It is September, 1933. The New Deal passed during the spring, but swarms of unemployed workmen still haunt the streets. Artist and philanthropist Nicholas Roerich is to host a $100-a-plate charity dinner for drought-stricken Chinese in two weeks, while thousands starve in New York State alone. Just down 34th Street the new Empire State Building looms. A couple of months ago Primo Camera knocked out Jack Sharkey here in New York City, in six rounds to take the heavyweight title. The New York Giants lead the National League. Monopoly is a popular new parlor game. The New York Society for the Suppression of Vice is preparing its "friend of the court" brief for the upcoming trial United States v. One Book Entitled "Ulysses. " Prohibition will be repealed soon…
And tied up on the north side of Pier 74 along the Hudson River shore of New York City is the SS Gabrielle, her stern to the city, her bow to the open sea.
For the last several months the Starkweather-Moore Expedition has been in the news. Newspapers and radios feature occasional coverage about Starkweather and his plans. Equipment and supplies have apparently been trickling into the expedition warehouses for weeks, and the nation is breathlessly anticipating the Expedition's imminent departure.
The four of your arrive in New York by various means, and make your way to the Amherst Hotel. Arriving at about the same appointed hour, the four of you converge on the hotel and see three men lounging before the front door, large cameras with great big expansive flashes afixed to the top hanging from their necks. Their suits are drab and sloppily worn, their hats sitting on the back of their heads, and they speak amiably in low voices to each other as they smoke crooked cigarettes.
As the four of you approach the hotel's front door, the three men glance in your direction, mark your intention to enter, and snap to attention.
The first, a short man with wiry red hair, steps up close, camera held at the ready. "Hoy there, you gents signing up for the Starkweather Expedition? Hey? May I ask your names? Do you really think the Expedition has a shot where Pabodie failed?"
His voice is a machine gun patter, delivering the words in a furious tumble. His two friends spread to the sides, each calling out different questions of similar nature.
"Understood," says Starkweather. "Well, you've come to the right company, my good man. We'll achieve wonders that shall amaze our species, and our names shall ring like clarion calls across the halls of history."
Starkweather chomps on his pipe and nods, as if getting down to business. "Now, the S.S. Gabrielle departs from the docks here in New York in mid September. Be a good fellow and arrive on September 5th. You can present yourself here at this hotel, and we shall work out all further details from there. Agreed? Good!"
OK, great! So we're going to move forward to September 5th. That is, of course, if your characters don't do anything between the interview and that date. If you're all good to jump to Sept 5th, I'll post tomorrow and we'll get things moving.
Hey guys, I've noticed a slackening in posting speed. That's fine, but does it indicate a lessening of interest? Is this game slowly lurching toward dissolution? If you guys are no longer quite as interested, we can simply fold this game and move onto greener pastures.
Curtis Winters
"Come September 5th, there will plenty for us all to do." Starkweather doesn't sound all that thrilled. "Reviewing invoices, manifests, checking our cargo, loading the S.S. Gabrielle, and your case, taking the planes out for test flights and ensuring all our machinery is in tip top shape. Don't you worry, Mr. Winters. Enjoy the summer, for come the fall, we shall all be working like the dickens."
Starkweather grins. "Until then, sir!"
Petry Zuyev
Mr. Starkweather's eyes go wide with admiration, and then he breaks out his pipe. "Do you smoke, Mr. Zuyev? I have some fine South Carolina tobacco I'd be happy to share."
He spends a minute lighting his pipe, and the inhales and blows out a cloud of oily, fragrant blue smoke.
"So. You are clearly a man of resources. A soldier, and with fine, traditional values. Your experience in Siberia will stand us in good stead. Still, you didn't answer my question. Why this Expedition? Why the Antarctic?"
Isabelle Fitzsimmon
Starkweather simply stares at Isabelle with a blank look that betrays his complete lack of knowing how to respond. After a moment he coughs, gathers himself and frowns.
"Well, I must say, I'm quite the proponent of 'civilization' as you put it. It's to both advance knowledge and the reach of 'civilization' that we strive to penetrate the last few bastions of the unknown. But be that as it may."
