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You are here: Home --> Forum Home --> Recent posts by Bromern Sal
Topic: Voyages of the Rocinante - Firefly RPG QnA
Subject:


Uh... Asher... gonna get shot in the back again?



Posted on 2018-04-22 at 10:23:07.

Topic: Flesh & Blood - A CyberPunk Game
Subject:


I have updated the game. I took some liberties with Casino because Tann has been out sick. I look forward to your posts!



Posted on 2018-04-18 at 00:49:09.

Topic: Flesh & Blood - A Night City Adventure
Subject:


West Park Mallplex | Night City Integrate | Midcity | UrbanZone - March 8th, Day 2 (Saturday), 6:30 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)


“Right,” Motioning fixer and Echo to join him in their walk-through of the apartment, the Frank Sinatra look-alike gathers his barings by looking about for a period of two seconds before making his way over to the kitchen area. Snagging the comm-unit Fixer made for them, Luke Reeves, aka Vegas, turns the volume up just a bit and holds down the action button. “The kid doesn’t appear to be here, and the professor doesn’t appear to be our culprit. Regroup at the mallplex entrance in fifteen.”


Fixer is ready to give up on this lad when one last thought strikes him. Maybe the good doctor had given them something after all.


"Dr. Carey,” he begins, “We have all been looking for friends and contacts for Jace, but perhaps we are looking in the wrong place. You said he didn't talk to students, but sought out adults. And specifically you have said that he would speak with, and could be seen smiling with, maids and custodians. Perhaps he wasn't quite as alone as we all have been lead to believe." He shakes his head at the fact that they seemed to be committing the classic mistake—overlooking the servants. "Those maids and custodians he was talking to. Do you know their names? Do you know anything about them? If nothing else, what do they look like? Maybe there is a hint here after all."


“I’m afraid I don’t have much to do with the custodial and grounds-keeping staff,” Phil shakes his thin head in regret. “Ms. White would have a list of those who have been working the school. I’m sure she’d be happy to provide you with their dossiers.”


Echo is glad they didn't find anything at the Carey's place. He seems like a genuinely nice guy who just had a hard life dealing with his wife's crazy, and seems truly concerned for the boy's welfare. She is also glad they can pull Vegas' bad attitude towards the doc away, and began to wonder if the crooner was only kind to those he has an itch for—like Blossom.


Thank the powers that be it ain't me he's sweet on, she thinks to herself, rolling her eyes at him behind his back. Maybe she's like one of them drugs on the street I've heard of for him—he gets all kinds of cranky when he ain't seen her in awhile. I hope meetin' up with her will put him in a better mood.


Returning from the room, Bloodbank smiles at their host, having just caught the last part of the techie’s line of questioning, and informs him that the sedative has taken effect—Phil’s wife is sleeping a deep and restful slumber. Moving to join the others as they gather up, the medtech speaks in a low volume, “I’ve checked the bedroom and there aren’t any hiding places I could find, nor any sign of a child. Just more of the poor woman’s crazy.”


“Yeah, well,” Vegas tilts his head dismissively, “The group isn’t reimbursing you for that drug. That act of kindness was all you, Mr. Bleeding Heart.”


Sharing his gaze with the others, the crooner continues, “The kid ain’t here, and I don’t think he ever has been. I’ve notified the rest of the team to regroup. Time to share what little we’ve learned and strategize on where to go from here.”


“Oh,” he adds as an afterthought, “I’ve received a message from Blossom. She’s going to try and meet up with us as well.”


As they file out of the tiny apartment, Echo makes herself the last out, making sure to let the door close a little before turning to the exhausted man. She offers the teacher her tiny hand to shake and gives a small but heartfelt apology to the man, using the High City proper language that hadn't crossed her lips in years.


"I am most sorry for interrupting your vacation, Doctor Carey," she begins. "Please forgive the missing manners of some of my companions, they really do have Jace's best interests at heart. They are just unused to dealing with those more, um, cultured than themselves. I hope you won't hold that against them—they are good folk."


