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You are here: Home --> Forum Home --> Recent posts by Bromern Sal
Topic: Voyages of the Rocinante - Firefly RPG QnA
Subject: As my best friend's mother told us when we were teenagers...

Get the party favors out of the closet and send them home!

(Long story... she was referring to girls we brought back to his house from a party.)

Posted on 2018-01-25 at 18:52:56.

Topic: Voyages of the Rocinante - Firefly RPG QnA
Subject: Asher in a fight?

Oh boy...

Posted on 2018-01-25 at 15:02:30.

Topic: Voyages of the Rocinante - Firefly RPG QnA
Subject: I, too, have posted.

This should take Wyatt through the rest of the evening until he has to return to pick up the crew (if he has to).

Posted on 2018-01-25 at 11:51:49.

Topic: Voyages of Rocinante - Serenity/Firefly RPG
Subject: Day 1, Whitefall - Necessity, "The Slaughterhouse", 9:00 PM PT

"Mr. Potter," the captain turns to address their potential patron and look him straight in the eye, "You got yerself transport. Rocinante is currently at Eagle Eye's ranch. Do you need her elsewhere t' load up, an' when're you wantin' t' clear atmo?"

Saul smiles widely and offers his hand to shake on the deal, which Wyatt accepts. "Tomorrow night, late, after the fights have ended, which should be around ten-ish." He starts moving items on the table around. "The warehouse is where they do the fights, and it draws a crowd. A big one. Near the warehouse is a junkyard. If you park on the far side of the yard—there's an open field there among some trees. We can all meet, gather up your people from the fight and my people with their stuff and get out asap. I'll be at the warehouse, I'll pay you the five then, but my people will be packing up and tying up the loose ends."

"Will you be needin' any help loadin' up? Any special needs fer the cargo? How many people are we talkin' ‘bout?" Wyatt glances back towards the card game he had left to engage in these business dealings and watches the engagement for a short few seconds before turning back to Saul. "Whatever info you can share will help me an' mine in givin' you an' yers a smooth ride. Ku?"

(OOC: Saul's answers, however short or non-informative,)

Having what he needs for the time being in hand, Wyatt leans forward and powers to his feet extending his hand once again towards their new patron. "If'n I don' see ya until t'morrow night, zhen tama
yaoming. Zhuyi.
" Not knowing all of the details, Sung feels the warning relevant.

Taking his leave of Saul Potter, Captain Sung moseys over to the card game and places his left hand on the back of one of the chairs. "You gao guhn gentlemen'll ‘ave t' ‘scuse me as I've got some business t' attend to. Xièxie nî fer the entertainment."

Touching the brim of his hat, Wyatt makes his way over to Sam and the brunette. "Hate t' interrupt, puhn yoh, but I'm takin' the mule back t' Roc. Any o' the lot ya who's wantin' t' head back now better hump it, otherwise, yer providin' yer own ride or radioin' an' waitin' ‘til someone can pick ya up."

(OOC: Sam's reply,)

Scanning the barroom, Sung gently chews on the inside right of his bottom lip. Asher isn't anywhere to be seen and Wolf seems to have wandered off as well so he's going to have to radio them and fill them in on his plans.

"Don' get chun. We got work t' prepare for t'morrow. Dohn ma?"

(OOC: Sam's reply,)

Tipping his head while touching the brim of his hat to the strapped lady, Captain Sung swivels about and strides purposefully to the door while fishing his personal communicator out of his coat pocket. Cool night air washing his face and removes the inviting odor of alcohol from his nostrils the moment he passes through the door. Standing just outside the Slaughterhouse, Wyatt thumbs his radio active and states, "The mule's headin' back t' Roc. Any o' you lot need a ride?"

Waiting only a moment for immediate replies before jogging down the stairs and strolling up to the "horse" he rode in on, Sung climbs into the driver's seat and uses his biometric ID to start the engine. Lifting into the air and drifting just a bit sideways, Wyatt corrects the pitch and the mule rights. Glancing about to make sure he isn't about to run anyone over shows him that his path is clear and with a push of a pedal and the drawing back of a stick, the vehicle is backed away from the parking stall.

(OOC: hopefully, the return trip to Roc is a quiet one,)

Driving the mule right up the ramp into the cargo bay, Wyatt doesn't bother parking it in the vehicle's hanger as he is most likely going to have to go play taxi later on. Shutting the engines down, he rolls from the seat and strides across the bay to the stairs to the front, right side. Another flight of stairs takes him through the mid-deck and expels him onto the main deck and into the dining area. Glancing to his right, Sung spots Ma reading up in the observation dome. His discovery causes a short detour as he is inclined to hike the small staircase which draws the scarred woman's attention to him.

"How's the girl?" he puts towards her.

(OOC: Ma's response,)

"Well, we got another dilemma," Sung quietly remarks while removing his hat and running his free hand through his black hair. "I picked up work, but we leave t'morrow night so we've got t' find a solution fer the girl's predicamen'. Think on that, will ya, Ma? I'm not too keen on becomin' a wet nurse while tryin' t' earn a livin'."

