Henry Caulfield (Clarkeston) Alone Against the Flames IC

[Perryn]

“The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents. We live on a placid island of ignorance in the midst of black seas of infinity, and it was not meant that we should voyage far.”

Unknown New England Town, 2:44 PM, September 30th, 1921.
--

The sun is high in the sky, a merciless ball of heat. You feel scorched by the time you reach the bus halt in front of Osborn’s Drug Store. It’s a relief to put down your heavy cases and take off your hat for a moment. You fan your face. It has been a long summer here, in your hometown, and yet a curiously empty one.

You look across the street at the grubby butcher’s shop, the grocers with its faded awning, and the shabby tobacconist. Mistrustful faces glare at you as they pass, eyeing your clothes and luggage. It was your parents’ choice to live here, not yours. You were happy down south as a child, among Providence’s white-walled houses and leafy churchyards. Perhaps this new job in Arkham will supply the change you need.

Yet everybody you know in the world lives here. You know nobody in Arkham, not one soul. You ask yourself one last time if you are doing the right thing.

The answer is here. None of your supposed friends have come to see you off. You are alone. Whatever challenges lie in Arkham, it will be a new life, and a brave one.
A small gray motor coach approaches and rattles to a stop. You put your hat back on and pick up your cases.

Two young men with sullen expressions alight from the coach. One looks you up and down before heading away. The driver also steps down, glancing at you before crossing the road to visit the tobacconist. When he returns, he is rolling a cigarette between his yellowed fingers. He gives it a final twist and examines you as he reaches for his matchbox. He is a thin man in his fifties, dressed in a stained shirt with the bus company emblem. Yet his eyes are sharp in their dark sockets.

"Where to?"

You show him your ticket for Ossipee. From there you will connect to Rochester and Portsmouth, before the coastal line to Newburyport and, finally, Arkham. You should be able to afford a rail ticket for at least some of the way; otherwise this will be the first of many long bus trips.

“Mmm-hm.” The driver scratches the match and lights his cigarette. The end flares as he takes a draw. Then he exhales and gestures to the back of the coach. “Luggage rack’s up there.”

----
In Call of Cthulhu (somewhat like most other RPGs) there are eight characteristics Strength, Dexterity, Constitution, Appearance, Size, Power, Education, and Intelligence

Strength: This is a measure of the physical prowess of your investigator
Dexterity: This is a measure of the agility and speed of your investigator
Constitution: This is a measure of the physical toughness and stamina of your investigator
Appearance: This is a measure of the physical appeal of your investigator
Size: This is a combined measure of your investigator's height and weight, also used in determining their force behind their attacks and health
Power: This is a measure of your investigator's mental stability, force of will, or spirit
Intelligence: This is a measure of the logic and cunning of your investigator
Education: This is a measure of your investigator's tutelage, be it from formal education or the "school of hard knocks"


For the very early image you have of your character, please rank these characteristics in whatever order you choose.

[clarkeston]

1: Edu
2: Int
3: Pow
4: Dex
5: Con
6: App
7: Str
8: Siz

[Perryn]

The driver smokes and watches as you drag your cases to the back of the motor coach. The rack is set inconveniently high on the vehicle. You get a grip on the heavier case.

You struggle for a few seconds before the driver comes up beside you and lends a hand, still puffing on his cigarette. “Heavy bags for a small ‘un,” he remarks. You judge it best to respond with a simple thanks.

The driver flicks his cigarette into the gutter and steps into the motor coach. Its engine coughs into life. You board, grateful that you will be the only passenger for the initial part of your trip at least. With mixed emotions, you watch from the window as the tired avenues of your old home slip behind you, receding into the distance. For a few minutes, you can still see the church spire over the brow of a low hill. Then the road dips and it, too, is gone.

Arkham is your new home. You will travel there, and make a new start.