“It’s been no trouble at all,” Phil blinks away the surprise and peers directly into her eyes. “I truly am grateful to your friend for his help with my wife. Please… if—when—you find Jace, will you please notify me? I don’t know how I’ll be able to sleep with the idea of that poor boy missing bouncing around my head.”


Echo gives the man another warm smile, then turns and leaves, closing the door gently behind her.


(OOC: Time is 6:50 PM PST)


----------------------------------------------


Wolf Point Plaza | Night City Integrate | Midcity | UrbanZone - March 8th, Day 2 (Saturday), 6:10 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)


Slipping the barrel of his .44 Nomad through the newly cooled hole just enough to rest the weapon in without drawing more attention to his position, M’haru Ghlahn establishes his overwatch position. Now comes the time that most people dread—the waiting.


Ghlahn waits. Waiting is something he is good at as he has had a great amount of practice. Some people are horrible waiters. They tend to fidget or daydream and lose focus, or worse, draw attention to the fact that they are indeed waiting. This is not a problem for him. He settles in and looks over his assigned coverage area. With luck, his waiting will end with him simply standing up and walking out.


“Charlie's up.”


Squawking through his internal radio splice, the message would have sent a lesser man through his skin revealing the cybernetic shell beneath it to the world. Alex McKennon, however, is not a lesser man and the startling message passes by without so much as an acknowledgment.


One downside of being plugged into a bodyshell is the internal clock, and the next thirty-five minutes pass by as though he’s watching water boil. “The kid doesn’t appear to be here, and the professor doesn’t appear to be our culprit. Regroup at the mallplex entrance in fifteen.” Vegas’ voice comes across the splice and immediately sets the sniper in motion.


He doesn’t take time to clean up the scene, to conceal his presence, or otherwise make any effort to hide his arrival and exit. Slinging his rifle, he snatches up his bag and slips back out the way he had come.


Arriving at the mouth of the Plaza unmolested, Ghlahn steps into the rain and immediately turns towards the mallplex. A short walk, crossing the street, and the Cee-Metal soldier finds himself at the entrance to the West Park Mallplex.


(OOC: Time is 7:02 PM PST)


------------------------------------------


Tranquil Grotto | Night City Integrate | Midcity | UrbanZone - March 8th, Day 2 (Saturday), 6:12 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)


“Naw, kid. Not here to kill anyone. Just looking for a place to watch that building across the way,” the big solo casually replies.“Hey, maybe you can help me. Know any good watch spots?”


“Bruh! You got the right Raff,” the teen smacks his chest, causing the leather jacket to jingle all of the metal accouterments attached to the zippers and pinned through the leather supplement. “I can pass ya through the gate to the s***, Hammerhead! So long as I get paid, savvy? Twenty’ll have you sittin’ in comfort, true! There’s a park just ‘round the bend with an open view of the s******* ‘plex. You got a meatbag scoped inside that ‘plex, Choomba? Bet it’s a Sheila some corpse zombie’s pissed she’s playin’ input for another John, right?”


Further back the way Casino had come—towards the elevators—the music that had chased him this direction in the first place is getting louder.


“I don’t got twenty, kid,” Casino states flatly through his newly acquired mask. “I’ve had a bit of a hellish night that’s left me pretty broke. But I’ll tell ya what. You get me sittin’ in comfort and I’ll let you hang with me until I leave. If I shoot anyone, you’ll be front and center.”


Eyebrows climbing over his sunglasses, the kid presses, “True? What ‘bout fifteen?”


“Nothin’,” the big man responds, spreading his hands to emphasize his situation.


“Got any glass? Sticks? CPS? Rabbit?”


“Nope,” Casino confirms.


“Well, s***,” shoulders slumping, the kid looks towards the noise that’s still around the corner and down the hall. “That sucks. But it ain’t no large thing. C’mon, torpedo. Might as well get my jollies by watching you blow someone’s brains out.”


