[Solo] The Prussian Infantry Marches to Carcosa

I played a solo session today. A Prussian infantry detachment is somehow transported to Carcosa circa 1810. I was very much inspired by this cool session report by Underground Adventures: an Into the Odd one-shot for a single player, about a group of Napoleonic soldiers on Carcosa.

The Detachment:

• Captain Friederike “Freddy” Krüger, a woman who entered service disguised as a man, but is by now accepted as she is
• Brother Paul, Augustine monk and scholar
• Dr. Krowitz, field surgeon
• 20 disciplined Infantrymen with muskets

(Carcosa art by Rich Longmore)

How I play:

I rolled a random starting hex (0311).

Procedure: 1 Turn = 1 Day

For weather: 2d6 Reaction roll

Wandering encounter: 2-in-12 chance, 1 is daytime, 2 is nighttime

Turn 1

Location: Hex 0311, Wasteland

Weather: 7, Neutral

Encounter: 11, None

...Once the electrified mist disperses, the Detachment finds itself in a strange landscape, a purple wasteland. A violet-crowned sun hangs menacingly above and twin moons race through the light blue sky. The soldiers are nearly blinded by the alien hues.

Friederike checks her compass. The needle whirls around like a madman. It’s useless. So Friederike tries to get her bearings by the strange celestial objects.

The purple wasteland stretches in all directions. Mostly flat, with wind-swept dunes and twisted, thorny, dry vegetation.

Many miles moonwards, a titanic dark tower rises towards the purple filament. Not even the tallest spires of the largest cathedrals of Europe, not even the Pyramids of Egypt can compare.

Sunwards, but slightly off to the right hand, a darker mass, perhaps a forest, is visible.

Friederike also notices, that there are whitish rocks laid out on the ground, forming a circle roughly 300’ in diameter around the detachment.

Suddenly, a foul screeching voice slashes through the air: “QÆXÆD! ÆRCÆUQÆ! ÆXHYSD ÆPQÆXQÆ KÆZŸ!” 

“There!” a young soldier cries out and points.

Half-buried in the purple sand, there is a formless black mass, man-sized, now violently twitching and shaking.

“SŸQAH IUUŸXDÆR NŸVONDÆN ÆRHÆSDZŸSDUD DÜNEJŸ ÆVDDÆS KHUŸQŸ HICAU!” 

“Muskets!” Friederike commands and the soldiers, their Prussian conditioning kicking in, form a firing line. “Ready! Take aim!”

“KOSQOSŸ GADZRAHADÆJ CÆUÆG NÂRXADHODEPŸ ČHIZI ÆFCÆDŽŸ KHAHDZÆFDŸX!” 

“Wait! Could this be…” Brother Paul raises a hand and steps forward.

“How dare you interrupt me, Brother? We are at war, remember?”

“I recognize this language! But I’ve never thought I would hear it spoken… Aklo, it is called. Otto Dostmann describes in his ‘Remnants of Lost Empires’, a book most intriguing yet often criticized for its reliance on---”

“Cut the footnotes, scholar. What does it mean?”

“Something about… death… altar… king… universe…”

“ÆDŸQŸDZINAD U ÆRXÆSD RAJDIAN! ÆXBÆRZD ÆCÆGÆQON BAJGOX KÆNŸ ZONDÆN JÆ FÆNDAG!” 

The black shape twitches one more then as abruptly as it awakened, freezes.

“Confusion… soul… mask… path…”

A minute passes in silence.

While Friederike and the soldiers hold their ground, weapons still at ready, Brother Paul takes a few steps towards it.

He sees a vaguely human shape, half-buried in the sand. Charred metallic fragments protrude from the body. The flesh seems to have melted and coalescenced into a formless mass.

Yet this dead thing spoke, and spoke in Aklo, the dead language shrouded in mystery.

Brother Paul’s curiosity triumph and he leans above the black heap to examine it closer. Is that… graying pink flesh still pulsating under what looks like the crashed cranium of a man?

Suddenly, an angular appendage reaches out from below the sand and grabs Brother Paul by the throat. The blackened body rises and once more the foul scream emanates: “DÆ ZÆRDŸX DAR DOBÆGOND QŸRDÆ, QÆXÆDDZAG: AXCŸDÆR QUAQÆ SUDZA. DAU ARD NÆ BUAR HÆRŸ!” 

“HOLD YOUR FIRE!” Friederike shouts and charges forward with her sabre.

But by the time she reaches the place, the creature collapses into the sand and Brother Paul falls back, coughing and choking. Yet, the real pain is inside his mind: arcane syllables etched into his very being.

Friederike grabs the scholar and drags him back to the group. “Medic!”

Dr. Krowitz (who’s been observing from a safe distance) kneels down and examines Brother Paul. The monk’s neck is collared by black chokemarks. His eyes are wide open but only their whites are visible. Dr. Krowitz produces a small bottle from his bag, holds it under Brother Paul’s nose and removes the stopper. The chemical smell of ammonia comes as another shock – much lesser than the occult Aklo intrusion, but enough to bring back the scholar.

Brother Paul abruptly sits up.

“Can you hear us, Brother Paul?” Dr. Krowitz asks.

“Y-yes…” the scholar answers. His voice is faint, but present.

“What is that thing there? What did it tell you know?”

“It’s… a person, I think. Burnt beyond recognition – but somehow alive!”

“Madness!”

“Yes! True madness! But true! You’ve seen him move, heard him talk! He said---I don’t remember…”

“We need to get moving,” Friederike interrupts them. “We can’t stay like this out in the open in enemy territory. Can you march, Brother Paul?”

“I can, I think. Where to? The… tower?”

“No. That might be an enemy stronghold. We go to the forest, set up camp. Then survey the area. This place is not represented on our maps.”

“We are not in Baden anymore,” mutters Dr. Krowitz under his magnificent mustache.

The soldiers help up Brother Paul and march --- suddenly, the armies of Napoleon don’t seem scary at all.

To be continued?

        YES! Turn 2 is here.