Astanael

Tag: masks of nyarlathotep

  • Masks of Nyarlathotep – Interview with sir Edward Gavigan

    London, upstairs the residence of Shirley Greengrass,  February the 28th, England.

    Upon
    hearing the indecent proposition of Awnya, Sir Gavigan repressed a
    smile. He quickly calculate than the nubile young women before him must
    be seventeen yeas old at most. Is this a trap ? Is this  way for her to
    lure him somewhere to discuss matters more privates ? He couldn’t deny
    his desires but he certainly could dominate himself.

    The
    old Crowley is a fool. But a smart one. He did led the Golden dawn to
    its today’s demise, and had access to numerous artifacts he would kill
    for. The three sisters were rumored to have immense powers, and quite
    the large number of followers. An offer from one of them is not
    something to take lightly.

    He reached the glass
    doors of the library, opened it and tip the “dragonflies phylotaxonomia”
    volume. Then he proceed to rotate the furniture to reveal a small
    cabinet, with a secretaire, a comfortable  armchair and wall covered in
    leather-bound books.

    – Please, follow me. Let my old pal rest. He won’t notice, I assure you.

    He
    went inside the small cabinet. He knew about the exotic tastes of the
    old Shirley, and if he remembers correctly… ah, here it is. Indeed,
    the last row of books are all fakes. Inside, no more entomology
    researches, by depiction of mature women, bound in strange apparatus of
    leather and steel. each position more twisted than the other… A
    connoisseur indeed.

    Holding the book high,
    he started flip the pages. This was more to give himself a composure
    than anything. Awnya sat in the armchair, to the amusement of Sir
    Gavigan. If only the old Greengrass were sane enough to realize there is
    a beautiful young woman sitting in the very place he yanked him so much
    !

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

  • Fishing in the snow

    Severn Valley, February the 27th, England.

    Ed
    was drunk. Not ordinary drunk, but reaaally over-the-top kind of drunk.
    This discussion and planning with all this gibberish about sorcerers
    and Gavigan, and Penhew and stuff left him so bored he discretely went
    to the secretaire, picked the lock, and snatch a bottle of whiskey.
    Little he know ‘tis was no run-off-the-mill bottle, it was a 300 £
    Master of Malt brand. Ed was not used to such fine beverage and emptied
    the bottle in a few sips while the gang were plotting. And his mind wend
    blurry. Deciding to let the plotting and talking to Sean, he went outside
    to find girls. In his confused mind, the proximity of the lake, and the
    need for fresh air led him to go and try fishing girls. Literally. So
    he found a long stick, a thread and some panties and went outside. In
    the snow. He climbed the wall, ignoring Asogwe the hougan which was being
    devoured by some trees, and went to the lake.

    There
    was already a fisherman there. With some nice bait in his pocket Ed
    tried to snitch. But the fisherman slap him on the wrist, though he
    didn’t seem to mind Ed presence and confusing chatting.

    –
    Y’ know wha ? yer a good lis’ner. I like ya ! Sorry for tryin’ ta
    snitching yer baits, mate. Mind if I tag along to fish wi’t ya ?

    Pencil doodle on A6 sketchbook
    Excerpt from an ongoing run of the “Mask of Nyarlathotep” campaign for the 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)

  • The Masks of Nyarlathotep – Infiltration of the Misr Mansion

    Somewhere on the swamps of the North Sea, England, February 21, 1925

    Sean was leading the newly formed squad of ne’er-do-well
    through the swamps. Cautiously, they avoided getting to far off the
    road, and thanks to the moonlight, managed to close up to the Misr
    Mansion without triggering any alarm. There was a sentinel at the gate,
    but luckily, it was snoring loudly. They managed to dispose of him
    swiftly. Martin was behind, and Sean knew he had called the fuzz for
    backup. They had now only a few hours before the place become too
    crowded. The lieutenant hadn’t spoke a single intelligible word since
    then, always mumbling in some strange dialect Sean coudn’t recognize.
    He thoughts were tense, but clear : “Hang on Yasmina, I’m coming for ya !”

    Pencil doodle on A6 sketchbook
    Excerpt from an ongoing run of Call of Cthulhu Campaign : The Masks of Nyarlathotep (London chapter)

  • Masks of Nyarlathotep – The burnt house that wasn’t

    London, St John’s wood – February the 19th, 1925

    – “I made more tea”, said Martin.
    Allen
    and John started to rummage through their notes, looking for their
    buried teacups. Since his visit to Sir Gavingan, Martin had trouble
    concentrating or simply thinking straight, When he heard a knock on the
    door, he went for it with the teapot still in his hands. What happened
    with this interview ? He couldn’t remember. And why the headaches ?
    It
    was Sean at the door, returning from his home after a long and
    eventless slumber. After an awkward moment where Shaun pointed the
    teapot in inquiry, they went back to the salon. The other two had
    finally managed to retrieve their teacups under the massive pile of
    papers on the table, and martin began to pour the warm liquid. Sean
    dropped himself heavily in Martin’s chair, and passed on the invitation.

    And then the house vanished.

    There was no sound, no
    movement, no nothing. It simply wasn’t there anymore. They were now
    sitting in the charred remains of what was a house a long time ago.
    grasses and roots had begun to take over the site, every lasting piece
    of wood was weathered and charred. Their belongings were intact, but
    everything else that was originally in the house was now decayed, broken
    or badly burnt.

    They stood motionless for a while, shocked and
    disturbed by the astonishing situation, and only regained their
    composure when a sudden gust of wind threaten to disperse the piles of
    their precious notes.

    Pencil doodle on A6 sketchbook
    Excerpt from an ongoing run of Call of Cthulhu Campaign : The Masks of Nyarlathotep (custom arc)

  • New-York, Juju Boutique, January 1925

    The article of James Benneth was aimed to create a little confusion in Harlem. Just a dirty paper in a tabloid, who would care ?
    The
    peoples of Harlem care. A lot. What was aimed to be a simple police
    raid became a risky expedition right in a middle of racial riots never
    seen before. Nonetheless, the evidences were too strong and the raid had
    to be done.

    Against all odds, it went smoothly. Two police cars
    full of strong young officers put Silas N’Kwane, the boutique owner, in
    custody and found the secret entrance to the cave under the rug. Then
    all hell break loose. The cultists viciously ambushed the men outside,
    while screeches and howls came from below. Some of them definitely not
    human. The policemen were well armed and easily dispatched the cultists,
    All but one : Mukunga, the leader, wouldn’t fall. He took so many
    bullets and still won’t die. He sliced William and Franck with his
    pronga, chocked Donald to death, without so much as a flinch on his
    face, and keeps walking, unfaded by the rain of bullets.

    Caught
    in the boutique between the massive murdered and the hellish howls from
    the hole, the men began to panic. Clip after clip, they emptied all
    their weapons, screaming in disbelief :

    – “Why won’t you DIE !?”

    Pencil doodle on A6 Sketchbook with a touch of color pencils