Unbetitelt

[mythveilchronicles]

A steamship crossing the Atlantic toward New York reports multiple unexplained deaths below deck.

According to surviving crew members, the bodies showed no visible wounds — yet appeared completely drained of fluid.

Several passengers claimed they heard chanting near the cargo corridors during the night. Others reported pale figures standing motionless beside the engine rooms for hours at a time.

Official records concerning the incident were quietly sealed after the ship reached harbor.

This reel is part of an ongoing living-world horror campaign created at the Mythveil table — where player actions, faction conflict, and emergent storytelling continue shaping the world long after the session ends.

Not scripted. A world that remembers.

[mythveilchronicles]

BLACKWOOD FALLS INCIDENT REPORT

Three confirmed thermal fatalities. One refinery. One town slowly falling apart behind official statements and corporate reassurance.

The events depicted in this broadcast emerged during an active Delta Green campaign and evolved entirely through player actions and consequences at the table.

What the public saw afterwards was something very different.

As investigators attempted to explain the deaths through chemical exposure, psychological instability, and industrial contamination, fragments of a much larger pattern began to surface around Endron Energy’s Harmonic Fracturing program.

Mythveil broadcasts are not trailers. They are reconstructed public echoes of events that occurred inside living worlds shaped by player agency, institutional reactions, and emergent consequences.

The world remembers.

[mythveilchronicles]

Rätselhafte tödliche Badeunfälle am Chiemsee

Something is wrong at Lake Chiemsee.

Five people entered the freezing water within four days. No panic. No screams. No signs of violence.

Witnesses describe the same disturbing pattern: People standing silently at the shoreline, staring into the water as if listening to something nobody else could hear.

Authorities are calling it a tragic series of accidents.

Others are no longer so sure.

🜍 Rätselhafte tödliche Badeunfälle am Chiemsee A Delta Green / Hexxen1733 inspired horror incident from Mythveil Chronicles.

Living worlds. Persistent consequences. Player-driven campaigns.

[mythveilchronicles]

PULP CTHULHU HORROR ON THE ORIENT EXPRESS

Television Newsreel — 1953

The following broadcast was recovered from a damaged archive reel catalogued only as: “Mayfair Railway Incident”

The original investigation remains unresolved.

[mythveilchronicles]

The Mythveil family in Warhammer 40k (TtRPG campaign on startplaying.games)

[mythveilchronicles]

The Mythveil family in our Monster of the week campaign inspired by Supernatural on startplaying.games

[mythveilchronicles]

The Mythveil Family in the 1930s (Pulp Cthulhu campaign on startplaying.games)

[mythveilchronicles]

The Mythveil family in Altdorf (in our enemy within campaigns on startplaying.games)

[mythveilchronicles]

MASKS & MASQUERADE — Week 4 Month 2 · The Old World · WFRPG

The Hammer Reframes the Fire

The bells no longer invited.

They confirmed.

Altdorf’s square had been scrubbed clean. Crates removed. Masks gathered. Blood washed from stone. What remained was order — visible, deliberate, restored.

At least in form.

Caelwyn stood at the window as he had every week. Below, a procession assembled beneath iron lanterns: bare-backed men despite the cold, women veiled in plain cloth, priests in heavy robes bearing iron hammers.

No music.

Only chanting.

Steady.

Controlled.

“It was inevitable,” Stacy said quietly, breaking the wax seal of a temple decree.

“Of course it was,” Caelwyn replied.

“Forty days of fasting. Public penitence. Visible discipline,” she read. “Let those who faltered return themselves to Sigmar’s order.”

Below, a man knelt upon wet stone. A cord rose and fell across his back.

The sound was sharp.

He did not cry out.

The crowd did not flinch.

“Public,” Stacy observed.

“It must be,” Caelwyn answered. “Private guilt does not calm a city.”

A priest raised his voice.

“Sigmar tempers us in flame. We burn so impurity may fall away.”

Another cord fell.

Another bowed head.

Intensity remained — only redirected.

A woman confessed aloud, voice trembling not from fear but from effort.

“I placed myself above my household.”

“Fast,” the priest instructed. “Serve.”

She bowed in gratitude.

Gratitude.

“They have not extinguished it,” Stacy murmured.

“No.”

“They have sanctified it.”

