All posts by CthulhuBob Lovely

The Lovecraft Tapes

These pod people are awesome. Their play style is one I can virtually never tolerate in a horror game. They constantly interject humor, and make boatloads of out of game, character, genre, and period, comments: aaaaaaand they’re wonderful.

The GM’ing (Keeping), and play is great, they are genius, their timing is impeccable, their humor is gut-busting–they’ve made me laugh so hard I stopped breathing–and the production value is fantastic.

In addition to live play, they suggest games, movies, bands, etc., and present advertising for the most hilarious faux products, or perhaps they are real . . . Dum dum dum!

It’s very much like listening to The Firesign Theater play Call of Cthulhu.

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Gaming: Reasons PCs Leave

Sometimes a player, for one reason or another, leaves the game group or has agreed with the GM to play a new character. Where does the PC go? Unsatisfactory possibilities abound: they inexplicably wander off; become a lifeless, two-dimensional NPC; are arbitrarily hit by a truck and killed, or any number of options that detract from the mood of the game.

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Madness: Why Do Exposure to Mythos Entities and Truths Make You Insane?

The protagonists in most Mythos stories are, or become, insane. This is because they see things, learn information, etc. beyond the capacity of the human mind to cope with and/or understand. Why does this result in madness?

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Musings on Cthulhu as High Priest and R’lyeh as a City

Cthulhu is described as the ruler and high priest of his kind, and able to garner and maintain human followers through dream projection while asleep/comatose in his city of R’lyeh, immersed beneath the Pacific Ocean.

Cthulhu is a member of a group of beings, all immortal and extremely powerful, referred to as the Great Old Ones. The two other primary classes of entities in this mythology are the Elder Gods, and the Outer Gods, however the nature of these two groups is largely not within the scope of this essay. The same is true of the rest of the Great Old Ones.

More recently, these distinctions have been viewed as unnecessary.

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Maggot Walkers

By the time I got up close, I was sure this guy couldn’t be alive, which made no sense. He, it, was still crying. Maggots were crawling out of everywhere on its face.
The flesh was rotting, and the thing smelled like an old corpse. I put a few rounds in it, and it split open like a bad melon. The thing dropped to its knees and fell over, thousands and thousands of maggots exploded all over the street. I’ll never un-see that.
Civilians, still pressed up against the barrier, panicked and ran. That’s when the city really went to hell.

Sgt. Brian Carson, during debriefing by CDC officials and agents of a secret government agency.
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Spore Bearers

It looked like Bill, but it was all gray and rubbery. It had this big ball in its hands, like a mushroom of some kind. Suddenly, the ball popped open and this cloud of gray powder flew everywhere. It got in my eyes, and it smelled like fungus. I, I don’t feel so good.

Paul Oates, patient at Mercy Hospital.
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Shepard looked bad, I could tell his spirit was failing, but I couldn’t find anything about this phenomenon in my library. I had to experiment.

Passing the dagger through the cloud harmed it, a little at a time. Two other methods, which I will not disclose, were much more effective, though all three methods were harmful to us as well.

Finally, on day four, the black smoke dispersed. Shepard barely survived, and healed, though we both were lessened by the experience.

Lawrence Garrity, Professor of Experimental Sciences, Miskatonic University.
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The Merchant

Just about scared the hell out of me when I saw who it was walking up the road toward us. It was the merchant, even though he was dead. Bill ran right up to him, crying. Bought the merchant all new clothes, a good meal, and a night’s stay in a fine hotel.

Bill drove him to the bus station the next day. The merchant smiled and shook his hand. I’ll be damned if Bill’s luck didn’t start to get better in just a few days.

The moral of the story, don’t fuck with the merchant.

Andrew Miller, Soldier in the struggle against Darkness, and agent of The Manchester Foundation
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Letter From Father

Letter From Father

My Son,

As you read this, I pray I have slipped into oblivion. No longer can I believe in a Heaven.

It is with a heavy heart I must pass onto you a terrible, yet necessary, responsibility. I, as my father before me, and his before him and so forth, have carried on, in secret and shadow, a crusade to protect humanity from destruction of body, mind and soul.

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That Person

I was starting to feel, well, romantic toward her, and I thought she was toward me. We never had any official dates, or anything like that, but she kept turning up more and more frequently.
The night me and the group went out to break up that cult in the abandoned mill, we heard a woman scream and knew we were too late to stop the sacrifice. We charged the place, as fast as we could, hoping we could at least stop the damn toad thing from appearing.
We busted through the door, and there she was, naked and spreadeagled on an old table they’d made into an altar, candles and all. She was sliced wide open–from, from, well you know, all the way to her throat. Everything was spilling out.

I heard the Professor chanting, using magic. I just starting mowing the bastards down with my 12 gauge, Yvonne. Five shells later, I turned her around and started bashing heads with the stock. Seeing her like that hurt, bad. I’m glad we have you on retainer, Dr. M.

I thought I was over it, I thought I was okay, Then, this morning, I went to the café, just to see if I could. I’m sitting in the sun, at my favorite table, and a shadow falls over me. I look up, just as she’s settling into her seat across from me. “Hello,” she says, and smiles.

Anonymous member of an occult investigative organization.
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