---
Note that you have a sanity score that is based on your power, throughout the game this sanity score will most likely fluctuate wildly. In addition, you have a number of Magic Points also based on said power. This will deplete and over time eventually return back to its original score. However, in all likelihood, magic points shall rarely be used by an investigator early on in their career, but it is important to note that they do exist.
---

The coach putters through the countryside. At first, the interior is stifling and your stomach lurches with every bend in the road. However, the driver opens his window, and by switching seats you find a spot where the breeze hits your face. You soon relax into the journey, observing the quaint little hamlets that the coach serves. A heavy-set woman boards at one settlement and gives you a polite nod. She gets off at the next one.
---

You have a certain amount of hit points based on both your Constitution and Size. Your current may drop, but it is unlikely to ever exceed its maximum.

You also have something called a "Luck score." This is used to represent when circumstances external to your investigator are in question, and also when determining the fickle hand of fate.

Please give me 3d6 to assist in generating your beginning luck.

To roll 3d6 you will do 3d6 - ignore the bolding; it is there to stop the dice roller from working.

[clarkeston]

[roll0] luck time!

[Perryn]

Nice roll!
---

The road rises a little, passing cornfields and orchards. The leaves are turning and the trees are alive with glorious reds and golds. You have just begun to doze when the driver takes a tight bend at speed.
----

Give me a dexterity roll using 1d100.

[clarkeston]

Dr. Henry Caulfield sat comfortably enough in his seat. The country breeze did him good in spite of his tendency towards motion sickness. He reached into the breast pocket of his somewhat threadbare suit, a few years out of style, and wiped the sweat from his brow.

As he watched the landscape amble past, he thought about how good it would feel to leave this all behind and move closer to civilization. Caulfield always felt he was meant for a little more, given his early obsession with ancient cultures and dead civilizations. Now he was going back to the place he had studied as a young man in hopes of securing a job as an associate professor.

Dr. Caulfield retrieved a cigarette and lit up, blowing the blue smoke out the window to curl away against the sky. His stomach settled, he didn't even realize he was nodding off.

[clarkeston]

The coach suddenly veers wildly. Caulfield nearly drops the cigarette from his mouth as he struggles to hold on.

[roll0]

[Perryn]

You feel yourself slide from the seat as the driver spins the wheel and the motor coach plunges off the road. Too late, you reach for the seat in front. You fall into the aisle and your ribs crash against the edge of the seat opposite. Breath rushes out of you. The coach stops with a thump.

Your driver leaps from his seat into the road. As you sprawl, dizzy, in the aisle, you hear a string of incendiary curses.

The driver climbs back into the cab and sees you on the floor. He looks concerned and assists you back into your seat. You see what has happened now. A Fordson tractor has stopped in the road and he had to swerve to avoid this steel obstacle.

“Sorry,” he says. “All them fields and he has to pick the road to park. You all right?”

You don’t think anything’s broken. But you’ll have a colorful bruise for the next few days. He backs the coach up a little and threads it around the tractor, glaring at the farmer.

---
You lost 1 hit point in the accident.
---

You resume your journey. The driver takes the curves with more caution than before. He glances over his shoulder at you a couple of times.

“Sorry about before,” he says. “That fella was dumber than a hog. I’m Silas. What’s your name?"

You respond that you are Dr. Henry Caulfield. The accident was at least as much Silas’s fault as the farmer’s. But it doesn’t seem shrewd to antagonize the man while he is driving you through the middle of nowhere.

The coach turns onto a narrower road, which weaves uphill through woodland. Silas becomes chatty.

“Going to Arkham, eh? Can’t say I ever heard of the place. Went to Boston once. Didn’t like it. Too much hustle and bustle. You got family there? A special someone waiting?”

The afternoon is wearing on. You see no harm in confiding in Silas about your new life.

“A job, eh? What’s your line?”

[clarkeston]

Caulfield curtly thanks Silas for helping him up, though he can feel the impact on his ribcage will leave a nasty bruise on his already thinning skin.

"Yes, a job," replies the doctor in a thin, raspy voice. "I've applied for a position at the Miskatonic University as an associate professor of antiquities."

