Sep 21, 2015 10:34 pm
It's nearly half past six in the evening when each of you arrive at St. Mary's hospital in central Arkham, the gothic spires of Miskantonic university rising impressively behind you. The sun setting, it is still nearly 72 degrees outside, making the beginning of fall feel a bit more like summer. An indian summer, perhaps. Each of you had received word that your dear friend, Rupert Merriweather, was near the end of his time on this Earth.
"Mr Lidstrom, I would strongly suggest you come this Sunday evening. I fear Rupert may only have days left. The cancer has spread." The nurse at St. Mary's had sounded very serious indeed as she phoned Steve Lidstrom a day earlier. A telegraph delivered to James Legatte at Cambridge University came a week earlier urging him to make the journey over the Atlantic as soon as he possibly could. Maxmillian Swift found out the earliest as he was across the way at the university working. "Did you hear that Rupert is not doing well?" Swift's colleague, a certain Edward Vitton, said one day sitting across from him at lunch. You all felt utterly compelled to visit the man in his final days.
"Third floor, room 313," the nurse at the front desk informed you motioning to the bank of elevators behind her. Arriving to the third floor you find Merriweather's room door open. Inside you see the bed-ridden man you have all know for a large portion of your lives. He is barely recognizable. His eyes are sunk deep into his excruciatingly thin face, a head totally lacking of hair. Brown splotches cover his face, the corners of his lips cracked and caked with blood. He figure he can't weigh more than 80 pounds at this point.
Sitting at a chair to his left you recognize his wife, Ester. She is weeping gently holding her husband's hand of some forty years. Across in the other corner of the room sits a young man roughly your own ages. He eyes you all suspiciously before returning his gaze to the dying man in the bed.
"Thank you," he rasps. "Thank you so much for coming." He stops to cough and spit out what you see to be blood into a tissue. "You all know Ester," he says, looking over at his wife. "This is my son, Charles." You can't help but notice a tone of indifference regarding the young man in Rupert's voice. After the pleasantries have been exchanged, Rupert asks his wife and son to leave so he may speak with his dear friends. His wife kisses him on the forehead and makes her way while Charles shoots a cold glare to each of you on the way out of the room. He motions for James to shut the door.
"Mr Lidstrom, I would strongly suggest you come this Sunday evening. I fear Rupert may only have days left. The cancer has spread." The nurse at St. Mary's had sounded very serious indeed as she phoned Steve Lidstrom a day earlier. A telegraph delivered to James Legatte at Cambridge University came a week earlier urging him to make the journey over the Atlantic as soon as he possibly could. Maxmillian Swift found out the earliest as he was across the way at the university working. "Did you hear that Rupert is not doing well?" Swift's colleague, a certain Edward Vitton, said one day sitting across from him at lunch. You all felt utterly compelled to visit the man in his final days.
"Third floor, room 313," the nurse at the front desk informed you motioning to the bank of elevators behind her. Arriving to the third floor you find Merriweather's room door open. Inside you see the bed-ridden man you have all know for a large portion of your lives. He is barely recognizable. His eyes are sunk deep into his excruciatingly thin face, a head totally lacking of hair. Brown splotches cover his face, the corners of his lips cracked and caked with blood. He figure he can't weigh more than 80 pounds at this point.
Sitting at a chair to his left you recognize his wife, Ester. She is weeping gently holding her husband's hand of some forty years. Across in the other corner of the room sits a young man roughly your own ages. He eyes you all suspiciously before returning his gaze to the dying man in the bed.
"Thank you," he rasps. "Thank you so much for coming." He stops to cough and spit out what you see to be blood into a tissue. "You all know Ester," he says, looking over at his wife. "This is my son, Charles." You can't help but notice a tone of indifference regarding the young man in Rupert's voice. After the pleasantries have been exchanged, Rupert asks his wife and son to leave so he may speak with his dear friends. His wife kisses him on the forehead and makes her way while Charles shoots a cold glare to each of you on the way out of the room. He motions for James to shut the door.