[center][img] http://imgur.com/YCh3zPG.png[/img][/center] [b]Director of Archives and Unusual Acquisitions office:[/b] Alundra Cho looked at the screen infront of her while her fingers slid across the single silver claw she adorned her left index finger with. Her eyes scanned the information in front of her with scepticism. Or rather, with the pitch black, angry cousin of scepticism; Cynicism. Pure, angry, unfiltered cynicism. She flicked through the screens again and again, feeling her temper flare more and more violently. To her this was some sick joke from the higher ups, punishing her for botching something so obscure she wasn’t aware of it yet. “This is the team we can put together?!” She exclaimed, making a young man to her left almost jump out of his shoes. Jonas Hendersen-Smith, Age 32 and Senior Adviser to Alundra was an up and coming star in the organization's RND branch, a down right master of blackmail and insider trading, he had all the makings of a future hot shot if not for his insistence to act snarky and rub his position in others faces. “Under the time and financial restraints, YOU and financial put on it, yes. That is the team...”He said, adjusting his glasses. “I mean. The girl from HR is… ok I guess” “The Hipster witch? Dime a bloody dozen. The instagram models of magic.” Johan said, taking glee in shooting down his boss with what they both perceived to be the truth. Truth was, that while new age witches with a little power weren’t exactly uncommon, a Hecate sworn blood witch was a pretty good asset. Especially compared to the “And well… They have a veteran asset.” Alundra tried, deadpanning as he looked up on the numerous complaints from Finance in regards to Old Man Henderson. A man who had been with them for so long, yet remained just an asset. “They have a senile old man with a shotgun…” John paused. “A shotgun tied to several other shotguns.” He corrected. “He has a knack for surviving, I’ll give him that.” “A chosen one” The exasperation all but rolled off the Director of Archives and Unusual Acquisitions. Even as she said the words, she was closing her eyes and rubbing her temples for the rebuttal sure to come. Jerimiah Tomb, the redneck prince of Sumeria. One of the few remaining links to Gilgamesh, the king of prechristian legends. “Inbred. 0.005 percent lineage. ” John said with a shit eating grin. “:...I am trying to be positive with the shit I am afforded here.” Alundra mumbled under her breath. “You are making it mighty difficult John” “Again. YOUR budget proposal.” “...Why did I promote you again.” “Because I got dirt on you from last christmas.” “Right…” There was a moment of uncomfortable silence, in which Jacobs idly figured if he had pushed the envelope a bit too far. His boss steely gaze refused to let him go, and the tall asian woman was rumored to be part gorgon. He was seriously starting to see where those rumors came from now. “Well fine. We’ll send this raggedy ass team out. They are only low tier assets. If they die. They die. Who gives a shit.” She said. “HR and Financial….” He began, only to see her entire being tense up. He felt the malice rise off of her. In that moment, he knew he had committed a terrible sin. Never piss on the boss parade. Especially not Alundra Choos. “FUCK YOU, FUCK FINANCIAL AND FUCK HUMAN RESOURCES!” She whipped around at him, her hair writhing and coming alive like a myriad of angry snakes. Jonas Hendersen-Smith, age 32, senior advisor to Alundra Cho, turned into stone. There was a long silence before Alundra sighed. “God fucking damnit.” She hit a button on her intercom. “Get me RND, I need someone to unpetrify my fucking assistant. “ There was a mangled. angry screech from the other side. -------- [b]American Midwest; Requisition Filial; Alabama.[/b] Inside a dusty room sit several, if not extraordinary, then certainly unusual individuals. They are Illuminati Assets, tapped when needed for jobs that aren’t rewarding in enough compared to the risks for real agents to be fielded. In this case, they were sitting in steel chairs likely taken from an old world war 1 storage. The stainless steel chairs were likely amazing during wartime, but they were uncomfortable enough to make Tombs back feel like he had been kicked by a mule. Standing before them was their handler. Mr Talbot. A severe looking, thin lipped, big eared eastern european man, with small, beady little eyes that reminded Jerimiah of a disney villain. His soul patch did not help him. He wore a suit that, unlike Jerimiah’s, fit him. Like all handlers, he took pride in showing the lesser people how much better he was. It ticked Jerimiah off somewhat, but he stared at his