Okay, so I'm still a flake. The wells of inspiration have been hard to find and damn near impossible to plumb. Which is why this week the sponsor is Half-Assed Perseverance. Are you having a hard time giving a fuck about shit you do? Just plug away at it whenever you can be assed. You've probably got something else you could do, so see how you feel after doing that. Fuck it, you'll get it done eventually; with half-assed perseverance!
We spent several days with the villagers corroborating their story and establishing a plan of action. In the end our plans for vengeance were co-opted by cooler heads. Plans for fiery retribution were replaced by more insidious, institutional agendas. The village elders were truly brilliant in their maneuvering, not only had the deal with Mr. Portfeld been carefully worded to protect their interests it wasn't their only deal. Several other companies had approached the villagers, a fact that they had used to draw the attention of their local administrator; a brutal man whom they had managed to sway to their sympathy.
Their scheme was a good bit more ghastly than my initial hopes for a whorl of hellfire and gunpowder, almost enough to stir my sense of guilt. Instead we settled for letting them go about their sinister business and returning to Miskatonic. Newberg was displeased by the loss of Mr. Portfeld but quite glad to get underway building his factory. He was even quite happy to accept my recommendation to take on several of my former students as high level functionaries there. The sort of students with strong moral fiber and a ready habit of social responsibility, students with open minds and extensive background in eldritch mysteries. If anyone would be able to do right on that island it would be them.
I just hope that, in time, I'll be able to live down their disappearances.
Showing posts with label Brennan & Smythe. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Brennan & Smythe. Show all posts
Monday, January 18, 2016
Monday, January 4, 2016
Up to Our Eyes in B&S
Holy shit! We're back, with more of the random and not so random ranting we do. Today that ranting takes the form of another slap-dashing adventure of Brennan & Smythe, brought to us this week by the ramblings of a disturbed mind. Well, I mean this week and every other week.
The village was the starkest possible contrast to the grove surrounding it. The sinister stench and gruesome statuary encircled the most beautiful, peaceful village I've ever encountered. Lush gardens and clean, vibrantly decorated houses where happy goats and chickens stood guard. There where children dancing and singing, though they stopped abruptly at our intrusion. As the boy led us deeper into town adults started to gather in doorways, clapping each other on the back and smiling at us. At last we came to a great tree in what appeared to be the town square, carved like the ones that had warmed our welcome. It was every bit as handsome as they were grotesque. The wounded tree bore the shape of a stern old man's bearded face wreathed in waves. The putrid blush of the groves wood was replaced by a rich rosewood, carved that the man wept clear, golden sap.
Before the great tree stood a smiling elderly fellow in a brightly colored tunic who patted the boy as we approached. He welcomed us with songs and roasted meats and, over the course of an evening shared with us not just his plans to improve the lot of his people with the proposed rubber factory, but how he intended to expose the insidious Cult that had so long ruled the other villages of the island. The locals claimed that "The Lord of The Great Deep", whom the tree in the square was the likeness of, had taught them how to carve the perverse wood to protect themselves from the evil intents of their neighbors and their gods. The villagers showed us idols and icons, ritualistically defaced of course, that had been recovered from wars and raids past. A few we found uncomfortably familiar as old scars ached and protective tattoos hummed in recognition.
By the time the moon had risen, pale and pregnant against the black sky, the story that had led us here came into focus. Mr. Portfeld had been quite obviously attempting to fleece the villagers, so they took the opportunity to reverse the roles, whilst using the influx of foreign interest to illuminate the wicked doings on the island. I didn't share their optimism but, until Portfeld had disappeared in the night, they may have very well pulled it off. They had even managed to hold out some hope until Silas's defiled corpse had been found lashed to a tree outside of their protective grove. Our mystery had been solved, but I found I couldn't let it rest there.
The village was the starkest possible contrast to the grove surrounding it. The sinister stench and gruesome statuary encircled the most beautiful, peaceful village I've ever encountered. Lush gardens and clean, vibrantly decorated houses where happy goats and chickens stood guard. There where children dancing and singing, though they stopped abruptly at our intrusion. As the boy led us deeper into town adults started to gather in doorways, clapping each other on the back and smiling at us. At last we came to a great tree in what appeared to be the town square, carved like the ones that had warmed our welcome. It was every bit as handsome as they were grotesque. The wounded tree bore the shape of a stern old man's bearded face wreathed in waves. The putrid blush of the groves wood was replaced by a rich rosewood, carved that the man wept clear, golden sap.
