Classes and Cthulhu: Redux

[Frostbyght]

"The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents... some day the piecing together of dissociated knowledge will open up such terrifying vistas of reality, and of our frightful position therein, that we shall either go mad from the revelation or flee from the light into the peace and safety of a new Dark Age." - HP Lovecraft​

The Modern Age has come. Science and reason illuminate the shadowed corners of the world. From the shores of Antarctica to the deep reaches of the Amazon, even to the vast void beyond their own precious sphere, mankind takes its cautious first steps. The common man dreams of a future without fear. A future without doubt. A future of mankind ascendant. The foolish and the wise gather across the world, proclaiming the victory of understanding and knowledge.

They are wrong.

The age of Man is coming to an end. Unseen powers writhe in the shadows of the world. Nightmares from eons long past awaken once again. Cults and sorcerers ply their trade, serving masters they will never understand.

It is said, amongst those who have delved the deepest into the occult, that the world is changing. Secrets and prophecies long forgotten are unburied. Things that should not be are coming true. Across the world the madman and the seer dream of cities rising from the depths. They dream of worms at the core of the world. They dream of the vastness of the universe and the things that lie in the shadows between suns. They awake, and speak the truth none wish to hear:

The Stars will soon be right.

You, however, do not know this. Not yet.

You are dreaming of peaceful things. Of meadows and clouds and books and pleasant memories and a thousand other things. Your dreams, however, are interrupted.

Something has pulled them out of you.

---

PROLOGUE: THE HOLE IN YOUR HEAD​

You awake to find that there is a hole in your head.

This is both artistically figurative, and bloodily literal.

You stumble out of bed and knock a lamp off a nearby table. A hand - yours, thankfully - raises up to touch at the pain in your temple and comes away warm and sticky with half-dried blood. The room swims around you and humid sickness threatens to overtake your body. The other hand reaches for stability, grasping at a bookshelf as you founder forwards. Volumes thud onto the floor as you blindly claw for leverage. A chair tips over. There is a door ahead of you, ajar enough that you can see porcelain tiling. A bathroom that greets you with a soothing chill as a breeze blows in from an open window. Moonlight casts dark shadows around the room as your hands rest on the counter, marking it with blood. Gasping, you force back a retch and look into the mirror above the sink.

The mirror only confirms what you realized before. There is a literal hole in your head. Above the left temple. Smaller than a penny. It is still bleeding, and from the stain across your face it has been for a while. The blood is drying and clotting but the work is not yet done. You grab for a towel and press it to the wound, wincing as you feel the pressure against your skull. The mix of the pain in your head, the smell of fresh blood slinking its way into your nostrils, and the warmth dripping down your cheek curdles your stomach. You choke back another heave and force yourself to breathe. To stop.

For a moment, you simply stand still. The sharp pain in your head begins to slow into an aching throb. You take that to be a good sign. Probably. Your attention shifts from the literal hole in your head to the figurative one.

You can't remember where you are. Or what you're doing here. Or, most disconcertingly, your own name. The face in the mirror is your own; you are sure of this. You recognize it, even though it is half covered in blood. The rest is buried beneath shock, confusion, and pain. It is gone.

No. Surely not gone. Your name is here. Isn't it?

Isn't it?
[] Your Name (Write in)

There, that's better.

You no longer feel like vomiting, and the pain in your skull has begun to subside. Pulling the towel away you can see the blood spread across monogrammed lettering: MU. The pounding in your head disgorges two words: Miskatonic University.

You are a student. A scholar. This fact arrives with certainty. What - exactly - you are a student of has yet to reveal itself. Perhaps in time.

There are other things to focus on.

The room behind you (your room?) is a mess of toppled furniture and scattered books. Your face and hair and clothes are a mess of drying blood. Glancing back through the open door you see the bed you crawled from is stained with streaks of crimson. The wound in your temple aches. The missing portions of your memory mock you. There is a hole in your head.

It's too much to take in all at once. You need to prioritize. Focus on one thing at a time. You place the towel onto the countertop and let instinct and muscle memory guide you.

