[This is the game thread for the Unknown Armies RPG Horror adventure. The recruitment
thread for this game can be found here. Recruitment is currently closed.
Their character sheets are available for viewing here. They’ll be updated as needed.
In this thread, any normal text will be considered in-character. Any out-of-character (OOC) questions or roll specifications should be made in brackets [ ]. Any longer discussions can be made in Discord, or in the recruitment thread linked above, to ensure the story thread isn’t lost here.
Those of need in an online dice roller can find one here.
Thanks for joining us. Enjoy the show!]
It begins in the dark, as all things do. A view like a patch of starless night, a point so remote and empty and cold that nothing could escape, would escape, no matter the vigor, the need, or the will. It is vast; it is deep; it is watchful.
Then, from the left, a branch. It draws a line towards a trunk, and soon a tree. Behind it drift another, smaller by perspective, and another, this one planted firm in a curve of gray snow soiled by the night, until soon they multiply from motes of isolated nature to a forest of naked bark and brambles. Snow falls from the sky now, has been falling since the storm started hours ago before the bus had even pulled into the station and opened its pneumatic doors to the few waiting travelers. It seems so long ago, now. A drop of normalcy feels like a lost wish when things come crashing down.
The blood flashes red on his face as he steps into view from the left, always from the left, blinking hard against the snowy wind that blows his hair and jacket collar. He staggers like a man impaired, dilated eyes darting here and there, squinting hard as his mouth hangs loose like a broken chin strap. The wind blows away the smell of diesel and scorched rubber, but his nose roils with the stink of it. There’s got to be a light, he thinks, the one coherent sentence that’s surfaced since he stepped into the trees. He plants his feet and looks for it. The darkness, defiant, stares back.
There’s a screech of metal, and he suddenly feels dizzy. The vomit comes quick, a wet cough that soaks his front before he realizes it’s happened. God, my head… Even in the blizzard, the pounding wouldn’t dull. He paws at his hat, the tender skin beneath. An ice pick to the temple each time, a shout of pain and anger–
Until he realized the shout was real, real as the wind and the dark and his throbbing head, and it was behind him, back from where he came. He doesn’t want to turn, doesn’t want to risk the dizziness, and then he’s turning, a wobbly new-born fawn, falling against a tree to keep his feet. The smell intensifies, the light rediscovered, the scene somehow alien and strange to his wandering eyes. For the brief moment it clarifies, he regrets it. With a churn, his stomach empties again.
The bus lays mangled like a roadkill deer, the side nearly caved in from turning over into a ditch after black ice sent the tires skidding against the will of the driver. Two silhouettes help haul a third, a fourth, a fifth from the broken door. One of them shouts into the trees (. . .-iver! . . .-iver! . . .) while the others congregate on the asphalt as the marquee sign above the windshield flashing “NEWBURYPORT” in jittering electrical fits. Headlights blaze and blink through the trees, burning the man’s eyes. He covers his face with a hand and feels sickness wash over him again, even there against the tree. His body feels unbearably heavy now. He shifts his feet, attempting to gauge the weight, and the tree fails him. The man falls face first into the snow, unconscious before he hits the frosty ground.
Just your fucking luck.
The five of you stand shivering near your recently slain transport, shaken and bruised from the heel-turn of fortune that sent the bus careening into a ditch for a roll in the mud. Only an hour before, each of you sat alone together on the bus, the only passengers on the cheapest line to Newburyport by US-202. You had the luxury of acceptable anonymity, then, keeping to yourself and your own purpose for taking this trip. Maybe it was a vacation, tying up unfinished business, a show–whatever it was doesn’t matter now. What matters is your bus is totaled, the driver has wandered into the woods surrounding you, and a blizzard is steadily getting worse.
What do you do?