Masters of Ceremonies
an excerpt

The parade of Model T Fords worked their way slowly along the winding dirt roads, their chuttering engines the only sound that rose above the distant sound of the ocean. Ahead of them sprawled the small village of Dunmouth with its cobbled roads and gabled roofs. A light mist crept through the streets in the early morning air, adding a touch of secrecy to the small New England town.

The lead car stopped before the village’s only inn, forcing the rest of the procession to stop, and killed its engine. Harriet Bromley opened the door of her car and stepped out to survey the baroque village. The residents of Dunmouth had come out of their homes and businesses to stare sullenly at the newcomers. Other passengers stepped out of their vehicles and similarly looked around, drifting closer to their de facto leader.

“Harriet,” said Peter Mulholland, “are you sure this is the right place? This doesn’t seem like the sort of place that would shelter the Cult of the Leviathan. In fact, I don’t even think they have electricity or phones.”

“Quaint though this village may be,” Harriet replied in hushed tones, “you will note that there are some strange discrepancies here. The villagers all have a slightly inhuman cast to their features: strange eye colors, slight webbing between their fingers, scaly skin peeking out from the edges of their clothing. And there is no church. Really, what sort of small town in the 1920s does not have at least one church? No, there is a touch of something from beyond our normal experiences here and I intend to find out what it is. It is fortunate that we have the full force of our Mystery Society here to aid us with this investigation. Now then, let us all get checked in. I don’t know that there will be enough rooms for all of us. We may need to double up in the rooms or something, but that can be resolved once we have a better sense of the facilities.”

The Huddled Masses

The screaming of a baby downstairs continued to keep Stephanie awake. The walls were too thin to effectively block out any sort of noise in the building. Everyone knew everyone else’s business. Simon hadn’t come home from work yet, and that also weighed heavily on her. The clock radio next to her bed dimly indicated that it was a little bit after midnight. He was probably drunk and she never liked him when he was drunk. Absently she rubbed at a bruise on her ribs.

Giving up on sleep, she got up from the bed and turned on the TV, adjusting the rabbit ears to try and get a better reception. Turning the dial she saw a series of test patterns and late night movies flicker across the screen, an endless parade of the banal. After running through the dozen or so channels she could get, she finally gave up and turned off the TV.

In the fresh silence of her apartment she could hear a man’s voice out in the alleyway screaming for help. She stared fixedly at the floor, torn between minding her own business and going out to investigate.

Against the Darkness

It had been an ambush. Kelmalil and his fellow elven scouts had been sent by the king to investigate reports of a goblin encampment on the edges of their lands. While the reports had been accurate, this was a hell of a way to find out.

The attacking goblins pressed in thick about him. His armor had so far blocked whatever attacks he could not readily parry, but he ached from bruises to his body and a few nicks and scratches.

Kicking one of the goblins away he struggled to find a bit more room to swing his blade freely, perhaps even drawing closer to one of his fellow scouts in order to provide more mutual protection. Unfortunately the struggle to move through the mass of goblins left him open for an attack and he took a cut along his arm.

The Doom Out of Time

Harriet had secured rooms and divided them among her fellow Society members and was engaged in discussing the local sights with the hideous and surly man behind the counter. Her probing questions were interrupted by the arrival of Stanly Ipkis. A pale and bookish sort, his neck and wrists were exhibiting an alarming rash and his eyes had become swollen and puffy.

“Your Grace,” Stanley said, his characteristic Brooklyn accent having disappeared. “Could you call in the MC for me?”

Harriet’s mood swung suddenly dark and she asked, “Is this an emergency? This is meant to be an immersive event and I’m not interested in calling Harcourt down here just because you want to check your email or something.”

“I’m sorry, Your Grace. I think it’s this sweater. I don’t what it is but I think I’m allergic to it or something.”

Still annoyed, the woman portraying Harriet began making a series of gestures and finger thrusts in the air near her hips.

{{Agatha [OOC]: Nicholas, could you come down here? Miles is having some sort of fit about some rash.
Nicholas [OOC]: Yes, Your Grace, I’ll be right down. I’m just finishing up with some of the NPCs I brought in for this.
Agatha [OOC]: Hurry. He’s been a pain all the way down here and I’m going to stab him in the eye with the pen on the registry if he doesn’t get out of my face soon.
Nicholas [OOC]: Understood. Hurrying.}}

Harriet turned her attention back to the man playing Stanley.

“Harcourt’s on his way. I’m still in the middle of this scene. I highly suggest that you remove yourself from my presence until he comes to deal with your current problem.”

Stanley’s expression turned petulant and he stalked off to another part of the lobby and stared out at the street through the window, watching the mist drift through the street.