Following the young man around the corner, Casino is greeted by the sight of a small gathering. Seven other youth are milling about outside the entrance to the park, their “pets” hovering over their shoulders or slithering about their necks, synced to loudly play the same grinding music.


“Yo! Frosty,” a tall youth—practically the solo’s height but much skinnier— calls out to the Indian boy. “Who’s yer babysitter?”


“Ha!” A shorter boy grins broadly showing off a silver grill covering his teeth. “Yer mom worried ‘bout you?”


“Shut the f*** up, Bugs,” Frosty orders. “This torpedo’s with me, choomba. He’s gonna ice someone an’ said I can watch.”


“Sick!” the tall boy declares and the others nod in excited agreement. “Can we watch?”


“He got any sticks?”


“Solos like that don’t carry sticks, Boomer. He’s probs got sin or snap-coke, er somthin’.”


“He’s just postin’ up at the park, yo.” Frosty explains with sudden authority. “Can’t have all of us hanging out with him. Jack up his game, savvy?”


“Aw, c’mon!”


“That’s s***!”


“What makes you so special?”


“You ain’t doin’ nothin’ without my say, Frosty,” the tall boy puffs out his chest and folds his arms definitely.


Frosty’s demeanor changes dramatically and the authority he’s shelling out vanishes with haste, “It ain’t like that, Uncle Whopper. I was just saying that he and me got a deal—”


“You made a deal for the Moth Syndicate, Frosty?” Uncle Whopper scowls.


“No, Choomba,” Frosty whines. “It’s just me and him. I’d never make a deal for the Syndicate without you.”


“Are you a Syndicate for life?”


“You know it.”


“Then any deal you make, is a deal with the Syndicate,” Uncle Whopper looks imperiously down on his gang brother. “And that don’t happen without me.”


“I don’t care who the deal is with,” Casino’s deep voice cuts through the conversation and he squares his shoulders against the group of teens. “A deal has been made and time is running short. One of you better open that park door for me or I’ll make my evening interesting in other ways.”


Gazing up at the large, masked solo, Uncle Whopper presses his lips together tightly while frowning. His eyes are blocked from view by a pair of mirrorshades, but the side of his neck pulses quicker than before and he shoves his hands in his jacket pocket to hide the tremors that had sparked up.


“Frosty’s a good kid,” Uncle Whopper haltingly explains. “Just need to maintain order, ya know? We weren’t gonna stop you from getting in. See? Here. Double Bull’ll let you in. Won’t ya Double B?”


“Yes—I mean, yeah, Uncle Whopper.” A smallish latino boy steps forward with a definite bow-legged stride and draws an access card from his pants pocket to hold it in front of the reader.


Not waiting for the gang members to regroup, Casino strides through the moment the doors open. Not surprisingly, none of the gang-members follow him in. Setting up overlooking the street and he mallplex, Casino is barely established before Cred Stick Charlie’s notice sounds across the make-shift radios. Not entirely keen on drawing more attention to himself, the large solo doesn’t bother replying. The same as he doesn’t reply when his partner’s news is relayed and he realizes he’s got fifteen minutes to make it to the rendezvous point.


Retiring from his overwatch position, the masked edgerunner notices the Moth Syndicate members hovering within sight but making no further effort to engage with him. Minutes pass as he makes his way down to the street and he finds himself approaching the entrance to the mallplex without any trouble. Finding Ghlahn, Cred Stick Charlie, and the others who had gone into the building already there, Casino joins them.


(OOC: Time is 7:05 PM PST)


-------------------------------------------


Infinity Towers - 3rd Floor - West Beach Garden | Night City Integrate | Midcity | UrbanZone - March 8th, Day 2 (Saturday), 6:25 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)


Twelve minutes is what it takes to fly the full route. Thumbing the autopilot control on, Luther sets about reviewing his business on a split screen function of his agent while waiting for some news.