Silas keeps his eye on the road but is visibly confused, asking what that deals with. "Apologies," Caulfield says. "I deal primarily in relics from ancient South American civilizations. It's my area of expertise. My job deals with recording the histories of these groups as they happened, but I have always been interested in artefacts and how they relate to spiritual and cultural practice."

[Perryn]

"Hmm.” Silas wrinkles his nose. “I don't know about all of that. I had enough of book learning when I was a young ‘un. Still, I suppose it’s well enough for those who likes it.”

You realize Silas hasn’t made a stop since the incident with the tractor. The motor coach winds its way uphill. However, your thoughts are interrupted as the road crests a ridge and you are treated to a magnificent view of the vista below.

A creek snakes through the valley, breaking the rich autumn palette of the tree line. In the distance the White Mountains rise into hazy cloud. There is no settlement, not even a cabin, as far as the eye can see. Birds drift through the treetops, and you can just make out what might be two white-tailed deer lingering by the water.

Perhaps you are making a mistake by moving to the city. Could you survive on your own in this lush wilderness?

You realize Silas hasn’t made a stop since the incident with the tractor. The motor coach winds its way uphill. However, your thoughts are interrupted as the road crests a ridge and you are treated to a magnificent view of the vista below.

A creek snakes through the valley, breaking the rich autumn palette of the tree line. In the distance the White Mountains rise into hazy cloud. There is no settlement, not even a cabin, as far as the eye can see. Birds drift through the treetops, and you can just make out what might be two white-tailed deer lingering by the water.
Perhaps you are making a mistake by moving to the city. Could you survive on your own in this lush wilderness?

The motor coach rattles on through the hills and Silas lapses into silence. The sky darkens behind you, pinks tinting the clouds as the sun descends. Finally a welcome sight comes into view: a settlement on the crest of a hill. This doesn’t look like the pictures you’ve seen of Ossipee. But perhaps you can persuade Silas to stop while you stretch your legs.

Minutes later, a harsh stuttering from the engine interrupts your reverie. Silas frowns and rattles the gear stick. The motor coach falters in its ascent. Silas utters a curse you don’t recognize and grinds his teeth, struggling at the wheel. You seem to inch up the hill until you reach the first buildings, low dwellings constructed from a rough red stone. Silas wrestles the coach into a small bay off the road. He scrambles from his seat and makes for the engine compartment.
---

Now it is time to make our first skill check! However, I'm going to offer you the choice between two, but you could arguably think of doing something else and I'll rule what skill you would need to use to do that thing.

Do you think your character would go out and check on the car? If so, please give me a Drive Auto roll (a d100 which I will compare to your drive auto skill), or do you sit back and observe Silas's reactions? If so, please give me a hard Psychology roll (a d100 which I will compare to half your Psychology skill.)

[clarkeston]

Dr. Caulfield sighs in exasperation. He pitifully helps Silas move the vehicle off the road. The driver curses and grunts as he sets about inspecting the engine. Never one to stand idly by, Caulfield takes off his tweed jacket, rolls up the cuffs of his shirt, and pokes his head over Silas shoulder to have a look, though he would never let it be known he knows diddly-squat about automobiles.
Drive Auto:
[roll0]

Spend two luck for success

[Perryn]

You've decided to spendd 2 luck to make that a successful roll.
---

Emberhead, 5:54 PM, September 30th, 1921.

The grinding noises you heard could of course indicate engine trouble, but they also seem consistent with bad gear selection and incorrect declutching. It seems highly unlikely that an experienced coach driver would suddenly get this wrong, even after a long day’s drive.

Silas opens the engine compartment open and sticks his head inside. The hot metal pops and sizzles. He pokes at various components, then withdraws and wipes his brow, smearing it with dark grease. Dr. Caulfield hovers over Silas' shoulder trying to look helpful.