Merchants knelt beside laborers. The young Watchman stood rigid in prayer. Even the man who had once spoken from a crate now bowed with convincing humility.

The city moved in unison again.

A bell rang.

“Order is restored,” proclaimed the priest, hammer striking stone with a resonant clang.

The crowd echoed it.

Order is restored.

Caelwyn watched the man who had struck the fatal blow days earlier kneel without hesitation. The cord descended. He rose calm, composed — refined rather than broken.

“Do you see it?” Stacy asked.

“Yes.”

The fire still burned.

Only now it burned inward.

Near the fountain, a discarded mask had been placed in an iron brazier. A priest set it alight. Paper curled. Paint blistered. Twine snapped.

The crowd watched with satisfaction.

Symbolic.

Necessary.

The ash rose into the night.

The chanting continued.

“They believe it is over,” Caelwyn said.

“It is,” Stacy replied.

He looked at her.

“This chapter.”

The procession moved through the streets. The square stood cleaner than it had in weeks.

No blood.

No masks.

Only faint red lines across penitent backs.

“The same fire,” Caelwyn said quietly.

“Different altar,” Stacy answered.

The bells rang once more.

Steady.

Certain.

Beneath restored order,

something still burned.

[mythveilchronicles]

MASKS & MASQUERADE — Week 4 🜍 Month 2 · The Old World · WFRPG

Procession of Ash

The square smelled of smoke and cold iron.

Sean stood beneath the arch of a shuttered apothecary, hands folded into his sleeves. Eljara stood beside him, posture straight, gaze sharp.

“They move well,” she said.

“The Empire does not lack choreography,” Sean replied.

The procession advanced across wet cobblestones. Bare-backed penitents walked in measured steps, red stripes deliberate across their skin. No wailing. No frenzy. Only rhythm.

A priest lifted a heavy iron hammer and struck it against a stone plinth.

Clang.

“Order through discipline,” he declared.

The crowd echoed him.

Order through discipline.

Near the fountain, a brazier consumed the last of the carnival masks. Paper curled inward. Paint blistered. Ash rose into the night.

“Efficient,” Eljara murmured.

“Very,” Sean agreed.

A young woman stepped forward and knelt. The cord descended across her back. She inhaled sharply — and exhaled through it.

No shame in her face.

Resolve.

“They’re calmer,” Eljara observed.

“Yes.”

“But not softer.”

“No.”

Further along stood the man who had struck the fatal blow days earlier. He removed his coat without hesitation and knelt.

The cord fell.

Once.

Twice.

He did not flinch.

When he rose, his expression was not broken.

Refined.

“Tempered,” Sean said quietly.

The priest placed a steady hand on his shoulder.

“Sigmar has burned the excess.”

The crowd murmured approval.

Eljara watched the faces — merchants, Watchmen, clerks — kneeling willingly. Stripping coats. Joining the line.

No coercion.

Participation.

A boy no older than sixteen raised the cord himself and struck too hard, too fast.

A murmur passed through the crowd.

Not alarm.

Approval.

The priest stepped in, guiding his hand — correcting, containing.

The boy bowed.

The crowd relaxed.

“There,” Eljara said softly.

“Yes,” Sean replied.

“Too far.”

“And restored.”

The brazier flared as the last mask collapsed into embers.

“They will fast,” Eljara said.

“They will pray,” Sean added.

“They will bleed.”

“And feel clean.”

The hammer rang again.

The square held steady.

No panic.

No chaos.

Only alignment.

Eljara exhaled slowly.

“It looks stable.”

“It is,” Sean answered.

“For how long?”

Sean watched ash settle across stone that had recently held blood.

“Long enough,” he said.

The bells rang.

Steady.

Certain.

The city walked on.

[mythveilchronicles]

MASKS & MASQUERADE — Week 4 Month 2 · The Old World · WFRPG

Clean Hands

The bells sounded steady.

Chibi counted them without meaning to.

Outside, the square of Altdorf had changed again. No shouting. No laughter. No masks. Only lines of people moving in order beneath lantern light.

“They’re lining up,” Chibi said from the window.

“Yes,” Mara replied.

“For what?”

“To make it stop.”

Below, a man removed his shirt despite the cold and knelt upon the cobblestones. A cord rose and fell across his back.

Chibi flinched.

“They’re hurting him.”

“He asked for it.”

“Why?”

“So it doesn’t hurt somewhere else.”

