[Okay. I forgot to log this but it's plot so I thought I should bring it up in paraphrased form.]
Pobble goes to library to do some drug related study. Woman (Anastasia) comes along, asking about Nylarathotep. This is obviously strange, but she states that she wants to talk about Cornelius.
Conversation ensues in the office, details are revealed on both sides. She, along with her 'colleagues' (An undisclosed group, who can sense magickal happening and have a talent for seeing the invisible. Apparently drawn to Pobble by some manner of soothsaying.)
Not a lot of new information, besides a replica of a medallion worn around Corni's neck that they have. It wasn't magickal as it was a copy, but they think its related to some kind of teleporation and or mind attacking. It seems that Cornelius worships something called Nylarathotep. This suggests that he is in fact a Nephandi.
They are going to try and get the real medallion and bring it to us for inspection.
Based on the outcome of the subsequent transactions and trust building, details as to this faction (in which the spokesperson is a Violin Instructor) may follow.
Yay.
Sorry about the log-forgetting.
Thursday, February 26, 2004
Wednesday, February 25, 2004
Dead Man's Gun pt 1
[Five days before Compton awoke to find a crumpled printout of an eBay auction stuffed in his shirt. From the scribbled notes in Hiro’s barely legible stupor-speek, Compton began stalking what is listed as, “Jesse James’ 1875 Schofeild Pistol *MINT*”.]
You keep repeatedly checking the auction and find that as the minutes tick by, it would seem that no one has noticed your bid is presently the highest one in. Each second going is a little more painful than the last until it seems like pure agony before it indicates that the auction has ended. You are the winner. The site instructs you that the seller of the item will contact you to arrange for payment as well as delivery. The auction indicated payment should be by PayPal with the different made up in the auction price and what PayPal takes out by the buyer. Shipping would be FedEx and would be free.
Sitting hunched over the keyboard in the dark like a decrepit gargoyle. His weathered features lit by the monitor in the depth of the Library. He pokes at the keyboard angrily with a bony finger, grumbling and swearing at the PC, willing it to respond quicker - the options hidden in arcane nooks of digital construct. His prize in peril he jabs at the space bar and the 'BID' bar depresses on the screen sending his last attempt to thwart Mr. X's attempts of stealing his prize.
8,000 bones Compton thinks to himself. "Fuck, better get a receipt for this." he mumbles to himself, remembering Keene's last tirade about expense accounts.
Quickly Compton clicks his way over to PayPal. Although technically versed and fairly PC-savvy for a guy pushing 70, he still isn't very smooth about it. His brow wrinkled with frustration, and hands clammy with anxiety. He realizes he's almost in shock, 'I finally found it' he thinks to himself as he goes through a 10 second reverie of the events that have brought him up to this point over a lifetime, as he slips a AmEx card from his pocket. The name on it reads Cally Grant, for anyone keeping score and he bashes in the numbers completing the transaction.
You wait a moment and then refresh the screen. PayPal indicates the payment has successfully gone through to the seller. There is a moment later when you see the little icon in the corner of the screen that indicates you have e-mail.
"Clickity-click, Babah-trick." Compton says as a form of personal computer mantra and opens Pine, to view the message of the end of a quest.
Congratulations Buyer!
We appreciate your prompt payment for Item #19390712348723, Jesse James Revolver for the price of $8,000US. We will send out your package via Federal Express next day shipping. A tracking number for your package will be provided tomorrow. We appreciate your business and will provide positive feed back on the next business day.
Thank you for doing business with Western and Indian Relic Brokerage Exchange!
Compton sits back, angling the ancient office backwards and depositing his bare feet next to the monitor on the desk. Folding his arms behind his head, he gazes at the long eerie shadows cast up the walls and bookcases of the library and rare grin cracking his features.
"I found it." he thinks to himself, "Finally, after all these years, a real Relic." HE even thinks the word capitalized. Most of his young companions wouldn't get it, what he's feeling. They haven't spent their lives searching. Their years with disappointment after disappointment... Don't realize how rare real power is... since most of those fuckers can do shit without even trying... and slowly the grin disappears in to his normal grimace.
Closing his eyes he pictures Jesse James' 1875 Schofeild Calvary Pistol hanging on his bedroom. "I'll have to make a mount for It." he tells the shadows idly.
