Coldest Shoulder [Ironsworn Hack] Session 1

 

Session 1
Oct 4, 2025

Andre sat in his 97 Pontiac Grand Prix, the radio turned up way too loud, the bass in his sub-woofer thumping to the song, “Super BonBon” by Soul Coughing.  He had been sitting in the parking lot of this roadside Motel for quite some time now. [Weather Ominous Stillness, no other cars pass for hours] But he hasn’t seen a single car pass down the highway.  Not even one.  He was well and truly, in the middle of nowhere.   The air was…still…waiting. He had left his job as a detective in the Dallas Police Department when news of his mother’s murder reached him a few years ago.  Since that time, he has simply roamed around, doing odd jobs, getting by the best he could.  He held in his hand the pocket-knife his dad had given him as a high school graduation present.  He loved it and hated it.

He had thrown it away after hearing how his dad had murdered his mom in seeming cold blood.  But he had always gone back and retrieved it from the trash.  It…compelled him to do so in some way.  He remembered during his dad’s trial; the man was broken and sobbing constantly.  He couldn’t tell anyone why he had driven his semi-truck into the motel where his mom was working, killing her.  According to him, they weren’t having marital problems, she wasn’t having an affair.  She was working nights at the small-town motel, cleaning rooms in preparation for the next day.  He was coming home from a long hall out to the east coast.  Reports said he had not even slowed down as he plowed his truck into the building, specifically in the room she had been cleaning.  No one else had been in any of the nearby rooms.  How had he known which room she was in?  Why did he do it?  Those were answers he couldn’t provide, and the police had not found any either.  

Obsessed with the whole crime, Andre had ostracized his father, quit his job, broke up with his fiancé, and began doing copious research.  He had learned that there were…things…that just didn’t always add up.  Things that could not be explained by normal police procedures.   He had gotten the records from his father’s truck company logs.  He had stayed in this motel the night before killing Andre’s mother.  Andre arrived at the same motel in eastern Oklahoma just at sunrise today and had been sitting in the parking lot since.

He picked up the printout of the log laying in his lap, as his bass in the car thumped out a rhythm.  [Ghost Hamlet- No permanent population a few structures but nothing moves]  Killdeer.  What a weird name for a town, if you could call this a town.  Just this lonesome motel in the middle of nowhere. He turned off the car and decided to get on with it.  Walking toward the motel, he could see his and the Pontiac’s reflection in the motel window.  He was really rough looking, having not shaved in the last two weeks.  The hood of his black Pontiac was almost completely devoid of black paint, only showing the grey primer.  He went into the motel office and rang the bell for service.  The office was drab, a few things sitting on a desk that seemed very ordinary.  The lighting was dim, but sufficient.  The door behind the office opened and a nondescript female walked into the room.  She introduced herself in a gentle, deliberate cadence.  Beverly Boone, what a name.  [Oracle does she have a wedding ring, Yes] She was an older woman, had to be in her 70’s or 80’s.  Strangely, she had paracord weaved into her silver and grey hair.  [Motel features - Guest log repeats the same few names].  Andre decided that the best way to start was to simply get a room in this motel and poke around a bit.
“Was that you making all that racket outside..boom boom and whatnot?”  She said with a wrinkled smile.  “You interrupted my nap.”

Andre was 35, but she made him feel like a kid in trouble.  He blushed and said, “Yes ma’am sorry about that.  I’ll turn it down next time.”  He noted that the motel used an old fashioned logbook rather than a computer to track lodgers.  He wanted to be able to get a glance at it if possible.  “I’ll take a room for the night, how much?”

“55, cash.  We don’t take cards,” and she pointed to a sign that said NO CREDIT CARDS ACCEPTED.  THEY ARE THE MARK OF THE BEAST and it had a cartoon picture of a devil brandishing a trident.  He had figured on as much, cash was often the only currency accepted in these places out in the middle of nowhere.  He handed over the bills, and watched carefully as she wrote his name in the ledger.  
[Gather Information 5+2=7 vs 4,8 Weak Hit; +1 Momentum]
He could see, at least from the pages in the log open, that the last person to stay before him had stayed one day, every week for a month.  Strange, but not that strange.  “Hey, I forgot to pack a razor with my stuff, you don’t happen to sell some for guests do ya?” Andre rubbed the stubble on his face and neck as demonstration for his desperate need.

“Of course, son.  Let me go grab one for you,” and she levered herself up from the chair and ambled back into the room behind the office.  Andre quickly flipped through the logbook, noting that same name appeared once a week every month.  For months, and months and months.  And finally, he found his dad’s entry Andrew Burnett, room 7.  He quickly flipped the book back to the current page.  She came ambling back, a little bit of a troubled look on her face.

