Do you think Father, it might be possible for me to do some readings in your chapelry?
The priest nods easily, smiling at Howard. "Of course, my son. All are welcome in my chapelry, particularly those of the faith. See me after the service and I'll take you there and introduce you."
The funeral itself continues along the normal progression you'd expect of such a ceremony, the pallbearers arriving shortly with his coffin.
Spot Hidden normal success:
The six pallbearers are seemingly struggling under the weight of the coffin, which obviously shouldn't be an issue. Perhaps if they were all infirm professors, but these are strapping young college students enlisted (and probably promised extra credit or the like) for this task.
Malcolm, you get the info from the first spoiler from the doctor.
"Ah, yes, I will be fine. Just, unusual circumstances all around, you see. When a close friend passes so suddenly and without any warning, things always get a little uncomfortable. Thank you so much for asking." she says, smiling warmly and placing a hand on his arm.
The Father says a few words over the casket before letting a few others (including a heartfelt speech from his cousin Clara) speak and then the pallbearers pick the professor back up and set him gently into the hole that has already been dug by the church. With that, the crowd begins to break off into even smaller groups and make their way back to their vehicles or inside the church.
If you have any other questions for any NPCs, now is the time! If not, you are free to gather and discuss plans for the next steps.
A few of the people in attendance glance over at Oliver as he says this, most notably Dr. Keats, the university's physician. Most of the crowd nod slightly, agreeing, but her face is obviously a few shades paler than what it was before Oliver spoke.
She doesn't speak, but it's quite clear she has something that she isn't saying, and really doesn't want to. You'll have to do a bit more convincing privately to get her to open up.
Charm/Persuade normal success:
"The, uh, state in which the professor was found was not...suitable for the public viewing. I insisted I did the autopsy, and both I and the undertaker agreed that no one who knew him would want to see...that. It's best for the family and all involved that we keep it closed casket throughout."
Charm/Persuade hard success:
"His chest had burst open from all the pressure of the ear-ah, sorry, that's probably saying too much. If you have any real interest in seeing what he looked like...at the end, I can invite you over to my office tomorrow and show you some of the photos I took during the autopsy."
The physician agrees to let you see his autopsy photos, but there is no way she'll agree to let you open the casket or anything like that.
While I can't answer the first four questions directly (obviously), I can say that there is plenty opportunity to ask the NPCs these questions. As long as you aren't excessively rude, they won't react poorly to questions, especially once they know you are part of the 'investigation' into everything.
I wouldn't make an investigation where every single NPC is standoffish and won't answer questions without a good reason not to, so don't worry about that! Feel free to ask away at the funeral, especially as the crowd is spread out into their own private groups under umbrellas and all that.
If you want to go back and have a bit more discussion and comparing notes at your private room at Voisin, please do so!
Once you're done discussing anything else you need to talk about at Voisin, you make your way out of the restaurant again to begin the walk (or ride) to Trinity Church Cemetery for the burial itself. The skies have darkened a bit, with the sun falling below the buildings of the great city, and the clouds above have opened to deliver their cargo of fresh rain. The streets are already drenched, with people ignoring everything and everyone else in their attempts to get themselves out of the rain. It's a cold rain, the cool fall air making the water chill you unless you take proper precautions.
The trip back up towards the cemetery is perhaps expectedly quiet of the normal sounds of New York, with everything being muted by the oppressive downpour of rain. Geez, you haven't seen rain like this in a while, whoever is up there really had something to say about tonight. You pass by that blocked off road from earlier, but most of the cops have moved on and the road is just closed off with police tape, guarded by a handful more officers milling about.
The cemetery itself is a surprisingly simple affair for a church as important and old as Trinity, a handful of respectable rows of burial plots and mausoleums. Luckily, the professors' selected spot seems to be underneath one of the larger trees in the yard that still has most of its leaves, providing a measure of defense from the downpour.
The actual ceremony is somewhat of a more positive affair than the earlier meeting, with most of the grief and emotions escaping their way out of people at the reception and funeral. People are smiling (although weakly) and reminiscing on the good memories they have of the professor and his work. The dean notices you arrive, and nods a polite greeting
All of the NPCs I mentioned earlier are here again, and you can interact with any of them. The mood is a bit better now, so you might be able to pry some more info out should you wish to do so.
The dean chuckles wholeheartedly at the end of Malcolm’s story, fully enjoying it. ”That does sound like the Elias I knew. Man, I’m going to miss him more than I thought I would…” he says, sounding a bit thoughtful before taking another sip of his drink. The fact that he was even drinking this in a semi-public place such as Voisin surely spoke much about his particular level of wealth and influence, given the height of Prohibition.
If you still want to share a fond memory of you and the professor for characterization purposes, feel free to do so in a spoiler or something. Don’t want to cut anyone out!
The rest of the wake winds down naturally, with Silas sharing a few of his own stories of the professor’s antics both on campus and otherwise, before he finally seems to accept this particular vulnerable moment is coming to a close. The hardened face of the school dean holding it together for everyone else’s sake returns, and he says his goodbyes and makes his exit, leaving the rest of you behind at the private room. You have it scheduled for at least another half hour (it’s about 6:30 pm), if you want to take the chance to discuss any of the things you have learned or discovered so far.
Once you’re done with all, it’s only a short trip over to the Trinity Church Cemetery for the actual burial that you’ve been invited to. You expect to see a couple of the more important people in the professor’s life there, should you wish to perhaps speak to some of them and make proper introductions.
"And I very much appreciate the gesture. I know of you only by passing mention from Elias and a few others at the university, but I can tell he chose his friends well." he replies, holding his glass of cognac up in a mini toast before taking another small sip and taking the time to savor the taste of the alcohol.
"Why don't each of you tell me a story you remember about my good ole friend, let the memories flow as easily as the cognac."
Feel free to get creative, but don't go too crazy obviously!
If I remember, Oliver planned this to be a private wake, as in the four of you plus him. Talking to him like you want should be no issue.
The dean seems to be in the 'proper' mood for this meeting, and the question actually takes him off guard even with how professional he must be in his job. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that he had plans to rope others into his research even after he passed. Elias always was very thorough in his work, I'm sure you knew that about him."
He takes a moment to think through his answer, as if deciding whether to answer. Eventually, he does.
"I don't know when you last spoke to or worked with him, but the professor was working on investigating Egyptian rituals of burial, from what I understand. He had found some sort of book or tablet, I never saw it. Called it the "Codex of Earthbound Rites" or some other over-grandiose nonsense title. I assume he left it to you, could you make any sense of it?"
"Either way, the professor was stuck on this theory that some of the rites we assumed were more death and afterlife related were in fact something entirely else. I can't speak to all that, but if you do end up discovering what it all means, I'd love to know what he and you found."