What do you prioritize?
List the options below, placing them in order of importance to your character (First being most important, last being least). This will determine your starting stats.
[] Clean the room. Heft the furniture back into place. Replace the books on their shelves. (STR)
[] Clean the bed. It is a mess of blood. Replace sheets. Hide stains. (DEX)
[] Clean yourself. The sink has running water. You have towels. Make yourself presentable. (CHA)
[] Tend to the wound. There is a hole in your head. Find bandages. Disinfectant. Needle and thread, if necessary. (CON)
[] Tend to yourself. There is a hole in your mind. Memories missing. You are running off instinct. Sit. Calm yourself. Remember. (POW)
[] Inspect the room. There is a hole in you. Someone or something did this. There must be clues. Find them. (INT)

---

Hello all!

It has been many years since I attempted to run a quest, and lately I've been in a Lovecraftian Mood. Thus, like ol' Squidface himself, that is not dead which can eternal lie. This a reboot/redux of my previous quest of the same name (Died due to Real Life issues, but I had a good time with it). It will not be a 1/1 recreation as I have different ideas in mind for this one (and also I lost all the notes for the original version). We will be using a very loose interpretation of the Call of Cthulhu RPG rules (and I do mean loose). This will not be an extremely serious delve into Eldritch Nightmares, but there will be horror, tentacles, and blood aplenty. It is still Lovecraft.

The quest is set in modern-ish times, at the famous Miskatonic University and nearby Arkham, Massachusetts. You, the players, will control a student at said university as you try to survive classes, monsters, evil cults, and your fellow students. Can you make it to graduation? Will the world even be there by the time you get your diploma? Who knows.

All you know is that you have a hole in your head. Not a great start to the year.

 

[Frostbyght]

[X] Tend to the Wound (CON)

You first concern is- naturally- the actively bleeding hole in your temple. The towel, stained red by your blood, is proof that the wound needs attention. You scramble around the bathroom for a few moments, searching drawers and cabinets, and pull a first aid kit from beneath the sink. Wincing at the sharp pain, you dab away the remaining blood with a wet towel. You are just about to (gently) slap on some gauze and a bandage when you stop.

Flicking on the light over the sink (ow, your eyes), you blink away spots and take a closer look at the hole. There is something... off about it. It takes you a moment to realize exactly what. The opening isn't a cut or an incision or even a deep gash. It is sharply, precisely, and unnervingly circular. A perfectly round hole in your head.

You look away before you can see more, unsure if you really want to know how deep it goes; afraid that you already do. The bandage goes on.

[X] Tend to yourself (POW)

You sit on the cold tiles of the bathroom floor and just let yourself breathe. You've been awake for less than five minutes and it's already been one of the longest nights of your life. Not, of course, that you can remember other nights. You feel you've been doing an admirable job of not freaking out about that. Another minute passes and you feel your panicked heart slow as you take deep, focused breaths.

What do you remember?

Your name is Vivianne. You are a freshman student at the Miskatonic University in Arkham, Massachusetts. You are studying... something.

Okay, so that wasn't a lot. You squeeze your eyes shut, forcing your memories to come to the fore. There must more than that right?

You aren't from here; you have indistinct recollections of travel to Arkham and unloading luggage. You haven't been here very long, you think. There is something drifting through your mind about your family. You have one, at the very least. The details remain elusive. Other thoughts are harder to grasp. Personal history, hobbies, friends. All of that is lost in the fog that permeates your mind. Still, you feel better than you did just a minute ago.

You stand. Perhaps taking a look around will jog other memories.

[X] Inspect the room (INT)

The room you left in ruins is a small, two-person dorm. One bed is a mess of tossed-aside covers and bloodstains. The other is made up and empty. One half of the room shows a bloody trail of knocked-over furniture leading to the bathroom. The other is unremarkably disorganized. You have a roommate, you realize. She is not here. Not right now. Whether that is lucky or unlucky is your decision.

You crouch next to your bed, ignoring the bloodstains for the moment. Someone or something has put a hole in your temple. You'd like to know what. The next few minutes are spent looking around for anything out of place, trying to piece together any kind of clues as to what has happened.

The door to the room is locked. There are two windows, one in the dorm room itself (closed) and one in the bathroom (open). A brief glance out the bathroom window shows that you are on the third floor of this building. If someone got in here, they either had a key or scaled the wall. Both concerning options. There are footprints in the carpeting, but they could be yours or your absent roommate's. Looking closer you do see... sand? Dirt? Grains of something in the carpeting, and on the bathroom floor as well.

