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Presto -- not Sam, because now the game was afoot -- thought deeply for a moment, weighing his next move and considering the consequences of getting involved. True, this Ghost that Burns sounded like a terribly dangerous thing, especially if it was connected to grim Lemuria and the horrors that dwelled there. But the potential rewards of a looted tomb once the creature was defeated? Of the mystic knowledge that might be found, pilfered, and turned to more noble ends? That might be worth it, assuming that he survived the encounter. Finally, he spoke. "The uninitiated shouldn't become involved with secret things," he said. "My education was slapdash and scattered but even I know that much. If you don't believe that your brother can be trusted to do the right thing with what he's searching for then we have a duty to stop him from finding it or, if it's already too late for that, to end the threat and make Wharton Forest safe again." He smiled, and spread his hands. "What can I do to help?"

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"We can go to Wharton Forest...."

 

GM a half hour later, as the sun set and cast a red shadow....

 

Wharton Forest...

 

The trip was only remarkable for the nerves of Wesley. The count walked unaided, but slow. Every moment with him, the sense of horror when looking at him grew. By the end of the trip, Wesley refused to even look in his direction. The big Russian pilot also drove them, in an extremely large 4x4. 

 

A few objects, a few books, almost certainly arcane, and all under heavy wraps of thick purple curtains, went in the car with them. The Count forbade any peeking. 

 

"I would not share these things but for most dire circumstance. And you would not want them shared, unless you wish to share my affliction" he explained. "But I would have them with me, if such dire circumstances arise. If you do need them then, then I apologise for what you will behold..."

 

The 4x4 trudged through barely present tracks, slowly but doggedly. 

 

The Count seemed to be in a trance, almost dead. Every now and again, he faintly gave instruction to the Russian about which direction to take. 

 

"You wanting gun?" asked the Russian, offering a slightly old but obviously serviceable shotgun to Presto and Wesley. 

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Presto hesitated for a moment, but then took the weapon before looking at Wesley. "Can you shoot?" he asked the other man. "I am... out of practice, but I've got respectable aim with my spells, and it shouldn't be so different that I can't make due. If you're a crack-shot, though, it might be better for you to take it." He looked, then, to the much older royal. "What do you think we can expect to see when we arrive, Count Schwarz? For this sort of thing... for anything, really, I like to know what I'm getting into. Entering into a dangerous situation unprepared can lead to... unfortunate consequences for all involved."

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GM

 

"Sure...I mean...I can't shoot. Well, I can, just pulling the trigger, right?" said Wesley, putting on his brave face. 

 

"Pullings the trigger. Make sure is pointing right way" agreed the Russian, like stone. 

 

in answer to Presto's question, the Count barely responded. "Something horrible...no doubt..." he whispered. "There can be no preparation to see...what is beyond the human mind" he added. 

 

The 4x4 came to a stop. There was silence and warm red sunlight filtering though trees. On another day, it might have been beautiful. But today was a different day. 

 

In front of them, a couple of men stood up. Armed men. Grizzly, bearded, men, who had pitched up a tent and various supplies, alongside their own vehicle, by what looked like a hole in the ground. 

 

"Men are having guns. Military men...."

 

The count slouched forward. His monocle nearly fell out. He looked worse than ever, a face that looked normal but screamed to the back on the brain that it was truly horrible. 

 

"I..am feeling weak...my brother is down there....I trust you can....deal with these men...if possible...quietly...we should not alert my brother....do not...underestimate him....he is well versed in military and martial matters...." he said, more faintly than ever, 

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Presto sighed and, with a thought, conjured up his mask and gloves. If he was to enter combat, he wanted to do so with his boots on -- so to speak. With a snap of his fingers, his wand appeared and he gripped it with practiced familiarity. "Very well," he said, and took a step into the air. "We'll fight this out; we don't want to drag things along any more than we have to. I'll take to the sky and hit them high; you two hit them low." He looked at Wesley and the Russian with a grim expression. "We're not aiming to kill, is that understood? I've taken great pains to improve my public image and I'm not going to lose everything to some bloodbath in the middle of the forest. Nonlethal, or you'll be the next to face my magic. Is that clear?"

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GM

 

"Sure. No the killing" said the Russian, slowly. He pulled out the most enormous pistol one could buy. And probably, a pistol bigger than several you could not buy. 

 

"You have magic. But we deal with silent, yes?"

 

"Yes...silent..." mumbled the Count, who looked so pale and awful that one might imagine he would keel over dead at any moment. 