“I ain’t sure what’s wrong. Might be the oil pressure. Might be something knocked off kilter when we took that spill. Can’t do much until the engine cools neither. And with the light failing… I reckon we’ll be here through the night.” He wipes his hands on a rag.

The shadows from your surroundings are already long, and the air is chilly. You feel stiff from the journey and a night in the rickety coach sounds unappealing. Silas sees your dismay.

“This here’s Emberhead. Miles from anyplace. I only come through twice a week. But the folks here are good people. May Ledbetter keeps a spare room. She’ll look after you. Up that alley, turn right, first house on the left.”

He scratches his cheek, looks again into the engine compartment, and spits on the ground.

“Meet me back here at eight in the morning and we’ll see how’s we stand.”

[clarkeston]

The sun was going down. Orange-gold light was cast between tall shadows over the rolling rural hills. Dr. Caulfield stood a slight 5'10" and thin as a rail. Round, wire-frame specs rested on his bulbous nose, and his greying chestnut hair was receding. With jacket hung over his forearm, sweat on his brow, his stomach churning under the late afternoon sun, he felt another wave of dejection as Silas explained the situation, which is to say it was no bueno.

Caulfield narrowed his gaze, ever so slightly, at Silas. The man was an experienced driver by all appearances, yet the way the engine sputtered out seemed almost forced, purposeful. It was hard for the wispy scholar to get a proper glance under the hood; as he tried to peek inside Silas slammed it shut.

“Meet me back here at eight in the morning and we’ll see how’s we stand.” Henry listened, closely, to the way Silas was explaining they wouldn't be getting back on the road that night.

Psychology

[roll0]

[Perryn]

Emberhead, 6:14 PM, September 30th, 1921.

Silas has been driving all day, perhaps it was more than just a bad shift of gears; you aren't an expert on automobiles after all.

You drag your cases between the sullen buildings. You feel surprisingly wear, considering you have spent all day sitting down. Still this village is far away from the comforts of a larger town that you are used to, and that makes you feel uneasy. Your eyes dart back and forth, searching the shadows for movement. You notice that this street is dark. Most of the windows on this street are dark with the lights inside unlit. It's quiet, even for a small village.

Silas’ directions lead you to a modest dwelling with a slate roof. A nameplate reads LEDBETTER, and underneath, a sign in neat copperplate reads, LODGING ROOM. The lane around you is gloomy, but a lamp flickers in this window bringing back a modicum of comfort regarding your current situation.

A breeze chills your face. You’re not about to begin your new life by sleeping in the street. You rap on the weather-beaten door.

After a moment, you hear footsteps inside the house. A bolt is drawn back and the wooden door swings open. A figure with loose curls and a rough-looking housedress peers at you. Her gaze takes in your traveling suit and your cases. Her voice has a slight Irish lilt.

“Hello. Should I take it as you’re looking for a room for the night?”

You enquire as to her rates. As far as you’ve seen, the village does not offer you many alternatives - nothing with more refinement.

“Oh, you’ll find them very reasonable,” she says. “You look tired. I’m May. Come inside and we’ll talk over a cup of tea.”

The Ledbetter house feels cramped, with a low ceiling and simple fittings. But it is well kept and a cheerful fire crackles in the grate. The aroma of the tea is soothing and the cup warms your fingers.

“Have you come to Emberhead for the festival?” asks May.

[clarkeston]

Henry feels the weight of his journey settle into his bones as he enters the warm dwelling. May Ledbetter seemed kind enough, but he couldn't shake an uneasy feeling that had dogged him since setting out that morning.

"Festival?" He asked, setting down his luggage.

(History roll)
[roll0]

[Perryn]

Emberhead, 6:33 PM, September 30th, 1921.

"Well now, I suppose the Festival is about the only reason folks come to Emberhead. I thought you had maybe come to study it or take photographs. Well, it’s not tomorrow night but the night after. I suppose it looks very strange to a passerby.”

May tops up your tea. The spout chinks against your cup.