Your trail of destruction leaves little else to be found. It's hard to tell what isn't supposed to be here when everything is out of place.

[X] Clean the Bed (DEX)
You've never seen this much blood. Surely it can't all be yours? It seems, frankly, an obscene amount. It is not widespread, no great splatters or sprays, but the blood is thick and has soaked deeply around the pillow. The stains will not wash out. The sheets, at least, can be replaced easy; the mattress no-so-much. Other stains coat the small table by the bed and the carpet below. You find yourself wondering how much blood a person can lose before they should be dead. How much have you lost? How much more can you lose?

The table you clean easily but for a few streaks already setting into the wood. The sheets you strip from the bed and stuff in a drawer. The carpet remains your final foe, and it refuses all efforts. Finally you crouch down and drag a small decorative rug over the stains. It will have to do.

As your rise and wipe sweat from your brow, something catches your eye. There is a different stain. Not the shining red of fresh blood, nor the dried brown of old. It is minuscule, and escaped your notice until now. It is a small, inky black dot. Dark enough to stand out even in shadow. There is another. And another.

[X] Clean the Room (STR)
You lift your chair back into place, and return books haphazardly onto the shelf. The lamp you place back on the table, strategically covering those few stains you could not clean away. It is not quite enough. You can tell the room has undergone some form of small catastrophe. You try to straighten the table and move the bedframe into alignment with the wall. The strain causes your head to flare with pain once more and you abandon the effort.

Enough. You turn your attention back to the spots. With the mess cleaned, you can make out more of them. You go down to one knee and try to follow the trail. There are a dozen, perhaps two, congregated around your bed. Then fewer as you move towards the bathroom. Then none on the white tile.

This is not blood. You are sure of that. Something else has left a trail in your room. A pen, dripping ink? Some leak from a pipe? Perhaps.

Something drooling, as it stood over you in your sleep?

You shudder and banish the unbidden thought from your mind. You do not need to add nightmares to your list of worries.

[X] Clean yourself (CHA)

You step back into the bathroom, and wet a towel in the sink. Your face is now a mask of blood and sweat. The bandage has done its job however, and the blood that was already on you has not been joined by anything fresh. It is a warm evening, but the breeze through the window is cool and soothing. You give yourself a perfunctory wash, and your face comes away clean. Your hair will have to wait for a more thorough cleanse. Fuck it, you think to yourself, it's good enough.

A thought occurs as your dry your face. The breeze. Why was the window here open, but not the one in the room proper? Did you do this? Did your roommate?

Did someone else?

You creep towards the open window. The light from the bulb above the sink casts your shadow onto the ground far below. There is no light from Arkham. The city sleeps. The moon shines and offers a steady illumination. Your room looks out towards the edge of the campus, and across the road you can see the old wooded cemetery, and beyond that the rise of Hangman's Hill.

Someone is walking towards the graveyard. A lone figure. Difficult to make out even in the moonlight. You squint your eyes, trying to seek out more detail. They are carrying something slung under their arm, it is large and rectangular. A box of some form, perhaps. They have almost made it to the road.

What do you do? (Choose One)
[] Watch them go.
Try to make out any detail you can. (INT Check)
[] Chase them down.
Find the stairs. Find the front door. Follow them into the night. Damn your injury. (STR Check)
[] Climb down the side of the building.
Now this is surely just foolishness. But if they did it, can't you? (DEX Check)
[] Go back to bed.
Blood? Missing memories? Strange figures climbing through windows? This is surely just a dream. You will awake soon, restored and whole once more...right? (POW Check)

 

[Frostbyght]

[X] Watch Them Go (INT Check)

DC 65. Roll 84. Failure.

Arkham is not a large town, and here at the edge of campus you cannot rely on streetlights to illuminate the figure below. Your only friend in this moment is the moon. The buildings of the University cast great shadows where anyone could hide, and the graveyard is filled with trees. You have very little time. You watch carefully as your target crosses Hill street, and for a brief moment they are exposed in the pale light.

The figure is... tall. They are wearing a loose jacket that hangs limply across their frame. Their stride is steady and confident. The thing in their arms is, you can tell, a box. It looks odd. A perfect cube. The rest you cannot make out from this distance. The figure reaches the other side of the road. Furtively, they seem to stop and look around. For a second, you swear they look back towards the campus. Towards you.

