings left in propitiation within marshes, buried beneath the branching sky and the gnarled roots of ancient trees, grew into dreams and revelations for those that made the gift. In time, the Gorsedd discovered that any trinket or relic could be sacrificed for a fugitive glimpse of the future. In particular, weapons that had shed blood and artefacts of the elder ages were preferred. Before his ascent to Lord High Intelligencer, Streynsham Mortmain often walked within the Old Forest Of Idols as he sought for this legend - and hunted for those he believed to be in possession of it.

QM: This ability is akin to the old gamebook "finger bookmark" trick hehe of flicking through the various choices before picking the best one. You can sacrifice a memento, trinket or relic before a choice or decision roll to see the outcomes and probabilities beforehand; certain items that are particularly appropriate to a situation will produce a much stronger effect. An appropriate use of this ability might save you from making a roll heavily tilted towards instant death. You think improved use of this ability might enable you to glimpse even further into the future, perhaps even warping the strands of fate to favour you.

To use this ability before any roll, nominate an item (choose carefully) and the probabilities of the roll will be revealed beforehand. The item is permanently destroyed afterwards. Weapons in particular are likely to produce a stronger result.

https://arxiv.org/abs/2305.10601

***

>>5684485
Rolled 3 (1d6)

QM: ok so the morale roll was this one

1 Howling for vengeance at the death of their commander, the entire warband regroups and attack with renewed frenzy!

2 The warband flees, but 2 warriors remain

3 The warband flees, but 1 warrior remains

4 The warband scatters

5 In the haste of their departure, the warriors drop some of their weapons

6 In the haste of their departure, the warriors drop all their weapons and 1 unusual item

So after your roll of 3, now there is just 1 assailant left. Let us see what happens...

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In the lightning of a maiming glimpse, the crack of the bolt-action rifle opens the flower of his skull and the blood comes out singing.

You see the warband commander Atakam
>>5684319
topple forward - for some reason he is not immediately dead, he is clutching his bleeding face and cannot see the screams that are yet to approach him - but then his horse rears violently, pitches the bloodied warband leader in his agony upon an upright spear of battlefield debris, some protruded strut of razor wire, and as he is violently thrown and impaled upon the rusted spike you see he is finally dead.

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Trench Raider

The horror of this sight unnerves the warband remnants, all of whom scatter and flee in routed panic - all, except for one.

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Pritchard-Greener Bayonet / Webley Revolver

Drawing a peculiar firearm, the Trench Raider dismounts, steps over the parapet and slides down the revetment into the waterlogged ditch below, hunting for you.

>Run to the horse now. (QM: you no longer have the time to fashion a rope harness, the previous option). Seize the metal bridle from the cold earth, harness and mount the horse, and flee whilst the Trench Raider wades in the ditch)

>Try to lose the Trench Raider in the maze of tunnels

>Shoot at the Trench Raider with your Galand revolver
QM: if you want to assess the likelihood of success beforehand, you can invoke the ancient rite: Tree Of Thoughts. Nominate one of your possessions - it will be destroyed, and the probabilities revealed

>Break open the Galand revolver first, and check the ammunition. Wasn't it covered in mud earlier?

>Something else? For example, you could taunt him, or use an item...? You could also try to use the Tree Of Thoughts rite on some other action, to divine its probability of success - remember however, that you must also name and sacrifice an item you possess, which will be permanently destroyed after the probability is revealed.

>>5684566
>>Run to the horse now. (QM: you no longer have the time to fashion a rope harness, the previous option). Seize the metal bridle from the cold earth, harness and mount the horse, and flee whilst the Trench Raider wades in the ditch)

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Rolled 3 (1d6)

There is a strange, greenish hue on the horizon, a bleached smell in the air as you scramble frantically to the horse
>>5683940
which now looks rather skittish, and agitated. It makes you briefly think of what the scarred warband commander impaled on a distant rusted spike behind you meant when he was calling forth the "sacred incense".
>>5684319

You can see the shapes of some large rats scurrying to all sides of you, disturbed by your rushing movements, and the vermin provoke horrible sensations of crawling and revulsion, but you feel quite confident that you can reach the horse before the Trench Raider can catch you, impeded as he is by escarpment and ditch.

The bleached smell is very strong when you reach the horse, and the Trench Raider is still nowhere to be seen within the maze of tunnels behind. You quickly scrabble for the metal bridle - the horsebit feels chillingly cold as you dig it out of the frost and icy slush of the earth, as you wipe the mud from it. You are quickly harnessing the horse, mounting it and stepping up into the saddle, the animal becoming more and more agitated - and when the cold metal bit enters the horse's mouth it rears suddenly, its agitation uncontrollable, its neck whipping and straining uncontrollably. You pull on the reins but the jointed bite of the snaffle and its pressure on the horse's tongue causes you to lose your balance and fall heavily.

You are Bruised but not heavily injured. As you rise awkwardly rubbing the throbbing ache of your limbs, the sharp snap of a gunshot splits the air -

1 Even at this range, the Trench Raider aims unerringly - at your head!

2 You dive instantly to the ground; the gunshot has missed you. But you have snagged your arm in barbed wire...

3-6 The Trench Raider has missed you entirely. You can see him now, slowly advancing towards you.

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>>5684563
>>5685055
>Rolled 3 (1d6)
(QM: The Trench Raider curses - his gunshot has missed you entirely. He braces to fire again...)

>Try mounting the horse once more. You curse yourself that you did not take the time to fashion a gentler rope bridle and harness. Perhaps the horse will be more controllable this time?
>Roll 1d6

There is no escaping from this fight. The horse has no gas mask... it will simply choke to death when the horrifying cloud of greenish fog descends. Come to think of it - you are not convinced you have tremendously robust or airtight sealed face protection either... >>5684329
Turn to the distant advancing figure of the Trench Raider, draw the Galand Revolver and open fire. QM: for unexplained reasons (that might be revealed if you use the divination spell, Tree Of Thoughts, but you need to sacrifice an item first...) roll 2d6 for each shot you wish to take. So if you wish to fire twice, roll 4d6, etc. If you wish to fire all 5 rounds, you would need to roll 10d6.
>roll 2d6 for each time you pull the trigger

>Abandon the horse. Run back into the maze of trenches, and try to lose your assailant there.

Perhaps now is a good time to urinate; many games and adventures forget to include realistic simulations of bladders.
>Urinate

>Invoke the ancient rite: Tree Of Thoughts. You need to nominate one of your items which will be permanently lost. Perhaps the branching visions can reveal a better future path...?
>Write-in an item to sacrifice

>Something else? Write-in. You can always try to use some other item or course of action etc.

>>5685064
>Sacrifice Chaos Warrior Helm >>5684339 to invoke ancient rite: Tree of Thoughts to divine what the probabilities related to firing the revolver are, maybe for other things as well if possible

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>>5685278
Beyond a slight reeling sensation of befuddlement, nothing appears to have happened...

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You unstrap the spiked Pickelhaube
>>5684339
from your head. It does not appear to be any different. Did you not present the correct offering? Perhaps the trees do not hunger for helmets?

There is a sensation of slowness, of recalibration, as if time itself in its crawling patience has begun to grow (or regrow?) towards a different demarcation, a different dendrochronology.

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Then, in a sudden splash of wetness, the helmet is gone; there is only lightness and pooled water glistening upon your empty palms, as if your hands had just been swallowed in the cool mouth of a forest stream.

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The sunlight here casts the ground in green and gold, shone through the pleached limbs of a living cathedral of vaulted tree branches.

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In the heart of the forest, you see an enormous mossy tree,
upon an isle of stone steps encircled by water.

The dais of broken steps towards it makes the Hollow Tree resemble a colossal throne.

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The light has changed again.

All of the leaves of this tree have fallen, the branches are twisted and bare. You cannot help but see a sickly green tinge to this light that bathes the dead tree; it looks like the green, chlorine miasma of No Man's Land.

From nowhere, the guttural cawing of a bird taking flight.

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Your thoughts leap to the bird you freed from the barbed wire schrapnellmine trap here
>>5683943
>>5684069
>>5684347
Could you not somehow turn the trap against the Trench Raider, bait him to walk into it?

QM: Ordinarily the Trench Raider is careful and experienced at detecting S-Mines and other traps, but currently he is enraged and focused upon hunting and chasing you. You think you have a 50:50 (ie 3 out of 1d6 random table) chance he will simply walk into the barbed wire mine trap.

So the roll would then be this:

1 He doesn't fall for your bait tactics. Instead, the Trench Raider snarls (wheezing gas mask grunting) and unloads all 5 remaining shots from his revolver at you! And he aims properly this time...

2 The Trench Raider fires 1 aimed shot at you

3 The Trench Raider fires, but his footing remains unbalanced from having just climbed out of the ditch. His aim remains very poor

4 He falls for it! He is blown up by the mine... but so is all his equipment; gas mask, revolver, trench club...

5 The Trench Raider is blown up, but his equipment remains useable and intact

6 He is blown up by the mine and his equipment remains lootable. The explosion appears to have also uncovered a buried cache with an unusual item...

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You also consider the possibility of just firing at him directly with your revolver. You actually believe your probability of hitting him is not bad, but to your dismay, a new impediment emerges...

Had you checked the revolver ammunition earlier,
>>5684566
you would now discover that your gun contains not five rounds
>>5683366
but just one bullet! How could this be? You expressly remember that only one chamber was empty when you last examined the gun... Could it be that in this Dead Land, this inversion of life, only spent bullets that have killed are carried through?

QM: the mechanics for this strange gun, the Galand revolver, are as follows: because of the long trigger pull, you roll 2d6 per shot (you have only 1 shot now...) If the 2nd d6 is greater than the 1st, you pull the trigger smoothly, aim and kill the opponent. If the 2nd d6 is lower than or equal to the 1st d6, you crimp your finger a little, and jolt the gun upwards erratically, missing the target. So a roll of 2, 5 would hit and kill; a roll of 4,1 would miss, a roll of 3,3 is a miss. (QM evil laugh, the probability of success is a minor maths puzzle muahahaha)

(You have lost: )
Pickelhaube - given to Tree Of Thoughts
>>5684339

Looking Glass - broken into two mirror shards to repair the Periscope Rifle
>>5684336

The choice is then

Fire the Galand revolver at the Trench Raider
>roll 2d6; succeed, hit and kill on the trigger pull if 2nd d6 strictly greater than 1st, otherwise miss.

Bait and lead the Trench Raider into the mine
>roll 1d6 on table above. Succeed on 4,5,6

Use one of the matches from the matchbox. Could it improve your luck somehow? You have no idea what will happen (maybe you could take a guess, based on this:)
https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Three_on_a_match
>roll 1d3 You have no idea what might happen...

(QM: apologies, I had to delete 1 prior post, the rule description was wrong, sorry!)

