Greetings! I wanted to reach out to all you cats in Chill-land. After what seems like 4 or more decades (and it has been!), yikes, our local group is embarking on a Chill campaign. 

A 42-year-old game, a 59-year-old GM that hasn't GMed in 40 years, what could go wrong!

We did decide to go in a different route; our campaign begins in 1936...

For your appraisal, here is the opening narrative for the adventure 

All The World's A Stage

The Apollo After Hours

October 19th, 1936

Late Evening

“The Apollo Civic Theater squats on the corner of Martin Street, like a cold half-finished promise. Scaffolding hugs the front faced, wooden planks lashed together with rope and rusty mails. Sheets of canvas flap lazily in the chill evening breeze, snapping now and then like distant applause. Piles of construction debris clutter the sidewalk, the skeleton of the marquee yet to be fleshed out. Splintered boards, crates of unused marquee bulbs, a ladder lying on its side as though dropped in a hurry. The marquee itself is dark.

Bare metal letters wait in crates beneath it, some wrapped in old newspaper, others loose and scattered on the cold sidewalk. A few bulbs have already been installed, but without the wiring complete they only reflect the streetlights in dull, glassy stares.

The theater is supposed to be open despite the construction. That’s what the papers said. A point of civic provide, The Miracle of East Martin Street, the show must go on. But not tonight.

The front doors appear to be locked, brass handles cold and unyielding beneath your hands. A paper notice has been taped crookedly to the glass, edges lifting in the damp air:

CLOSED FOR THE EVENING

–Management.

No date, no signature.

Through the glass, the lobby is dim, shadowy but not dark. A single light glows weakly beyond the concessions, casting stretched shadows across the tiled floor. The ticket booth is empty, its sliding window half-open as if someone forgot to close it. A roll of ticket stubs still rests on the counter inside.

The building smells wrong–wet plaster, old velvet…and something faintly acrid, like overheated machinery. Then, from somewhere inside the Apollo, you hear it. A low mechanical whine, a pause, then, click…

The sound carries through the locked doors and unfinished walls unmistakably. A film projector starting up.

The noise grows steadier, the rhythm comforting and unsettling all at once. Light flickers faintly behind the lobby wall, as though something is being cast on a screen deeper within the depths of the theater.

Outside the wind shifts.

One of the loose marquee letters, still wrapped in paper, slides slightly across the pavement in a sudden biting wind, scraping just enough to draw your attention. When you look back up at the glass doors, you no longer see or hear the projector. But was it ever really there?

So, there it is, barring bad weather (we are here in West VA), we start 01/28/2026. See you at the movies!