Then the moment passes. They disappear into the wooded graveyard beyond the edge of your sight. Into the dark. You sit at the window for several long heartbeats. You are alone. The sounds of gentle wind and chirping insects are your only company. Storm clouds roll in the distance. Rain is on the way.

Your eyes strain against the shadows of the graveyard, trying to pick out any movement between the trees and headstones. Storm clouds roll in the distance. Rain is on the way. Your fingers tighten on the windowsill. It is not enough. You still don't know anything. No clues. No answers. Not even the slightest hint of what the hell happened to you. A scream of frustration rises in your throat, but is forced back down. You release your grip.

A wave of exhaustion hits you. Your eyelids feel heavy. How long since you awoke, panicked and bloodied? It feels like hours. Leaning back, you let the cool breeze blow against your face for many minutes. Sleep beckons. You want to just spread yourself on the tile floor and rest. Beyond the window the moon still shines over the edge of town. Over the graveyard and Hangman's Hill. You take one last look, searching the woods for any sign of the figure. One last look and then, you think, you can rest. You can sleep. You can wake up in a world where things make sense.

Alas, you never get the chance.

The wind and insects, the distant thunder, the sound of your own heartbeat; all go silent. In the distance you hear a piercing, shrill noise. A whistle that sends a chill down your spine. Your head pounds, a fresh headache arriving with the shriek. Your eyes snap to the horizon. You see - or you think you see - a figure on the hill beyond the graveyard, arms raised to the sky. A second whistle splits the night. The headache grows into a migraine. Your eyes ache. Something is wrong in the distance. There is a shadow against the storm. You hear a third whistle and your vision grows dark. For the moment you cling to consciousness you hear the beating of wings and see something swoop through the clouds.

And then you fall into blissful unconsciousness.

---

Your sleep is dreamless. Deep.

When you finally awake, you are on the bathroom floor. A puddle of drool spreads across the tiles. Sunlight streams through the bathroom window. Birdsong and the smell of fresh rain drifts in on the morning breeze. Your head still hurts, but the pain is no longer sharp and clear. It is dull and distant. Pulling yourself to your feet you stagger over to the mirror and assess the situation.

You still remember your name. You still remember your own face. The bandage is still there. It was real.

You still cannot remember much else.

Emerging from the bathroom back into the main dorm, you find the other bed still empty. No sign of your roommate, whoever she is. Her personal belongings are neatly packed and stored. And... there's a calendar hanging on the wall over her desk. You squint at the notes on the days. It takes a moment for your muddled mind to register the date.

It is the end of September. The semester started in August.

You have been at this school for a month, and you cannot remember any of it. A bell rings in the distance. You hear movement in the halls. Classes will soon be starting for the day.

Fuck.

It is Monday, September 26th. You have enough time for one (1) thing before you have to seek out your first class for the day.
You do not know your major.
You do not know your roommate.
You do not know the layout of campus.
What do you do? Choose One.
[] Search your belongings for paperwork and notes. You must have information somewhere. Learn what you are... learning.
[] You are still injured. There's a hole in your head. Get on a fresh change of clothes and find the nurses office.
[] Find your roommate. She must know things about you. She must be able to help.
[] Classes? Roommates? None of this matters. Get across the road and check out that Graveyard. Something happened over there.
[] Other? (Write In)

 

[Frostbyght]

[X] You are still injured. There's a hole in your head. Get on a fresh change of clothes and find the nurses office.

Your first step outside hurts as bright sunlight hits your eyes. Amidst a river of humanity you turn to take your first look at your dorm from the outside. The words 'Dorothy Upman Hall' are displayed in bold lettering over the entryway. The dormitory sits at the edge of Campus, and you can see your fellows slowly flowing towards larger, more central buildings.

You follow the scores of other students, a backpack from your room (yours, you think) swung hastily onto your shoulders. You notice the occasional strange look at the bandages on your temple. A few students whisper. No one confronts you about it, and you do your best to ignore their glances.