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GM15, Gummimaske 1915

Rubber coated canvas with metal eyepiece assembly and antifog inserts. To breathe you have to blow out, hard. The filter consists of three layers varying between combinations of activated carbon, 40% potassium carbonate and diatomite soaked with hexamine and piperasine. The mask is connected via a hose to a rebreather, either a bladder or tank such as the Pneumatogen 1908 or H.S.S. Gerät 1916.

>>5684563
QM: I should also mention: for the purposes here, shooting at and hitting the Trench Raider with just 1 bullet will not damage his equipment (compared to him being shredded / blown up by a mine). You can just assume that his gas mask comes equipped with all the various attachments mentioned above etc.

Rolled 4 (1d6)

>>5685347
>>5685353
>Bait and lead the Trench Raider into the mine

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>>5685382
QM: well done for choosing the better likelihood here! The probability of the 2nd d6 being greater than the 1st is symmetrically equal to that of the 1st being greater than the 2nd, ie swapped the other way around. Imagining a 6x6 square of 36 outcomes, with the 6 diagonal (ie equal rolls, eg 2,2; 6,6 etc) possibilities removed, and then dividing in half due to symmetry, so (36 - 6) / 2 = 15, so the likelihood is 15 / 36, or 5 /12, which is not as good as the 50:50 chance you chose hehe. Alternatively can also use the combinatorial formula nCk / n^k = 6C2 / 6^2 = 15 / 36 for the same result.

Multiple black geysers of debris, the chained explosions reverberating loud in your blood. (QM: because you equipped the Chain Mask, here
>>5684329
>>5684402
your eyes are protected from the plumes of shrapnel and grit by the metal slits)

Unfortunately, beyond some blackened ropes of meat, nothing of the Trench Raider remains after he is completely blown apart by the barbed wire minefield. He was wearing the only gas mask -

There is an eerie silence, as the drifting chlorine gas cloud descends...

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A piteous whinnying, as the horse - your means of escape! - keels over and dies. You see its ribs and powerful flanks heaving as its legs thrash in agony.

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In the distance, you can see a large mound jutting at a strange verically tilted angle from the slope of the trench.

QM: for unexplained reasons hehe, please roll
>2d60 + 120
note: NOT d6, 2d60

>Well, it has come to this. The final indignity. Now would be a good time to urinate. Maybe in your final moments before asphyxiating in your own blood, you should urinate on your Chain Mask and savour the smell.
In fact, this was the correct way
>>5683661
to commemorate the war memorial, the Hecatomb Pillar, all along. You should urinate on every war memorial from now onwards - if you somehow survive this...

>Dive low into the trenches and try to find a dugout, a command post... there must be a gas mask somewhere, surely???

>Try to run to the large mound (pic rel) and investigate it. Perhaps there will be a rebreather or mask filter to be found over there??

>Something else? (Write in)

Rolled 57, 15 + 120 = 192 (2d60 + 120)

>>5685429
I actually wasn't sure what to pick because I didn't calculate the probabilities of preserving equipment or obtaining new stuff. There's a 1/6 chance of something getting revealed by the blast of the mine, after all... And while the raw 1/2 of killing the raider with the mine was there, the probability of saving his equipment for the gun was 15/36 rather than 12/36.
>>5685432
>Try to run to the large mound (pic rel) and investigate it. Perhaps there will be a rebreather or mask filter to be found over there??
Maybe we can hide in the tank?

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Rolled 2, 29 = 31 (2d60)

>>5685471
>Try to run...
>Running - oh no...!
(You lose 2d60 seconds of precious breath...)

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>>5685471
>>5685550
161 = 192-31 seconds remaining...
The cloud of choking gas is sweeping rapidly behind you now, drowning the carcass of the unfortunate horse, which is no longer visible in the murk. You are not sure if it is pure chlorine - perhaps urine might help against a low, dispersed concentration (QM: in fact, just water, anything soluble for chlorine would do!) but there could be other, more lethal gases mixed in; the best you can do is flee and hope to scavenge and recover some breathing apparatus, somewhere... Your lungs heave and shudder with the exertion of running as you try desperately to hold your breath, and not to inhale the hideous choking vapours...

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You are in luck! Your surmise was correct - whoever rammed this iron monstrosity into the trench must have considered it to be of supreme importance and priority on the battlefield - and you are duly rewarded with the sight of a partially demolished command post, a tangle of sandbags, burnt planks and unspooled wires.

Upon the upturned iron beast
>>5685432
stands a very peculiar individual, gesturing before it as if it were some monstrous altar. The man has the bearing of some sort of demented orator.

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Olaefyr The Druid
-We must... tend to the trees. The Trees! We must sow the earth with Trees, like the dragon's teeth of old. Trees of the Fallen Freedom, from the Stars! The Blessed Lamb commands it. The Trees are for our children. Is that not right, Annalena?

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Annalena, The Druidess
She is either a sorcerous speaking skull, or just a goat head with Olaefyr's hand jangling the grisly vertebrae and spine in blasphemous puppetry, speaking in his most impassioned effeminate voice:
-Yes my love! Ooohh! The Trees are for the children! They are so green (the chlorine gas surrounds you...) and sharp! So beautiful, ooohh!

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The Trees
To be entirely fair, there are indeed a few remnant blasted stumps of gnarled and splintered wood, stubbornly rooted in the crump holes and bomb craters of this wasteland. However, you have a feeling these are not the entities to which Olaefyr the Druid is lovingly lavishing his attentions.

You observe that both Olaefyr and Annalena are wearing snugly fitted gas masks.

>Try to persuade Olaefyr the Druid to give you Annalena's gas mask. But how would you attempt this? (write-in a speech)

>Try to challenge Olaefyr and show that he has strayed from the way of the druids:
>Those are not trees. It is just barbed wire and broken stumps
>You fool, Annalena is a dead goat skull. Everyone in this Dead Land is dead. As you will be, soon! Give me that gas mask now!
>Maybe... I can help you water these "trees"? I can help you restore the "forest"? (QM: one should always acquiesce to the whims of a madman)
>Praise Annalena'a beauty: I have never beheld a more... ravishing, dainty and beauteous goat. The concupiscent pulchritude of her charms would be far better situated, were she not wearing that ghastly mask...
>Tell me of the Stars, this Fallen Freedom. Why do you follow this and not the gods of the druids?
>Attempt to debate theodicy: If your druid gods are so good and kind... why do they permit evil? Why do they permit war?

The druid is clearly demented and malevolent. You must attempt this from the opposite direction
>If your druid gods are so evil, why do they permit goodness? Why are there any good people left alive and in tranquility and bliss at all?

>Some other topic / line of argument? Write in etc.

You have no time left for any of this. You need that gas mask now, or you will choke to death! How convenient of you to have one bullet left in your gun:
>Just shoot this stupid druid and take his stupid gas mask. No roll required, he appears to be utterly defenceless and unarmed. Though there does seem to be a strange circle of burnt wooden planks surrounding him...

>>5685559
>Just shoot this stupid druid and take his stupid gas mask. No roll required, he appears to be utterly defenceless and unarmed. Though there does seem to be a strange circle of burnt wooden planks surrounding him...
inb4 we die to eldritch magic

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>>5685982
As you advance upon him menacingly, gun in hand, the defenceless and helpless druid sobs and pleads:
-Wait-wait! Please! Do not slay me! I know such secrets, I possess such power! I know... I know... I can give you weapons. Magic! Riches! Goats! Wait! Nooo! Please... Mortmain, Mortmain! I know his plan... I know of the Clock Tree! The Tree of the Stars... He hunts for the Mask, to bring to the Foundry... that is what will free her! She Who Is Three... I will tell you everything, please - please let me live! Noooo, please! If ...if I must die, please, please - have mercy on my beautiful lover, I mean daughter, Annalena (The Druid desperately caresses his hand-puppet goat skull in a tearful farewell embrace) spare her virtue! Do not ravish my voluptuous beloved... I mean, my innocent daughter! My life for hers! We shall never be parted! We shall be together again; I will see you soon, my love -

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Grabbing the druid by the thinning hairs of his scalp, you shoot him dead.

The goat skull clatters lifeless to the ground.

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Were you to examine the mysterious Galand revolver
>>5682940
>>5683351
>>5683366
>>5685353
in the mist and the fog of the City, you would discover that it has for some incomprehensible reason appeared to have been replenished - to have regained a single bullet in the chamber.

Galand Revolver ammunition???
12mm
6/6 ; 0 reloads remain

Here, however, your gun is spent. You open and examine the chamber and extract the empty cartridge.

Dead Land Revolver ammunition
12mm
EMPTY

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Rolled 7 + 10 (1d10 + 10)

You possess: Gas Mask
>>5685363
(1d10+10 roll above is duration in hours)

You frantically seize the dead druid's face mask and secure the straps on your own face with trembling and spasming hands, the tendons pulled like claws - slowly, the mist of your exhaled relief condenses in reassuring and calming waterdrops on the eye lenses. Gradually, in panting and gasping swallows, your breathing recovers to normal.

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A part of you begins to regret that you did not interrogate the druid for more information - perhaps he could have told you how to escape this nightmarish trench wasteland hellscape of barbed wire, chemical warfare and corpses? You rummage around in the debris of the command post - it appears to have been mostly looted, as you expect.

The iron monstrosity is heavily scorched and rusted, the chain links of its tread tracks burst asunder.

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Vickers-Maxim .303

There is some sort of a mitrailleuse here - but all the ammunition is spent, perhaps during the failed defense. You see a crumpled letter next to it, that reads -

...the men are broken and we have near depleted the ammunition... Hugo is nowhere to be found. He must have surrendered his command, or been conveniently transferred - the defence of this outpost is left to us alone now. Damn him! We alone will bear the brunt of whatever comes... I had made a gift for our daughter, whittled it by my own hand over the long hours in this cramped and benighted ditch. This was my only consolation - Please give this to her if you see her again...

QM: You can choose how long you wish to recover and search this outpost. There is a lot of debris and rubble to sift through - you can spend a 1d4, 1d6, 1d8, 1d10, 1d12 searching (simultaneously also recuperating). There is a chance for better items found with a higher die size (ie, 1d12 roll for hours spent, regardless of what the result actually will be, leads to the best items being found). You also have a feeling that spending more time in this outpost regardless of the die size rolled will lead to more attention being drawn to your present location.

>Decide whether to roll a 1d4, 1d6, 1d8, 1d10, 1d12 in hours spent scavenging / recuperating from the gas attack
>The DIE SIZE determines quality of scavenged items; 1d12 is best
>The ROLL RESULT determines likelihood of attracting attention. The result is subtracted from the hours left in your gas mask filter
>Roll 1dX etc where X is the die size you chose

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Whilst you are here, it occurs to you that you could take a photograph of your surroundings.
>>5683350
Isn't that what cameras are for? Atrocity tourism? Choose:
>You must take a photo of this horrifying wasteland, that will reveal to the public the devastation of this war. Something from this atrocity of the past (?) that has not happened yet in the future (?) To ensure it never repeats or ever even happened, or whichever way round it is.
QM: you can write in what war atrocity scene you wish to depict (might depend on if I can find an image of it though) You can also upload your own images!