After you're all done investigating your respective sites and gathering the various clues to be found at each, you each make your way (individually or together) towards Voisin. The clouds have grown darker, a portent of rain later this evening, and the streets are full of people obviously prepared for that eventuality. You find that it actually takes longer than you'd have expected the trip to take, whether you're making the trip on foot or by car, as the NYPD has cordoned off a street with crime tape and isn't letting anyone past. You have to take a detour a couple of blocks down from the blockade, so you arrive slightly late to the arranged meeting time and the dean is already sitting at your reserved table inside the private room Oliver organized ahead of time.
Once inside out of the mist that is quickly becoming rain, you notice that the restaurant is alive, but subdued. It’s the calm between lunch and dinner, when only a few tables are occupied and the maître d’ seems to glide rather than walk, his voice a careful hush. You are shown to that private dining room upstairs where the dean waits, past mirrored walls and the soft hum of a jazz trio rehearsing quietly near the main floor.
The room itself is intimate, paneled in dark mahogany with a long oval table dressed in white linen. A silver tea service glints under a shaded chandelier, and the faint aroma of coffee mingles with perfume, cigars, and something floral: lilies arranged discreetly near the far wall. Their scent is just a touch too strong in the close air. Outside the curtained French doors, one can hear the clatter of dishes from the kitchen, and occasionally the creak of floorboards as a waiter passes by. Inside, the sound seems swallowed, as if the room itself wants to keep the gathering private.
Dean Harrow sits in a chair at the far end of the table, mulling over a glass of cognac from a bottle the venue provided. He looks up when you are ushered into the private room, nodding and smiling weakly as the group files in. "Ah, good to see you all. This place is a bit...fancier than my usual haunts, but it's always good to experience things on the richer side of life, I feel." he says, remaining seated as you file in and take your seats.
Apologies, Marcus, forgot the second half of your post.
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Do they know what he was researching? Do they know of anyone else he collaborated with?
The Athenaeum is very much a private research collective, rather than any collaborative venue. Members have their own private locked study rooms, and operate mostly in intended secrecy, beyond the public record of what books they have checked out to take to their rooms.
If anyone knows what he was researching or who he was working with, they’ll be at Columbia University; whether that’s the dean or someone else in the faculty remains to be seen.
Marcus has no way of telling where these numbered "sites" are. Is that correct?
At the moment, no, you can't find any mention of these sites. You're allowed to take all of the professor's research as part of your bequeathment, but it'll probably take a bit of time (perhaps overnight) to really dig in and get the most out of it. Although as I mentioned, the books on loan from the Athenaeum must stay behind. You know you can't check out books without being a member, though that is certainly something you can look at in the future.
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Or does it surround the doorframe, like something bowed the entire doorframe?
This one is more accurate, looks like a huge weight was put on the room over the door somehow, and formed the spreading cracks in the wall.
Can I spend 3 points of luck to succeed on that Anthropology roll?
You absolutely can. I’d also just like to remind you that you can spend Luck to improve any roll (besides Sanity or pushed rolls, that is), should you wish to increase your degree of success. Let the spending begin!
Oliver:
Oliver does indeed find that the third key on the ring isn’t used in the townhouse anywhere, indicating it must unlock something elsewhere. A key is hidden behind the crystal decanter that will open the filing cabinet, revealing a wealth of architectural documents that, in any other circumstance, would’ve excited Ollie. In this one, however, there was a bit more of a solemn atmosphere hanging over the whole situation.
It’ll take some time to dig through the study’s library fully, should you have a desire to, but just from a glance you notice a singular book is misplaced, stored on the shelf upside down. You know this from your experience with the professor to mean he hadn’t finished reading it yet.
Picking it up and opening it reveals it to be a textbook on architectural processes, specifically relating to setting building foundations and the measurements needed to ensure a stable building. As Ollie explores the book, a small page torn out of a notebook drops out into his lap, the professor’s cramped writing evident.
”7’2”, unsafe. 9’8”, too much pressure. 11’, no echo, safe.”
But that’s not the most interesting thing he finds in the study. Going back to that desk and the decanter, he finds a small metal tin about the size of a snuffbox with an engraving and a symbol: ”The Smirke Foundation”. The symbol is a wide open eye, pupil included, superimposed over an eight-pointed star. Opening it, he discovers a golden medallion matching the symbol hanging on a high quality golden chain, the eye jeweled with a single deep blue gem.
Marcus:
The atmosphere inside the Athenaeum is strange, and the professor’s private room actually feels like a safe haven from the electric feeling you get when out in the main room.
Diving in to the pile of rubbings, translations and other various researches the professor left for you here, you clearly see that this was a project in progress. There are books that are clearly open to certain pages (which the Athenaeum will recollect from the room once you’re done, they’re on borrow from their greater archive), inkwells sitting next to ink-stained fountain pens, etc. that proof the professor did not leave this particular site finished.
Taking a look through the research itself, your knowledge of anthropology lets you pick out that the subject of research was specifically rituals used for burying things, usually bodies. Words like ‘internment’, ‘enclosure’, and ‘entombing’ are constantly referenced in the translations.
Amongst the pile of various research, one hand-written note sticks out see below. Matches the professor’s handwriting from what you know and what you’ve seen here.
Marcus Note:
Site 3 (desiccated). Alignment consistent. Weight displacement minimal. Human interaction tolerated only in constrained space.
Hieroglyphic motif recurring. Lungs: observation of inhale volume required; note tendency for confinement to induce passive sediment accumulation.
Compare with Site 7, same latitude; check enclosures, vault integrity. Cross-reference previous entries: 1, 5, 9.
Lead seals remain intact. Access only for catalogued personnel. Do not allow for unmonitored exposure.
Observation complete. Reinforce containment before next assessment.
Each of you,before you leave your various sites of inquiry, notice a strange symbol at various places for each site. It looks like a loop of rope with a bit tied around the bottom of the loop.
Malcolm’s is sitting above the professor’s classroom door on the inside, split open with one of those structural cracks, Marcus’ sits on the exquisite carved wooden table in the professor’s private Athenaeum’s room, Oliver’s is hurriedly scratched into the desk with what looks to have been some sort of knife, and Howard sees his inscribed, hidden away inside the container of locked deposit boxes.
You’ve gleaned just about everything there is to learn from these sites, so I’ll give you some time to react, and then move to the private wake with the Dean.
That’s exactly what I was looking for Malcolm, there weren’t any wrong answers. Just a bit of cooperative worldbuilding.
Howard:
The cascade of cockroaches catches you off guard to be sure, but that’s not what truly unnerves you as you look inside the professor’s safe. As you grab the deposit box and pull it out to take a look at it, you catch sight of a singular small black spider with the shiniest black shell you’ve ever seen. Its fat, glossy body has long tapered legs and a round, engorged abdomen. You don’t need any special knowledge to know this is a black widow and for some reason you are convinced that it is staring directly at you. It sees you, specifically.