It is a warm day with a cool breeze. The ground is still wet from the rain last night, and you splash through small puddles on your way to the center of campus. Your first impression of Miskatonic University (or, perhaps, your second-first impression? Whatever) is that the campus is old. Red brick buildings, aged in a way that a fresh coat of paint cannot hide. Classical grandeur coated in years of wear and tear. The occasional sprout of tenacious ivy curls its way up a wall or around a column. Here and there are more modern additions; Electric lamps instead of gas, pavement instead of cobblestones. Despite the effort, Miskatonic University gives you the sense of a place that has not quite caught up with the rest of the world. The air feels languid. Stagnant.

You stop and push your way through the mass of students towards something that catches your eye. A map of campus and the surrounding town, faded from exposure and marked by the occasional patch of graffiti. Thank god. Now you actually know where you are. As you trace your fingers along the worn sign, you glance above the map to see:

MISKATONIC UNIVERSITY
FOUNDED 1765
In Scientia Est Salus
​

Miskatonic's campus is arranged in a skewed rectangle, stretching from the edge of town towards the river district. The University is ordered, regimented. The buildings are in stiff rows, divided into various sub-campuses: Main, West, and South. The town around the campus could not more different. Winding streets, filled with dead ends and alleyways, turn the neighborhoods around the university into a maze. The campus, at least, is navigable.

You have options when it comes to healthcare. The campus has a teaching hospital, St Mary's, and a few smaller offices near the athletics field and the main lecture halls. You note the closest one and head in that direction. Hopefully they can help you.

---

"You seem to have overreacted a bit, honey." The nurse tuts as she inspects the bandage, "Cuts and scrapes around the head can bleed quite a bit even if they're nothing to worry about."

Overreacted? You hold back a snort as she turns away. There's no overreaction to waking up with a hole in your head. If anything, you've been remarkably calm about this whole ordeal. There are few people in the world, you feel, who would have maintained their cool like you did. Admittedly, you haven't mentioned the hole in your head, instead just mentioning that you 'have an injury' that you needed someone to look at. You're unsure how to broach the subject.

The nurse was able to see you as soon as you stepped through the doors. Not many patients this early in the morning, apparently. The small office is situated right in the academic section of campus, between two of the massive lecture halls. She ushered you into a spare room with shelves of aged first aid supplies. The whole office is uncomfortably cool, and the off-white walls make you think of exposed bone. The faint smell of antiseptic pervades the air and makes your nostrils twitch. You force a polite smile onto your face. "I don't think I overreacted." you say carefully, "It was a lot of blood and a... pretty serious wound, I thought."

She nods in a manner both condescending and respectful, "Is there a lot of pain?"

No, now that you think about it. There is a dull ache. A sense of emptiness. The occasional flash of pressure like the kind you felt last night. But all these things fade as quickly as they come. You settle for a noncommittal shrug, and reply "Some."

"Alright. Well let's get this cleaned up and see how bad it is." She slowly removes the bandage, dabbing away dried blood, and you see a small self-satisfied smile grow on her face. "Not that bad at all. A scrape, for sure, but nothing to be worried about." She gestures over to a small mirror hanging on the wall, and bustles over to the shelves of supplies. You step over to the mirror and inspect the side of your head.

The hole is no longer visible.

Instead there is a patch of rough skin, red and raw and discolored from its surroundings. Yet it is still a near-perfect circle. You touch it with a trembling finger and feel how taut the membrane is; like the skin of a drum. How did you not notice this? You still feel the hole. The emptiness. But you realize that you cannot feel anything from the skin. You do not feel your own finger running over your flesh until your finger leaves the circle. That patch does not feel the cool air of the room, nor the heat of your hand. All you feel is the tightness of the skin under your digit. How it bends beneath your fingertip. You swear with just a little force you could pierce right through and feel your own brain.

The hole is still there. It's just been covered. A thin layer over the hollow in your skull.

You sit back down, not trusting your knees to remain steady. Your breath catches in your throat as you force yourself to breathe and try to stave off hyperventilation. The nurse turns back around. The same placid, unbothered grin sitting on her face as she sprays your temple with something sharp-smelling. She congratulates you on not even flinching from the antiseptic (Just in case, she says). How could you flinch? It doesn't hurt.

Before you can stop yourself, you ask "Have you had a lot of head injuries? Does anything seem odd about mine?" Some part of you hopes she will offer answers, a hint into what has happened. Surely a medical professional can tell? She must sense something is wrong?