>You should take a photo of that strange iron machine. Perhaps the blueprints of it could be reverse engineered - it might be valuable and worth quite a lot! The War Office could probably make some use of it...
QM: This is of course a photo of the tank, >>5685432

>The correct and most dignified action is to take a selfie. You probably need to improvise an impromptu device or thingummyjig to trigger the camera shutter at a distance, but this can be done with all the debris scattered all around. After all, what do you look like anyway?
QM: write in what you think you look like, see how the photograph compares...

Rolled 2 (1d8)

>>5686081
>1d8
>>5686084
>You must take a photo of this horrifying wasteland, that will reveal to the public the devastation of this war. Something from this atrocity of the past (?) that has not happened yet in the future (?) To ensure it never repeats or ever even happened, or whichever way round it is.
>Write-in: Several corpses on the edge of the trench, the devastated battlefield stretching far beyond them.
Also
>Urinate while we're somewhat safe here

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>>5686254
QM: You have obtained Atrocity Photograph: Horrors Of War
It might be useful for propaganda purposes. Or just gawking at, in the forum of a private member's club. If a respectable lady saw this, she would probably faint, from utter horror!

>>5686071
>>5686254
>Rolled 2 (1d8)
Gas Mask: 17-2=15 hours remain

QM: hehe I am not a chemist, but the urine is from this source, the first gas attack 1915 April 22 in Ypres. My understanding though, is that subsequent chemical attacks mixed gases, including phosgene and mustard gas, the latter of which blistered exposed skin on contact, sometimes rendering even masks ineffective.
https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Second_Battle_of_Ypres
>Dr Nasmith and Scrimger, both experienced physicians, recognized the gas as chlorine. Dr Scrimger’s immediate orders to his battalion included instructions to urinate on handkerchiefs, placing them over mouth/nose when encountering the gas cloud. The urine present in these crude masks caused the chlorine gas to crystallize, preventing pulmonary effects.

You are a little paranoid, that after 2 hours of searching in this gas mask with lingering itching and burning sensations in your throat - perhaps you involuntarily inhaled some of the chemical attack, and that it has caused permanent pulmonary damage. However, after a while you become a little acclimatised to the discomfort, and conclude that it is merely the strenuous effort necessitated by breathing or rather wheezing through a hot and constricted apparatus - whilst wearing the mask, there really is very little heat dissipation or relief for the face at all.

You are rewarded in your exertions by a rather poor haul of scavengings (QM: sadly, this is all you get with a 2 on 1d8 Please wait whilst I upload some pictures, thank you!)

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1/ Trench Club
This improvised mace consists of just a knobbed handle with a metal bolt screwed on the end. It was probably dropped by whoever scoured this place beforehand, and made off with the loot that could have been taken by you.

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2/ Toy Bird
A charming wheeled crow-like creature, whittled from wood, with beady eyes and wheels on its talons and propped-up tail feathers; the wings and beak clack together cleverly, making noises when the toy bird wheels are trundled along the ground.

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3/ Mysterious Metal Snail ???
This strange component is very large and appears to have been discarded from some other apparatus. It is the size of large hand luggage, though just about portable by a single person. You think carrying it would be rather cumbersome. The shape of the metal casing is that of a torus, with a spherical hollow ball in the middle. You can see connector valves on this strange exchange apparatus, though it is currently inert and non functional. You think it is probably an unusual container or receptacle of some sort, but you are not sure what could be carried in it. It might be valuable to those who understood its function, or useful at some later stage.

QM: if you recognise or can identify this component, write in! Maybe the druid used it as a watering can, to nurture the Trees...?

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As you conclude your rummaging, you are suddenly alerted by a mysterious voice emanating from within the command post. Your hand snaps to your revolver... before you realise that it is empty. You are verging on panic... how could such an intruder have escaped your notice, during your extensive search of the outpost? - when you perceive that the voice is of a familiar lady...

There is a field telephone here, in the breached command outpost. It seems to have somehow intercepted a mysterious conversation:

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>>5683433
(consent to Lady Temperance's matchmaking)
>>5683674
>Try to find out if she has any hidden embarrassing pastimes
>Generally try to get close to her
...oh and if he calls... tell him I am away. Don't show him in! Oh but also telephone him afterwards Hetty, let him know that I will be attending Lady Temperance's Water Banquet. Hint that I might, might (!) be there! Don't make it sound like I am too eager or anything!! Oh and you must remember to see the seamstress for my new dress and gloves. The gloves, don't forget, you should write it down in a journal or something! You are always forgetting things Hetty! Oh and also you should find a gift for Lady Temperance. Something stylish. But also thoughtful. Something for her children perhaps? Maybe some of those exotic prints from the Orient! But that strange antiquarian Augustus Wheeble is so disagreeable! He always makes me shudder, fawning over his exotic collections and woodcuts from the Far East. Father seems fond of them though. And I suppose they are fashionable enough, that Lady Temperance has chosen her Water Banquet with this theme, the calligraphers on the river by the pavilion. Oh, I almost forgot, I am supposed to meet Father! He is always so busy at the foundry and Ironworks these days - if he has sent for me, it must be something quite momentous! And then Hetty you must also see to the laundry, and the scullery, and pay the...

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Enoch Lusk is standing before you, a concerned look on his face.
-You... just keeled over there. I knows that look! Eyes just glazed over, empty stare and all that. You must have had it bad in the War. The Clock Tower bells and the commemoration bongs can have that effect, they brings up all sorts of bad memories. Best not to dwell. Look here, I helps you up and all. Now where did you say you were headed?
>Wentworth Ironworks & Foundry
>Le Cenacle Club
>Witenagemot House
>The Benevolent Institute for the Transformation of Charitable Housing (BITCH)
>Do you know of the antiquarian, Augustus Wheeble?
>I think I will be attending a party. Where is the estate of Lady Temperance Annesley?
>The seance! I almost forgot!!
>Another location?
>Ask Enoch Lusk a question?
>Something else?
>Rant at the QM, that around 1912-1915, cars had already surpassed horse carriages, this entire quest is wrong...

>Put down the field telephone. Yes the QM blatantly stole the idea from the Matrix. You intend to stay in the Dead Land. And loot and kill EVERYTHING. (QM: In this mode, no more Jane Austen / Charles Dickens / Virginia Woolf pretension. Only trenches and machine guns!)

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>>5684336
- I saw such a strange sight in the rail carriage today,

She murmurs, nestling your head upon her lap.

- I almost believed it to be a dream. There were these two young women - they looked very similar to each other; I said to myself: they must be sisters! - and they were sitting against the side of the train carriage compartment, by the open window, one quite drowsy, almost sleeping, and another lost in reading a little book.

I thought of them as the Dreaming Sister and the Dull Sister, and just then, the train rushed through a dark tunnel - there was a shrill whistle, and the carriage was basked in a red signal-light; black soot and smoke billowed in, blown from the funnel of the engine to the carriage window, the little casement sash that was ajar, and both the Dull Sister and the Dreaming Sister were jolted and quite startled!

They stared at each other astonished for a moment. For the black train smoke and soot had gotten onto the face of the Dull Sister - as if she had crawled and fallen from a chimney! - although the Dreaming Sister opposite her had escaped unblemished.

Yet for some reason it was the Dreaming Sister who was roused from her previous torpor, flummoxed as she was, and she began fumbling for a looking-glass, rummaging through her mirrored maquillage case to catch her own reflection - even though her face was quite clean and immaculate! - and the Diligent Sister resumed her reading, with her stained and dishevelled face, quite oblivious to her own sullied appearance as if nothing had happened! I wonder why that was! It seemed very ridiculous, and I had to suppress a little laugh; I could not help but think they were both quite stupid.

And at this recollection, she offers a little contented smile followed by a sigh. Her hand toys with a curling, stray lock of your hair.

>You think you know why the Two Sisters behaved as they did - suggest a reason why (write-in)

>Reply: perhaps you fell asleep yourself, Dearest? It seems a very peculiar tale to me.

>Reply: how daring for a lady to travel unchaperoned! You were quite fortunate to find a seat near these sisters, for there are always those impertinent strangers who might take advantage of a woman travelling alone.

>This is a dream, your dream. You need to awaken yourself. But how?

>You think you know the identity of The ODALISQUE. Who is she?

>You think you know your own identity. Perhaps you played the QM's demented games before. Who could you be?

>Something else? Write-in

>>5686360
No idea. Though... maybe it's a gas container?
>>5686372
>The seance! I almost forgot!!
>>5686593
>You think you know why the Two Sisters behaved as they did - suggest a reason why (write-in)
>The Dreaming Sister saw her sister's stained face and thought that she, too, may have been dirtied by the soot from the window. The Dull/Diligent Sister saw her sister's clean face and wasn't given the same reason to worry about her own appearance.
>You think you know the identity of The ODALISQUE. Who is she?
I don't know, but Lord Huntingtower referred to Beatrice Wentworth as the Odalisque here >>5682961. It's probably not her though...
>You think you know your own identity. Perhaps you played the QM's demented games before. Who could you be?
First time playing lol, no idea. Hmm...
>Something else? Write-in
>Talk with our lover. Ask how she has been, etc. Ask if she has a mirror to see ourselves?.. The mystery of our identity is tantalizing.

>>5686809
Wait, actually, let's not ask for a mirror, I heard looking into them turns dreams into nightmares.

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>>5686809
The Benevolent Institute for the Transformation of Charitable Housing (BITCH)
A seance is being held here to raise funds in aid of supporters of the destitute, elderly and infirm. Some of the funds may even be distributed to the needy, some day. Ever since the reforms of the New Poor Laws, provision of relief has been discouraged to any who refuse to accept the refuge and shelter offered within the confines of its red brick gothic walls. The rather grim architectural facade of the Institute buildings comprises a sanatorium ward in addition to separate male and female accommodation for the occupants, otherwise known as the Workhouse, although the Institute Committee prefers the nomenclature of a co-working family. There is also an orphanage that retains comprehensive records of unwanted births.

The ongoing construction of the railways and corresponding clearance and demolition of slum districts has ensured an influx of new homeless arrivals to the Benevolent Institute, joining the incessant flood of refugees and immigrants from the colonies. Consequently, the Benevolent Institute has had to expand many of its facilities for welfare due to overcrowding, absorbing several buildings beyond its original grounds. This has led to the premises taking on a bizarre appearance; a small series of opulent and well furnished rooms for the welcoming of wealthy patrons, appended to a large ergastulum of incarceration and misery.

