Astanael

Tag: call of cthulhu

  • Masks of Nyarlathotep – Relaxation

    Cairo, Egypt, March 19, 1925

    Mouhammad reluctantly left the room of the Continental Hotel, letting Betty preparing the ritual with the various ornaments he fetched for her. That was a strange set of tools she asked him and he did his best to find them all. Buckler, arrows, arc, an ankh, a tiny sarcophagus… All this esoteric stuff was making him nervous, not that he feared the occult, but returning to the place he once worked was risky. He didn’t exactly leave a notice or any explanation of why he left his receptionist job, and “finding the love of his life” was not among accepted motive.

    Betty told him not to look. She told him to return in a few hours. She said she will invoke the Spirit of Nets the Huntress to beg her for rest and protection.

    He couldn’t resist and swiftly turned back. Using his pass on the door, he cautiously went back in the hotel room. He heard the words of Betty speaking softly some kind of prayer, in an unknown language. As he tried to hide behind the plants, he was overwhelmed by a sudden urge to sleep. He briefly saw a feline shadows, heard a strange metallic noise and fell to the ground unconscious.
    And now he’s here. They all are here.

    There is no time here. No past. No future. Only an eternal present. The grass is everywhere, taller than them. A gentle and warm wind is blowing. They feel presences out of their sight around them, furtive noises in the bushes of predators, but no fear. They feel protected, relaxed. Mouhammad saw Betty, alongside her sister. Betty was pregnant, and all signs of worry has disappear from her face. She was expecting, radiant, a true goddess. He fell in love again and sit with her. Keeva was slowly stroking the dog. John was alert, but calm and peaceful.

    There was no pain, no worries, no anxiety, not even the slightest discomfort. For the first time since ages, they could relax themselves and forget for a while the tasks at hands, the horrible fraternity of the black Pharaoh and the impending return of Nitocris.

    This was bliss though Mouhammad. He could stay here for ever. Betty leaned on him and said:

    – I want to hunt small critters. To run after they little tails. I want to sleep in the sun and to be petted. This is a dream, I know that. Not The Dreamlands, ‘though… This is the dream of a cat.  

    Pencil doodle on A6 sketchbook
    Excerpt from an ongoing run of the “Mask of Nyarlathotep” campaign for the Chaosium “Call of Cthulhu” RPG

  • Terror on the Orient-Express
    Teatro alla Scalla backstage

    9 jan. 1923 – Milan

    It was a bliss, Choura had always dreamed about visiting il Teatro alla Scala de Milano, and now he was backstage, looking for clues and the musical director ! He dared to hope… maybe… maybe he could land a role on tomorrow’s premiere of the Aida! If only they knew where the diva Cavollaro went. This was too strange for her to disappear upon her arrival, and she wasn’t even there for the repetition they said. He hoped for the best, but fear the worst.
    Cihat was more pragmatic. They searched for a while and couldn’t find the director Toscanni nor the scenic director. Only one clue left, the costume designer. Milano was not as he expected, like a dead city, rotting in her magnificent shell, dead inside. A lot of people were sick and many from affliction of the chest. There has to be the torso piece of Sedefkar simulacrum here, somewhere. His own arm ache. The pomades and care of Henry helped but he had to wear the sling. And do not like it.
    After asking for direction to the smoking pharaoh with the glasses and cigar, they went up. Suddenly, Choura stopped and pointed between the curtains. Without thinking, Cihat took a peek and saw it too : an Eye. Gigantic, colossal, looking right at them.

    He blinked and realized after a brief examination that it was a theater props, another of theses pieces of illusion hanging around and stored everywhere He shoved Choura who stood still, like hypnotized and fascinated by the vision. He shook harder until Choura manage to regain his senses.

    – “Are you alright ?”
    – “Oh,Yes. For a moment… ”

    He coughed

    – “For a moment I felt strange. I felt… Like I din’t know which is the stage and which is the scene…”

    Pencil doodle on A6 sketchbook
    Excerpt from the Terror on the Orient-Express Chaosium Call of Cthulhu RPG campaign

  • Terror on the Orient-Express
    William Wellington

    January the 6th, 1923, Lausanne (Switzerland)

    The door bell rang downstairs. Edward get up of his chair and said :
    – Pleas excuse me for a moment, I was expecting someone that you might want to meet too. I’ll be right back.
    The moment Edgar left the small and cumbered kitchen, a large man came in, opened a shelve, took a bottle and sat at the table. There was a long awkward silence, only ruptured by the noise of James that fled to the stairs, causing no reaction from the giant whatsoever.
    Henry tried a “hello” and some other greetings, only getting back a long and uncomfortable blank stare. Choura joined in, but after a few pointless minutes of one-sided conversation there was still no response. The colossus took a notebook and painstakingly started to wrote some words, then proceeded to show them to Henry.

