[h2][b][i][color=008000][center]In This Fine Town Of Arkham[/center][/color][/i][/b][/h2]
[h3][b][i][color=008000][center]A Night At Wilde Hall[/center][/color][/i][/b][/h3]
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[center][img]https://s3.eu-central-1.wasabisys.com/devonilx7/2020/04/forest_path_dark_150398_1920x1080-1536x864.jpg[/img][/center]
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[center][b]"The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown"[/b] - [i]H. P. Lovecraft[/i][/center]
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[h3][b][i][center][color=ed1c24]Six Hours Till Midnight[/color][/center][/i][/b][/h3]

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[center][@Archangel89][/center]
	There are many in Arkham who close their shutters and bolt their doors whenever night falls over the haunted city, but there are still those who refuse to allow the darkness to dampen their mood. The foolish, the mad, or the rich. The Excelsior Hotel, in the heart of Arkham, still spills golden light long into the night, frenetic jazz echoing along deserted streets. The foolish, the mad, or the rich, all of them find themselves drawn to the hotel, like moths to a flame, and [b]Jayce Brennaman[/b] is no different. Perhaps looking to settle any late nerves with a glass of whiskey, or simply hoping to find some comfort in the familiarity of rubbing shoulders with the social elite, as the clock ticks towards the invitation burning in his pocket, and the shadows over Arkham lengthen, Jayce Brennaman, heir to the Silverhand Chemical empire, sits at the Excelsior Jazz bar, and looks down at his drink. He is not the only guest of the Wildes that is enjoying the light and the noise of the bar, and he has already spotted almost a dozen masked figures, men and women, making their way through the crowded room. From where he is sitting, he has even mused over whether he may know any of the figures, squinting at them through the haze of cigar smoke that hangs in the air, looking to pick up any distinctive features, but he has had no such luck, and no-one has approached him. In fact, the opposite seems to be true. The tide of people and laughter seems to break around Jayce, passers-by casting wary glances towards the mask he wears, their conversation faltering until they are past him. Arkham is a haunted city, and its ghosts seep into every corner. Even in the buzz of the Excelsior, the ghosts remain.

	Jayce has his drink half-raised to his lips when he feels a change in their air. He hesitates, and for a brief moment, the superstition that clings to Arkham grips him, his blood running cold, but when he finally wills himself to turn, he does not find himself faced by a ghoul or an apparition, but a man. Dark clothed, broad shouldered, unflinching features, the dark eyes fix on Jayce, and a low voice, rough, almost a growl, reaches through the busy noise of the bar. 

	[b]"Mister Brennaman?"[/b]

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[center][@Rekker][/center]
	Beyond the light and noise of the Excelsior Hotel, the streets of Arkham are dark, a chill wind seeming to have crept into the city since night has fallen. Now, that wind howls through the streets, rattling shutters and causing the temperature to plummet. Those who are unfortunate enough to still be out and at the mercy of the elements pull their coats tighter around them, and hurry their pace. [b]Alistair Truman[/b] is no different. The mask that he wears at least offers some protection from the chill, but then, a man such as Alistair is more out of sorts without a mask, than he is with one, physical or not. For that same reason, the shadows that surround him as he walks do not put the same fear into Alistair's heart as they do for other men. He understands that sometimes, shadows are welcome. Perhaps it is that experience with the shadows, or simply years of looking over his shoulder, but Alistair has been painfully aware of the footsteps behind him for several streets now. 

	At the start, Alistair didn't think too much of them. The streets of Arkham are quiet once night falls, but there are still those who brave the chill in the air, often driven by unsavoury purpose. And yet, with every turn he takes, every new street he walks down, every step he takes that the mysterious follower mirrors has put him more and more on edge. Some part of him hopes that it is still just a coincidence, but another part of him, a part that is increasingly growing, tells him that it is not. Whenever Alistair has turned back, peered through the gloom, he has seen nothing, the footsteps falling silent as quickly as his own, so that he almost believes that he has imagined them, until he starts forward once more, and they ring out behind him again. Attempting to lose this unseen tail, his route has become increasingly erratic, darting into side alleys, losing himself in the winding maze of Arkham's old town, but the footsteps have always stayed with him, so close that he constantly expects a hand to grasp his shoulder, a sharpened point to press against his back. He is almost lost now, but suddenly, he recognises the building on the corner ahead of him, the worn sign of Hutchinson's Goods. The invitation in his pocket lists a number of points that carriages will be available. One of those points is less than a few turns away. As if they can sense how close Alistair suddenly finds himself to be to salvation, or at least relative safety, the footsteps at his back suddenly pick up their pace.