One of the means by which the Benevolent Institute supplements its funds is through the arrangement of guided tours for wealthy guests, philanthropists and potential benefactors, amongst the most poverty-stricken and wretched inhabitants. The tours are not intended to serve as entertainment. The Institute is frequently on the lookout for burgeoning artists to adorn the sombre grounds, as it is a common belief that the labours of art furnish refinement for the soul. Many such poetic slogans, gilded or embellished in floral art nouveau lettering, can be seen praising the Benevolent Institute:

Do What You Love
Where Change Comes To Work
You Belong Here With Everyone
Create. Collaborate
Better Work, Together

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Benevolent Institute for the Transformation of Charitable Housing - Ergastulum, West Wing

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Benevolent Institute for the Transformation of Charitable Housing - Guest Vestibule, East Wing

Despite the initial misgivings of Enoch Lusk, the brougham rattles uneventfully through the cobbled streets to arrive at your destination. The Benevolent Institute for the Transformation of Charitable Housing is situated within an austere and forbidding red brick gothic revival building. You can see the premises are quite extensive, at parts giving the appearance of being hastily and haphazardly repurposed.

At the vestibule, a small attendant crowd of benefactors and supporters of the Institute have already gathered, and are listening to an introductory speech:

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Lady Blanche Fotheringay-Smythe
-My friends, ladies and gentlemen, and most distinguished guests: since the establishment of our Society For The Suppression Of Vice, we have sought to rectify the propagation of obscenity and immorality amongst the most vulnerable denizens of our City, particularly amongst the young, to prevent the pollution of susceptible minds by the corruption of vile and criminal literature. Since the advent of photography, and now the shameless circulation of productions of optical theatre, we have grappled with this great evil - dare I say it! - the abominable circulation and reproduction of the unclothed human form, of both sexes. To prosecute the law against these perpetrators of prurience has required the utmost in prudence and perseverance on our part. But I stand before you here today with a solution: the solution is shame!

In this land there are quite simply too many houses, but not enough Charity. The idle individual, dwelling upon their own means within the privacy of their independent abode, falls naturally to the inclination of the most depraved and miscreant manifestations of the sensual appetite. They begin to... explore themselves, in a wicked and unspeakable manner. What is needed is a means of surveillance, vigilance against the weakness of the flesh. Therefore that which I propose, Ladies and Gentlemen, is to abolish houses. Make the weak-willed live together! By means of the natural enforcement of shame, none who reside together will dare to parade their reprehensible perversions before their counterparts. Lust will be transformed to fellowship. Friends - let us join together; abolish houses, condemn the licentious, embrace modesty, and restore decency and trust to society!

>Applaud enthusiastically
>Applaud politely
>Applaud half-heartedly
>Just one single sarcastic clap, like an open palm, applied to the face
>Heckle Lady Blanche: Wouldn't co-living just lead to orgies? NAKED WORKHOUSE ORGY!!! (Some elderly and infirm pensioners in the workhouse exercise yard outside look up eagerly)
>I am just here for the seance, where is it?
>I would like to donate to this noble cause. There are far too many houses in the slum district, Cheapside and the Rookeries. We should demolish some of them. Maybe we can gentrify the district afterwards
>I would like to join this BITCH society please.
>I would like to join your Society For Suppression Of Vice please. I have never looked at any pornography; in truth, I do not know what that word even means.
>Examine the crowd to see if you recognise any guests
>Maybe you could slip away whilst this crowd is distracted, and look around the workhouse? Those Orphanage records, for instance...
>Something else?

>>5686900
>Just one single sarcastic clap, like an open palm, applied to the face
>I am just here for the seance, where is it?
>Examine the crowd to see if you recognise any guests

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Millicent Tittlerumpe
A demure young lady from a distinguished family, but whose father has been mired in political intrigue and scandal at Witenagemot House. Currently, he is under investigation for suspicion of the appropriation of state secrets and sensitive documents, of which he denies possession, yet will also not relinquish any evidence in his own defence. Millicent has bravely held her own conduct to be above reproach, and carried on as usual to the best of her ability. She is very grateful to Lady Blanche for shielding her from the scabrous attentions and inquisitiveness of the press.

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***
There is boisterous and ardent applause when Lady Blanche concludes her speech.

After a pause, Lady Blanche is on the verge of continuation, only to be interrupted by one very loud and embarrassingly mistimed anonymous clap at the end.

There is an awkward silence.

She seems to think the better of it, and moves on.

You see a very prim and demure young woman approach Lady Blanche, a little hesitantly, and whisper quietly in her ear.

From the angle where you alone are standing, you see Lady Blanche appear to become a little agitated, and as she turns away from the expectant audience, you think you hear her hiss almost imperceptibly
-...why here? Why now? I thought I told you to tell him: no meetings in public...

The young woman is apologetic and somewhat flustered, but says nothing.

Recovering her composure, Lady Blanche turns back to the audience:
-Now all those of you who were intent upon attending the seance should be aware that it has of course been suppressed, in the interests of public decency. I am given to understand by my assistant, Miss Millicent Tittlerumpe, that certain members of the audience were attempting to pose some very lurid questions, concerning the romantic proclivities of the deceased. Consequently we have agreed with Madame Cora Colman Blackwood that her services in the East Wing library will no longer be required. That will be all for today. And please remember to make your donations on the way out!

For some moments after, the audience appears to be too astonished to even respond, though some mutters and groans inevitably follow.

You see Lady Blanche swiftly heading towards the West Wing of the Institute - the workhouse, that houses the destitute, dragging along her hapless assistant Millicent in tow, whilst a few disappointed members of the public appear to be drifting towards the East Wing Library, perhaps hoping to catch a glimpse of the clairvoyant and Theosophist Madame Cora Colman Blackwood, before she departs.

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Ashby Duncoombe-Carrington

As the vestibule empties, you see a furtive looking figure get up hesitantly - he appears to have waited deliberately for the audience to mostly disperse, so that no-one will see in which direction he will leave.

A name springs to mind, from your pocket book - you think you recognise this man. His name is Ashby Duncoombe-Carrington. But what does he do? You feel the itch of forgetfulness in your mind.

QM: for unexplained reasons, please roll 1d6 hehe
>Roll 1d6, thank you

>Follow Lady Blanche and her hapless assistant Millicent Tittlerumpe into the West Wing of the Institute, where the poor and insane are confined in the Workhouse.

>If you follow Lady Blanche, you have a feeling you might not have time left to speak with the clairvoyant and Theosophist, Madame Blackwood. Wasn't this what you came here to do? The mystery of Lady Blanche will just have to wait for another day. Head to the East Wing Guest Library

>Follow the furtive man Ashby Duncoombe-Carrington, wherever he goes, you go

>Something else?

Rolled 6 (1d6)

>>5687038
>>If you follow Lady Blanche, you have a feeling you might not have time left to speak with the clairvoyant and Theosophist, Madame Blackwood. Wasn't this what you came here to do? The mystery of Lady Blanche will just have to wait for another day. Head to the East Wing Guest Library

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Benevolent Institute for the Transformation of Charitable Housing: Main Hall Entrance (West Wing, East Wing foyer access)

>>5687392
QM: If you are a new player, welcome! Please see the details for the ancient rite Tree Of Thoughts described here
>>5684557
You can see the hidden possibilities of a random table for a mysterious roll beforehand, but only if you sacrifice an item which will be permanently destroyed. Repeated use of this ability, as well as your other ability Cadastre Of The Inner Eye >>5683618 may strengthen and further evolve their manifestation. You can try to use these abilities by writing in at any time, even when unprompted! Beware, magic can have consequences! But used carefully, it might help you avoid, anticipate or prepare for a very dangerous life-or-death scenario...

The roll was for this:

1 Whilst exploring the Institute, you are mistaken for a dangerous and insane sanatorium escapee. You are dragged back towards a solitary cell by The Warden. But do not fear - in a few days time, any worry will be lobotomised from you...

2 Lady Blanche detects that you were spying on her. And you - You! - were the one sarcastically clapping at her speech! She will confront you angrily, later, when you least expect it

3 A member of the Benevolent Institute for the Transformation of Charitable Housing endlessly pesters you to make a donation. They will continue following you, and harassing you, and will not let you leave

4-5 You hurry quickly to either the West/East Wing, unimpeded

6 You recall a little of Ashby Duncoombe-Carrington's background, from your pocket book journal

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>>5687392
>>5687588
You chose:
Seance, East Wing Guest Library
>Rolled 6 (1d6)
***
As you wander towards the East Wing Guest Library, you suddenly recall that Ashby Duncoombe-Carrington
>>5687038
is a renowned publisher and literary agent, known especially for his academic and historiographical imprints and titles, having recently published a series of monographs upon the woodcut editions of the Far East artist Shibari Kinbaku, as meticulously annotated and translated by the eminent Orientalist, Augustus Wheeble. Ashby Duncoombe-Carrington has also frequently clashed with Lady Blanche Fotheringay-Smythe in the press; the newspapers have frequently published his vigorous defence against censorship, and in favour of freedom of political and artistic expression. Duncoombe's attendance at Lady Blanche's speech seems rather out of character to his publicly stated position.

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02 II: The HIGH PRIESTESS
Madame Cora Colman Blackwood, a fortune-teller and esoteric founder of the Theosophical Society

It is said only those in need, or distress, predict the future. For those in bourgeois comfort, such pursuits can only ever be a passing curiosity.

The Theosophical Society is known for its syncretist beliefs, having sought to reconcile the various traditions and faiths brought by refugees and newly arrived immigrants from the colonies to the City. The Latitudinarianism or "Broad Church" of the Theosophists, who mostly renounce strict adherence to liturgical tradition, has seen them derided as charlatans, shamans and witch-doctors amongst the Oration, or the "High Church" of traditional belief, who strictly adhere to the old rites of the Consolamentum, The Obediences, and the Strictures of the Oath and Light. Recently, the Theosophical Society under the stage illusionist Thelemy Maskelyne has spurred a revival in the popularity of spiritualism, through the demonstration of various apparently miraculous acts of phantasmagorical spectacle and mesmerism, as recorded through chronophotography and techniques of optical theatre through the newly developed strobolume, and projected via lanterns or upon the rotating animated tick-tock clattering drums of zoetropes. The gutter press has condemned this craze amongst the young for #witch-tock

As you approach the East Wing, you hear the strident voice of an elderly lady, shouting
-No, no, no! Go away! There will be no seance today! No! I do not know what undergarments your Aunt was wearing when she died! No! I do not know how they smelled! The spirits of the afterlife will not be answering any questions relating to the smells of underwear for the deceased! Now go away!

After a few moments, you see a small crowd of very disappointed onlookers being hastily ushered away from the Library by the Institute wardens and attendants. The Library is now quite empty and untended, except for Madame Cora Colman Blackwood, and one other solitary gentleman, of a rather cold-eyed and severe appearance -

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11 XI: JUSTICE
Silas Chillingwurth
Commissioner of The New Lanthorn Yard Constabulary

New Lanthorn Yard was founded from the old tradition of thief-takers and catchpoles, that arose after the lawlessness following the War and Old Armistice. Some remember that the thief-takers were little better than thieves themselves, as they frequently acted as intermediaries negotiating the transfer of sums between the desperate and distraught victims of theft, and those in possession of the missing and then mysteriously recovered goods, with the extortion of a generous fee for the thief-takers themselves in concluding the transaction. Should the thieves not return the goods as promised, they would then be betrayed by the thief-takers to the justice of the regiment or militias; but it was not uncommon for the thief-takers themselves to take a fee from the victims or dispossessed, and then disappear with no trace or progress in solving the crime.

