In Service: A Science Fantasy Quest

Standing at the entrance to the Mausoleum, you reckon that you should probably call this one in. Though… this is a very personal thing for you and the S3 would probably not want you in this case because of that. Same reason surgeons aren't supposed to operate on family members.

And that's something you're just going to ignore, because other people aren't going to understand. Understand just why you have to do this.

Of course, that doesn't mean you shouldn't call anybody. Not at all.

Which is why you pull out your phone and dial three numbers.

You call Damien first, he'll be invaluable to the investigation. "Something's been stolen? A body? The body of your family's founder and a magical book? A magical book that can easily summon demons? I'll be over soon."

Next on your list is Baba, the old witch almost certainly has experience with demon books and is guaranteed to know something about spirits. "Missing Groundskeeper spirits? The defenses of your ancestral burial place are gone? That is bad, very bad. I'll see what I've got in the back. Don't worry, tygrysek, your Old Baba will make sure everything's okay."

And then you think to call Helen, perhaps the seer might've Seen something that can help you. "I'm… sorry, but I can't say. Certain things like the Naturom Demento are hidden from the Sight, even the Fore Sight can't pierce the veil of that book. I can't See the book itself, nor the location of it, but the consequences of it…" You don't need to hear any more, all Williams worth the name know the consequences of the book getting out.

Distorted, desecrated faces plunge broken, rotten teeth into a naked neck––blood sprays out in a pressurized geyser, coating the smiling face of the Deadi-.

You shake your head, banishing the thought from your mind. The Kandarian is dead, dead and gone and almost forgotten. When a Chosen One kills something, it dies. There's no way for it to come back, it's impossible.

…It has to be.

~~~~~~~

Your boots echo as you thump down the stone steps of the Mausoleum, flashlight in hand and your breath misting in the air before you––a strange sight for late August but not unusual for a crypt. The presence of the dead tends to make things cold, just another of the mostly unexplained phenomena surrounding lingering spirits.

Motifs and art decorate the walls and columns, images of past deeds and actions of your fallen ancestors.

One is of a man in knightly armor driving a sword through the chest of a screaming demon.

Another is of a gun-wielding woman blowing a dinner plate-sized hole through the body of a slobbering monster.

Good ol' Great-Grandpa Reginald and Great-Great-Aunt Lilly. Both very dead and gone. Reginald to a Mind Devourer and Lily to an Ultragator. Nasty ways to go, for the both of them.

You pass by a tomb you recognize and your heart skips a beat. Swallowing the lump in your suddenly dry mouth, you force your feet up and down as you wrench your drifting gaze away from that oh so familiar burial place.

You don't have time to mourn. Right now, you've got to solve this case.

You find yourself standing before the entrance to the single most important tomb in this entire place. Your flashlight beam cuts through the darkness, illuminating the heavily damaged architecture of the heavy stone doors used to keep it shut.

You've never been down here before, not in this ever so sacred part of the Mausoleum. The doors aren't even supposed to be openable, yet here they are––broken and shattered on the smooth stone floors.

Gingerly, you step over the remains of the door and into the tomb. A growing pit of dread fills the floor of your stomach as you lay eyes on the desecrated grave of your ancestor.

The sarcophagus that Ashley J. Williams laid in is heavily damaged. The stone cover is shattered in half, like a hole had been punched through the center of it––cracks spiderwebbed out from the broken middle as it rests atop the ground.

The rectangular box that had once held Ash is empty, no corpse no nothing. Pieces of pulverized debris sit in the bottom of the rounded coffin, dust from the destroyed stone coats the debris.

The whole place smells stale and musty, which makes sense given it hasn't seen fresh air for who knows how long, up until about a day ago, of course.

Welp, time for you to get to work. You pull out your investigation kit and set yourself to task.

(Investigation Roll DC 30,45,60: 42+10=52, double success)


You squint, on your hands and knees, as you notice something dark red and slightly sticky on one of the broken chunks of stone that used to be doors. Examining it closer, you find it to be a drop of dried blood.

The blood itself is a very deep red with faint undercurrents of purple. You get the impression that this isn't human blood, or at least it isn't anymore. Your Infragoggles are telling you that it's magical in nature, showing up on three separate spectrums no less.

If you were more versed in magic, you could probably track the source of the blood. Unfortunately, you're only just beginning to understand how the basic theories and principles of magic are applied in practice. Fortunately, Baba's coming by soon so she should be able to help out.

Standing up from the remains of the door, you approach the empty sarcophagus and peer inside. You frown, flashlight focusing on the edges of the grave. There are marks along the inner wall, like something was moving.

But… what could that mean? Did the culprit reanimate Ash's body?

Slipping your Infragoggles back over your eyes, you cycle through the magical spectrums, searching for any traces of necromantic magic.

Nothing, nothing except residue left over from the Groundskeeper spirits as they floated and kept the place in good repair.

Well, you pull the goggles off your head and replace your glasses, now what?

What's your next move?
[ ] Examine the defenses, why didn't they activate? (Investigation Roll and Knowledge (Magic) Rolls)
[ ] Find and question the Groundskeepers, where were they? (Investigation and potentially Intuition Rolls)
[ ] Talk to your parents, who are not here right now, why? (Resolve and Intuition Rolls)
[ ] Wait for Damien and Baba to get here so you can fill them in properly, surely they'll have some ideas, right? (No rolls for this one)