It doesn’t stay around long, scurrying away after the tide of other insects and disappearing into the shadows and nooks of the safe.
Inside the deposit box are what look to be hundreds of letters from various important people in society (governors, mayors, museum curators, elite collectors, etc) to the professor, as well as dozens of letters the professor himself sent out to local governments. It’ll take a bit of time to sort through everything and figure out why exactly you were left these, but you should have plenty of time to do that tonight.
Malcolm:
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Mal pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and moves first to the desk to examine the scrawl in the open notebook.
The note book is clearly the professor's handwriting, as you can easily recognize the cramped style he wrote letters to you in. Taking a look at it, you see that it cuts off mid-sentence, obviously leading you to believe he was interrupted in his writing.
As Malcolm looks over the journal (see below), he notices that the middle of the desk right in front of the chair is covered in a thin layer of dirt. As in actual earth, not the dust that has inexplicably covered the rest of the room.
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Next, he moves to the bookshelf, looking at the spines of the misaligned books, curious about their titles. He uses his handkerchief to pull them out, ready to flip through the tomes - if necessary - to see what secrets they might hold. He also glances into the space they leave on the shelf, curious if anything is behind them.
Unfortunately for Malcolm's more adventurous side, the books aren't a series of levers for a secret room. Each of the books with the worn-down spines seem to focus on various historical periods spread across a wide chunk of time. You'd need some time to dig into the books and what they cover or any similarities and a Library Use roll later. The spines are simply worn down by someone reading them, perhaps spread open on a desk.
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Mal proceeds to examine the wall with the spiderweb of cracks near the door – trying to determine if it was new damage
With his sharp-eyed vision, he is able to spot the fresh plaster dusting the floor around the door, indicating that it isn't old damage.
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he picked up a fact or three about edible versus poisonous plants. And the professor’s unexplained death made him immediately think of poison.
Malcolm's initial suspicions seem to be pointing him in the right direction, as he identifies the plant growing through the tile floor under the professor's desk as atropa bella-donna, an extremely poisonous flowered plant. A thorough investigation of the plant and the tiles around it show that there isn't some secret garden beneath it. It's just the singular plant sprouting up through the floor.
Journal's last entry:
"Office hours ran long today. Fewer students than expected, but the questions were sharper than usual, seems the undergraduates are finally reading ahead. I made a note to revise the syllabus again next term.
Reviewed correspondence from the Athenaeum this afternoon. Their cataloging methods remain frustratingly inconsistent, though I can’t deny the material itself is valuable. I’ll need to visit again before the end of the month if I want access to the lower stacks.
The soil samples from last week have dried completely. Interesting how compact they’ve become once left undisturbed; I’ll want to compare them against the earlier collection when I have time. Remind myself to bring proper containers next time—glass isn’t ideal.
Stayed later than planned. The building settles differently at night, and the radiator has begun ticking again despite the heat being off. I should ask facilities whether that’s norm-"
The professor's townhouse, which you got the address to, is a respectable brownstone building at a corner in downtown NYC with just one story. The front door is a simple wooden affair with a metal screen door on the outside and is locked, but opens easily to the first of a ring of 3 keys you received along with your letter. Upon opening the door, the first thing you notice is an obvious aroma of dry stale air that only happens when a space has gone unused for quite some time.
The front of the townhouse is mostly the rooms necessary for living; a kitchen, a small sitting room with a radio, the professor's seemingly sparsely used bedroom, a small dining room with a plain table with one seating.
The professor’s study occupies the rear of the townhouse, set slightly below street level, as though the room has settled into the earth over time rather than been built. The second key on the ring you have opens it's door, letting you in. The air is cool and close, carrying the dry scent of old paper, lamp oil, and something mineral beneath it, perhaps dust or soil after rain.
Bookshelves line every wall from floor to ceiling, dark oak bowed subtly inward under the weight of their contents. The volumes are densely packed, arranged with meticulous care, yet no two shelves follow the same logic: philosophy gives way to geology, theology to burial customs, folios on ancient rites pressed hard against modern academic journals. In several places, books have been pushed back an inch too far, their spines recessed, as if the shelves were swallowing them.
At the center of the room sits a heavy writing desk, its surface nearly bare. A blotter lies perfectly squared, the ink bottle stoppered tight, a single pen aligned parallel to the desk’s edge. The chair is pulled in too close, leaving little room to stand comfortably behind it.
The only window in the study is narrow and high, its glass clouded with age. It admits a weak, gray light that never quite reaches the corners. Beneath it, a radiator ticks softly, overworked, as if struggling against a deeper cold that seeps up through the floorboards. A thick rug covers most of the floor, its pattern dark and geometric, the pile worn flat where the professor’s feet would have rested for hours at a time.
In the far corner stands a tall iron filing cabinet, its drawers labeled in the professor’s precise hand. The bottom drawer bears faint scratches along its face, shallow but numerous, as though it had been dragged open and shut more often than the others—or resisted. When the room is quiet, the walls creak and settle, not sharply, but with a slow, patient sound, like pressure redistributing itself.
Nothing in the study is overturned. Nothing appears disturbed. And yet the space feels overfilled and crowded, as if the room is too small to contain everything it has in it.
Oliver, what small, human habit of the professor is preserved in his study, something that makes his death feel immediate rather than that of a distant acquaintance? Go ahead and give me a Spot Hidden and a Library Use roll too, if you'd like.
Malcolm and the University Office:
The professor's office at Columbia University is on the second floor of the Archaeology building, and is locked when you arrive. You weren't given a key, but a quick interaction with a clerk on the first floor in combination with an explanation of who you are and what you want gets you in easily enough. The clerk explains on the way back up that the professor's body was found in this very office, collapsed forward over his desk, and no one has been in since that day besides the police.
The professor’s office sits at the end of a narrow corridor in the archaeology building, removed from the bustle of lecture halls and student offices. The hallway outside is high-ceilinged and echoing, but the moment the door is opened the space inside feels markedly smaller, tighter, as though the room does not quite match the proportions promised by the building around it.
The office is long and rectangular, with tall windows facing the campus, but the shades are drawn all the way down, muting the daylight into a dull, institutional gray. Dust hangs in the air, disturbed only faintly, as if the room has been entered rarely and reluctantly since the professor’s death. The smell is dry and stale: paper, chalk, old wood, and beneath it something heavier, loam-like, the scent of soil that has been tracked indoors and never fully cleaned away.
Bookshelves dominate the walls, filled with academic texts, excavation reports, and neatly labeled boxes of notes. Several shelves bow subtly, not from neglect but from sustained weight, their brackets strained just enough to notice if one knows how to look. A few books sit oddly misaligned, pushed back farther than the rest, their spines flush with nothing visible.
The professor’s desk is positioned beneath the windows. It is heavy, scarred by years of use, its surface crowded but orderly: stacks of papers squared off, correspondence bundled with twine, a half-used notebook opened to a page of cramped handwriting. A layer of fine dust coats everything evenly, even for the desktop itself.