(OOC: Ma's response,)

Wyatt can't see a reason to visit the infirmary. Being honest with himself means admitting that seeing the pregnant girl will open way too many wounds. Dipping his head in polite thanks to the woman who holds the crew together, the captain of the boat strolls back down into the dining room and through it to the forward hall. Dropping down his ladder into the homey chamber that is his quarters, Wyatt tosses his hat on his bed and immediately moves to Cortex terminal.

As the screen flares to life, Sung removes his gunbelt and hangs it on the back of the chair. "Let's see what I can find on ol' Saul Potter," he mutters as he drops into the chair and stretches the tension out of his shoulders.

(OOC: Wyatt will spend as much time as needed drawing up whatever intel he can on Saul Potter, Pegasus, old news reports on events surrounding either, a satellite image of the meet area for the next night so he can get a lay of the land, and current traffic reports for the space between Whitefall and Pegasus.)

Posted on 2018-01-25 at 11:51:04.

Topic: Bring Me That Horizon Q&A
Subject: Two posts. Two to go...


Posted on 2018-01-25 at 10:50:13.

Topic: Bring Me That Horizon Q&A
Subject: Thank you.


Posted on 2018-01-24 at 10:50:34.

Topic: Flesh & Blood - A CyberPunk Game
Subject: FYI

If you are needing to make a roll for any reason concerning your character's actions, please go to and do so with a clear message to me as to what it's for.

For example, Tann just asked me if Casino would be able to tell which of the three vantage points I indicated in my post would be the best for the drone. He can make a Combatant DED check on roll20 and let me know he's done so. That way, I just have to take the results of the roll and share any appropriate information with him.

Posted on 2018-01-24 at 10:49:52.

Topic: Flesh & Blood - A CyberPunk Game
Subject: Indeed!

As if it weren't thick enough already...

Posted on 2018-01-23 at 11:16:23.

Topic: Bring Me That Horizon Q&A
Subject: I'm pleased to have you on board!

I've updated the game. Everyone is in a position to post including you Lady Dark. As you're ready.

Posted on 2018-01-22 at 21:27:27.

Topic: Bring Me That Horizon
Subject: Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), roughly 6:08 P.M.; Beach

Standing straight-backed before the weather-worn door to the captain's quarters, Goncalvo Goncallves d'Gafanha da Nazare knocks. Silence follows for a few short breaths before the door is flung open and a glowering Anne Cole stands before him.

"Ah," she exhales, her hard yet beautiful features softening just a bit. "Back from shore so soon, Goncalvo?"

"Alas, Captain my Captain, I am so soon returned. For a few moments I thought I might have to stay too long in too fine an inn but at the last moment my gentlemanly charm seemed to let me down and a most attractive young woman chose to turn her back on me. But I was able to gather some interesting information on tides, currents and wind patterns. Things you must find terribly boring but to one such as me it is a treasure." Goncalvo takes a moment and then continues, "I have heard there was some excitement in town of a sort that may not further our acceptance in this port. Should I make ready a plan for an expeditious departure?" As he waits for an answer he can not help but wonder if the lass on the dock or the Captain herself would be the most entertaining companion.

"Bloody hell! Is the word spreading already?" Anne turns and strides purposefully back to her desk insinuating that her sailsmaster is to follow. "Where did you ‘ear ‘bout it?"

(OOC: Assuming your answer is true,)

"Well, blast him from the cannons fer gossipin'," she snarls and drops like a ragdoll into the armchair and snatching a dirk from the table at the same time. "And what do you think I should do ‘bout it, Goncalvo? How would you suggest the capt'n deal with ‘er sister killing a government bootlicker an' ‘is lacky soldier?"

(OOC: Time is roughly 6:12 PM)


Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), roughly 12:03 P.M.; The Rub of Del Monte

"Perhaps you would deign to allow me the honor of purchasing you said beverage?"

Honor, again, is it?

Fin's brows raise, too, as he turns and slowly assesses the dandy of a man. Where the fop's expression is one of polite boredom, though, Crowe's speaks more towoards skepticism laced, perhaps, with a bit of curiosity. This isn't the sort of man with whom Fin is typically be found drinking with... robbing, perhaps, or stalking in search of a prize, maybe, but drinking? Even more curious in the pirate's mind is that the coxcomb fellow has invited him,

The quartermaster hooks his thumbs over the top of his belt as his scrutinizing gaze makes its way back from the other man's highly polished shoes, past the powder blue poofery of his frilly garb, and settles, once more, on the aristocratic set of the man's visage. For the flicker of an instant, Fin considers telling the man to go f*&% himself. Instead, though, one corner of his mouth pulls up into the beginnings of something more affable than the grim sneer he has been wearing and he offers the other man a curt nod.

"Aye," he rumbles, a faint shrug of his shoulders accompanying the word, "Why th' hell not? Ye look 's if ye c'n afford it,."

He takes a couple of steps in the fop's direction, adding; "If it's anythin' more'n th' drinks ye've got in mind, though, I'll pass. I've had more'n my fill o' folk f*&^in' wit' me, t'day."

"Quaint," the fop drolly comments, leading the way to a table with a good view of the rest of the room. It is already occupied, but that seems not to deter him and as the two men approach, the lot about the table hurriedly and cleanly vacate.