~~~~~~~

GM's Note: From here on out you can add minor actions to your choices, unless I say otherwise of course. Just wanted to make that clear.

Voting will be called tomorrow at 5 PM CST as always. Thanks for reading!

You stand outside the mansion, having walked there from the Cemetery. It wasn't a short walk, this mansion isn't close to the Cemetery, but it was within walking distance.

Power N. B. Williams moved out of the ancestral manor long before you were born, leaving it to the care of the Groundskeepers and Uncle Mike––when he wasn't busy with his responsibilities.

With the Groundskeepers missing for who knows how long now, the old manor's probably not in spectacular condition. Great, just another piece of your family left to tarnish.

Staring up at the white walls of the place you grew up in, you can't help but feel trepidation at what needs to happen next.

Your finger hovers over the button, the one off to the side of the front gate. All it will take is a single push and you'll be let in, your genetic code the key to the lock.

You dread it. Talking to your 'mother' over the phone is one thing, face-to-face is another entirely. You loathe looking upon her artificially perfect face, mathematically designed to be the most beautiful face in existence.

And here you are, having to talk to them. Your father knows something, he definitely knows something.

You just have to hit the button.

Your finger trembles closer, half an inch out now.

You just have to hit the button.

Your finger quivers, nail brushing against that red button, mere centimeters away now. It goes no further.

Come on! Just have to hit the goddamned button! What's wrong with you?!

(Resolve Roll DC 50 (DC lowered by the situation at hand): 60+30=90, success)

And then the gate opens, your fingernail more than enough for the button's sensors.