The walls are bare of decoration save for a campus map and a framed certificate, both hanging just a little crooked. The plaster around the doorframe shows hairline cracks radiating outward, thin and spiderlike, not fresh enough to alarm maintenance but too localized to be ignored. The door itself is solid oak, its lock well-made and intact. There are no signs of forced entry. No scratches, no splintering, no damaged hardware.
Looking under the desk where you were told to find the suitcase does indeed reveal it, but strangely enough there is also something you didn't expect next to the suitcase: a plant growing up through the floor with a singular bell-shaped purple flower.
Malcolm, how do we know the professor loved working at the University? Also, go ahead and give me a Spot Hidden roll.
Howard and the Deposit Box:
This one is relatively easy, just head to the bank and use the key you got to open it. The bank staff seem surprised to see you, but after a quick explanation they express their condolences for your loss and offer to show you to his deposit box.
The elevator disgorges you into a narrow, brightly lit hallway lined with polished marble panels. The corridor is impossibly still, the only sound the faint echo of your footsteps. Even here, above the hum of the city outside, there is a sense of distance from the street: a sterile calm, the sort of order meant to reassure, but which feels oddly absolute.
The vault door dominates the end of the hall. Its steel surface gleams faintly under the overhead lights, the lockwork intricate, precise, and deliberately intimidating. A small brass plaque reads: Private Deposit Boxes – Restricted Access. The lock clicks with careful deliberation as the key provided by the lawyer turns, and the door swings open with a quiet hydraulic hiss, revealing a tight, windowless chamber whose walls are lined with identical steel boxes, all numbered and polished.
Inside, the air is cooler and drier than the hallway, almost brittle. The floor tiles are smooth and slightly worn under decades of careful traffic. A faint metallic scent lingers, along with the faint tang of oil from the hinges. Each deposit box is small but perfectly proportioned, barely larger than a shoebox, yet capable of holding objects of value. The lighting overhead is sharp and even, throwing no shadows, leaving no corner unobserved.
Your assigned box sits halfway down the row, the number stamped into its front. Opening it, you find a stack of letters and other correspondence just as the will said, about as high as the average pile of college textbooks. The stack is precisely arranged, immaculately preserved, as though the previous visitor had handled it only once before sealing it away.
Howard, how do we know that the professor hasn't visited the deposit box in a while? Feel free to get creative! And give me a Spot Hidden, if you don't mind.
Marcus and the Alden Athenaeum and Philosophical Society:
The Alden Athenaeum is a narrow, venerable stone building tucked between taller commercial structures, its façade aged to a soft gray by decades of urban weather. A brass plaque beside the arched entrance bears the Society’s name in carefully engraved lettering, worn slightly at the edges. The door opens into a small vestibule, where the polished oak floorboards creak underfoot and the scent of old paper and beeswax polish fills the air. A receptionist sits behind a desk, an elderly woman with crooked reading glass pouring over a dusty old book. She greets you, and once you explain who you are and what you want, smiles politely and invites you in warmly.
The main reading room is long and rectangular, with high ceilings supported by dark wooden beams. Rows of tall bookcases line the walls, their shelves overflowing with leather-bound volumes, journals, and pamphlets documenting centuries of scholarship. A muted carpet muffles footsteps, while narrow windows let in slivers of light that fall unevenly across reading tables scattered throughout the room. Each table is marked by neat stacks of papers, inkpots, and carefully arranged chairs, evidence of use without disorder.
The atmosphere is hushed, as if the walls themselves have absorbed centuries of quiet debate. Narrow aisles between the bookcases make the space feel denser than its dimensions suggest; turning a corner reveals alcoves where sunlight does not reach and dust settles more thickly. Several shelves are cordoned off with small brass gates or locks, indicating restricted access—an older catalog of rare or sensitive works preserved for scholars deemed trustworthy.
A spiral staircase at the rear leads to a low-ceilinged mezzanine, where additional books and private archives are stored. The space is dimmer here, the air slightly cooler, and the faint scent of aged paper stronger. Steps creak underfoot, reminding visitors that the building is old and unevenly settled. A small reading desk sits against the wall, piled with ledgers and manuscripts. Faint scratches in the wood suggest frequent use over many decades, though nothing appears disordered.
Everywhere, the Athenaeum exudes a sense of careful preservation and disciplined study. The building feels alive with intellect and deliberation; every object is maintained with purpose, and yet the space carries a quiet weight, as if it knows secrets best not disturbed.
The staff escort you to the professor's locked private room, which has been cleared out of all contents besides a table with a spread of documents you are intimately familiar with: translations, rubbings, unpublished plates, diagrams, maps, all sorts of interesting documents that are exactly what you like dealing with.
Marcus, how do we as players (not necessarily your character) know that this Athenaeum is the real deal with regards to their collection of occult tomes and artifacts with real power? Also, feel free to give me Anthropology and Library Use rolls while you're at the Athenaeum.
Here is a good map of the route from the private wake that Oliver reserved at Voisin (southern) to the Trinity Church (northern). But I'll remind you the committal is at 8 pm, and it's currently about 3 pm. So you'll have time to dig around your 'assigned' spots for your bequeathed information even after the committal.
Great question! The lawyers basically explain that while you all were his first choices, you were not his last. If you refuse, there are other letters for others that might say yes. Conveniently, this will also be the explanation for adding a new PC when a current one dies/goes insane/otherwise leaves.
Oliver and Malcolm are able to easily shake off whatever perception warping thing is going on, rationalize it as some sort of stress from the long day perhaps. They push their way through the too-long hallways and the too-small corridors until they find the front door again, dragging the rest of the group with them.
Howard and Marcus on the other hand, feel the effects of the weirdness much more so than their companions. They can't quite shake off how the corridors seem to stretch on for miles in front of them at times, or endless staircases spreading out before them heading down, or the sensation and sounds of miles of earth pushing in on the hallways they take. Finally, the other two manage to carry them along through the strangeness and emerge back out onto the street. The city springs back to life, the sounds of people and cars and construction returning to their normal levels.
Clara nervously looks around at the four of you, obviously having felt and experienced it too but not wanting to be the first to speak on it.
Sanity loss, Howard and Marcus:1d3 ⇒ 1
Will let you get in some discussion here before we split off into your separate locations for the things bequeathed to you.
"Oh, I wouldn't mind being delivered to my hotel, you know the one." she says playfully to Howard. "Whoever you get can just drive my car over there and leave it with the valet. I think I'll skip the private wake, though, that sounds like something the dean might want to do alone."
The professor's lawyers let you know that you can keep the letters, but the actual will itself has to stay with them. Should you need to inspect a specific part of it later for some reason, they'll have it here at their office.
