Association of Resurrected Individuals and Superpowered Entities (A.R.I.S.E.)

[ow_tiobe_sb]

*THUD!*  The sound of the oversize, dusty volume of obscure origin dropping to the lime-tinted marble floor of the mausoleum echoed ominously, as if it intended to give sonic shape to the sense of dread inhabiting the hearts of the two crouching individuals who, only moments ago, forced the lock on the outer door like a pair of remorseless grave robbers in the night.  A third man stood fearlessly and annoyingly bolt upright nearby, the contents of his heart inscrutable behind a pair of serenely beady brown eyes.  The contents of his mind, however, were made perfectly clear by the dismayed wrinkle that took up lodgings in the corner of his upper lip--which was visible despite its being covered entirely by a thick, bushy moustache--upon hearing the large tome fall from Dr. Dibblett's unsteady hands with a crash.  Of course, the book's descent alone did not prompt the bowler-hatted gentleman's personal gentleman to reveal his disapprobation silently and, in the perfect darkness of the unlit chamber, invisibly, for 'twas the dark deed that his unintentional colleagues were bent upon that moved his sense of disapproval to commit this act of facial disfigurement.  No matter what happened from this point onward, Lane knew 'twould not end well.

"The lamp, Eustace--I cannot see a blasted thing over here," Josiah Dibblett, D.Litt., snapped, if, indeed, a snap could be issued in a whisper.  His associate, Eustace Thrum, an underpaid and overworked research assistant, dutifully retrieved a kerosene lamp from the pack slung over his shoulder and guardedly coaxed forth its warm glow in a matter of seconds.

"Yes, here, closer to the wall.  Now, which one is it?  He wouldn't use his real name, of course.  Some sort of suitable pseudonym...yes!  Here!"  Dr. Dibblett gestured toward one of the many bronze rectangles set into the tomb wall that indicated the names of the mausoleum's inhabitants.  "Octavius Timothy Sterlingbroke!  Do you see it, man?  So absurd, it must be him!"

More than just Dr. Dibblett's hands were now trembling in a spasm of excitement and trepidation.   With an unsettling wheeze he stumbled away from the wall to retrieve his book while instructing Mr. Thrum to arrange twelve beeswax candles in a circle roughly three yards from the interment niches.  Whilst Mr. Thrum grotesquely patted himself down in search of a lighter to set the candles to burning, the valet appeared at the young man's bony elbow, proffering a book of matches.  The smell of phosophorous soon mingled with the odour of damp stone and cold country air as Dr. Dibblett mumbled to himself nearby, poring over the yellowed pages of the aged book and consulting a copious set of his own handwritten notes.  The Magdalen College professor entered the circle of burning candles and then produced a small silk pouch from his grey worsted overcoat and carefully arranged its contents on the outspread pages before him: a slim silver pendant, featuring a modest ruby; a clear phial of an unidentified oil; and a small, folded plastic packet filled with fresh soil.  After loosening the collar of his coat, the doctor gingerly placed the silver chain about his neck, pausing for a moment to take the pendant in hand and admire the fire of the red stone in the low light of the candles.  He then reached for the phial and sprinkled a few drops of the oil on his palms, which he vigorously rubbed together both as part of an arcane ritual and as a means to keep the blood in his chilled hands circulating.  Placing his hands upon his face, he then intoned, "Sanctus phasmatis, servo mihi ut ego suscipio meus veneficus opus," and placed a kiss upon the ruby, which he then held before him to trace an arc in the air.

A serious glance in the direction of Mr. Thrum seemed to suggest that a moment of exceedingly grave import was upon them and that, within the limited space of the dimly lit chamber, some murky but terrible Rubicon was soon to be crossed.  Another wheeze divested Dr. Dibblett of his hesistation, and he proceeded with his mysterious rite to the sound of distant, rolling thunder.  Taking a pinch of dirt between his thumb and forefinger, the doctor cast it at the aforementioned bronze marker, contorted his hands into a series of bizarre gesticulations, and then, throwing caution to the wind as well, cried out in an embarassing falsetto, "Per meos vox, Phasmatis Bunburyistus, surge et ambula!  Surge et ambula!"