"Please," gesturing at a chair, the aristocrat waits for Fin to seat himself before following suite across the table. "I heard the man you just gutted call you Fin Crowe. My name is Elias Oken and I am very familiar with Mr. Kidane's skills, which yours have surpassed. This intrigues me, sir, for I may have coin for a man of your ability.

"Pray tell, from where to you hail and on which ship did you arrive?"

(OOC: Time is roughly 12:05 PM.)

Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), Docks, 1:50 P.M.

Cracker catches a glimpse of what he is sure is a Cole and a Shark heading in the opposite direction. Spinning quickly on his heel he dashes back the way he had come. Running down the alley and chasing the others doesn't seem likely to work, especially with the crowd on the other end of the alley, but since the road he is on is lightly travelled he can move quickly. If he retraces his steps quickly and then cuts towards them he will likely run into the pair.

Sweat pouring down his back, the boatswain rushes through the smaller side street sending chickens clucking indignantly as he bowls through the midst of them. Scullery maids, servants, and workers of various industry watch him whip past with both curiosity and some concern. Gauging the approximate distance he's cleared with the rate he'd witnessed the first mate and her entourage moving, William cuts to his right in a hurried jog down a thin passage between two buildings. Thin enough that he's forced to run nearly sideways and receive a couple of jarring blows to his shoulders when he miscalculates his steps.

Bolting into the swilling humanity of the main street, Cracker deftly dodges about the milling, sweaty society, then twists in the other direction to keep from crashing into a woman carrying a basket of rags. Within seconds he's made it across the street and is thundering down the new alley in an attempt to cut his quarry off.

William explodes into the subsequent alley and slides to a halt, kicking up a pale cloud of dust to drift in the gentle breeze as his eyes flit from one object to another until they rest on the running backsides of his crewmates. Huffing, Cracker ducks his head and engages in the pursuit once more. He'd seen Shark Tooth run before and recognized almost immediately that the gunner is pulling in to allow Maggie to keep pace and while Stryker is also faster than the boatswain, his slowed pace allows Cracker to catch up.

Drawing close, William is surprised that they are so intent on their progress that his approach goes unnoticed until he's right behind Sharky. (OOC: Taking a simple liberty,) "Sharky! Maggie!"

Stryker practically staggers as he turns about and continues to run, but seeing Cracker he grins broadly and begins to slow. "Miss Maggie," he calls ahead, "It's Cracker. He's found us!"

(OOC: Time is roughly 1:53 PM)

Posted on 2018-01-22 at 21:26:05.

Topic: Flesh & Blood - A CyberPunk Game
Subject: As of 5:00 PM...

Nobody knows. She had stayed behind at Hightower's to scrub the videos but he had only given her until 5:00 PM before he told Casino that she needed to vacate his office.

Posted on 2018-01-22 at 16:18:21.

Topic: Bring Me That Horizon Q&A
Subject: I shall try to post again today...

But if I don't pull it off, look for the post tomorrow.

Posted on 2018-01-22 at 12:08:28.

Topic: Flesh & Blood - A CyberPunk Game
Subject: Hello Hammer!

Sorry about your difficulties, Tann.

Everyone, I've posted so the game continues. You'll notice that I left room for people to decide overwatch positions as well as leaving the group going inside vs. staying outside the mallplex rather loose so you all could decide without me controlling your characters. I also wanted to move things forward a bit, so here we are.

I look forward to everyone's posts and hope all is well!

Posted on 2018-01-22 at 12:06:03.

Topic: Flesh & Blood - A Night City Adventure
Subject: The Streets | Night City Integrate | Midcity | UrbanZone - March 8th, Day 2 (Saturday), 5:20 PM PST

Weather Conditions: High City (Thunderstorms, 15mph winds from the NE.) | Midcity (Rain, 10mph winds from the NE.) | Undercity (Fog and Rain, no winds.)
Air Quality Index: High City = 25 | Midcity = 42 | Undercity = 75 (masks required)

------------------- Flashback to Recently--------------------

For a moment Casino feels rage at Vegas's words, but then he quickly cools down knowing the Frank Sinatra looking solo is right. Though his move at the club was the wrong one, putting Casino in a world of s*** at the hospital, he, himself, has had moments of stupidity. Like a slap in the face, Vegas's words hit home and the big solo realizes his anger is more childlike than needed to be. To blow off fourteen years of friendship is stupid. With a silent nod of his head in acknowledgment and a sort of apology, he moves off with Echo.

Vegas watches his partner go for a moment and allows a sense of relief and, perhaps, a bit of amusement, well up in his chest. One of the aspects of the two working together that is so effective is their ability to call each other on their crap. This time, though, events had almost pushed them both over the rim. Feeling chagrin at his part in the anger-fueled argument and more than a little embarrassed that such a break down in their professionalism is so obvious to the rest of the edgerunners, he vows to make it right as he joins the others in their efforts to resolve the communications gap.