Before the great tree stood a smiling elderly fellow in a brightly colored tunic who patted the boy as we approached. He welcomed us with songs and roasted meats and, over the course of an evening shared with us not just his plans to improve the lot of his people with the proposed rubber factory, but how he intended to expose the insidious Cult that had so long ruled the other villages of the island. The locals claimed that "The Lord of The Great Deep", whom the tree in the square was the likeness of, had taught them how to carve the perverse wood to protect themselves from the evil intents of their neighbors and their gods. The villagers showed us idols and icons, ritualistically defaced of course, that had been recovered from wars and raids past. A few we found uncomfortably familiar as old scars ached and protective tattoos hummed in recognition.
By the time the moon had risen, pale and pregnant against the black sky, the story that had led us here came into focus. Mr. Portfeld had been quite obviously attempting to fleece the villagers, so they took the opportunity to reverse the roles, whilst using the influx of foreign interest to illuminate the wicked doings on the island. I didn't share their optimism but, until Portfeld had disappeared in the night, they may have very well pulled it off. They had even managed to hold out some hope until Silas's defiled corpse had been found lashed to a tree outside of their protective grove. Our mystery had been solved, but I found I couldn't let it rest there.
Monday, December 21, 2015
This Is Some B&S
Alright, two consecutive weeks. I can do this. Probably. This week we have a very special sponsor: The vast, inconceivable reaches of the multiverse. NNUNPILN PIYBYUNPSXBOU YBPUN PXBUNON PNPCUIUNPAX UPAUNXIUBNP PIUNAXO IUAXBIUNPX PUNUB UBUBXNUUPB HYPJB YWIHXO IIA!!!
The child led us for what felt like hours, though there was no change in the quality of the light in the dismal, muculent shade of the deep jungle. After a time the boy stopped and waited for the whole of our party to gather to him. When we had all assembled he looked to each of us in turn and, being very slow and precise in his movements that we not misinterpret, he put his finger to his lips, then pointed first to the sky then to the ground. Then he put both of his hands to his heart and closed his eyes with a look of pained longing I did not imagine such a young face to be capable of. He opened his eyes, now wet with tears, and once again bid us quiet. Patrick and I looked to our companions and did our best to reinforce the seriousness of the boy's warning before nodding and encouraging him to lead on.
The entire atmosphere of the forest curdled as we pressed on. Cramped trails through a crushing monotony of green gave way to broad thoroughfares of immense alabaster trees carved to show the face of some twisted nightmare howling in rage or pain and seeping a fetid black sap. One of our party stifled a scream only to faint staring into the eyes of one of the nearby totems. I looked upon it and saw what had upset my compatriot. The wood of the tree was pink, as the letters had declared, but it was the pink of bloodless flesh and the tar that issued from it seemed to still be climbing toward the canopy, as though even gravity held no sway over it. Worse still was the soft howling filling the copse despite the wretched stillness that filled it. As though the trees needed no wind to moan here.
We collected our fallen ally and steeled ourselves for what must await us beyond the clearing. Our young guide waited for us to rally before setting off at a brisk pace. The wailing of the wood changed tones disconcertingly as we passed through it, starting as a low groan and building to an atonal cry before dropping to an eerie high hum. As we trudged on a powerful dread grew in my heart and I swear I heard teeth gnashing behind those horrid faces. We were fortunate that the path was short and the village was near, as after a few minutes of determined marching we passed through a dense thicket of brush and into the settlement beyond.
The child led us for what felt like hours, though there was no change in the quality of the light in the dismal, muculent shade of the deep jungle. After a time the boy stopped and waited for the whole of our party to gather to him. When we had all assembled he looked to each of us in turn and, being very slow and precise in his movements that we not misinterpret, he put his finger to his lips, then pointed first to the sky then to the ground. Then he put both of his hands to his heart and closed his eyes with a look of pained longing I did not imagine such a young face to be capable of. He opened his eyes, now wet with tears, and once again bid us quiet. Patrick and I looked to our companions and did our best to reinforce the seriousness of the boy's warning before nodding and encouraging him to lead on.