A sudden flash of lightning and a much closer boom of thunder punctuated the end of this incantation, and both professor and assistant held their breath in anticipation of unknown events to follow.  Awkward seconds of tortured silence passed uninteruptedly until a jarring clank announced a disturbance in one of the tombs.  This isolated noise was sufficient cause to set Dr. Dibblett to wheezing uncontrollably, so he leaned upon Mr. Thrum for support while he attempted to regain control of his lungs.  In the meantime, the clank became the rhythmic thrashing of a panicked animal committed to freeing itself from a trap.  Mr. Thrum instinctively clutched the ailing professor closer to his bosom as the commotion reached a nerve-rattling crescendo and then, just as quickly, ceased altogether.

"I say, what's all this racket in the middle of the night, then?  A gentleman needs his rest, eh what?"

These words startled the doctor and his research assistant, causing them to turn about in unison to face the open mausoleum door behind them.  Before them stood a slender man of medium height clad in purple silk bedclothes, eye mask, and top hat.  He leaned somewhat wearily yet, somehow, casually upon a cane topped by an ornate silver grip and frowned at the two academics, impatiently awaiting a reply.

Dr. Dibblett's wheeze commuted itself into a soft weeping as he embraced Mr. Thrum elatedly.  "He has returned, Mr. Thrum!  The Phantom Bunburyist has returned!"

"Aye, I have, sir, but I will thank you not to publish that fact abroad.  After all, 'tis my intention to lie low until Lieutenant Lesion's threat upon my life has been subdued by his apprehension."

Upon hearing these words, Dr. Dibblett and Mr. Thrum broke off their celebratory embrace.  The doctor stepped forward, squinting into the light that poured through the mausoleum doorway.  "'Threat upon your life?'  Were you not recently dead--slain in mortal combat with the same villain, Lieutenant Lesion--and now risen from the grave after my recitation of the necromantic spell of resurrection?"

"Dead to the world, perhaps, but only falsely deceased.  A clever ruse concocted by my man Lane to give my superpowered colleagues the opportunity to track down and neutralise my assailant whilst I convalesced well out of harm's way."

Utterly gobsmacked, Dr. Dibblett cast about for words whilst he attempted to recollect his wits.  In the meantime, Mr. Thrum stepped forward and asked, "Well, then, where have you been these past six weeks?"

"Oh, I've been to confession.  Well, the confessional booth at St. Martha's, to be exact.  I've been passing the time under the bench there, listening to the most wondrous tales told by the good people of this country parish.  It fortifies the soul to hear the iniquities of pastoral folk enumerated from time to time.  I would highly recommend it, should you ever find yourself a bit low in the self-esteem department."

"So, you were never buried here at all?" Mr. Thrum deduced.  "Why did your man lead us here?"

"If I may be so bold," interjected the valet, breaking his silence, "I would like to point out that, when asked to lead you to my employer's resting place, I brought you to the church.  It was your employer who insisted upon entering the mausoleum, instead, over my protests."

Without heeding either the dandy's or the valet's words, Dr. Dibblett rasped through a face sticken by a sudden terror, "If you were not dead, and I performed the dark rite...whom did I..."

*THUD* The tomb resumed its alarming disturbance. *THUD* *THUD* *THUD*

"That would be Octavius Timothy Sterlingbroke, esq., the notoriously depraved MP for Bassetlaw," Lane replied.  "He is rumoured to have once forced his mother's tabby to endure a complete dryer cycle before throwing it under a passing lorry."

If not for the persistent *THUD* *THUD* *THUD* emitted by the restless tomb, one might have heard the Bunburyist and the two academics share a gasp of horror in response to Lane's tale.  Dr. Dibblett's gasp induced more wheezing, and the wheezing prompted the doctor to gather his things hastily.  "Come, Mr. Thrum.  I feel the time for our departure has arrived."

*THUD* *THUD* *CLANK* provided the backdrop to the academics' unobstructed retreat.

"Hmm.  I don't like the sound of that one bit, Lane.  A 'THUD' is one thing; a 'CLANK' is quite another.  Soon enough, matters may advance to the point of a 'CRASH,' and that simply will not do.  I feel I am bound by duty to resolve this supernatural crisis, though I may be rather ill equipped to put down a former MP by myself.  We must assemble a team, post haste!"

"Very good, sir," the valet replied with a tone as dry as the paint on the ceiling of St. Martha's Church.

"But first, Lane, I require a change of clothes.  Be a good man and lay out my traveling suit.  We've a trip to make to Whimsy Lane, Lane."

"Very good, sir."