“We’ve got the Beacon, you see. One night every year there’s a torch-lit procession and we light the Beacon on the cliffs. You’ve never seen the like of it. They say it keeps the spirit of the village alive for another year. It’s a celebration. A celebration...”

She tails off for a moment, and blinks.

“But you didn’t come here to listen to me blather, and you must be hungry. I can rustle you up a bit of stew. How would that be?”

You ask again about her rates, and May names a price so low you accept it without hesitation. The room is small but comfortable, and the stew dark and hearty. After dinner you have a couple of hours before your usual bedtime.

Insight from Henry's knowledge of history: you recall one piece of information concerning this area. You believe that before America was founded, the natives, you're forgetting the exact name, were rumored to conduct similar festivals involving the sun. However, you remember finding it interesting because no substantial record of such actions was ever discovered, being one of the many mysteries of anthropology and history.

[clarkeston]

Henry gladly accepts the stew, and encourages a conversation about the town and May herself while he chews the soft meat and vegetables in the savoury herbed gravy. It's all delicious, and he is happy to have it. At last he is starting to feel relaxed again, despite the setback on the road which seems, now, a long while ago.

After the last bits of the stew are cleaned from the bowl, Henry asks May if he can smoke. She nods kindly and brings him an ash tray. He lights up and feels the soothing after dinner smoke take him into a fully calmed and satisfied state of mind.

Looking out the window, the sun has gone down and a lamp lighter can be seen only by his lantern bobbing in the dark. Henry checks his pocket watch. "Well, it does seem time for rest," Henry says as he extinguishes the cigarette. "Would you be so kind as to show me to my room, Ms Ledbetter?" He gets up, feeling his knees creak, and picks up his luggage: an oversized steamer trunk filled with clothes and a smaller suitcase containing his most prized books.
May gives him a look as he struggles to lift the heavy suitcase. "My books," he answers, "Can't be forgetting these." She shrugs ever so slightly.

The room is small, but comfortable. Henry bids his host a good night, and sets about lighting an oil lantern on the modest side table. He props up a couple pillows and pulls out a weighty book on the subject of Mesoamerican burial rituals and reads until he can't keep his eyes open any longer.

[Perryn]

Emberhead, 9:13 PM, September 30th, 1921.

The sheets are clean and the bed soon warms up. The silence outside is strange after living in a town for so long, but you soon drop off.

You dream of fire in the grate; coruscating colors shimmering through the dancing tongues of flame. At first they are tiny, almost microscopic, but they grow, and grow, until a kaleidoscopic inferno spills from the fireplace, spreading across the floor, up the sheets…

You wake with a start. Daylight glints through the curtains. You get up and examine the grate, blinking the sleep from your eyes. It is quite cold.

---
You heal 1 hit point back for your night’s sleep.
---

May seems to have no running water, but has supplied some in a ceramic jug. You freshen up at the washstand and go in. She cooks a hearty breakfast and leaves you in peace to eat. At about seven-thirty, you are paid up, packed, and ready to go. You bid May goodbye and she wishes you the best for your new career in Arkham.

You are already tired of your heavy bags. Hopefully Silas has repaired the motor coach and you can resume your long journey. A sourpuss he might be, but the old driver seemed to understand his vehicle well enough. You pause to check your watch—still twenty minutes early—and round the final corner.

The motor coach is gone.

You put your bags down and search the area, trekking up and down slopes and around corners. At the edge of the village, you trace the long road back as it winds across the hills. Eight o’clock comes and goes. There is no coach to be seen.

A passing villager notices your bags.

“Looking for the bus? I heard him take off at first light. He’s due back in three or four days. If you need a place to stay, May Ledbetter rents a room.” The man raises his hat to you and strolls on into the village.

[clarkeston]

Henry stands agape at the villager, utterly lost for words. Confusion gives way to anger. "Sir, you must be mistaken! I spoke to the coach driver just last night and said we would be on our way by eight!" After exchanging choice words with the slack-jawed local, Henry picks up his bags and stomps back to May's boarding house. He enters, dropping the bags on the floor.