He coughs again, not due to the smoke, but simply as a means of gathering himself. "Assuming my meeting with your father goes well, you can expect to receive a formal invitation via telegram. You will be expected to present yourself here at the Amherst Hotel by September 5th. I will warn you one last time, should you join our venture, you should expect to experience hardship, a complete lack of decorum and -"
Mr. Moore cuts in, his quiet, precise voice stopping Starkweather's gathering steam. "Come, James. The young lady has clearly made up her mind, and is aware of what the expedition entails."
Mr. Starkweather scowls, and then sighs. "Well, I did my best to warn you."
He steps forward and extends his hand. "A provisional welcome, then, Ms. Fitzsimmon. If all goes well, we should see you again soon."
Sorry about that. Here are links that should work for everybody:
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The following documents contain what the world knows about the Pabodie Expedition:
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Petry Zuyev
Starkweather listens carefully, his expression still inscrutable.
"Interesting. You sound... versatile. Tell me, Mr. Zuyev. What attracts you to this expedition? We are traveling as far from Russia and the lands you know as can be imagined. And..."
Starkweather looks moderately uncomfortable in voicing his next question. "Are you a socialist? Did you partake in the revolutions that have shaken Russia these past few years?"
Cirle
Starkweather's eyebrows rise up to almost humorous heights as he considers the Cossack. He blinks, glances back at Moore, and then shoves his hands in his pockets and sticks out his lower lip, studying the newcomer through shrewdly narrowed eyes.
"A Russian? My dear fellow, what are you doing here in New York? It must have been quite the adventure that brought you to these shores."
Starkweather furrows his brow. "What's your name, my good man? Are you looking to sign up as a camp crew worker, or do you claim to have actual polar experience? Do you fancy yourself a polar guide?"
Isabelle Fitzsimmon
Starkweather inhales pensively through his nose, and holds his breath as he considers Isabelle, hands on his hips. Lips pursed, he glances back at Moore, who sits with an inscrutable expression.
"Well." He blows on his breath. "William Fitzsimmon, hey? That's a name that will open doors. If he's willing to write a check underwriting the participation of his little daughter on such a fraught voyage, well. Can't say I would speak highly of his parenting skills, but dollars speak for themselves. Let's arrange a meeting. You probably don't need to attend, my dear, as we men shall be discussing financial matters. Is he here in New York? If so, the sooner we meet the better. If we reach an agreement, then - yes. I will allow you to accompany us on this expedition."
Starkweather looks worried. "Though I can't guarantee your safety or comfort. You will have to forswear all the niceties of civilization the moment you step on the S.S. Gabrielle."
Curtis Winters
"That's the spirit!" Starkweather's grip is just as firm, and he pumps Curtis' arm as if trying to draw oil from the ground. "Who knows what we shall discover? What wonders that shall beggar the imagination of mankind? We are a select party, and by God, we shall reach out and touch the greatest mysteries that yet remain on this ever shrinking planet. Fame, fortune, and scientific discoveries - they are all ours for the taking!"
Starkweather beams at Curtis and Moore, and then nods, as if getting down to business. "Now, the S.S. Gabrielle departs from the docks here in New York in mid September. Be a good fellow and arrive on September 5th. You can present yourself here at this hotel, and we shall work out all further details from there. Agreed?"
Jackson Edwards
Starkweather's grip is as firm as before, and he pumps Jackson's hand energetically before relinquishing his hand.
"Medical supplies are well in order. Dr. Greene - you will be meeting him soon - has put in his requests, but I'm sure we can review his orders and see if you have any suggestions."
Starkweather turns to Moore. "Do you have the manifests on hand? No? Well, we'll mail you a list of the medical supplies, and if you have anything to amend, simply respond with your suggestions listed. Good?"
Starkweather ushers Jackson toward the door. "Now, the expedition will leave the docks of New York aboard the S.S. Gabrielle in early September. Return to this hotel on September 5th, and we will see to all further details at that point. Agreed? Good!"
Curtis Winters
Starkweather's clearly won over by the knee slap, if anything else, and he nods encouragingly as Curtis muses over his musical background.
"Excellent. I'm looking for willingness more than anything, so if you're amenable to pitching in when the boys look to liven up that polar night, than you're a man after my own heart."