As the group gathers themselves to leave, alone or together, the strangest thing happens. You are taken back out towards the front door through the maze of legal offices you traversed to get to this meeting room in the first place, but with each step it seems as if you are slower and slower. Not necessarily because you're tired (although you might be), but because the entire world feels like it's pressuring you.
The sounds of the city outside the building, which so recently blared through the front layer of offices in the maze, have suddenly become dulled and far away. The walls of the corridors dig into your space, appearing as much closer and much more imposing than you remember. Those same corridors seem to extend for much longer than they did on the way in, and did that staircase heading down from the second floor have more stairs than you thought it did? Do you have claustrophobia? Surely not, but why else would you feel like this?
So you have a few places of interest to check out: his apartment study, his office at the university, the lockbox at the bank, and the Alden Athenaeum and Philosophical Society. You have a few NPCs of interest, but you've pretty much got everything from this specific scene, as it were.
There is also the committal at 8:00 tonight. You don't have to go, of course, but you've been invited at least. What are everyone's plans?
”What were the circumstances of the Professor’s death?”
"That is quite the interesting question and it's a good sign that you're asking it, if the professor's will is anything to go by." the lawyer says before continuing.
"The unfortunate truth is...we don't know yet. The police are still investigating his untimely passing as a murder, and even the medical professional who performed his autopsy won't tell us anything. The only thing we know is that he was found in his office at the university, and all the doors were locked. There were some…strange details neither the cops nor mortician wanted to tell us, no matter how hard we pried. That strangeness might be connected to all this strangeness, but don't worry. His will doesn't have any provisions for his manner of death, and he didn't have any life insurance to speak of."
"I would be personally interested in anything you are able to find out, however, as he was my friend as well as client."
but were you particularly close to your uncle? Could you shed some light on this matter?
Clara looks just as clueless and shocked as the rest of you at your mention of her uncle's research.
"I, uh...I don't know anything about any of this. I wasn't ever particularly close with uncle Elias, he never showed me any of his researches or anything. I'll have to do some looking into things of my own, see what all he left me."
Ms. Warden, are you coming to the will reading, and do you have a ride? I must admit to being somewhat perplexed as to why I was invited, perhaps you'd care to join me?
"Ah, I have my own car here, so you'd need to bring me back afterwards, but yes. I think I might enjoy joining you." Clara replies, taking your rented Bentley and arriving with you.
The offices of Cadwalader, Wickersham & Taft are located at 200 Liberty Street in Lower Manhattan (a correction of my mistake in the letter) and are opulently furnished, visible even from the outside.
You are shown through a sequence of narrow corridors, each lined with dark wood paneling polished to a dull sheen. The ceilings feel lower the farther in you go, not by design so much as by accumulation, layers of renovation, soundproofing, and added conduit slowly pressing the space downward over the years.
The conference room chosen for the reading is long, rectangular, and entirely interior. There are no windows. Light comes from a row of green-shaded lamps suspended over the table, casting downward cones that leave the upper corners of the room in shadow. The air is warm and faintly stale, as though it has been breathed many times before.
The table itself is massive, carved from a single slab of dark wood. Its surface bears faint impressions where countless documents have rested, pressed flat by years of deliberation. High-backed chairs line its length, their leather seats stiff and unyielding, encouraging good posture and little movement. Along one wall stands a series of built-in cabinets, their doors flush with the paneling. They look structural rather than decorative, too solid, too heavy. You can imagine that removing them would leave the room somehow weaker.
At the head of the table sits the firm’s representative, a senior partner whose voice is calm, practiced, and utterly neutral. He places the document before him with care, flattening it with his palm as though ensuring it does not shift.
When the door closes, the sound is not a click but a final, padded thud.
"I shall now read the Last Will and Testament of Professor Elias H. Farnwright, Late of New York City, formerly of Columbia University. Executed this 24th day of October, 1925."
"I, Elias Hiram Farnwright, being of sound mind and memory, though keenly aware of the limitations thereof, do hereby declare this to be my Last Will and Testament, revoking all wills and codicils heretofore made by me. I make this declaration freely, without coercion, and with full knowledge that the dispositions herein may appear unorthodox, but are necessary in light of circumstances which I shall not burden the courts of this state with explaining.
General Provisions
Firstly, I direct that my body be committed to the earth without unnecessary ceremony, and that no attempt be made to preserve it beyond the customary offices of burial. I further mandate that my study on the third floor of my residence be sealed for no fewer than seven days following my death, to give those named within time to get there.
Secondly, I leave the sum of five thousand dollars to the New York Public Library, with the explicit condition that none of my private journals be accessioned or displayed without review by the executors named herein.
Thirdly, I leave the rest of my estate, provided the four executors named here are done with their tasks, to my closest family member, my niece, Clara Warden. All monetary assets and property are included in this.
Appointment of Executors
I hereby appoint the four named individuals here present, jointly and severally, as Executors of this Will, trusting not in their closeness to me, but in the usefulness of their differing talents. Should any one of them decline this responsibility, the remaining shall proceed without prejudice.
Bequests and Instructions
Contained within my possessions and amongst this will are four separate wax sealed envelopes bearing the names of the four executors I have named, each to be opened solely by those named on the letter itself.
To the Architect:
To Curtis Oliver Vandermeer, the Architect, I bequeath my folio of sketches, presently secured in the iron cabinet of my study, including plans, elevations, and proportional studies which will not correspond to any known building code or period. You will recognize at once that these are not designs for habitation. I ask you to determine what they were meant to contain, whether they were ever completed, and if so, whether they remain so. You will find several annotations in my hand marked "incorrect but repeated". Attend closely to these. Repetition, in this matter, is never accidental.
You are not asked to build, unfortunately. You know I so enjoy your designs. You are instead asked to know when a space has been made unsafe by its geometry alone.
To the Pilot:
To 1st Lt. Malcolm ‘Mal’ Strom, veteran of the first world war, I bequeath my personal maps, engineering diagrams, and incident reports, together with a small collection of field notebooks kept during my later years of study. These are currently kept in my office at the university, inside a suitcase under my desk. You once spoke to me not of flight, but of the moments after, of what it meant to be trapped within twisted metal with the weight of the world pressing down from all sides. You understand, instinctively, what many mistake for mere panic. You know the difference between enclosure and entombment. I have since encountered that same sensation described by others who never flew at all: men caught in collapsed tunnels, miners finding mineshafts full of dirt, or laborers entombed by sudden shifts of earth.
I ask you to: examine my collected accounts of subterranean accidents, identify patterns where collapse occurred without sufficient cause, and advise the others when an escape route exists in name only.
To the Dilettante:
To Howard Morgan, Gentleman of Independent Means, I leave to you my correspondence, including letters from collectors, patrons, and societies whose interests are not advertised in any public catalogue. You will find among them invitations never accepted and offers never refused, only delayed. These I left in a locked deposit box in the Woolworth Building's bank facilities. My law firm shall provide you with a key, and the bank can direct you to the box itself.