"May? Miss Ledbetter? It's Dr. Caulfield." Well, he thought, I guess I'll be around for this festival...

[Perryn]

Emberhead, 8:17 AM, October 1st, 1921.

May is doing laundry, and looks surprised to see you again. “Forgot something?”

When you explain the situation, she offers to store your bags while you try to arrange alternative transport. You are grateful to relinquish the load.

“Nobody here has anything like a car.” She strokes her chin and narrows her eyes. “Maybe you could find somebody with a horse and a cart for your bags. I could ask around later. Try Mr. Winters at the village hall, he’ll know if anyone will. Or ask among the artisans. Their workshops are first left on Silbury Street.” She reaches over and squeezes your wrist. “Don’t worry, I won’t see you sleeping in the street."

[clarkeston]

Henry tries to conceal his discomfort as May squeezes his bony, liver-spotted wrist. The last person to do so was his wife as she drew her dying breath. The memory flooded his heart with cold water.

Henry cleared his throat then politely, if not urgently, retracted from May's grip. Somewhere, far away in the old scholar's mind, something seemed very off about May.

Psychology

[roll0]

Regardless, he tries to keep conversation light.

"Well, I do appreciate your hospitality, Miss Ledbetter," he said as he straightened his tie, "I'm rather galled with the ordeal, quite an inconvenience, really. And to think that man left without his solitary passenger!" He could feel his anger gaining momentum. "...and now, because of his- his- well, ineptitude..." He catches himself. "Apologies," he said, hushed. "I fear for my position at the University, that it may be forfeit. I'm sure to miss my appointment." Henry drew a heavy sigh.

[Perryn]

Emberhead, 8:29 AM, October 1st, 1921.

The pang of loss that swells within your chest lingers. Surely the old lady meant no harm in the gesture. May seems ordinary and accomodating, and maybe that's what feels off to you.

You hear a clunk behind you. You look over your should, but all you can see is the wooden door to May's room, securely closed.

May tuts. "The young lady of the house. She'll have been listening to us. Ruth! Come and greet Mr. Caulfield."

There is a short pause, then the door creaks open. Two wide eyes peer at you from the gap.

"What do you say?"

The eyes blink. "Pleased to meet you."

"Now, I believe you have chores to tend to? Get back to it."

The door closes again.

"My daughter Ruth. Ten years this summer. She's a delight and a torment all in one. I appreciate the situation Silas has left you in; I'll ask around for you. The man may be careless, but he really isn't a bad soul at heart."

[clarkeston]

Henry smiles at Ruth and introduces himself. As she runs back to her duties, he says to May, "Lovely young daughter!" He smiles warmly. "I apologize if I seem off. I haven't been myself lately. I don't respond well to such kindness." Henry drops his gaze in embarrassment. "I appreciate it, very much."

Henry spends the rest of the morning helping out around the Rooming House, talking with May about Emberhead and her roots in the land. He isn't quite ready to talk about himself, but he does his best, letting up small tidbits now and then.

After a good lunch, Henry washes up and heads out. The sun is high in the sky. He goes looking for Mr. Winter.

[Perryn]

Emberhead, 12:35 PM, October 1st, 1921.
---

You can't help but feel like Ruth has been hovering around you throughout the morning, watching you.As you take your leave of the house, Ruth is outside tending to some chores and she accidentally gets in your way.

She looks up into your eyes. "Get out before the festival," she hisses. "Get out!" She blinks hard and then scuttles out of the way.

May steps in the doorway and calls Ruth to help her inside. Ruth steals one last glance at you, imploring you to silence.

[clarkeston]

Henry feels ice grip his stomach at the foreboding warning from young Ruth. He struggles to find something to say before she scampers off to help May. He is left standing in the high-noon sun.

Feeling a little less optimistic, he steps out onto the road and makes his way over to where he might find Mr. Winters.