After a few autofac menus have been perused, Casino is unhappy with the selections he has viewed so far. Not being one to really wear masks thanks to all of his oldCybe, he happens to catch a glimpse of a white and black painted Skinmask out of the corner of his eye as he is turning away from the ZetaTech printer. Moving back to the screen, he selects the full three hundred and sixty degree view to look it over. Appreciating the simple design, the solo presses the "Try It On" option and follows the instructions to hold perfectly still while the autofac scans him. Within thirty-seconds, the holographic projector places a semblance of the mask over his face. It hides his true features well enough, he decides. The big solo can tell the mask design is old and is clearly not in style as he has never seen its look on anyone. Turning to Echo, the holographic engine rendering the turn smoothly, he shows it to her, "Opinions?"

Echo turns from her own curious investigation into the autofacs to see what the solo has found, and gives an involuntary gasp—she knows this design! Her father had an antique picture on the wall of his office in their old home, with some choomba dressed all in black with the same design painted on his face, a raven perched on his shoulder. Recovering quickly lest the big man take her reaction negatively, she gives a rare smile and says, "I think it's perfect! A brilliant design that I've seen before—some sort of entertainment from a long time ago had that face on it."

Deciding to get it, Casino turns back to the console and presses the info button.

"The Crow Warrior Mask," a pleasant black female hologram appears next to him wearing a slim business suit with pants and a jacket of rich, forest green and a yellow blouse. "Excellent selection as this particular item is on sale today for twenty-five Night City Dollars, a full fifty percent discount!"

That's half his remaining dough, but he needs the mask so the large solo punches in his digital wallet ID and pays the machine. Stepping back, he folds his arms and waits as it prints. A minute later and the green light over the retrieval bin lights up.

"Your purchase is ready," the holographic salesperson motions towards the bin with a slim hand and a winning smile. "Enjoy your purchase of the Crow Warrior Skinmask and have a lovely day."

Extracting the still warm, newly printed mask, Casino wastes no time in moving to put it on, but turns to Echo instead.

"He's right you know," he rumbles at her questioning stare. "Vegas I mean. We have been partners for fourteen-years but what he did was so stupid." A pause to look out the rain-spotted windows and down the street while catching a short breath.

"That fight in the hospital was bad—really bad," Casino confirms to Echo for the first time that he is, indeed, the shooter on the news. "However, it's not like I have not screwed up myself a time or two. Am I letting my anger get the best of me?"

Turning to the young female nomad he waits for her reply, rubbing on the mask as an afterthought with his thumbs.
Echo empathizes with the solo, for she knows what it is like to lose friends over mistakes all too well, no matter who was is fault.

"From what I saw on the news, and what you said, it didn't look like you had much of a choice when things went south there. We all make mistakes," she says pointedly, putting a hand tentatively on his forearm, trying to convey a bit of comfort to him, "but the idea is to learn from them and try to make things right. My father taught me that. That's why I'm on this job. There was a mistake made, and I need the funds to make it right."

She meets the tall blond's eyes and continues, "There was a saying that went with that picture my dad had. It perhaps suits your situation with Vegas, and please forgive me if I'm being too intrusive. It says, ‘It can't rain all the time'. I've held to that every time a way was blocked, or situations blew up. Sometimes somethin' like that can help ya though the bad."

The little nomad smiles warmly up at the solo, hoping her words give him some amount of comfort or clarity. He seems a good man who, perhaps, got caught up in a few bad deals. She knows about that, too.

During their shopping, Echo has received a message from Bloodbank letting her know they are moving across the street to Green Gene's Cafe and it is here that she guides the leather clad, new mask wearing solo once they are ready.

------------------- End Flashback ---------------------

Joining most of the rest of the group, Vegas orders a burger and fries with a large Cola. He takes note of the new arrival—this Cred Stick Charlie—with some interest while attempting to reserve opinions on the sharp-dressed Native American.

"It fits," Vegas comments with a nod towards the mask. "I like it, sport."

(OOC: Casino's reply, if any,)

When they arrived at the restaurant, Fixer takes his seat and responds to the table waiter, "fastest burger you got. With cheese. Fries and a coke."

He turns to the one person at the table that he hasn't seen before, nods, and greets him with a causal, "Welcome to the party." He doesn't bother giving his name. He rarely does, besides, the guy certainly already knows who he is. And all he knows is that the guy is named 'Credit-stick Charlie," or some such and comes via Starlight. Whatever. The game was about to be afoot.

"So," the Frank Sinatra fan declares while making his selection of a cheeseburger, fries, and a drink, "You must be Cred Stick Charlie. You can call me Vegas. Have the others brought you up-to-date on our run?"
Fixer hands out the walkies while the discussion proceeds and they all agree upon a frequency. He listens to the others talk about the plan. He is interested, but doesn't have an opinion on things. Nor has he brought a car, so that doesn't matter much, although it isn't a bad idea.

"Yes Mr. Vegas, I believe that my brief is complete," replies Charlie.

‘Cred Stick Charlie'. Here is the type of person Echo hasn't been in close contact within several years; someone who dresses like those that her father used to do business with, all rich fabrics and suave looks, except she is pretty sure this Charlie is NOT in the same type of business as her father had been. Reverting back to her shyness of newcomers, she gives Charlie a small smile and a nod, then turns her attention to the tabletop ordering service and orders a cheeseburger with everything, fries, and a Cola while listening to the plan the others concoct.