Whilst Silas Chillingwurth has sought to reform and modernise the Constabulary, his authority is not widely recognised or even accepted throughout the City, and the discipline of his officers is somewhat uneven. The brutality of the Constabulary has made them particularly hated and despised in the slum districts of the Rookeries, where it is not uncommon to see two uniformed constables truncheoning and wrestling with each other in the gutters, over a drunken conflict of jurisdiction.

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Madame Blackwood mutters dismissively:
- ...Why this particular investigation over gloves? I do not particularly see the importance - there have been at least five unexplained murders of women across the Spittle Field near Whitechurch, shouldn't your constables be investigating those incidents? The poor women were horribly dismembered, do they not deserve some justice...?

Silas Chillingwurth replies
- Those women were harlots. The streets are perhaps less sullied as a result. Bill Hooke and his Grueller knife gang probably did them. Or immigrants; there are a lot of immigrants. But this matter of Lord Mortmain's gloves is far more important, I have express orders. If you would just look over these witness statements - perhaps your gifts can help us divine some avenue of investigation -

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>>5682954
It is commonally believed that no women are permitted to enter Le Cenacle club,
>>5682954
but this is not entirely true. For one, there are servants, kitchen staff. But also, occasionally some distinguished gentlemen, private members, prefer to bring in their own... female attendants. Bickerstaff, the proprietor, turns a blind eye to this.

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Now what I am about to tell you, it goes without saying, cannot be repeated outside this room. You see, Lord Mortmain,
>>5683932
he has a ... condition. With his hands. Hence the gloves. Perhaps it was something to do with his injuries, or his heroic actions during the War. All the depictions and statues of him have been altered, of course, they look completely normal in all the oleographs of the Lord High Intelligencer. So very few people know about his hands. The Lord Mortmain does not like being touched, his personal belongings - even less so.

When his gloves went missing in Le Cenacle, I immediately suspected theft. The premises were filled with some exotic dancers accompanying the retinue of the visiting Sultan, his Imperious Majesty Khosaef Bey I'doon. Do you understand the graveness and import of this incident to the reputation of our City, now? We took statements from those present, and a few witnesses outside too. Given the sensitive nature of the investigation concerning rhe Lord High Intelligencer, I instructed the constable merely to ask: "Have you seen anything unusual? Anything missing?" And these were the statements:

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Alfred Bickerstaff, Proprietor of Le Cenacle
Nothing could possibly go missing in this establishment, Sir. All staff are held to the strictest standards. The character of our clientele is beyond reproach. (Bickerstaff clenches his jaw, and says nothing further).

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Red Odalisque, dancer from the Sultan's retinue
Nothing unusual at all, constable. Maybe you would like a dance? But if you are investigating a theft, you should look to that Green Dancer. Things always go missing around her, she is always pilfering things from her amorous dealings. I am just an innocent... Besides, does it look like I am wearing enough to be hiding anything?

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Green Odalisque, dancer from the Sultan's retinue
Oh I did see something rather unusual earlier, at La Sauterelle, the restaurant near the Exchange. Firstly, I saw Hugo Bosanquet, the financier, stepping out of the doorway into his barouche - he is so devilishly handsome! - followed some minutes after by Beatrice Wentworth, acoompanied by her father, Isambard. She was in tears for some reason, inconsolable and weeping! I bet the gutter press and that journalist Randolph Sidler would love to hear what had happened! Oh and don't trust anything that Red Dancer says! She always lies!

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Augustus Wheeble (Constable notes: He looks around nervously, and trembles a little with guilt)
I... I hope there will not be any... bodily searches required, constable. Of course I am happy to assist with your enquiries, just not for my... cavities to be inspected. You know my premises were ransacked by some zealots from the Society For The Suppression Of Vice recently. I, a respectable antiquarian! It has unnerved me, I confess... I mean, not that I confess, I-I.. I am of course an upstanding and law-abiding member of society... er, perhaps you have seen my monograph...?

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Hetty Scantgrace, an inquisitive housekeeper
Is something the matter, constable? Why, it seems half of this street has been occupied by Lanthorn Yard! I was just on my way to the milliners on an errand. Or was it the seamstress? Oh, I should have written it down... Lady Beatrice will be so angry if I forgot what it was...

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Elsie, a pretty flower girl and apple-seller, a costermonger's daughter (she seems distressed and a little tearful)
Please, if this is about my father at the Workhouse...I am sure they will release him once he pays his debts! I am working and saving as hard as I can... I don't know anything about the missing gloves. But can you help me get word to my father? Please...

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QM: Finally, we have arrived at our mystery detective investigation mode!
>You must get out your special magnifying glass, hold it to your face and make your eye look very big. This will signify that you are entitled to randomly intrude upon a Constabulary investigation, and meddle with affairs of justice.
>>5684337

Who stole Lord Mortmain's gloves?
>Accuse Alfred Bickerstaff. Usually, the butler did it.
>Accuse the Red Odalisque. Probably, a thorough bodily search is required... a very thorough inspection...
>Accuse the Green Odalisque. Her digression seems suspicious, as if she were avoiding the accusation through distraction
>Accuse Augustus Weeaboo, I mean, er Wheeble. This is what anime does to a person. Anime was a mistake and the secret ingredient is usually crime.
>Accuse Hetty Scantgrace. Wasn't there something about her mentioned earlier...? Maids often pilfer things
>Accuse Elsie, the Flower Girl. Her father is clearly some sort of criminal, as he has been locked up already in the Workhouse. Crime is hereditary, and pervasive amongst the lower classes
>There really is not enough information to accuse anyone here. Just give up, leave the Library and explore elsewhere in the Institute
>West Wing:
>Workhouse
>Sanatorium
>Orphanage
>Stay in the East Wing, look around?

>Ask Inspector Silas Chillingwurth a question. Were there any other clues from the scene at all? (QM: you can try this, but you have a feeling that the primary capabilities of the New Lanthorn Yard Constabulary involve truncheons and not forensic science. If you do have questions there will be ONE final chance to revise your accusations afterwards. But there should be enough of a clue for suspicion from the witness statements alone...)

>Something else? Write in

>>5687592
>Far East artist Shibari Kinbaku
>>5687593
>#witch-tock
>-No, no, no! Go away! There will be no seance today! No! I do not know what undergarments your Aunt was wearing when she died! No! I do not know how they smelled! The spirits of the afterlife will not be answering any questions relating to the smells of underwear for the deceased! Now go away!
lmao at everything above
>>5687033
She looks cute. Maybe we can get a gf sometime? I wonder if this quest allows romance though...
>>5687609
>>5687610
Is this a reference to that puzzle where one person always lies and the other always says the truth, and you have to figure out which is which?
>>5687624
>Accuse Elsie, the Flower Girl.
Because of the following:
The constable was asked to ask a vague question here >>5687606 "Have you seen anything unusual? Anything missing?" without mentioning the gloves, yet Elsie obviously knows something about it from her reply here >>5687616
>I don't know anything about the missing gloves.
So it must be her!
But perform a search of the Red Odalisque anyways
>a thorough bodily search is required... a very thorough inspection...(and maybe something more...)
because MUST COOM.
Also >>5687392
>there's another anon playing now
Our numbers grow! I hope they stay.

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>>5687658
>Accuse Elsie, the Flower Girl
If the Commissioner of New Lanthorn Yard's Constabulary, Silas Chillingwurth, is impressed, he does not show it.
(QM: I am so impressed! I spent ages writing this puzzle, clearly it has been made too easy if the first anon solves it within minutes, nooo. Well I will just have to make the game harder muahahaha)

Silas grudging acknowledges:
- Well there appears to be some logic to your reasoning. I will instruct the Constabulary to arrest her. We should also secure some means of encouraging her to cooperate. Doubtless this mischief surrounding Lord Streynsham Mortmain has been directed by another, the lower classes cannot conceive of conspiracy, it is phrenologically impossible given their breeding and the measurements of their cranial capacity. And that is a very... interesting gas mask that you are wearing. Perhaps I will instruct all constables to wear gas masks. Hmmm. It may serve to deter the criminal elements amongst society. The smog in the Soot District and even parts of the Dockyards has become increasingly intolerable. Very well then, (QM: Silas turns to) Madame Blackwood, as you were. And not a word of what I said before, to anyone!

Just before he departs, Silas throws you a silvered badge. It reads, HONI SOIT QUI MAL Y PENSE, the heraldic device of the former Child-King Searlas III, an encircled starburst pattern with a crown at its crest.

Silas Chillingwurth continues:
-Perhaps New Lanthorn Yard could call upon you to resolve more incidents like this in the future. Madame Blackwood is rather concerned about the murdered prostitutes, though I would say good riddance to them. You could investigate around the Rookeries, Cheapside or Spittle Field and the Whitechurch. Most of the Constabulary is far too busy dealing with the work stoppage at Wentworth Ironworks & Foundry, these days. And if you do encounter this incorrigible thief, Elsie, in the streets, you have my authority to apprehend her. Good day.

You are a little concerned by the commisioner's powers of detection and observation, as he turns on his heel and abruptly walks off into the night.

QM: You are affiliated with the Faction
New Lanthorn Yard Constabulary

Whilst you possess the
Silver Constabulary Badge

To a limited extent, you can command and request assistance from the patrolling constables of the City. They will mostly refrain from truncheoning you in the face, if they are in a good mood, not drunk, and can see you clearly, or have not been bribed by street gangs beforehand. You also have the lawful authority to detain Lowborn suspects amongst the destitute and impoverished lower classes. You may interrogate Bourgeois denizens, but not detain them. On no account are you permitted to interrogate, detain or otherwise interfere with the Gentry, or Highborn. The lower classes may call you names, and the daring may throw the occasional stray turnip at you in the street. But it is alright - you may Lawfully bludgeon them.

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Madame Blackwood turns to you and declares impatiently:
-Well, what do you want? Don't you have some murders you should be investigating?

QM: Madame Blackwood can identify items for you, and also answer some questions. But you have a feeling if you demand too much, she may compel you to do a favour for her - or be cursed!! You are also wary that the Oration claims that many Theosophists are complete charlatans, who prey on the needy and indoctrinate them with utter delusions and nonsense.

>Is there some way you could test to see if Madame Blackwood possesses spiritualist powers? But best to do this surreptitiously, as it might infuriate her if she discovers your scepticism

>You can ask Madame Blackwood questions (write-in), as many as you want. You think it is best not to overwhelm her, she is already rather irritable. It is best to prioritise the most important questions first

>You can also ask Madame Blackwood to try and help you fathom the purpose of an item. Again, for the aforementioned reasons, it is best not to ask too many or too much

>You can also ask Madame Blackwood if she herself has any interesting items or artefacts to barter / sell. Eg does she have any healing items? etc.

