Thread: Whisky Nocturne

Missy will send her actions today. Sorry guise.

This should be interesting.

Grod, Kiza and GestaltAlteration all have yet to send in actions.

I'll wait til the 7th and then put up a chapter. If you three haven't sent actions in by then, I'll hazard a wild guess at what you'd do.

Inactivity on the players' part really won't be what kills this game off.

A STREET UNDER GREY MACHINATIONS


Wesley Deighton, A Cellar Under London

Flicking at a loose fold of a peeling weal in the crook of his nose, Wesley Deighton ran his stained fingers back and forth until the paper package came to shape. Licking and pinching closed, he fitted the roll-up to chapped lips and lit with a spluttering match-head between his nails.

Slow inhale. Hold. Slow exhale. The cigarette grounds him in the damp cellar under the Dantalion Institute of Theopneustic Glossolalia, fixes him in time and space with something bitter, smoky, and tangibly quotidian. And time and space in the deep dark of the blackened brick cellar were fast becoming things of debatable qualification.
Beyond the orange glow of the burning cigarette Deighton could see nothing of the cellar. He had conducted a warranted search in the daytime with the Institute's coolly indifferent caretaker and knew the measurements, proportions and inventory of the place ad verbatim. Iron ladder - early stages of rust visible, but still sturdy enough - leads down on the east wall from a wooden trapdoor in the central hall above. Each wall of brick, unusually darkened as though blasted by explosive or heavy industrial fumes. Cellar nine feet in height, nine feet across, and twelve feet long. Wooden crates near rotted, containing glass jars long smashed and emptied, save for the few in which long-dried insects appear to remain contained. Deighton suspected preserves in use. Someone preserving insects.

And nothing more. Which made it strange then that now the cellar seemed as gaping and as endless as a cavern as he stood in the darkness, smoking a quiet cigarette and waiting for the rumbling to begin again.

The shaking. The reason he had been assigned to stand in this lightless prison in the ground. A rumbling and a shaking and a roaring that rattled the cellar every night, from which howls and wails and all the curses of all the dead tongues could be heard. The reason the Institute's custodian had hired Deighton.
Wesley Deighton. Fresh faced at fifteen and trying to earn a living as a private investigator on the streets of a careless London city. He stood in an oversized tan jacket with a blunt billy-club tucked in a sling under his arm-pit.

The roaring started. Then the whistling then the shaking then the rumbling then the rattling and all the sounds of a furious hell shook the boy's lonely figure and extinguished his cigarette with a warm and laboured breath. Something wheezing and slavering and breathing hot stench over him.

He kept his balance, and slowly waited out the raging of the thing until the cellar went calm and still enough for him to relight his smoke. He shook the match to nothing and tossed it over one shoulder.
The bloated mess of an inverted blue-bottle fly flapped and flopped about in the darkness. It was all around him, unseen but there, tendrils and human-looking flesh and entrails all snaked and looped around him in all too tight loops, but all of it still a part of this hideous, monstrously sized wingless inverted blue-bottle.
A protruding tongue licked the back of his hair, raising his greasy blond strands and plastering them down. He took it with a brief shake of his head, as though irritated by a breeze.
-Wesley Deighton...you know me not of now but of jungle-time ahead, where all is savagery and undergrowth and canopy...but you WILL know me...and you will HURT me...and I name you cursed for it. Cursed now and cursed for all time hence...let your ruin come before our appointed meet and I will be sated and happy...if not let your ruin come after, and I will be venged...I name you cursed to imprisonment in the skin-taker's world...no other death will please me for you...when you meet with the Wendigo you will suffer and you will fall...slowly...nothing other...

The cellar calmed. Deighton waited awhile more, and climbed the iron ladder, throwing back the wooden trapdoor.

Nothing. The cellar had been empty. He had heard and seen nothing.

Shit. Fuck. Sorry. Sending actions.

You disappoint me, Kiza.

Sometimes I sit up late. Just worrying about my Whisky players. I try hard to please you. To make you smile. To make you laugh. To give you something of an escape, however brief or artificial, from the everyday monotony of your quotidian existences. To let you soar as the rebellious Missy Stream, or the wild and dangerous Arthur Radley.