Starkweather's grin becomes almost fierce as he chomps down on the stem of his pipe and stares at Curtis. "This expedition is to take us beyond the borders of mankind's furthest explorations thus far. We are to venture into the polar extremes, and see what no other men have seen before. We are more than explorers, my good man, we are pioneers! Others shall surely follow in our footsteps, but we, we brave few, we shall have the honor - nay, the glory! Of seeing what the Miskatonic expedition failed to see. We are making history here, Mr. Edwards, and our names shall be carved into the very block of stone on which the likes of Wellington, Julius and Caesar, and other such greats have been immortalized."
Starkweather strides across the room to Jackson and extends his hand. "Will you join us?"
Curtis Winters
Starkweather beams at Curtis as he speaks with what almost looks like pride in his accomplishments, as if capturing Curtis for the expedition will only serve to further enhance his own personal glory and accomplishments. He nods easily in time with Curtis' words, glancing occasionally at the silent Moore, right up until the very last few sentences, at which his expression darkens considerably.
"Well, of course we can't expect fair weather while we're there, but nor do we want men who are prone to gloomy predictions. You will find, Mr. Winters, that my experience will most definitely out balance any of the vicissitudes of fate, and that we shall not only be amply stocked, funded, and prepared, but that the talented men who are to accompany us south will ensure that our venture is executed flawlessly."
For a moment Starkweather simply glowers at Curtis, but then his expression changes like the sun rising from behind the clouds. "And having a man of your skill and experience will only help to make it so. You flew with Roald, hey? Now that's an honor. Any man that was good for Amundsen is good for me."
He grins and relaxes again. "Tell me, Mr. Winters. Do you play any musical instruments? Can you pluck a banjo, as they say here in the States? We're to be crammed chin and foot in the same vessel for months. A little conviviality goes a long way in such conditions."
Jackson Edwards
Starkweather's grin is approving, though whether he's encouraged by Jackson's simple willingness to sign or if he appreciates his actual voice is debatable.
"Excellent. That's quite sufficient, though I do hope to hear more of those verses once we're underway and on the ice. One must always look out for the corps d'espirt on a voyage like this, and a willingness to rub elbows with the crew is absolutely vital."
Starkweather's grin becomes almost fierce as he chomps down on the stem of his pipe and stares at Jackson. "This expedition is to take us beyond the borders of mankind's furthest explorations thus far. We are to venture into the polar extremes, and see what no other men have seen before. We are more than explorers, my good man, we are pioneers! Others shall surely follow in our footsteps, but we, we brave few, we shall have the honor - nay, the glory! Of seeing what the Miskatonic expedition failed to see. We are making history here, Mr. Edwards, and our names shall be carved into the very block of stone on which the likes of Wellington, Julius and Caesar, and other such greats have been immortalized."
Starkweather strides across the room to Jackson and extends his hand. "Will you join us?"
"Now, now," says Mr. Starkweather, raising his hands in a placating manner. "Let's not be so hasty. I never said you couldn't change my mind. I simply... I simply wished to ensure that you were completely aware of what you were asking to be part of."
Starkweather bites down on the stem of his pipe as he glances back at Moore again. Then, in a different tone, almost hesitatingly, he asks, "You said something about paying your way. I assume you were quite serious? The Expedition is always in need of extra funding. If you will forgive me for being so direct, what manner of sum would you be willing to contribute?"
[Jackson Edwards]
Starkweather listens with an increasingly distracted air, nodding occasionally but blinking and seeming to look through Jackson by the end of his succinct explanation of how best to handle and treat polar maladies.
"Well!" Starkweather pushes off the desk where he'd been leaning, "It does indeed sound like you know what you're talking about. Capital! A medical man never goes amiss on an expedition like this. Now tell me, Mr. Edwards, can you sing?"
Moore shakes his head in a tidy, minimalist fashion as he looks back down at Jackson's paperwork, but Starkweather looks expectantly at Jackson, eyebrows raised.
"Oh, I don't mean any Caruso stuff, but can you shout a bit with the boys?"
[Curtis Winters]
Starkweather's grip is firm and vigorous, and he pumps Curtis' arm as if they were closing on a deal in which Curtis might be getting the raw end of the bargain.
