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future is now
[ You spill out of the elevator into the library—the elevator is gone when you look back.
In the library shelves form labyrinth corridors of books, between which are heaped precarious piles of paperbacks. Leather wing-back chairs provide privacy around the crackling fireplace at the back—if someone was sitting in one, you'd never be able to tell until you circled the full way around to the front to see. Expensive looking paintings line the walls, and you'd expect the shelves to be laden with rare editions. However, there's hardly any hardbacks at all, most everything is cheap spy novels and erotica. No accounting for taste, really.
The library has been disturbed though—something is missing from it. Through the books, through the stacks, notes have been removed, pages torn out. Aching wells up in your throat, the raw urge to scream, to exclaim some truth about the knowledge missing but it's just not there. Your mind has been scrubbed clean just like these shelves have, of whatever truth you can't recall—though, that's for the better, isn't it? Better not to know, than to meet that fate again comes the thought twinned with another one: how dare they bury your knowledge from you. You feel this distantly, in some distant and uncertain corner of your mind—but you probably don't want to linger too long on the thought that you have more materials around than they did. If you lose your sanity, or are damaged too far, though, it will overwhelm you.
A book sits open on the counter, not all the pages torn out: some are empty, and a scant few are filled out with deductions.
A readout on your phone tells you the rules and displays the sanity goal (explore rooms) and your traitor goal (accuse your victim of their crimes with recorded evidence before killing them) as well as the item that you've been given (book). It looks like nothing is stopping you from committing the traitor goal even while you're sane, if you wish to.
There is one exit: South. ]
In the library shelves form labyrinth corridors of books, between which are heaped precarious piles of paperbacks. Leather wing-back chairs provide privacy around the crackling fireplace at the back—if someone was sitting in one, you'd never be able to tell until you circled the full way around to the front to see. Expensive looking paintings line the walls, and you'd expect the shelves to be laden with rare editions. However, there's hardly any hardbacks at all, most everything is cheap spy novels and erotica. No accounting for taste, really.
The library has been disturbed though—something is missing from it. Through the books, through the stacks, notes have been removed, pages torn out. Aching wells up in your throat, the raw urge to scream, to exclaim some truth about the knowledge missing but it's just not there. Your mind has been scrubbed clean just like these shelves have, of whatever truth you can't recall—though, that's for the better, isn't it? Better not to know, than to meet that fate again comes the thought twinned with another one: how dare they bury your knowledge from you. You feel this distantly, in some distant and uncertain corner of your mind—but you probably don't want to linger too long on the thought that you have more materials around than they did. If you lose your sanity, or are damaged too far, though, it will overwhelm you.
A book sits open on the counter, not all the pages torn out: some are empty, and a scant few are filled out with deductions.
A readout on your phone tells you the rules and displays the sanity goal (explore rooms) and your traitor goal (accuse your victim of their crimes with recorded evidence before killing them) as well as the item that you've been given (book). It looks like nothing is stopping you from committing the traitor goal even while you're sane, if you wish to.
There is one exit: South. ]
Session 7 Discussion
no subject
That vision he had was fresh on his mind. He knows someone else is here. He speaks aloud, to no visible person.]
Oh... What a terrible fate that must have been.
[Of course, nobody was around to answer. But in his corrupted state he thought he heard a voice coming from the back of his mind. "Thank god, someone around here believes me. Not that it would do me any good."
Medusa paused... Stroking the spine of the book he was carrying from the last round he was in.]
This was your book, yes?
["Yes."]
Wouldn't it make more sense to go after your handler?
["It's too late. I don't know what happened, but he's definitely not here."]
I see... [He drummed his fingers against the cover... He still has that painful knife on his person, so... Very well...] I'll help you, but on one condition. I have trusted companions that we may encounter that I do not wish to harm. You understand?
["... They're not in the house right now. Just try not to talk to me out loud, lest those criminals get suspicious."]
Of course. [He took the knife and the book as he finally went south.]
no subject