"Fantastic!" Order complete, Vegas leans back in his chair and looks around at the team. "So, we had a plan. Me, Fixer, and Bloodbank were to going to go in and see if Dr. Carey is home and there's any sign of the mark. The rest are to take up positions outside West Park where exits and entrances can be watched to make sure he doesn't rabbit. At least, that was the plan.

"Unless there's been some kind of enlightening and the plan has changed—Charlie, I think it is probably a good idea for you to join us inside the mallplex. What do you think?"

Charlie lifts up his briefcase and explains what is inside. "This is a Class C Aerial Drone Remote Operator's case. The Delta Cross XLT ‘Sky Master' has a range of plus or minus 20 miles.I'll have limited video and still capability from a plus or minus 11K feet cap. I would like to suggest you guys letting me and this vehicle provide an overwatch capability.

"It's probably a bit too late but did anyone think to bringing a vehicle just encase your rabbit runs?. Because mine is back in it's garage."

Taking in the newcomer's clothing and tech once more, Casino feels that he knows why Starlight had sent him, and it is not a good sign for the rest of the group. Clearly, she is not happy with the group's performance, and in all honesty, it could be directly related to the actions of Vegas, himself, and Fixer. Nonetheless he remained quiet, eating his food with his newly purchased Crow Warrior Skinmask lifted just enough to reveal his mouth and allow him a clear line of sight, but hopefully still enough to make him unrecognizable.

"Sweet," Bloodbank whistles through his teeth while eyeballing the case. His cracked skull combat mask is sitting atop his bag on the floor by his feet and his interest and excitement at Charlie's announcement is fully visible.

"That's a useful toy," Vegas remarks with a half-smile. "But won't it only allow you to see one, maybe two, of the exits at a time? That leaves a few to be covered if he does bounce. It does, however, provide a means of following him should he do so with little in the way of obstacles.

"To answer your question concerning a car," the crooner picks up a fry and pops it into his mouth, talking while chewing. "Nothing in the intel we've scraped up indicates that our good professor has a vehicle of his own. But it's good to know you have a ride should the need come up."

"The drone will free up Echo or Vegas to join us inside, though." Tipping his head towards the fixer, Vegas presses his lips together. "Great add, choomba."

"So," the medtech sets his now empty cup down on the pale tabletop and reaches down for his mask, "we a go?"

(OOC: Unless any further planning is needed I'm going to assume that the plan is as follows: Vegas, Fixer, Bloodbank, and Echo—Vegas would argue that a woman being present might be a good idea if the kid is there, though he is quick to insist there's nothing sexist about the comment, just that women are viewed more kindly by kids than men— (I did kind of mix this company up from what was originally written based on the recent events, so if you'd like it to be otherwise, now's the time to state as much) will go into the mallplex. Meanwhile, Casino will take a position where he can view one angle of exits, Ghlahn another, and Charlie another with his drone.)

Those with masks are wearing them and Echo's Balaclava is wrapped about her pretty face as the group converges on the street and makes their way back to the bus stop. Reinforced glass displays the real-time route situation and the team has three-minutes to wait with the other riff-raff before the streamlined, black-glass encased bus rolls up.

Again, it's a cramped right with bodies pressing up against each other in uncomfortable and even sometimes, inappropriate, positions but the journey is uneventful and again, for the most part, people tend to purposefully ignore the obvious edgerunners.

Arriving at the stop on 2300, the team exfiltrates the city transit and steps into the gustin rain. Sky-high buildings channel the winds rather than dispersing them with the starscrapers swaying ominously overhead where the speeds of these gusts reach dangerously high.
Humanity—such as it is—pace along the sidewalks with raincoats, air filtration masks, and wary gazes. Here and there, a robotic pet follows its owner dutifully about and there's even a C-Familiar or two hovering over their owners' respective shoulder ready to serve as needed. But more than these examples of the affluent and middle classes are the poor and downtrodden huddled in ratty, moldy blankets next to the pockmarked cement of the building foundations, crowded in alleys, and panhandling amongst the intolerant masses. Edgerunners know these are the true dangers of the street and depending on how they are handled, they can either be dangerous to the edgers, or dangerous to those the edgers oppose.

Two blocks of walking and the team's clothing is barely repelling water anymore while the smells and odors of the sewer systems mixed with trash is barely filtered through their masks. Overhead, delivery drones buzz and pass by as frenzied messengers, barely avoiding the occasional flurrie of pigeons or other remote devices, ATOL vehicles, and wire lines draping between buildings.
West Park Mallplex is visible even as they exited the bus. Tall, slate gray with reflective slightly tinted windows lining the walls, some of which are broken out and covered by plastic or boxes, others of which are cracked. Street tags cover the reachable areas of the base indicating a progression of street gang dominance over the area.

Milling about at the corner of 2300 and West Park Circle, the group conspires to determine the best positions of their lookouts while surreptitiously reviewing the city map Blossom has provided to make sure they aren't missing anything.

Three vantage points present the best opportunities. Directly east of the mallplex is the Wolf Point Plaza. Should a person be able to gain a position within that building at a slightly higher altitude than street level, they could effectively keep an eye on the main entrance, the delivery bay and courtyard, and potentially two other entrances.

Second is the Infinity Towers at the corner of 4329.45 Dawn Ridge Road and West Park Circle. Again, should the higher ground be achieved, the watcher could potentially see the entire north side of the building and potentially even the west.

