ParaAgent Quest #13

Thread 13 Because Zippo is a big silly man who forgot to archive.

yuki.la link (unsure how long this'll be up for): https://yuki.la/qst/3651979

It’s big, it’s quick, it’s lethal, and it is hungry. The Wendigo is a grotesque parody of the upper torso of a human being, yet it shares nothing in common with anyone beyond this superficial similarity. Slavering with a hunger that can never be satiated, the foetid beast launches itself at your party once again.

“Out of its way!” you bawl aloud, shoving the closest person to you aside even as you dive out of the thing’s path. An invasive chill, like the wintry fist of death itself, clutches you as the Wendigo sails overhead once more, it lands a scant few metres away, and still the cold bites. You’ve heard of this--some curious quirk of their makeup that inflicts their immediate surroundings with a bitter cold, slowing their intended prey. Experiencing it, though, is something you’d rather forget as soon as possible, along with this whole encounter.

“Fuckfuckfuckfuck!” you hear Arnold swear as he fumbles with the shotgun in his hands. The drooling monstrosity snaps its head around at the noise, locking the beady, bottomless pits of its eyes onto the swearing Englishman. Iszolda, on his flank, raises a hand and mutters a rapid-fire incantation in Russian. Icicles form around her open palm and launch themselves at the Wendigo like bullets from a gun, piercing the thing’s rotted, sloughing flesh. If the creature feels any pain at the wounds, though, it doesn’t show it. Indeed, it coils once more, ready to pounce and rend and tear, and you know it can only miss so many times…

>Time for all that balefire you packed to do its work (TN 60+)
>That trick you did back in France worked pretty well, let's see if Wendigo are equally susceptible (TN ?)
>”I don’t suppose any of you know anything that could pin it in place?”

Well, you suppose you packed all this special ammunition for a reason, time for it to get to work. Inexperienced in handling a firearm as you are, you don’t believe that even you can miss such a big target at this range. More shards of ice slam into the wendigo and Naru starts muttering under her breath--probably one of these curses that are her purported speciality, but she could well just be cussing in the same vein as Arnold for all you know.

Diedrich, surprisingly, has not frozen up and has instead started to unload on the thing, on his back, face white with barely-suppressed terror, he somehow looks more in control than you think you’ve seen him on one of these operations. Maybe he’s starting to get used to it?

Never one to be shown up, you level the gun that is probably, with all it’s seen and done, a national icon of some kind. Lining up your sights on the crouching beast, and still morbidly conscious of the shades that even now appear to be increasing in number around you and your fellows, you squeeze the trigger and pray that the thing is as susceptible to fire as you’ve been led to believe.

>1d100 TN 60+

Rolled 24 (1d100)

The boom almost deafens you; loud, sudden and unanticipated, you can’t help the flinch which sees you pull your gun over to one side as you pull the trigger, rattling off what sounds like an absurd amount of firepower into the sky. Through the awful ringing in your ears you can just make out Arnold curse and swear with greater vigour and surmise that he’s had some kind of misfire which startled all of you. The others take it as poorly as you do--Diedrich, you notice has his hands clapped around his ears while Naru has ceased the incantation for whatever she was working on herself.

The only saving grace, it seems, is that the monster appears almost as confused at the sudden din as you were. This happy grace period doesn’t last, however, and it launches itself straight at Diedrich, its grossly distended jaw almost dragging along the ground as it closes. With a savage backhand, it knocks Iszolda into the mist and out of sight before slamming a claw down upon the German, flattening him. You note, with muted relief, that the man isn’t dead, though, fate or not, you doubt this will last if he doesn’t get help now. Meanwhile the passive aura of chill seeps deeper into your bones and your teeth start to rattle.

“‘Old on, Jerry!” Arnold bellows, throwing his shotgun aside and reaching into his pants for a revolver of some kind and plugging slug after slug at the Wendigo’s face.

“Adam, we need a plan!” Naru cries, “Preferably before we end up as worm-food!”

>We’ll call this Plan Shoot It Until It Dies Version 2 (TN 55+)
>A little hellfire magic might warm things up (TN 60+)

You swing your gun about to train it on the Wendigo, which even now drools over a screaming Diedrich, but a thought occurs to you--what if the balefire engulfs the thing with Diedrich still in its claws? Sure, it wouldn’t actually spread to him, but the flames will still roast him as surely as they would the beast itself. And what if you end up missing again and actually somehow hit him? That’s not a death you’d wish on anyone.

Fortunately, you come to the swift realisation that balefire isn’t the only fire-related tool in your arsenal. It isn’t your speciality, but it’ll singe well enough. You snap your fingers and in your hand appears a blazing purple ball of hellfire. Drawing back your arm, you wind up and prepare to sling it at the creature’s head.

“Get the thing off of him!” you shout towards Naru, “Whatever it takes!”

>1d100 TN 60+

((>Feel now would be a good time to address the elephant in the room: Character Death. At this present stage, I’m still more or less building up the world and the foundations of the overarching story. This is, however, inspired by XCOM (specifically BurningGrey’s pretty great XCOM Trooper Quest) and a changing roster as agents take wounds or die is a part of that core experience. At this point, I’m not committing to out and out fatalities just yet, though at some stage later in the narrative and depending on how you all feel about it, this may change. If the risk takers among you feel that frequently poor rolls in a dicey situation should result in a squad fatality, let me know. I’ll leave this particular vote up as long as the thread goes on. As always, I’m open to extra suggestions or insights anyone might have, and not just on this particular topic.))