The entire atmosphere of the forest curdled as we pressed on. Cramped trails through a crushing monotony of green gave way to broad thoroughfares of immense alabaster trees carved to show the face of some twisted nightmare howling in rage or pain and seeping a fetid black sap. One of our party stifled a scream only to faint staring into the eyes of one of the nearby totems. I looked upon it and saw what had upset my compatriot. The wood of the tree was pink, as the letters had declared, but it was the pink of bloodless flesh and the tar that issued from it seemed to still be climbing toward the canopy, as though even gravity held no sway over it. Worse still was the soft howling filling the copse despite the wretched stillness that filled it. As though the trees needed no wind to moan here.
We collected our fallen ally and steeled ourselves for what must await us beyond the clearing. Our young guide waited for us to rally before setting off at a brisk pace. The wailing of the wood changed tones disconcertingly as we passed through it, starting as a low groan and building to an atonal cry before dropping to an eerie high hum. As we trudged on a powerful dread grew in my heart and I swear I heard teeth gnashing behind those horrid faces. We were fortunate that the path was short and the village was near, as after a few minutes of determined marching we passed through a dense thicket of brush and into the settlement beyond.
Monday, December 14, 2015
Ho Shit! Its Brennan & Smythe!
I think it should be clear by now that the sponsors for these are meaningless. I'd rather smoke than drink, Murphey's Law pretty much only kicks in for me when I find it theatrically interesting and clearly I've no intention of getting my shit together. Which brings us to today's sponsor!
It was there for you when you decided to stand up to your asshole boss. When you were an infant and the whole world was new and fascinating, it held you up above your parents and their friends. Every time you've had to choose between what You wanted and what They wanted from you, it had your back. Not Giving a Fuck. Because its not the end of the fucking world.
Consciousness returned dragging agony behind it. I felt as though the shriek had shaken something loose from my essence, in addition to ringing my skeleton like a tuning fork. Once I had managed to convince my eyes to focus, the ache in my bones settled into my wrists and shoulders, where I'd apparently been bound. The camp lay completely undisturbed, though all of my companions were similarly disabled. Patrick, having unsurprisingly beaten me to alertness, sat struggling across the campfire from me. Between the two of us we managed to loose our bonds and set to work freeing our compatriots in short order.
My assertion that our things had been left unmolested proved wrong when, upon checking our packs, we all found a small stone talisman resting atop our belongings. Fortunately, the markings on the talisman proved quite familiar. I had, in fact, had the same mark inked into my forearm after it had proven both quite legitimate and incredibly useful when we'd first encountered it some years ago in Paraguay. Either our assailants had accidentally all dropped their own protection carefully into our closed packs, or these people did not wish harm upon us. The symbol could mean something else to these people, but given it's intricate detail and the general disconcerting similarity amongst the cults we'd investigated so far, I was willing to wager on our safety.
I asked the young Englishwoman we'd conscripted as our interpreter to loudly and clearly express our peaceful intent to the jungle at large, of the mind that whomever had accosted us was also likely keeping us under surveillance. Sure enough, not five minutes had passed before a small child strode into the camp to lead us (presumably) to his people.
It was there for you when you decided to stand up to your asshole boss. When you were an infant and the whole world was new and fascinating, it held you up above your parents and their friends. Every time you've had to choose between what You wanted and what They wanted from you, it had your back. Not Giving a Fuck. Because its not the end of the fucking world.
Consciousness returned dragging agony behind it. I felt as though the shriek had shaken something loose from my essence, in addition to ringing my skeleton like a tuning fork. Once I had managed to convince my eyes to focus, the ache in my bones settled into my wrists and shoulders, where I'd apparently been bound. The camp lay completely undisturbed, though all of my companions were similarly disabled. Patrick, having unsurprisingly beaten me to alertness, sat struggling across the campfire from me. Between the two of us we managed to loose our bonds and set to work freeing our compatriots in short order.