His handheld client makes the drone begin its dance with the winds of change...


Minutes pass as the airodrone makes its way along the path, speeding up, slowing down, and changing its altitude. A few minutes more as the drone goes about its own business along a flight path. At least, until something is captured on its camera receptors that causes it to detour.


A blue racing drone with nomad markings... following the same path.... Luther makes a correction to the drone and within seconds the Nomad Blue changes as well.


“Interesting,” Luther tells himself.


Cat and mouse is the game he begins playing with this mysterious drone until, frustrated and a little alarmed, Luther recalls his drone. And the nomad blue racing drone still follows.


When the blue racing drone comes closer, Luther can see that it has optics as well, but he isn’t 100% about the rating of them. As Charlie allows his drone to hover close to the building, he begins to move to the other side of the gardens… but Nomad Blue follows.


Moving to the other side of the building park as his drone simply hovers three meters from the building opening, Cred Stick Charlie feels his anxiety rise as the nomad blue follows his movements, not his drone’s. Without looking directly at the drone, the fixer pauses to observe some of the flowers and other garden bits and changed his vector. The nomad blue follows yet again. This game lasts only minutes but for Luther it seems much longer.


Luther changes his position of seating three times and still, nomad blue follows him wherever he sits in the beautiful gardens. Unwilling to simply leave his drone, he finally shows his hand and recovers his drone. As he’s packing it up, Vegas’ message comes across the radio. Making one last assessment of the Blue, the fixer makes haste to exit the park and make his way back down to the entrance.


Pausing at the glass door, Cred Stick Charlie scans the skies beyond searching for the Nomad Blue or any sign of possible additional threats on the ground. Finding none, he takes a deep breath, waves to his new friend, and steps back out into the weather.


The Nomad Blue is nowhere to be seen. Was it a rival spying on him? The police? Wracking his brain for any memory of recent injuries he might have committed with his recent dealings, Luther begins his walk to the meetup all the while keeping his eyes peeled.


Rounding the corner, he finds most of the crew waiting on him; Casino being the only one missing.


(OOC: Time is 7:04 PM PST)


------------------------------------------

West Park Mallplex | Night City Integrate | Midcity | UrbanZone - March 8th, Day 2 (Saturday), 7:06 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)


“All right,” Vegas declares once everyone is gathered together again. “At least this went off without a hitch. Problem is, the boy isn’t here and the good professor doesn’t have a clue as to his whereabouts. Couldn’t even offer us any leads—”


“Hold on,” Bloodbank interrupts and while holding his hand close to his chest, he points towards Fixer. “I think our friend, here, may have stumbled on something.”


(OOC: Assuming Fixer will share his idea with the group&hellip


“It’s a possibility, fer sure,” the crooner nods thoughtfully and glances about at the passing humanity with suspicion. “Blossom will meet us at a bar just a few blocks from here. It’ll take us about twenty-minutes to get there so let’s start walking.”


(OOC: Unless there’s any argument&hellip


Though wet and chilly, the walk is not eventful. The edgerunners soon find themselves walking into an alcove entry beneath a holographic projection of a rather imposing Roman soldier animatedly tipping back a large mug of beer and the name the Empyrean overhead.


The Reflection Fighters are on the radio and the bar is filled with the incessant humming of conversation. Patrons from the blue-collar populace have hedged in on the available tables but Echo’s sharp eyes are able to pick the netrunner out from the crowd and the team joins her in the booth with only minor acrobatics.


“Ha!” the chipper little Asian woman laughs at the sodden sight of the rest of her team. She appears to have either dried off already or somehow avoided the rain altogether. “You’re all wet.”


“We are,” Vegas slides in next to her, appropriating the position before the others can. “I’d weather worse to be by your side mon cherie.”


