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In: Curse of Innistrahd, Dungeons and Dragons 5th Ed

Tatyana was dead.
Sergei was dead.
Maurer wasn’t sure what he was.
The deal was simple and perfect. A conception bathed in a sense of infamy, but answered by the urgency of nobility and want. The Markovs had been generous that day so long ago, lit by candles and surrounded by stone and blue blood. Edgar Markov was a smart man, a calculating man, one who spoke of need and duty. The blood of Stensia would live on he proclaimed loudly, his hands staining black crimson in the basin of prepared elixir. And they followed. One by one, marching to his new tomorrow. Toward an eternity beyond death. Even then Strephan Maurer was mad. Even then he was a fool.
And even now, he waits for an eternity, not fearing his coming hunters.
Death awaits.

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In: Deadlands, Fallen Flags

Agency Internal Dossier
TOP SECRET – US EYES ONLY
Verification Code 13-1-4/13-1-24/C
Subject: Dr. Leonitus P. Gash, PhD (Mechanical Engineering and Biological Sciences from Duke University)
Author: “Tom Bondsley”, Field Agent
Special Note: Current Bounty in the State of Deseret, $1000 alive, $100 dead

This is a peculiar one. I have no idea from where this one operates, really. He has too many of his brutish flunkies warding me off the trail. But on the condition that I not try to speak to him in person, he’s agreed to maintain written correspondence. Will redouble location efforts if given more human resources explicitly to do so. So we all know that this is the scientist responsible for the modified limbs of the worker class in Deseret, both before and after he became a wanted man. The popular story is that he gained his bounty when the workers started removing their own limbs to gain replacements, rather than simply replacing what was lost. But that doesn’t seem to be the whole story, considering that receiving voluntary limb replacement remains a legal act, even if performing it is now a crime. The true reasons are up to speculation, but an infiltrated assistant in Hellstromme Industries found a copy of Gash’s bounty marked for review, sitting at a thousand dead OR alive. It seems Hellstromme convinced Deseret to lower the dead bounty. Which means Hellstromme wants to encourage him coming into captivity alive. No easy task, frankly. The people love this man. Or at least his arms and legs.

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In: Deadlands, Fallen Flags

Agency Internal Dossier
TOP SECRET – US EYES ONLY
Verification Code 3-18-15-23-12-5-25
Subject: Dr. R. Percy Sitgreaves, PhD (Mechanical Engineering from Columbia University)
Author: “Tom Bondsley”, Field Agent

Dr. R. Percy Sitgreaves, owner of Infinity Press (the publishers of the Smith and Robards New Science Catalog) and former R&D scientist for Smith and Robards proper, is a bit of an anomaly among modern scientists. And after all the other dossiers on the subject, that is not a claim made lightly. Not only does he practice both modern magic and modern science, he professes theories that combine the two in some way. Nonsense of course. but it seems to have aided his endeavors in both fields. I attempted to speak to some of our local scientist operatives to leverage this benefit, but they either laughed me out of the room or claimed they already knew the theory intimately, but refused to speak more on the subject because I “wouldn’t understand.” This was often followed by asking how the name was spelled. One would think subtlety would be more common among Agency operatives. Regardless, R. Percy Sitgreaves is a man of many mysteries well worth further investigation, not the least of which is what that damned R stands for.

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In: Curse of Innistrahd, Dungeons and Dragons 5th Ed

In the memories of granite peaks and gray-green pines, Strephan Maurer was a fixture of Stensia. Not a god, though that was a word lost to the minds and lips of its people. He was a force, like the capricious wind and rains. Eternal, inexorable. Yet some people, crazy all of them, thought he could be killed.

In the Inland Valleys they wrote him off as a loss. The vampires were a menace to all, but the grace of angels could only be asked for so much. And where his domain stayed nestled in the outland valleys, away from the cities and homes that comprised much of the province. He was a bad dream, but not the nightmare the Markov or Voldaren families were. And so he was a thought for those inside.

Krezk stood resolute, recognizing his might but shying from his shadow. It was too hard to hold your ground against someone you fear. The Baron and Baroness would not be cowed however. Their voices were for their people, their prayers were within their hands, and their blood was of the mountains. They were Krezk, in name, body, and soul. But they were defenders, not warriors. And a bet was too much to take.

Still smelling of burnt Hawthorne and collared by martial law, Pallas was fraying at the seams. It had been a long time since it had been whole, unmarred by the stains of blood and dribble of sycophants. Long enough that the folk expected it. And endured it. The shell of the Wachter clan had no sway any more, and barely enough thought to contemplate their twice cursed fate. The family Martikov maintained their inn, hoping drink and passion could bring some light into this darkness. But a gentle glow does little to an abyss. And the Inquisitor Seeta feared a flash in the pan, a misleading light to drag those further into the dark like a corpse candle. That fiend was too much for anyone, despite her prayers to the otherwise. But she wanted to stand for this town and these people. A shield. An aegis. But she could only hold for so long.

And sunken below the castle’s reach was the broken town of Shadowgrange interred in the vampire’s grasp. The people there were husks, barely living their day to day. The shopkeeper had forgotten kindness, relying on foolhardy folk and need to bring him business. The priest lost to uncertainty and fear. And the man known as Ismark was worried and perplexed in the rising dawn. And in the weary hearts of those warriors of ours at the church perhaps there was uncertainty too.

But despite the pain and fear, there was still a truth: They fought off his wishes, maybe his best: And won. So here we are. The final hour. And it’s approaching dawn.

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In: Deadlands, Fallen Flags

Dear Diary, after a laborious and unnecessarily invasive customs process that lost me a rather expensive penknife, I’ve settled into the Mormon State of Deseret in general and Salt Lake City in specific. I’ve lucked into a rather nice room in a social club on the outside of the “Junkyard”, as it’s called, the air of which has left an indelible impression on my lungs. Speaking of, I can’t help but notice from the equally dirty language on the way in that none of the workers seem satisfied with their lots in life. No surprise, given that their bodies are being exchanged for bread and circuses, as it were, and their injuries are resolved at their own expense only insofar as they return them to work. This place is a powder keg, the wick dampened by staccato drips of water from the Church, Hellstromme, and the backbreaking despair of indentured servitude. Which is exactly why I plan to get out before things come to a head, longarm in tow. The rifle, that is. Not a mechanically lengthened arm. Curse this town for making me clarify that.

-Recovered from a soot-stained page in the diary of an unnamed debt collector, written mid-August, 1877

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