The next day drags on like so much molasses crawling up hill in artic temperatures. Sure, you have other things to do but nothing sucks worse than having to wait for something you REALLY REALLY REALLY REALLY want. Just like when you were a kid. An e-mail arrives, as promised indicating the FedEx tracking number (888922781982 if you're interested) and the positive feedback is also delivered (A pleasure to do business with. Real asset to EBay. A++++++++!!!!).
Unfortunately for the seller and FedEx those tidbits of info are lost on Compton. Sure he could figure it out and do his bit to join the eBay cult or follow his treasures progress but neither function is in Compton's bag of Web surfing tricks. So instead he bids his time surfing for free porn with Hiro's pile of free passwords and polishing of a 40 of Cash's plunk. As the day crawls on he begins to grind his teeth more and more. His old jaw clacking annoyingly for anyone in earshot.
Mercifully the day ends and the new day dawns, bringing the time when the revolver should arrive. FedEx priority guarantees that a package shall arrive by 10:30 local time the next day. So when ten thirty comes and goes, it's a little bothersome but not terrible. What sucks is the day continues on and on... with no sign of the delivery truck.
As the sun rises and falls, so does Compton's spirits until him descending in to the depths of a murderous brooding. Spitting bile and sarcasm with the odd tirade at the expense of any number of unrelated parties. Eventually he grabs the old handset in the library hooked up to Pa Bell, the line already ringing through to 1-800-Go-Fed-Ex without any dialing, the tracking number printed out by the Raven dot-matrix in the corner.
The phone rings for a long time. "Thank you for calling Federal Express. If you have your tracking number, please press one and enter it. Press two for customer service."
Compton goes to hit one, then realizes that's not going to work with the 1950's era rotary he's working with, and just sits tight assuming at some point a live voice will get on the line.
Eventually the phone routes the call to an operator. "Thank you for calling Federal Express. This is Rhonda. Can I have your tracking number please?"
Compton very tensely reads off the string of numbers, ready to hear any number of excuses: tied up in traffic, typo'd address, stuck in the red tape, it was a firearm after all...
Some clickety-clickety on the other end. You can hear her sharp intake of breath. "Excuse me sir. I need to transfer you to a supervisor." And before you can even respond, you hear that mind dulling muzak all these companies have during internal holds. Eventually, on your 90th birthday, the phone picks up. "Sir? My name is Sean and I'm a team leader here with Federal Express. I have some... news regarding your package."
"Oh?" Compton manages, surprisingly with some control, despite a clenched jaw and white knuckling the receiver, ("No you don't you fuckers... not after being this close" he thinks to himself.)
"The plane that was carrying it from Santa Fe experienced some... difficulties and crash landed in Utah near the Salt Lake.." The supervisor says with some trepidation in his voice. "The plane lost most of its load before it crashed... we have recovery teams out there but it could take some time."
Compton is stunned. He just stares at the phone, mouth agape.
"Who did this?" he asks oddly, already making his own assumptions. Then, "How long...?' and finally, "Where is my gun sparky?"
"/Sir/. We're working on this. There are a lot of packages that are missing. They're all important to FedEx. We're more than willing to reimburse you for the value of your item up to its fullest cost. I would be happy to send you that form out." The young man says on the other end of the phone.
"Look 'son'... Cash won't cover it. We're talking a life time here. Cosmic chances." his facade of civility is quickly eroding, "Fuck, someone like you'd never understand... Just tell me, where the gun is."
"We don't know. The packages are spread out over a sixty mile area. When the cargo hold of the plane shattered, it lost packages all over the place. They could be anywhere... in the desert... in mountains. I'm sorry." And the young man does sound sorry, really. Probably been getting this all day.
"Fine. What 60 mile area then. I'll find it myself." The anger bleeds away in to the psycho-scary seriousness that is always more scary than the wild maniac. Something about his tone makes you believe he'll do it too.
"Ahh..." The young man seems caught off guard by the request for a moment. "Let me find out for you sir. Please hold." And before you can respond, you're in Muzak land.
Compton digs around under the desk idly while waiting and is rewarded with a half-bottle of rye in a milk crate.