>QM: you can also write in what you plan to do after Madame Blackwood answers your questions. You can stay at the Institute, or head to some other destination (write-in). Perhaps your questions here can only be answered elsewhere...
>>5687658

>You should run immediately to the West Wing. What was Lady Blanche doing with Millicent?

QM: please also roll 1d6, thank you!
>roll 1d6

Rolled 3 (1d6)

>>5687729
>Is there some way you could test to see if Madame Blackwood possesses spiritualist powers? But best to do this surreptitiously, as it might infuriate her if she discovers your scepticism
>Ask her to divine whether something suspicious is happening around Beatrice Wentworth
Let's see if she knows about the plot to ruin her reputation.
Also,
>Take off the gas mask

>>5687726
Also I should mention that me being able to solve the puzzle was, ironically, due to anime lol.

Mob Psycho 100 has this episode where a spoiled girl from a wealthy family is possessed by an evil spirit, so her father secretly calls psychics to help resolve the case, and they're allowed to enter the room she's in and question her, while she's locked up there in chains and isolated. So the mc's mentor, a masterful conman but not a psychic at all, enters the room and begins questioning her, and the spirit inside her pretends she's okay and asks through her "please help me, mr psychic, remove these chains", and that's how the mentor knows she's lying and actually possessed because nobody told her about the psychics coming to help.

I extrapolated this method of reasoning on this puzzle and looked for things suspects may say that they should have no knowledge of, and saw Elsie mentioning the gloves.

Anime outplayed you again, Souv.

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>>5687801
-Is that it? The old woman throws her head back and cackles.
-Usually they come with questions about Love. Or Money. But your question is so easily answered! Of course there are always designs and complots surrounding a wealthy unmarried young heiress. Why, it was even in the commissioner's statements that he showed to us, just now! (QM: >>5687610 ) - if that foreign dancer girl is to be trusted. So the answer is yes - and you can take that from the spirits, as well as from me.

QM: You feel Madame Blackwood is unlikely to countenance more outright scepticism surrounding her abilities. If you try again, you will have to be far more subtle. You think you can ask Madame Blackwood maybe just a few more questions:

>Ask her, can you make Millicent fall in love with me?
(QM: >>5687658 >>5687033 , or it can be some other NPC hehe)
>tell her in complete honesty, everything you have experienced so far. Don't some spiritualists need to be prompted? Do they work through psychological suggestion?
>relate in complete honesty everything you have seen, but omit what you saw and did in the Dead Land / Land Of Birds / No Man's Land
>Say to Madame Blackwood: I have no idea who I am. I think I killed some people, including a weird druid man who had a talking goat skull puppet for a hand that he used for romantic purposes, a gun bayonet gas mask man, and a strange barbed wire face man. I am carrying a gun that sometimes makes bullets appear and disappear. Sometimes, I also dream about women and making them fall in love with me. This is why I have walked into this place that incarcerates and lobotomises beggars and poor people. For answers, and help. Can you help me?

>ask her: do you know the story about the Raven Prince and the Faery?
>ask her: can you teach me some magic?
>ask her: I broke a mirror. Is that bad luck?
QM: this question >>5686811
>>5684336
>>5684472
>>5684476
>>5686593

>show her your pocket-book. What is this about?
>>5682945

>ask Madame Blackwood: why might someone want to destroy or ban all the clocks?
>>5683931

>Just ask her, Who is The Odalisque?

>ask her about trade / bartering an item
>ask if she can identify the use of one of your items, that you suspect to be unusual / magical

>Look at your own hands

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Explore the rest of the Institute:
>Run and see what Lady Blanche and Millicent were doing in the West Wing. Maybe they have already left...
>Explore the Orphanage
>Explore the Workhouse. Is Elsie's father here? Or was she lying for sympathy?
>Explore the Sanatorium

>Leave the Benevolent Institute, and head to:
>Wentworth Ironworks & Foundry
>Le Cenacle Club
>Witenagemot House
>Investigate the murders of the prostitutes in the slum district. Maybe you need to confront this "Bill Hooke" and his knife gang, the Gruellers
>Lady Temperance Annesley's Party, The Water Banquet

QM: I intend for this to be a fairly open-ended game, ie you can ignore the main story if you want, and pursue your own objectives. So you can take this opportunity to write in your own aims and desires and I will try to see what fits. For example, you could choose pursue a romance, to meet, kill or disgrace a certain NPC, or attain a certain position or status in The City.
(optional) You will make your own way in The City.
>write in a goal or desire of your own.

QM: also, please
>roll 1d6, thank you!

Rolled 6 (1d6)

>>5687902
>ask Madame Blackwood: why might someone want to destroy or ban all the clocks?
>Just ask her, Who is The Odalisque?
Ok, I think 3 questions is enough
>Look at your own hands
Oh, I suspected we might be either Mortmain or the disgraced abdicated child king, but wasn't sure. May as well check.
>>5687904
>Run and see what Lady Blanche and Millicent were doing in the West Wing. Maybe they have already left...
>Sacrifice the Chain Mask >>5684329 for Rite: Tree of Thoughts to reveal why there's a roll and what are the consequences
I think we still have it? We didn't discard it after obtaining the gas mask, right?

>>5687904
>>5688360
I think we should wait for a few more hours to see if other anons might have other ideas, playing alone is... strange. Romance would be nice, but the main quest (puzzling together who is the Odalisque, figuring out how the Raven Prince and Fairy story fits, what the dream with the woman telling us the two sisters story is about) is more entertaining to me.

Also I'd like to say you are great at creating these "limited resources" situations. After the sudden usefulness of the looking glass I'm always guessing whether the items I could sacrifice might come in handy later on. The various unresolved plot points are exciting as well. I previously thought your quests were just schizo esoteric tales, but this is actually really fun.

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>>5688360
>ask Madame Blackwood: why might someone want to destroy or ban all the clocks?
The pinched wrinkles on the face of the elderly seer palpitate in puzzlement:
-Why, because it is the month of Epagomene! The intercalary month, when we align our calendar to the Colonies! Are you a foreigner? Not from around these parts? Perhaps you have been away, for a long time? I suppose if you have been away you would not know; it was not always this way. This is the month of The Day Of Fifth Darkness. A shopkeeper or an emporium is only permitted to raise their prices after that festival. Well, some cheat these days, by cunningly and imperceptibly changing the dimensions, weight, volume, quantity or quality of the goods offered, whilst keeping the prices the same. Every year there is a great frenzy, because traditionally amongst the slums, it is seen as a cathartic occasion for a great release of bloddletting and rioting before purchases. The Constabulary have a great deal of trouble quelling it, but I think they secretly encourage it - anything to reduce overcrowding in the slums. (Madame Blackwood gives you an inauspicious, sinister glance) But I suppose you can also use the calendar to make people do strange things, convene secret rituals as circumstances arise or align. And if you change the calendar, eradicate timekeeping that governs rites, festivals and ceremonies, you can also make people forget... Nobody disobeys Time!

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>>5688360
>Just ask her, Who is The Odalisque?
Madame Blackwood narrows her eyes, until they recede deep into the aged creases of skin:
-The last person to have asked that question went mad. There was a painting unveiled by the artist Francis Leighton, a visionary painting that showed you Desire. It granted you bliss beyond imagining. Some people claim Leighton painted a vision of an angel! That he journeyed into the blessed Land Of The Birds, and beheld the beautiful abode of Her secret dwelling. Others say he paid a harlot from Cheapside thirty farthing-pentacles to bare her backside, sit on a paintbrush and a canvas, and leave an imprinted smear. Whatever the truth of it, all of Leighton's visions couldn't save his calling - photography ruined him. He rants and raves in the Institute's West Wing Sanatorium now, when they haven't sedated him. Calls for his angels. I would stay away from him if I were you.

QM: (optional)
>Investigate the Clock Tower near Witenagemot House

QM: (optional)
>Meet with Leighton, and ask him if the Odalisque he painted was real
>Ask someone familiar to Leighton to accompany you, as it may calm him down

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>>5688360
You look at your hands. They seem ordinary, reassuringly ordinary.

For a moment, you had a horrible, creeping suspicion. The carriage, the worn heraldry of beasts and the motto upon it... were you Streynsham Mortmain? Perhaps some affliction had caused you to lose your memory, and forget who you were?

But the sight of your hands calms you - you cannot be Mortmain. What a strange and curious name he possesses!

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You feel an overwhelming sense of relief.

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You retrieve the Chain Mask; there is some savage imprint upon it which you had not noticed before, but no matter. It is a peculiar and brutish-looking mask. You think the purpose of it was probably intended to protect against shrapnel, for it offered little aid against the gas cloud. The metal links of the mask remind you a little of the old tale of an evil king, who had his gentle twin brother's face bound in iron. Or was it the other way round?

You invoke the rite to surrender it to the Trees. The Chain Mask must be worthless; you relinquish the past.

>>5688360
>Oh, I suspected we might be... the disgraced abdicated child king...

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Versipelles-Gorlagon
Heraldry of a wolf-raven, Valraven Of The Slain.

After the Old Armistice, their deeds were erased - Damnatio Memoriae. Some still recognise their crests, which take the form of an impossible union of two animals. Peacock and swan, wolf and raven...

(QM: If you want to know the alternate lore of this House, from another of my game settings, see here - )
https://archived.moe/qst/thread/5391397/#5413999

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Tree Of Thoughts ascends to the rite: The Hollow Tree

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...and you see the Chain Mask unravelling, the ridged brow rupturing into jagged points that splay into a wickedly protruding... beak.

QM: The roll was this - you are very lucky!! You have a chance...
>>5687801
>Rolled 3 (1d6)
>>5688360
>Rolled 6 (1d6)

1 THE HORNED CROW HUNTS FOR YOU
It bursts into the Institute Library, and dismembers Madame Blackwood. By bursting out of her. Then it turns to you...

2 The Horned Crow severely wounds Madame Blackwood, talons raking at her eyes and face

3 It waits

4 An errant crow flies into the windowpane outside - thumps against the glass. Then silence

5 A guttural cawing is heard

6 The Horned Crow... hunts... For You??? Somehow, even though she is probably a charlatan who possesses no gifts, Madame Blackwood helps you reverse the curse - even as she screams and cowers impotently in panic and fear

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>>5687593
Madame Blackwood's face writhes in the horror of one who can recognise a thing, knows what it is and can anticipate its movements and excruciations, yet is utterly powerless to do anything to stop it.

She screams over and over again
-The Horned Crow... it hunts... FOR YOU! (repeats this, jabbing her finger in your direction, over and over again) Spare me! spare me!! aaiieeeeaaAAaARRRGGHaagahh...!!!

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>>5688643
It looks like an ordinary crow. It is rather small, but its talons are hooked and sharp. The Crow actually does not have any horns, but there is something wrong with its beak.