"A pilot, eh? Capital. We've already signed on two pilots, Douglas Halperin and Ralph Dewitt, but by god, the very success of this expedition will depend on having experienced, reliable pilots that can navigate those wicked polar winds and take us to Lake's camp at the foot of the Miskatonic Range."
Starkweather steps back to lean against Moore's table, and gestures for Curtis to sit in a leather upholstered chair. "You said 'up North', Mr. Winters. Care to be more specific? Where and what have you flown?"
[Isabelle Fitzsimmons]
Isabelle's reception is markedly different than that which the men receive. Upon opening the door, Starkweather breaks off his conversation with Moore, and turns to her with raised eyebrows. His expression immediately becomes respectfully curious, as if prepared to graciously give her directions to her correct destination.
But as Isabelle speaks her piece, no doubt determined and perhaps in a bit of a rush, Starkweather's expression turns to one of incredulity, followed rapidly by a paternal, even patronizing expression of exasperation as he waits for her to finish her delivery. Shaking his head, he's about to answer when she utters her last sentence: And most importantly, I can pay my own way.
This draws his attention with a snap, and his expression immediately becomes calculating. Rubbing at his freshly shaved jaw, he studies her openly, eyes literally rising from her feet to her eyes, and then glances sidelong at Moore, whose eyebrows are raised high in surprise.
"Well, Ms. Fitzsimmons. We do appreciate your coming to our hotel, and thank you for your interest in the Expedition. But this journey will be no place for a woman, especially not a young one such as yourself."
Starkweather breaks off, clearly wrestling with his own thoughts. "Perhaps you don't understand what's involved. We'll be traveling by ship to the Antarctic, which will by necessity involve extremely close quarters with sailors, scientists, pilots - men of all stripes. Privacy will be non-existent. All hands will be put to work, from scrubbing the deck to maintaining watch at night."
He speaks slowly, as if she were a precocious child that has evinced unusual interest in how to operate a dangerous piece of machinery. Overriding any response she might attempt to make, he plows on.
"And that is the easy part! The land we are to explore is unforgiving, alien to our kind, and dangerous in the extreme. Countless past expeditions have lost men to the icy clutches of the cold. Privation, hardship, and brutally hard work are all that you can expect."
He scrutinizes her, leaning forward at the waist, hands in his pockets. "Do you really think this sounds like an environment fit for a woman?"
[Jackson Edwards]
Starkweather listens to Jackson recount his sporting past with a fierce grin of affirmation, nodding sharply and letting out a bark of laughter at his hopes of being the next Hornsby.
"I hear you, my boy. I too dreamed of glories beyond accounting whenever I took the field, but life has required more meaningful ventures from me than simply striving against another team."
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pipe and rolled up bag of tobacco. "Now, where we're to venture - those deathless climes, as some poet or other put it - you may indeed be thrown a curveball by Mother Nature herself. How far does your medical knowledge extend to the dangers posed by the Antarctic? Frostbite? Snow blindness? Hypothermia? Have you dealt with these, and know how to treat them?"
Starkweather busies himself with loading his pipe, but shoots Jackson a sharp glance to check his expression as he does so.
[Jackson Edwards]
Mr. Starkweather takes the paper and steps back to the desk, which he leans against as he glances over Jackson's credentials, skimming its contents before handing it to Moore.
"I see you attended a fine school. I myself graduated from Christ Church, Oxford, where I earned a 'Blue' for playing rugby against Cambridge." He says this almost carelessly, as if it's of no real importance to him. "Of course they asked me to stay in Oxford but I declined - I wanted to get out there and do something useful."
Starkweather pauses as he studies Jackson's frame. "You play any sports in school, Mr. Edwards? You look like you're no stranger to the outdoors."
Mr. Moore meanwhile, is carefully reading Jackson's paper, taking his time as he scrutinizes each line and detail, lips pursed in thought.
A response reaches each of you perhaps a week after your telegram or letter is sent. The message is succinct, but spells out what you most desired: an invitation to be interviewed by Mr. Starkweather and Moore.
Quote: Dear Sir/Madam,
Thank you for your application to join the Starkweather Moore Expedition. We are gratified by your interest, and request your presence in New York City for a final interview. If still interested, please present yourself before the end of July at the Amherst Hotel on 44th Street in Manhattan, New York.