Rolled 81 (1d100)

The chill seeps into your bones; you can almost feel the blood slow and freeze in your veins. Yet despite this, your aim is true and the fireball, while maybe not the most powerful you’ve ever conjured, is more than up to the task. Purple fire engulfs the Wendigo’s head and its high-pitched shriek of surprise, pain and fury threatens to deafen you. It lifts its paw off of Diedrich and swats at its face, trying in vain to pat the fire out and succeeding only in spreading the blaze to its hand.

“I gotcher, Jerry,” you hear Arnold murmur, and glance back to see the big man dragging the whimpering Diedrich away and out of the creature’s reach. His gun--for all the good it seems to do--is still trained on the still-screaming Wendigo. Naru, meanwhile, is chanting to herself again, her hands clasped together like she’s uttering some kind of prayer to the almighty, though her eyes are fixed on the flailing monstrosity. She finishes in a language you don’t understand--Japanese, possibly--a steely note of finality in her voice as she finishes the incantation.

The Wendigo suddenly stops moving. It’s still ablaze, but it has stopped in place--frozen in time like a photo in a frame; a keening whine echoing from its still slavering mouth.

“Hurry up and burn the thing,” Naru groans, her voice tight with strain, “This curse wasn’t really made for something this big and pissed off. I can’t hold it for--”

You require no further prompting. With nothing attempting to rip out your throat and such a large target pinned in place--however temporarily--you can hardly miss. Balefire rounds pierce through the Wendigo’s sagging flesh before bursting into bright, azure fire which swiftly consumes the blood-hungry creature. Naru’s curse wears off scant moments later and the monster is finally free to thrash about in its agonised death throes, screeching and wailing loud enough to damn near wake the dead.

Finally, mercifully, it expires, collapsing in an undignified heap of blazing skin and bone. You breathe a sigh of relief only for it to catch in your throat as a hazy shadow appears to rise from its remains. Practically oozing alien malevolence, you feel its hungry, crimson-eyed gaze upon you.

“‘old on, folks,” Arnold says, looking warily at… what, exactly you aren’t entirely sure. The spirit of the Wendigo? Something else entirely? “It’s gonna--”

Whatever he was about to say is cut off when the spirit shrieks. Windows shatter and you feel your teeth ache and something dribbles from your ears. Sound ceases to be--all there is, is the shriek. You think you cry out before dropping to your knees, your head is pain. Everything feels fuzzy and disconnected, almost like you’re about to faint. You throw up onto the frozen grass, unable to stop yourself; you think you see some of the others do the same out of the corner of your eye.
And then all is silence once more. Groggy, tired, and exhausted, you force yourself to raise your head to look for the screaming spirit.

It’s gone.

You aren’t sure whether you should be grateful or afraid.

“Oh…” Naru groans, having fallen on her ass, “Oh, that was… urp--” she goes pale and leans over to retch.

“I’m gonna need t’ave me ears looked at when we get back,” Arnold grumbles. He sounds… quieter than usual. Actually, you think everything does. There’s this weird ringing in your head, faint enough that it doesn’t drown out everything else, but loud enough that you’re keenly aware of its presence. It’s… not exactly comforting. Raising a hand up to rub at your ear, you feel a wetness, and then become aware of a trickling sensation down the side of your head, starting from your ears. Slowly, you pull your hand back into view and find it has come away bloody.

What the fuck WAS that?

“Are we done?” you think you hear Diedrich whine, “Can we go, now?”

A faint smack from… someone is his only response.

Shaking your head to try and clear the funk that’s settled upon you, you remember the fifth member of your happy little group--Iszolda! She got knocked into the mist!

Whirling around, you feel the hairs on your neck stand on end when you realise you can’t see her.

>We’ve got to go out and find her--no telling what else could be lurking in this crazy place and lord knows you could use the extra (wo)manpower
>Try calling out, maybe she’s up and trying to find her way back to you. It’d also possibly lure out anything else that might try ambushing you in the mist
>With all this mist and with the shriek of that spirit disorienting you so, there’s no telling where she could have landed. It sucks, but you’ll have to carry on and pray she’s safe

Dragging your hand across your face, wiping away the sheen of sweat that built in the considerably hairy encounter with the blood-hungry monster, you scour your surroundings for any indication of where the Russian could have landed. You think you have a vague idea of where she was knocked, but with the mist this thick and coupled with the general confusion of the Wendigo’s assault and that awful shriek after it burned to death, you can’t be a hundred percent sure.

“Right…” you say before remembering you have telepathic link, slapping your forehead with a palm. Duh.

Take stock and make sure everything’s in place, guys and girls. We’ve got to find our Ice Queen.

"Can we not just call for her this way?" Diedrich whines, picking himself up and glancing about himself nervously. You see him shivering, and with the frosty aura of the Wendigo dissipating, it’s certainly not down any chill in the air. Hopefully he doesn’t go into shock mid-search. That would be a bit of a pain to deal with.

"Pretty sure if she was conscious, she’d have phoned in by now," Naru points out.

"Very astute, Ms. Takumi," you nod, noting with a shiver of your own that there are now more shades than ever before. A whole crowd of them. All around you. Arms outstretched. Plea...

"Fuck off with that ‘Ms. Takumi’ crap. Naru or nothing," the short and typically aggressive Japanese woman breaks whatever strange mood was starting to come down on you. Feeling curiously drained, you blink your eyes and scan your immediate surroundings again. The shades are still there, and you feel certain they’ll always be there until you finally leave this crazy place.

"So," Arnold muses, stood languidly in place, checking over his shotgun in both hands, "’ow d’we go about lookin’ fer our wayward lass?"

"We’ll need some kind of marker for reference in this mist," Naru suggests, and it’s a good idea.

"Yeah. We’ll head out together in a straight line and then after..." you pause to think, thirty paces, we’ll double back.

"Better’n nothin’," Arnold complies, reaching deep into one of his pockets and retrieving a… bottle?