    “Today is good day. Hello. Nice to meat you.”

    Henry shivers. Not because of the strange words, or the creepy typo. But because he saw now clearly the broken face of the giant as he lean into the faint light. Steel plaques hastily screwed to the skull, complete facial paralysis, deformed skull… He began to saw a story, the horrible tale of a victim of the great war, scorched by hellfire, shrapnel-mutilated and hastily repaired by a tired field surgeon in some god forsaken mud-filled trenches.

    Pencil doodle on A6 sketchbook
    Excerpt from the Terror on the Orient-Express Chaosium Call of Cthulhu RPG campaign

  • Terror on the Orient-Express
    A New player

    January the 6, 1923, Lausanne.
    06:45 am.

    Upon descending the Orient-Express, a cold fog grasped the four friends. pushing them to an open cafe just near the station. The bartender let them stack their heavy pile of luggage in a corner while waiting for the Grand Hotel carrier. They ordered a large breakfast, complete with chocolate dipped croissants, milked cafe, tea and a huge assortment of sweets and little Swiss chocolate squares. This warm and cozy pause is much welcome after such a journey, and the silence of morning in Lausanne was a bliss after the loud aver lasting ambient noise of the train.

    Aaah silence thought Henry… only troubled by the delicate tingling of faience, the song of a lonely bird and the strident screeches of car tires drifting upon snowed pavement.

    From across the place, a vehicle suddenly appears, coming from one the adjacent streets, probably leading down to the Lake. The car literally jumped in the air, and flew for what seemed an eternity before landing brusquely and starting drifting, closing in dangerously to the cafe, only stopping just a few meters before reaching the vitrine.

    Cihat was already up and ready to drag Choura away, when he felt the tight grip of the old russian on his arm. Choura was livid, and so was Carl. They were both looking intensely at the conductor of that just stepped outside of his vehicle.

    – Oscar ? He’s alive !? How could it be ?
    – No, that’s not him. Maybe… James ? His brother, the race pilot ? Oscar told me once about him, but how… ?

    The newcomer went straight for them, his fist tightly clenched. Behind him, the car was still smoking and clanking. On the passenger seat, what seemed like the real owner was livid and still hanging onto his seat as if his life depended on it. Something told Carl James Couteau has not bought the official story of the Lhassa meteor that cost the life of Oscar. This will be a hard and long talk. 

    Pencil doodle on A6 sketchbook
    Excerpt from the Terror on the Orient-Express Chaosium Call of Cthulhu RPG campaign

  • Terror on the Orien Express – The Blood Red Fez

    St John’s woods, London, 1893.

    Barrington
    was in a quite silly situation. Tightly strapped to a chair with
    several leather belts coming from Pr. Smith closets, a huge tub on his
    knees with his handkerchief stuck under his collar in case of violent
    nausea like the ones Amelia had when she touched the fez. He  felt like
    laughing. George then proceed to open the hatbox and lift the fez with
    his trusty fireplace poker and get it closer to his hand.

    His
    hilarity instantly died upon the proximity of this… thing. It was
    disgusting, greasy… almost dripping, covered in unknown filth. He
    would rather lick all the bathroom of grand station central with his
    tongue than touching this abomination, but he had to. Shadows all around
    were moving and became distorted. He began to saw some movement at the
    edge of his vision and could almost hear whispering in his head. He
    began to chant the persian mantra they found, again and again. He took a
    deep breath and bravely put his hand on the fez. Retching and belching,
    he stood still, focused on the mantra, even when he felt something
    moving underneath the fabric.
    After what
    seems an eternity, the oppressing atmosphere created by the fez
    gradually attenuated, to the point of being barely noticeable.

    – We made it ! Now we can carry this abomination to Constantinople and destroy it ! Unstrap me, would you ?

    The
    temptation was enormous for Georges to let this babbling idiot tied up
    in this grotesque situation, but the predicament they were in was too
    serious to joke around. He started to untied the captain, and noticed a strange expression on his face.