Stephanie ran out of the building to find that some of her neighbors in the building had made it out of the building before here. She spotted Leonard and Steve, the gay couple from down the hall; Abe, the old Jewish guy from the other end of the hall; the young Hispanic couple from upstairs (who had the baby) and Tim from downstairs. It was Tim who was down on the pavement checking out the person who was prone and bleeding in the alleyway.

What Stephanie wanted to do was go to Tim and offer her help, but Simon always got jealous whenever he found out she had talked to Tim and she didn’t want to be more trouble. But she also didn’t want to feel useless. Her internal reverie was disturbed when Steve yelled out, “I’m sorry, but could you be just twenty percent less creepy?!”

The gazes of everyone present whipped over to Leonard and Steve. Leonard held his hands open-palmed and spread outward at his hips in a gesture of surrender, his eyes wide and wary of his partner. Steve, on the other hand, had his fists clenched at his side and his face rapidly turning red.

“I—I’m sorry,” stammered out Leonard. “I was just—“

“You were just trying to get a bit of grab-ass is in what you were doing, you goddamn skeezy bastard!” Steve yelled back, stabbing an accusing finger at Leonard.

Stephanie was about to intervene when the air rippled and a petite Asian woman in a form-fitting white body suit shimmered into view, her eyes narrowed in mild annoyance.

“Is there a reason you boys broke character there?”

Steve turned towards the woman and hotly replied, “MC, he’s been trying to cop a feel this entire session. I’m getting a little fucking sick of it.”

“I put my hand on his back!” Leonard countered defensively. “I thought it would be a good in-character gesture since our characters are in a relationship!”

“Will you two please stop?” the MC asked. She didn’t raise her voice, but her tone cut through anything further they wanted to interject. “Reviewing the biometrics, I see that this is the first time Mr. Lemieux has touched you, Mr. Baker. But I do see that your vital signs indicated agitation every time you came within a few feet of Mr. Lemieux? Is there something I need to know about, Mr. Baker?”

Though deflated, Mr. Baker was not conceding defeat as he replied, “I don’t think Lemieux is just playing a character, MC. I think he’s trying to get into my pants.”

The MC took in a breath to respond to the accusation, but the woman portraying Stephanie placed her hand on the MC’s shoulder and said, “Penelope, I’ll take it from here.” Gone was the persona of world-weary battered wife, replaced instead with stiff posture and a withering glance. She kept her hand on Penelope’s shoulder as she turned to face Mr. Baker. “You knew very well that you would be playing a gay character in this chronicle.”

“Yes, Lady Brisbane, but—“

“Do not yes-Lady-Brisbane-but me. I recognize that you’re a power-grabbing sycophant who has spent months trying to weasel your way into one of the chronicles Ms. Chang MCs for me. I know from your personnel record that you’ve been angling to get a knighthood within my organization. But I take Ms. Chang’s work and my enjoyment of such very seriously. What she is too professional to say to you is that you came into this chronicle knowing that you were to play a man in a same-sex couple and that some degree of authenticity would be required to play the role. I might be tempted to say I’m sorry that you accidentally got in over your head, but I have no such sympathy for homophobic—“

“I’m not homophobic, my lady!” Mr. Baker interjected. “I just don’t trust this—“

“Shut up, Baker!” Lady Brisbane yelled, pushing Chang to the side as she stalked up closer to Baker.. “I don’t care what your excuse is, but if you intend on remaining in this chronicle I expect you to remain in character. Our MC would not expect that you do more than hold hands. But for me, I spect that if you need to suck Mr. Lemieux’s cock while pretending to be his partner in order to maintain authenticity, you better learn to like the taste of cock. Do I make myself clear?”

Baker’s face had hardened. Chang, on the other hand, looked away in discomfort.

Baker stared hard at Lady Brisbane before finally stiffly saying, “This is sexual harassment.”

“You say that as though you expect me to care.”

“The decrees of the Corporate Court specifically state that—“

“Don’t tell me what the Corporate Court’s decrees are. You can go whine to my seneschal about your rights, but it will get you nowhere. Even if you were not on my personal time, I did not become the Marchioness of Brisbane by putting up with bullshit from self-important peerage-hungry gentry. I can bury you professionally if I want and there is not a damn thing you can do about it. So you can either hold hands in-character with your significant other so we can get back to our scene or you can sign out and leave the arena. Your call, Baker.”

Baker gestured in the air and faded from view. From where he stood a ripple could be seen moving through the air down the alley towards the street.

Against the Darkness

The fighting had been fierce and a couple of their troupe had been slain, but in the end the elves were victorious, standing over the butchered remains of the goblins.

“MC?” called out the person playing Kelmalil. “I think I pulled something my back during that combat. Can I skip playing out searching the bodies this time and just cut to what I find on them?”

