Grey
Dialectical Hermeticist
Story Teaser
The purpose of a memoir is vanity; the idea that the life and thoughts of a man will carry meaning beyond his span. He is lying to say it is written for himself, when in truth, it is for others to read and the comfort of his ego. A preposterous notion; that one could truly be of such import – even great men are but flickering candles on a dark plain, soon lost to the wind.
And that mere darkness is but an absence of light; a reprieve from the blinding mundanity of existence, wherein our imaginations are wont to run rampant, to toy with our senses and sensations. All danger is a dream, a fairy-tale of our own making - though cut from a Grimm cloth when we are, as so often, thoughtlessly cruel to ourselves.
I digress.
I write this in the hopes it shall be read, but not with my pride at heart. Nor even might this save you, if you suffer as do some of the men in my care. Know only that you still possess your faculties, your reason, and your sanity. Others have witnessed the Dark just as you have.
I must warn you of the Dark. The real Dark; Cold, and hateful, and all-devouring. No simple shadow this, but a living, writhing essence that consumes light and strips the world bare in its passage. Like oily, wretched smoke that burns the eyes not by irritation of the membranes, but a scourging of the very soul.
Were I inclinedto such poetic or spiritualist nonsense, I would fancy it to be some divine retribution. I have heard the cries of madmen in their cells, pleading mercy as it approaches, offering apologies for unquiet sins. Perhaps these are simply platitudes, but the coincidence is... striking.
I have witnessed the Dark personally but once, deigning - nay, daring; it was a vainglorious indulgence on my part - to pass by the cell of a patient begging for his life.
The light in his cell still burned, briefly, but as it came for him, was not snuffed out; instead smothered by its presence. Not even the light from without could pierce the gloom it formed. The last I saw was his face, pale against the black, in a rictus of horror that shook my resolve, and I fled.
The world I knew was gone, changed instead into a manufactory of nightmares, a sprawling complex of brass and copper and alloys unknown to science, their geometries alien and substance like liquid, or flesh. All was lit by dim, foul lanterns that served only to highlight shadows, not dispel them.
I ran down unfamiliar corridors of corroded iron, dripping with fluid I felt could only be called water in a fit of willful optimism. Great machines bellowed and hissed behind the walls, their great cogs defying natural law and spinning in opposition to each other, to gravity with a sound like mocking, mechanical laughter. I still do not know what relation this has to the Dark. I hope to remain so ignorant unto my grave.
I had a sense of being chased, as I ran, as if some strange and monstrous awareness had turned its eye upon me, and with my muscles burning, lungs protesting at the exertion to flee this dread thing, I fell panting through a doorway, bewildered in sudden darkness that I soon realised to be my office with all lamps unlit.
When light returned to the world, I braved an inspection of the cell where it had been lost. There was naught left but gobbets of torn flesh and spatters of blood, not nearly enough to form a whole man. Some of the staff claim to see a face rising and screaming from the padding on the rear wall, but employment here takes a toll of all, sooner or later.
- From the journal of Dr. Hieronymus Durand, former Director of the Westing Foundation Sanitorium
Introduction
Just north of London is an old jumble of buildings referred to in official documentation as The Complex.
The varying structures which comprise it date back to the arrival of the Normans in Britain, perhaps even further.
It has been many things over the years; school, abattoir, asylum, factory...
Now it lies dormant. Has for some time. Until Cheiron Historical Preservation purchased the site.
You've been hired for two reasons: your skills, and your desperation for work. Some of you are historians, and some soldiers, other scientists or parapsychologists.
You are all going in to The Complex.
Whether you come out is not relevant to profit projections.
Gameplay
God-Machine Chronicle: This game will use the quick to learn, easy to use new World of Darkness rules.
Exploration and Mystery: This will be a game of exploring a closed location, and uncovering its history.
Horror and Vulnerability: Often, all you can do is run.
Extreme Content: This game may include strong violent imagery. Consider carefully before applying.
Requirements
All you need is a stomach for horror and a love of the genre, an fondness for solving puzzles, and not even a passing knowledge of WoD. This introduction is deliberately terse to save on surprises. 4 Players minimum, max of 6.
Other Notes:
Character concepts can be submitted here. Characters should be ordinary people aged 18 and up with useful qualifications or skills. Previous mundane traumas encouraged. I will exploit any vagueness that seems appropriate for plot purposes.