    – What is it ? Side effects ?
    – Your name. I can’t recall your name.
    – I’m Georges. Georges Banks
    – Ah yes ! I forgot for a moment who you were. Quite strange…

    Pencil doodle on A6 sketchbook
    Excerpt from the     Red Blood Fez Scenario from the Terror on the Orient-Express Chaosium Call of Cthulhu RPG campaign

  • Terror on the Orient-Express – The bloodied Fez

    5 Durward street, Whitechapel, London, 1893.

    – Well, what can you make of… that ?
    The
    doctor Saroch look upon his colleague. The doctor Hobbs was not someone
    easily shocked nor prone to sensationalism, and yet, he saw fear in his
    eyes. He bent over to the patient and began his examination. Skin
    dried, quasi mummified. Slow breathing, alive ? Eyes were moving under
    the lids. Atrophied muscles. All evidences pointed to signs of
    senescence, but teeth, bone structure and callosities said otherwise.
    This was somehow the body of a young man, yet pruned and dried like an
    very old person.

    He went to the head and tried to remove this dark fez that seems to be the only article of clothing of the poor sod. He gasped.
    – Oh my god ! It’s growing under his skin !

    Pencil doodle on A6 sketchbook

  • Masks of Nyarlathotep – Dramatis Personae

    From left to right :- Allen Stewart, A fiction writer and essayist that had once had an horrifying encounter with an undead sorcerer.
    – Awnya Hitchckock, A young lady indoctrinated since her birth in the machinations of the Cult of the Golden Dawn.
    – Harold William Cohen-Stein, an independent artist painter, con-artist and art smuggler.
    – John Edward Shirley,
    brother of William Shirley, an international consultant in intellectual
    property. Currently studying music at Columbia university

    (And of course; ominously hovering above the lot, The dreaded Crawling Chaos in his avatar of the Black Pharaoh)

    Pencil doodle on A6 sketchbook

  • The Left Arm of Sedefkar Simulacrum

    Poissy, January the 23th, France
    Cihat
    tied the rope around his belly an bravely move towards the light at the
    end of the tunnel. After all, what could be worse than the content of
    theses cells ? Carl said the foundations were extremely robust, Choura
    was firmly gripping the rope at the other end and Henry… Well Henry
    did what he could to not run away.
    It was
    gorgeous and eerie. The wall of the final cave was covered with roses,
    faintly glowing of multiples hues. Spiked vines were crawling all
    around, intertwined with several decayed corpses and skeletons. Some
    grew in the skulls orbits, others were blooming inside a ribcage. a
    thick and dark sap were dripping from the vine, covering the floor and
    releasing some kind of fumes or dark vapors which was swirling around
    his feet.

    At the middle of thins hellish
    mural, was glowing the the arm of a statue. They knew they have found
    the left arm of the Simulacrum of Sedefkar.

    Pencil doodle on A6 sketchbook
    Excerpt from an ongoing run of the “Terror on the Orient Express” campaign for Chaosium “Call of Cthulhu” RPG.

  • Masks of Nayarlathotep – Harold’s madness

    London, Hitchcock’s manor. 1925.February the 21th
    Soundtrack : Layers of Fear OST, main theme

    Awnya words were kind, but the news was too heavy for Harold’s sensible artistic mind.

    James is dead.
    He
    is no more. Departed. Gone. Not with us anymore.The reality of the
    situation hit him hard. He wanted to face it, to revolt against the
    entire world, to howl and scream, but his body wouldn’t respond. He
    struggled to keep some coherency in his mind, but his thoughts has gone
    numb. As he felt into slumber, he saw a trace of guilt in Awnya’s
    beautiful face and understand the strange taste in the infusion she made
    earlier… Awnya gazed for while at Harold’s
    face, slowly stroking his long hair. At least he would rest, and maybe
    the narcotic will dilute the pain. She knew how important James was to
    him, maybe she should lay down with him, and ease him into consciousness
    in the morning. Yes, it would be a good way to…

    Harold’s eyes opens suddenly.

    She
    gasped. Franticly, she searched for her words, surprised by this sudden
    awakening. As she mumbled a quick excuse, she realized something was
    off. The face of Harold was blank, as if its mind was too. He stood up
    brusquely, made a few steps and stood still, staring at the painting of
    Aleister on the mantle chimney. Awnya tried to talk to him but he didn’t
    respond to her. After a few attempts to attract his attention, he
    started walking again, and goes to the stairs. As she followed him, she
    noticed his usual sluggishness was gone. He climbed up to his room,
    stared at his luggages, and with swift and precise movements, started to
    unpack his painting tools.

