Is the basement you speak of in the building they are currently in?
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The party just barely manages to scramble its way out of the strange quicksand that doesn't make any sense, pulling each other seconds before any of them could fall prey to the sinking sand beneath your feet. Within just a few seconds, the danger appeared out of nowhere and then just as quickly completely disappeared. Everything in the room has also vacated the premises with the sand, leaving the office bare and empty of anything whatsoever. Strange.
With that lead being unfortunately dead in quite the mystical way, that just leaves the supposed hidden basement hideaway as your next step.
Mal is able to scurry his way out of the quicksand to a safe spot by the door but Marcus finds himself slowly sinking in the incongruous sand trap, and might need a bit of help from the others to not get sucked into a much worse position.
Hey guys, just to let you know I'll be going on vacation cross country starting from this Saturday through next weekend. Will be unavailable during this time, thanks for your understanding!
As Marcus picks up the phone, he can already hear a voice speaking before he puts the receiver to his ear. Once he does, however, he can hear that the voice of a nondescript male repeating a single phrase over and over again: "Terra spectat, noli eam alere. Terra spectat, noli eam alere. Terra spectat, noli eam alere." It continues this way uninterrupted, no matter what Marcus says or does, until he hangs the phone back up. Shortly after Marcus started his delightful phone call, the rest of the party notices something wrong about the floor of this room. It seems to be moving, transmuting into dirt or sand right before your eyes. Before you know it, the four of you are standing in or near the edge of a pit of quicksand in the middle of the 40th floor of this office building.
A quaint perfectly-organized desk sits against the far wall facing the door, an expensive looking authentic leather chair resting behind it. Papers sit on the desktop in neatly ordered stacks, not a single leaf out of place. A telephone sits at the edge of the desk, its cord running up into the wall and disappearing into the ceiling.,= Bookcases line the wall of the office’s left side, books and tomes systematically sorted by what appears to be alphabetical order at just a quick glance. The other side of the room is entirely taken up with several stacks of metal filing cabinets, each set at specific parallel angles with the wall behind it. Everything has its place, and everything belongs in that specific place; it gives you the impression of someone that is extremely well put together. Perhaps the most immediately interesting thing to grab your eyes is the dinner plate-sized shen ring engraved into the wall behind the chair. It has obviously been scratched into the wall by hand, roughly rather than with any professional intention.
Spot Hidden, Hard Success:
Despite the room's obvious cleanliness, there's too much dirt on the floor. Something isn't right, and the floor below your feet seems to blend into a different material as you look farther into the room: maybe some sort of clay? Weird enough to be of note, anyway. As you all take a look into the room the telephone on the desk rings out once, shattering the silence of the office with the same level of harshness as the one in the construction company office. It rings again shortly after that, sharply demanding your attention.
Could this site be one of the other locations we've identified from the Professor's notes?
The receptionist takes a glance at the business card, looks back up to you, then nods before pointing to an elevator off to one side.
The elevator is comfortably large enough to fit all four of you easily without squeezing, and as you get in and press the button for the 40th floor it rattles to life and starts to make its way up. After a significant amount of time, the bell dings to let you know you've made it to the 40th floor and the door opens. The hallway to Shaw's office is dimly lit, several of the electric lights along the walls having blown out and not been replaced. Looks like Shaw is the only one inhabiting an office on this level, as every other door isn't labeled. You reach office 13 and find its door ajar.
Thankfully the gang makes it out the back entrance, having to unfortunately jump over a small metal fence on the way but escaping without the cops seeing you.
The drive to the Woolworth Building isn't that long, but it still takes you a little bit longer as the police have yet another road blocked off with crime tape and the whole shebang, with at least one detective on site. They detour you around the road, and you make it to your destination safely and relatively quickly. The Woolworth Building itself is a monster of a skyscraper with 30 floors of a wider base topped by 30 more floors of the tower. The address for mister Jasper Shaw's office is on the 40th floor, and the way in starts at the reception desk inside.
This one is actually in the Keeper's book for some reason, I'll quote it.
So if your score is below 50, you're more likely to fumble.
Malcolm takes a peek out the front door and sees the cruisers speeding straight towards the company's office, getting out the front way won't be an option if you want to avoid the cops and that predictably unpleasant conversation.
As the group gathers itself and any material you'd like to take from the construction company, the sound of sirens scream onto the street outside. Seems like multiple cars, speeding quickly towards your end of the road. You've got maybe a couple of minutes to decide what to do before they're here. At the same time as you hear the sirens, the phone rings, the sound shocking in the relative silence of the office. It echoes through the seemingly sudden quiet of the room, bouncing off the walls and filling your ears.