(OOC: Assuming someone pushes the conversation past the solo’s sickening moves and shares with Blossom what they learned at the professor’s&hellip


“Maybe the surveillance video will be helpful in determining who this kid hung with,” Blossom grins as though she knows something juicy. Pulling out her agent, the wardriver sets it on the table in front of the group, and as she’s activating the software, Bloodbank activates the wireless ordering system.


“I’ll take a Budweiser,” the medtech orders.


“Make that two,” Vegas adds looking down at the open bottle of Heineken in front of the Asian beauty.


(OOC: Feel free to place character orders. Beer pricing is about $.50 more than modern pricing.)


“Looking for interactions with the help…” Blossom begins to scan through the footage while at the same time, writing commands that will help her speed up the process.


The drink orders arrive at the hand of an attractive young Latino woman wearing a white blouse and a tight black miniskirt—standard dress code for waitresses, it seems. As edgerunners crack open their respective beverages, Blossom declares, “Take a look!”


On her screen is a timestamp indicating the afternoon before last… the final day Jace was seen at the Bartholomew School. Behind the timestamp, two figures are shown in deep shadow. One is obviously a child and with fairly minimal discernment, it is quite easy to see that the shadowy figure is Jace. The other is a tall, thin female figure with her features completely wrapped in shadows that are acting as good as a mask. There is, however, a patch visible to the camera on the left breast of her uniform that reads, “Upstairs Downstairs Inc.”


(OOC: Time is 7:51 P.M. PST)



Posted on 2018-04-18 at 00:48:09.

Topic: Bring Me That Horizon Q&A
Subject:


The wind died down, but I haven't assessed the total damage yet. I did, however, post!



Posted on 2018-04-17 at 22:30:53.

Topic: Bring Me That Horizon
Subject:


Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), roughly 1:23 P.M.; The Sun Dog


 


“Maggie?” Anastasia’s face softens. “Tha’ li’l bird needs t’ learn t’ fly on ‘er own sooner er later. We’ll see what she brings us this time. Yer free t’ go ‘bout yer duties, Mr. Crowe.”


 


Still contemplating the conversation she’s just engaged in, Anne Cole twists her body to fully face the Bay of Tortuga and wonders when the port authorities will be visiting the Dog.


 


“Aye,” the quartermaster answers, pushing away from the railing, now, “as ye say, Capt’n.”


 


As Anne’s eyes turn shoreward, again, Fin ambles away in search of the new body that Sharktooth has brought aboard to fill out his gunners. The sailors on deck all wear faces that he knows well enough and, when he’s not immediately able to lay eyes on one that’s unfamiliar, he scowls a bit and lets his gaze sweep slowly from prow to stern in search of the phantom gunner…


 


“Lose somethin’, Mistah Crowe?”


 


Fin smirks at the sound of Chimwewe’s voice and turns his eyes in the direction of the scarified African. “No’ me, Chim,” he answers as he takes a few steps to close the distance between himself and the black man, “but I reckon someone has. Hear tell Sharky’s brought us a body ta put t’ th’ guns. Know where he’s ta be found?”


 


Chimwewe’s features twist to mirror Fin’s and his eyes, too, sweep the decks in search of the man of whom the Quartermaster spoke. “We left ‘im propped agin the mast, there,” Chim answers, “de man had a sizeable hole in his leg when Mistah Stryker brung him on. He was ta be waitin’ fer th’ doctor…”


 


“Hughes go ashore, did he?”


 


“Aye, sir,” Chim nods, “Can’t say if he’s returned, yet, though. If he has, I figure, you’ll find your man in his company, gettin’ that wound tended proper.”


 


Crowe nods faintly at Chim’s guess and flicks a glance at the hatch that leads below; “Makes sense. Ye been ashore as yet?”


 


“No, sir,” the intense African returns, “still waitin’ m’ turn, mendin’ ropes while I does.”


 


Fin’s lips stretch into something that’s not quite a smile. “Vera well,” he says, tipping the rum bottle to his lips once more before offering the thing over to Chimwewe, “why’n’t ye split tha’ wit yer mates whilst ye wait fer th’ next launch, then? Get ashore an’ have yerself a bit o’ fun ‘fore th’ night runs off, aye?”