"Hm, wondered where this’d gone off to," he muses before popping off the cap with a meaty thumb and draining the contents in one long gulp. You and the other two share a look while the Brit finishes off his drink and belches.

“Ah,” he sighs in satisfaction, That ‘its the spot, so it does. He then sets the bottle down on the ground, That’ll do for a mark, won’t it?

Honestly, you’d prefer a stick or something you could plant in the ground. Lacking any such convenience, however, this will have to do. Reminding everyone to keep an eye down low when you tread back, you begin the search for your missing colleague.

>1d100, no TN but higher = better

Rolled 94 (1d100)

You notice quickly as you march out that, despite the death(?) of the Wendigo, the grass still crunches underfoot, and a brief inspection reveals that it is, in fact, still frozen. This worries you, as while it’s not quite what you’d call warm, it’s definitely not cold enough to freeze much of anything. Though all but obvious beforehand, this reinforces the knowledge that there is indeed some fell magic at work here.

Another aspect of this whole scenario that concerns you is the appearance of the Indian devil-spirit. What you know of them stems primarily from an old story your father told you, who encountered one in his youth. They are apex predators--savage hunters with an unnatural and unending hunger for flesh and blood. The chilling aura they exhibit is the only power they exhibit beyond their supernatural strength and speed; so far as you know, it’s impossible for them to conjure up anything like what’s happening here.

All of this means that something else is afoot here, and the Wendigo was either drawn in by the promise of food or brought here. By who or what, though, is anyone’s guess. The scowl on Naru’s face informs you that she likely suspects something is amiss as well. Diedrich just looks rattled, while Arnold looks as though he’s hardly a care in the world, save for eldritch cannibals.

The shades, in the meanwhile, continue to appear out of the fog on your path, each one reaching out for you. A niggling little voice in the back of your mind whispers that they want to drag you into whatever nightmare they now suffer. Trying to shut it up proves futile, so you try and distract yourself by other means.

The shape of an empty cabin looms ahead and, drawing closer, you see that a window next to the entrance has been smashed in. Something sticks outside, though… and now you think on it, it’s starting to look more and more like--

"Is that a leg?" Diedrich wonders, clearly puzzled.

The answer comes to you in an instant, and you feel your spirits lift at this unexpected stroke of luck. It has to be Iszolda! Honestly, you were half-expecting not to find her at all, and though she’s likely in a world of hurt if she’s been thrown through a glass window, maybe she’s still alive. A twitch seems to confirm your theory and you hurry in through the front door--

--and find a most bizarre scene playing out before you.

Iszolda is… well, she’s certainly looked better. Her white blouse is torn, as is her cream skirt. She bleeds from well over a dozen cuts--most of which look to be around her sides, though there are almost certainly a more on her back--she fails to react to your arrival whatsoever, her eyes closed. A part of you notes that her sleeping face is rather more easy on the eyes than her creepy little smile. Now, however, is not the time to appreciate.

She is also sinking into the floor.

An inky black pool has opened beneath her. From beneath its lapping, soupy currents, ghostly hands reach up from beneath the impenetrably black surface, grasping, groping, dragging. A chill runs down your back as a theory emerges as to the source of the shades outside.

“Wot th’ ‘ell…” Arnold murmurs in bleak wonder.

“Grab her!” you shout, reaching for a half-submerged arm while also taking care to try and avoid touching whatever dark, unnatural force is attempting to suck the young woman into the earth, “We’ve got to get her out of there!”

>1d100 TN ?

Rolled 55 (1d100)

You haul. There’s nothing else for it. You grab hold of an arm and pull. Maybe the lady could use some serious pointers on how to talk to other people, but that doesn’t mean she’s a bad person.

And you feel pretty damn certain that whatever awaits her if you don’t bring her up, she doesn’t deserve it.

You appear, however, to have overestimated yourself, because all that happens when you pull is that her descent slows. Not halts. Slows. Something’s got the Russian tight and it won’t give her up without a fight.

Fortunately, you’re swiftly joined by the others. Arnold and Naru are, unsurprisingly, the first to come and help. Diedrich gets stuck in only a heartbeat later, though, probably still battling with his nerves. Slowly, gradually, you think you’re starting to bring her up. More and more of her becomes visible and, sorry a state that she’s in, you feel much better about the thought that she’s up here with you than… wherever that weird goop is going to take her.

“Keep pulling,” you grunt.

“Like we were going to be stopping for coffee!” Diedrich grinds, his face red with exertion. You doubt you look much better. It’s like playing tug of war with a freight train. Even Arnold’s tree trunk thick arms bulge with the effort of keeping Iszolda from slipping beneath the surface.

“I ‘ope we don’t pull nuffin’ up wivver,” the Brit groans. You’re not sure if he’s joking, but you share the sentiment all the same, “Be too bleedin’ shattered t’fight, way this’s goin’.”

A sudden lurch pulls Iszolda down almost half a foot, and nearly tears you and the others off your feet.

“What the fuck?” Naru voices what the rest of you are thinking.

Then she starts to descend again. A fresh force adding its own strength to whatever lurks beneath the inky black depths or... whatever the hell this is.

Shit.

1d100 TN ? once more

Rolled 97 (1d100)

No. No, no, no. A heat surges through you, one you recognise as anger. What the hell does the unknowable abomination causing the ruckus here think it’s playing at all of a sudden? It’s not taking the lady and that, you decide, is that.

Relinquishing one hand’s grip on Iszolda, you work through the spell you want.

“Boss, what the ‘ell’re yer doin’?” Arnold grunts, straining against the tide.

“Putting a really shitty idea into practice,” you reply swiftly as your hand is coated in hellfire.