And this is how you repay me.

Waiting for a confirmation, if not actions tonight yeah.

I'm being tardy. Busy time. Preparing to move back out to university living as the holidays draw to a close. Chapter ought to be written before Saturday and the move, though. Consider this a nice break.

Or a chance for Gestalt to send his actions in. Either or.

Or maybe a chance to check out Gaia's Folly. I heard it was like. Good. And maybe active.





Meanwhiles, tappity this ant and read some classy old horror. About ants. By H.G. Wells. I mean. Fuck, convinced already much?

You'll never get my actions. NEVER!

(Just flip a coin. I'll send them in next chapter. :x)

Coolio. I got distracted by the long haul back to uni. But it's a brisk early morning wake-up with a mild headache now and I feel like I can write anything.

Chapter on tha way, true believers.

Hurray

Sorry about this bout of inactivity on my part. The game certainly isn't dead.

Mostly that something came up uni-wise and is commandeering my attention and efforts.

Will be back on track. Soon.

Take your time. It's finals time here.

Warming up. Break almost over.

CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN - ALAS FOR THE SPLENDOUR OF THE PRINCE! HOW THAT TIME HAS PASSED AWAY!


Aaron Clark and Arthur Radley and Isaac D. Locke and Jack Heflin and Orlando d'Ariel and Missy Stream and Paul Garcia and Wesley Deighton and Huitzilopochtli, The Highest Peak of the Wide Wasteland at the Edge of all Worlds

Arthur spat, his one hand clutched to his gaping stomach and the other to his rifle, forcing his weight down against it and pushing himself into an upright crouch. The acidic juices were burning his hand, now, and he felt bile slip slick and thick through his fingers.

"Not...not long left for me now, I guess," he paused to cough racously, his whole body shuddering as he choked up another mouthful of broken throat. Cartilage caught in his teeth. He swallowed it back, then spat.

He heard the sound of the others' footsteps on the glassy rock peak behind him, wavering, then joining his side.

"Not long left for any of us, old boy," Jack Heflin grinned, morosely. He lit the offered cigarette from Wesley Deighton, then smoked it in long, heavy drags. The cannon he lugged behind him on rope and wheels came to standstill, heavy and with dark, open maw.
"Looks like here's a good enough place to make a last stand as any," Missy Stream said, simply. The two gatling guns tucked under each arm weighed on the mass of hacked flesh about her neck but she braced her face fast against the pain. The grimace seemed almost a death-mask. Rigid and expressionless.
"I always knew it would come to us, a shitload of guns, and some dank dark horror from Below," Isaac shrugged. He spun the revolvers from holsters to hands, then cocked them. The sound echoed in the emptiness beyond them.
"I might just be some faggot guard, but we overcame our differences and came to see the inner beauty in all of us," Paul Garcia said. "and now I'm honoured to be stood here with all of you at the end of it all."
"We're not even player characters," Orlando d'Ariel and Wesley Deighton intoned, blank and devoid of life.

And beyond them all the great swarming mass of Huitzilopochtli raged and grew, the tendrils and tentacles and thick hairy spider legs and skeletal arms and ugly amputee stumps and gun-metal girders and fluidic shifting no-mass reaching out, spreading and enclosing about our intrepid heroes.

"To our deaths," they said. "and to his."

And with that, they began to charge, opening fire as they came.

And the highest peak of glassy rock at the edge of all worlds was filled with the sound and light of explosions and of bloodshed.

And then they became the monster.

Battle not with monsters lest ye become a monster and if you gaze into the abyss the abyss gazes into you.

goddommot sinderd

Aaaah. Looks like there may be a break in the game 'til next month.

Have both a friend sleeping on my floor and exams. Not a good mix for writing role-playing goodness.

Aaaah. Looks like there may be a break in the game 'til next month.

Have both a friend sleeping on my floor and exams. Not a good mix for writing role-playing goodness.

booo...

this sack of coke is not gonna last

Next Chapter, NAO!

I'll go save the goons and not be such a bastard regardless of my horrid past. :3

DO IT.
(plx)

Oh man guys I know how excited we are about this new chapter but I'm gonna be gone for a week, sorry
Gest is in charge of my actions until I get back