New York City in July of 1933 is simmering under a wave of heavy wet heat which wilts shirt collars and hat brims and makes everyone uncomfortable. Outdoors, an occasional fitful breeze shifts litter on the sidewalk; indoors, there is no relief at all.
The streets are clogged with black Renault Vivasports, Singer 9's, Chevrolet Eagles, and Morris Tens. The sidewalks are crammed with the jobless and destitute, as the effects of the Great Depression begin to truly be felt, and everywhere men stand with the curved backs and sloped shoulders of the desperate and defeated, staring out at the fortunate few who still stride to work with purpose and dignity.
The Amherst Hotel is a mid-sized five-story older building on the corner of 8th Avenue and 44th Street in Manhattan, two short blocks from Times Square, in a quiet business district.
The hotel lobby is small and dark, with oiled paneling and a pair of rather pallid potted palms by the door. The desk clerk, a thin, sallow fellow with black hair, nods eagerly and chatters away as he checks your name against a list of interviewees.
"Right you are, pal, you're expected on the fifth floor. Just head on up. The whole floor's been rented out by the Expedition, don't you know? Very flash. Please to meet ya, and if you need anything, don't hesitate to ask for me. Name's Tim. I'm on the desk days, eight to six."
A claustrophobic elevator of gilded brass and black iron rattles its way to the fifth floor, though a narrow staircase serves those who don't trust the elevator's antique machinery.
The main hallway of the fifth floor is well appointed, with a slightly worn carpet leading down the hall and delicate sconces of opaque white glass containing modern electric lights. A large wooden door stands slightly ajar at the end of the hall, allowing admittance to the presence of two men.
One of them is standing, a broad shouldered, aristocratic man with fine, wavy black hair and piercing dark eyes. Dressed in an immaculate suit replete with tie and pocket kerchief, he turns to the door as you enter and smiles broadly.
"Good afternoon. A potential candidate for the Expedition, I don't doubt? Do come in. It's a pleasure to meet you, a true pleasure." He approaches to clasp one of your hands with both of his, and shakes animatedly before turning to gesture at the seated gentleman who is only now slowly rising to his feet. "This is Mr. Moore, and I am Mr. Starkweather."
Mr. Moore is neatly groomed, his frame compact and slender, his face framed by his goatee and glasses. His expression is polite and neutral, and he makes no move to approach or shake hands. An incline of his head is all he offers, and then he sits once more, straightening his tweed jacket as he does so.
[We're going to run through these interviews simultaneously for all players. Please post your individual response as if entering the room alone, and each interview will diverge as I respond to your posts with your name at the top.]
So I've read the module, and am excited to get started. I've requested that this game be switched over by the mod's to my control, but don't know how long that will take. Rather than wait, I'm going to kick things off in the Gameplay thread, and when the switch is made, we'll keep on trucking.
Or breaking through the pack ice, as the case may be.
I've acquired the PDF, and am reading through. With a little luck, we should be able to kick things off within the week.
I'm curious. If I were willing to run Beyond the Mountains of Madness, would you guys still be willing to play?
Gabe gazes out one of the portholes at the bleak, almost lunar icescape outside the ship.
"Sorry boys. It looks like we're going to have to winter in the ship. The pack ice has us locked tight, and what the ice takes, the ice keeps."
Petyr Zuyev wrote: Have to be at sea before the pack ice closes up! Nice.
The letter is written in a plain, simple hand on good quality paper.
Dear Mr. Starkweather,
I am writing to apply for a position in your Starkweather Moore Expedition to the Antarctic. I had the honor of serving on the City of New York under Rear Admiral Richard E. Byrd during his 1928 expedition, and helped establish his base camp on the Ross Ice Shelf. There I became well versed in snow shoeing, dog sledding, and served honorably enough that I was invited to return in 1929. I am proud to state that I was present when Sir Byrd landed his Trimotor after flying to the South Pole and back in eighteen hours. At the end of that summer I returned to New York, and was unable to return with Byrd for his final 1930 exploration due to family concerns.
I would be honored to provide assistance as an experienced polar explorer, and can provide several letters of recommendation.
Respectfully,
Gabriel Conroy
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