"A mad king crawling like a hunted beast into a den among the rocks; his tangled golden beard sweeping the ground, his nails like vultures' talons, and his wild eyes full of sullen terror. The powerful frame is losing semblance of humanity and is bestial in its rough growth of hair, reptile in the toad-like markings and spottings of the skin, which takes on unnatural hues of green, blue, and russet."
Alexander Gilchrist (1863)
October 21st, 1997. North Platte, Nebraska.
The Agents of J-Cell convened in North Platte's FBI field office a few months after the St. Louis incident. With the heat still on them for killing Ronald Valiant, A-Cell had assigned other cells to continue investigating Enolsis. In the interim, the conspiracy had a job for J-Cell. Senior researcher at the Great Plains Cruciform Array (GPCA), Stan Arnold, has been flagged for seeking out a copy of the 10th volume of the Revelations of Gla'aki. Some astronomer looking for a tome wasn't necessarily cause for concern, at least if Arnold hadn't just stabbed his girlfriend to death and committed suicide-by-cop.
In the sunny lands of Urth's equator, the potentate of Shamash the Lioneater has descended into anarchy. After a failed campaign against rebel forces, the Nephil's armies of Urmahlullus have been scattered. The god-king himself is rumoured to have been horribly maimed.
The golden-haired cripple was last spotted on a pilgrimage to his cult's mountaintop temple. There's been no word from him or his cultists since. If there was ever a time to rob a demigod, it's now. Get in and get out before someone beats you to it.
With Doug Walters in the wind, J-Cell set about getting a search warrant for the Enolsis chapterhouse. Fortunately, FBI forensics had already run samples taken from the Mercedes. The blood type matched Ronald Valiant's military records, and they even discovered it was a genealogical match for Senator DiTorrio thanks to a hospital trash bag JENKINS had absconded with.
Given Valiant was a wanted fugitive with a laundry list of violent offences, JOSEF had no issue getting a federal judge to sign off on a clandestine warrant. He even assembled a crack team of US marshals from the St. Louis field office for backup on the warrant service. Meanwhile, Scanlon was ratfucking every tracer round and smoke grenade he could find from the FBI armory. If bullets didn't hurt that shapeshifting monster, maybe burning magnesium and phosphorous would.
Knee deep in enhanced photography, microfilm, manilla folders and interagency reports, JOSEF had found some leads. The marine in the photograph with Colonel Daniels was one PFC Ronald Valiant, a dishonourably discharged teen delinquent with a storied criminal record. Apparently Valiant used to run drugs for the Contras, before being shot down over Nicaragua and imprisoned by the Sandinistas. After somehow escaping back to the US, he'd entered the St. Louis drug scene, garnering a reputation as an ex-CIA mercenary with a commie ear collection. Valiant had fled St. Louis a few years back, suspected of dosing up a rival dealer on heroin and then burning him alive with homemade napalm.
This "Doug Walters" character appeared to be the deacon of St. Louis' Enolsis chapter. His listed residence was even the same building as their chapterhouse - he lived in an apartment upstairs. Curiously, Walters had a surprisingly sparse bureaucratic trail. Sure his SSN and birth certificate checked out, but he'd only applied for a drivers license a few years ago. Right after Valiant fled St. Louis...
The Agents and Friendlies of J-Cell were brought together by Delta Green into a secretive FBI taskforce. Their mission - investigating the bombing of a retired USAF Colonel.
When I was a lad, my mother said
"You dry your tears and go to bed,
I know my son will travel far,
Born beneath a shooting star."
In after years, my father said,
As he pulled my hair and knocked my head,
"They mustn't whimper at a scar,
Who're born beneath a shooting star."
The woodsman sighed and stared at his calloused hand, worn from contact with ax-haft and sword-hilt. Conan reached his long arm for the wine-jug. The forester stared at him, comparing him with the men about them, the men who had died along the lost river, comparing him with those other wild men over that river. Conan did not seem aware of his gaze.
"Barbarism is the natural state of mankind," the borderer said, still staring somberly at the Cimmerian. "Civilization is unnatural. It is a whim of circumstance. And barbarism must always ultimately triumph."
Beyond The Black River [63]
PRIMEUMATON came up with a writing challenge: make a seven-hex adventure set in your bespoke TTRPG setting. I like this. Similar to eating your vegetables or properly disposing of a corpse, forcing yourself to write gameable content (instead of pages and pages of lore) is always a good idea.
I've been toying with a setting idea (Book of Enoch meets Ancient Greece meets Book of the New Sun meets DEAD gODS meets the Lovecraft Mythos meets Ogre Gods), so I'll be picking up the gauntlet. Any good project needs a name, and given my inspirations GRAPES OF WRATH is a strong contender.