She stops, looking puzzled. Leaning in she examines the wound again, even pulling out a small flashlight and shining it at the spot on your head. "It's a funny shape, I suppose. But if I was concerned over every injury that had a funny shape, I wouldn't have time for anything else!" She chuckles, "Why I once had a student hit himself on his bed in just the right way to end up with a banana-shaped cut on his forehead! Seems you kids can't stop hitting your heads on things."

You try, desperately, to turn the topic back to your injury as she applies a fresh bandage and tells you not to pick at the scab. She either ignores you or is too caught up in her banana story to notice your anxiety. As she pats your shoulder and says you're free to go, you blurt out that you'd really like her to have another look because you've got a hole in your head.

A funny expression crosses her face as she looks at you. A moment of confusion? Of derision? Of scorn? Then her face becomes that same mask of professional condescension. "Don't be silly, dear. It's just a scrape. You're not the first freshman to come in with a scrape like that." The small smile returns: white teeth that match the color of the walls, "Now what flavor lollipop did you want?"

---

As you step back into the sunlight and the warmth, your first thought is that cherry was the wrong pick. Too sweet. Too artificial. Your second thought is that you are much more alone.

The campus has quieted down. Small groups of students still move here and there, finding their way to class before the bell rings, but the vast majority have made it to their lecture halls and are no doubt settling in for morning classes. The walkways and quads are now bare of students. The wind has picked up, letting the smell of rain waft across campus.

You're at a loss. All you have are more questions. At least they are different questions than the ones you started with. How did your wound heal so quickly? Why can't you feel it? Did she say you weren't the first? Did she mean that in a general sense or have there been others with wounds like yours?

You have half a mind to turn around and demand answers from that distinctly unhelpful nurse. You'll be damned if you're leaving before you have some clue as to what is going on here. Before you can muster up the courage to re-enter the doors behind you, you are interrupted. A voice, booming in the silence of the campus, shakes you from your thoughts.

"OH THANK GOD." You feel a hand clasp on your shoulder, and whirl around to see a red-faced girl - about your age, you think - grinning at you. She looks as though she just got out of bed. Everything from her hair to her clothes to her backpack (stuffed with papers and still half-open) are a mess. "I'm not the only one late to class."

The bell tolls the hour just as she finishes speaking, as if to underline her point. "Vivianne, right? I sit two rows down from you. Good thing I spotted you. I was about to start sprinting but I figure if we arrive together the Professor will be much more lenient. We can claim we were backed up by traffic or something and skip the lecture on punctuality." Her eyes flit to the bandage on your head, "You alright? Nasty cut? I had a cut once on my head like that but I got it from a squirrel being an asshole."

Her grip has shifted to your wrist and she is practically pulling you along with her. Whoever this girl is she's got a strong grip and little grasp of social cues because she doesn't even seem to realize she's basically kidnapping you. After the initial moment of panic subsides you compare the way she's dragging you to the Campus Map you saw and realize you are heading towards the...

Where are you going? Choose One:
Miskatonic University Students spend their first semester in general studies before moving onto specific areas. This will determine your area of general studies. You will determine Viv's exact major within this area later.
[] The Teaching Hospital (Medicine, Nursing, Psychology, Biology, etc.)
[] The School of Applied and Natural Sciences (Engineering, Chemistry, Physics, Mathematics, etc.)
[] The School of Language, Literature, and the Arts (Ancient History, Archaeology, Anthropology, Classical Languages, Music, etc.)
[] The School of Law and Business (Law, Economics, Business, ect.)

Status (Character Sheet Updated):
Physical Status Improved, HP +2. [The Dead Patch] Current Total: 12/13
Mental Status Deteriorated. Sanity -2. [Missing Memories, The Covered Hole] Current Total 68/70
You now know the layout of Campus.
You do not know your major.
You do not know your roommate.

 

[Frostbyght]

[X] The School of Language, Literature, and the Arts (Ancient History, Archaeology, Anthropology, Classical Languages, Music, etc.)

Robert Carter Memorial Hall is not a small building. It looms over campus. Four stories tall and made of stark red brick, it is one of the most striking buildings on the grounds. It is also, as you recall from the campus map, the main building for Liberal Arts studies. The girl dragging you shifts her course to angle across the grassy quad and straight for the Hall, uncaring of things like 'common decency', 'walkways', or 'the structural integrity of your arm'.