[OOG: All are invited, once again, to take a playful romp through the world of P.A.L.S.  As before, this will be a free RP without particular rules or laws of nature, for that matter.  Supernaturally-themed characters, both heroes and villains, are especially welcome.  Cheers!]

ow_tiobe_sb
Phantom Bunburyist and Whirled Braker

[The Phantom Eyebrow]

* The spectral sentry that is known (by one and all) as The Phantom Eyebrow has been maintaining a watching brief o'er the Halls of PALS mansion and the denizens of said demesne (what with him being a sentry and that, as previously established).  He coolly surveys the doings and toings going on below (or is it across?   He's basically watching events from another dimension so I'm not sure what the correct directional term is here.  It's a parallel dimension, if that helps anyone with visualisation.

"This Dr. Dibblett meddles with forces beyond his ken", boomed the Eyebrow to himself, in the studied, deliberate tones of a man well used to narrating his every action as if he was being watched by an audience.  "It's not as if the world doesn't have enough politicians without him summoning the disembodied spirits of the worst of their number".  Pausing a moment to adopt a more heroic stance (fists-on-sides-of hips, jaw set thrust forward in a stagey approximation of strength), he continues to see and observe all that transpires. 

"I see that this turn of events has bestirred the Bunburyist into action as well, perhaps this the moment that The Phantom Eyebrow too should venture back into the fray, and right the wrongs of this malevolent MP" he announces, in the tone of a man who is in no way scared to take on this Octavius Timothy Sterlingbroke by himself, oh no.

"I see that he has adopted a new nomenclature for us too, A.R.I.S.E. is it?".  A brief pause now before a showy wink to a camera that is not there, "In 'is free time he has obviously taken something of a fancy to the craft of acronymns".

And with that the Eyebrow blinks in time-honoured fashion, appearing once more in the material plane as his eyes open.

[Deaths Jester]

While the erstwhile Phantom Bunburyist and his man-servant Lane were partaking in the beginning shenanigans caused by the inexcusable Dr Dibblet and Mr. Thrum at the mausoleum of St Martha's, the disheveled and rather disfigured - if the local populaces opinions and tastes contained any substance - Death's Jester lounged atop the refuse and discarded bottles of liquor that lately consumed most of his un-life.  Having never left Whimsy Lane for any purpose (other than to occasionally pilfer a semi-truck load worth of vodka and absinthe for restocking purposes, of course) since the last failed mission of the defunct P.A.L.S. fiasco, he'd found it easiest to become the abode's resident squatter and purveyor of disgust against Lane's rather loud and daily objections. 

The lack of such objections from Lane on this day, bothered Death's Jester's otherwise lackadaisical brain – or that which remained of the once living tissue between his ears – to no avail.  "Hmmm...seems a bit to quiet around 'ere today," he mumbled to himself, his vocal tubes raw and a tad on the liquefied side from their lack of use.  "Wonder where that old codger of Tiobe's is at? Probably up to some bloody plan to turn me into a maid or such!"

Alas, Death's Jester's mumbling are cut short by the sudden materialization of flamboyant and otherwise astrally gifted Phantom Eyebrow, causing DJ to topple from his perch atop his refuge.  "Ach...bloody 'ell, mate!  Why the 'ell you do stuff like that at the most inappropriate times?"

[The Phantom Eyebrow]

Alas, Death's Jester's mumbling are cut short by the sudden materialization of flamboyant and otherwise astrally gifted Phantom Eyebrow, causing DJ to topple from his perch atop his refuge.  "Ach...bloody 'ell, mate!  Why the 'ell you do stuff like that at the most inappropriate times?"

"Inappropriate is it?  INAPPROPRIATE!?  On the contrary my fetid friend, there could not be a MORE appropriate time for me (The Phantom Eyebrow) to return to this earthly realm.  For, you see, we face that most malevolent of parliamentary members, none other than the fiendish Octavius Timothy Sterlingbroke.  A man who... er..."  The Eyebrow pauses a moment, his train of thought derailed a moment. 

"Well, um... to be honest I'm not entirely sure as to the nature of the threat that this fellow poses.  I gather that the Bunburyist is concerned at the prospect though, so... I guess we should... do something...?"

[ow_tiobe_sb]

"The threat, my good Eyebrow, is twofold," announced the Bunburyist as he strolled breezily through the doors of Melmoth Hall.  "First, if Lane is correct, Dr. Dibblett didn't bring your average  blighter back from the grave.  Mr. Sterlingbroke, in addition to being a well known cad of the first water, was secretly a practitioner of the dark arts (far more advanced in his abilities than poor, misguided Dr. Dibblett, I might add), lying in wait for the opportune moment to rise again as a powerful lich.  I fear we may need to fight fire with fire, in this instance, and that is how you mystical and undead chaps will play an instrumental role in making this mission a success."