My assertion that our things had been left unmolested proved wrong when, upon checking our packs, we all found a small stone talisman resting atop our belongings. Fortunately, the markings on the talisman proved quite familiar. I had, in fact, had the same mark inked into my forearm after it had proven both quite legitimate and incredibly useful when we'd first encountered it some years ago in Paraguay. Either our assailants had accidentally all dropped their own protection carefully into our closed packs, or these people did not wish harm upon us. The symbol could mean something else to these people, but given it's intricate detail and the general disconcerting similarity amongst the cults we'd investigated so far, I was willing to wager on our safety.
I asked the young Englishwoman we'd conscripted as our interpreter to loudly and clearly express our peaceful intent to the jungle at large, of the mind that whomever had accosted us was also likely keeping us under surveillance. Sure enough, not five minutes had passed before a small child strode into the camp to lead us (presumably) to his people.
Monday, November 30, 2015
The Shocking Endeavors of Brennan & Smythe: Some More Finally
Okay, I know I've been a fucking louse lately. Medical issues and general malaise have left me pretty much incapable of sustained creativity, so the idea of putting together a continuous narrative has been equal parts insurmountable and agonizing. But things are getting better and I love writing B&S so I'm gonna soldier on today. That brings us to our sponsor: Getting Your Shit Together.
Are you tired of all your shit being fucked up? Has the effort of holding the tattered remnants of your life and sanity together effected your work and social life? Try Getting Your Shit Together! You too can bask in the mild satisfaction of generally being okay. You'll be vaguely surprised at how quickly your your life slightly improves! Get Your Shit Together today!
We set out briskly after a sparse breakfast. The locals seemed happy to watch us go, for all their hospitality I imagine they feared the barbarians at their gates taking their kindness to us as some kind of affront. In truth I at least was glad to be underway in earnest. The old man's tales of dark Gods and evil magics had festered in my dreams and made me desperate to learn their truth. Our journeys had given me glimpses of the knowledge and power I craved. I became more convinced than ever that if only I could learn the wicked secret behind the horrors that these cults summoned to their aid I could be a vaccine. That I could use their sickening craft to fight them. If only I could find the Will to look upon their works and the strength to understand. But I digress.
The forest air was thick and stagnant. Oppressive. At least the undergrowth was soft and, for a while at least, yielded readily to our axes and machetes. Though the stink of the bleeding flora made our eyes sting, and their vital juices had dulled our blades irredeemably by midday, we were mostly in good spirits. There was a small clearing near a stream where we stopped for lunch. It was a quiet place, more so than the stretch of jungle we'd passed through. A persistent quietude that one of the younger volunteers, Simmons I think, commented upon with some measure of trepidation. He was right to be concerned, it turned out.
We had nearly finished our lunch when a shrill cry filled the forest, as though the rage and pain of all the world was being forced through the bent and twisted trees. It made my soul ache and my vision swim. Dear friends I wish from the bottom of my heart that I could tell you what transpired over the next few hours, but the cry, that horrid shriek, robbed my of consciousness. I did not wake until at least that night, and the waking was cold comfort.
Are you tired of all your shit being fucked up? Has the effort of holding the tattered remnants of your life and sanity together effected your work and social life? Try Getting Your Shit Together! You too can bask in the mild satisfaction of generally being okay. You'll be vaguely surprised at how quickly your your life slightly improves! Get Your Shit Together today!
We set out briskly after a sparse breakfast. The locals seemed happy to watch us go, for all their hospitality I imagine they feared the barbarians at their gates taking their kindness to us as some kind of affront. In truth I at least was glad to be underway in earnest. The old man's tales of dark Gods and evil magics had festered in my dreams and made me desperate to learn their truth. Our journeys had given me glimpses of the knowledge and power I craved. I became more convinced than ever that if only I could learn the wicked secret behind the horrors that these cults summoned to their aid I could be a vaccine. That I could use their sickening craft to fight them. If only I could find the Will to look upon their works and the strength to understand. But I digress.
The forest air was thick and stagnant. Oppressive. At least the undergrowth was soft and, for a while at least, yielded readily to our axes and machetes. Though the stink of the bleeding flora made our eyes sting, and their vital juices had dulled our blades irredeemably by midday, we were mostly in good spirits. There was a small clearing near a stream where we stopped for lunch. It was a quiet place, more so than the stretch of jungle we'd passed through. A persistent quietude that one of the younger volunteers, Simmons I think, commented upon with some measure of trepidation. He was right to be concerned, it turned out.