"Hello? I was referred to a Mr. Winters by Ms. Ledbetter. She said you may be able to help me get to Arkham?"

[Perryn]

Emberhead, 12:47 PM, October 1st, 1921.
---

You head towards the village hall, following the directions May gave you earlier. The village is built on a relatively flat upland with splendid views. To the north, the hazy tips of the White Mountains reach for the heavens; to the south, the sparkling waters of Lake Winnipesaukee touch the horizon.

The village hall overlooks the lower north ridge of the village. You walk along Silbury Street to find it, conscious of an oppressive black metal structure framed at the end of the road.

https://i.pinimg.com/originals/97/d4/fe/97d4fe0c4bfde6374df86598db126670.jpg

The shutters of the hall are open and some windows left ajar. There is no knocker, but a little bell over the entrance tinkles as you push the front door. Inside, a sturdy door to your right is marked PRIVATE. To your left, an opening leads through to a bright room. You take a few steps inside. Benches line the walls and there are two noticeboards mounted between the windows.

You raise your hand to knock on the door, but it opens before you can complete the movement. The middle-aged gentleman behind it takes an involuntary step back, adjusting his spectacles.

You say, "Hello. I was referred to a Mr. Winters by Ms. Ledbetter. She said you may be able to help me get to Arkham?"

He steadies himself and peers at you.

"I see. I'm Clyde Winters. Help getting to Arkham, you say? Hmm! Care for some coffee? I usually take a cup around this time of the afternoon."

His invitation seems genuine enough and a good opportunity to ask any questions that are on your mind.

You step through the door marked PRIVATE. The other side of the village hall is in marked contrast to the public space. The room is compact, lined with shelves of books and file alcoves. One corner is reserved for a tiny pantry and what is presumably a water closet.

You study Mr. Winters as he fills the percolator. Although thin on top, his hair is oiled and neatly swept back. His suit is a sober affair, and well-tailored even if the cut is a little old-fashioned. A lesser man working alone might have loosened his bow tie for comfort.

On the desk against the opposite wall, you notice what looks like a telegraph set.

"As for Arkham, the coach is due, in what, three days? But I think he's going west then. You might engage a wagon. One of the farmers might have horse and cart."

[clarkeston]

Henry accepts the coffee gladly and settles into a nearby chair. "Thank you Mr. Winters..."
Clyde insists upon being called his Christian name, and Henry chuckles a bit. "Apologies. I am so used to formal social settings." Clyde smiles a bit and extends the coffee in a tin mug. He offers Henry some sugar to which the doctor politely refuses, taking a sip of the piping black coffee. It's strong, like bitter molasses. Quite good, Henry thinks.
The two engage in a bit of light conversation. "Do you know of anyone who might be willing to bring me to Arkham? Time is of the essence, I'm afraid." He explains his appointment at the Miskatonic.

[Perryn]

Emberhead, 1:26 PM, October 1st, 1921.
---

"Ah, a school." He looks past you at a high shelf. "I could wish for access to a proper library, of course. But I know myself well enough. I'm strictly a dabbler. And the cities..." His face wrinkles in distate. "Too many people. Everybody rushing and shouting. We have a special place her in Emberhead. And someone must accept responsibility for keeping it so. That was my father before me. And now the duty falls to me." He lifts his chin and straightens up.

"This evening, as the sun sets, look out at the landscape around the village. We have peace up here, halfway to the stars. Are we not privileged? Is this not worth the hardships we must accept?"

Feel free to give me a psychology roll.

[clarkeston]

Again the familiar paranoia sets in. Henry tried to shrug it off but there was something strange going on, and remembering just minutes ago the ominous warning from Ruth...

[roll0]

[clarkeston]

...but shrugs it off. He chastises himself for being so rude, for even thinking the kind people of Emberhead would ever cause him any harm. He stands up, setting the cup down on a side table. He walks over to one of the bookshelves and begins to casually scan the spines.

