Session 35: Armed and Dangerous

In the chill silence that followed their retreat from the subterranean crypt beneath the Rose Cavern, Arthur Zorba stood apart from the others, a tremulous wisp of smoke dancing above his head as he lit one cigarette from the dying embers of another. His hands shook, the knuckles raw and white from gripping a rusted shovel far too tightly. He refused to look back at the entrance—at the yawning darkness from which they had just emerged—and instead busied himself handing out garden tools to the others, deliberately keeping himself occupied, avoiding their eyes. The metallic scent of the roses’ unnatural, blackened sap still lingered on his fingers, and he drew on the cigarette deeply, desperately, as if the nicotine might wash the memory from his mind.

Inside, the rest of the investigators had paused to regroup. Viola Sutcliffe, ever graceful in her calm and dignity despite the sinister circumstances, offered soothing encouragement. Her voice was soft yet firm, a pillar of quiet strength against the encroaching dread. Walter Lake, his clerical collar starkly white against his dark coat, contemplated the crypt with a gaze shadowed by more than the dim lighting—his mind weighed heavily with memories of his wartime chaplaincy, of whispered prayers over the dying. Per Oskarson, methodical and scholarly even now, studied the blackened roses with wary suspicion, uttering under his breath the Linnaean classifications of trees remembered from childhood—a mantra against madness. Claire Corning, practical and resolute, watched Arthur’s strained composure with a mix of empathy and concern, her eyes constantly returning to the grotesque floral infestation at the heart of their predicament.

Their objective was clear: retrieve the unsettling object trapped within the thorn-choked bushes—a human-sized stone arm they suspected was a piece of the cursed Simulacrum. Arthur, though useful in crafting a makeshift crate from discarded wood, refused to return underground, his nerves frayed beyond tolerance. Instead, he lingered above ground, constructing the container with mechanical efficiency, each strike of the hammer a futile attempt to drive away visions of roses that bled darkness, roses that whispered horrors directly to his mind.

Down in the crypt, Per, Viola, Claire, and Walter approached the task with practiced caution. The black roses, luminous with a soft, spectral glow, seemed to pulse subtly as though breathing, their stems weeping black ichor that pooled around their roots. A suffocating silence pervaded, broken only by the careful movements of the investigators. Per and Viola, wielding garden tools with grim resolve, gently forced the twisted branches aside, revealing more clearly the grotesque artifact—a marble-like limb protruding obscenely from the thorny mass, as if beckoning them to grasp it and share its unknowable fate.

Walter and Claire worked in tandem, looping rope around the exposed wrist with meticulous precision. Neither dared touch the stone directly, for an unspoken fear persisted—a dread born from instinct more primal than any learned caution. As they slowly pulled the statue’s limb free, a sudden and violent decay erupted among the roses. Blossoms wilted instantly, their glowing petals turning brittle and black, crumbling away to nothingness in seconds. The oppressive glow faded abruptly, plunging the crypt into deeper gloom as the investigators hauled their prize away.

Once secured in Arthur’s crude crate, the arm felt heavier than its mere physical weight suggested, burdened by an invisible presence that tugged at the corners of their consciousness. Viola insisted on carrying the box herself, reasoning gently that if it bore any malignant influence, it should be in the hands least likely to harm the group. Arthur watched grimly from the doorway as his companions ascended, unable to suppress a shudder of revulsion.

Christian Lorien, the owner of the estate and the cellar beneath it, approached Arthur cautiously, curiosity bright in his eyes. The conversation that followed was delicate, woven with half-truths and warnings disguised as polite suggestions. Arthur’s manner was rough but honest, laced with urgency as he advised Lorien against venturing below. Viola, her voice carrying the weight of decades of secrets, reinforced Arthur’s counsel with gentle firmness. Together, they painted a grim portrait of the crypt’s horrors without revealing the full nature of the artifact they now possessed.

When Lorien insisted on seeing the truth himself, it was Per and Viola who guided him into the now-lifeless crypt. The transformation startled even the seasoned investigators—the roots, once disturbingly hand-like, now hung limply, mundane in appearance as if drained of their earlier vitality by the removal of the statue fragment. Lorien’s curiosity withered into visible distress as he surveyed the unsettling chambers filled with echoes of past tortures, confirming for himself the sinister legacy beneath his family home.

Returning to the surface, Lorien seemed chastened, agreeing quietly with Viola’s wisdom that some truths were best left undiscovered. The investigators, weary but determined, departed the estate with their unsettling cargo. The crate, though outwardly humble, was a silent reminder of the dangers now irrevocably tied to their quest—a heavy burden, both literal and metaphorical.

Back in Paris, unease persisted. As Arthur and Claire carefully moved the crate into their hotel, the city’s bustling normalcy felt alien, a stark contrast to the darkness they’d uncovered. The crate’s rough edges, splintering into Claire’s glove, became a small but potent metaphor for the insidious ways evil infiltrates even the most mundane aspects of life.

Their relief upon safely storing the crate in their quarters was tempered by news of a recent tragedy at the Bibliothèque Nationale. Per’s concern deepened as he read reports of madness-induced violence, suspecting it might be connected to their own occult investigations. The discovery of old records mentioning the Charenton Asylum—a place deeply entwined with Fenelik’s grisly legacy—sent a chill through them all, foreshadowing future horrors yet to unfold.

In the still hours of the Parisian night, alone with their thoughts and fears, each member of the group reflected privately upon the price already paid. Arthur, haunted by visions of bleeding roses, wondered how much of his sanity remained. Viola pondered the hidden cost of secrets she had kept for decades, the unchanged face in the mirror reflecting years she should not possess. Walter grappled with faith shaken by tangible evil, questioning if prayers were enough to protect against ancient curses. Per meticulously noted each revelation, determined yet troubled by how little they truly understood of the forces arrayed against them. Claire, ever compassionate yet increasingly wary, wondered how deeply their lives had become entangled with this eldritch horror, and if escape was still possible.

As dawn broke over Paris, it illuminated a city unaware of the dark paths its streets now hid—a city where, beneath layers of history and culture, something ancient and terrible waited patiently, its power scattered but eager to reunite. And in the silence of their hotel room, the investigators steeled themselves, each knowing deep within their hearts that the road ahead would lead them inevitably deeper into madness, a path from which none might return unscathed.