#dim Carcosa

[haaaaaaaaaaaave-you-met-ted]

Dim Carcosa by Mike Franchina

[podaliedja]

I've been reading the king in yellow and these little guys are all I can think about

Ignore the reused assets. I wasn't gonna draw an entire eye when Jonathan Sims, head Archivist of the Magnus Institute has plenty

[aerachnaodnagren]

Autoharness Steam powered brass centipede, that is the best solution for traversing multileveled human settlements of Drent'Tag. It would be better though, if the only movement it can produce is forwarded , and needs vertical surfaces just to reverse itself . Otherwise, it needs help of something as big and as strong to be towed back somewhere it can go on

[pallid-mask-element]

OOC

Ninth EPPRBCU blog woooooooo. Blog ran by @john-tendrils-exclam-the-eighth, again. The Pallid Mask is called The Stranger, and they use any pronouns.

TAGS

The shadows lengthen in Carcosa: Interaction tag

But stranger still is lost Carcosa: Lore tag

Must die unheard in dim Carcosa: Ask tag

Shall dry and die in lost Carcosa: Shitpost tag

DESCRIPTION

The Stranger wears a large yellow robe, that seems to be made of yellow parchment. It has strips coming off that end in blue. His hands and feet are visible, appearing to wear some kind of golden scaled armour. Their face is obscured by a white ceramic mask, with gold streaks covering it. Galaxies can be seen beneath the eyeholes. She stands at exactly eight foot five and wields a large scythe with a golden blade and stone handle.

The Visitor From Carcosa

The Visitor From Carcosa wears a yellow business suit, with a black tie. He wears a masquerade mask that appears to be made of gold.

His skin appears to be made of old slightly yellow parchment, with all his features expertly drawn on.

Uses he/him.

[nightly-valkyrie]

"Along the shore the cloud waves break, The twin suns sink behind the lake, The shadows lengthen     In Carcosa.

Strange is the night where black stars rise, And strange moons circle through the skies, But stranger still is     Lost Carcosa.

Songs that the Hyades shall sing, Where flap the tatters of the King, Must die unheard in     Dim Carcosa.

Song of my soul, my voice is dead, Die thou, unsung, as tears unshed Shall dry and die in     Lost Carcosa."

Cassilda's Song in "The King in Yellow." Act 1.Scene 2.

[funeralprocessor]

Gold star lesbian? You misheard me, I said I'm a *cold* star lesbian. The profane stars whose chill unlight falls dim on lost Carcosa have unwoven me utterly, their lurid astral fires licking at every fiber until my essence is subsumed into theirs. And we were all girls.

[jovialtorchlight]

The Cursed Halls of Carcosa

By Jonny Bolduc

If you are reading this letter, you want to know about Carcosa? You want to know about the gate? You want to know about the fate of doomed travelers ambling in the dim halls? I can oblige the regaling of the tale. 

There were three of us. George Irish, a strong, competent man of about fifty with grayed hair and a long red beard. Emily Wellspring, a spry, energetic woman who caused a stir in gentle society after she worked for a few nights as the only female ditch digger in London. That did not last long. Now, she roamed around the city, taking whatever work she could find.

What fools we were. Of course, our instructions were clear, with little room for mistakes. Traverse the first few halls of the catacombs, marking the walls with charcoal etchings as we turned.  

Later, as I followed George close enough to breath upon his neck, desperately latching to the dim light of the lantern like a moth to a flame, I cursed the day I signed the contract obligating me to undertake this wretched endeavor.  But in the beginning, it was sold well to me. Let me take you to the start of this descent.  

A week ago, Reginald Garrish, a rotund man dressed in a fine black coat, who claimed to be employed by Howard Black, Esquire treated me to a lavish night of wine and merriment,  and in the stupor of overindulgence, obliged me to scrawl a drunken signature and accept a small pouch of 40 shillings, binding me to the task of diving into the uncharted subterranean catacombs beneath Black’s sprawling estate in search of his missing boy, Barnaby. 

"The only trace we've got," Reginald said halfway through the raucous evening, his voice slipping from the faux haughty accent he so clearly rehearsed and falling into a workyard rasp, "is this little trumpet he used to toot about. Discovered it in the mausoleum, near the stairs that take you down to them crypts."

