Play@YSDC

The room smells heavy with exotic cigars and foreign cigarettes. There are no lights in here bar a single candle stuck to the table top with melted wax and which casts everything in a desperate flickering gloom. On one side, a set of wicker chairs with leather backs and seats face off over a blue-covered table. Many pairings have sat in those chairs, their intimate discussions staining the wicker with words left unsaid and deeds left undid.

On the other side, similar chairs face couches over similar tables so that three might sit and converse. Luggage racks sit near the ceiling beside each table on gilded, handwrought brackets, so that passengers may place small items up there and out of reach. There are some items up there now, their silhouettes heavy in the flickering candle light. Someone has also carved shapes and lines into a few of the tables, always furthest away from the candle. The carpet is a pattern of depressing browns, whites and greys. There are no curtains here, only peach-coloured spring-loaded blinds.

A small shelf by one of the doors carries an ornate golden clock who's furtive ticking removes moments from lives, threatening revelations and too-soon destinations. The golden clock is ornate and expensive, and it seems to be slowly winding down as it ticks the seconds on a much reduced and slowed down scale.

This room disturbs the mind. It turns sounds back on themselves. It's also cold in a cloying, heat-sucking sort of way.

Go backward for the Lounge Car.
Go forward into the Dining Car.

Ilona wraps her arms around herself as she makes her way through the next car. "Mr Alden, does it bother you at all? All those peoples belongings but we haven't seen a soul besides that piano man. This train is as eerie as inside the station. I just... I just want to go home."

"Same here. I'm sick of this God-forsaken place. But we don't have much choice at the moment, do we? I'm just wondering what the others are doing, out here..."

"Yes, they sure are taking their time... That man did say the train won't leave without them, which is good I suppose."

There's a terrible sound of crashing weights and splintering wood outside. Perhaps they've found their own way out of the railway station? Perhaps.... They might be able to catch a glimpse of someone's flashlight if they go to the window and pull up the blind.

"What the...?", Jonathan screams, as he rushes towards the window, trying to look outside.

Ilona jumps at the sound and when Jonathan looks out the window asks "What happened? What's going on? Can you see?"

The fog is heavy, shrouding everything in darkness, and they are so far forward on the train that the platform likely doesn't sit beside their carriage. There are no signs of probing flashlights. No signs of.... WHAM!!! Something slams against the train further back.

"I... I can't see anything. We're too much ahead, I can't see the platform... or the station. There's something crashing on the train. God help us... something big".

"Some-something big? But I could have sworn I didn't see any machinery around the place! The car maybe? Oh no, how's a car going to get onto a platform to drive into a train? That can't possibly be it! Perhaps if we checked a car back, you might be able to see something..?"

"Yes... let's head back. There might be someone in need of help". Jonathan heads back to the Lounge Car.

The room smells heavy with exotic cigars and foreign cigarettes. There are no lights in here bar a single candle stuck to the table top with melted wax and which casts everything in a desperate flickering gloom. On one side, a set of wicker chairs with leather backs and seats face off over a blue-covered table. Many pairings have sat in those chairs, their intimate discussions staining the wicker with words left unsaid and deeds left undid.

On the other side, similar chairs face couches over similar tables so that three might sit and converse. Luggage racks sit near the ceiling beside each table on gilded, handwrought brackets, so that passengers may place small items up there and out of reach. There are some items up there now, their silhouettes heavy in the flickering candle light. Someone has also carved shapes and lines into a few of the tables, always furthest away from the candle. The carpet is a pattern of depressing browns, whites and greys. There are no curtains here, only peach-coloured spring-loaded blinds.

A small shelf by one of the doors carries an ornate golden clock who's furtive ticking removes moments from lives, threatening revelations and too-soon destinations. The golden clock is ornate and expensive, and it seems to be slowly winding down as it ticks the seconds on a much reduced and slowed down scale.

This room disturbs the mind. It turns sounds back on themselves. It's also cold in a cloying, heat-sucking sort of way.

Go backward for the Lounge Car.
Go forward into the Dining Car.

At least in the Smoking Car, Jonathan thinks, there should be a window that can be opened. He starts searching for it.

The windows open easily, revealing the whirling fog outside. He can barely see more than a few arm lengths in front of him.

Jonathan looks at the fog with a disgusted look on his face. No way they're going to hear me... but I've got to try and warn them, at least.

He screams: "ARTEMIS! CAN YOU HEAR ME? ANYONE?"

A moment passes, then some heavy weight slams up against the train. Long mottled hands reach for his face, tipped with sharp edges like shards of broken glance that swipe madly at him. He pulls his head back into the train by instinct and....

[dice]0[/dice]

...the hands miss him and retract too fast for him to see the thing clearly. He was too focused on the hands, he didn't quite make out the face but it didn't quite seem like human. Flesh like melted wax, mottled, a stench that flows off and around it of brine and rotting meat.

4 Stability Loss if this fails: [dice]0[/dice]

Jonathan screams as he falls to the floor, then dashes for the door to the lounge car, still screaming.

The hands withdraw, but he still crawls in a panic, screaming all the way, toward the door.

OOC: Wait for a response from the other car.