The Acolytes gathered IDs and evidence on the debauchery that had been going down in the hotel. They now have several dozen possible heretics to persecute. Details, details.
They decided to follow up on the Durante Gagne name. Putting the data into the system, a man by that name popped up on the Administratum payroll. A quick visit to his address gleaned the following:
The front door of Durante Gagne’s quarters was locked, but gaining entry was no problem for the Acolytes.
Gagne’s quarters were a trio of rooms: a living space, a sleeping space, and a claustrophobic bathroom, all choked with seventh-hand possessions. A water stained scrivener’s desk and a cracked dining table dominated the front room. A tattered sitting sack leaking tiny styrene balls and half a dozen broken chairs made up this room’s available seating. Across from the main door, a loudly humming refrigeration unit and pantry cabinets barely contained bulging canned goods or perishable food supplies. The bedroom was barely large enough to hold a pallet covered with rumpled bedding and a dresser whose drawers overflowed with so many wadded up garments that the drawers could not be properly closed… A closet revealed itself to be a narrow toilet and shower stall, all breeding grounds for the blackest mold. Nothing was new or particularly well tended, but for a pair of Administratum uniforms, which hung over the kitchenette sink, their hangers hooked to the rusty corner of the wall mounted, refuse incinerator.
Amongst the pallet’s soiled bedding, the Acolytes found several still picts of attractive women, obviously taken without their knowledge. One wore an Administratum uniform from the same department as Gagne (Esthe LaGrans). The others featured a pair of gorgeous, dark-skinned twins on some noble’s arms (Sabine and Natla Pashook). The noble’s face has been gouged out (and replaced with Gagne’s own), but there is a crest ring still visible on a hand slung low over one woman’s waist that identified the wearer as belonging to the Kensington family.
In a pile of crumbled parchment was a singular note “Get 300 Thrones? Meet Goplan,” and a scrawled address.
In the incinerator chute was a page of ancient parchment written in blood displaying a partial ritual of some sort.
The toilet’s medicine cabinet held pharmaceuticals aplenty, including Cimitidine tablets, acyclovir gels, and zilactin paste: treatment drugs for herpes simplex delta-delta. There is no known cure for “HerSy-double delt”, though its outbreaks can be controlled through multiple medications (until such time as natural resistances develop).
On to the next:
The Imperial Arms dance hall was rather well designed and appointed in its time. Unfortunately, the location was not enough of a draw, so it finally shut its doors, one standard month ago.
The dance hall has two levels: a cathedral like main floor, and a cramped and dank dungeon-like sublevel. The Acolytes gain entry to the main floor, hearing two people’s screams from below.
They smelled the place long before they reached it — the lingering stink of rotting corpses filled the hallways of the lower levels. A lone woman’s terrified shrieks rebounded off the walls of the place, seemingly thickening the air itself, and amongst them the cell heard the ponderous sounds of a lone voice chanting.
The downstairs room was circular, its floors cast in obsidian, and its walls featured newly installed steel rings. From these hung manacles, each attached to a body — six corpses, ranging from several days rotten to murdered only a moment earlier. Only one prisoner remained alive, drugged blind yet squirming and screaming, eyes wide and locked upon her tormentor. He was a hunched figure; his gore splashed skin home to dozens of clusters of sores, lesions, and inflamed papules. He was a walking disease, sweating pus and weeping a wholly unidentifiable ichor. The twisty knife in his fist was designed for inflicting as much pain as possible before it finished its work.
The acolytes confronted the disgusting creature before he could finish off the bound woman. He turned a leprous and baleful gaze upon them, and started to laugh. Several demon-ticks sprang from the shadows, assaulting the cell. In the ensuing fight, someone managed to mortally wound Gagne. As he died, his hands holding in his diseased intestines, Gagne started to laugh.
The corpses began to twitch as though receiving electric shocks. The manacles clattered like macabre bells as wrists and ankles tugged within the steel loops. The corpses were all sweating, and their sweat was a phosphorescent, sickly green jelly. This stuff flowed from them, pooled around them and slowly spread across the floor.
From a clotted sump of congealed corpse fluid, up sprang a terrifying creature. With a gigantic, cataracted eye, and a single curved horn on its forehead, this thing was only man-like in the loosest sense. It attacked the tired acolytes, scoring hit after hit before being felled by a series of shots and melee attacks.