 


“Ayyyyeee,” Chim grins, accepting the bottle without question, “Thank’ee, Mistah Crowe.”


 


“Mhm,” is the quartermaster’s low reply before turning on his heel and striding for the hatch.


 


(OOC: Time is roughly 1:35 PM. - The Sun Dog - In the Hold)


 


Taking a few minutes to scour the maze of hammocks in the Dog’s crew quarters Fin, at last, locates the unfamiliar face he’s been searching for. The man is stretched out, asleep, in one of the lower berths in the aft quarters, his soft snoring interrupted now and again by a pained moan as he shifts in his slumber. For a long moment, Fin simply eyes the napping figure, taking note of the battered and bruised appearance and the crudely tended wound in his leg from which blood still slowly trickles. His initial inspection complete, the quartermaster lifts a booted foot and crudely nudges the dozing man into wakefulness.


 


The would be gunner’s eyes shoot open in a panic of confusion and, out of instinct, it seems, one hand reaches for a dagger tucked into the belt at his waist as a curse falls, unformed, from his lips, “What in bla… who?.. I’ll…”


 


“Ye’ll end up wit’ a hole in more’n yer leg, ye don’ get yer hand off that pig-sticker, boy-o,” Crowe warns, “Roust up!”


 


The man’s face contorts in an almost comical jig of battling emotions: anger, discomfort, confusion, fear—before wakefulness fully dawns on him. As it does, his visage settles into a mask of realization and, perhaps, a bit of annoyance.


 


“Who in the bloody hell’re you,” he grouses out the question, wincing at the pain in his leg as he rolls his body into a seated position on the hammock and eyes the admittedly imposing man looming over him.


 


“Ye c’n call me Crowe,” comes the gruff reply, “If I decide yer fit enough ta stay aboard th’ Sun Dog, I’ll be yer quartermaster.”


 


“Oh…” The irritation quickly drains from the would-be-gunner’s features and while he doesn’t vocalize an apology, Fin sees it well enough in the man’s eyes.


 


“Aye,” the quartermaster responds, “an’ if yer done askin’ me questions, I’ve a couple o’ my own; th’ first bein’ who in th’ bloody hell’re you?”


 


“Name’s Daxon, sir,” the man blinks, lifting a hand to rub the sleep from his eyes, “Daxon Blackheart.”


 


Fin smirks faintly at the moniker, reasonably certain Blackheart isn’t a family name. From where his arms are folded across his chest, then, he lifts a hand to his face and rubs thoughtfully at his chin. “An’ yer lookin’ ta man our guns,” the next query rumbles past Fin’s lips, “are ye, Mester Blackheart?”


 


“Aye, sir,” Daxon nods, “Shark’s Tooth said you’d lost some crew and be lookin’ to take on a few mo—”


 


“An’ yer figurin’ ye’d make a good choice wit’ that hole in yer leg, then?” Crowe interrupts.


 


“No,” Blackheart blinks rapidly and shakes his bearded head as if to clear away lingering cobwebs of drowsiness, “I mean yes. Yessir… Never been stabbed in th’ leg, before, to be honest and it hurts like the devil, but…” The man’s brow knits in such a way that it seems the realization he’s being tested has just struck him like a rogue wave and, at that point, any hint of uncertainty that may have lingered disappears from his face and he meets the quartermaster’s gaze as even as he can, the black makeup around his eyes casting his grim visage into a ghastly looking skull, “I’m as good a gunner’s mate as you’ll find in this port, Mr Crowe, an’, once your surgeon returns from wherever he’s run off to, I’m sure this knick in my leg’ll be dealt with so’s not to be a concern. If you need me on the cannons before that, then I’ll bloody well hop... sir.”