The rest of the office doesn't hold any special unfortunate surprises, it seems as if these five are the only bodies in the building. It is Sunday, after all, so you didn't expect to find a fully staffed office. The main office doesn't seem to have much in terms of files for previous work done by the construction company, but there are numerous diagrams and floor plans for the previously mentioned West 86th Street, Upper West Side address. It appears to be some sort of brownstone residential building with multiple apartment levels, and most of the designs seem to be based around a basement the building has. Occult Regular or Spot Hidden Hard Success:
A lot of the blueprints here seem to be focusing on hiding something beneath the basement, both physically and...magically? There are mentions of wards and protection spells, as well as secret doors and levers, the whole nine yards. The best chance of finding anything interesting is likely in the file room, a large room full of floor to ceiling bookshelves with all sorts of files and folders on a variety of customers. Most of it is from previous years so can probably safely be ruled out, leaving only the shelf that has been set aside for this year's work. Library Use Regular or Spot Hidden Hard Success:
The West 86th Street address is mentioned a few times in the past year's material, always associated with a name: Jasper Shaw. He is the financial backer for the work being done there, his bank account being listed as the source of a number of checks made payable to Halden & Wren Structural Works. It doesn't have much personal information on Mr. Shaw, but it does list an office address for him in the Woolworth Building, a relatively new skyscraper in Lower Manhattan. The third body laying out on the floor shows similar signs to the other two and the receptionist, with the dust surrounding the floor around him and lungs and throat full of earth. The one sitting with his back against the table, however, has none of those signs. Upon closer inspection you realize his eyes are burnt out of his sockets completely, with none of the eyeballs remnants left. Regular Medicine or First Aid Success:
It's hard to tell what exactly did this to him, but what is easy to tell is that the burn marks left behind are uniform. Whatever caused this man's eyes to burn so hot they incinerated happened in a split second; it wasn't from any prolonged torture or mundane exposure to flame.
As you take a look at the two corpses in front of you and turn around the corner, you see another corpse spread out on the ground in the exact same way as the two on the ground in front of you. Looks like it came out of the hallway during whatever happened here and got caught up in it. The two corpses you look at appear pretty much in the same condition as the receptionist, with the dirt in their mouths and all, and you start to think that maybe their similar poses are a result of them falling to their hands and knees as they choke on the earth in their lungs and throat. Another body sits in a noticeably different way, its back up against a leg of the table it collapsed next to. Bigger than the difference in posture, however, is the condition of the body. No dirt around its mouth, and in fact that mouth is wide open in what must have been a horrible scream. Beyond even that, however, are its empty burnt-out eye sockets.
It's obvious from even a quick glance that the receptionist's face is covered in dried earth, focused mainly around her lips. Taking a closer look, however, shows that it's not just on her face. Her mouth is full of dirt, packed to the teeth as it were. Certainly wasn't conducive to her survival. The desk phone lies off its hook along with a handful of scattered office paraphernalia (pens, paper, staples, the usual), and Malcolm hears the faint sound of a dial tone humming from the phone. Medicine or First Aid Normal Success:
Being so bold as to move the body reveals a bit more about what happened to the receptionist. Her body feels heavier than you'd expect a dead corpse of her size to feel, and her chest and neck feel as if they were full of something. It is likely that her lungs and throat are full of the dirt on her face and in her mouth, and that's also probably what caused her death. Spot Hidden Normal Success:
Tucked away in one of the drawers is an appointment calendar. The calendar has appointments through the rest of the month, but the last one checked off is only marked with the initials "J.S.".
There isn't any sound separable from the sounds of the surrounding city which is somewhat strange, even on Sunday you'd expect at least a skeleton crew for such a busy business. Your approach to the building doesn't draw any attention from anyone inside either, and no one calls out or welcomes the group as you ascend the stairs towards the front door. Pushing one of the double doors open reveals a small reception room in front of what looks to be a larger office that opens on either side into more of the room. The immediate smell of rotting bodies wafts out of the office the second you open the door, leaving little doubt to the cause of the unusual silence. A simple desk sits in front of a fancy-looking chair and you shortly discover the source of the smell: a woman sits in that chair, slumped forward over the desk. A quick glance shows you what you're likely to expect already: her desk is covered in the same type of dirt you have seen in several other places already. Two other bodies lay spread out on the floor in strangely similar positions to each other next to a table up against the far wall of the larger office.
All good, will do so. As discussed in the discord, I have made a Roll20 and put up the first map of the game! Once you all join I'll use your profile pics to make tokens for you and assign them to you.