And so, when we first took the crumbling stone depths down, away from the light of the midmorning, we saw plenty of signs that the boy had been wandering; a half eaten bonbon, wrappers; a half consumed cigar and some spent matches the boy had stolen from some adult. The hall continued straight, long, descending down further and further into the earth, growing colder and dimmer. 

“Just stay close to me,” George uttered earlier in the morning as we donned cloaks and filled our canteens from the well. “We won’t be long in the labyrinth. We are merely scouting.”

George, of course, took the lead of the procession. 

“We must have walked one thousand steps,” George said about an hour into our journey. “How far down do these depths reach?”

A step later, and the dimming light revealed the end to the steps. A carved hallway in the stone, branching off in two directions. On the descent, the sides of the crypt had been bare and smooth; now, at the landing, our lanterns illuminated carved nooks in the walls, on which rested  the desiccated remains of ancient corpses, a body on either side, dusty skeletons resting with arms folded. One skeleton in once ornate, now moth-eaten silks of red, the other clad in yellow. A peaceful rest, it seemed then. 

George stopped to ponder at the split of the catacomb. There was no reason or clear danger at this intersection; we of course knew that this crypt would be full of the dead. But something inside of me screamed at the thought of pausing too long, some internal voice protested, urging me to move, to keep moving, and never to stop. 

I glanced behind. In the few hours I knew her, Emily never really stopped moving; she was animated by some internal engine, constantly bouncing or fidgeting. Now, though, she seemed still, ridgid even. A slight movement caught my peripheral vision; I swung my head around to the corpse in yellow rags. Of course, it hadn’t moved. 

Of course. 

After a moment, George decided to take the corridor on the left. The light was dim, and staring off into the hall, George thought he could see some article of clothing strewn on the ground about twenty feet out. George limped, dragging his foot as if injured, though I knew better. I had known George in passing; a former night-guard upended from his duty by a lingering knee injury who often took unscrupulous jobs or favors. I had also heard pubside murmerings that George faked his  injured knee to avoid his contracted duties. And for the first thousand steps, he had no limp or wavering steps. Now, though, he trembled as he walked, as if his imagined injuries were realized.

And so we walked, and the clump of clothing was revealed to be a shadow cast upon the sides of the catacombs. Rather than preserved bodies, resting upon the carved tables were piles of bones, as if remains had been indiscriminately dumped on the shelves of the catacombs. After a few minutes, George stopped suddenly, and plunged his arms into a bone pile, emerging with a skull. 

I had no real time to protest this, though I would have made it clear that I did not think it wise. Some dread, some superstition was building in my stomach. George emerged with a skull. Taking charcoal from his bag, he marked large “X” on the cranium of the dusty skull, and set it gently down on the cool floor of the catacombs. 

“There,” he grunted, “We’ll be able to find our way back.”

Neither Emily nor I spoke. We kept walking. The light grew dimmer, and dimmer still. 

Over the next hour, George pulled three more skulls, marking them with charcoal. 

Emily, silent, trailed the two of us. I heard a clatter; turning on my heels I saw Emily, sprawled out on the floor. 

“Damn,” she muttered, hoisting herself up. As she regained her standing, we saw the cause of her stumbling; a humerus, knocked from the shelves, strewn across the narrow hall. I noticed that she was not holding her lantern. 

“Oh,” she said, quietly, staring at the catacomb beside her. Somehow, as she fell, the lantern sailed from her hand onto the shelves, and was now covered by loose bone. 

She and myself stared at the lantern. Some voice inside of me begged, pleaded in the whimper of a child not to reach into and graze my hands upon the bone. Emily likewise stood motionless, blue eyes wide. With hands trembling, she reached into the pit of bone and pulled up her lantern. 

“George,” she whispered, “swing the light this way.”

As George did so, the fire cast light upon Emily’s hand, holding the lantern. She let out a high and cutting scream, and I let out a grunt of terror as the light revealed the disgusting truth. 

I was as if Emily had stuck her hand into a fire; her flesh bubbling with pus, red, skin peeled. George came close, and hurriedly wet a rag from his small leather pack, holding it to Emily’s skin as her lantern clanged upon the stone floor.

“It doesn’t hurt,” Emily whispered, frantically, as if enemies were listening in on her words. “Tell me, why doesn’t it hurt?”