Lastly, the Tranquil Grotto Building at 3600.45 Ableman and West Park Cirlce. This location could provide a view of the rest of the entrances.

With the three individuals taking overwatch, the remaining team members proceed to the mallplex's main entrance. Having been caught up by the wind or just deposited there, wet and smelly trash is pressed against the building grounds, foundation, and even up the graffitied walls a ways in some places. Five sets of double doors with two roundtable doorways encompass the entrance with a lobby beyond and another set of doors just five meters past the first to help keep the elements from entering. Within this lobby the ponderous and acidic odor of urine assaults their senses, more so for those without filtration, and huddled piles of blankets shift and roil with the intrusion of the outside.

Through the second set of doors, the team is greeted by an open marketplace that is comparatively cleaner than the entrance. White and black diamond patterned tile match up with faux marble pillars hefting the balconies of the upper floors on their backs. Large planter boxes of fake foliage break up the emptiness of the main floor while the walls are lined with shops in various states of openness. Immediately to the left upon entering is the West Park Mallplex Offices from which an overweight black woman with beaded cornrows and yellow tips sits behind a bulletproof glass counter. The sign over her head reads, "Vacancies" and a flickering holographic, friendly-looking white woman wearing a charcoal suit dress beckons towards the party just outside the office door.

To the right, the smells of freshly baked goods drift lazily out of a narrow storefront where a bored Asian man with gray in his beard watches over a display of overpriced loaves of bread while robotic arms work behind him.

A restaurant called the Japanese Pig, a photographer's studio (closed down but still bearing the signage, an appliance repair store, a candy and sweets store, a custom holovid studio, and a barbershop are all passed by to reach the elevators. There, however, they encounter a guard station manned by four security officers wearing charcoal uniforms with black accents and carrying submachine guns, straight black reflective combat masks, and body armor bearing the name Extreme Counter Security, Inc. on the sleeves.

"Elevators are for residents only," one informs while the others shift about uneasily at their stations, fingers on their weapons' triggers.

(OOC: Assuming the rest of the party will let the smooth-talking and persuasive Frank Sinatra fan boy do the talking, feel free to insert what you will though.)

"We're guests," Vegas smoothly informs them, "of Warren Kelly, Twenty Four Twenty. Old school chums, sport."

"Huh," huffs the guard, then he motions towards the company with the barrel of his weapon. "What's with the rifle?"

Vegas glances back at Echo and her Nomad .44 before turning a grinning face back towards the security team, "That's why we're here. Ol' Warren wants to possibly buy the thing. We found it at a flea market, he's a collector, ya know?"

Silence follows and then the man shifts to step aside. "All right, but no discharging it in the building."

"Never would have even thought to," Vegas remarks cheerfully as he leads the edgerunners into the opening elevator.

Here, too, the smells are very nearly overwhelming and when combined with the light fingers of an unknown piano player over the sound system, the trip to the 24th floor is nearly unbearable. Practically spilling forth from the confines of the lift, the party regroups and gathers up their composure before turning and following the signs to 2450, Dr. Phil Carey's apartment.

"Ready?" Vegas assesses his companions' level of preparedness and then knocks (OOC: assuming no one protests) while leaning in against the doorframe. Whistling "Strangers in the Night" he waits a moment and then raps the door with his knuckle in quick succession once more.

"Who's there?" a hollow-sounding voice creeps through the barricade.

"My name is Victor Hartman, Dr. Carey," Vegas uses the fingernail of his right index finger to pick at some flaking paint on the door. "We're with the school—Bartholomew's—they've asked us to come check on you."

"Bartholomew's?" strained tension rides the answering voice like a cowboy on a bucking steer. "Ms. White said I was authorized for this time off."

Glancing back at his fellows, Vegas presses, "We're not here to do anything other than check on you and make sure you're doing all right. Ms. White was concerned."

"Concerned about what?" confusion seems to be the prevalent emotion now.

"The situation," Vegas shrugs and widens his eyes. "The whole situation, Dr. Carey. May we come in?"

A pause follows and clicking sounds prevail as the door is unlocked and opened. Stepping back from the door, a light handgun in hand and pointing at them, is a man of about five foot eleven with a drawn narrow face and thinning blonde hair atop his head. Dark circles surround his sunken blue eyes and his brow is furrowed with worry. He wears a rumpled white T-shirt with brown corduroy pants and tan stockings on his feet.

"I don't know you, Mr. Hartman," he says in a quiet weary voice, the weapon still leveled at Vegas' abdomen. "So, please forgive the caution."

Luke Reeves, aka Vegas, smiles affably and spreads his hands wide, "I completely understand, Dr. Carey. May we come in?"

Nodding tiredly, Phil jerks his weapon towards the position of the visible couch and steps to the side where he will more easily be able to cover the visitors.
The apartment is typical of mallplexes, small with very little breathing room. Consisting of two compartments, each with additional specifically designated function cubes, the living area is cluttered and well-lived in. One corner of the room houses a desktop computer module covered by a cloth. Along another wall is a free-flowing art sculpture that reacts to the air being blown into the room by the ventilation system by spinning slowly about as well as changing colors like a confused chameleon. Computer chips lie about covering practically every available surface except for a large table on the other side of the room which is covered by a sheet contoured by the many small items beneath it into a miniature mountain range. Out in plain view is an airbrush painter and the walls are covered with paintings on canvases both with and without frames. The paintings depict various animals of the kind none of the edgerunners have seen before.
Closing the door behind them, Bloodbank seals the group off in the room with Phil Carey.