The line is picked up. "Sir? It occurred in the area of Grand Junction, Utah. That's where the plane finally landed. It was approaching from the south west... “The young man responds. Then, as if to make up for it. "You know... you can submit the claim anyway. This way, if you don't find your package... you still get your money back."
Compton's mouth curls up wickedly thinking about the AmEx card in the trash bin now, "Nah, that's alright... but tell me, what, happened to the plane?"
"Honestly sir, I'm not entirely sure. It's not something they really tell us. But if you're really going out there, I imagine you'll find out." The young man finally responds.
Compton hangs up without further ado. Looking at the piece of space junk in the middle of the Library, he says, "Well, old man. Looks like it's time for a road trip."
You keep repeatedly checking the auction and find that as the minutes tick by, it would seem that no one has noticed your bid is presently the highest one in. Each second going is a little more painful than the last until it seems like pure agony before it indicates that the auction has ended. You are the winner. The site instructs you that the seller of the item will contact you to arrange for payment as well as delivery. The auction indicated payment should be by PayPal with the different made up in the auction price and what PayPal takes out by the buyer. Shipping would be FedEx and would be free.
Sitting hunched over the keyboard in the dark like a decrepit gargoyle. His weathered features lit by the monitor in the depth of the Library. He pokes at the keyboard angrily with a bony finger, grumbling and swearing at the PC, willing it to respond quicker - the options hidden in arcane nooks of digital construct. His prize in peril he jabs at the space bar and the 'BID' bar depresses on the screen sending his last attempt to thwart Mr. X's attempts of stealing his prize.
8,000 bones Compton thinks to himself. "Fuck, better get a receipt for this." he mumbles to himself, remembering Keene's last tirade about expense accounts.
Quickly Compton clicks his way over to PayPal. Although technically versed and fairly PC-savvy for a guy pushing 70, he still isn't very smooth about it. His brow wrinkled with frustration, and hands clammy with anxiety. He realizes he's almost in shock, 'I finally found it' he thinks to himself as he goes through a 10 second reverie of the events that have brought him up to this point over a lifetime, as he slips a AmEx card from his pocket. The name on it reads Cally Grant, for anyone keeping score and he bashes in the numbers completing the transaction.
You wait a moment and then refresh the screen. PayPal indicates the payment has successfully gone through to the seller. There is a moment later when you see the little icon in the corner of the screen that indicates you have e-mail.
"Clickity-click, Babah-trick." Compton says as a form of personal computer mantra and opens Pine, to view the message of the end of a quest.
Congratulations Buyer!
We appreciate your prompt payment for Item #19390712348723, Jesse James Revolver for the price of $8,000US. We will send out your package via Federal Express next day shipping. A tracking number for your package will be provided tomorrow. We appreciate your business and will provide positive feed back on the next business day.
Thank you for doing business with Western and Indian Relic Brokerage Exchange!
Compton sits back, angling the ancient office backwards and depositing his bare feet next to the monitor on the desk. Folding his arms behind his head, he gazes at the long eerie shadows cast up the walls and bookcases of the library and rare grin cracking his features.
"I found it." he thinks to himself, "Finally, after all these years, a real Relic." HE even thinks the word capitalized. Most of his young companions wouldn't get it, what he's feeling. They haven't spent their lives searching. Their years with disappointment after disappointment... Don't realize how rare real power is... since most of those fuckers can do shit without even trying... and slowly the grin disappears in to his normal grimace.
Closing his eyes he pictures Jesse James' 1875 Schofeild Calvary Pistol hanging on his bedroom. "I'll have to make a mount for It." he tells the shadows idly.
The next day drags on like so much molasses crawling up hill in artic temperatures. Sure, you have other things to do but nothing sucks worse than having to wait for something you REALLY REALLY REALLY REALLY want. Just like when you were a kid. An e-mail arrives, as promised indicating the FedEx tracking number (888922781982 if you're interested) and the positive feedback is also delivered (A pleasure to do business with. Real asset to EBay. A++++++++!!!!).
