Chapter 1: A Beast
*Note: This is a sample scene of a larger work, currently under development.
Later that evening…
At the woods’ edge, torch-bearing townsfolk return from their fruitless search for the lost Jonathan Flemings. Reverberations bounce back through the forest as the chapel bell tolls out overhead. Town guards begin ushering people inside for what apparently seems to be an important meeting. As you all eventually make your way through the thick, oaken double-doors, leading into the foyer, having to push through the crowd toward one of the raised side-pews, you manage to find a spot to stand, where you can see over the entire congregation.
At the altar, standing mightily before the crushing waves of the mass, the esteemed Reverend Solomon Mathers holds fast behind the pulpit, beating back the query of the audience with a stern glare and pounding gavel.
[Reverend Mather’s Description] Reverend Solomon Mathers is a man of tall stature, whose piercing eyes and constant scowl epitomize the Puritanical lack of cheerfulness; the Reverend is imposing, to say the least. His dark grey hair is neatly parted down the middle, combed past his sharp-angled jaw, where it slithers into curls beside the frilled ruff around his neck. His pointed nose hooks, like a vulture’s beak, over a fixed grimace. Along with his sable cape, he is dressed all in black, save for his starched collar, cuffs, and stockings. He is oft seen carrying a Geneva Bible. Looking at him from an angle, there also appears to be a lump nearest the back of his waistcoat… [PCs may make a hard PERCEPTION check to discern the lump to be a hidden flint-lock pistol]
“Settle now! Settle down! There will be order in the house of God!” shouts the reverend.
A middle-aged woman desperately squeezes her way through the packed mob, falling to her knees into the opening before Solomon—one Mrs. Susannah Beckham. Her husband, John, calls out to her, but is lost in the disorder of the assembly.
“My son, Reverend, my son!” Susannah cries, clawing her way up the Reverend’s lectern, “My William wakes not! He has such fevered dreams! Will God not help him?! I pray, I pray! But his condition worsens! He mutters such things in his sleep, Reverend. Unholy things! H-he beg-” the sobbing mother holds back a cry with her hand, muttering then in a soft, tearful voice, “…he begs the Lord to take him.”
“My John!” another mourning mother leaps forth, retched by the rambling host, “Where is my little John! Is he found? Did you find him?!” She is caught by the arms of a guard, restrained and returned to the mercy of the disorderly crowd. Others shout over one another, questioning, accusing, and demanding answers.
“Be this the curse laid by Rebecca Griggs?!” one man brazenly accuses.
“Who, Reverend? Who brings this malediction upon us?!” shouts another from the bleating flock of townsfolk.
“A beast!” a craggily voice pierces through the cries of the rabble, hurled high from the far-flung pews, nearest the back of the church. A haggard, old man limps forth with crooked step and one squinted eye—Mr. Samuel Griggs—the town’s eldest huntsman and husband to the late Rebecca, of whom several so boldly charged. “A beast, says I! Aye, I’ve seen it! A beast be what stole away the John-boy into the wood!” The crowd gasps around him.
“Oh, how I’d expect little less than demented ravings and lunacy from our dear Mr. Griggs!” barks the Reverend in retort, scowling down at Samuel from his lofty lectern.
“Truth, I say! Truth be truth! For, I’ve seen the mark of the Beast and its trodden steps. Damnation be to man, woman, and child who signs the Black Book and pacts with the Devil! Satan hath marked ye, an’ his mark be cruel,” Samuel then turns from the crowd and locks eyes with Reverend Mathers, “Small gifts bought for so great a price.”
Solomon’s eyes grow furious as he pounds his gavel against the podium. “Remove him! I will not entertain the blind accusations of a senile, old man! Order! Order, damn you all!” he shouts, as his voice is lost over the yammer of the crowd.
One of the Reverend’s guards grab Mr. Griggs by the scruff of his neck and wrestle him out of the far doorway and into the street. As chaos ensues, members of the congregation begin to yell over one another. Infectious cries of “black magic!” and “devilry!” spread quick within the mob. One woman accuses her neighbor of bearing such a mark as Mr. Griggs had suggested on her hand, however, after further inspection and debate, it is tentatively agreed to be a burn from a hot clothes iron.
“Silence!” bellows the Reverend, nostrils fuming with anger. The feud dies down and the crowd quiets to a hush. “Silence,” he mutters now, trying to regain his composure. “Fear not, for the Lord is thy shepherd. ‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me.’ Go now in peace back to your homes. We will send a search for the Flemings boy again at first dawn.”
At the last hammer of the Reverend’s gavel, the townsfolk, fearful and weary, depart.