    Awnya lay
    herself on his bed and watched him dressing the easel. She saw him paint
    before, slow gentle touch of color. This was different, the strokes
    were quick and violent, spaying drops of paint everywhere. The silence
    were oppressing, heavy, tense. She had to break it. Without knowing if
    Harold could hear her, she started to tell everything. What happened in
    New-york, the Bloody tongue cults, the escape to London, and the
    Damocles sword upon James. The possession, Silas’ shadow, the arrival to
    the manor and the ritual, The Dreamlands, the cats of Ulthar, The
    Nightgaunts, Nodens… Her sister’s taking away.

    One
    by one, everything she told to Harold was painted, Soon the canvas was
    filled by a giant juxtaposition of scenes and portraits, and then the
    walls and furnitures around too were sprayed too with drops of colors,
    suggestively arranged. Hours by hours, this giant mandala grew larger
    and larger, but she still couldn’t see what he draw in the center. What
    was the nexus, the central piece that liked all the others.

    Her raging curiosity was devouring her, but she had to finish her story first.
    It has to be told. To be painted.

    Pencil doodle on A6 sketchbook

    Excerpt from an ongoing run of Call of Cthulhu Campaign : The Masks of Nyarlathotep (London arc)

  • Masks of Nayarlathotep – Harold’s madness

    London, Hitchcock’s manor. 1925.February the 21th
    Soundtrack : Layers of Fear OST, main theme

    Awnya words were kind, but the news was too heavy for Harold’s sensible artistic mind.

    James is dead.
    He
    is no more. Departed. Gone. Not with us anymore.The reality of the
    situation hit him hard. He wanted to face it, to revolt against the
    entire world, to howl and scream, but his body wouldn’t respond. He
    struggled to keep some coherency in his mind, but his thoughts has gone
    numb. As he felt into slumber, he saw a trace of guilt in Awnya’s
    beautiful face and understand the strange taste in the infusion she made
    earlier… Awnya gazed for while at Harold’s
    face, slowly stroking his long hair. At least he would rest, and maybe
    the narcotic will dilute the pain. She knew how important James was to
    him, maybe she should lay down with him, and ease him into consciousness
    in the morning. Yes, it would be a good way to…

    Harold’s eyes opens suddenly.

    She
    gasped. Franticly, she searched for her words, surprised by this sudden
    awakening. As she mumbled a quick excuse, she realized something was
    off. The face of Harold was blank, as if its mind was too. He stood up
    brusquely, made a few steps and stood still, staring at the painting of
    Aleister on the mantle chimney. Awnya tried to talk to him but he didn’t
    respond to her. After a few attempts to attract his attention, he
    started walking again, and goes to the stairs. As she followed him, she
    noticed his usual sluggishness was gone. He climbed up to his room,
    stared at his luggages, and with swift and precise movements, started to
    unpack his painting tools.

    Awnya lay
    herself on his bed and watched him dressing the easel. She saw him paint
    before, slow gentle touch of color. This was different, the strokes
    were quick and violent, spaying drops of paint everywhere. The silence
    were oppressing, heavy, tense. She had to break it. Without knowing if
    Harold could hear her, she started to tell everything. What happened in
    New-york, the Bloody tongue cults, the escape to London, and the
    Damocles sword upon James. The possession, Silas’ shadow, the arrival to
    the manor and the ritual, The Dreamlands, the cats of Ulthar, The
    Nightgaunts, Nodens… Her sister’s taking away.

    One
    by one, everything she told to Harold was painted, Soon the canvas was
    filled by a giant juxtaposition of scenes and portraits, and then the
    walls and furnitures around too were sprayed too with drops of colors,
    suggestively arranged. Hours by hours, this giant mandala grew larger
    and larger, but she still couldn’t see what he draw in the center. What
    was the nexus, the central piece that liked all the others.

    Her raging curiosity was devouring her, but she had to finish her story first.
    It has to be told. To be painted.

    Pencil doodle on A6 sketchbook

    Excerpt from an ongoing run of Call of Cthulhu Campaign : The Masks of Nyarlathotep (London arc)