Post by TheUdjat on Feb 29, 2008 10:09:03 GMT -5
Tommy, Jeremy, Jack-
When he is woken up, the drunkard is at first disoriented and alarmed. “What?! Who?!” He pushes himself away from all three of you, shaking his head to gain some clarity and squinting through the darkness at you. “I don’t got nothing! Leave me alone!”
When he realizes that you’re not trying to kill him and are, indeed, offering him money, the man calms down visibly. He looks warily at the two dollars for a second or two, and then greed and desperation overtake him, and he eagerly snatches the bills with grubby hands. A brief examination of the money seems to satisfy him, and he tucks them away into his grimy coat. “Well thank you, fellow – down on my luck, every bit counts, eh?” He chortles in a way that sounds half like coughing, half like mirth. “You’re doing a veteran of the Great War a favor, you hear? Good man, good man.”
When asked about Samuel, the man shrugs. “Sorry, don’t know about any Samuels.” He seems genuinely discouraged that he is unable to help such generous company. He even – very hesitantly, offers over his bottle. “I lost many people myself, over the years. A swig or two of this will help, for a while. Go ahead, boy.” He holds it out for Jeremy.
If asked about Ransom Court and Ju-Ju House, the man proves somewhat more helpful. “This is a queer little place, it is. Gives most of the others the willies, but a place to sleep is a place to sleep, yeah? I’ll take what I can get.” He looks out the window. “Oh, hey, is it Saturday? I can never keep track. This place gets all kinds of weird on Saturdays. Guess they like their parties or something.” He gestures at the window vaguely, bottle still in hand. “Keep watchin’. When it gets dark, you’ll see a whole bunch of darkies come through here, going into that shop. I been thinking it’s a speakeasy or somethin’, the way they go in there, but it don’t seem like my kind of place, you know? Those types,” he shakes his head. “They don’t look friendly.”
Indeed, as you continue watching the shop and it grows darker, a steady and subtle trickle of dark-skinned men seem to approach the place and discreetly slip inside. Most of them are one at a time, but occasionally some enter in pairs, or even threes. Occasionally an individual enters who isn’t black, but these few are universally pale and sickly, the very caricature of drug-addicts and their ilk – much like the one Tommy chased down on the fire escape outside of Jackson’s hotel room.
The arrival of so many people is especially peculiar, as the door’s sign was turned to ‘closed’ long ago, albeit Silas never did exit the shop. The place seems a lot busier after hours...
Sam, Rebecca, Thurman, Joe-
There is stunned silence on the other line. For several long moments, Bradley Grey seems to try and absorb what Sam is saying, so much so that you almost wonder if the line hasn’t been disconnected somehow. But then he speaks. “I, uh, am not sure I completely understand,” he says hesitantly. “Do you think you could repeat that, Mr. Gravener?”
As you go through the story again, more slowly this time, Bradley seems to follow more carefully, asking questions where appropriate. “You say this Mr. Elias was researching the old Carlyle Expedition? I see. And he was killed recently – I am sorry for your loss, you say he was a good personal friend. I cannot imagine how his demise would be connected to the Carlyle matter, but then I cannot see any connection to cults or the like, either.” He thinks carefully, being silent for a time again. “I am glad that you wish to keep this a private matter. When you said your friend Mr. Elias was an author, I admit I felt some trepidation. Miss Carlyle has no wish to make a public episode out of her brother’s death, and I think doing so would be tasteless, to say the least. But if you are genuinely concerned about this murder...”
“I will see what I can do, Mr. Gravener. I can guarantee nothing, though. Miss Carlyle does not like to speak of her brother’s death, or that business with the Expedition, and she is often terribly busy. But I will ask.”
[If there is nothing else to ask him, feel free to end the conversation. I’ll also need to know if you want to just wait around for a response or if there’s anything you folks would like to do.]
When he is woken up, the drunkard is at first disoriented and alarmed. “What?! Who?!” He pushes himself away from all three of you, shaking his head to gain some clarity and squinting through the darkness at you. “I don’t got nothing! Leave me alone!”
When he realizes that you’re not trying to kill him and are, indeed, offering him money, the man calms down visibly. He looks warily at the two dollars for a second or two, and then greed and desperation overtake him, and he eagerly snatches the bills with grubby hands. A brief examination of the money seems to satisfy him, and he tucks them away into his grimy coat. “Well thank you, fellow – down on my luck, every bit counts, eh?” He chortles in a way that sounds half like coughing, half like mirth. “You’re doing a veteran of the Great War a favor, you hear? Good man, good man.”
When asked about Samuel, the man shrugs. “Sorry, don’t know about any Samuels.” He seems genuinely discouraged that he is unable to help such generous company. He even – very hesitantly, offers over his bottle. “I lost many people myself, over the years. A swig or two of this will help, for a while. Go ahead, boy.” He holds it out for Jeremy.
If asked about Ransom Court and Ju-Ju House, the man proves somewhat more helpful. “This is a queer little place, it is. Gives most of the others the willies, but a place to sleep is a place to sleep, yeah? I’ll take what I can get.” He looks out the window. “Oh, hey, is it Saturday? I can never keep track. This place gets all kinds of weird on Saturdays. Guess they like their parties or something.” He gestures at the window vaguely, bottle still in hand. “Keep watchin’. When it gets dark, you’ll see a whole bunch of darkies come through here, going into that shop. I been thinking it’s a speakeasy or somethin’, the way they go in there, but it don’t seem like my kind of place, you know? Those types,” he shakes his head. “They don’t look friendly.”
Indeed, as you continue watching the shop and it grows darker, a steady and subtle trickle of dark-skinned men seem to approach the place and discreetly slip inside. Most of them are one at a time, but occasionally some enter in pairs, or even threes. Occasionally an individual enters who isn’t black, but these few are universally pale and sickly, the very caricature of drug-addicts and their ilk – much like the one Tommy chased down on the fire escape outside of Jackson’s hotel room.
The arrival of so many people is especially peculiar, as the door’s sign was turned to ‘closed’ long ago, albeit Silas never did exit the shop. The place seems a lot busier after hours...
Sam, Rebecca, Thurman, Joe-
There is stunned silence on the other line. For several long moments, Bradley Grey seems to try and absorb what Sam is saying, so much so that you almost wonder if the line hasn’t been disconnected somehow. But then he speaks. “I, uh, am not sure I completely understand,” he says hesitantly. “Do you think you could repeat that, Mr. Gravener?”
As you go through the story again, more slowly this time, Bradley seems to follow more carefully, asking questions where appropriate. “You say this Mr. Elias was researching the old Carlyle Expedition? I see. And he was killed recently – I am sorry for your loss, you say he was a good personal friend. I cannot imagine how his demise would be connected to the Carlyle matter, but then I cannot see any connection to cults or the like, either.” He thinks carefully, being silent for a time again. “I am glad that you wish to keep this a private matter. When you said your friend Mr. Elias was an author, I admit I felt some trepidation. Miss Carlyle has no wish to make a public episode out of her brother’s death, and I think doing so would be tasteless, to say the least. But if you are genuinely concerned about this murder...”
“I will see what I can do, Mr. Gravener. I can guarantee nothing, though. Miss Carlyle does not like to speak of her brother’s death, or that business with the Expedition, and she is often terribly busy. But I will ask.”
[If there is nothing else to ask him, feel free to end the conversation. I’ll also need to know if you want to just wait around for a response or if there’s anything you folks would like to do.]