“Oh no,” Naru groans, “Adam, seriously. Stop and think for a goddamn second--”

“Not this time.”

Then you plunge your hand into the soupy black portal and unleash as much as you’re willing to give, which is a lot, as it turns out.

Immediately you feel the hold on Iszolda slacken, and with a mighty roar, Arnold finally pulls her free.

But she doesn’t come alone…

Something is latched onto her back; a dark figure wreathed in wispy smoke. You have the vaguest impression of rotted, feathery wings the colour of midnight and a hood of shadow. Long, gangly arms whose dark, clammy flesh ripples like waves in the ocean clutch onto Iszolda’s shoulders. Looking directly at the thing makes your head hurt, and the growing migraine worsens the longer you stare.

The thing--for you have no earthly idea where to even begin with it--regards all of you, staring in slack-jawed surprise at the unexpected arrival and, though its face is shrouded, you can feel its unearthly rage at having been dragged from its home.

>No way the thing’s going to let you leave without a fight. Light it up!
>Time for one of your patented elusive escapes. Conjure up a crowd and hightail it while it’s distracted (TN 70+)
>That hellfire of yours has done wonders for you so far. Bring the heat! (TN 65+)

A moment of hesitation, you’re starting to learn, can have the direst of consequences. If it’s not someone else’s ass, it’s your own. So when the shady, spectral thing from below rears up into the air like it’s about to dive for your scalp, you don’t waste time thinking and pondering.

You just act.

Dropping the Tommy Gun you’ve been lugging about, you raise both hands as you touch on the winds of magic and engulf them in hellfire. It seemed to work well enough against the Wendigo earlier, and it saved Iszolda’s life just now, so the logical play would be to see how well it fares against this spooky fuck hovering over you.

The others, in a similar vein, don’t wait for an order--Arnold and Diedrich blaze away with their guns--the shot passing harmlessly through its body, you note sourly, while Naru backs away, taking cover to presumably prepare another hex from her own arsenal. Though none of them is doing any damage, you note with some relief that the creature appears momentarily conflicted about who to attack first.

This, then, is your opening. Just have to make the shot count…

>1d100 TN 65+

Rolled 73 (1d100)

You wind back and fling. The fireball roars through the air towards your target and you feel a thrill surge through your body--your aim is true.

The thing, however, reacts quicker than you’d hoped it would. Swerving to the side, the fireball catches it on the side, igniting immediately. A shriek that grates on your senses like nails on a chalkboard pierces deep into your brain and, batting wildly at its blazing arm, the shadow retreats, blowing out another window in its flight.

Relief comes quickly, though you have an inkling that this may very well not be the last you see of it or its kind, because it’s never that easy. Even so, you keep one fireball at the ready in case this is some kind of feint, while the others glance about warily. You don’t think it can ghost through solid objects if its fleeing through the glass window is any indication, but the phenomenon that almost claimed Iszolda could well be one aspect of whatever strange abilities is possesses.

You wanted to keep vigil for another five minutes, but you’ve expended a fair amount of power already and fire magic is a real guzzler.

"I think we’re all right," you say to the others.

"Really? Truly?" Diedrich asks.

"Yeah, I think it would have come back by now if it wanted another crack at us," you send.

"Shit," Naru stands up from her crouching position, having taken cover behind an upended table. "Credit where it’s due, that was pretty awesome. Shame you didn’t nail it in the face, but I ain’t gonna complain about being alive."

Speaking of…

You crouch down low to check over your Russian colleague. She has, typically, failed to regain consciousness, and continues to bleed. Your medical knowledge is substandard at best, but you’re pretty sure she needs a look-over by a professional and as far as you know, none of you know any…

"Naru?" you ask, a memory surfacing.

"Yeah?"

"You got any more of that remedy you carry around with you? The one you used way back on that island?"

"Sure, but what--" she stops, following your gaze and her eyes light up in understanding, "Got it. Not a lot of it, but it should be fine."

She kneels down and reaches into one of her pockets, retrieving a little tin container and popping the lid before dabbing her fingers into the mixture and setting to work. While she takes care of that you have Arnold and Diedrich take up watch while you begin to ponder your next move.

>You’ve not made any real progress in your investigation. It sucks, but you’ve got to carry on and hope you’ll be able to manage.
>One teammate down and you can’t, in good conscience, leave her alone in this place. Time to phone home and call for either advice or that backup. Preferably the latter

This has been a less than stellar start, all things considered. You’ve had to tap into quite a lot of power already, and while you could potentially carry on, you’re already feeling the early stages of fatigue that comes when you bring the fire--which isn’t your specialty to begin with. Diedrich is, similarly carrying on but is twitchier than usual and quite clearly traumatised from his near brush with death scant minutes ago.

To top things off, you now have a wounded ice mage on your hands who has failed to regain consciousness. You don’t know if there’s something in this mist preventing her from awakening or if she was just hit that hard, in which case there’s almost certainly more damage than you can see.

You honestly don’t think you’ve got much of a choice here. Whatever you do, you cannot just leave Iszolda here on her own. If you carried on, you’d have to get one or more of you to carry her, and if you should be unlucky enough to stumble on another creature like the wendigo, lowering her to the ground could take precious moments that may very well see the lot of you dead. There’s also the possibility that you may once again end up scattered in the fight and you really don’t like the thought of being on your own in this place.

Sighing, you tap into the telepathic network Des kindly sets up for you and make a call.

"Adam here. I hope someone’s listening out there."

It takes an instant for a reply although, worryingly, the voice is garbled. Distorted. Warped. You feel pretty certain it’s the old man, though.

"We are he... Mister Baue… is the pro...em? There’s a… terference. How… the hunt?"

Great.