>Madame Blackwood's unwitting words have shown you how to break the curse of this murder-spell, that Mortmain had inscribed upon the pocket-book, waiting to be triggered after your first use of the rites that took you to the Dead Land. Write-in how you think you can end the curse, and
>roll 1d6

>You think it is just an ordinary crow. It will die if you shoot it a lot. How many bullets do you have again?
QM: roll 2d6 each time you pull the trigger. You have a strong inclination to FIRE EVERYTHING
>roll 2d6 for each trigger pull, or
>FIRE EVERYTHING, roll 12d6

>The camera, the magnesium sachets... but you have no time to prepare them safely. Hurl the camera flash powder as an incendiary, and hope for the best...
>roll 1d6

>something else? QM: you can try to use another item, or some other action

Rolled 1, 4 = 5 (2d6)

>>5688654
>Use the trench club to smash it
>Before this, try asking the crow to spare us
Since it's two actions, I think I'll roll twice.

>>5689054
>1
Guess we're dying, recalling how there was a 1/6 chance for death from trench raider shooting us back in the Dead Land.

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>>5689054
>>5689056
The lick of the Horned Crow lifts the hackles of your blood, as it cuts across your flesh like a sawblade. You stare at the red gleam of the open gash across your arm in disbelief.

You are WOUNDED
You have gained trait: BLEEDING. You need to find medical supplies to treat this condition.

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>>5689054
The mouth of the Crow bristles as it caws in mockery, wriggling maggots of tongues dangling from its cruel split beak, as they taste and savour the air like serpents. The Crow caws again, and the air is filled with the sawing rasp and unnatural stridulations of its serrated tongues.

The Crow is small, and very fast. Desperately you heft the blunt weight of the Trench Club - there is blood running upon the handle, your own blood - as you hunt the feathered blur of horror with the hammer-blow of your flailing swings.

You feel the crunch of flanged metal intersecting with the cawing cacophony - you have hit it! - and you feel a momentary elation, for amidst the splintered edges of wooden shelves in the library and the drifting whirl of crushed feathers, something has met its bludgeoning edge...

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But as you try to look upon your triumph, all you witness is a glimpse of a harpy's feast upon a heaped banquet of human entrails. You reel back, staggering and stumbling in shock and horror, and the Horned Crow soars upward in wicked triumph - for you have barely hurt it, at all.

Madame Blackwood is whimpering and huddled beneath one of the overturned library shelves - she appears to be attempting to swaddle her own face with her arms, as if somehow this would insulate her from what she is witnessing.

You wonder briefly if this hideous creature is toying with you. Strangely, you hear a merry musical trundling noise accompanied by the sing-song laughter of a child. Is it something to do with the nature of this curse, and its wording? The Horned Crow Hunts... "FOR YOU", Madame Blackwood had screamed again and again, though she appears to be blubbering now and has lost her sanity. Perhaps this demon bird intends to kill all those around you first, make you watch their suffering, before delivering your end. How can you unravel this curse?

>You think you know the hidden meaning of the curse The Horned Crow Hunts For You, and how to unravel it. Write-in
>roll 1d6

>Maybe you can destroy the words themselves? But there is no time to find the exact journal page of the Pocket-Book. Take the magnesium flash powder from the Camera Flash-lamp, ignite it and burn it all. And hope you do not set yourself ablaze...
>roll 1d6

>Ignite the Flash lamp and hurl it at the Crow as an Incendiary
>roll 1d6

>You have slightly wounded the Horned Crow with your blows. Hit it with the Trench Club again and again and again...
>roll 1d6

>Scream at Madame Blackwood: Hold it down! Hold it down!! (But will she respond?)
>roll 1d6

>Try to issue some other command to Madame Blackwood. For instance, you could tell her to flee or give her an item and command her to use it etc.
>roll 1d6

>Fire your Galand Revolver at the Horned Crow
>roll 2d6 for each time you choose to pull the trigger

>Something else? Write in

QM: you can write in as many actions as you want, but I will generally prioritise the first few or so. You can attempt to coordinate multiple actions eg give a club to Madame Blackwood and tell her to attack, whilst you fire the gun etc. Remember to roll all the necessary dice required for your actions if you attempt this... The Horned Crow attacks again only after your choices above have been completed.

>Try asking the Crow to spare us
hehe this is actually not that far off, but you need to break the curse first...

Rolled 1, 3 = 4 (2d6)

>>5689125
I >>5689056 may be playing erratically with varying IDs throughout the weekend since I'm away from my flat and good pc, hope other anons pick up the quest.
>Say "(You)" to the crow
>If that doesn't work, shoot it 2 times

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>>5689187
>Rolled 1, 3 = 4 (2d6)

2nd roll, 3 > 1

QM: This is a HIT! phew, hehe.

The rules from here
>>5685353
for the Galand Revolver specify that it hits if the 2nd d6 is strictly greater than the 1st d6, as it simulates the action of the long trigger pull of this revolver. So to fire twice you would need to have originally rolled 4d6 (hopefully this is not too confusing...! hehe)

QM: as also noted for mysterious supernatural reasons,
>>5685353
any bullets you fire from this gun in the City somehow "reappear" in the Dead Land / Land Of Birds / No Man's Land. So at the end of this combat your gun will have 4/6 in the City, and 2/6 in the Dead Land, as demonstrated previously here.
>>5686062

Since you mentioned you would like to fire twice, please roll another 2d6 again... it is best to make sure The Horned Crow is really, really dead...

>roll another 2d6 please, thank you!

Rolled 4, 3 = 7 (2d6)

>>5689257
Forgot about that mechanic.

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>>5689187
>>5689318
The Horned Crow bursts in an impossible fountain of clotted gore. You believe your second shot missed, but the first was more than enough.

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For a few heartbeats afterwards you are frozen, in tense anticipation, the muzzle of the revolver still smoking, and as you watch, the wisps of drifting smoke somehow carry the scent of desert sands, becoming strands of cloud over the embalmed flesh of sky, a mirage of a vermillion palace drifting over the sinuous haze of parched wilderness. You feel each grain of this moment passing like grit through the narrow throat of an hourglass, but then a heartbeat later the last grain of it is gone.

(optional)
>Point to where the mist of the blood-mirage had been, the ghostly vermillion city, and ask Madame Blackwood: Did you see that...? What was it? That city...?!
>Berate Madame Blackwood: You were... utterly useless. I guess you do not have any gifts, you have no Power at all. You are a fraud! Perhaps all of your Theosophy is a deceit...!
>Moan feebly... gaaargh, my arm...
>Say nothing

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Slowly as you shake the trauma of the unleashed demon crow from your being, you realise that the nature of the curse was that you could command it. The Horned Crow Hunts For You... as in, it hunts after you, or instead: it hunts on your behalf, Hunts "For" You. Perhaps Mortmain wanted you to realise this, and command it to slay Madame Blackwood instead, to free yourself from the murder-spell...

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Madame Blackwood has recovered some of her lucidity, but beads of perspiration and panic remain mottled upon her brow. You sense a certain bitterness in her - perhaps the sense that you have manifested a power which she covets, having hoarded the lore of it, but lacked the gift to wield the rites themselves. The old hag mutters:
-We shall not speak of this. Nothing of note transpired here (glancing at the toppled shelves and ruined tatters of books from the first bout of your Trench Club blows).

Madame Blackwood continues,
>Still, you have shown some skill in your use of that... peculiar firearm. I know a Name, a man that owes me (the old hag cackles to herself contentedly at this). He... "owes" the Theosophical Society a great deal, ha. This man, he knows of firearms. He could help you, you need only mention my name and he will give you what you need. I will provide you his name... for a price. I am defenceless, that last ambush proved it so. The gun for the Name. Leave your gun with me, and you will soon get another...

>I... just saved your life, you ungrateful old hag! Whilst you were cowering beneath the broken shelves my arm was torn to shreds! You are the one that owes me...! Give me that name now!
>(Attempt intimidation) give me that Name, or else I will expose you as a fraud before this entire Institute, as well as your Theosophical Society afterwards!
>(Attempt even harsher intimidation / bluff) You vile old hag! I will call that Crow back from the Dead Land, and let it feast upon your avaricious soul!! (QM: you cannot actually do this unfortunately. Yet. But maybe it is not wise to tempt fate)
>I need healing more than I need a gun... (moan with agony)

>Something else...?

>Well, kill mode has begun. Shoot this old hag dead and loot her corpse (No roll required)

QM: as you examine your injury with a wince of pain, you think your current wound is manageable. The bleeding does not impair you at the moment, but may weaken you very slowly over time. It may also have other detrimental effects... as well as making you susceptible to Heavy Bleed (this condition will weaken you very rapidly). You think you have two avenues of treatment:

>You can hunt for some actual surgical supplies in the Institute Sanatorium West Wing. This is the most assured solution, except you just need to run through the bedlam of lunatics, hysterics and maniacs to get there

>You can hunt for a seamstress or tailor out on the street, break-in and find some needle and thread to stitch your wounds. Maybe the best manner to inaugurate your induction into the Constabulary is through committing crimes (QM: This leaves the Institute. You can always return later)

>Ignore the bleeding for the time being; some supplies are bound to turn up. Head towards... (where? Write-in)

>Something else

>>5689399
>>Point to where the mist of the blood-mirage had been, the ghostly vermillion city, and ask Madame Blackwood: Did you see that...? What was it? That city...?!

>>5689407
>>(Attempt intimidation) give me that Name, or else I will expose you as a fraud before this entire Institute, as well as your Theosophical Society afterwards!

>You can hunt for some actual surgical supplies in the Institute Sanatorium West Wing. This is the most assured solution, except you just need to run through the bedlam of lunatics, hysterics and maniacs to get there

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>>5690751
Even as you utter your threat, it occurs to you that if the preeminent founder of the Theosophical Society in the figure of Madame Blackwood is a fraud, perhaps... the entire society is preying on the vulnerable and anxious and their need for guidance and counsel. Could it be that the Benevolent Institute even encourages this? Madame Blackwood shakes her head in disdain:
-Threaten a frail old woman, would you? You'll never know the whereabouts of Ezskael Tranter, not to mention the secrets of Al-Ghurab and the Red City Of Temptations! And if that mad dog Tranter sees you by the Railyard near Wentworth Ironworks & Foundry, I hope he shoots you dead!

QM: The faction - The Theosophical Society slightly disapproves of you. Madame Blackwood will perhaps spread deprecations of your conduct amongst the Society, rendering them more suspicious and reticent in providing any assistance to you. You wonder if you could have perhaps consented to Lady Blackwood's outrageous exchange whilst simultaneously bargaining for more - healing, or perhaps some commendation amongst the theosophists, all alongside an introduction to Tranter, in exchange for the keeping of your mysterious firearm. But now you almost regret not shooting her dead.

(optional:)
>meet Ezskael Tranter by the Railyard near Wentworth Ironworks and foundry
***
As you exit through the opulent guest reception of the East Wing, the vestibule that welcomes Institute benefactors for tours, you glance through the West Wing foyer with some dismay at the insalubrious and unnerving sight beyond.