The purpose of a memoir is vanity; the idea that the life and thoughts of a man will carry meaning beyond his span. He is lying to say it is written for himself, when in truth, it is for others to read and the comfort of his ego. A preposterous notion; that one could truly be of such import – even great men are but flickering candles on a dark plain, soon lost to the wind.
And that mere darkness is but an absence of light; a reprieve from the blinding mundanity of existence, wherein our imaginations are wont to run rampant, to toy with our senses and sensations. All danger is a dream, a fairy-tale of our own making - though cut from a Grimm cloth when we are, as so often, thoughtlessly cruel to ourselves.
I digress.
I write this in the hopes it shall be read, but not with my pride at heart. Nor even might this save you, if you suffer as do some of the men in my care. Know only that you still possess your faculties, your reason, and your sanity. Others have witnessed the Dark just as you have.
I must warn you of the Dark. The real Dark; Cold, and hateful, and all-devouring. No simple shadow this, but a living, writhing essence that consumes light and strips the world bare in its passage. Like oily, wretched smoke that burns the eyes not by irritation of the membranes, but a scourging of the very soul.
Were I inclinedto such poetic or spiritualist nonsense, I would fancy it to be some divine retribution. I have heard the cries of madmen in their cells, pleading mercy as it approaches, offering apologies for unquiet sins. Perhaps these are simply platitudes, but the coincidence is... striking.
I have witnessed the Dark personally but once, deigning - nay, daring; it was a vainglorious indulgence on my part - to pass by the cell of a patient begging for his life.
The light in his cell still burned, briefly, but as it came for him, was not snuffed out; instead smothered by its presence. Not even the light from without could pierce the gloom it formed. The last I saw was his face, pale against the black, in a rictus of horror that shook my resolve, and I fled.
The world I knew was gone, changed instead into a manufactory of nightmares, a sprawling complex of brass and copper and alloys unknown to science, their geometries alien and substance like liquid, or flesh. All was lit by dim, foul lanterns that served only to highlight shadows, not dispel them.
I ran down unfamiliar corridors of corroded iron, dripping with fluid I felt could only be called water in a fit of willful optimism. Great machines bellowed and hissed behind the walls, their great cogs defying natural law and spinning in opposition to each other, to gravity with a sound like mocking, mechanical laughter. I still do not know what relation this has to the Dark. I hope to remain so ignorant unto my grave.
I had a sense of being chased, as I ran, as if some strange and monstrous awareness had turned its eye upon me, and with my muscles burning, lungs protesting at the exertion to flee this dread thing, I fell panting through a doorway, bewildered in sudden darkness that I soon realised to be my office with all lamps unlit.
When light returned to the world, I braved an inspection of the cell where it had been lost. There was naught left but gobbets of torn flesh and spatters of blood, not nearly enough to form a whole man. Some of the staff claim to see a face rising and screaming from the padding on the rear wall, but employment here takes a toll of all, sooner or later.
- From the journal of Dr. Hieronymus Durand, former Director of the Westing Foundation Sanitorium
Introduction
Just north of London is an old jumble of buildings referred to in official documentation as The Complex.
The varying structures which comprise it date back to the arrival of the Normans in Britain, perhaps even further.
It has been many things over the years; school, abattoir, asylum, factory...
Now it lies dormant. Has for some time. Until Cheiron Historical Preservation purchased the site.
You've been hired for two reasons: your skills, and your desperation for work. Some of you are historians, and some soldiers, other scientists or parapsychologists.
You are all going in to The Complex.
Whether you come out is not relevant to profit projections.
Gameplay
God-Machine Chronicle: This game will use the quick to learn, easy to use new World of Darkness rules.
Exploration and Mystery: This will be a game of exploring a closed location, and uncovering its history.
Horror and Vulnerability: Often, all you can do is run.
Extreme Content: This game may include strong violent imagery. Consider carefully before applying.
Requirements
All you need is a stomach for horror and a love of the genre, an fondness for solving puzzles, and not even a passing knowledge of WoD. This introduction is deliberately terse to save on surprises. 4 Players minimum, max of 6.
Other Notes:
Character concepts can be submitted here. Characters should be ordinary people aged 18 and up with useful qualifications or skills. Previous mundane traumas encouraged. I will exploit any vagueness that seems appropriate for plot purposes.