 


A grin ghosts across Crowe’s lips at that and, as he seats himself on the hammock across from Daxon, he even allows a chuckle to escape.


 


“Tha’s th’ answer I was lookin’ fer, mate.” Resting his elbows on his knees, Fin eyes the man, assessing him once more now that he seems to have his wits about him.


 


“If Sharky saw fit ta bring you back ta th’ ship,” Fin says after a moment, “I reckon there’s no need ta ask if ye know yer guns…” Surely Shark’s Tooth wouldn’t have hired on a gunner without being assured of some sort of proficiency.


 


“No, sir,” Daxon replies, “I mean you can, if you please, but Shark’s Tooth already done so and—”


 


Fin curtly waves the response away and nods, “Aye. I figured’s much. Answer me this, though, Mistah Blackheart; how long ye been ashore at Tortuga an’ whaddya know about a couple o’ blokes by th’ names o’ Davenport an’ Grover?”


 


(OOC: Aboard the Sun Dog, roughly 3:15 P.M.)


 


In the past couple of hours Fin Crowe had made his rounds of the Sun Dog, from bilge to belaying pins, tending to the various duties of his station. First, he had found Daxon Blackheart, the man whom Sharky had brought aboard as a potential addition to the gunnery crew. While the man couldn’t be classified precisely as able-bodied given the stab wound in his leg, he’d seemed ready and willing enough to suit the purpose and, just as importantly, Fin had learned, that Daxon had been on Tortuga for enough time as to have provided some bit of insight into the powers and players on the little island. The information Daxon had provided chased through the quartermaster’s mind even after he’d left the new gunner to rest up and await Hughes’ return and, as he’d prowled the Dog’s decks, Fin couldn’t help but to allow the implications of what he’d learned to pepper into every inventory and investment… Whose purses would they fill in stocking the Sun Dog’s larder? Whose for powder, sail, and timber? Was the balance of power on Tortuga so far tipped to one side that they may have already run afoul of the larger and, perhaps more importantly, if they had, would the Dog and her crew jumping on the other side of the scale manage to bring any sort of equilibrium? Thoughts like these follow Crowe back through the hatch and onto the mid-deck as he climbs from the hold and back into the late afternoon sun.


 


He stands just outside the hatch for a moment and runs a hand through his hair as he gazes, narrow-eyed, upon the town across the bay and, as he considers what he’s learned, he blows the weight of them into the air in the form of an ambiguous sigh.


 


“Either that, Mr. Crowe, or you’ll not find this port so friendly as you have.”


 


Oken’s parting words swirl amidst the information and questions playing in his brain and, as his hand falls from his hair and come to rest on the hilt of his blade, Fin gives a slow shake of his head and smirks at the town.


 


“Aye,” he grumbles under his breath, tearing his eyes from the sprawl of the town and suspiciously eyeing the fort that tops it all, “we’ll see, won’t we? Sooner rather’n later, I reckon.”


 


He heaves another sigh into the air and forces his eyes from the Tortuga Bay Settlement, rasping something about a “f#@kin’ pansy peacock” under his breath and, with more of a glare than a glance, dismissing the view of the town as he strides for the forecastle. The day’s events (and the warmth of the rum in his belly) have almost given physical weight to the thoughts churning in his head he finds the idea of a piece of quiet and a sprawl on his bunk to be an acceptable remedy for such a thing.


 


Moments later he’s in his cabin, shrugging out of his blood-spattered shirt and sitting on the edge of his bed. After tossing the tunic aside, his hands found his tobacco pouch and his fingers fidget with the making of another cigarillo as his mind does the same with all he’s learned today. After striking a spark to the cigarillo, he works his way across the mattress and presses his back to the inner wall of the cabin, letting the tension ease from his shoulders as the first draw of sweetened smoke mulls the myriad thoughts in his mind.