"Not sure how much is getting through here. I’ve got a teammate down. She’s badly injured and she’s not waking up. We’ve faced down a wendigo and, you pause, searching for a way to describe it, something else. Don’t know where it came from but I don’t think it’s native to our reality."

"A momen… lease."

Not the response you were hoping fo--holy shit what is going on in your head? Why do you feel like someone’s snagged your brain on a fishing hook and is tugging like all hell to pull it out. Make it stopmakeitstopplea--

"I see," Grim’s disembodied voice is a lot more clear now, and the… weird sensation of having your brain scrubbed disappears.

"I apologise for the intrusion, Mister Bauer, but I needed a clearer picture and a clearler link. I have both of those now."

Wait…

"Did… you just get into my head?"

"I used the embers of the link I established with you in the debrief of the Nice operation, yes. I apologise for the discomfort, but unfortunately making use of such power requires finesse and, even for one with my experience alongside Miss Fox’s aid, the great distance makes it difficult."

You really, really don’t know how you feel about this. None of it is a good feel though. Not at all. The idea that the guy can just… dive in like that. What did he see? And what could he potentially find out about you?

"Relax, Mister Bauer. I have only perused your memories from the moment you arrived here and nothing beyond."

None of that does absolutely anything to soothe the sickening feeling that you’ve just been used.

"Adam," he says, and there’s such commanding steel in his voice that you can’t help but straighten, "You and your team are still in danger. When you are out, you may take all the time you want to feel offended. Until that moment, however, keep a lid on it and cool your head. The situation is worse than I could ever have imagined."

You feel the urge to point out that requesting calm before then going onto making a statement like that is not exactly helping you attain said calm.

"As of this moment, consider your mission aborted. You will exit the area and rendezvous with the strike group led by Mister Dawson. They’ll take care of your casualty and see how fit for purpose the rest of you are. Ideally, those of you who can will join the rest of them. Believe me when I say they will need every able man and woman to--"

There’s a squealing cry, worse than that of the shadowy thing that tried to drag Iszolda away, boring into your brain. You gasp at the sudden agony and drop to your knees, clutching at your head. Through a red haze, you notice the others are in similar pain. Even Iszolda’s sleeping face twitches and grimaces.

And then it is gone. The entire moment can’t have lasted longer than a blink, and yet somehow you feel like you’ve tried running the entire span of your home city. Sweat streams down your face and you’re definitely going to need a long, hot shower whenever it is you get back.

As soon as you’re able to do so without feeling like you’ll lose the contents of your stomach, you try and get back in touch with Grim.

Silence answers.

Taking a long, shaking breath, you try again. And again.

Nothing.

Now you’re getting flashbacks to the Pacific, and the thing that--

--it wakes--

--lurked in the caves underneath the earth. Another wave of nausea hits and you have to extend an arm against the wall to keep yourself upright.

“Boss?” Arnold grunts, sitting down on the scuffed wooden floor of the cabin, “What the ‘ell was all that just now?”

“I don’t know,” you tell him. Not entirely correct, for a sinking feeling in your gut tells you that you do in fact know what this is about.

That’s a conversation for later, though. You’ve got your orders, and these are a set you’re all too happy to carry out.

Time to get out of dodge.

>1d100 once again, no TN or Bo3, instead I’ll be taking a count of odds/evens and depending on which one there are more of will dictate what occurs next.

Rolled 100 (1d100)

You get Arnold to lug your slumbering teammate--easily the largest and physically strongest of the five of you, he’ll be the least encumbered--and form up loosely around him. Exiting the cabin, you immediately notice a peculiarity.

The shades are all gone.

Instantly on guard, you survey your surroundings for any sign that something is afoot. Ears pricked for so much as a whisper out of the ordinary; eyes searching for a hint of the unnatural; nose questing for a whiff of the unholy.

This is… diff’rent, Arnold notes.

Way to state the obvious, Naru snarks with a snort of derision.

Is this really something we should be complaining about? Diedrich pipes up.

Not normally, you muse, We’re going to have to be extra cautious on our way out.

The thick mist makes it impossible to retrace the steps you took to enter, though you think you have a rough idea based on the layout of a few of the cabins you’ve passed by. If you turn out to be right, you’re somewhere in the eastern end of the resort. Due east lies a bog, which you don’t fancy trekking through with an unconscious woman, never mind this damnable mist.

South, you feel, would be the quickest exit. Once you’re out of the resort and the murk, you can work on finding your way back to the specific area you arrived in.

Follow me lady and gentlemen, you say, taking the lead. Naru snorts again, but makes no further comment.

The journey back--as it was coming in--is slow going. A whole minute passes by in silence; nary a peep from anything or anyone as you all strain your senses to have even just a moment’s warning of a possible attack.

Nothing comes.

In fact, now you think, you quite literally cannot hear anything beyond the soft crunch of the frozen grass underfoot. Not the distant cry of birds, or the hiss and chirp of insects. All is silence.

Swallowing, you carry on, and--hallelujah! You think you see the mist begin to dissipate up ahead. Strange for it to be happening already. Maybe you were closer to the edge than you thought. Heartened by the prospect of being almost out of danger, you spur your weary band onwards and find yourselves…

...not free at all.

The mist has cleared, but you are still in the resort. Worse. The large lodge before you can’t be anything but the Main Lodge, meaning you’re slap bang in the centre of it. Cursing inwardly, you ruminate on how you could possibly have misjudged the layout and your location. Each time, however, you draw a blank. All right, maybe you shouldn’t be outside the resort just yet, but you definitely weren’t heading deeper in.

A conclusion is swiftly reached, and no less chilling.

Something diverted you here.