With a sudden gravity unbecoming of a dandy, the Bunburyist leant upon his cane, knitting his brow and staring at the backs of his violet, gloved hands.  "Of course, there is more," he resumed, tentatively.  "In life, Mr. Sterlingbroke acted as the key parliamentary ally of a number of underworld organisations and villainous networks.  Just before he cast off his mortal form, rumour has it, he entrusted his phylactery to his most trusted, most despicable associate for safekeeping.  Luckily, through our past heroic actions, that associate is now banished to a pocket dimension located within a sealed bottle of Coco Chanel No. 5^TM eau de parfum."

The Bunburyist raised his eyes from his folded hands to meet those of his associates with a meaningful, purple stare.  "Yes, my friends, that associate is none other than our chief nemesis, Premonitioner."  Allowing that thought additional time to settle sufficiently amongst the blasted neurons of Death's Jester's brain, the dandy turned with a flourish and seated himself on the nearby divan.  "Unfortunately, securing that phylactery is likely to be Mr. Sterlingbroke's first course of action once he is free of his crypt, and its mystical call is certain to lead him directly to Prem's prison.  We know that the authorities have moved the Coco Chanel bottle to a high security facility in Croydon: I say we make our stand there before Mr. Sterlingbroke allows Prem to return to this dimension and we have not one but two major problems on our hands."

Then, as if he feared he might be marked by the permanent stamp of seriousness, the dandy added, "Or something like that."

ow_tiobe_sb
Phantom Bunburyist and Whirled Braker

[Previsionary]

(OOC: Is this an alternate timeline or something? As far as I know, my twin Prem has been out of commission for almost a decade and hasn't been seen since the "Omega Games" and "Omega Syndikate." Obviously, he must've taken a wrong turn in his life, which pleases me, but I'll have to consult with him on this situation, in private, of course. *disappears in a flash*)

[Deaths Jester]

Slowly, DJ gathers what little pieces that fell off of his person during the fall from his refuse perch and rights his crumpled form.  "So, you mean to say, that we are to go after a chap who has become much like myself...yet, not so fun sounding at parties?  Couldn't I just talk to the bloke, get him to see the side of the real undead?  Maybe offer him a glass of hooch?  I think I've got one somewhere around here."

With that, DJ begins to rummage through his refuse pile, tossing random empty bottles of alcohol and delicous yet fiendously addictive "Chum Slush" (For the undead and sharks in everyone) haphazardly.

[The Phantom Eyebrow]

With that, DJ begins to rummage through his refuse pile, tossing random empty bottles of alcohol and delicous yet fiendously addictive "Chum Slush" (For the undead and sharks in everyone) haphazardly.

"Chum Slush eh?  There's both eatin' and drinkin' in that, I'd wager" responds the Eyebrow. 
"I suspect though that, undead or no, our enemy-to-be has a slightly more refined pallet than the walking, talking landfill we all know and love as Death's Jester.  Brandy and cigars would be more in line if you ask me."

[ow_tiobe_sb]

Couldn't I just talk to the bloke, get him to see the side of the real undead?

The Phantom Bunburyist lazily inspected himself whilst reclining and responded, "No offense, Jester, but I think 'twould be a misstep to trust you to talk out of the correct orifice or show Mr. Sterlingbroke a side that does not begin with 'back-' after your first few sips of the trusty Slush.  No, what I rather had in mind was that, if you would be so kind, you might summon up a small battalion of those undead minions of yours when we go to meet Mr. Sterlingbroke, who, I am willing to wager, will not be travelling alone.  What say you, old friend?"

Lifting his gaze with a warm smile planted just below it, the dandy addressed The Phantom Eyebrow: "And you, stalwart Eyebrow, may need to ply your browsey powers to destroying that infernal creature.  I fear that my own powers may make only the slightest impact on him and may be better applied to subduing any poor souls he has raised to rally to his cause.  I may also be able to distract him whilst you have your magical way with him.  Does this strike you as a worthwhile approach?"

ow_tiobe_sb
Phantom Bunburyist and Whirled Braker

[Deaths Jester]

Couldn't I just talk to the bloke, get him to see the side of the real undead?

