[hider= Dr. Henry Armitage]
[b]Name:[/b] Dr Henry Armitage (Deceased)

[b]Age:[/b] 73

[b]Gender:[/b] Male

[b]Nationality:[/b] American

[b]Appearance:[/b] 
Dr Armitage was a stout and commanding presence among his stacks, living hale and hearty into his old age with little sign of growing frail or senile. He always dressed most respectably, in every aspect the gentleman of letters with a smart (but inexpensive) suit and thin, practical spectacles. 
 
[img]http://i1366.photobucket.com/albums/r777/patrick_harkin/armitage_zpsywyi1bcg.jpg[/img]

[b]Profession:[/b] Head Librarian of the Jeremiah Orne Library (Former)

[b]Psychological Profile:[/b] Dr. Armitage was an extremely intelligent and diligent worker, as evidenced by his high academic achievements - with advanced degrees from Miskatonic and Princeton and a doctorate from Johns Hopkins. However, his ambitions never matched his aptitude and he seemed quite happy in the relatively humble position of librarian, in spite of his lofty qualifications. A level-headed and stubborn person, Dr. Armitage was well-known for his common sense and his firm resolve, rarely budged from a course once he set on it. In the weeks and months before his death, those close to Dr Armitage noted that he grew darker and more serious, withdrawn and introspective. 

[b]Mythos:[/b] 3

[b]Sanity[/b] 6

[b]Personal Effects[/b]: Dr. Armitage was found with several letters half-written in his jacket pocket, his pocketwatch and pocketbook. That last item was written in some kind of shorthand or cipher that none have been able to dissect.

[b]Correspondence[/b]: 

[i][Letter found on the person of Dr Henry Armitage, deceased]

Rice, Morgan. 

You know the time and effort that has been devoted to the collection, those rare and often unique texts I have assembled for the enlightenment of the minds of our students and faculty. In my old age I come to regret that assemblage, to look back on my actions as a young man with appalled horror and dread. The image it all brings to mind is a rope-maker recognising his own handiwork hanging from the gallows he is being walked to.

You have no doubt heard through faculty gossip that I have set up a cot in my office and have ventured home to my wife at our Pickman Street abode rarely, only for new changes of clothes. Dr. Hartwell of the medical school has expressed concern, especially after the episode I experienced when I finally cracked the Dunwich cipher. A man needs rest, he has said to me, but you two know perhaps best of all that rest is no longer something we can tolerate. He thinks I do not remember the injection he gave me that day.

It is a dreadful sensation, as if being dripped on from the ceiling by some black, oily substance. Little pieces, fragments of text I found to be pleasing poetic nonsense as I explored odd books, are now congealing. Into what I cannot yet say, not with any certainty. I suspect I could labour a hundred more years, master a hundred more languages, and still not have the syntax with which to confer understanding. What was begun in Dunwich is [TEXT STRUCK THROUGH REPEATEDLY]

Do not return to Dunwich. There is nothing more for us there. Promise me that, my fellows, my friends. Three of us went up the hill and I hope the two of you can come down the other side. Leave me atop and listen for my call. I call now. A man with bulging eyes was seen attempting to gain access to the restricted collection, but he fled before I could confront him. The logbook at the front desk only records the name "Olmstead R". I fear Mr. Olmstead may be hungering after something not dissimilar from that W.W. came for last year. Please, be on the lookout.

-Armitage[/i]

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