Spot hidden roll [roll0]

"Most impressive collection, Mr - Uh, Clyde. You appear to be quite a well-read man. As I have said, I'm a scholar myself." He goes into broad stroke details about his educational pursuits.

After scanning the books, he motions to the telegraph machine. "Ah, what news of the outside world?"

[Perryn]

Emberhead, 1:42 PM, October 1st, 1921.
---

Winters blushes with pleasure at your kind remark on his library.

"Well, of course they're not my personal collection. They belong to the village," he says. "But I did select most of the recent items. This is the community's library, you see."

You scan the shelves. There is a sparse but respectable collection on mathematics and the sciences, passable sections on history and arts, and a shelf of literature. He has a few lowbrow novels tucked away in a corner, with tatty copies of Bizarre Tales magazine.

“Quality does not always equate to popularity, I’m afraid.” Winters gives you an apologetic smile.

As you look along the spines, you notice an ingenious arrangement of slipcases physically attached to the shelves, almost like a handhold to pull.

You have succeeded in your Spot Hidden. I'll need you to explain or describe what you do with that information. Feel free to give me a roll and I'll decide what skill you are using, or if a skill roll is even needed based on what you are doing.

[clarkeston]

[roll0] History Roll

[Perryn]

Emberhead, 1:56 PM, October 1st, 1921.
---

You cleverly pass over this find; deciding not to poke around too much, what with Clyde watching over your shoulder. You turn around, "You know, Clyde, it seems that I'm bound to be here for at least a couple of days. Well, I might as well make the most of it. Do you happen to have any history on the area? Or maybe the tradition of the festival?"

"Ah, yes, a man of history. I do believe there may be a few things here and there" Winters pulls out a couple of slim, specialized volumes, and lays them in a neat stack on the desk. "And you said the festival, hmm?" He pokes around the shelves and finds a cased monograph, you can see the pages are yellowing.

You ask about checking them out for some evening reading, and Winters eyes you up and down, almost like he is trying to judge how trustworthy you are. "I suppose I could let you take one back to May's, and you could leave it with her when you are done. Now, mind you, I can't let you run off with the whole library, so what will it be the history of the town or the festival?"

We'll count your roll as a luck roll to have Mr. Winters not notice your observation. No need for a history check since you aren't trying to recall a bit of history. You can choose to check out the books on the history of Emberhead, or the monograph on the festival. Whatever you choose will take a few hours for you to read.

[clarkeston]

Henry smiles excitedly at Clyde, and motions for the monograph on the festival. "I believe I am most curious about this local custom. I would be grateful for your trust in borrowing this book, I am very respectful of such things."

He opens the book and gently leads through.
"Could you tell me a little about this festival? May had mentioned it involves the beacon."

[Perryn]

Emberhead, 2:17 PM, October 1st, 1921.
---

"Ah, yes, the Beacon." Clyde says as he guides you out of village hall, locking up behind himself.

"When we light it tomorrow, you'd be able to see it from 10 miles away." He's talking to you as you both emerge from the shade of the nearby buildings toward the large, metal structure.

The structure is made of uncompromising iron, singed black, and it stands in stark contrast to the beautiful vista that lies behind it. It supports an immense curved platform at the level of your head. Further struts snake up to a central point. It looks like they may have been some kind of sculpture at one time, but are now twisted and melted beyond recognition.

"Well, they say it keeps the spirit of the village alive for another year. And it's my duty to keep that tradition. Speaking of, it has been has been a pleasure talking with you, Henry, but I must see to a few other responsibilities." He indicates the monograph in your hands, "Please, take care of that and leave it with May when you are done with it; it is one of a kind. It was written by an aquintance of my father, I believe."

With that, Clyde gives a nod of satisfaction and strolls up the main thoroughfare. Now you notice bundles of wood, tied and stacked against the buildings nearby.

You have a couple of hours before dinner time. You could explore around town, there's the east road that you could stroll down, you could head back to May's and get some reading in, or whatever you would like to do.