You’re about to tell Arnold to put Iszolda down and for the rest to form a defensive circle when you hear the unmistakable crunch of footsteps approaching. Whirling around, four gunbarrels point towards the source of the incoming noise. Slowly, they approach, and through the edge of this unnaturally clear space, you see a figure emerge. A man. Tall. Dressed for the chill, that’s for sure…

He steps into view a moment later, and finally comes a clear picture.

His raven hair is cropped short; strong aquiline features and an equally strong jawline give him a distinctly noble appearance. Eyes that, from here, seem to be almost obsidian black, blink as he notices you and your party. He wears a thick, black, padded leather coat with an abnormally high, furred collar and impeccably well-pressed trousers--also black, you note. Though dressed like a gentleman, there is an air about him; a presence.

You feel very certain that approaching this man carelessly would be an exceptionally unwise thing to do.

For a moment there is silence between you as he comes to a stop. Blinking again, the man’s brow furrows. He seems to be… puzzled.

“You…” he says slowly, calmly, and though he stands a fair distance away, his voice carries across as clearly as if he were standing next to you, “are not supposed to be here.”

He’s unmistakably British. Upper-class too. Like Nathaniel, now you think on it. You wonder if there’s a connection there.

He makes a low hum, his expression shifts from blank bemusement to consideration. Eventually he seems to come to a decision of some kind, nodding softly.

“No matter. Farewell, travellers. Hopefully we will not meet again.”

“Wait--” you start, but the man raises a hand and waves it in a casual semicircle. Immediately you feel a tug in the winds of power you and all others like you tap into every time you draw on your talents. For it to be this clear at this distance though, means that whoever this man is, he’s a mage of exceptional power.

Then the mist closes in around you, encasing you like a fist. The others cry out in alarm and you can’t help but feel a surge of panic as your vision is obstructed by roiling waves of mist until you can barely see the others around you.

>Get the others to stick as close together as you can. You’ve no idea what’s going on but you’ll be better prepared to face it if you don’t get separated
>Call out to the stranger. Is he another of Grim’s people? And what’s he doing?
>You’ve no idea what this is about, but you don’t think you want to stand still while a stranger ensnares you in… whatever this is. Open fire in the stranger’s direction. Get him to lose focus.

"Keep together!" you tell the others as a strange wind starts to buffet your little troop, "Don’t want anyone getting separated."

"Who the hell is that guy?" Naru asks, having to raise the volume as what feels like a full force gale blows in. You find yourself lowering your posture so as not to be plucked off your feet. You’re about to suggest the others do likewise, but they’ve already beaten you to it, Arnold cradling Iszolda protectively in his considerable bulk. The gale swiftly becomes a maelstrom of shrieking wind and you can’t help but wonder what kind of magic the stranger engulfed you in.

And then, like someone suddenly flicked a switch, the wind dies down. The swirling mist around you fades away like it never was to begin with, and you find yourself…

There’s no mistaking the sparse forest, the damp grass, the soft, cool breeze and the pleasingly refreshing warmth of the sun on your face. Birds sing in the distance, and you don’t think you’ll ever be more glad to hear a grasshopper chirp than you are right now.

“Are we… outside?” Diedrich asks, like he can’t quite believe his eyes.

You’d share his paranoia, though you doubt the stranger would have conceived of such an elaborate way to kill you if he’d wanted you all dead. Not with the power to move you all like this.

...and holy shit, he has the power to transport you.

You decide very swiftly that you’re in line with his parting wishes that you not meet again. Finding out what other terrible powers he has at his command does not sound much like your idea of a good time.

At the same time, though, what was he doing there? Was he one of Grim’s men, too? The old man never mentioned the presence of another. Frowning at the mystery, you stand up and stretch yourself out, glancing behind you and finding that, yes, the dome of mist still surrounds the resort.

You take the opportunity to take stock of your immediate surroundings and frown. This isn’t where you were dropped off, and all that’s been inferred is that your impending backup will arrive where you all did. Fortunately, that won’t be too far off; a little stroll south-westwards if you have your bearings right.

>Try once more to raise Grim. You figure he should probably know what happened
>Well, might as well head on over to meet this strike group
>You know what, a few minutes rest probably won’t hurt anyone. It’ll also allow you to see just how badly Iszolda got banged up.

You decide that Grim should know what’s transpired in the time since you last spoke to one another. The link, however, is somehow even patchier than it was before, and you have no idea if anything you’re saying is even getting through with how garbled the old man’s reply is. This carries on for a good few more minutes before you give up, throwing your hands up in the air.

“No joy gettin’ through to the big boss ‘isself?”

“Pretty much,” you tell Arnold with a curt, frustrated nod before glancing down at Iszolda, “How’s she doing?”

“Looks worse than it is,” Diedrich muses, having taken the time to check her over, “She will still need patching up--and likely time in bed as a result, and there may yet be internal damage. We have no way of knowing.”

“My mom’s little herbal remedy won’t do her any good if she’s dinged up on the inside,” Naru adds, “it was only meant to be used for light scrapes and cuts. It’s also more or less all gone now, and I ain’t gonna be able to get the right plants to make more here, that’s for damn sure.”

“So, we’re cut off from home base, with an unconscious friend who may or may not have some kind of severe damage, standing a stone’s throw away from a weird resort overrun by ghosts, Indian cannibal spirits, and absurdly powerful strangers.”

“That appears to sum it up,” Diedrich nods, casting a wary look back at the wall of mist not a stone’s throw away from where you all stand. It suddenly occurs to you that you should probably be away. So far, nothing’s stepped beyond the boundaries of the strange mist, but who knows how long that happy state of affairs will last. Unable to think of any good reason to delay, you call for everyone to head for the rendezvous.