With nothing stopping you you step forwards, following the driveway up to the house.

~~~~~~~

Closing the door behind you, you turn, finding yourself standing in the foyer of your parents' house.

The foyer has two sweeping staircases leading to the second floor, they're made of polished pearl wood and covered in rich carpets. A crystal chandelier hangs from the ceiling, shimmering in the light. Small, six armed robots clamber over the hanging lights as they exchange burnt out lightbulbs for fresh ones.

"Welcome back, Miss Itzabella." Walter's cultured voice greets you as the door clicks shut behind you.

"It's been awhile, Walter." You offer as you cast your gaze around the foyer, taking in the holographic projectors disguised as potted plants and the paneling in the walls. "Anything new?"

"You have a healthy little brother on the way." He answers you as a robotic arm emerges from panels, a cloth grasped in a pristine white glove polishes the silver decorations on the walls.

Well… you're… you've got no idea on how to react or respond to that so you're just going to brush past it. "Where are my gene-donors, by the way? I have to talk to my paternal gene source about something rather important."

"Now now, that is no way to talk to your parents." Walter admonishes you, the arm moving on to the next piece of filigree as a small, wheeled box rounds the corner––balancing a tray carrying a teapot with teacups. The little robot stops before you and the box expands, extending up until the tray rests at waist height. "Tea? I made it to your preferences." The high-level AI butler offers.

"Thank you, Walter." You reply earnestly, taking a steaming cup and catching a waft of green tea as you raise it to your lips. The too-hot liquid pours down your throat, scalding it in the process––just the way you like it. "But yes, as I was saying, where are my 'parents'?"

You can feel Walter's disappointment as he hums, he's always wanted you to have a good relationship with your 'parents' but this is as good as he's going to get from you.

"Your father has locked himself away in his study. It seems that he has taken momentary leave of his senses and is currently attempting to distract himself from his problems with copious amounts of alcohol." Walter begins, it's clear what he thinks of that. "Your mother was trying to get into your father's study, demanding to know what was going on. This was unsuccessful. She is currently in the library, searching for a reason for your father's actions. Would you like me to call her here?"

(Intuition Roll DC 40: 34+10=44, success)

Your mother doesn't know, huh? There must be something more to the situation than you're aware. They shared just about everything together, for all they didn't love you they loved each other.

"Thanks, Walt, but that won't be necessary." You say, shoving your hands in your pockets. "I'll take care of it myself."

"As always, Miss Itzabella, it is my pleasure and privilege to serve you." Walter speaks with glowing pride before turning to a more personal matter. "Unless you mind me asking, how have you been since you left? I am not allowed to leave the mansion's network so I was unable to keep tabs on you."

"Well," you start, taking a sip of the cooler tea as your eyes outline the stairways, "where to begin? I've finished the introductory course and passed the final exam with flying colors."

Walter pipes up. "Well done, Miss Itzabella." He pauses, then corrects himself. "Or is it Special Agent Itzabella now?"

"Technically Special Agent Williams, but that would be pedantic." You offer him a small smile as he seems to swell with pride.

"My," he breathes heavily, if he had eyes you suspect that they'd be watery, "Little Izzy, all grown up." You hear him blow his nose as his words turn tearful. The robotic arm starts wringing the cloth between emotional fingers. "It is almost enough to make a grown man," his voice hitches, "cry."

A thought occurs to you, one of Sean or Jess learning that old nickname. They must never know; they would be utterly merciless. "I've met some people, one of them became my mentor. I'd like to think that some of them are my friends, but…" But do you really have it?

Friends and friendship are interesting concepts, forming a connection of kindness and loyalty between people that aren't related at all. You've craved it, coveted it like water a woman dying of thirst covets as she crawls through the blazing desert sands.

"I am sure they think fondly of you, Special Agent Williams." Something in his words, as he says your proper title, shocks you to your core.

"A-a-ah t-thanks." You stammer, beads of sweat forming on your forehead as your face heats up. "I-I-I, uh, I, uh, b-better get going." You trail off with a hollow laugh as the gloved robotic arm reaches over and wipes your forehead clean.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you take a moment to plan your next actions. Your 'parents' are in separate parts of the house, meaning that you're going to have to talk to one of them first. The only question is… Who first?
[ ] Father first (Persuasion Roll)
[ ] Mother first (Resolve Roll)

~~~~~~~

GM's Note: Voting will be called tomorrow at 5 PM CST, thanks for participating!

You stand before the door to your father's office. It's made of a red cherry wood polished and lacquered to perfection. Gleaming hyperbrass rivets travel up and down the sides of the door, giving it a strong and imposing presence.

Your nostrils burn as you recoil slightly, a familiar whiff of alcohol passing by your nose. Malört, that's what that is. The last time you encountered that specific brand of alcohol was when you were sixteen and, in a flight of teenage rebellion, broke into the study and stole a bottle of it.

That was a mistake.

The polished hyperbrass handle rattles uselessly in your hand as you try the lock. Damn, no dice there. Oh well, you weren't exactly thinking it was gonna be that easy in the first place.

Your fist slams against the rich wood in a heavy, thunderous staccato demanding the attention of your father. After a few moments of silence, during which you start studying the keyhole, you start hearing stumbling footsteps approaching the door in a clamor.

