Mother Abigail Marsh`s Parlor

Game Master

Act I: The Ash of St. Josephine

The sky above St. Josephine does not weep rain; it rains ash. A bruised, violet twilight chokes the horizon, stained by the perpetual fires of a deadlock that has outlived generations. Here, in the shattered ribcage of a city that refuses to die, peace is an extinct language.

To the south, the fortified, soot-blackened stone walls of the COT stand like a jagged iron jaw, their war forges screaming into the night as they hammer out the instruments of survival.

To the north, the cold, blinding white marble fortresses of the Empire of God gleam under towering church-banners, where the air is thick with the thunder of zealous sermons and the quiet, agonizing screams of the Inquisition’s subterranean cells.

You are in neither. You are trapped in the belly of the beast: No Man’s Land.

This is the jagged, bleeding middle—a desolate labyrinth of crumbled homes, collapsed walls, and the skeletal, burnt husks of once-grand temples.

To your left and right, the treacherous mountain peaks hem you in, choked with snow, avalanches, and the predatory shadows of goblin raiders and desperate bandits who feast on fleeing refugees. There is no retreat into the fog.

There is only the front.

The smell of cordite, wet stone, and copper hangs heavy and suffocating in the freezing air. Your small band is completely cut off from your platoon, isolated by a sudden, devastating mortar barrage that turned the cobblestone street behind you into a yawning crater of fire. Your ammunition pouches are dangerously light. The leather of your boots is slick with the gray soot that coats every surface like a shroud.

Every shadow in these ruins feels like a sniper’s nest. Every snap of a wooden beam or shifting piece of rubble mimics the cocking of an Empire rifle.

The dead are everywhere here—half-buried under masonry, frozen in their final moments of terror, their uniform colors faded to the same uniform gray of the debris.

You are running out of breath, running out of dirt to hide behind, and running out of time. The hounds of the Empire’s vanguard are hunting, and the whistling of incoming artillery is beginning to sing its terrifying, familiar tune once more.

Dietrich

Dietrich reaches a trembling hand into his pocket, as he fiddles with something hidden, the sound of liquid sloshing

“I’m not sure how much more of this we can take”

Drake

Drake sets the mortar ready as he points to the North East

“Don’t worry Doc, dying is the least of our worries”

Game Master

Act II: The Meat Grinder

The uneasy silence of No Man’s Land is obliterated in an instant. From the northeast, a blinding white flare cuts through the bruised, ash-choked sky, painting the ruined streets of St. Josephine in a stark, ghostly pallor.

Then comes the thunder.

A coordinated mortar volley shrieks overhead, detonating against the collapsed masonry just yards from your position.

The impact throws a cascading wave of pulverized stone, hot shrapnel, and blinding gray soot over your trench line. Through the ringing in your ears and the sudden, choking cloud of debris, the rhythmic, metallic trudge of boots signals that the vanguard has found you.

Emerging from the smoke-veiled northern avenues is a disciplined, elite strike team of the Empire of God. Moving in a textbook wedge formation are five infantrymen, their white-and-gold steel armor gleaming faintly under tattered knights’ surcoats.

Their faces are entirely obscured by the terrifying, glass-eyed visors of their canvas gas masks. Clutched in their hands are heavy rifles, their wicked bayonets fixed and catching the distant firelight. Among them, a medic advances with a heavy field-triage kit slung over a red-crossed surcoat, while an engineer brings up the flank, heavy pneumatic tools clanking against his utility belt.

Spurring them forward with absolute, tyrannical zeal is the sergeant. His breastplate is immaculate, his booming voice cutting through the din of artillery as he bellows a fierce, fanatic battle sermon. He levels a drum-fed tactical rifle toward your position, enforcing the Empire’s law of No Retreat.

But it is what stalks behind them that makes the dirt beneath your boots tremble.

Tearing through the darkness is a Tactical Brimstone Unit. Unlike the massive, heavy-treaded variants that bog down in the city’s major arteries, this dreadnought-class walker sways forward on a pair of massive, hydraulically driven iron legs. It is a masterpiece of terrifying engineering, explicitly favored for frontline urban purges because it can step entirely over jagged tank traps, crush sandbag barricades to dust, and squeeze through the claustrophobic rubble of collapsed alleys with horrific ease.

A blinding, chemical optic spotlight flashes from its central chassis, cutting through the smog to pin your squad in its harsh, unyielding glare. Its right arm ends in a massive, snapping iron claw designed to tear infantry from cover, while its left arm sports a roaring, steam-driven rotating saw blade that spits sparks as it scrapes against the stone walls. Nestled deep within its central, riveted body cavity, the dark, soot-stained maw of its brimstone mortar shifts and locks into place, whistling as it prepares to drop hellfire directly onto your heads.