On the way, you try a few more times to reach Grim. Once again, nothing happens on that front. You don’t even get an unintelligible response back. Again, memories of your very first assignment in the--

--it wakes--

Your vision blurs and you feel strangely light-headed. You blink rapidly and gradually, the sudden weakness disappears.

“You okay?”

“What?” you ask, and almost frown at how strained and raspy your voice sounds; like you’ve gone a good half-day without so much as a sip of water. Naru looks up at you with a curious expression on her face.

“You look kind of pale,” the Japanese witch says.

“I’m fine,” you swallow to lubricate your throat, “All good.”

She appears unconvinced but makes no further mention of it, carrying on in good order. You kind of wish you’d had the foresight to bring along a canteen or two along with you in that backpack of yours instead of all this ammo. The thought brings you up short and you decide that, while you’d really rather not head back inside the resort even with a veritable army at your back, you’d probably prepare for the eventuality anyway and fish out another balefire-loaded magazine, ejecting the current, depleted one from your gun and slapping the fresh one home with a clack that you’ll admit sounded pretty satisfying, actually.

>1d100 again, no TN but higher = gooder

Rolled 66 (1d100)

There’s a noise from the dome of mist as you set off that draws attention, all four of you turning back with a growing sense of dread as a sharp, bassy thrumming noise echoes from… somewhere within the resort.

“That doesn’t sound good,” Naru says. You’re very much inclined to agree.

“Come on,” you urge, “Let’s get out of here.”

The others need no further encouragement and haul ass as the noise begins to repeat; louder and with growing frequency. You balk as you take one last look towards the mist-shrouded resort and swear that the wall has expanded. Swallowing, you tear your gaze away and focus on following the others.

Finding the rendezvous, thankfully, is an easy task. Nothing leaps out from behind a tree screaming for your blood and the crowd that has been summoned here is easy to make out in the already sparse woodlands. You won’t lie--seeing at least a few dozen heads; all specialists in both magecraft and at dealing with the unnameable horrors lurking in the dark and hollow places of the world is a heartening sight. The guy in the leather jacket, Dawson, as you recall, stands at the centre of this little army, chatting with…

>Nathaniel
>Zafi

The silvery-haired Brit stands next to Leather Jacket, that thin, dinky-looking sword at his waist. They appear to be in conversation, both relaxed as though the upcoming horror is just another stroll through the park for them.

Which, to be fair, it could well be for these two.

They spot your motley crew approaching and two men on perimeter duty hail you with a wave before beckoning you over.

“Like we was about t’just run off someplace else,” Arnold grumbles even as a tiny little Spanish woman offers to take Iszolda off his hands for a checkover. Though he was easily capable of lugging her weight, the big man looks considerably glad to finally be free of the task. Moments later, you’re offered a few light snacks and some water as well, which all of you accept with gusto. It’s only as you guzzle down an entire packet of roasted peanuts that you realise how hungry you are in addition to being parched as all hell.

Yeah, definitely taking some extra water along the next time you go out.

Unable to find a reason to put it off, you approach Nathaniel and that Dawson guy once you finish your top-up. Honestly you’d quite like a little more to eat but there wasn’t that much extra brought along, apparently. Something about nausea and effects of a full stomach in a potential combat situation, and a fair amount of jargon lobbed your way that just went over your head.

Nathaniel inclines his head respectfully to you as you approach. Dawson gives a gruff nod.

“‘Lo,’ he says. Man has a voice like he’s chewed on gravel all his life, “What’s it like in there?”

“Indeed, Grim didn’t give us a particularly rosy picture when he sent us over.”

>Start with the shades and Iszolda’s near abduction by the shadow-thing--that has to be pretty important, right?
>Mention the wendigo first--those beasties will be lethal with the poor visibility and vigilance will be key.
>That stranger’s presence was just plain freaky. Probably be a good idea to bring that up now--If either of these two know anything about him,maybe that might give some clue as to what’s going on here.

There’s no point in beating around the bush, and you doubt anyone will appreciate it anyway, so you decide to just get to the meat of it.

“We came across a wendigo in there,” you say, “KO’d one of our number and almost chowed down on another. Couldn’t tell if there were others, but don’t they tend to move around in packs?”

“They do,” Nathaniel nods with a grave expression, “Though it’s rare they hunt together.”

“They also like their hills and mountains,” Dawson grunts, and you realise with a curious start that his accent is pure Brooklyn, “Not damned often they come down unless there’s a feeding frenzy.”

You shrug, “None of us noticed anything more out of place in what we saw of the resort than a few cabins that had been broken into, at least along those lines. There was some blood, but if they’d… eaten, there’d be a lot more of it, right?”

“Sure,” Dawson inclines his head, reaching into his jacket and retrieving a packet of cigarettes, jabbing one into his mouth but not lighting it, “Well, that’s peachy. Critters are fast and tough. Burning ‘em is our best defence, but death by fire’ll free the spirit from its vessel to seek a new host,” he frowns deeply, “And to top it off we ain’t gonna be able to see them coming thanks to whatever is bringing up that fog.”

“We’ll need to stick close,” Nathaniel agrees, deep in thought, “Make sure each element has at least a couple of individuals with access to fire.”

“Damn skippy.”

“Anything else you can tell us?” the Brit prompts.

There is, as it happens, so you relay to him the rest of your happy little trip. The shades, the deep mist, the encounter with the wendigo, just for completion’s sake, the thing that had tried to abduct Iszolda…

...and finally, the stranger.

Nathaniel is quiet when you bring him up, and when you finish, there’s a fire in his eyes.

“You are sure?” he asks; his voice clipped with what sounds like barely suppressed fury. “You are absolutely sure that description is accurate?”