 

Wesley gulped, fingering his shotgun with damp palms and sticky fingers. "I mean...do I have to shoot someone? I mean...I could kill them..." he said, faintly. For all his complaints, he still gripped the shotgun tightly, with resolve. 

 

The Russian paused, with a blank face and dead, shark eyes. 

 

"Count say silent. You having magic, yes?" he asked Presto. "You have silent magic? Otherwise, sneak up and knocking out?"

 

"Gee, Ill settle for not dying" concluded Wesley. "Silent or fireworks like the fourth of July. As long as its not-dying..."

Edited by Supercape
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The magician paused, uncertain. It looked ridiculous, this man who stood a foot and a half in the air with a lost expression on his face. He worked his tongue in his mouth for a moment, thinking, before he spoke. "My spells are..." he stopped, considered. "Not intended to go unnoticed," he concluded. He looked from the Count to the Russian and shrugged. "This is your mission," he stated. "I'll follow your lead, so long as the men over there can walk away from our encounter alive, I don't care how we go about it."

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"I slit throat? I slit throat the good" the Russian, his face stone. He put aside his huge pistol and brought up a knife. 

 

"Slit throat, quiet. No problem...."

 

The Count seemed virtually conscious. Wesley would have taken his pulse if he could face looking at the old man, which, he couldn't. His face was white. 

 

"This ain't such a good deal. I mean, are we actually killing people?" he asked. Frightened as he was by the Russian, he was sitting next to a Superhero of considerable repute and power. 

 

"I mean, I'll fire this...if...if I have to. But, we don't actually know if we have to, do we? I mean, there may be a world eating monster from beyond down there...."

 

We wiped his white and damp brow. 

 

"Sheesh...this will be a good story....Ill say that much. If I live to tell it. And if I can live with myself to tell it..."

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Presto faced the Russian, eyes blazing, and his hand gripped the wand so tightly that the knuckles went white beneath his glove. "No," he said, his tone heavy with finality. "I told you, we aren't killing. We'll... find another way." He felt so unprepared, so swept up in things that he couldn't find his way out. What a foolish thing, to go gallivanting off on an adventure before he'd had a chance to plan things out. He wasn't a thief anymore; there were rules that needed following. He stood there, in midair, for a solid minute. Just thinking, his eyes focused on something -- or nothing -- in the distance. "I... maybe a distraction? Draw their attention deeper into the woods so that we could sneak past them and approach the Count's brother unmolested?" He looked to Wesley, and then to the Russian. "What do you think? One of us could circle around and make a lot of noise, to lure them into the trees. Once they're out of the clearing, he could sneak back around and join the others at the site." He perked up. "I'll do it. I have a teleportation spell; I'll coax them away and then jump to your location once they've followed me and left the path unguarded."

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GM

 

If the Russian was disappointed, he did not show it. He calmly put his knife down. 

 

"No cutting the throat. Not unless they shooting at Count. Must protect Count" he droned. The Count himself had perked up slightly, If one looked at him, which was an unpleasant thing to do, he looked half alive now. 

 

"Yes...coax away...teleportation...most useful...like the blessed waters of Augustina, or the moon drug of Yoggoth" he said, whispering to himself. 

 

"No matter...I am sure you are a most able sorcerer...my friend" he said, gently clinging to Presto. It was not an comfortable touch. Again, tha tgrnawing feeling of something being horribly wrong with the Count. 

 

"This may solve other...problem. How to get me down to the burial chambers. As...you see I am not a well man..." he conceded. 

 

"Can climb. But climb and carry, not so easy..." conceded the Russian. He certainly looked strong enough to carry the feeble Count wit h one hand. For the matter, Wesley could probably carry the Count with one hand. But despite the ropes and climbing apparatus leading down, moving the Count would not be easy. 

 

"I...trust you...." whispered the Count to Presto. "You are an...unusual man...with unusual strength!"

 

"And I make a great mushroom pie!" chipped in Wesley, to the sound of blown tumbleweed. 