Unfortunately for the seller and FedEx those tidbits of info are lost on Compton. Sure he could figure it out and do his bit to join the eBay cult or follow his treasures progress but neither function is in Compton's bag of Web surfing tricks. So instead he bids his time surfing for free porn with Hiro's pile of free passwords and polishing of a 40 of Cash's plunk. As the day crawls on he begins to grind his teeth more and more. His old jaw clacking annoyingly for anyone in earshot.
Mercifully the day ends and the new day dawns, bringing the time when the revolver should arrive. FedEx priority guarantees that a package shall arrive by 10:30 local time the next day. So when ten thirty comes and goes, it's a little bothersome but not terrible. What sucks is the day continues on and on... with no sign of the delivery truck.
As the sun rises and falls, so does Compton's spirits until him descending in to the depths of a murderous brooding. Spitting bile and sarcasm with the odd tirade at the expense of any number of unrelated parties. Eventually he grabs the old handset in the library hooked up to Pa Bell, the line already ringing through to 1-800-Go-Fed-Ex without any dialing, the tracking number printed out by the Raven dot-matrix in the corner.
The phone rings for a long time. "Thank you for calling Federal Express. If you have your tracking number, please press one and enter it. Press two for customer service."
Compton goes to hit one, then realizes that's not going to work with the 1950's era rotary he's working with, and just sits tight assuming at some point a live voice will get on the line.
Eventually the phone routes the call to an operator. "Thank you for calling Federal Express. This is Rhonda. Can I have your tracking number please?"
Compton very tensely reads off the string of numbers, ready to hear any number of excuses: tied up in traffic, typo'd address, stuck in the red tape, it was a firearm after all...
Some clickety-clickety on the other end. You can hear her sharp intake of breath. "Excuse me sir. I need to transfer you to a supervisor." And before you can even respond, you hear that mind dulling muzak all these companies have during internal holds. Eventually, on your 90th birthday, the phone picks up. "Sir? My name is Sean and I'm a team leader here with Federal Express. I have some... news regarding your package."
"Oh?" Compton manages, surprisingly with some control, despite a clenched jaw and white knuckling the receiver, ("No you don't you fuckers... not after being this close" he thinks to himself.)
"The plane that was carrying it from Santa Fe experienced some... difficulties and crash landed in Utah near the Salt Lake.." The supervisor says with some trepidation in his voice. "The plane lost most of its load before it crashed... we have recovery teams out there but it could take some time."
Compton is stunned. He just stares at the phone, mouth agape.
"Who did this?" he asks oddly, already making his own assumptions. Then, "How long...?' and finally, "Where is my gun sparky?"
"/Sir/. We're working on this. There are a lot of packages that are missing. They're all important to FedEx. We're more than willing to reimburse you for the value of your item up to its fullest cost. I would be happy to send you that form out." The young man says on the other end of the phone.
"Look 'son'... Cash won't cover it. We're talking a life time here. Cosmic chances." his facade of civility is quickly eroding, "Fuck, someone like you'd never understand... Just tell me, where the gun is."
"We don't know. The packages are spread out over a sixty mile area. When the cargo hold of the plane shattered, it lost packages all over the place. They could be anywhere... in the desert... in mountains. I'm sorry." And the young man does sound sorry, really. Probably been getting this all day.
"Fine. What 60 mile area then. I'll find it myself." The anger bleeds away in to the psycho-scary seriousness that is always more scary than the wild maniac. Something about his tone makes you believe he'll do it too.
"Ahh..." The young man seems caught off guard by the request for a moment. "Let me find out for you sir. Please hold." And before you can respond, you're in Muzak land.
Compton digs around under the desk idly while waiting and is rewarded with a half-bottle of rye in a milk crate.
The line is picked up. "Sir? It occurred in the area of Grand Junction, Utah. That's where the plane finally landed. It was approaching from the south west... “The young man responds. Then, as if to make up for it. "You know... you can submit the claim anyway. This way, if you don't find your package... you still get your money back."
Compton's mouth curls up wickedly thinking about the AmEx card in the trash bin now, "Nah, that's alright... but tell me, what, happened to the plane?"
"Honestly sir, I'm not entirely sure. It's not something they really tell us. But if you're really going out there, I imagine you'll find out." The young man finally responds.
Compton hangs up without further ado. Looking at the piece of space junk in the middle of the Library, he says, "Well, old man. Looks like it's time for a road trip."
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