“Shock, perhaps,” George muttered as he wrapped her hand. “It’s a bad burn. Something must have happened with the lantern’s fuel.”

“We need to turn around,” I declared. “We need to get her to a doctor.”

As if in reply, a scream, muffled by distance, rang out. The scream of a child. Emily jerked her hand from George, and cradled it, wincing, as if the scream somehow cut her, or at least opened her mind to the pain of her burns. 

“God, it hurts!” she whispered into the darkness. George had already turned around and started to hurriedly amble towards the sound. 

“George!” I said. “She needs a doctor!”

“Was that not the boy?” George said, not turning around. ”Her burn, though grotesque, will be fine. The boy could be in danger.”

We hurried after him, and I realized later, when the terror latched onto us like an engorged tick, that Emily had left her lantern behind.

We walked, in a tight procession, George with his lantern held high to illuminate us all. The dark tunnel had not again diverged into an intersection, but still, three or four times, George pulled a skull from the pile to mark it with charcoal. It seemed as if another hour passed, walking through the long, dark halls.

Eventually, I grew concerned. I heard Emily’s footsteps behind me, and I could sense that she was following close behind, but the young woman who had talked vigorously before the descent,  teeming with adventure and life had uttered only a few fleeting words since descending into this abominable crypt.  

“Emily,” I whispered, half turned to remain close to George, and to also read her face–which was, as I saw,  empty, dreamlike, as if she were sleepwalking. “Do you still feel no pain?”

She nodded, her mouth agape. She cracked a smile. 

“I feel wonderful,” she said, her words slow and slurred. “We plod along the dark path towards the city on stilts.” 

“George,” I whispered, low, teeming with intensity. George had to know that the pain of the burn, in tandem with the oppressive darkness of the crypt, was settling into Emily’s mind. “We've had no sign of the boy for over an hour. We need to turn around.”

George swung around, the lantern light illuminating his pale, narrow face and unkempt beard, lips pressed together, grinding his teeth, eyes sunk back deep into the socket. 

“That which I have seen on this dreaded path set deep into my consciousness,” he started, slowly, as if a furnace kicking on after a season of sleep. “I heard the slicing whispers the dark ahead, speaking in ancient and vulgar tongue about the dread path. I have seen purple shadows with proportions impossible cast upon the dark stone of the crypt wall. I have seen those bones cast upon the stone of the earth and ground to dust.  We cannot turn back. Carcosa calls.” 

My stomach dipped. Handling one person driven to madness would be an impossible task; guiding two panicked souls from darkness to light seemed ruinous. We walked in silence, until George finally stopped. 

“Companions,” George uttered, his dry voice crackling like a fire in the dark. “Do not falter from the light of my lantern, for these corridors seem..” His voice trailed, swallowed by the heavy dark. 

I looked past him. He was right. Previously, the catacombs had been wide enough for two to walk side by side. The hall narrowed, and instead of remains strewn indiscriminately in piles, ancient corpses stood straight up, mounted into chiseled indents in the walls, posed with ceremonial swords and carvings. 

“George,” I whispered, “How much oil is left in the lantern?”

George turned to me, lips stretched, yellowed teeth exposed, locked into a grimace of pain. With one hand, George gripped my shoulders; in surprise, I tried to throw him off. His other hand dropped the lantern, clattering it on the floor; still it remained lit, casting a dim light upon the low stone ceiling of the tomb. The darkness was so oppressive, so consuming, so encompassing that it was if we were mosquitos encased in amber resin. As George pulled me in close, towards the cast light, I felt his impossibly tight grip on my shoulder. He pulled me so that we were practically nose to nose. 

“It is too late for me, Jonathan,” he said. His breath reeked, as if his organs and guts were rotting; a tooth fell from his mouth and clattered on the floor next to the lantern. “For I have seen the rotting well of midnight and I have been drowned. I have seen the last hour of the world played out in the shadows upon these walls; I have seen the yellow robes tattered, rising up from the detritus of our ashen, burned cities. The river will flood the bank, and my bloated body will drift down a river of filth towards dread Carcosa.”