We had nearly finished our lunch when a shrill cry filled the forest, as though the rage and pain of all the world was being forced through the bent and twisted trees. It made my soul ache and my vision swim. Dear friends I wish from the bottom of my heart that I could tell you what transpired over the next few hours, but the cry, that horrid shriek, robbed my of consciousness. I did not wake until at least that night, and the waking was cold comfort.
Monday, November 9, 2015
Brennan & Smythe Episode 3: There's More!
My computer took a rocket-powered, stratospheric shit recently, so today's post might be a bit brief. The fate of my computer does, however, lead fortuitously to our sponsor for today's episode: Murphey's Law. Do you miss feeling like the whole world is conspiring against you? Is the ease of success making you soft? Don't worry! Murphey's Law is here to help. Watch helplessly as things go fuck-headed for no apparent reason. Feel that comforting old panic as your best laid plans are torn asunder by the vagueries of fate. Murphey's Law : Because fuck you! Now on with the show.
The death cast a pall upon our small party as we searched the village and questioned its residents. They were kindly folk, clearly as disturbed by this morning's morbidity as my companions. Patrick managed to calm one of the older gentlemen sufficiently to extract the man's reckoning of the likely course of Jenkin's demise. The village was occasionally troubled by forest folk, madmen who lived in the hills and sustained themselves via a hardy regiment of banditry and rape.
Apparently, they would come to a home in the night, drug the residents, and then proceed to torture the menfolk and drag the women to the hills to cater to their sinister impulses. The man had many theories regarding the reasons for such sadism; they worship evil gods, they use nefarious magics to make themselves immortal, simply that they hate good folk and revel in making them suffer. Standard Boogyman folklore, but given the circumstances, not to be disregarded out of hand.
Our search of the village bore little fruit, and some of our compatriots had started to grow concerned about the merit of our expedition. However, between Patrick appealing to their better nature and my calling for vengeance for our terribly fallen comrade, the majority soon regained their fortitude. We bolstered our spirits and resolved to set out come morning. The rest of the day was spent rechecking supplies and fortifying the room we would be sharing that night. Understandably, there was little resistance to communal bunking and setting watch. The morning would break upon us blessedly devoid of event, the peace granting a renewed confidence as we set upon our way.
The death cast a pall upon our small party as we searched the village and questioned its residents. They were kindly folk, clearly as disturbed by this morning's morbidity as my companions. Patrick managed to calm one of the older gentlemen sufficiently to extract the man's reckoning of the likely course of Jenkin's demise. The village was occasionally troubled by forest folk, madmen who lived in the hills and sustained themselves via a hardy regiment of banditry and rape.
Apparently, they would come to a home in the night, drug the residents, and then proceed to torture the menfolk and drag the women to the hills to cater to their sinister impulses. The man had many theories regarding the reasons for such sadism; they worship evil gods, they use nefarious magics to make themselves immortal, simply that they hate good folk and revel in making them suffer. Standard Boogyman folklore, but given the circumstances, not to be disregarded out of hand.
Our search of the village bore little fruit, and some of our compatriots had started to grow concerned about the merit of our expedition. However, between Patrick appealing to their better nature and my calling for vengeance for our terribly fallen comrade, the majority soon regained their fortitude. We bolstered our spirits and resolved to set out come morning. The rest of the day was spent rechecking supplies and fortifying the room we would be sharing that night. Understandably, there was little resistance to communal bunking and setting watch. The morning would break upon us blessedly devoid of event, the peace granting a renewed confidence as we set upon our way.
Monday, November 2, 2015
The Shocking Endeavors of Brennan & Smythe Ep. 2
Welcome back! Round 2 of The Shocking Endeavors of Brennan & Smythe is about to get underway, but first a word from our sponsor: Supplementary Day Drinking. Are you a creative in a rut? Maybe an office worker run dry on giveafuck. Try Supplementary Day Drinking to give you the competitive edge of a really nice buzz. Why face down that deadline alone when your friends Mr. Whiskey and the Archduke Lord Rummington have got your back? Supplementary Day Drinking: lets get some Giveafuck down you.