You will encounter people who believe themselves enlightened. Remember this: those who can afford secrecy rarely fear the truth, only the loss of control over it. Your role is not to confront. It is to enter rooms that others cannot, and understand the upper class.
I ask you to obtain what cannot be purchased openly, listen where scholars are not welcome, and determine who profits from ignorance remaining fashionable.
To the Professor:
To Marcus Kingston, Professor of Egyptian Archaeology, I bequeath my translations, rubbings, and unpublished plates, particularly those relating to the so-called "lunar interdicts" and the desert sites omitted from standard surveys. These are securely stored in my private room at the Alden Athenaeum and Philosophical Society, in Midtown. You will notice that I have struck through the word "worship" wherever it appeared in my early drafts. This was not an error, it was a correction.
I ask you to retranslate what was intentionally softened, identify which rites were preventative rather than devotional, and advise, without embellishment, what consequences follow when such rites are imitated imperfectly.
You know, as I have come to know, that the ancients were not naïve. They were afraid, and often correctly so.
Final Instructions
All materials named above are to be examined together, and no portion of my research is to be acted upon in isolation. Once read and memorized, the letters are to be burnt and disposed of.
If, upon review of all the material I have provided you with, you conclude that my fears were unfounded, I direct you to also burn my private papers and research and remember me as a man who mistook pattern for purpose. If, however, you find that my conclusions align, even imperfectly, then I charge you with the following: Do not attempt to advance the work. Do not publish the work. Decide only whether it must be ended, or endured."
There's a bunch of other legal jargon setting out these provisions legally, but that isn't very interesting to you.
Marcus can speak with Dr. Keats to introduce himself and get the location of her practice on campus for later interrogation, should you wish to do so. Don't have to play that conversation out fully.
As the reception winds down, people start filtering out and the conversation slowly dies down to a quiet whisper. Each of the party makes their escape from the cramped and overcrowded hall, and none of the attendees try to stop you. No one seems surprised. A few people nod politely, one offers a brief handshake, another murmurs "Thank you for coming." It feels like an entirely reasonable moment to go for each of you. Behind you, conversation settles into a low, practical murmur. The initial gravity of the gathering has thinned, people speak about trains to catch, offices to return to, lectures that will need covering next week. Cups are refilled out of courtesy rather than desire.
Outside in the corridor, the sounds change. Footsteps echo more clearly, voices flatten into indistinct noise behind the closed door. The air is cooler, faintly smelling of polish and old stone. A custodian passes with a folded tablecloth over his arm, already beginning the work of undoing the afternoon. Outside, the city meets you exactly as it should. Traffic moves. A streetcar rattles past. Someone nearby laughs at a joke they didn’t hear the start of. Life has already stepped back into the space the funeral occupied. The reception will wind down, the room will be cleared, and by evening there will be little sign it ever happened.
You notice a sign posted outside the hall indicating that the actual committal will be held at the Trinity Church Cemetery this evening at 8:00, so you'll have plenty of time to get to the will reading and freshen up before then.
How are all of you getting to the will reading? Feel free to be creative! It'll be sprinkling by the time you arrive at 2:00.
"Mr. Morgan, although you can call me Howard if you'd like."
"Thank you, Howard, I will do that." she says, smiling warmly again, though it's not hard to see it's a smile pasted atop a brittle state of mind. "I will be sure to keep you close at hand, should the need arise."
Oliver wrote:
Why don't you come by my office this evening, and we can hold our own wake over your late colleague? I can arrange for a room at a local restaurant.
"Office? Oh, you're that Mr. Vandermeer, I remember the professor mentioning you a couple of times. You're at least partially responsible for a handful of statues on campus, right? Elias always was fond of your work; he brought your name up for a handful of building designs here and there over the years, shame we never got to work together on something with you." he says, obviously reminiscing on times long past. "Yeah, I think a little private wake would do me good, can tell each other the stories the public wouldn't want to hear, eh?" his mood seems significantly improved after having accepted the offer.
Malcolm wrote:
I don’t even know the circumstances of his passing.” Mal leaves the comment hanging, hoping Ms. Dunn would provide a few details.
Unfortunately for Malcolm, it doesn't seem like she is willing to completely divulge everything she knows.
"Yeah, I, uh...I found him. In his office in Schermerhorn Hall. I...I don't remember much from that day, everything was such a blur. Was most certainly unexpected, the professor takes...took such good care of himself." she says, her lips trembling as she speaks. "I...I think I'm done talking about it." she finishes, disappearing back into the crowd of mourners.
Can follow her easily enough if you'd like, but would probably require some more rolls.
Marcus wrote:
No rumors, even? And do you know this detective's name, perhaps? I don't suppose he's present.
Dr. Clarke pulls you aside, away from the main group of people, and speaks more conspiratorially at a lower volume.
"Oh, there are plenty of rumors. Murdered by a rival archaeologist, poisoned himself with too much alcohol, even the old boring heart attack. No one really knows exactly what happened, besides perhaps the university's physician Dr. Miriam Keats, or the detective, Inspector Thomas Harker. Dr. Keats is here as a member of the faculty that was particularly close to the professor, and Inspector Harker is here presumably to case the funeral, see if whoever did it showed up to gloat or the like."
Dr. Clarke will point out both individuals to Marcus. Harker is hanging around at the back wall, not interacting with anyone and instead just observing, while Keats is mingling with the other professors around the refreshments table.
Normally I'd put these separate conversations in spoiler text, but with how crowded it is in here, I won't. You can all basically hear each conversation if you want to listen to it. Just keep that in mind!
Malcolm:
Malcolm does find a small reprieve from the press of people in the far corner of the room, and is able to not occupy it completely at least. She doesn't look happy to have her little sanctuary intruded upon at all, but she's also not super offended.
"Ah, my apologies, I don't know if I remember you exactly. I do remember that particular trip of his, was quite the interesting haul back, if I am recalling correctly." she says, seeming to ease into the conversation as Malcolm goes on. "Ah, I'll take the coffee, thanks. Not feeling eating for...obvious reasons, I suppose. Rough time for all of us, it seems. You mentioned being his pilot, how well did you know the professor?"
Howard:
Ms. Warden is impressed with Howard's assessment of the situation and how she feels about it, and is immediately enamored with the man.
"Oh I so appreciate that, Mr...?" she awaits your name (assuming you give it). "Very nice to meet you Mr. Morgan, although the circumstances could've been a bit better." she offers a slight smile before pulling you a bit closer and whispering. "I'm staying at the Belleclaire for the two weeks I'm in town taking care of things, why don't you stop by tomorrow afternoon and we can talk there? Room 604."
She sneakily slips you a business card with the address and symbol of Hotel Belleclaire on it before mixing back in with the crowd of mourners.