The vanguard has arrived to cleanse the ruins.

Frost

“Here they come! Take cover!”

Ferro

“Finally, perhaps this is where my bones will rest, less than a kilometer from where I took my first breath.”

Drake

“Nice, can always count on Ferro for that inspirational speech.”

Drake

Drake braces the hand mortar against the ground before sending a volley towards the oncoming Empire of God troops

Game Master

The mortar fire whistles through the air exploding in a nearby building, but fails to hit its target.

Frost

“We’re running low on ammo!”

Game Master

Crowe fires off a round from his rifle, hitting an infantry man in a crumbled doorway and spinning him like a top, as he slumps against the wall blood gushing from the wound.

Ferro

Hidden within a bombed out building Ferro sends a streak of fire towards the injured Infantry Man.

Game Master

The Empire of God Infantry Man is engulfed in flames as he runs out into the street screaming, before collapsing face first in the mud and ash silenced forever.

Game Master

The Empire of God Infantry move up, using the cover littered across the broken street.

One Infantry Man fires at Frost striking the COT Corpsman and dropping him to the ground.

Bullets fly through the air as the Empire of God advances, but the tell tale sound of a jam rings out as two of the infantry mens weapons jam.

Dietrich

“Damnit Frost!”

Game Master

The heavy footfalls of the Brimstone Unit are heard as it moves down the street, accompanied by the sound of mortar fire and the whistling of the shell as it flies towards the group.

The mortar shell hits the building behind the team, where Ferro is held up, the explosion sends ash, and rubble flying over the group.

Looking back and fearing the worst, the team is relieved to see Ferro still standing, a field of force shimmering around her form, the only thing standing between her and oblivion.

Ferro

“Not done yet!”

Dietrich

Moves to Frost, and wraps his wounds, stopping the soldier from bleeding out.

Frost

“Uhg, I thought I was done there”

Game Master

3. Act III: The Open Door

The smoke clears just as the whistle of incoming artillery begins its terrifying, familiar descent. Trapped in a collapsing cul-de-sac of shattered masonry, your breathing is shallow, your ammunition dangerously low, and the fanatical vanguard of the Empire is closing in.

Then, a sound cuts through the din of war: the low, rusted groan of a heavy oak door pivoting open from the facade of a ruined, hollowed-out structure.

Standing in the threshold is Mother Abigail Marsh.

The Priestess

Amidst the ash and blood of No Man’s Land, she is an impossible image of serene, maternal warmth. She is an elderly woman, her face lined with the deep creases of a long life, yet her clear eyes are remarkably bright and full of vibrant, welcoming vitality. She is dressed in the worn, practical garments of an old nun—heavy wool layers of muted charcoal and slate gray that have been mended repeatedly with precise, neat stitching.

In her weathered hands, she loosely holds a long, dark rosary. To a casual glance, the beads are beads of polished black jet. However, a closer look reveals something far more peculiar: the “beads” are actually a perfectly interlocking chain of tiny, glossy black spiders. Under your direct gaze, they remain entirely, unnervingly still—mimicking cold stone with absolute perfection—though they seem to glint subtly in the firelight.

Mother Abigail Marsh

She looks upon your battered, bleeding squad not with fear, but with profound, heartfelt pity.

“In here, little ones,”

Her voice is a calm, melodic hum that carries effortlessly over the thunder of the war forges.

“Quickly now, before the righteous find you. The Mother’s house is always open to the lost.”

Drake

“What’s she doing out in a war zone?!”

Dietrich

“What are we doing out in a war zone!”

Ferro

“Well whatever we’re gonna do, best do it fast, before we’re overrun!”

Game Master

The Safe House Exterior

The building she beckons you toward mirrors the devastation of the rest of St. Josephine. From the outside, it appears to be just another hollowed-out carcass of a grand estate, thoroughly broken by years of relentless bombardment.

The Upper Floors: The top two stories have completely collapsed under past mortar strikes, leaving a jagged crown of exposed, blackened timber beams pointing toward the bruised twilight sky. The upper levels are entirely open to the elements, swallowed by thick drifts of falling gray ash that cascade down the interior walls like snow.

The Ground Floor: The lower level has been desperately fortified. Every grand window frame has been crudely but completely boarded up with heavy, mismatched planks of salvaged wood, explicitly structured to ensure not a single sliver of candle-light or warmth escapes into the dangerous, sniper-riddled streets outside.

