The mission was “The Bagman” with me going first as Threshold, who had to exit the far corner of the graveyard with the secret carrier, "Monk" McGuinn, surviving to get perks. We used a 2’x2’ terrain board I had built a long time ago that has a graveyard, stream with humpback bridge, ruined Church and catacombs below. There were no special rules here, just standard rules for difficult/impassible terrain and the usual cover modifiers. The entire footprint of the ruined Church was half-movement Difficult Terrain and the water half movement no cover save. Everything else is WYSIWYG. The condensed results are the picture captions and there are more pics of the terrain board at the end of the thread.
Threshold and terrain board built/painted by Yeti, Lurkers built/painted by Pete Ceretti.
16 BP Threshold & Lurker Lists
Yeti: Threshold (rebooted from last game’s loss):
Agent Connery (Character, Command, Heroic, Two Fisted, twin .45’s, Bowie Knife, Ballistophobia)
Agent Petri (Heroic, Tommy gun, .45, Bowie Knife)
Civilian “Monk” McGuinn (.22 and knife). Additionally, Monk is carrying the bag in this scenario.
Pete: Lurkers List
Cult Leader (.45 and knife)
Cult Leader (.45 and knife)
|Lurkers deploy in the graveyard across from the church, advancing in a picket and listening for the burglers they knew were there...|
Connery swept his flashlight across the murky dark of the catacomb. The wet yet warm smell of damp minerals rose to head-height, the heady aroma of loamy grit in the air and something else, like old cinnamon and grease… the team seemed to wade through the vapor more than walk through it. “Monk” McGuinn, the town’s professional antiquarian they had drafted this morning, stood before one of many alcoves and shifted feet as he held the grotesque ceramic urn in his large, professional hands. His grip trembled in the dank chamber and the moving flashlight beams silhouetted the group crazily, like a mob of photographers flashing away in slow motion. He looked at Connery and cleared his throat. “This is… extraordinary. Just magnificent. If Dr. Forsythe was here, he’d of course be happy to see this… the glyphs are… unprecedented but authentically real and the fetish stored inside is... amazing.”
Connery lifted his foot from a stagnant pool of water on the catacomb floor and shaking it out, unleashed his annoyance of… well, everything over the last 36 hours, through his retort, “I don’t think ‘happy’ is the word he would have used to describe that thing. And he’s dead, as sure as we’ll be if we don’t step on it. Secure the piece and let’s get going. We have little time before the owners come home.” He ignored the extra splashes he thought he heard and how the reflected flashlight seemed to show wriggling in the black pool.
|Threshold advance up and out of the catacombs with the stolen relic.|
“Correction. We’re out of time Connery,” said Agent Petri, who stood in the greenish light at the bottom of the passageway, looking at the daylight above, “I hear voices.” Connery imagined Petri’s ruined half face watching the stairwell, the mass of scars from the Night Gaunt still suppurating and salving as it tried to heal. That face resembled the craggy natural rock formations of this tomb which they had discovered. Unlike Petri, who wore his good heart on his sleeve, this place was evil and it strained to keep its secrets out of the light of their torches. Connery learned long ago, the hard way, that like people, the earth can be good or bad. This earth was god damned devilish and he was happy to leave, silently promising it a return visit from Petri with a cask of blasting powder for the troubles.
“Tick-tock boss, gotta go.” Petri started up the cavernous stairwell, not checking to see if they followed him up, the tunnel amplifying and hopefully transforming the distant voices he heard into what sounded like strange croaks and barks.
|A shotgun wielding Cultist and Hybrid cross the road and make for the Church entrance.|
When they reached the surface, they were back in what had been a garden path set into the foot of the cliff face. They had entered the ruins of the Church from the other side through holes in the cracked foundation, into a debris clogged cellar and down the crypt stairwell. Connery signaled Petri to cross the old cellar and gain the first floor above them, to help McGuinn and guard the high ground. If anybody was around, they’d have to make a racket to get to them or come through the doorway of the Church, which smiled, open, like a jack o’ lantern's missing tooth. He spun suddenly as he thought he heard a shuffle in the back of the chamber. He wasn’t sure they were alone. He noticed Petri staring back past him too, flashlight steady and .45 ready.