I am fortunate that my proclivity for publicly assaulting people with my cane coupled with my tenacious curiosity in regards to certain specialized fields of astrology and geology grants me a delightful amount of liberty in my responsibilities to the University. They quite appreciate having me as a resource, but any excuse to get me off campus is more than welcome. And so it was a simple matter to convince the Dean that I was desperately needed to investigate this pressing matter... and that it would serve the University well in scholarly circles if they where to reopen my "Fieldwork" account that I may be fully prepared for a major discovery that I could then attribute to their generosity. Between Mr. Brennan's broad reaching contacts as a private investigator, and my enthusiasm where spending Arkham's money is concerned we had no difficulty assembling a team for this little expedition. We were kitted and on our way to Thailand within a week of speaking to Newberg.
Other than a few incidents of motion sickness from a former student of mine with a curious disposition, and a frankly unacceptable quantity of stinging insects, our journey to the island was uneventful. I find the long, slow hikes and rickety boat trips on such an adventure almost soothing; at least when I'm not being fucking eaten alive. Someday, there will be a reckoning upon all the crawling, biting, stinging things and it shall be glorious.
We arrived on Ko Surin greeted by a young local man named Aawut, who had been arranged by Newberg to guide us to the relevant village. Aawut was a friendly sort, with a ready smile and keen eyes. He treated our weary little party to a small but hearty supper after the requisite salutations and networking. Our team having been welcomed and fed, the long trek caught up with us and we were shepherded to our respective quarters. The rooms were small, but comfortable as such things go, and for me at least the sleep afforded was quite restful.
Admittedly, the joys associated with a restful sleep were somewhat diminished when the rising sun brought gruesome tidings. Jenkins, a sturdy man in his forties Patrick had recruited in a seaside tavern, was found gutted and strewn about his bedroom after he had missed breakfast. Upon inspecting the body I found evidence of a high degree of precision and the use of a very sharp curved blade. It seemed like the wounds had been made while Jenkins yet lived, at least most of them, but there was no sign of struggle, no defensive injuries. The poor man had been drugged, tortured to death, and desecrated. Our journey had not been in vain.
I am fortunate that my proclivity for publicly assaulting people with my cane coupled with my tenacious curiosity in regards to certain specialized fields of astrology and geology grants me a delightful amount of liberty in my responsibilities to the University. They quite appreciate having me as a resource, but any excuse to get me off campus is more than welcome. And so it was a simple matter to convince the Dean that I was desperately needed to investigate this pressing matter... and that it would serve the University well in scholarly circles if they where to reopen my "Fieldwork" account that I may be fully prepared for a major discovery that I could then attribute to their generosity. Between Mr. Brennan's broad reaching contacts as a private investigator, and my enthusiasm where spending Arkham's money is concerned we had no difficulty assembling a team for this little expedition. We were kitted and on our way to Thailand within a week of speaking to Newberg.
Other than a few incidents of motion sickness from a former student of mine with a curious disposition, and a frankly unacceptable quantity of stinging insects, our journey to the island was uneventful. I find the long, slow hikes and rickety boat trips on such an adventure almost soothing; at least when I'm not being fucking eaten alive. Someday, there will be a reckoning upon all the crawling, biting, stinging things and it shall be glorious.
We arrived on Ko Surin greeted by a young local man named Aawut, who had been arranged by Newberg to guide us to the relevant village. Aawut was a friendly sort, with a ready smile and keen eyes. He treated our weary little party to a small but hearty supper after the requisite salutations and networking. Our team having been welcomed and fed, the long trek caught up with us and we were shepherded to our respective quarters. The rooms were small, but comfortable as such things go, and for me at least the sleep afforded was quite restful.
Admittedly, the joys associated with a restful sleep were somewhat diminished when the rising sun brought gruesome tidings. Jenkins, a sturdy man in his forties Patrick had recruited in a seaside tavern, was found gutted and strewn about his bedroom after he had missed breakfast. Upon inspecting the body I found evidence of a high degree of precision and the use of a very sharp curved blade. It seemed like the wounds had been made while Jenkins yet lived, at least most of them, but there was no sign of struggle, no defensive injuries. The poor man had been drugged, tortured to death, and desecrated. Our journey had not been in vain.