It looks like a drafty, miserable ruin—a tomb of cold stone. Yet, as Mother Abigail holds the heavy door open, a completely contradictory draft of air washes over your soot-stained faces. It carries the rich, heavy scent of dried lavender, woodsmoke, and freshly brewed tea, whispering of an impossible sanctuary hidden just beyond the threshold.

Mother Abigail Marsh

“Quickly now dears, before you catch your death”

Game Master

Drake moves along the sandbag wall and rubble, keeping low he provides cover fire, Ferro also exits the now destroyed building she was in, to provide support while the others make their escape, while Dietrich shoulders Frost helping the severely injured soldier towards the sanctuary.

Ferro

Ferro reaches into her pouch and produces a hand full of powder, and as she tosses it, a bank of heavy fog cover rises out of the ground concealing the group.

Game Master

Bullets wiz through the heavy fog over the teams heads, the whistling of mortar fire proceeds an explosion behind the group as ash and rubble rain down around them.

Game Master

As Wierzbowski makes their move towards the open door and sanctuary, a shape moving in the fog presents itself, with a steady hand and practiced aim Wierzbowski fires, followed by the gratifying sound of a body hitting the ash and mud in a dead drop.

Game Master

Amidst the heavy fog, raining ash, and debris, and the whizz of rifle fire, the team runs through into the open doorway of the sanctuary.

Game Master

Act IV: The RenaissanceSitting Room

The heavy oak door thuds shut, instantly cutting off the deafening roar of the Empire of God’s tactical walker and the whistle of falling mortar shells. The sudden, absolute silence is physical—a heavy weight that makes the ringing in your ears pulse in time with your racing hearts.

The transition is a violent, jarring shock to the senses. You have stepped out of a freezing, ash-choked industrial slaughterhouse and directly into a meticulously preserved, Renaissance-style old English sitting room.

The Environment

The air is warm and perfectly still, completely devoid of the sharp tang of cordite and copper that has lined your throats for weeks. Instead, the room breathes a rich, suffocating comfort: the deep, earthy scent of crackling oak woodsmoke, dried lavender hanging from the rafters, and the aromatic, slightly spicy steam of freshly brewed black tea.

The Woodwork: The walls are lined from floor to ceiling with dark, heavily varnished oak paneling. The wood is intricately carved with looping, geometric Tudor roses and high-relief moldings. In the flickering firelight, the deep grooves of the carvings look less like floral vines and more like a dense, overlapping lattice of frozen roots.

The Furnishings: Massive, high-backed wing chairs upholstered in frayed but spotless crimson brocade are arranged in a semicircular embrace around a monumental stone hearth. A colossal fire roars within, casting a deep, amber glow across a thick, plush Persian rug that thoroughly muffles the scraping of your muddy combat boots.

The Windows: Towering, leaded-glass windows line the outer wall, but they offer no glimpse of the war outside. They are completely choked behind heavy, multi-layered velvet drapes of a deep, midnight green. The fabric is so thick and dense that it completely smothers the flashing light of explosions and the vibration of artillery, sealing the room into its own private world.

No sooner have you dropped your heavy packs than Mother Abigail is among you, moving with a sprightly, vibrant energy that belies her advanced years. Her slate-gray wool nun’s garments rustle softly as she floats from person to person, her expression an image of profound, maternal devotion.

She is infinitely attentive. With gentle, surprisingly strong hands, she coaxes you into the plush wingbacked chairs. She produces a basin of steaming water and clean, white linen cloths, personally dabbing at the soot on your faces and wrapping clean bandages over your raw, shrapnel-torn wounds. Her touch is soothing, radiating an unnatural, comforting warmth that seems to seep deep into your aching bones, momentarily dulling the throbbing pain of battle.

Mother Abigail Marsh

“Shh, rest now, my brave soldiers,”

*She murmurs softly, her voice a rhythmic, comforting purr as she gently strokes Ferro’s hair with her long, thin fingers.

“The righteous cannot reach you here. You have fought so hard. You must replenish your strength. The Mother provides for all her children.”

Dietrich

Dietrich checks on Frost as he slumps in the chair, blood dripping on the polished floorboards.

Drake

“Everyone in one piece more or less?”

Frost

Takes a gurgled raspy breath

“More or less.”

Game Master

With a soft clatter, she sets down a massive silver serving tray upon a low mahogany table. On it rests a steaming porcelain tureen filled with a thick, suspiciously rich meat stew and a collection of exquisite, tarnished silver teacups. She pours the tea herself—a dark, amber brew that smells intensely of honey and exotic spices.