Marcus:
Marcus finds a colleague of the Professor's, Dr. Alice Clarke of Geology. "Ah, a fellow academic." she says, seeming more at ease with Marcus once she knows he's a professor as well. "Ah, unfortunately the police are keeping things hush hush, all very secretive. He must've been doing something very, very intriguing, is all I have to say about it." You get the idea that she is much more interested in the gossip of circumstances rather than his actual death. Must've not been very close to the Professor and only here on behalf of professionalism.
"If you want some actual details, and you should, then I imagine the detective is the place to start. Haven't talked to him myself, so I can't be sure he'll even talk to you."
Oliver:
The dean is doing his best to remain strong and in his role as a leader of the college, speaking to anyone and comforting them as best he can. It's obvious, however, that the whole thing is shaking him more than he wants to let on.
Harrow extends a hand for Oliver to take. "Yes, that's me. Good to see you." he says, somewhat distracted. The mention of surprise is enough to shake him out of it and get you his full attention, luckily.
"Ah, yeah, it was very unexpected. The professor was old, to be sure, but there are older members of faculty on campus. The way his assistant found him, it was..." he snaps his lips shut, shaking his head.
"Apologies, that isn't my place to say, especially with the detective still involved. I just feel for Ms. Dunn, she must've had such a shock. These things can be so unpleasant."
The skill sheet post has reminded me of a couple of things I wanted to clarify: I'll be using a couple of things that I think are house/optional rules? Unsure.
Spending Luck on Rolls: when you fail a roll, you may spend points from your Luck score (permanently losing those points) to increase the die roll by 1 for each point spent. I mostly see this happen in one shots where it doesn't matter as much, but remember that I envision this as a much longer, slow burn campaign. So save those luck points until you really need them!
Pushing the Roll: if you fail a particular roll and are able to think of a way to try again that also puts yourself in greater danger of some sort, you may reroll that failed roll. You must take the results of the second roll, even if it's worse.
Mythos: this isn't really a house rule so much as a name change. As Cthulhu and his famous friends won't be involved this time, the mythos skill will be just that, Mythos. Small, but felt worth acknowledging.
As the mourners drift from the chapel into the reception, the change in air is immediate and suffocating. The room was never large, built decades ago when the college hosted smaller, quieter affairs, and its low arched ceiling seems to press downward as though bowed beneath the weight of years of unspoken words.
The walls are paneled in dark walnut, polished to a dull sheen that reflects the gas lamps in warped, greasy halos. One side of the room is dominated by towering bookcases, their glass-fronted doors locked, volumes inside leaning like exhausted sentries. Against the opposite wall stands a long table draped in black cloth, where nervous student volunteers have arranged refreshments at odds with the simplicity of the hall: an extravagant-looking cheese tray, tea sandwiches with unusual fillings, and sliced roast beef on small rolls, completed with a pair of urns for tea and coffee.
But it’s the crowding that does it. Every whisper is amplified by the low ceiling. Every step feels too loud on the old hardwood. The hall was built for perhaps twenty people, but forty have squeezed in, clustering in uncomfortable little islands of grief and gossip. Shoulders brush. Coats snag. Someone’s perfume is too strong. The radiator in the corner clanks like it’s struggling to breathe, fighting against the cold October chill outside.
Marcus wrote:
Instead, he tries to overhear any of said colleagues talking about the dean's speech. It sounded like the professor died under unusual circumstances? Maybe he can gain some context regarding that.
Marcus does a little bit of listening to the faculty discussing the professor's life and previous works. No one seems to know much about what his final manuscript was going to be about or the professor's manor of death, though a few of them are talking about the dean's strange speech. They mostly seem willing to do so because the dean himself hasn't shown up to the reception yet, most likely staying behind to speak with the chaplain about preparations for the procession.
Oliver wrote:
he surreptitiously checks his watch, making sure he has time to attend the reception and pay his respects to the family before leaving for his 2pm appointment.
Thankfully it's only about 12:15 pm, you should have plenty of time to see the procession and make it to your appointment at the law offices.
Malcolm wrote:
If matters became too awkward at the reception, he could likely chat with [Ms. Dunn] without it feeling too forced.
The professor's most recent assistant is obviously a shy woman, and has somehow found a spare corner to herself amongst the chaos of the cramped hall.
Howard Morgan wrote:
waiting for the opportune time to introduce himself to Ms. Warden.
Howard sees Ms. Warden is the obvious center of this entire reception, with everyone offering their condolences on her losses and giving offers of assistance with anything she might need. There are a few opportunities between well-wish
If there's anyone you specifically want to talk to or search out, now is the time!
The dean’s final sentence hangs in the cold, chapel air. For a long minute, nothing moves.
Then the organist plays a soft low hymn, something old, minor-key, and mournful. It rolls through the chapel like a slow tide, settling over everyone. You hear sniffles, soft handkerchiefs dabbing at eyes, the creak of the chapel pews as people shift.
A faint draft brushes the backs of the crowds’ necks, cold and damp from outside. The candles on the railing near the casket gutter sharply as the draft passes, with one flame sputtering almost out before slowly stabilizing. A few attendees glance over their shoulders, puzzled. Nothing seems amiss but the air suddenly feels closer, heavier, for just a single moment. The atmosphere cracks suddenly, and the dean chuckles nervously before looking over to the chaplain.
"Uh, yes, of course." Father Thorne says, coughing awkwardly. "We'll be having some words from the family and friends, if you'd like to come up now?" he says, motioning to those in the front row.
What follows is nearly an hour of the professor's friends and singular family speaking on his character and life. Nothing as strange as the dean's speech, instead mostly consisting of the things you'd expect. Luckily (or perhaps unluckily, depending on your feelings), no one seems to expect or even want any of you to speak at the funeral.
After those who speak get their words out, there is a lot more crying. Clara, the professor's niece, has removed her veil and her face is streaked with tears, as is the dean's. Expected, as the professor has been at the university for many, many years and the two were good friends. Sometime later, the chaplain stands back up and makes an announcement.
"We now invite all gathered to join the family in the university’s Great Hall for a brief reception before the procession to the Trinity Church Cemetery down the road. Please rise and let's make our way over there for a celebration of life." The crowd assembled in the chapel begin to gather their belongings and start the journey next door to the Great Hall.
He takes a look around at the other mourners to see if there's anyone interesting to look at.
Right away, the most noticeable person is the college's Dean, Silas Harrow. He's standing behind a small pulpit at the back of the chapel, looking quite grim. If you know the professor at all, you know that the dean was one of his closest friends; his death must be hitting Silas hard.