shoes, having already been beaten handily in a staredown before. “That looks to be all of ya’ll” Mr Talbot leaned casually against the stainless steel desk behind him. “Ok chucklefucks. Here is the deal. Deep in the Alabama forests lies this little town of Billsville. Charming name, I know. nestled against the mountain side, there used to be a iron mine there, started in 1935. But as things generally go, something happened that made the mine shut down in the early 70’s. The town was kind of dying after that, but in the 90’s it was kind of revived due to a coal baron by the name of Charlie Ledmark opened the mines up again. Only Charlie Ledmark is no ordinary coal baron.” He hit a button, showing the pudgy man in a cowboy hat standing in front of a very strange skeleton. It was vaguely human, but its was too tall, and it had massive skeletal wings. Ol’ Carlie collects occult memorabilia. The real, dangerous kind. He is too rich and influential to ice, he has had dealings with us in the past, hell, we buy and sell to his fatcat breed all the time. But, Ol’ Carlie dug up something bad. I mean, nobody here is really suprised. But the nature of the beast wasn’t revealed until a few months ago. The past two months 22 people in the sleepy town of roughly 1200 have killed themselves in spectacular ways. By trying to gouge or otherwise remove their eyes.” “Now hol’ on. Why would you let 22 people kill themselves before you send people in. That just sitting by and let shit hit the fan.” “I am inclined to agree Mr Tomb. We did let this one hit shit creek a bit too quickly. What shit creek contains, I am about to show you.” He picked up a pair of earmuffs and put them over his ears. Then, with a voice that demonstrated he had hard time hearing himself, he proclaimed loudly. “Our RnD asset in the area recorded this before he too killed himself.” He clicked a button on the tape recorder and some folky sounding music began to play. At first, it was nothing. But then the music began to fade into a voice. A strange, warped voice. One language became several, in different discordant tones. Jerimiah felt suddenly strange, as if his head was not his own. Everything around him seemed to be turning yellow. “H-H-H-A-A-S” He tried to form the word but his tongue felt swollen. And then the tape recorder ended and the yellow resided. “What you just heard was a recording of the Yellow King. IN it its original state.” Mr Talbot said as he removed the earmuffs. “That has been playing every second sunday for the past two weeks on their local radio station. And well, You know what they say. Once you see the Big Yellow, you cannot unsee the Big Yellow.” He gave them each a thick folder. “Damage control. There is a trailer park just outside of town, you should fit in just fine there. The rest of you are Miss entourage. She is officially there to kick start her Musical Career, starting her radio show tour in Billsville. You’ll be housed at Taylors Inn, which is what passes for fancy lodgings over there.” “HR. Tag along with PR. But ask around for a woman called Louise Tessmacher. She is a potential Asset, having manifested light ether kinetic abilities. Also she is really into that whole goth shit. So I am sure she will love talking to a real witch.” “Damage Control, I don’t think whoever is capable of reading that language continuesly is strictly human anymore. When PR gains access to the station, find and neutralize the reader. Finance, I am going to need you to sit down with our resident fat cat in the burg, and deal the ever living hell out of him. Whatever he dug up, we are either getting or destroying. Oh. And RnD are to assess what the extent of the Yellow Kings influence is on the town.” There was silence as Mr Talbot left them with their huge folders of information. “Aint he… like a Old One? The Yellow Fellah I mean...” ---- >File Directory: 041 to 202 >File Name: H4STUR >Subject: Hastur, The Yellow King, Lord of the Unspeakable Realm, The Big Yellow, Mustard Lord of the Churning Legion. Dr Mordou at REAL (Research Association of Eldritch Lore) “What do you do when madness spreads like a insidious disease trough written words and alien ideas? How do you stop the corrosion of reality itself as The Great Ones claw on unseen walls. These are question we at the Research Association of Eldritch Lore (REAL for short) keep asking ourselves, even as we lose colleagues to madness and worse. We have established a few things in regard to one player in the cosmic horror games: Hastur does not fuck around.” “Most people treat the King in Yellow a myth. That Lovecraft's writing are just great fictional accounts of some disturbed mind. But