The two of you push through the doors into the main lobby and immediately the smell of old paper and dust slams into you like a truck. The lobby is... well you wouldn't say a nightmare, but it is a mess. Crates have been shoved into the corners of the room. Dusty janitorial equipment lies in a half-open closet off to the side. A torn banner for the 'Marching Miskies', the university's unofficial marching band, is partially visible behind the clutter. Well-worn paths have been formed between the piles, no doubt used by hundreds of students making their way deeper into the building. On the wall is a small, faded directory. The labeling for the lower levels are illegible, but the upper floors are filled with offices, conference rooms, and archives.

It is at this point you notice that the girl is pulling towards the stairs clearly marked "Basement", which are just as dusty as everything else in eyesight. Applying what strength you have (supplemented by your natural desire to not be dragged into a basement by a total stranger) you manage to get her to pause at the top of the staircase. She looks at you questioningly as you ask -as calmly as you can- why exactly the two of you are heading for the basement.

"Because... that's where the classroom is?" she replied haltingly, releasing her grip on your arm, "I mean technically the classroom is upstairs but that room is so full of junk the professor doesn't, ya know, use it except for when he's required to. Look, we're already late. You coming?" She turns, and disappears down the staircase without giving you a second glance.

You take a second to think about it. The girl is the only lead you have to any of your classes, and as a student (which you're still 99% sure you are) you should probably be going to those. Maybe this professor can help you find your other classes. On the other hand, she is leading you into a dark and spooky basement about five minutes after you met her. The air flowing upwards from the dark staircase seems to radiate menace. For a moment you swear you feel a headache building in your forehead again. Are you really going to let your desire for academic achievement overcome your sense of self-preservation?

The answer to that is yes, apparently. A minute of brief deliberation later you meet the girl at the bottom of the stairs. She was waiting for you. Sheepishly, she says, "I uh, realized that was kind of rude as soon as I got down here." She extends a hand, which you gently shake, "I'm Abigail. Sorry for not introducing myself earlier, and sorry for being kinda a dick."

You introduce yourself in return and ask where the two of you need to go. The hallway is cluttered, just like the lobby upstairs. Crates, cardboard boxes full of yellowed papers, discarded desks and chairs. Aged light bulbs illuminate the cramped confines. No clear signs pointing the way to any classrooms. Abigail gives you another questioning look, then points down the hallway. "It's around that corner and down the hall a bit. The same place it's always been? Class has been in there for like, the whole semester, remember?"

Stay Casual (CHA Challenge: DC 40)
ROLL: 55. Failure

Shit. You mutter something vague and noncommittal, adding a shrug to look as casual as possible. It doesn't work. She raises an eyebrow in a vaguely suspicious manner and you do your best to not panic. So far you've done really well at avoiding telling people that you've lost your memory due to a hole in your head and by god you're not going to start now.

"Are you feeling alright?" she asks, really taking a look at you in the dim light, "You don't have to go to class if you're like, sick or something. You know that, right?"

You give another shrug, more forcefully this time, and insist you're just fine, actually. And you'd really like to get to class because the two of you are already late, and Professor... uh, the Professor won't be happy with that. Really, you just think the two of you need to stop chatting and get to the room.

Very casual, you think to yourself, well done.

Shaking her head and looking disconcertingly thoughtful, Abigail turns and heads down the hallway. You wipe the nervous sweat from your brow and follow. Now you just need to get through class. Maybe the Professor can help you figure things out. Hopefully he won't be too upset at your tardiness.

---

As soon as you step through the doorway, every eye in the room is glued to you and Abigail. There are perhaps twenty other students in the class. All are bent over desks and papers on said desks, pencils in hand. The room itself is well lit and clean. Ordered and shining.

The man at the front of the room is also looking at you, over a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles that seem to shine with judgement. Your first reaction is that he is tall. And thin. Spindly, one might say. He stands from his desk and keeps rising until his head nearly scrapes the ceiling. Fashion is obviously not his strong suit. He looks like he's stepped out of the dictionary definition of 'professor', tweed jacket included. When he speaks, his voice carries through the room in a soft, kindly baritone.

"Ah. Ms. Vaughan. Ms. Jackson. Glad you could join us." He looks over the two of you, appraising. Abigail mutters what sounds like a disgruntled apology. You say nothing. "Take a seat. We will speak after class."