From a ripple in the air a male voice responded, “Your Grace, you could just have someone else search the bodies for you.”

“That’s technically true, Sol, but this is my game. I should have the right to call ‘dibs’ once in a while.”

“Very well, Your Grace. You pay the bills so you’ll receive no argument from me.” A chuckle arose from the other players in the group. “I’m placing the pertinent items in your inventory. You can give it to other people at your leisure. I’m going to assume you don’t want their swords, armor, deer jerky…”

“No, that’s quite alright,” Kelmalil’s player responded with a smirk.

Slipping back into character, Kelmalil turned to one of the other elves in the group, a lithe and lovely fair-haired elven woman that had just returned from securing the perimeter, and said, “Elthamaehl, I found this letter among their things. This looks much nicer than the scraps of hide they normally write on and the language doesn’t look like goblin. Can you make anything of it?

{(Jeff [OOC]: What does goblin look like, anyway?
Michael [OOC]: Nilbog nilbog nilbog?
Kartikeya [OOC]: Could you please reserve the OOC chat for something important?
Jeff [OOC]: Yes, Your Grace.
Michael [OOC]: Yes, Your Grace.}}

“It looks like the language nation of Thantak to the north, sir,” Elthameahl responded. “Unfortunately, I cannot read it. We’ll probably need to take it back to Seldorath to get it translated.”

“Just our luck,” replied Kelmalil grimly. “It is just as well, I suppose. We should check in with the Council of Elders to see how they want this dealt with in the long run. This correspondence lends the impression that the goblins were on a mission involving those we normally count as allies. I doubt this bodes well.”

{{Michael [OOC]: *cough*Plot device*cough*
Kartikeya [OOC]: Thank you, Sir Obvious.
Michael [OOC]: Any time, Your Grace. I’m a helper. I help.}}

The Doom Out of Time

“You know, you’re supposed to declare any allergies you have when you apply to play in the chronicle,” Nicholas said as he looked at Miles’ rash.

“I wear alpaca all the time and never had a reaction,” Miles said defensively. The two of them were sitting in a backroom of the inn with Miles stripped to the waist and looking miserable. Nicholas, in turn, was dressed in a well-tailored period chauffeur’s uniform.

“It’s not alpaca, it’s sheep wool. Alpaca wool is hypoallergenic, sheep wool is not. I’ll try and get the Duchess to approve the purchase of an alpaca wool clothing in the appropriate style as well as find some other clothes that will fit you that don’t have wool. And we’ll try to get some medicated cream in here for you. I brought lotions to deal with the possibility of someone ran across some poison ivy, but I don’t think it will do shit for hives. I’d spend some time avoiding the Duchess afterwards if I were you. You’re already on her shit list and requiring special purchases during this story arc will put her on a war path.”

“This is fucking absurd. Why is it we have to wear this shit anyway? Why can’t we wear whitesuits and use AR in a warehouse like a sane chronicle?”

“My specialty is immersion and the Duchess is into immersion. And so as long as you’re playing in her chronicles in order to endear yourself to the Duchess, you’ll need to learn to cope a little bit better. You might also want to get a more thorough exam to make sure you don’t have any other undiagnosed health fun.”

“I don’t see the Duchess suffering this much,” Miles grumbled. “She still uses her comm.”

“It all boils down to the Golden Rule, Miles-me-laddo: She who has the gold gets to make the rules. When you carve your way into corporate peerage or marry well, then you can do whatever the fuck you like. I’m serious about avoiding Agatha, though. I’ve stashed clues all over the countryside. You may endear yourself by helping to move the plot forward. A well-paced plot makes the Duchess happy and when the Duchess happy, my ulcer is happy.”

The Huddled Masses

Lady Brisbane turned towards the other players. Most had looked away awkwardly during the confrontation but Chang had regained her composure and met Brisbane’s gaze.

“My lady,” said Penelope, “Would it be alright if we just stopped for the day and pick things up again when we find a replacement player for that character? I’d really like to have all the players present for this opening event.”

Brisbane’s expression softened at that request and said, “That sounds fine. I’m really excited about your ideas for this chronicle and I’d like this all to start off on the right foot. Perhaps during the next week we can get together to discuss other people who are interested in playing and see who would be a good fit. I’ll try to vet the prospects a bit better than I did with Mr. Baker.”

“That sounds excellent, my lady,” the MC said. With a few gestures from her, the backdrop of the alley faded away to be replaced by an empty warehouse space. The players also resumed their normal appearance, each of them clad in white jumpsuits like the MC’s. “I’ll contact your chamberlain and find an opening in your calendar.”

“Oh, Penelope, no need to be so formal,” Brisbane said with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes while unclasping her jumpsuit. “Please, call my direct line. And call me Victoria.”