The cord fell again. The man bowed lower, breathing through it.

“They look calmer,” Chibi said.

“Yes.”

“Like after a storm.”

“Yes.”

Near the fountain, a brazier burned the last of the carnival masks. Paper curled inward. Paint blistered. Ash drifted upward.

“They burned them,” Chibi said.

“Yes.”

“Did it work?”

Mara folded a strip of plain cloth into careful squares on the table.

“It worked for today.”

Chibi climbed down from the bench and sat opposite her.

“Are we supposed to do it too?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because we didn’t ask for it.”

He dipped his fingers into a wooden bowl of water and washed his hands slowly, watching droplets fall back into the grain of the table.

“Like that?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Does it help?”

“For a while.”

Outside, the man who had once struck someone down now knelt willingly. The cord fell. He rose composed, almost serene.

“He looks cleaner,” Chibi said.

“Yes.”

“That’s good.”

“Maybe.”

The bells rang again.

Steady.

Certain.

“They’re going to fast,” Chibi said.

“Yes.”

“And pray.”

“Yes.”

“And bleed.”

“Yes.”

“So it won’t happen again.”

Mara looked toward the square where ash settled over stone.

“That’s what they think.”

Chibi pressed his forehead lightly to the cool glass.

“So it wasn’t the masks.”

“No.”

“They chose.”

“Yes.”

“Both times.”

“Yes.”

The square emptied in ordered silence.

No blood.

No shouting.

No masks.

“They look clean,” Chibi said.

“Yes.”

“Are they?”

Mara watched the last torch disappear into the narrow streets.

“They believe they are,” she said.

Outside, Altdorf stood calm beneath lantern light.

Disciplined.

Organized.

Certain.

And somewhere beneath that certainty,

something waited patiently.

[mythveilchronicles]

The Mythveil family in victorian times London (in our campaign on startplaying.games)

[mythveilchronicles]

MASKS & MASQUERADE — Week 4 (Pulp Cthulhu by Gaslight)

No Final Stability

“They think it ended,” Caelwyn said quietly.

The orchestra had resumed brightness. Laughter filled the ballroom again. The tyrant removed his mask. The judge laughed too loudly. The saint adjusted her gloves.

Everything looked restored.

Stacy did not agree.

“It didn’t end,” she replied. “It shifted.”

Caelwyn watched the candles along the far wall.

“They nearly synchronized themselves into something larger than their own architecture.”

“Yes.”

“And what stopped it?”

She didn’t hesitate.

“Nothing stopped it.”

He glanced at her.

“It intensified,” she continued calmly. “Then it recalibrated.”

He remembered the moment clearly.

The tyrant perfectly composed. The judge absolute. The saint immaculate. The crowd aligned.

No hesitation. No contradiction. No fracture.

The room had drawn tight around certainty.

And then Stacy had spoken.

Not loudly. Not dramatically.

“You call this civilization.”

No accusation. No tremor.

Just clarity.

For one second, the hall had paused.

Not from guilt.

From recalculation.

“Their coherence was absolute,” Stacy said now. “That is what amplified it.”

“And doubt disrupted the coherence.”

“Yes.”

“But doubt didn’t destroy it.”

“No.”

The chandeliers swayed slightly overhead.

Not from wind.

From memory.

“So there is no victory,” Caelwyn said.

“No.”

“No sealing of doors.”

“No.”

He studied the departing guests.

“They believe the mask hides what they are.”

“Yes.”

“But the mask was the amplifier.”

“Yes.”

The more perfect the role — the more stable the archetype.

The more stable the archetype — the stronger the signal.

“And something answers strong signals,” Caelwyn said quietly.

“Yes.”

“Not because it hates us.”

“No.”

“Because it resonates.”

“Yes.”

Across the hall, for the briefest heartbeat, several guests moved in near-identical rhythm again.

Then they loosened.

The pressure in the air shifted — not gone.

Adjusted.

“It didn’t return to normal,” Caelwyn said.

“No.”

“It returned to something else.”

“Yes.”

Outside, London breathed under gaslight and fog.

“Can it ever be stabilized?” he asked.

Stacy’s voice remained level.

“Reality is not a fixed structure. It is an ongoing alignment.”

“With what?”

“With what we project strongly enough to matter.”

He absorbed that.

“So Empire. Order. Moral certainty.”