"As you can see," Dr. Carey states while still keeping his handgun leveled at them from his waist. "There's no reason for Ms. White to be concerned. I will be back no later than Thursday and I've already arranged my substitute as well as a back-up should Lynn fall through. So, I see no reason for further concern."

"If I may," Bloodbank steps forward and removes his mask showing raised brow and a soft expression. "I'm in the medical profession, Dr. Carey, and you look like you could use some rest. Maybe some medication to help you sleep? Something, you're practically falling over as we speak."

Suspiciously eyeing the armored young man, Phil finally shakes his balding head very slowly, "No. No stimulants. I've got to keep my he—"

"My subjects!"

Startling the wary edgerunners (OOC: Make COOL checks to keep from drawing weapons or responding hostily,) a woman with streaming blond hair practically cascades from the bedroom, swinging the door wide and grandly sweeping into the room. Atop her head is a plaspex crown of silver decorated with colored chips of synthetic metal. She wears a lacy white cotton nightgown and carries herself with a bearing of dignity and nobility that belies her outfit.

"Kneel before me," she declares excitedly, wide eyes falling upon the edgers.

(OOC: Time is 5:55 PM PST)

Posted on 2018-01-22 at 12:03:52.

Topic: Flesh & Blood - A CyberPunk Game
Subject: So...uh... still looking forward to your post.

Where is everyone?

Posted on 2018-01-18 at 15:28:09.

Topic: Voyages of the Rocinante - Firefly RPG QnA
Subject: Sam? Trouble? Nah....

So, I've posted. Couldn't help but think that there's be latent Independence feelings still floating around in the Dark that is Wyatt's soul. Sam just added the means by which to ignite that particular time bomb and Potter the potential vehicle for delivery.

Posted on 2018-01-18 at 11:42:43.

Topic: Bring Me That Horizon Q&A
Subject: I am pleased!

So very glad. It is a community effort to keep games alive and well. You, sir, have been Community.

Posted on 2018-01-18 at 11:41:18.

Topic: Voyages of Rocinante - Serenity/Firefly RPG
Subject: Day 1, Whitefall - Necessity, "The Slaughterhouse", 8:40 PM PT

Hints of discomfort at Saul's momentary loss of composure play in the regulated corners of Wyatt's mouth where only those who know him best will be likely to recognize the emotion. When a man is down to the wire, strapped, and at the edge of hope he becomes dangerous. While the crew live constantly on the intersection of Danger and Boredom, each require a different set of skills to cope and knowing this man's disposition allows the captain to more adeptly consider his angle.

Potter recovers quickly though and laughs, a ruefully self-deprecating kind of laugh, and motions over to a table that is emptying.

"Shall we sit down, Gentlemen?" He asks politely while taking a seat and setting his drink down.

Wyatt shifts to his outside foot and sedately accomplishes a similar action; silent while Saul Potter continues his explanation and Sam adjusts to a seat while smiling all friendly-like, "First off, I am not one of those Potters. Well, technically, I am but they cut me off and disowned me back when I joined the Independence side over the Alliance. If I was still in their good graces, I would gladly pay you what you asked."

Those Potters, Sung is flung back to a news feed he had come across during the War missing his pilot's reaction altogether. Saul Potter, Traitor, the headline had read. Reporters had eaten the story up. One of the ‘Verse's wealthiest families; a son gone rogue; deception, embezzlement, and betrayal—the media sank their teeth into the story with the fervor of a starving man and the Public, well, the Public looked at it with decadent pleasure for the most part no matter which side of the War they were on.

"That being said, I never fault a man for wanting to make enough money to feed their family and keep them safe. In many ways it is what I've being doing ever since the War ended. I've the mind you been doing the same despite what the news vids say about your recent professional protection. As a good friend of mine says, ‘Alliance lies to suit their needs' so I am going a bit on faith with you. Hell, I survived on less before."

"Seems t' be a recurrin' ruttin' theme, puhn yoh," Sam mutters, offering a nod. His gaze fell away from the man, regarded the diminishing contents of his glass, and then, once more, fleetingly met the eyes of the brunette across the bar.

Saul worked fer someone on the Independence side after. Who was that? Wyatt ignores Dash's comment and continues to rack his brain trying to shake the information loose while he continues to listen to the man's tale.

"But I digress. Let's be truthful here so we can come to an agreement. I don't have more than 500 to give you at the start and I can only spare 5 drums. Unless your man who just left can actually beat Bart in the ring, I have no way to gather more funds between now and tomorrow when we leave. But, there are funds where we are going, if you can wait a tic. I can easily offer you another 1000 on Pegasus, bullets flying or not, but I am looking for quiet like and off the scanners in two days," He says holding two fingers up for emphasis. "Now I believe you are up to that challenge if half of what I hear about you is true. Also, Pegasus is in its apogee so that will cut down the flight time. Now we get there, there is an opportunity to make double what I am offering but I can't speak of that until we get there and it won't make your alliance friends happy. So if this ain't your cup of tea, well I am happy to pay for your drinks and call it a day. What do you say?"