The side of George’s face was illuminated. It was sopping wet, streams of dark, oily liquid running down from the top of his head to his mouth . He cried out, blubbering, spitting up water, like someone was holding his face in a bucket. His clothes dripped onto the floor.    A chunk of his red hair, dripping wet, coated with slime, plopped onto the floor. His skin bloated, inflated with drowning.  A chunk of black, necrotic skin slopped off the arm that gripped me, landing on the floor with a slap. His shirt rapidly decayed, black mold lining the fabric, coated in discharge, clutch still firm on my arm. 

“The river will flood the bank,” George cried, skin falling off in chunks, slapping against the cavern floor like a rainstorm of meat on a tin roof.

I was finally able to break free of his grip. As his skin fell from his legs, he fell face down into a pile of his own skin, and his movement ceased. I grabbed the lantern, and turned to Emily. She stood, swaying.

“Emily!” I shouted. “If you are present, if you can hear me, we must leave this cursed place!”

She did not respond. Gingerly stepping over the remains of George, I decided to see if I could move her arms like a puppet master. I wrapped them around my waist, and started walking, hoping that somewhere in her deepest consciousness she could decide to save herself. And she did. She walked along with me, her hands wrapped tightly around my waist, keeping my step.  

Part of my panicked mind posited that it did not matter what way we chose to leave. Every turn, every step spelled doom. But it seemed as if we may stand a chance if we turned around the way we came. So in that way I walked, only for a few moments, before the lantern flickered and went out. 

Curiously, it was that darkness that saved me. In the darkness, I could see no shadows cast upon the wall. I could not see the rusted gate swinging wide, leading to Carcosa.  I walked, with Emily close behind, through the darkness, staying straight and true. We walked that way for a time, before I stepped on something that crunched beneath my boot like a plate. 

“A charcoal skull,” I muttered. “We are on the right path.”

And so we continued. I hugged the walls, and every so often, I stepped on a skull in the darkness. With each skull, improbable hope rose up from a deep internal well. I thought that Emily and I would perhaps see the end of this cursed maze; and that hope became ecstasy when I realized that the hall had turned to steps. 

“Not longer now, Emily,” I muttered. And climbing the steps in the black was difficult, and slow moving. But we rose, slowly. Eventually, light cast from the opening of the tomb illuminated us, however dim. And as if a cosmic puppet on a string, as soon as I saw that light, I tripped, and fell backwards, onto Emily. 

But I did not feel the flesh of a human body when I fell. No, indeed, madness swells in me as I recall. I felt the crunch of bone. I rolled over, and a scream of fear escaped me. I glimpsed a skeletal face, mummified, clad in a crown of iron, twisted and bent in impossible angles; scrambling backwards, I saw the scalloped yellow robes that I now know belong to the King. Propelling myself backwards, the monster raised a feeble hand up at me.

 Like a spider, I threw myself backwards, kicking away from it, eventually righting myself. I bounded up the steps, not looking behind, and as I threw myself out of the tomb, rolling upon the grass, seeing the sun peak through the gray clouds, I was not relieved. Instead, I thought only about dread Carcosa.

You may see me wandering these dark and dim streets, begging for alms. In my mind, I am still stuck in the tomb, clutched by the King in Yellow, dragged towards dread Carcosa. I never again heard mention of Reginald or Howard Black.

But if you look in my eyes and see ghostly shadows cast upon the iris, friend, know that George and Emily live in me, screaming, thrashing to escape the clutch of the King in Yellow and trying to leave the dread Carcosa, the city on stilts. They were claimed by the tomb. They were dragged through the gate and now are captives in the dreaded city of Carcosa.

And if you are reading this letter, know that I am meandering towards the crypt I emerged from seven years ago. Know that I am going to jump into the black oil and listlessly drift towards Carcosa. Know that I will descend back down into madness. I will become the voice of the King in Yellow. I will unleash his will upon this cursed and hanging earth.

[averyangrytissuebox]

I'm going to level with you for this campaign. I am very biased because I love this campaign. I have lots of fond memories of playing this campaign with my friends by the seaside. Passing nervously as we did the last scenario or doing absolutely busted shit because we didn't realise how overpowered double or nothing can truly be. This doesn't mean you should take my review with a 3 autofails worth of salt because I stand by what I say, I just wanted to gush first.