“Are transmissions.”

“And the old powers?”

“Are not invaders.”

She looked toward the door.

“They are listeners.”

The orchestra struck its final chord.

For one suspended second, the entire hall aligned again.

Then it loosened.

No explosion.

No summoning.

No triumph.

Just a world that had shifted its frequency.

“We are not guardians of stability,” Caelwyn said.

“No.”

“What are we?”

“Interrupters.”

He allowed the faintest smile.

“That sounds smaller than I hoped.”

“It is more honest.”

They left the ballroom.

Behind them, the space felt fractionally different.

Not calm.

Re-aligned.

“For now,” he said.

“For now,” she agreed.

Somewhere beyond London’s gaslit streets, something immense adjusted its listening.

Not because it had won.

But because the signal had changed.

[mythveilchronicles]

MASKS & MASQUERADE — Week 4 Interruption, Not Victory (Pulp Cthulhu by Gaslight)

Interruption, Not Victory

“The music ended twice,” Sean said quietly.

Eljara didn’t look back at the ballroom.

“Yes.”

Once the orchestra had stopped.

And once — briefly — the structure had.

Only a few had noticed the second silence.

The rest called it a successful evening.

Guests drifted toward the exit, flushed with wine and self-satisfaction. Masks were removed. Laughter resumed.

Everything looked intact.

It wasn’t.

“It leaned harder tonight,” Sean murmured.

“Yes.”

“And when she spoke…”

“It hesitated.”

He nodded.

The tyrant had been perfect. The judge unshakeable. The saint immaculate.

No fracture. No doubt. No contradiction.

The room had drawn tight around certainty.

And then a simple sentence had entered the air.

You call this civilization.

No accusation.

No raised voice.

Just clarity.

For a heartbeat, the ballroom had paused.

Not in shame.

In recalculation.

“That hesitation kept it from locking,” Sean said.

“No,” Eljara corrected gently. “It forced it to reconfigure.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“No.”

They stepped outside into the London fog. Gaslight shimmered softly along the street.

“Tell me something,” Sean said. “If certainty amplifies it… why does interruption weaken it?”

“It doesn’t weaken it,” she replied.

“It disrupts coherence.”

He exhaled.

“So we didn’t defeat anything.”

“No.”

“We introduced phase difference.”

“Yes.”

He almost smiled.

“That sounds less heroic.”

“It is more sustainable.”

Behind them, the ballroom lights glowed through tall windows. For a brief instant, several silhouettes inside aligned again at similar angles.

Then they dispersed.

Sean noticed.

Of course he did.

“It’s learning,” he said.

“Yes.”

“And so are we.”

“Yes.”

The mask had never been concealment.

It had been transmission.

The more perfect the role — the clearer the signal.

Empire. Authority. Moral certainty.

Broadcasting.

And something ancient listening.

“And what are we?” Sean asked quietly.

Eljara looked at the fog as it curled around the street lamps.

“Interference.”

He gave a dry huff.

“I preferred monsters.”

“They are simpler.”

“And less honest.”

“Yes.”

The wind shifted. For a fleeting second, the street felt subtly elongated, as though London itself had stretched beyond its map.

Then it settled.

No summoning.

No sealing.

No final answer.

Just a city that had adjusted its frequency.

“We stay inconvenient,” Sean said.

“Yes.”

They walked into the fog.

Behind them, the ballroom lights dimmed.

Nothing had crossed over.

Nothing had been resolved.

But the alignment had shifted.

And somewhere beyond the visible architecture of empire, something adjusted its listening accordingly.

[mythveilchronicles]

MASKS & MASQUERADE — Week 4 (Pulp Cthulhu by Gaslight) 

The World Does Not Hold Still

The house was quiet again.

Not empty. Not safe. Just… quiet.

Mara sat on the hallway floor with her back against the wall. The paper mask rested in her lap. Chibi lay on his stomach nearby, watching the thin line of light beneath the front door.

“It stopped,” he said.

“Yes.”

“But it didn’t go away.”

“No.”

The boards beneath them felt steady now. No humming. No vibration. No answering echo from the ballroom below.

Still, the silence felt different.

Adjusted.

“Did we win?” he asked after a while.

“Against what?”

“The thing that was listening.”

Mara thought about that.

“We didn’t fight it.”

“No?”

“No. We changed it.”

He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling.

