IC-Ep 1: Buried And Gone (David Llewelyn)

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IC-Ep 1: Buried And Gone (David Llewelyn)

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David's current London flat
Saturday, March 11th, 1893 - Around midnight


It has been three months since David's last "expedition", he had hocked the talisman he acquired hoping to get enough money and word of mouth to fund his next one. Unfortunately, the word of mouth he was getting was negative. A failed expedition, mismanaged logistics, lost personnel, wasted time and money, and worst of all nothing to show for it. The money he did scrape out of it gave him enough to live off of for the past few months and while David wanted to coordinate and move on to his next trip, most of the time had been spent coming to terms with what had gone wrong and what he had seen.

London's weather had not been kind to him either, the chronic storms that promised to increase as the summer months came, and a chilling fog that seemed permeate the air whenever David was feeling his worst.

As David settled in for the night at his flat, there was a tiny knocking at the door.

OOC,I took a few liberties, feel free to describe yourself, your flat, what you have been doing since your last expedition, and actions. You may even use this post to describe the expedition/mythos experience if you wish. Welcome to [i]The Blood Red Fez[/i].
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Re: IC-Ep 1: Buried And Gone (David Llewelyn)

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David crouched in front of the fire, stoking the coals back to life. His chest had been bothering him again and the fire was his only defence against the creeping damp. The room didn't help, a single large room, with peeling paint and a patina of black across the ceiling on the outside wall,a sure sign of damp.The window rattled in the wind, but it was rarely opened, it helped to drown out the noise from market across the square. The bed was comfortable and having his own bathroom with a deep bath, was a bounty not to be sniffed at. His needs were few, he had spent half his life living in tents in some forgotten backwater. Now back in the civilized world, he needed to make his meager funds stretch for an indefinite period, so the lap of luxury would have to wait a little longer, Fortuna had not been smiling on him of late.

He stood from the fire and crossed the room to the table, littered with maps of North Africa and pages of handwritten notes and sketches. He picks up his glass and downs the remain whisky, closing his eyes and enjoying the warmth from the liquid spreading through his chest. He crosses to the dresser to refill his glass, only to uncork the bottle and find it empty. He laughs to himself and tosses the empty bottle back onto the counter with a clatter. He leans heavily on the edge of the dresser, his head bowed and lets out a slow sigh. Slowly he looks up, to face the reflection in the mirror hanging there. Slowly he reaches up and lifts the patch over his left eye, and examines the milky whiteness staring back at him. No Fortuna had not been good to him.
Sitting back down at the table, David’s eye cast across the papers, It all looked so simple laid out like this, but the truth had been a different matter altogether.

February 12th,Ten of us had set out from Zagora, in southern Morocco. searching for katuris, the fabled lost city. Two months of research in Rabat had finally born fruit from the seeds sown by Cecil Hammond, months before. Many had sought Katuris before, but none had had the information contained on the tablet, in Cecil’s possession. For nearly a month we crisscrossed our way across the Sahara, barely seeing any sign of life, human or otherwise. We knew it would not be easy to find, but we could begin to feel our resolve being leeched away under the burning sun.

Then came the night of march 3rd. We had caught sight of a nomad band near sunset. We attempted to make contact with them, but as we approached,they melted back into the desert as only those people can do. That night two of the teams diggers vanished along with a camel laden with supplies. There had been no disturbance, no tracks leading away, nothing. The expedition nearly ended there, maybe it would have been better if it had, but I managed to persuade the superstitious Moroccan porters and diggers to stay on.

As the day continued, the nomads appeared on our flanks or rear, time and time again. Despite our varied attempts we could never get close to them. The tension amongst the team was palpable. We made camp early that night, set a watch and the fire was a little larger. The night passed uneventfully, but I doubt many slept well. This continued throughout the next day, then as quickly as they appeared they left.

It was around midday the following day that a sudden wind picked up from the south. Before we knew it the horizon was filled with a rolling red cloud of sand, driven by winds of such strength, as to lift you from your feet. The Simoom had arrived, the blood storm. We took cover as best we could, the fine red sand, driven by the ferocious winds scouring every exposed inch of flesh. The storm seemed endless and if possible seemed to be getting stronger. It was around this point that a wailing sound could be heard,coming from the north, even over the howling winds.

After what seemed like an eternity the winds subsided. We took stock, we had lost another camel and one of the porters was in a bad way. It was Sherfa, our guide, who noticed the tip of a tower jutting from the sand just to the north. Myself and two of the diggers headed to the tower, leaving the rest to move our camp to the location of the tower. No more than nine feet of the tower protruded from the sand, with four long slit type window openings.

Without hesitation we gathered rope and lanterns and headed to the tower. Lowering a lantern on a rope we could see a floor 40 feet below. The diggers helped lower me into the depths of the tower. Holding the lantern aloft, I was in a large room with corridors leading off at each end. The walls were constructed of large stone blocks, well constructed and covered with carved sigils and text. From what I had seen of Cecil’s tablet, the text looked the same. I continued to look around the chamber making notes as I went. Along the back wall there was a large stone table worked around the edges in some sort of metal. On the table was a shallow broken bowl, lying in the bowl was an amulet or talisman made of what appeared to be green stone, bound around with metal. I placed the amulet and a section of the bowl in my bag and headed back to the rope, excited to show the others what we had found.

The camp was in an elated mood, we had found what so many others had sought. We ate well that night in celebration. As we finished our meal, a single voice could be heard chanting something in a language none of us understood. A lone nomad could be seen standing atop one of the dunes surrounding the camp, his arms raised to the sky, as his chat became slower and more forceful his arms lowered and a mist started to form at the top of the dune and rapidly flow down the flanks. All was panic, camels braying, men shouting in fear and trying to find anything for defence. The fog swept over us and Death came.