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Presto nodded. "Yes, protect the Count. We'll need your help against your brother, if he refuses to negotiate. And don't worry; if things come to it, I can move you myself." He sighed and glanced once more at the group of guards that barred their path. "I'm going to teleport into the woods and cause a ruckus. Wait until they come after me, and then go through. I'll meet you on the other side of the barrier. Stay low, stay silent, and don't get caught. And for Pete's sake, try not to kill anyone." With that said, he took a moment to concentrate and speak a word. The moment that it left his lips, he vanished. He reappeared a split-second later in the forest off the beaten path, a decent jog's distance away from the guards. He ducked down low, hiding himself behind a cluster of shrubbery, and aimed his wand at a nearby tree. With another whispered word, he willed a bolt of blue lightning to manifest. It streaked out from his wand, a beam of crackling sapphire power, and struck the tree with a thunderous crash!

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GM

 

"Gott in Himmel!" shouted one man, as the other jumped to the air. Both men were clearly shocked, and, reflexively, brought out guns. Not big ones, like the Russian, just small everyday, inconspicuous ones. Ones than still fired bullets, nevertheless. Their reaction was spiced up by some most choice and fruity expletives, that echoes around the trees. German expletives; somehow, those words seem to penetrate the language barrier. 

 

There followed a brief discussion, in German, about what to do, which Presto could not make head nor tail of (lacking fluency in said tongue!)

 

The words were brief, and so was the discussion. Both men approached, cautiously, towards the lightning bolt. Quick and powerful it had been, but also somewhat odd in a forest without a storm. And the colour, blue, off strange hue. 

 

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German? mused Presto, recognizing the sound of the language if not the meaning. But I thought the Count and his brother were -- oh. Austrian; right. Well, regardless of their country of origin, the guards were armed and trigger-happy, the latter made obvious by how they'd come barging into the woods looking for someone to shoot. The Count's brother must be as paranoid as the Count himself was mysterious. I need to draw them even further away, he realized. If they saw him, they'd simply attack and then radio it in no matter how quickly he'd teleport away. He might escape unscathed, but the gig would be up and it'd all dissolve into shooting. He considered for a moment. I'm in the woods. It has to be innocuous. What do I have that would show up in the woods? It dawned on him with a flash, and he reached into his dimensional pocket and brought forth a trio of white doves. The huddled against his palm, blinking in the light, and cooed gently. "Hello, boys," he whispered. "What I need you to do is, fly towards the bad men and lead them away, okay? Come find me later; you know how. G'wan, then: get!" The doves took up with a fluttering of white wings and sped towards the gunmen. As they took flight, Presto spoke another word and vanished, only to reappear back where he'd come from, at the clearing in the road. With the guards in the woods, being led astray by his trained birds, it should be a simple matter to approach the entrance.

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GM

 

The men looked surprised by the birds. White doves? In Wharton forest? 

 

"Was in Himmell!"

 

The second man, taller, older, more broken of nose, and clearly more aggressive than his marginally more thoughtful partner, fired a shot at the wings. Not a bad shot. But hitting a moving bird was no easy thing. Snap went some bark, exploding off the tree he had hit. 

 

More German shouts. The briefest of debates. 

 

The men ran after the birds.

 

Wesley and the Russian, half carrying the count, came out of the woods to the hole in the ground. 

 

"Good the trick. Bird in sleeves" came the Russian's comment. Possibly even a seal of approval. If he was disappointed, he did not show it. He still held his big pistol in his big hand. 

 

"Now...down we go...I am afraid I am not much of a climber...." said the Count drily. 

 

Wesley looked away, sidling up to Presto. 

 

"Do you trust the Count?" he whispered. "I...can't look at him...its like his skin is crawling. Like an insect, or something. I know he looks normal. But...I just feel like....he isn't human...you know? What do we do?"

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"Misdirection," explained the magician. "It's the most potent weapon in my arsenal. Magic is more than fancy spells, I'm sure you understand." He then thought for a moment. "Count Schwanz, I don't believe that I can teleport while holding another person. But if you trust me, I think that I can carry you and fly us both down while our associates make the climb. It might not be the most comfortable way of making the trip, but at least you won't be falling. Does that sound like an agreeable course of action to you?" While the Count thought it over, Presto leaned towards Wesley and whispered: "If things go sideways," he breathed. "I'll get us both out; you have my word. I still have tricks up my sleeve that nobody here has seen yet. I'm quite formidable, you know."

Edited by Sophistemon
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  • 4 weeks later...

GM

 

The feeble Count nodded, his skin seemed to distort around his face. Like something was crawling. 

 

"I fear...I am weak...curses...at least...I will not burden you unduly..." he whispered, faintly. In this, the Count was correct. He looked so feeble and thin that a stiff breeze might snap him in two. 

 

"When you are ready....my....servant will wait here. In case there is...trouble...."