Abigail stands over you, her bright eyes wide and completely unblinking, watching with an intense, eager hunger of her own as she presses the warm silver cups into your hands. She insists—gently but with an unyielding, persistent gravity—that you drink deeply and eat heartily from the bowls. She hovers at your elbows, refilling cups the moment they empty, nodding with deep, radiant satisfaction at every swallow you take.

Drake

“Wierzbowski, Crowe! You still with us?”

Crowe

“Still kicking”

Game Master

The First Red Flags (The Suspicion)

As the unnatural warmth of the hearth and the rich food begin to settle over you, the pristine illusion of the parlor begins to fracture for those who look closely:

The Shadows: The fire in the hearth is large, yet the shadows cast across the room do not dance in sync with the leaping flames. Along the high corners of the dark oak paneling, the shadows crawl with a heavy, deliberate slowness—stretching out into long, jointed, multi-legged silhouettes that trace the ceiling before snapping back into place whenever a character looks directly at them.

The Sound: Beneath the cheerful crackle of the burning oak logs, a faint, rhythmic acoustic anomaly vibrates through the floorboards. It is a distant, muffled click-clack... click-clack... coming from somewhere deep beneath the rug. It sounds precisely like a massive, industrial loom weaving heavy fabric—or the frantic, synchronized skittering of a thousand chitinous legs against hollow stone.

The Rosary: As Abigail moves to serve more stew, the long black rosary at her hip sways. For a split second, out of the corner of your eye, the glossy “beads” seem to ripple, the tiny, interlocking legs of the frozen black spiders shifting to adjust their grip on her vestments. Yet, the moment your eyes lock onto the chain, they freeze instantly, reverting to cold, polished jet, glistening under the firelight.

Game Master

Act V: The Sleep of the Fly

The comforting warmth of the Renaissance sitting room, once a welcome reprieve, rapidly curdles into something suffocating. The rich, aromatic spices of the amber tea and the savory thickness of the meat stew linger heavy on your palate, but a sudden, unnatural chill strikes your core.

The transition is swift and terrifying. It begins as a dull, heavy tingling in your fingertips and toes, a phantom numbness that spreads like liquid lead up your limbs. When you try to set down your silver teacup, your hand refuses to obey the command; the tarnished metal slips from unfeeling fingers, clattering loudly against the low mahogany table and pooling the dark brew across the Persian rug.

Your lungs grow incredibly heavy, forcing you to draw shallow, ragged breaths of the lavender-scented air. One by one, the strength completely drains from your muscles. Weapons and gear slip from your grasps, clanging uselessly against the floorboards as your bodies collapse into the plush crimson wingbacked chairs or slide helplessly onto the thick rug. You are kept entirely awake, your minds screaming in panic, but your bodies are utterly bound by a profound, inescapable paralysis. You are frozen, trapped within your own flesh like a fly bound in silk.

The True Face of the Matriarch

Through the mounting horror of your locked senses, the soft rustle of slate-gray wool approaches. Mother Abigail Marsh steps into your fading field of vision, looking down at your helpless squad.

The vibrant, life-filled warmth in her expression evaporates. Her maternal smile remains, but it warps, stretching too wide, too taut across her face, tilting at an angle that is deeply, fundamentally wrong. Her bright eyes widen, reflecting the roaring firelight, yet they remain completely, chillingly unblinking.

She kneels down beside a paralyzed character on the rug. With a slow, deliberate grace, she reaches out. The fingers that press against your temple are no longer soft or warm—they are unseasonably, unnervingly cold.

As her hand strokes your hair, you feel the sickening, rhythmic sensation of extra joints flexing beneath her skin, a multi-jointed, skittering touch that mimics the caress of a massive arachnid leg.

At her hip, the long black rosary finally breaks its stone-still facade. Deprived of your watchful gaze as your eyelids grow heavy, the glossy black “beads” come alive, thousands of tiny, interlocking legs uncoiling as the swarm of little black spiders ripples across her gray vestments in a silent, chaotic dance.

The crackling of the fireplace fades, replaced entirely by the deafening, frantic click-clack... click-clack... of the massive loom vibrating violently from the depths directly beneath your bodies.

Mother Abigail Marsh Mother Abigail leans down, her breath smelling faintly of honey and ancient dust, and whispers her final, terrifyingly gentle welcome into your ear:

“Rest now, beautiful little flies. Do not fight the silk. You have run so far, but you are safe in the web now. The Mother has such a wonderful, terrible purpose for you...”

Game Master The amber glow of the hearth begins to fracture. The creeping shadows on the dark wood trim expand, stretching down from the ceiling like long, chitinous limbs to drape over your vision. The warmth vanishes, the room tilts into a suffocating, silent dark, and the world goes completely black.

This is the end of Session 1.