Sam sucks a sharp breath between his teeth and his face contorts into an expression that might be mistaken for uncertainty. As if to emphasize (or, more precisely, punctuate) that, the pilot picks his glass up from the table and shoots the rest of its contents down his throat. "I dunno where yer schoolin' in navigation er pilotin' might fall, Potter Shian Shen," he winces in the wake of that swallow of whiskey, "but at an even burn from here ta Bellerophon on standard routes'll take most boats two an' a half, mebbe th' better part o' three days. Ghostin' it, typical's gonna add an extra day er two fer yer av'rage pilot what's worth a hump,"
Wyatt's narrow-eyed scrutiny shifts to his skilled friend as Sam sighs, eyes sliding away from Potter to regard the bottom of his now empty glass.

"‘Course, I ain't yer av'rage pilot," Sam Dash adds with a grin, his gaze lifting, now, to regard Wyatt, "an' Roc ain't yer av'rage boat. Plus, fifteen hun'erd ain't nothin' ta scratch yer nethers over, I'll need ta do some figgerin', Cap, an' we'll be burnin' hard an' shifty, but I reckon I c'n get us there in two, on th' down-low. May cost us some extra boodle in maintenance in th' end an' it won't be no ruttin' pleasure cruise but I c'n make it happen."

Sam shrugs and, lifting his empty glass, regains his feet. "I'm empty, ag'in," he announces needlessly, clapping Wyatt on the shoulder, "Yer boat, Wyungsung, yer haggle from here. I'ma go get topped off," he waves the empty glass in the direction of the bar, first, then, with a not-so-discrete nod toward the brunette he's been eyeing, adds, "an' then mebbe get m'self topped off, get me?"

There is it, Wyatt uses Sam's exit to roll in his seat and drape his left arm over the back of the chair while dropping his eyes thoughtfully to the warm reflections on the tabletop. Saul Potter, kinda an icon o' the War, needin' assistance an' ‘ere we sit capable o' providin' it while cleanin' this Lián méng stench off o' us. Lifting his head, Captain Sung allows his head to drift and follow Sam's progress to the bar. His friend and pilot thinks he can pull it off, and Sung isn't too far removed from that endeavor to know that such suppositions are risky at best even with the man's skillset. A promise like this would be difficult to see through and Roc's crew would have to perform at their very best for the whole of it. Fifteen hun'erd ain't nothin' t' scratch yer nethers over, indeed, But what will the price be for such a haul? What's waiting on Pegasus? Is it too much to think that Saul Potter still has connections with Independance leanings? Could this be a way to stick it to the Alliance? The War's over, he reminds himself while at the same time refusing to admit the swelling in his chest.

Have we been through the Three yet? he ponders, thinking back over their string of recent luck. The crew is either just on the end of the Bad, or just beginning the Good, Wyatt Sung hopes that it's the latter.

"Mr. Potter," the captain turns to address their potential patron and look him straight in the eye, "You got yerself transport. Rocinante is currently at Eagle Eye's ranch. Do you need her elsewhere t' load up, an' when're you wantin' t' clear atmo?"

Let's get clean, the xi niu Alliance is crampin' my style.

Posted on 2018-01-18 at 11:40:10.

Topic: Bring Me That Horizon Q&A
Subject: Welcome!

I look forward to your contributions, Lady Dark.

Eol, thanks for arranging all of that.

Posted on 2018-01-18 at 10:59:11.

Topic: Bring Me That Horizon Q&A
Subject: Open to other players.

I've already got one of the Cole sisters grumbling at me from the back of my mind. I'd rather not have both. Did you have someone in mind?

Posted on 2018-01-17 at 10:21:15.

Topic: Hello Fellow Gamers - Do You Have a Sense of Humour?
Subject: Let's do that.

I look forward to your particular brand of mayhem.

Posted on 2018-01-16 at 22:45:08.

Topic: Bring Me That Horizon Q&A
Subject: And we have a post...

Thank you Keeper! You win the first post of the week award!

Posted on 2018-01-16 at 10:47:36.

Topic: Flesh & Blood - A CyberPunk Game
Subject: Yummy fake food...mmmm...

Well, I've subtracted the mullah for your meals (and homemade radios) already so you lot don't need to.

Looking forward to your posts. Hope you all had a great Holiday weekend.

Posted on 2018-01-16 at 10:46:40.

Topic: Supernatural Q&A thread
Subject: Adopts a Fezick voice.

Hello, Hammer!

Posted on 2018-01-12 at 19:20:48.

Topic: Flesh & Blood - A CyberPunk Game
Subject: That was then...

That was lunch. If you'll look at the time stamp, it is now 5pm. Bloodbank's suggestion to eat was based on the idea that you all may not get another chance until morning as you're heading into an unknown, yet possibly highly charged, situation. If you'd rather Casino go without dinner, that's fine. We will add 8 NCD back to his total.

Posted on 2018-01-12 at 19:19:39.


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