Path to Carcosa: The perfection of the base formula

This is a big claim to start the review so let me explain what I mean. Path to Carcosa is the quintessential arkham campaign which every future campaign will deviate from in different directions with stuff like Edge of the Earth's large maps or Scarlet Key's open world. If you loved the base game set up in Night of the Living Zealot and Dunwich Legacy then Carcosa is for you.

Path to Carcosa follows our investigators as they investigate a bizarre performance of a mysterious play which pulls them across the world to France as they try to understand exactly who they face before venturing to Carcosa in an attempt to escape their influence. This campaign spans a variety of locations from high society parties to the streets and catacombs of france but always followed by the Man in the Pallid Mask.

The campaign plays with an interesting dynamic where depending on whether you believe what you see or doubt its very existence changes how the campaign is played with whole scenarios being inverted depending on the route and even the final boss being changed. This is a formula which other campaigns follow suite on to varying levels of success (Scarlet Keys doing it well while Forgotten Age's only matters if you want the secret ending / which companion you want and Circle Undone changes some stuff but not noticeably in my opinion.) This does make saying a favourite scenario hard because there are lots of variance.

If I had to choose a best scenario (and I am writing a review here with a specific format so I sort of do), I'd name the last one but this will require some spoilers. Skip to my complaints to dodge spoilers. Dim Carcosa is the culmination of the decisions you've made across the campaign because depending on whether you had conviction or doubted all that you see. If you doubted the existence of the other world, now you have nowhere left to run because he is all around you but if you hold to your convictions, now you must face him head on at his strongest because you fed his power.

That being said, there are some complaints to be had with this campaign. Echoes of the Past snowballs one of two ways: If you get the cultists under control, it is easy but if you don't, you will struggle to get it back on track. Secondly, Dim Carcosa is harder than most other scenarios. I don't have that many complaints about the campaign as a whole if my gushing doesn't make that clear enough

In terms of investigators, brain is the name of the game. Mental damage is way more common than physical so having a decent sanity is needed unless you plan on buying Elder Sign Amulet. Keep relics and spells handy because there is an enemy which can't be beaten quickly unless you use them. An investigator capable of evading is also super useful depending on the route you take. Finally Calvin Wright can achieve godhood in this campaign so yknow go apeshit if you want.

Overall, I love this campaign. It is classic arkham perfected where the scenarios themselves aren't complex but the theming is rich and gameplay is interactive. This is the perfect introduction campaign to try with friends. If you are reading this and are even vaguely interested in trying it out, try it out (If you know me personally, message me pls pls pls pls). Finally the end of review ranking, this is the best campaign so far with Dunwich Legacy 2nd and Night of the Zealot last

Other reviews in this series:

Night of the Zealot: Let's start at the Beginning. It is a very good place to start

Dunwich Legacy: Good but with Growing Pains

The Forgotten Age: Flawed but interesting

[thatcakelovingwitch]

“Songs that the Hyades shall sing, Where flap the tatters of the King, Must die unheard in Dim Carcosa “ - The King in Yellow 1895

[ID: A digital collage of the King in Yellow. He is wearing a yellow robe and instead of a face and legs he has gray tenticals. He has one big, yellow eye on his face and one on each of his palms. There are church arcs in the back with a purple background. Above the King are three big, yellow eyes. END]

[ruiniel]

Along the shore the cloud waves break, The twin suns sink behind the lake, The shadows lengthen In Carcosa. Strange is the night where black stars rise, And strange moons circle through the skies, But stranger still is Lost Carcosa. Songs that the Hyades shall sing, Where flap the tatters of the King, Must die unheard in Dim Carcosa. Song of my soul, my voice is dead, Die thou, unsung, as tears unshed Shall dry and die in Lost Carcosa.

—"Cassilda's Song" in The King in Yellow Act 1, Scene 2

The King in Yellow (1895) by Robert W. Chambers

[haaaaaaaaaaaave-you-met-ted]

Arkham Horror Card Game - Dark Spires by Lukasz Jaskolski

[camofsorts]

Along the shore the cloud waves break, The twin suns sink behind the lake, The shadows lengthen In Carcosa.

Strange is the night where black stars rise, And strange moons circle through the skies But stranger still is Lost Carcosa.

Songs that the Hyades shall sing, Where flap the tatters of the King, Must die unheard in Dim Carcosa.