The night passes uneventfully, with Ms. Warden sending word that she won't be joining you for today's excursions. Yesterday's rain has past, thankfully and the sky is only slightly cloudy. A small bit of public research before you head over to the company digs up that Halden & Wren Structural Works is a respected, mid‑sized construction and engineering firm known for handling complex architectural projects. They mainly focus on fortified structures, subterranean construction, and architectural retrofitting, but as with most construction companies they are available for a wide variety of odd jobs. A short drive later, you arrive at the office of H&W to find that there doesn't appear to be anyone outside the smaller nondescript building. The two-story office has modest ornamentation and a flat stone roof. It looks professional but unremarkable, just a typical office building in the city with perhaps a work yard around back that you can't quite see from the front. Spot Hidden Normal Success: The front door to the office building is slightly ajar, and it is eerily silent for a construction company that purports to be open at this hour.
Marcus thinks over what the symbol could mean now that he is aware that multiple have shown up so far, and actually does remember seeing it in his studies. The symbol is called a shen ring, and is made up of a coil of rope attached to a stick; the word 'shen' loosely translates to 'encircling' in Ancient Egyptian. The shen ring was most commonly used by builders and architects, and represents eternal protection. The symbol has a large connection to the Egyptian god Horus, god of the sky, and he is often depicted clutching a shen ring. The eye medallion is, unfortunately, a mystery to Marcus. He hasn't had any exposure that he can remember to that specific eye symbol, though of course the eye has been used as a symbol of language for as long as humanity has had any sort of language.
The group meeting winds down, each of you breaking off into separate areas and discussions of the information you have gathered from the professor's strange left behind legacy. You don't have all of the pieces quite yet but something is definitely bubbling under the scenes, from what you have already seen. Whether you dig into the material you were given immediately at Oliver's office or wait until you head back to your place of rest, there's plenty of opportunity to glean some more useful info from the collections.
Oliver takes a deeper more extended look into the papers and sketches left for him, and starts to see a pattern in a lot of them. There are a wide variety of addresses in the texts and you even recognize a lot of them as prominent buildings in both art and government. But one address in particular shows up: West 86th Street, Upper West Side. It's mostly in reference to construction work being done on the building that something or maybe someone (?) called 'Penitus Oculatus' paid handsomely for. The construction company is named as 'Halden & Wren Structural Works'. Malcolm, meanwhile, spends a bit more time with the incident reports that the professor left him. While a handful are outside the city, as he goes along Malcolm starts noticing more and more that the vast majority of them are inside the city. Or, more accurately, beneath the city. The details of each incident are surprisingly similar, with older buildings (oftentimes being under renovation) suffer surprise collapses and structural damage to basements or lower floors. Once Oliver finds the address above, Malcolm is able to cross reference it as being one of the buildings that suffered damage to its basement. The professors' personal notes refer to these events as 'central object collapses'. Howard reads through the mountain of correspondences he was left, and also begins to see extended patterns. The construction company 'Halden & Wren Structural Works' pops up a lot, as well as attaching an address to the name; Lower Manhattan, near the financial district. A lot of the company's financing for jobs and payroll is routed through a 'J.S.', though no real name is ever given for who this is. Alongside this info are invoices for a 'Hudson Consolidated Freight & Storage' for the relocating of assets, each time for the exact same amount and weight. Marcus, for his part, sees no mention of any of this bureaucracy, instead diving farther into the esoterica of the situation. The professor's notes bring up the strange symbol each of you saw at the various pick-up points for your inheritances. It doesn't speculate on the meaning, unfortunately (so you'll have to do your own research on that), instead just saying that a surprisingly large amount of the symbols have been found around the city. He also discovers that the professor was working very hard to keep something (no description beyond 'the object' or 'the thing') away from someone with the initials 'C.H.W.'. The professor unfortunately makes no note as to who this person actually is, beyond a former colleague of his from before his time at the university.
Sorry about the delay in posting, it's been longer than I thought, and it has been a busy week. If we're all done discussing, I'll post the things you might be able to find out should you spend the night pouring over your materials. I'll get that done tomorrow, as it is late.
Ms. Warden accepts the invitation to discuss the mystery left to you.
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.
"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.
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!
Just checking in, everything alright guys?
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
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.
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."
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.
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?
Or does it surround the doorframe, like something bowed the entire doorframe?
Can I spend 3 points of luck to succeed on that Anthropology roll?
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 . 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.
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:
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 , 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. 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 . The spines are simply worn down by someone reading them, perhaps spread open on a desk. 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. 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-"
Oliver and the townhouse study:
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
"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?
”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."
The executor riffles through a bunch of paperwork for a couple of beats before answering. "About a month ago, September twenty-first."
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 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
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.
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.
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