The West Wing opens out into what was once a grand courtyard and formal gardens, likely intended for the convalescence of the war-wounded, veterans and other invalids, but has now fallen into a hideous state of neglect and ruin. Amidst the untended statues, overgrown parterre and topiary you can glimpse the stumbling shapes of gibbering and gesticulating impoverished inmates, patients who are clearly psychologically unsound and disturbed, wandering freely and seemingly absent of any supervision. They appear mostly placid, but you fear that the sight of violence may provoke their mania.

>Er... hello there, ... insane person? Could you tell me where I might get some treatment for this...? (Wave your wounded and bleeding arm around)

>I have just slain a demon bird with my magic revolver. The bird came from a vision of a red city levitating in the desert or maybe it was a dream. Previously I shot a druid and his talking goat skull as well as a gas mask man and a barbed wire face man. The horse died though it was very sad. Can you help me get some treatment please??

>Do you know where I might find Francis Leighton, the painter? How is he feeling? Does anyone ever come to visit him at all?

>Ignore the insane inmates, just walk around a bit and try and find some medical facilities.
>if you choose this option, please roll 1d6

>Something else...?

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Along the gallery that opens out onto this courtyard, you can see a series of three paintings, arranged in the form of a triptych, and displayed as if they had once belonged to an altarpiece. The sequence of paintings is entitled
The MAIDEN MESSIAH, or The Martyrdom Of The Cult Of Liberty
You can see numerous outline sketches, rags, a palette and an easel with paintbrushes scattered around the triptych, though the painter of these artworks is nowhere to be found.

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The first painting depicts a solemn and funereal procession, that consists of a warband of armoured men bearing bloodstained and tattered red flags, the oriflamme and aftermath of some peasant jacquerie or an uprising. At the head of this beleaguered multitude, a woman is depicted bearing the head of a king on a silver platter. Her expression is difficult to read, but it seems to be caught between lamentation and resignation, as if one had just shouldered a heavy burden. You recognise in this historical scene a reenactment of the Temptress who demanded the head of the tyrant, King Searlas I, first of his name, who was alleged to have been deposed after the Dance Of The Seven Veils. In the Interregnum after the fall of his reign, many ships set sail for the New World to escape unrest, strife and persecution, thereby founding the first colonies. The title of this painting is TYRANT.

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The second painting is far more mysterious. It depicts the figure of a red woman, clad in the ancient style of a wild maenad of Gothograec, and crowned with a radiant diadem of thorns. The woman's features are veiled by the cascade of her long hair, that reaches down towards the whispering shadows of her thighs. Her arms seem to be entwined in an act of ecstatic self-embrace, and her expression is one of delirium or reverie. Behind her are the looming shadows of spires or broken towers, the empires that have fallen beneath her conquest and irresistible triumph. The title of this, the centrepiece triptych painting, is MAIDEN.

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The third and last painting depicts a gloomy woodland scene in a forest forgotten and shrouded in mists. A lone sentinel by lambent torchlight watches over the decapitated head of an ancient ruined statue - a head that appears crowned in thorns also, though these have long since yielded to verdigris and corrosion. The attire of the watching sentinel reminds you a little of the druids of Gorsedd, who sought to bury the artifacts of the past amongst the trees, so that they would never be found. The title of this last painting is MARTYR.

(optional)
>Study the paintings for a while in silent contemplation
>Rearrange the order of these paintings. Was this the history of the world?
>All this art is so pretentious. You could improve the artistic merit of all these paintings through vandalism. For example, all the personnages depicted would look much better with phalluses drawn on their heads. (Draw phalluses on all the paintings, with an especially big one on the Maiden Messiah's forehead)
>Ask a nearby insane patient or inmate of the Benevolent Institute to explain the paintings to you. Perhaps they can provide some helpful artistic interpretations? Maybe these paintings help calm them?
>Something else? (write in)

>>5691385
>Ask a nearby insane patient or inmate of the Benevolent Institute to explain the paintings to you. Perhaps they can provide some helpful artistic interpretations? Maybe these paintings help calm them?
Lets expand our perspective

>>5691385
>Ask a nearby insane patient or inmate of the Benevolent Institute to explain the paintings to you. Perhaps they can provide some helpful artistic interpretations? Maybe these paintings help calm them?

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Patient XII-XIV

A stranger has come to share my room in the house not right in the head - A girl mad as birds, bolting the night of the door with her arm her plume. Strait in the mazed bed she deludes the heaven-proof house with entering clouds; yet she deludes with walking the nightmarish room, at large as the dead, or rides the imagined oceans of the male wards. She has come possessed! Who admits the delusive light through the bouncing wall; possessed by the skies... She sleeps in the narrow trough yet she walks the dust, yet raves at her will, on the madhouse boards worn thin by my walking tears. And taken by light in her arms at long and dear last - I may without fail suffer the first vision that set fire to the stars!

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Patient IV-XVII

I blame myself for it. I should have known better. I let you persuade me in a moment of madness. I beg you to forget my insanity! Insanity is not a fit subject for fiction. I wake up in the morning all bedraggled, then I open a little green book, and the birds are singing, the stars shining, the flowers twinkling - but there’s a green fog outside; Hetty turns on the electric light when she brings me my tea, and says, ‘Oh, ma’am, the water’s frozen in the cistern, and cook’s cut her finger to the bone.’

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Patient VI-XV

...that was a mistake, on your part - still may be regained. Think, my Lord; power obtained grows to glory; life lasting, a permanent possession. A templed tomb, monument of marble. Rule over men reckon no madness. To the man of God what gladness? Sadness! Only to those giving love to God alone. Shall he who held the solid substance wander waking with deceitful shadows...?

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Patient 0-IX

In her room all the mirrors are covered, because she sees my reflection in them - usurping her own - and she trembles and cannot speak, and says that I am magically following her, watching her, stalking her. Everything in the world can be the seed of a possible hell; a face, a word, a compass, an advertisement ... anything can drive a person insane if that person cannot manage to put it out of their mind -

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As you timidly manoeuvre through the shambling morass of demented lunatics, gingerly taking care to orient yourself away from the befoulement of the most damaged specimens, your exploration is rewarded by the sight of a very large medicinal cabinet, with numerous locked drawers and compartments.

As you approach nearer to this large medicine cabinet, you see that nearly all the drawers have been opened and ransacked, except for one that reads
F. LEIGHTON
There is a small combination lock of numerals and glyphs upon this secured drawer. It is not very sturdy, and you think a very sharp blow and some subsequent levering will prise it open.

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The Warden

In the far end of the courtyard, you see an ominous and incredibly corpulent figure approaching, who appears to be some sort of orderly or supervisor for this ward of the Benevolent Institute. He is accompanied by -

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The Nurse

a sinister spindly woman, who is carrying an assortment of unpleasant looking needles and large syringes and also what appears to be trepanning equipment. The Nurse is ringing a curfew bell. The Warden himself appears unarmed, other than his massive and intimidating bulk - he resembles a walking wall of flesh. You also notice that aside from his leather apron, the Warden does not appear to be wearing any undergarments.

>Wave to the Nurse and Warden: You are just the people I have been looking for! I have injured my arm - please could you provide me with some medical treatment?

>Brandish your Silver Constabulary Badge: I am here conducting an investigation on behalf of the New Lanthorn Yard Constabulary. I require you to provide me with medical equipment and direct me to the painter, Francis Leighton, at once!
>>5687726

>Attempt to try one of the patient codes in the combination lock:
>Patient XII-XIV
>>5691573

>Patient IV-XVII
>>5691576

>Patient VI-XV
>>5691580

>Patient 0-IX
>>5691584

You have no time for this. Use the chiselled end of your Trench Axe >>5684327 and
>smash the lock to the medical cabinet

Well, this looks like a setpiece for another battle. Just draw your Galand Revolver and
>Shoot the Warden and the Nurse
>QM: please remember to roll 2d6 each time you pull the trigger. 4/6 shots remaining. Thank you!
QM: This is the only opportunity for a no warning surprise attack. The Warden and the Nurse are situated on the far end of the courtyard some distance away from you, with a large crowd of Institute inmates interposing in between.

>Something else? You can try using other items, speaking to the shambling crowd of insane patient inmates or asking them questions, etc.

>>5691595
>Blow the Trench Whistle to agitate and rally the madmen against the Nurse and the Warden
>Smash the medical cabinet lock with the Trench Axe in the chaos, take the supplies and escape
We'll return later for the author of the Odalisque unless he dies in the mayhem.

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>>5692197
QM: This is a very clever and inventive use of the Trench Whistle item! I will give you this with a very favourable probability, 5/6 (basically do not roll a 1, hehe...) Please see the following random tables below:

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>>5692242
1 Not only do the shrill blasts of the Trench Whistle provoke the demented horde of insane patients to a frenzy, but they also draw the attention of the Warden and the Nurse to your vicinity... you are seized by a churning, limb-wrenching maze of clawing hands...

2 The plan worked! The agitated lunatic horde shambles in a disordered stampede towards the Warden and Nurse, who try in futility to fend them off. However, a passing stray arm snatches away your Trench Whistle, because - Shiny, Shiny!!

3-5 The lunatic horde overwhelms the bloated and corpulent Warden and his spindly syringe-wielding Needle Nurse. The scrabbling and groping hands in particular distress the Warden, as unfortunately his intimidating leather lobotomy / torture apron offers no protection to one who is not wearing any underpants, against the relentless funnel of fumbling hands, flailing and clawing everywhere. The Warden and Nurse flee in disarray pursued by the afflicted maniacs. All except for one, sorrowful forlorn figure, standing all alone amidst his trampled paintings and ruined handdrawn sketches

6 (as above, except...) it seems in the stampede, one of the insane patients dropped an unusual possession

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>>5692242
Brandishing the Trench Axe,
>>5684327
you slam the hardened edge against the delicate lock and... miss. You soon realise that aiming for the small loop of iron is impractical - it is far easier to simply reduce the wooden panels of this cabinet and its drawers to hewn splinters.

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>>5692244
As you bash the medical cabinet apart whilst attempting to cleave the lock from the drawer hinges, you find all that remains in the rubble is:

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1 Just bandages. They may just about stop the bleeding. You could wrap these around your face, embalming yourself to look like a mummy, or a resurrected, unliving pharaoh!

QM: Only cures Bleeding. Does not heal wounds

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2 (all of the above, and) You find a hypodermic needle, accompanied by some camphorated tincture of opiates. It will alleviate pain, but not treat the wound - Enough to make one abhor the dull routine of existence, to crave for mental exaltation; for the mind to rebel at stagnation, to seek the most abstruse and intricate cryptograms... (You may raise your Magnifying Glass to your eye, and make it look Very Big)

QM: Pain relief permits you to temporarily endure the effects of wounds, and also steady your nerves; it does not cure wounds. You may find yourself needing more... and more...