A heavy thud strikes the door, rattling it in its hinges. A heavy, slurring voice comes stumbling out from behind the locked doorway. "W-whoo izzit?"

"Itzabella, your daughter. Open up." You just know this is gonna be an ordeal.

"Izzybella? Buh she left?" Your father's alcohol-addled mind is doing him no favors, it seems.

"I'm back." You say, adding, "for a little while," under your breath.

"Izzybella's back?" God lord how long will this take?

"Yes, now open up." You pour some authority into your voice, letting him know that this isn't a request.

(Persuasion Roll DC 35: 100, success, jesus christ
70+0=70, double success)

You can't make out what he's mumbling behind the door, but you do hear the unlocking clicks of unlatching locks. The door swings open in a slow, stuttering way, revealing the form of your father.

And he's never looked worse for wear. Not even when that were-polar bear had him in a chokehold.

"Izzybella, itiz you!" He cries, cheeks warm and red as he smiles stupidly wide-mouthed at you. His sweat-slick hair sticks to his head and his eyes are bloodshot.

He wears a possibly once smart vest and white button-down shirt, the armpits of which are soaked through with sweat. Both of these articles of clothing are splattered in all manner of stains and damp spots.

He holds a crystal glass of a sloshing golden-brown liquid, the source of the alcoholic smell you'd noticed earlier. Drops of Malört splash against the dark-green carpeted floor—casting your gaze around the room, you can see that this isn't the only place he's spilled.

"Izzy?" His face falls as he catches your stern expression. "Was wrong?"

"You know something's wrong." You begin, stepping into the room and nearly stumble from how stuffy it is in here. Your eyes burn and water as you hurry to the left of the room, around his paper and empty bottle-strewn desk, and to the windows. Hurling them open, you lean out the open windows and gasp in mouthfuls of fresh air.

Wiping your mouth of spit, you look back at your flailing father—who's stumbling after you like an infant's first time out on ice. The red cheeks certainly don't help dispel that image at all.

"And you're not saying." You finish with a scolding glare.

Your chastised father shuffles back, feet catching on each other and falling backwards into the sofa. His flailing arms pull a shelf down in a shower of raining books. A snore rises out from the collapsed figure.

You sigh, the open window helps out a lot in dispelling the aroma that had built up. Your long legs carry you to his side, your arms crossed as you stare down at the snoozing man.

"Fine," you say, turning your head towards the computer and papers scattered over your father's desk, "if you can't help me in the present, then maybe you can in the past."

Gingerly plucking a bottle off the strong, leather-bound chair, you sit and cast a look across the messy desk. With a shrug of your shoulders you set yourself to work.

~~~~~~~

Apparently, your father decided that it was a good idea to start writing his memoirs. Never a good sign in any case.

Your father's scrawlings grow messier and messier as time moves on. It's like looking at a timeline of drunkenness. He regularly goes off in tangents, the rate steadily grows the longer you read. One moment he'll be talking about something you reckon might be relevant and then he suddenly swaps to waxing poetic about your 'mother's' 'large tracts of land'.

Ew. Double-ew.

Ignoring the, oftentimes not so, thinly veiled erotic writings, you actually do find some things of value.

Your father, Uncle Mike, and Aunt Kate apparently made a deal. As long as Uncle Mike paid the price to renew the defenses, they would fund his demon slaying. They also swore that, should Uncle Mike die, one of them would take up the responsibilities of the Cemetery's defenses. With Kate in federal prison, the only one who could pay the price was your father.

He didn't, according to his chicken scratch. The great Power N. B. Williams was too scared of what would happen to him if he paid the piper and broke his solemn oath. Apparently, he believes that you leaving is the consequence of him breaking his word.

Uncle Mike died about nine months ago, in December, and you signed on at the Service about a month after that in January. January 2nd was when you stormed out of the house, to be exact. The timeline matches up, he could very well be right about that being the result of him breaking his word to pay the price and renew the defenses.

You're not… entirely sure exactly what the price is, just that it's both very steep and is the reason why Williams don't tend to live very long. The writings on the Cemetery and Mausoleum's defenses always were rather vague on it. Until now, of course, with your father's drunken ramblings revealing the truth of the matter.

A year of good luck for a year of defenses.

The Cemetery and, more importantly, the Mausoleum have stood nearly entirely unprotected for over eight months.

Honestly, you're surprised it took this long for it to be broken into and the Book of the Dead to be stolen.

Son of a bitch.