The Phantom Bunburyist lazily inspected himself whilst reclining and responded, "No offense, Jester, but I think 'twould be a misstep to trust you to talk out of the correct orifice or show Mr. Sterlingbroke a side that does not begin with 'back-' after your first few sips of the trusty Slush.  No, what I rather had in mind was that, if you would be so kind, you might summon up a small battalion of those undead minions of yours when we go to meet Mr. Sterlingbroke, who, I am willing to wager, will not be travelling alone.  What say you, old friend?"

Perplexed by Tiobe's reference to DJ's backside and talking, Death's Hester commences to study his rear to make sure everything is all right.  "I speak from me butt, you say?  When does this happen?  I've never seen it do that before?!?!"

After a few minutes DJ gives up on his anal infatuation and returns to his normal self. "Me undead minions is what you want, eh?  Well, I guess I can summon up some of me undead jalapenoes to aid us, though, it might be more on the side of a squad than a battalion becuase I gave many of them the month off.  They were having severe heartburn problems lately."

[The Phantom Eyebrow]

"Well it sounds to me that we have the makings of a plan sure.  Sure, our numbers are low, but we few have between us might enow to quell any foe."

The Eyebrow pauses a moment, taken aback slightly as DJ sorts out which end the words come out of, but then collects himself to deal with the Bunburyist's plan more specifically, "An excellent approach I think.  I like that aspect which requires hoardes of undead minions to bear the brunt of this bounder's foul might, while I sweep in magestically to administer a thorough Brow-Beating!"

[Deaths Jester]

Perhaps perplexed or mayhaps unnerved by the suddne silence following TPE's proclamations, DJ begins to rummage through the litter and trash which he has accumulated around Whimsy Lane - since last Tiobe's manservant Lane cleaned the place at least.  "Now where is that cell phone so I can call up some jalapenoes?"

Slowly but methodically he begins throwing items randomly, "Gremlin's launcher...no! Prev's missing foot...no!  My poozi...hmmm...might be useful...unsure..."

[ow_tiobe_sb]

[OOG: Please accept my apologies for my extended absence, gents.  RL hit me with a metric ton of lost and troubled undergraduates toward the second half of the semester, which has just officially ended for me. ]

"Aye, D.J., call whomever you can, and mobilise them at once," the Bunburyist advised. "Lane, I'll need you to prepare the campsite for D.J.'s minions.  We will need to acquire bottled water, blankets, tins of beans, a variety pack of those recreational substances the youth of today require, and, most importantly, trademark applications."

"Surely, sir, you are not implying that you--"

"Yes, indeed, I am, Lane.  I intend to Occupy Croydon^TM for the safety and welfare of its citizens and those of the entire realm.  There is nothing else for it, and I will entertain no, ahem, protests from you, Lane."

"Very good, sir."

ow_tiobe_sb
Phantom Bunburyist and Whirled Braker

[Deaths Jester]

At the mentiopn of needed gear, DJ pops out of the debris with his phone in hand.  "Don't forget the massive quantities of licqour!!  Me boys need truckloads worth!!!"

[The Phantom Eyebrow]

The Eyebrow takes on a slightly distracted air as the Bunburyist's plan unfolds.  "Croydon, eh?" he says to himself, "I swore I'd never go back" he continues, using that inner monologue device he is so fond of.

"Very well then" he announces bravely, "Let us go to this 'Croydon' of yours, and see where that takes us."

[ow_tiobe_sb]

"Splendid, Eyebrow!  Lane, please locate a lorry to transport D.J.'s vodka supply and direct the horde to the John Ruskin Playing Field, where our camp will command a strategic view of Coombe Farm, the top secret, high security facility/recreational camping grounds where Prem is imprisoned.  In preparation for our arrival, please inform the boys to light some architectural lamps.  In addition, please let them know that, if the local constabulary gives them grief, I authorise them to lob some of those Venetian stones I've been saving for a special occasion at the blighters."

"All shall be as you have requested, sir," the valet promised, his eyes rolling all the while.

Turning, once again, to his teammates, the dandy enthused, "Come, gentlemen, let us adjourn to the War Room so that we might organise our defense of the facility whilst down on the farm."

ow_tiobe_sb
Phantom Bunburyist and Whirled Braker

[Deaths Jester]

DJ spends a handful of mintues on his cell before finally throwing it against the wall.

"Okay, boyos, the jalapenoes are on their way!  However, I do worry about what use they'll be at Coombe Farms, don't they partake in vegetable security measures there? Oh and Tiobe, we might want to adjourn somewhere else other thant he War Room, I've been using htat as a nice waste overflow area lately...against Lane's objections!"