the threat of the Eldritch horror is very much real, and Hastur is one of the most terrifying things we ever encountered. What It exactly is impossible to gauge, as best as we can tell is that he is a parasitic being, a malignant presence that infects our reality like a plague. Or a cancer, so malignant it might just regrow mid removal. Like all Eldritch beings, our reality appears to not be to its liking and entrance is not permitted on a whim. Like demons of Hell, it needs to be brought forth. Unlike Lucifers brood however, he only need one thing. For someone to speak its name three time. Hastur Hastur Has- You get the point.” “By calling a name three times, you work the witches rule of three, the holy trinity, the celtic knot of spells. Why do you think urban myths tell you to call upon Bloody Mary three times. Same deal. Only Hastur is so malignant, so corrupting that his brief appearance will forever stay with you as you waste away into Yellow Madness. “ “While it is not known how or where, The Great Unspeakable Lord has help in the mortal realm from agents that write down his maddening whispers onto paper and distribute these trough the darker, unseen paths of the world. Plays that induce madness on the audience, books that speak to your mind, dragging everyone around you down with you.” “Infact, let me show you. “ The screen shows the pasty skinned doctor lift up a book with a blank, yellow cover. His eyes seem to shine of gold as he opens it towards the screen. ---Data Corrupted-- --- The Taylors Inn - HR, RND, PR and Finance “Welcome to Taylors Inn Miss!” The woman who greeted them had the practicied smiled of a terrified grand daughter who was forced into the family buisness. Which, to be fair, she was. Amanda .P. White had never seen a celebrity before, even someone a B-level one. First some extremely rich guy had reopened the mine, and now they had a model visiting. She would have been starstruck, but she found herself eyeing the door nervously. Strange things were happening in town as of late after all. “Your rooms are on the second floor, all the east corridor rooms are yours. The one furthest away is yours Miss.” She said, trying to keep her calm. The other visitors would likely notice how pretty much everything in the little rustic in was shiny new or at the very least, very rarely used. This town didn’t see many visitors. However, there was a key missing behind her, the one for the Attic they renovated into a large “penthouse” suite. Charlie Ledmark was supposed to have hired it according to some snooping Finance had done while researching the Inn. There was something not quite with the Inn, as if something lingered in the forest all around them. All the flowers appeared to be yellowing, dying slowly as if was late autumn, not early summer. Not to mention the thick layer of yellow pollen lying across seemingly every surface outside. ---- Bevel Hill Trailer Park. Damage Control The ride up towards the small, alabama mining town was a bumpy one. The more glamorous cover up entourage had been afforded two big, roomy SUV’s with shock absorbers. Even so, they would find the ill repaired road jarring no doubt. Far worse off, the two oddball damage controllers would have found it. Their car may have been a pickup, but it was a beaten old thing that jumped and scrambled to the point Jerimiah Tomb was afraid his fillings would dislodge. The wheels of the thing they drove were likely worth as much as the run down car by the point, being the only new things on it. “ow. Ow. OW. GAWD DAMMNIT” He yelled as he his head hit the roof repeatedly. His head was starting to feel like that time he had tumbled down a slope while chasing some gods forsaken goblin critter. The thing had damn near taken his head off when he finally stopped rolling. As they drove up onto the last stretch towards the Trailer park and temporary miner lodgings, he noted how all the trees were shedding leaves, like it was mid fall. Yellow leaves lying in droves along the way. He could feel his sword hum, the way it always did when something was wrong. Had he been a more astute person, a more intelligent one at that, he would have turned the car around then and there. Instead he rolled on into the Trailer park. “Allright Henderson.” He said as he got out. “Our Trailers is number 21, right next to the Miners Lodgings.” He said as he looked around. Noticing that the entire place seemed rather empty. “Boy. Sure is a ghost town here.” He began heading for what seem to be a overlook area. “Where is the superintendent..” As he walked, he saw some folks peek out through curtains at him, eyes wide. He wondered what had them all so scared. ----