Session Overview
What began as a straightforward procurement mission—acquire bedsheets from virgin nuns, simple enough—quickly descended into a comedy of errors that would have been hilarious if it weren't so desperately important. The team needed specific ingredients for an occult ritual, and the universe, it seemed, had decided to make obtaining each one as absurd as possible. Between bureaucratic failures, vampire nun paranoia, and one very persistent young novice with extremely un-nun-like intentions, it was a miracle anyone made it out of the convent with their dignity intact. (Spoiler: they didn't.)
The Ingredients of Madness
The session opened with a reminder of just how deep into the weird they'd waded. The recipe for aqua mortis—because of course that's what it was called—required a shopping list that read like something from a particularly deranged alchemist's fever dream: methyl sulfide, mercury filtered through copper (three times, naturally), water from ancient tombs, and dust scraped from a virgin's bedsheets.
Charlotte "Patty" Stevens, call sign Hanover, helpfully recapped their previous session's failures and modest successes: intelligence gathering, a hospital visit, and the acquisition of a trauma kit with morphine. Small victories in the face of cosmic horror.
As they contemplated the task ahead, one question loomed larger than all the others: who would approach the nuns of the Convent of Saint Mary and the Twelve Apostles?
Haze looked pointedly at Hanover—the only woman in the group.
She looked theatrically behind herself, as if someone else might be volunteering. "Well, I guess it's me then," she sighed.
The Convent Caper: First Attempt
The Convent of Saint Mary and the Twelve Apostles sat nestled in Cairo's old Coptic Quarter, a limestone fortress of serenity complete with ancient fig trees, a fountain, and an atmosphere of profound peace. The kind of place that made you feel guilty for even thinking about breaking in.
But breaking in was exactly what they planned to do.
After some discussion about the literal versus metaphorical nature of occult texts (Haze rolled a critical failure and became absolutely certain that magical rituals meant exactly what they said— virgin meant virgin), they settled on a plan: Haze would infiltrate, locate the laundry room, and acquire one (1) used bedsheet from an actual virgin nun.
"Stealth is my specialty," Haze assured them. He had a 71 in sneaking. What could possibly go wrong?
The answer, as it turned out, was: everything.
Haze made his approach through the tradesman's entrance, slipping past with practiced ease. The cool, dark corridors stretched before him, terracotta tiles gleaming in shafts of sunlight from high windows. He moved like a shadow, ducking behind alcoves and statues, avoiding the nuns with professional precision.
Until he opened a door whilst fleeing and discovered a workshop room—small tools, materials, the works. Interesting, but not what he needed. And then a voice spoke behind him.
In English.
"What are you doing in the house of God? Do you need help?"
The sister who'd found him wasn't angry—just concerned. Disappointed, even. After a quick human reading check, Haze determined she was being sincere. So he went with the simplest possible approach.
"Could I have some food and water?"
She sighed, the kind of sigh that spoke of long-suffering patience with foolish soldiers. "We would have been happy to provide such things if you had simply asked. Instead, you invaded our home."
She led him downstairs to a communal dining area and served him water, bread, and dried figs. As he ate, she explained that they'd spoken with military commanding officers about soldiers making bets to infiltrate the convent. It was, apparently, not an uncommon occurrence.
Haze apologized, acknowledged he probably wouldn't be the last, and thanked her for the food. She escorted him to the entrance with a warning: "Make better choices next time."
He left empty-handed—but with a mental map of where the laundry room was located. Small victories.
Vampire Nun Paranoia
Back at Omar's café, Haze reported the situation: "These nuns are vigilant as fuck. I have a general idea where the room is, but I didn't manage to get anything because that would have included potentially hurting nuns, and I'm not in for that."
That's when things got... strange.
"There's a nun in the crowd," Haze said quietly. "I think she's following me."
Hanover made a human reading check to assess the situation. She failed spectacularly, and her conclusion was immediate and certain: the young novice watching them from outside the café was clearly a cannibal vampire nun who wanted to eat Hertz.
The evidence? The nun was staring at Hertz through the window, flushed, biting her lip, looking absolutely hungry.
"Watch out for vampire cannibal nuns," Hanover warned solemnly. "She was licking her lips."
Haze, to his credit, remained pragmatic. "They were really nice to me and let me leave. So at least from that point of view..."
"I'm taking my gun this time," he added.
Hertz, bemused, described himself as looking like "a middle-aged man"—hardly vampire bait, one would think. But the nun lingered outside the café with visible longing before finally returning to the convent, shoulders slumped in disappointment.
(To be clear: the nun was almost certainly not a cannibal. But in Delta Green, paranoia is a survival mechanism.)
The Other Ingredients
Whilst Haze had been conducting his ill-fated reconnaissance, the question of the other ingredients remained. Hertz attempted to acquire methyl sulfide and mercury through proper military channels, filling out the necessary paperwork with meticulous care.
And then made a spelling error.
The forms went to the wrong queue entirely. So much for bureaucracy.
"Bureaucracy," Hanover said flatly, perfectly summarising the situation.
That left them considering alternative sources. The aqua mortis—water from ancient tombs—presented its own challenges. Cairo sat surrounded by options: the pyramids, the Valley of the Kings, countless ancient burial sites. But how exactly did one collect water from a sealed tomb?
"Pyramids," Haze suggested, with the confidence of someone who hadn't thought through the logistics.
They discussed wells, the proximity of the Nile, and whether they'd need to actually pour water through the tombs or find naturally occurring condensation. The entire conversation had the surreal quality of people trying to take magic seriously whilst also being completely out of their depth.