~~~~~~~

Damien and Baba are going to be arriving any minute now. While you're going to meet them and fill them in on the details, your next actions still need to be decided.

[ ] Examine the extra defenses, why didn't the minor wards and protections activate? (Investigation Roll and Knowledge (Magic) Rolls)
[ ] Find and question the Groundskeepers, where were they? (Investigation and potentially Intuition Rolls)
[ ] Fill your mother in on the details (Resolve Roll)

While you're doing that, Damien and Baba can be doing things too. What are they?
Baba:
[ ] Assist you in whatever it is you do
[ ] Speak to the local spirits (not the Groundskeepers, these are the minor and unimportant ones like the spirit of the door or the lamp)
[ ] Take the blood sample back to her house and conduct a tracing ritual (Baba will be unavailable for the rest of the day)

Damien:
[ ] Assist you in whatever it is you do
[ ] Re-examine the Mausoleum, see if there's anything you missed
[ ] Put out feelers in the criminal underworld (Damien will be unavailable for the rest of the day)

~~~~~~~

GM's Note: I got this one done quick, I'll tell you that much. The weather's been wild recently. Voting will be closed tomorrow at 5 PM CST, thanks for watching!

"Pisklę."

"Agnieszka."

You find Damien and Baba having a staredown as you exit the foyer, the front door closing behind you. Damien is sharp and focused while Baba has a relaxed, easy smile on her face.

They're watching, waiting for a moment to act. You can see that the driver side door of Damien's cruiser is open, the man himself has a hand on the shotgun attached to the ceiling. Baba is no different, grains of dust swirl around her in shifting patterns and whirling eddys.

Baba's car is a small, rounded thing that she putters around in. It is green and red, the colors of christmas, with twinkling lights hanging from the inside.

"Am I missing something here?" You poke the two senior citizens having a bit of a stand-off on the front lawn. At your voice they seem to relax a bit, Damien releasing the shotgun and the dust surrounding Baba retreats back into the pockets and creases of her dress and shawl.

Baba leans down and pinches your cheeks, the smile growing a pinch more genuine as she sees you. "Oh nothing, tygrysek, just two old fools catching up."

"It's been, what, seven years since I escaped that curse you laid upon me?" Damien adds as he strolls up behind Baba.

"You're going to have to be more specific than that, pisklę." Baba shoots back as you bat her hands away.

"The frog tongue."

"Ah, yes, that one."

"How'd you counter that Null Nail, by the way? I'm certain that I drilled you with it."

"Wouldn't you like to know, pisklę." From there the pair descend into squabbling and snide comments.

They've got history, that much is clear. Actually, now that you think about it, is there anyone that Damien doesn't know or have history with? Well, there's Claudia, but she's not exactly important magically nor is she old.

"You two know each other, huh?" You interrupt the twos' bickering with a question of your own.

"That's what I was going to say." They say in unison before shooting each other a glare.

"Damien's my mentor and Baba's teaching me magic." You answer as Damien mouths 'Baba'. He doesn't say anything about it, though, instead sharing a shrug with Baba. "But anyways, I didn't call you to chitchat." Damien nods as Baba leans in.

"You said something about a book being stolen, an important and dangerous book, right?" Damien inquires.

"Yeah, I don't really want to speak its name, but I will just so you get an understanding of what we're dealing with here." You take a deep breath before hesitantly speaking. "Its name is: Necronomicon Ex-Mortis." Your words ring out, causing the hairs on the back of your neck to stand shock-straight.

"Fuck me running." Damien swears, slumping over. "Your family had that book all this time? And didn't tell anybody!?"

"If we did tell somebody then word would get out that we had it." You shoot back as Damien runs a hand through his short, salt-and-pepper hair.

"And that sure worked out well for you, didn't it." He spits, unnecessarily cruel. He must've seen the hurt on your face as his expression softens. "I-I'm sorry, just, just a little overwhelmed right now."

Baba shakes her head and lays a hand on Damien's shoulder. "It's alright, tygrysek, he didn't mean anything by it. Now, did you have any ideas about what you wanted us to do?"

You nod, neatly sidestepping the emotional issue for the more important and pressing one.