The world disappeared, I could see nothing beyond arms length. Shouts and sounds of movement seemed to come from all round. I could barely breathe my lungs bound in iron bonds wrought from my fear. I turned and ran blindly, a few steps, then I collided with something. There was a searing pain across my chest as a blade scored across my ribs,my pistols crack was deafening and briefly I saw the face of Abdullah, one of our porters, as he was flung away from me to disappear into the mist. I ran.

There were searing bright flashes of light coming from somewhere and something crackled by me. I turned to see what it was and ran into someone else. This time I swung the butt of my pistol and connected. It was one of the nomads, the blow had dislodged his face covering and what I saw, I will never forget. His eyes were large and yellowish coloured. With a broad flat nose and a nearly lipless mouth, filled with short pointed teeth. Its skin was coarse looking and textured almost like sand. The nomad lashed out and grabbed my arm, his strength surprising, his claws digging excruciatingly into my arm. My pistol fired for a second time, erasing the terrifying visage in front of me. I turned and run again, almost to the top of the dune. The panicked yelling of a few moment earlier, was changing into screaming and weak cries for help. I heard someone call my name and I turn towards the voice and a blue white light becomes the all of my vision, there is no pain just light and then I am tumbling head over heels and all becomes black.

When I come to I find myself buried nearly completely in sand and the wind is howling again. Confused as to why i'm here, then my senses start to function and I realise I can see out my left side and the memories flood back. It takes some time before I cautiously venture back over the ridge. There was the obvious sign of our camp in utter disarray, pools of blood, but not a single body. Of the nomads, there is not a sign and the tower is all but vanished back under the sand. I collected what items of use I could find and headed back into the desert expecting to find my death.

The knock at the door drags david out of his recollections, His brow soaked with sweat. He puts his journal down and walks over to the door. “Who’s there”
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Re: IC-Ep 1: Buried And Gone (David Llewelyn)

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From behind the door a young male's voice answers, "I have a message for a David Ll...Lleh...Loo..." David can hear him mutter, "Aww fer Christssake why do I always get the impossible names." Louder again the voice says "A message for David that is! Rather urgent-like, you see?"
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Re: IC-Ep 1: Buried And Gone (David Llewelyn)

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" One moment" David calls as he walks towards the door, wondering who would be sending him messages at this time and catches his reflection in the mirror. Noticing his patch is missing he collects it from the dresser top and slides it back on.
Drawing the bolt back from the top of the door, he opens it six inches, his left foot braced behind the door and looks out into the hall. Seeing a lone young boy in the hall, he relaxes somwhat. " Thats Llewwlyn, lets have it lad."
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Re: IC-Ep 1: Buried And Gone (David Llewelyn)

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"Well how'm I 'sposed t'know that when ya don't even have a prop--" the words die in the young boy's throat when he sees David, between the pockmarks and the eye patch he casts a grim visage. "Right y'are sir, sorry sir. Here's your message sir, sorry t'bother you again." The young boy hands David the message and jerks away when David grabs it. Before he can even close the door the boy has scurried off.

The message reads:
AT 5 DURWARD STREET, WHITECHAPEL.
VERY URGENT. COME AT ONCE. BRING A GUN.
YOU OWE ME.
JULIUS SMITH.


The note had been quickly scrawled, clearly Professor Smith had been in a hurry. He wasn't wrong though, David did owe the professor. Smith had set David up with a buyer for his latest acquisition, who had been more than generous and asked fewer questions than most. In fact, Smith was one of the few academics in Britain that still corresponded and helped David out when needed, a lot of others jumped ship when David came back even more scarred and nearly empty-handed.
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Re: IC-Ep 1: Buried And Gone (David Llewelyn)

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David chuckles to himself as the young boy scarpers back down the hall, That bad, hey. ”Hey kid”he calls and fishes in his pocket of his waistcoat flipping a penny down the hall towards the boy. The boy catches the coin in mid air and disappears around the corner.

David closes the door and opens the note with interest. Hmm.. so Julius is in trouble, but a gun? what has he got himself messed up in? He folds the note and throws it on the table.

He crosses the room and bends to slide the bed away from the wall, with a grunt. When the bed has moved, he stamps down on the floor board, where the leg was. One end flips up and a cloth wraped item is visible. David lifts it clear of the cavity and unwraps it. Within it lies a four barrelled Lancaster pistol and a pouch full of ammunition. He Loads the pistol and slips it into the inside pocket of his overcoat, with the ammunition in the outer pocket. He takes his hat from where he left it on the dresser and heads out the door.
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Re: IC-Ep 1: Buried And Gone (David Llewelyn)

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"Thanks a lot mister, and again, I'm really sorry about...well everything," he heads out the door.

Pistol retrieved, David makes his way out into the night, an unseasonable chill causes him to tighten his overcoat.
OOC,For the moment David's story is on hold until the rest of the intros are finished. If you'd like to specify how you will be traveling to Whitechapel that would be fine. Otherwise I will give your thread an update when everyone is ready.
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Re: IC-Ep 1: Buried And Gone (David Llewelyn)

Post by CrackheadC. »

It is a long walk, but the fresh air seems give David a renewed sense of clarity and soon he is turning up Durward Street in Whitechapel.
David,Move on to the new thread: [url=http://www.callofcthulhu.org.uk/pbp/viewtopic.php?f=389&t=5839]Down on Durward Street[/url]
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