[Mark 2 ticks progress on background vow]

“Here ya go, our last one,” and she handed over a plastic wrapped disposable razor.
“Everything ok?” he asked as he accepted the razor.   She looked up, a little surprised.
“Oh yes, just running a small business like this away from everything.  We need a lot of different items, and my granddaughter won’t be here until tomorrow.”
“Ah, she helps you keep this place running?  What’s her name?”
She looks at him a little skeptically, “Maribel Cox.  What, are you the law or something? Why do you want to know?”

[Oracle, is that the same name in the logbook? No.  What was the name? Male: Luther Jackson]

“Well, I used to work in Dallas as a detective, but not anymore.  Now I’m just doing a little investigative work for a documentary.  I’m co-writing about small out of the way places, strange stories, hauntings, etcetera.”  And he gave a little chuckle.  She didn’t smile back.
“Yes, well, plenty of that around here, son.” And she flipped the logbook closed.  “Here ya go, room 7.”  She reached into a glass paneled box and retrieved the room key.  The others were all covered in dust except 7 and 11.  11 was the room Luther Jackson stayed in every time.

“Would you be willing to divulge some stories, or maybe tell me of a local café where I could sit and buy someone a coffee and discuss local lore?”

[Compel 6+2=8 vs 1,2 Strong Hit. +1 Momentum]

She sat looking at him for a few moments, searching his face for something.  “Alright, it will give an old woman an opportunity to spin some yarns.  Lord knows I like to gossip.  Come on back into the office, I’ll make you a cup of coffee.  I’m a tea drinker myself.”

“Oh tea will be fine for me as well.” Andre said, and he weaved around the counter and opened the door marked Employees Only for the woman as she went through.  She murmured thanks and busily started rummaging through some cabinets.  The room was a mixture of a small apartment and office storage.  It had a sink, cabinets, a small futon, and then shelves of office supplies, toiletries, cleaning supplies, linens, towels, etc.  

“Can I help you with anything?” he said as he stood behind one of the chairs at a small breakfast table.

“Nonsense, I can make tea just fine.  Sit down.” She continued to fiddle with an electric kettle, filling it with water from the tap.  She had set out two mugs, both looked clean, and placed two black tea bags into each.  “So…stories.  What would like to hear about?”

“Often in small towns like this, there is a history of hauntings, or weird occurrences that people talk about or don’t talk about, if you catch my meaning.  Anything like that?”

“Well, Killdeer isn’t really a town, at least not anymore.   Even when I was a kid, it was barely a community, though in my grandfather’s time it was a mining town.  Now, it’s just this motel, some graveyards from times past, and a church or two.  [Open mysteries: A preacher’s congregation vanishes mid-sermon.  Only pews carved with claw marks remain.]  I remember as a teenager, we would go out and explore some of those old graveyards and empty church buildings.  One in particular, I remember the pews were all carved up.  We figured other kids had come in and vandalized the place.  But it felt…strange…like there was something watching us.  We joked that the Lord didn’t want us poking around and we skeedaddled.”  And she gave a chuckle as she poured the boiling water in the cups.

“Carved up, like ‘James was here’ or whatever?”  She frowned.

“James?  No, no, like claw marks.  Deep gouges in the pews.  I asked my grandmother about it at the time, and she was very close-mouthed.  Said some things didn’t bear talking about.”

“Interesting! Is the building still standing?”  Andre was scribbling copious notes into a notebook.

“I’m not sure to be honest. It’s been about 60 years ago, so likely not. But I can give you directions if you want to drive out there.  It’s not too far from here, and maybe it would help your story.”  She placed the mug of tea in front of them and sat sipping gently from hers. Andre nodded as she described how to get there and he made further notes.  They had further pleasant chat about the town and the folk she sees coming and going. 

“You get any regulars coming and staying here?  People passing through for work or anything?”  Andre sipped his tea, trying to not reveal too much.

She peered at him over the rim of her cup.  “Sometimes.  But their business is theirs and ours is ours, right?”  Her steely blue eyes drilled into him that he needed to stop asking questions about that.
“Of course,” he relented.   He thanked her for the tea and went out to his car to retrieve his duffel bag with his belongings.  He went to room 7, and opened the door.  He didn’t know exactly what he expected but, he expected more than just a normal motel room.  He took out his pocketknife, and traced the silver inlay in the handle.  He would go check out this church and see what he could find there.  [Swear a Vow 6+2=8 vs 4,6 Strong Hit. +2 Momentum.  Investigate the old church - Troublesome]