[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://i.ibb.co/WsDVXgm/richard-wright-cthulhu-the-old-house.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]Five Hours Till Midnight[/color][/center][/i][/b][/h3]

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[center][@Dark Cloud][/center]
	Many of those who make the treacherous journey through the Wilde Woods have the fortune, or perhaps the misfortune, of having company during their travel. [b]Morgan Eisenhorn[/b] is not afforded that luxury. The invitation, burning a hole in his pocket, is already a mystery to him, and it leads him to wait on a street corner. The streetlight above his head offers some respite from the clawing darkness of the night, but it does nothing to ward off the biting chill in the air, and the diminutive figure pulls his jacket tight around him as he stares off into the shadows. Minutes seem to stretch into hours, Morgan having nothing to do but watch his breath cloud around him, and wait. Wait, and wait. Almost out of frustration, Morgan checks the invitation again, holding it up towards the dim light of the streetlamp, eyes straining. He barely needs to read the words. He has read them before, time and again, since the envelope was slipped under the door of his cramped office. He has committed them to memory, pored over every word, every syllable, every letter, imploring some hidden meaning to burst forth from the ink. He knows he is in the right place, at the right time, and yet, he is still waiting. 

	Morgan pushes the invitation back into his pocket, trying in vain to push the thought of it out of his mind. For a moment, he begins to question why he is even there, why he is in Arkham, why he followed a tenuous thread thousands of miles, why he endured the long, white-knuckle hours of the rattling cargo plane, and then he hears it. Since he reached the street corner, in fact, since he first stepped out from the ramshackle hotel that he had been staying in since he reached Arkham, the darkness and the chill seemed to muffle any noise, but now, he hears it as clear as day. Hoofbeats. Steel striking stone. Morgan turns, almost managing to forget the cold that is numbing his hands and face, straining against the darkness again, and finally, the shadows take shape. A horse, almost as dark as the night that it emerges from, comes first, then the silhouette of a figure, and then, a carriage, squat and dark. Slowly, painfully slowly, the carriage approaches the corner where Morgan waits, before finally, it slows, coming to a halt a few paces away from Morgan. 

	It is not just the invitation that Morgan Eisenhorn has pored over, and he recognises the crest that is emblazoned on the side of the carriage. The Wilde crest. It is only that that gives him any indication that the carriage is intended for him, as he is given no greeting from the coach driver, nor are any of his greetings met in turn. A stout figure, wide at the shoulder, face lost in the shadow of a wide-brimmed hat, pulled low, the driver is still and silent. Taking a moment to glance around, perhaps hoping for some like-minded souls to join him, Morgan eventually summons the courage to step forward, clambering into the carriage, and pulling the door closed behind him with a thud. Within, the carriage is functional, if a little sparse, but it offers welcome shelter from the biting chill of the wind, and the lone gaslamp provides precious light. Morgan sits in silence before the carriage lurches forward, and he is on his way, alone, with nothing but his thoughts for company. 

	The journey through the Wilde Woods is eery, the light within the carriage transforming anything beyond the narrow windows into total darkness, the only sign of the outside world being the occasional twisted tree branch that scratches against the carriage side. The only break in the steady forward progress comes as they pass through heavy-wrought iron gates, and despite the relative shelter of the carriage, and the faint heat of the gaslamp, Morgan feels his blood run cold as he hears those same iron gates swing closed behind him as the continue onwards, deeper into the woods, further from what safety Arkham can offer. And yet, that chill is nothing compared to the ice that grips Morgan's heart as the road swings, and the forest falls away. The lake. For days, for weeks, he has woken in the night, slick with sweat, breathing ragged, haunted by nightmares, and in all of those nightmares, he has seen the lake. He has felt the water around his ankles, pulling at him. He has seen the shape that moves in the depths, black against inky black. He has heard it, whispering his name. And now, now he sees it, really sees it. All at once, pieces of the puzzle begin to fall into place, some clues as to why he has come, and all at once, Morgan finds himself deeply, deeply regretting the journey that has brought him to Wilde Hall. 

	Before he can act, before he can make some desperate bid for escape, to put as much distance between himself and that lake as he can manage, the carriage slows to a halt once again, and Morgan finds himself before Wilde Hall itself, the golden light and jazz music standing in stark, alien contrast with the darkness beyond. Almost in a daze, Morgan pushes open the door, stepping out into the light, the carriage pulling away almost before his feet touch the ground. All at once, after so long in solitary silence, Morgan is surrounded by people, men and women in rich clothes and fanciful masks mill around him, talking and laughing as they make their way into Wilde Hall. In the crowd, Morgan finds his gaze finding an unusual pair. A man and a woman, although by the look of them, both are barely into adulthood. The boy has the lanky build of a teenager, his suit cheaply made and poorly fitted, but it is the girl on his arm that catches Morgan's eye. Petite, her dress royal blue and richly embroidered, but her mask. Her mask was white and gold, almost entirely covering her face, and from either side, there hung a ribbon, as blue as her dress. Almost as soon as Morgan catches sight of the pair, they are gone, stepping into Wilde Hall, and stepping out of view. The crowd continues to flow around Morgan like a river, and almost without realising, he finds himself swept up in it.