Only a day before, Connery, Petri and young Forsythe had flushed the Dagonite Cultists from their now-ruined lair in the suburb West of town, pursuing them East out to a farmstead known for bootlegging and human trafficking. What they hadn’t expected in their haste to run the cult leader to ground was the damned Night Gaunt, whose horrifically slender frame housed the terrible power and great silence which accompanied a murderous rampage. It is possible the creature was only delayed in fully materializing by the Threshold’s interruption of the Church’s rites before yesterday, only delaying the complete summoning of the beast that darted through the pine trees into their midst, a dim shadow of murder that left Forsythe dead and the desperate agents evading the pursuing cultists all night long. Connery and Petri probably survived because the beast was then considered pre-emergent.
Now they were adrift, midweek, a day ahead of a monstrous daemon and a day behind the criminals that summoned it.
|2 Cultists hear the Threshold team clattering through the open cellar so they flank around while the Hybrids and Cult Leader watch the front door... The Threshold are trapped!|
Petri looked back at Connery and whispered, “This doorway funnels us too, boss.” Connery had moved them towards the door anyway and nodded, his .45’s out. He felt something… something like electricity in his fillings or cold air in his sinuses. His pistols felt heavier, less reassuring and something troubled him at the thought of how loud they will be… too loud. The voices were getting closer. Crouching among the fallen walls and timbers he peered down the great stairs of the Church, across the courtyard and the nearby road to the graveyard beyond. Risking a longer gaze, he counted. Several purple robed cultists and 2 brutish, ugly men with a pallor he didn’t like. His palms sweated. Were the ugly men civilians? Why did they look familiar? Were they in a dossier he has seen before? Or on a distant street? He was thinking too much about their squashed muzzles and the too-round orbitals.
|A Hybrid sniffs the air, croaks and waits as footsteps come down the stairway...|
McGuinn hugged the swaddled ceremonial vase like an ancient sleeping toddler, his bug-eyes peering over the bundle as he tread through the moldering cellar’s debris. Connery urged him towards the doorway above as Petri, already on the first floor over them, offered an arm up. Connery held the vase as McGuinn flailed his way over, via an avalanche of mortar, dust and flooring.
Voices. Shouts. Footsteps. They were made.
|The second Hybrid stalks the doorway...|
Agent Connery looked in the rear view mirror as a bloom of fire and smoke geysered up from the front of yet another church. Debris pattered on the roof of his speeding car, one which he had hidden nearby. He didn’t see if Petri made it out but the resourceful Italian obviously had time to tripwire the Dagonite’s car; once a Mob man, always a Mob man. Connery had faith he’d see him at the safe house tonight. McGuinn was still back there, sprawled out on the overgrown lawn of the church entrance piled with those strange, dead... men? And also left holding the empty bag they had fled with, a feint. It would have have been great to bring that cursed vase and retched squid tooth back to HQ for study but as things were, plans change, sometimes on the fly, and sometimes, like now, it was for the better. Hopefully, it would take the Dagon cultists awhile before they realized that the relic they just rescued from McGuinn wasn’t the only thing taken from the alcoves of their unholy crypt, the death of the antiquarian a currency in the purchase of time via an elaborate ruse. Connery would be back and next time things would be different. He patted his bulging pocket and wisps of grey-blue vapor puffed out of the mouth-like pocket, like a smoking monkey he once saw at a carnival. He laughed at that, a strained, more exasperated-than-merry chortle and imagined the Cult Leader, wide-eyed, throttled in Connery's bare hands.
He drove East towards the safe house.“Next time... it will be different. Everything will be different.”