~~~~~~~

With Baba contacting the minor spirits, the ones that inhabit the items and things that reside in the background of your day to day, it's up to you and Damien to find the missing Groundskeepers—wherever they may be.

(Investigation Roll DC 50: 64+10+15(Damien)=89, success)

Ignoring the slightly awkward tension between the two of you, you set to work scouring the Cemetery for any sign of the Groundskeepers.

"Damien!" You cup your hands to your mouth and call for him from your spot by a lone oak. Your voice echoes around the forest of standing gravestones.

The Senior Special Agent emerges from the shadow cast by a copse of trees, his figure makes long strides towards you as he passes by tombstone after gravestone.

"Find something?" He's short and unusually curt with you as he comes to a stop by your side.

"Yeah, look up." You reply, index finger pointing skyward, up into the tree you'd been standing by. His eyes widen, following the finger up into the boughs of the tree and catching sight of what you saw.

"That's a Groundskeeper, is it?" Your mentor offers as he lays eyes on the drifting thing.

"You're half right," you say as the wind shifts it around, "as it's half of one."

This specific Groundskeeper is a banshee, a female spirit that's often dressed in funeral attire. Veils, gowns, rags, you name it there's a banshee wearing it. They're known for their powerful screams, their wails letting everyone in about a dozen miles that something's gone horribly wrong. They can easily burst your eardrums if you're too close and they're even able to direct the force of their moans and concentrate them into an ear splitting and very physical cone of noise.

(Intuition Roll DC 40,75: 69+10+15(Damien)=90, double success)

"So, whatever killed this banshee had to have been able to A touch it and B kill it in a single blow so it didn't scream." Damien comments as you tap your chin, settling into the familiar groove of investigation.

Pulling out the bagging containing the piece of bloody debris from your pocket, you hold it up to the light. Turning it this way and that, you watch as it catches the light and shimmers purple.

"If I had to hazard a guess," you start, "I think that whatever was the source of this blood is also the thing that killed this Groundskeeper."

"Groundskeepers." Damien corrects, pointing past the banshee and further into the tree. Narrowing your eyes, you peer into the dark branches and shadow-casting leaves of the oak.

"Fuck me running." You breathe, staring up at the dismembered parts of all the Groundskeeper spirits hanging in the mighty oak tree. "I guess… I guess we know what happened to the Groundskeepers now."

"You got that right." Baba remarks as she comes up next to the two of you. "The minor spirits are all terrified out of their wits, rightly so if this is what they're scared of." The old witch jerks her chin up at the treeful of bodies.

"So," Damine begins, turning to you, "what do we do now?"


What do you do?
[ ] Examine the extra defenses, why didn't the minor wards and protections activate? (Investigation Roll and Knowledge (Magic) Rolls)
[ ] Fill your mother in on the details (Resolve Roll)

What does Baba do?
[ ] Assist you in whatever it is you do
[ ] Examine the dead Groundskeepers, perhaps she can find something out from their bodies?
[ ] Take the blood sample back to her house and conduct a tracing ritual (Baba will be unavailable for the rest of the day)

What does Damien do?
[ ] Assist you in whatever it is you do
[ ] Re-examine the Mausoleum, see if there's anything you missed
[ ] Put out feelers in the criminal underworld (Damien will be unavailable for the rest of the day)

~~~~~~~

GM's Note: I don't know what's goin' on with me right now, I just sorta feel a bit outta it. Should feel better once I eat something. Voting will be called tomorrow at 5 PM CST as always. Thanks everyone for reading!


Also, I was screwing around with Artbreeder a bit more and came up with this face, which is pretty dead on for how I imagined Damien. Though the hair's not quite right as seems to be a common trend with Artbreeder things.