Monday, October 26, 2015
The Shocking Endeavors of Brennan & Smythe
I've been having a hard time coming up with anything to write about lately, as you may have noticed. So instead of trolling news posts to pretend I'm relevant for five minutes I'd rather practice technique. With this in mind I've decided to write about the adventures of our Trails of Cthulhu group. None of the stories here will be official campaigns, so I wont spoil anything and the characters are original creations of Brian and I. Without further ado; I present the Shocking Endeavors of Brennan & Smythe.
From the Desk of Prof. Alfred Smythe, Arkham Univeristy:
I had only been to Thailand once before my good friend Patrick brought the Newberg case to my attention. Needless to say, a drunken spring holiday spent in unwholesome company did not leave me well prepared to investigate the possibility of an indigenous Cult. According to Mr. Newberg (via Patrick) a Mr. Silas Portfeld, Newberg's local liaison, had failed to make a monthly check in some four months hence. There had yet to be any word from him and, given how much of Mr. Portfeld's work apparently involved wandering the Siamese countryside, this was cause for concern.
Our client was interested in breaking into the rubber industry and had decided that exploiting the rural Siamese population was just the thing for it. Mr. Portfeld had been scouting communities and laying the groundwork for future relations. Much of this revolved around mesmerizing local rubes with meaningless jargon and convincing them to negotiate with the local authorities on his behalf. I've no love lost for such degrading interference, so I was heartened to learn that Portfeld had all but struck out. He seemed to be having some measure of success, however, with a small village on the island of Ko Surin, in the Phang Nga province. The locals seemed quite interested in establishing not just a broader dialog with Newberg's organization, but also with breaking ground for a factory. The correspondences we'd been given in regards to the case immediately made clear why we'd been contacted.
It seemed the villagers were rather preoccupied with what they called "The All-Embracing Sea", the expanse of water surrounding the island. In fact, the reports provided described a rather vibrant and bizarre religious life centered on this Sea. Portfeld had in his writings described men industriously carving great beasts of unnerving design into the living wood of trees surrounding the village. A description made all the more disturbing by the phrase "wood of a pale red color, with a thin black pitch that pooled at strange angles to the earth." I will never understand Man's willingness to overlook concerning details when there is gain to be had. For; like a sailor recently ashore, good Silas had been more concerned with bending the locals over a barrel than with what he'd end up paying.
From the Desk of Prof. Alfred Smythe, Arkham Univeristy:
I had only been to Thailand once before my good friend Patrick brought the Newberg case to my attention. Needless to say, a drunken spring holiday spent in unwholesome company did not leave me well prepared to investigate the possibility of an indigenous Cult. According to Mr. Newberg (via Patrick) a Mr. Silas Portfeld, Newberg's local liaison, had failed to make a monthly check in some four months hence. There had yet to be any word from him and, given how much of Mr. Portfeld's work apparently involved wandering the Siamese countryside, this was cause for concern.
Our client was interested in breaking into the rubber industry and had decided that exploiting the rural Siamese population was just the thing for it. Mr. Portfeld had been scouting communities and laying the groundwork for future relations. Much of this revolved around mesmerizing local rubes with meaningless jargon and convincing them to negotiate with the local authorities on his behalf. I've no love lost for such degrading interference, so I was heartened to learn that Portfeld had all but struck out. He seemed to be having some measure of success, however, with a small village on the island of Ko Surin, in the Phang Nga province. The locals seemed quite interested in establishing not just a broader dialog with Newberg's organization, but also with breaking ground for a factory. The correspondences we'd been given in regards to the case immediately made clear why we'd been contacted.
It seemed the villagers were rather preoccupied with what they called "The All-Embracing Sea", the expanse of water surrounding the island. In fact, the reports provided described a rather vibrant and bizarre religious life centered on this Sea. Portfeld had in his writings described men industriously carving great beasts of unnerving design into the living wood of trees surrounding the village. A description made all the more disturbing by the phrase "wood of a pale red color, with a thin black pitch that pooled at strange angles to the earth." I will never understand Man's willingness to overlook concerning details when there is gain to be had. For; like a sailor recently ashore, good Silas had been more concerned with bending the locals over a barrel than with what he'd end up paying.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)