Abigail says nothing further and turns on the spot towards one of the two open seats in the room. You take the other, hoping that you can get through the rest of this class without much more trouble. As you unshoulder your backpack and settle into your chair, a boy in the next row gives you a raised eyebrow. You try to look calm and relaxed as you meet his gaze, which doesn't seem to work as he escalates his level of concern to a quesitoning thumbs up and a mouthed 'you good?'. Does this guy know you? Oh shit. You give what you hope is a reassuring thumbs up in return.

Before this silent charade can continue, the Professor slides a set of papers onto the table. You look down, pencil in hand, and you realize he's just put some kind of quiz in front of you. Two pages of questions relating to... history of some kind. The header in the corner marks this class as "Introduction to Ancient Egyptian History", taught by a Dr. Ferdinand Ashley (information you file away for later). Frankly you can barely recall anything about your own history, much less facts about something called an "Egypt". Seeing the pencils of other students moving around you kicks your instincts into gear. Praying to whatever god will listen, and hoping that some remnant of knowledge remains in your addled brain, you get to work.

Survive the Quiz (INT Challenge: 65)
Roll: 57. Success.

And by the end, you think you didn't do terribly. You still failed, of course. Educated guesses and context clues can only get you so far. But as the class bell rings and the Professor calls for pencils down, you are confident that this is a regular failure. Not the failure of someone who didn't know anything about the subject matter. No one will look at this quiz and think 'this girl has completely forgotten everything she was supposed to be learning over the past month', they'll just think 'this girl has obviously not been absorbing lessons very well, perhaps she just needs some more instruction or extra study time'. You have to prevent yourself from beaming at your own genius as you hand in the quiz.

The rest of the students are exiting as you grab your bag, but Abigail is already at the front of the room, conversing with the teacher in a subdued whisper. You notice, as they speak, that the Professor- the Doctor, actually- glances over in your direction once or twice. He seems to say something that gives her pause, then gives her a small nod and a comforting smile. She leaves, throwing a quick glance towards you that is accompanied by a reassuring double thumbs-up.

As she exits, you step up in front of the Professors. He is leaning, casually, on his desk, his back to the door. Flipping through the quizes that were just handed in he takes a moment before raising his eyes to you. He has let the smile drop from his face which you take as a good sign as he seems much more natural with a soft, concerned frown. You let him speak first, unsure of what to say.

"So... Ms. Vaughan." He removes his glasses and cleans them with his shirt before continuing, "This is the first time you've been late to my class. Normally I wouldn't ask someone to stay after class for single tardy appearance, but with your track record I figured I'd check in. Is everything alright? Rough night? If you don't mind my saying so, you don't look like you slept well." You are going to respond, but he continues speaking. Something about your academic record and the rigors of freshman year. You aren't really paying attention, your eyes have been drawn somewhere else.

A figure has appeared in the hallway. It is nearly as tall as the doorframe, clad in a dark blue cloak and only half-visible in the poorly lit corridor. It stands statue still, having seemingly come from nowhere with no sound or movement. Any facial features are obscured beneath the hood. You blink, hard, trying to determine whether this is the figment of a damaged mind or if it is actually happening. The... person sees you watching it. In a fluid, sweeping motion, both of its arms move at once. One hand goes to the darkness of the covered face and raises a finger to unseen lips. The other holds up a small piece of paper (or parchment?), words written in bright red ink.

Say Nothing. You are being watched.

"Ms. Jackson was asking me to... 'take it easy on you'. She mentioned an injury of some kind and said I should, in her opinion, give you a pass to return to your dorm. Apparently she thought you were in no condition to continue with your classes today. That you were 'confused'." He looks at you as your eyes snap back to his, "Is she correct? What seems to be the issue?"

Your throat has gone dry. That pounding in your head is back, painful and unnaturally sharp. The Doctor awaits your response.

How do you respond? Choose One.
[] Tell him everything. (No Check. Unknown consequnces).
[] Downplay your injury. Act Calm. Force the pain away. (POW Check. Failure may cause Damage of one form or another)
[] Smoothly turn the conversation away from your injury and towards academic matters. (CHA Check. Failure may raise suspicion)
[] Other? (Write In. A check will almost certainly be required)