Song of my soul, my voice is dead; Die thou, unsung, as tears unshed Shall dry and die in Lost Carcosa.

_Cassilda's Song ,in The King in Yellow, Act 1 Scene 1

[hellcatazura]

The King in Yellow sits in terrible glory in dim Carcosa

Patreon | Onlyfans | Fansly

[cthulhudice]

Solo Call of Cthulhu playthrough: Heinrich's Guide to Carcosa, Part 1 (Character creation)

Heinrich's Guide to Carcosa was released earlier this year and seems to be doing pretty well on DriveThruRPG. It's a "replayable solo campaign for Call of Cthulhu, 7th edition, but a schematic for generating your own personal vision of Dim Carcosa," according to the marketing copy.

I'm in the market for such a thing, as it turns out. I'm not sure how solo it ends up being if I take the occasional readers of this blog along with me, but here we go.

[cinderfeather]

The King in Yellow

Along the shore the cloud waves break, The twin suns sink behind the lake, The shadows lengthen In Carcosa.   Strange is the night where black stars rise, And strange moons circle through the skies But stranger still is Lost Carcosa.   Songs that the Hyades shall sing, Where flap the tatters of the King, Must die unheard in Dim Carcosa. Song of my soul, my voice is dead; Die thou, unsung, as tears unshed Shall dry and die in Lost Carcosa.   Cassilda's Song in "The King in Yellow," Act i, Scene 2.

– Robert W. Chambers, The King in Yellow. Guternberg link.

The Sith in Yellow

The edges of the object lit up in yellow, the outer pieces lifting off and whizzing in a synchronised dance. A yellow-tinged hologram appeared above the inner core, about thirty centimetres tall. Tattered robes covered the figure’s body. Fastened to their face was a mask that gave the appearance of a stiffened corpse. The apparition lifted its head and began to speak: "Along the shore the cloud waves break, The twin suns sink behind the lake, The shadows lengthen In Carcosa." Twin Suns? What planet was it referring to? Tatooine?

Luke racked his brains. He had studied galaxy maps in detail as a child, determined to prepare for his career as a pilot. But nowhere on the most obscure map did he hear of a planet named 'Carcosa'. "Strange is the night where the black stars rise, And strange moons circle through the skies, But stranger still is Lost Carcosa." Black stars? Black holes? The Death Star was one strange moon—was it talking about Alderaan? No, that didn't make sense—Vader existed long before the Death Star was built. "Songs that the Rain-Bearers sing with, Where flap the tatters of the Sith, Must die unheard in Dim Carcosa." There wasn't much rain on Tatooine. But neither was there on many other planets. Tatoo myths were filled with Rain-Bearers, but never the word 'Sith'. "Song of my soul, my voice is dead, Die thou, unsung, as tears unshed Shall dry and die in Lost Carcosa." Grief without tears? Those turns of phrase riddled Tatoo funeral songs. Carcosa had to be an old name for Tatooine. Yes, strange sentences here and there, they mirrored songs Beru sung, poems from the middle of folk tales her own mother had told while weaving cloaks of bantha fur, and odd gestures the hologram made that reminded him of motions in Tusken sign language. As the voice continued, Luke concluded it was telling a story. He felt the weight of a world once cherished die from greed and invasion; the legacy of slavery and the fight to be free. And grief, not just of a loved one but of a whole planet once lush and green now rendered into a shadow of what it once was. It commonly held that Tatooine was a desert when humans arrived, but the stories and legends in Tusken folklore said otherwise. There was more, lurking behind the story, the edge of a maddening thought, but every time it came near, an old word in High Basic would distract him and knock it from his grasp.

Read the rest on Ao3.

[see-arcane]

I’m rereading The King in Yellow for reasons and the absolute least vital line leaped out at me in “The Yellow Sign” where the model Tessie is talking about her friend’s brother:

Ed had come back from the stocking mill in Lowell, Massachusetts, to find her and Lizzie grown up, and what an accomplished young man he was, and how he thought nothing of squandering half-a-dollar for ice-cream and oysters to celebrate his entry as clerk into the woollen department of Macy's.

And my brain went immediately to the King in Yellow, ruler of dim Carcosa, soaring across the Lake of Hali, past the black stars and the infinite cosmos, to hit up a dress sale and grab some perfume test strips