 

The Russian was a picture of stony faced impassivity. He held his gun firmly, but not so firmly that one might mistake him as an amateur. 

 

"I dealing with trouble" he intoned, like falling lumps of lead. 

 

Wesley wiped his brow. No matter how many times he wiped it, it was wet. Not just from the heat. 

 

"I'm in way over my head...but if you want me to come down there. Ill come..." he gulped. 

 

Down there was not so dark, and not so far. Lights had been set up. It looked as safe as one could hope for, anyway, and the Count was indeed most light to carry...

 

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Presto looked to Wesley, his eyes casting up and down, and then glanced over at the enormous Russian. "Nnno," he said, slowly. "Why don't you stay here and help our Slavic friend keep watch over the entrance? I told you, I'm quite formidable. I'm sure that the Count and I can handle everything that the cave throws our way." He turned to address the Austrian aristocrat. "Are you prepared, sir? This won't be a fun trip, but it should be a safe one. I'm quite certain that I can get us both down to the bottom unharmed, provided that you remain, ah, relatively still."

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GM

 

"Prepared? Hmmm...yes. Prepared. Very prepared..." he smiled, almost cunning. Despite his frail body, he seemed to be excited, even anticipating meeting his brother. 

 

As light as a feather, he felt. Even Wesley could have lifted him. 

 

It was a short hop to the base of the cave, a drop of perhaps twenty or twenty five feet. Some dimly glowing flares had been dropped down here, enough to give illumination (of a meagre sort), for a few hours. Some rope, a few tools, archeological equipment, by the looks of it. 

 

This was no mere hole, it was more a series of tunnels. 

 

Writings, symbols, pictures lined the walls of the cave, daubed in crude inks, half faded. Pre-colonial native american, it seemed. It was not possible to understand the meaning; perhaps there was none. Warnings, perhaps. A burial chamber, perhaps. Sacred ground, perhaps. Quite possibly, given the nature of society back then (and so many old cultures), it was all three...

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Presto gazed at the symbols with wide, white eyes as they descended. Despite the Count's emaciated appearance, he had still expected the man to weigh something but instead if felt as though he were carrying a bundle of sticks wrapped in rags -- not a person, really, but a collection of things. "You and I are alone, now," he said. His voice was calm, but steely. "We're deep enough that neither your guard nor Wesley can hear us." He looked down at the frail old man. "What haven't you been telling me, sir? What does your brother expect to find down here?"

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"..." croaked the Count. 

 

"Magic. Sorcery....Death..." he whispered. 

 

As if on cue, the walls of the cave crumbled, giving out a hacking dust that drove the Count, with his weak lungs, into a fit of choking, so severe one might fear for his life. 

 

From the walls, stiff, dusty, came six figures. Draped in crumbling rotten garments, skin tight and withered, eyes hollow, just skin and bones. Dead, surely...

 

But moving, all the same!

 

In an ancient language they spoke; one that neither the count or Preston could understand, but intimidating all the same. Spoken in dusty voices, with dusty tongues and dusty lips. Dead, stretched skin over the skull and teeth made for little facial expression, but the dead were clearly of woeful intent... 

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  • 2 weeks later...

Sam looked down at the wizened aristocrat that he held in his arms and made a face. "That's a bad sign," he said, and when the walls of the cave came down he rolled his eyes. "Mummies?" He stared them down, almost as though attempting to will a stop to their shuffling advance. "Can you stand, sir?" he asked. "I'm going to try to get rid of them." He looked again at the mummies and cleared his throat. "We come in peace!" he called. "We are here to retrieve an interloper and restore balance to your... tomb? Resting place?" He coughed, the dust an irritant. "Let us pass, and we'll be on our way."

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The dusty corpses were unsteady but not slow, moving with staccato myoclonic jerks, like puppets on piano wire. 

 

From dry throats and cracked lips, a sort of speech came, ancient and as dusty as the corpses themselves. Even if it was a language Presto knew, it would have been hard to understand from the rasping voices. 

 

But, angry they were. They advanced ominously. 

 

The one in the lead pointed at the Count, with blazing black eyes. 

 

"Shubbotheth! Shubbotheth!" he repeated over and over again, raising his arm to strike the frail man. 

 

"My curse...." whispered the Count to Presto..."they can...see me....and they will destroy me...." he almost sounded resigned to his apparent fate of getting his head pulped by skeletal fists....

Edited by Supercape
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