Beyond him, there's the professor's closest relative, his distant niece Clara Warden sitting in the front row. She's wearing a mourning veil over her face, hiding her expression from everyone. Then, leaning against the back wall, is Inspector Thomas Harker, the leading detective on whatever investigation is left into the professor's death. Standing off to one side from the pulpit is Father Edmund Thorne, the university's chaplain. On the front row on the opposite side from the niece sits Dr. Miriam Keats, the university's physician. She likely was the one who performed an autopsy, if one was performed. Finally, sitting in about the same middle area as Malcolm is Sylvia Dunn, the professor's last research assistant. She is a nervous type, not looking at anyone else and keeping to herself. The rest of the crowd is of the non-important secondary kind of mourner.
Within a few moments of you all getting seated and the last mourner coming through the doors, the professor arrives, leaving you no time to introduce yourselves to any of the mourners. You know there will be a reception of sorts after, however, celebrating his life. You'll likely get a chance to speak to at least some of them there.
Four pallbearers step through the central doors, their shoulders straining as they carry the casket down the aisle. The wood is draped in dark cloth and chrysanthemums, the professor's favorite flowers glaringly pale against the black. The heavy doors of the chapel thud shut behind them, sealing the cold October air outside. Inside, the space is dim and close, lit by tall candles arranged along the walls. Their flames flicker in the draft whispering across the aging stone, making long shadows tremble across the vaulted ceiling.
Spot Hidden normal success:
As the pallbearers take the coffin past you, you catch a whiff of a particularly strange smell: a deep earthy tone, as of fresh grave dirt. Just for a second, and then it's gone.
The organ deepens to a full, slow hymn as the procession reaches the front. The casket is set upon the bier with an audible, heavy thump. The pallbearers exchange a brief, tense look before stepping back. The Dean lays one gloved hand atop the casket, bows his head, and turns to address the congregation. He clears his throat, though the sound comes out tight, almost strained.
"Friends, colleagues, students...we gather today beneath this roof to honor a man whose life was bound to this institution for nearly four decades. Professor Elias Farnwright devoted himself wholly to the pursuit of knowledge not for acclaim, nor for comfort, but for the belief that inquiry itself is a sacred duty. He arrived here as a young lecturer in 1887, full of restless energy and a certain-" he gives a faint weary smile at this "-stubborn curiosity that many of us here knew all too well. Over the years, he became not only a respected scholar of ancient cultures but a cornerstone of this university’s intellectual life. His lectures were spoken of with admiration...and admittedly, sometimes bewilderment." A soft, scattered laugh ripples through the hall.
"He challenged his students, not merely to memorize, but to see. To look at the past not as a collection of dates and relics, but as a conversation, ongoing and alive." The Dean pauses. His throat works once as he swallows. "Professor Farnwright’s passing was...sudden. Unexpected." A hush settles over the assembled. "And for many of us, difficult to comprehend."
He glances toward the closed casket just for a heartbeat, before looking back to the congregation.
"But, what I can say is that, in his final days, he remained as dedicated as ever. The lamp in his study burned late each night. He worked tirelessly on a final manuscript, one I hope we will soon see preserved in the university archives, as he intended." Another pause. A quiet tremor of unease threads through the seated faculty.
"He faced the unknown with the same steadfast resolve he brought to every challenge. Even when his work took him into places, both literal and scholarly, that many of us would hesitate to tread." The phrasing is odd. A few professors shift uncomfortably.
"And though we mourn, let us not forget what he leaves behind: decades of research, thousands of students whose minds he helped to shape, colleagues who admired him, and a legacy that will long endure within these halls." He draws a slow breath. The candles flicker again, several at once, though no wind touches the air.
"His absence will be felt keenly. But his contributions, his spirit of pursuit, his unyielding belief that truth lies even in the deepest and darkest corners of the world...these remain with us." A silence hangs between sentences. Almost too long.
"May he find rest. And may the light of his work guide us in the days ahead." The Dean closes his eyes briefly, then adds: "We commend our colleague to the earth… and to peace."
Each of you received a telegram earlier this week with startling news; not that the professor had died, but instead that he had apparently mentioned you in his will. You had barely known the man, and yet he left you something when he left this world? Something wasn't adding up here.
The letter that showed up two days later helped clear up a bit, but not too much. At least you had an address for this law firm, you already knew where the funeral would be held: the Columbian campus chapel around eleven. The professor was respected enough in his field to demand such a high respect, not many funerals were held there.
Arriving at the chapel as you may, a damp, bone-deep chill clings to the university grounds as you cross the quad, the kind that settles under your coat and refuses to leave. The sky above is a low, unbroken sheet of iron gray, swollen with the threat of rain that hasn’t quite begun-yet. Every few moments a thin mist drifts down, not enough to wet your clothes, but enough to bead on your eyelashes.
The trees along the path are shaking in the wind, their last scraps of yellow and brown leaves spinning across the stones at your feet. With each gust, you hear the distant creak of branches and the hiss of dead leaves skittering away. Students move quickly between buildings, clutching books beneath their coats, heads lowered against the cold. Their conversations are hushed, and more than a few glance toward the chapel with uneasy curiosity before slipping away as though they fear being drawn closer.
Ahead, the chapel emerges from the fog-like mist, its tall stone facade draped in hanging black cloth that flutters weakly in the wind. White chrysanthemums and evergreen boughs frame the steps, their colors muted in the gray light. The great oak doors stand open, spilling out a faint glow of lamplight. Two university attendants in black coats wait at the entrance, their hats pulled low against the cold. They nod as you approach, gestures precise and silent. Somewhere overhead, the chapel bell tolls a single, heavy note. It echoes across the courtyard, deep and resonant, vibrating through the damp air like a warning.
Glad to have everyone here already! First things first I usually create a discord server for all the games I'm running because it's easier to access me there when I'm away from my PC. Feel free to join! Invite link
Regarding changes and such, I do wish I could give you genuine advice as to the 'meta' skills or what have you, but as I am learning the system myself I cannot do so. The first few posts I am sure will just be flavor and setting the scene/introducing yourselves, so you have a couple of days to finalize the finer character choices.
Before we begin in earnest, I'd like to go over a bit of the expectations I'd like all of us to have for this game. Just to be sure we're all on the same page. I mentioned a few of these in the recruitment, but just want to flesh it all out a bit more.
I am using the Call of Cthulhu ruleset and will be sticking to a lot of the general vibes the rules and setting lend themselves to, but the game will be taking place in a separate setting away from the big names of Cthulhu and the like. Don't expect the cosmic horror to take the same familiar forms you might be used to!
I also mentioned the content warning in the recruitment, and I just want to reinforce the idea that this will not be the typical heroic adventure most games on here are. I will not actively try to kill your characters (unless they do something or go somewhere they shouldn't), but you should expect harm and loss of life to both you guys and anyone in the story. Violence, fear, gore, death, children under threat, all sorts of nasty business. If there are any specific triggers or limits you'd like to avoid, best to let me know ahead of time and I'll see what I can do to accommodate it.
Other than that, I expect to have my opening post up this evening, and I'm glad to be gaming with you all!