“Hey, now, Nate,” Dawson interjects, giving the man a wary look, “Calm down. Ain’t for certain it’s who you think it is, and even if it is, the boss man put me in charge.”

“And asked me to tag along as an advisor,” he all but snaps. Wow, he is actually pissed off. Wonder what this guy did to the man in the past to elicit this kind of reaction to the mere idea that he could be here, “I’m going after him. Follow on once you’re good and ready.”

...what?

Dawson opens his mouth as if to protest, but eventually sighs, rubbing at his cheek with the back of a hand and shakes his head, “Fine,” he says, “Do whatever you want, old timer.”

“I will,” he says stiffly before turning to face you. Surprisingly, he gives you a nod of gratitude, “I thank you for giving us this information. I’ll see you inside, I’m sure.”

And with that, he spins on his heel and strides off with a purpose towards the slowly expanding dome of mist, leaving you confused and not a little flabbergasted.

>...what actually just happened here?
>Maybe you don’t know a lot about the guy, but you’re not just going to let someone walk off to commit suicide. Stop him!
>Great. More secrets. Leave it be; if the pattern keeps up he’ll probably end up blubbering about it over a few drinks at some point in the near future.

You give Dawson a quizzical look. What the actual hell just happened here? Did you watch a man decide to commit suicide? Superlative swordsman he may be, but you have a hard time imagining that even he can tango with a wendigo in close quarters, unless he’s packing some extra firepower of some kind.

“So, is there something going on that I should be aware of, or…?”

Dawson grunts in surprise, turning to regard you, “What, you don’t--” he pauses and then hums, “Oh, right. You’re new. Uh,” he scratches at his jaw, “Hm. Well, basically if the guy you spotted in there is who we think it is, Nate’s packing a grudge,”

“I’d never have guessed,” you mutter.

He shrugs, “Is what it is. You want specifics, though, you’ll need to get them out of the man himself. Ain’t my place to dig into the guy’s grief.”

“Right, sure. You think, maybe, that I’m probably not going to get the chance to sate my curiosity if he wanders off in there on his own and gets munched on by a wendigo?”

He doesn’t respond at first, pausing again and you feel pretty sure he’s judging whether or not to respond. You can’t imagine what the problem would be; the guy’s one of his buddies, or so it seemed from the way they were chumming it up earlier. You wonder if he’s just callous, but then a sly grin spreads across his face.

“Trust me, you think you’ve seen weird? You ain’t seen nothing yet.”

He flicks one last glance at Nathaniel’s departing back before turning to the rest of the motley army--you haven’t been able to count, but there’s a good few dozen people here from all walks of life, or so it seems.

“All right! Listen up you hotshot exterminators!” he calls “We’ve been given a job so big and damned important that the old man’s sent a goddamned army. Recon turned up bupkis and took a mauling so we’re going in almost blind as can be. We’ve had contact with wendigos, though, and something we’ve not seen before. I hope you brought the fire, folks, cause this right here is a cook-off if ever there was one.”

He pauses to take a breath--and check if everyone’s listening, “Our goal is simple: seek and destroy. If it tries, it dies. Keep together, watch your asses, clean house and we’ll all be home sipping those little girly drinks Chao likes so much at the bar before sundown.”

A Chinese man off to the side squints dangerously at Dawson, though it softens a fraction with the polite laughter that follows the jibe.

The speech then dials down into a briefing not unlike the ones you’re familiar with thus far. Dawson explains how far you and yours got (with the use of a map which, pleasantly enough, everyone else seems to have as well) and that there are anything between three and seven more wendigo still potentially at large within the resort. He then splits the whole group up into groups, ensuring that each has at least two individuals with either balefire ammunition or access to fire via magecraft. The process is remarkably quick, and you can’t help your curiosity in approaching the gruff man once he’s finished.

“So, what was it you did before you were poached?”

He regards you, expressionless, though the measured look in his eyes tells you that he’s considering whether or not to give you a straight answer. For a moment you think he won’t, but he surprises by indulging you.

“I was a Staff Sergeant in the Marine Corps,” he says, “Did seven years before Grim picked me up.”

Huh. Interesting.

“So, you and yours all set to go?”

>Yeah. Somehow you didn’t think you were going to slip out of this so easily
>Is that really necessary? We were there literally five minutes ago and we’re tired and some of us are banged up

You figure that saying ‘no’ to the angry-killy person who hails from the water-logged band of psychopaths called the Marine Corps is probably not a great idea. Biting down a weary sigh, you nod.

“Yeah. All but one,” you cast a glance back towards your team, who are still milling around chatting idly as the healer continues to attend to Iszolda.

He grunts, following your gaze, “That’s fair. Any of you got fire at all?”

You raise a hand and with a spark of power, it’s ablaze. Dawson doesn’t flinch at the display. No doubt he’s used to worse.

“Good,” he nods.

“Got plenty of balefire ammunition for this thing as well,” you add, patting the side of your Tommy gun, the weight of which is starting to make your arms ache a little. Dawson notes the weapon with an arched eyebrow before nodding slowly in approval.

“Always go American,” he says before reaching up and taking the unlit cigarette from his mouth and stashing it in a pocket, “Right, I think jaw-flapping’s done now. Time to move out. Get your people together.”

He turns away and starts barking out orders to the rest of the crowd. You take that as a sign to get your folks in order. Despite your trepidation at having to head back into the resort, you do feel better about knowing that there’s a small army along for the ride. If you’re really lucky, you’ll be able to find a nice, quiet area and bunk down while the professionals handle the work.

Of course, if life were as easy as that, you’d still be living it up back home in NYC.

Sighing, you saunter on back to rejoin the rest of the band, and begin to relay the news.

It’s going to be a long, terrifying day...

END THREAD