Hertz had a better idea: "Are there shamans or practitioners in the city who may already stock such things?"
That's when they remembered Omar.
Omar Knows a Guy
Omar, the café owner who seemed to know everyone in Cairo, greeted Hanover with his customary warmth. "Miss Johnson, you've come back to me! Here, sit, sit. Coffee? Tell me, what brings you to my humble abode?"
After some pleasantries about franchises (a concept Omar found fascinating but confusing), Hanover introduced the real reason for their visit. Hertz, looking Omar directly in the eyes, explained their need.
"We would not ask if our need was not great, Omar. I hope you know that much about us. We do not enter into such matters lightly."
Omar's expression grew serious. "Do tell, good doctor."
"Are you familiar with the term 'aqua mortis'?"
The look on Omar's face told them everything. He recognised the term. And he understood that they were dealing with something far darker than they'd let on.
"I did not think you so bold," he said quietly. "But yes, I think this could be done. There would be a price, of course."
He reached into his robes and produced a copper token stamped with ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs. He gave them an address, a name, and instructions to present the token as proof.
"Be careful," he warned.
Hertz thanked him, acknowledging the debt between friends—the kind that need not be formally considered but would never be forgotten.
The Second Infiltration: A Comedy in Three Acts
Night fell over Cairo's Coptic Quarter. The convent sealed itself—doors closed, windows shuttered, the nuns preparing for evening prayers and rest.
Haze, face wrapped in a protective scarf against the sand (and recognition), approached the tradesman's entrance again. It was locked. Properly locked, with ancient mechanisms that wouldn't yield to his lockpicking skills.
"Can I scale the building?" he asked.
He could.
Act One: The Climb
Haze found a jasmine-covered trellis and began his ascent, muscles straining as he pulled himself up the limestone wall. The climb went smoothly—perhaps too smoothly. He made it to the roof, surveying the interior courtyard below. Lights glowed in various windows, but no nuns were immediately visible.
Time to descend.
Act Two: The Crash
He found another trellis near the tradesman's entrance and began climbing down carefully, silently, professionally—
—and then lost his footing.
The world became a blur of motion and crashing noise as Haze tumbled into the washing-up station, smashing through pots and crockery with all the stealth of a drunk elephant. He hit his head, saw stars, and found himself staring directly into the shocked face of a young nun.
She spoke rapidly in a language he didn't understand—Coptic, probably—her eyes wide.
"Amen," Haze managed, attempting to stand.
Act Three: The Closet
The young nun—Sister Marguerite, as it turned out—grabbed his hand urgently and pulled him away from the sound of approaching footsteps. She dragged him to a dark closet, shoved him inside, and squeezed in after him, pressing a finger to his lips.
Shh.
Outside, other nuns called out, investigating the noise. Sister Marguerite remained perfectly still, her body pressed against Haze's in the confined space.
And then her finger traced along the scars on his neck.
She moved closer. Significantly closer.
"Do you speak English?" Haze asked, grabbing her hand and pulling away as much as the cramped space allowed.
She responded in Coptic, intertwining her fingers with his, expressing affection through touch rather than words she knew he wouldn't understand.
(This was very much not vampire behaviour. This was, perhaps, worse.)
The Great Escape
When the searching nuns finally moved on, Haze extracted himself from the closet—and Sister Marguerite—and headed for the laundry room. She followed like a devoted puppy.
He reached the corridor, only to have her pull him aside to hide from a passing elder nun, pressing close to him again with what could only be described as enthusiasm.
The laundry room finally appeared before him: piles of neatly folded, starched sheets, perfectly clean and organised. Success was within reach.
And then Sister Marguerite tried to kiss him.
Haze pushed her away in a cartoonish fashion—gentle but firm. He had a mission. She was sweet, but absolutely not part of that mission.
Sister Marguerite's expression shifted from affection to hurt to anger in rapid succession. And then she began calling out loudly, summoning the other nuns.
"Bollocks," Haze muttered (probably), slamming the laundry room door and sprinting away from the approaching voices.
He dove into a small prayer chamber cubicle just as the nuns rounded the corner, pressing himself into the shadows and holding his breath. They passed within metres, discussing Sister Marguerite's "romantic escapades"—apparently this was a recurring issue.
When the coast finally cleared, Haze crept upstairs to the right side of the convent where lights still glowed. He needed to find a different nun's room. One who wasn't Sister Marguerite.
The upper floor stretched before him: multiple bedchambers, none labelled, no obvious way to identify whose room was whose.
He approached a door and tried to open it quietly.
The hinges creaked with a sound straight out of Transylvania—a long, echoing groan that seemed to reverberate through the entire convent.
The door swung open to reveal the Mother Superior herself: elderly, sharp-eyed, and looking directly at him with an expression that spoke of infinite disappointment and exactly zero surprise.
To be continued...
Bedsheets acquired: 0
Nuns scandalised: Several
Young novices with crushes: 1 (very persistent)
Mother Superiors who are absolutely done with this nonsense: 1
Current status: Haze is standing in the Mother Superior's bedchamber at midnight, covered in dust, having crashed through her washing-up station, hidden in a closet with a romantically inclined novice, and just announced his presence to the entire convent with the world's creakiest door. The aqua mortis ingredient is secured (thanks, Omar), but the virgin's bedsheet remains frustratingly out of reach. On the bright side, at least they know where to find a shaman who deals in occult supplies. On the not-so-bright side, that's probably not a comforting thing to know.