“How?”

She lifted the paper mask slightly.

“When everyone downstairs was being the same,” she said softly, “the house got louder.”

“Yes.”

“When someone stopped being the same, it changed.”

He frowned thoughtfully.

“So it’s not about being good or bad.”

“No.”

“It’s about being too sure.”

“Yes.”

He sat up slowly.

“Like when we all clap at the same time and it echoes.”

“Yes.”

“And if one person claps wrong—”

“It doesn’t stop the echo.”

“It makes a different one.”

“Yes.”

Chibi looked toward the hallway.

“It felt bigger before.”

“Yes.”

“It doesn’t now.”

“No.”

“But it could again.”

“Yes.”

He wasn’t afraid.

He was thinking.

“So the world doesn’t stay one size.”

“No.”

“It changes when we change.”

“Yes.”

The gas lamp burned steadily along the wall. The door looked the right distance away again. The wallpaper didn’t ripple. The shadows behaved.

Normal.

But not exactly the same as yesterday.

“So we don’t fix it,” he said quietly.

“No.”

“We just keep it from getting too sure.”

“Yes.”

He nodded slowly.

“That sounds harder than fighting a monster.”

“It is.”

He picked up the paper mask and turned it over in his hands.

“Are we wearing masks too?”

“Yes.”

“Are they bad?”

“No.”

“Then what are they?”

She looked at the steady flame, at the hallway that felt properly shaped again.

“They’re instruments,” she said.

“For what?”

“For tuning.”

He blinked.

“That’s not very heroic.”

“No.”

“But it’s better than being a statue.”

“Yes.”

He lay back down and folded his hands behind his head.

“Wake me if it gets too sure again,” he murmured.

“I will.”

The house did not hum.

But it felt aware.

Not because something had entered.

Not because something had been sealed.

Because the rhythm had shifted.

And somewhere beyond London, beyond empire, beyond certainty —

something adjusted its listening.

Not defeated.

Not victorious.

Aligned.

[mythveilchronicles]

The Mythveil family in West Virginia (Country Road Kids inspired by Stranger THings our campaign on startplaying.games)

[mythveilchronicles]

THE MASK THAT REMEMBERS (Tales from the Loop Country Road Kids inspired by Stranger Things)

(Month 2 · Week 4 — Caelwyn & Stacy)

The carnival lights are gone.

Streamers hang lower than they did yesterday. Confetti sticks to damp gravel outside the hall. The parking lot is empty.

The red devil mask lies on a wooden table.

Face up.

Grinning.

Cheap plastic. Bent horn. Nothing special.

“They think it’s over,” Stacy says quietly.

Caelwyn doesn’t look away from the mask.

“Is it?”

No lights flicker. No wind moves. Nothing supernatural lingers.

And yet something feels… different.

“It didn’t change physically,” he says.

“No.”

“No energy spikes. No residue.”

“No.”

Stacy steps closer.

“But something shifted.”

“Yes.”

Caelwyn turns the mask over in his hands.

“When someone wore it,” he says, “they felt more.”

“Amplified,” Stacy answers.

“Stronger. Sharper. Clearer.”

“Yes.”

“And when they took it off?”

“They felt smaller.”

The word lands heavier than it should.

He sets the mask back down.

“It doesn’t store power,” he says.

“It stores association.”

Stacy meets his eyes.

“If you experience yourself expanded,” she says, “returning to baseline feels like loss.”

Caelwyn nods slowly.

“And the mask becomes a shortcut.”

“Yes.”

A shortcut to confidence. To dominance. To intensity.

The room is silent.

No hum. No pulse.

Just memory.

“It isn’t possession,” he says.

“No.”

“It’s dependency.”

“Yes.”

He studies the hollow interior.

“If someone believes this object holds their strongest version…”

“They’ll return to it.”

“Even if it costs them.”

Stacy doesn’t argue.

Hope exists.

Because the amplification was never in the mask.

It was in them.

But temptation exists too.

Because it’s easier to believe strength comes from plastic than from choice.

Caelwyn turns the mask face down on the table.

The sound is soft.

Ordinary.

“If someone puts it on again,” he says, “what happens?”

Stacy’s answer is steady.

“Nothing.”

A beat.

“It will just feel familiar.”

And familiarity can be powerful enough.

The mask lies still.

Empty.

But not forgotten.