 


“Somethin’ ta save fer th’ council, later,” he mutters to himself, watching in an almost zen-like manner as the smoke writhes and curls it’s way toward one of the open portholes on the far wall. He debates, of course, taking what he’s learned to the Captain before the council begins but, given that the Dog has only been ported in Tortuga Bay for less than a day and the fact that Anna, likely, has other concerns weighing on her at present, Fin decides that it can wait. She’ll want the others to weigh in with their thoughts anyway, and to his way of thinking, there is no sense in having the same conversation twice. So, it is that Fin Crowe convinces himself to simply sit and smoke, letting the cares of the day seep from mind and body alike as he soaks in a few moments of solitude.


 


As it happens aboard a ship, though, those moments of blessed silence are cracked by the sound of a door just beyond that of his cabin, banging shut and, thereafter, the echo of boot heels falling purposefully on the deck-boards of the corridor. His eyes turn towards his own door then and, as he slides toward the edge of his bunk, his ears pick up on a muffled bit of chatter between voices that he recognizes as Maggie’s and Cracker’s.


 


When’d Mags get back, he wonders, lifting himself off of the thin mattress and making for the door to his cabin, Must’ve been when I was below, else I’d’ve seen ‘er. An’ what’s Cracker soundin’ so bunched up about?


 


Drawing lazily on his smoke, Fin follows the voices out onto the main deck but by the time he’s thumbs the latch and steps out into the Caribbean air again, all he is able to catch is the sight of Cracker and Maggie trudging across the deck towards the captain’s quarters. They’re through that farther door before the Quartermaster can so much as guess at what they’d been talking about. Doesn’ look at all good, Fin muses, noting the way Maggie’s steps fall as he presses his back against the bulkhead and takes another drag of his cigarillo. Her or Anna want me t’ know, one of ‘em’ll tell me soon enough.


 


----------------------------------------------------


 


Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), aboard the Sun Dog, 3:15 P.M.


 


(OOC: Time is roughly 3:15 PM)


 


Just as Cracker reaches the door to the forecastle, Maggie “Hellfire” Cole pulls the barrier open and ducks through, stepping out onto the main deck, her freckled face shaded by the broad brim of her hat.


 


Her mood dark, tense, and restless already, the sight of Cracker causes her to lift her head a bit higher, eyeing him with a fiery gaze. Her lips are set in a grim line, the strain of recent events still set upon her brow that's creased with thoughts darker than her mood. She leans to the side, stretches a long arm out, palm to the wood, to block his path should he be trying to get past her. Cocking her head to the side, she regards him for a silent moment, and tries to puzzle out what that look on his face might be.


 


"As I live'n breathe. So ye made it back, did ye? Fall into any trouble on yer way?"


 


The boatswain stalls and sucks in a deep breath before bravely offering a simple explanation for his being at the forecastle’s entrance. Maggie draws herself up and crosses her arms over her chest. For a single petulant moment, she half considers refusing the summons, just to see the look on his young face. The idea almost makes her smile—almost. How would he react, she muses, if I just went back into my quarters and locked it? She bites her tongue a bit too hard to keep from a chuckle and instead bows with an exaggerated "after you," gesture. She'll follow him to the Captain. No need to toy with him for just doing as told.


 


“Come!” Captain Cole’s sharp command pierces the red-painted door almost immediately after the knock sounds.


 


Stepping through to the relatively large room, the first mate and boatswain stare across the seemingly extended and long space between the door and the captain’s desk to where the older of the Coles is sitting imperiously with her fingers steepled before her shadowy face.


 


“Bosun,” Anna snaps, “yer dismissed.”


 


Cracker is quick to comply, not wishing to be caught between the two sisters.


 


“What in the name of all nine hells,” Anastasia doesn’t raise her voice when the door closes behind the boatswain; there’s no tremor of rage either. She’s cold where Maggie runs hot, but there’s no mistaking her mood, “are ya doin’ killin’ officers o’ the city?”


 


"I be jus' fine, thanks fer askin," Maggie snaps back, fire rising to meet her ice. "I didn't set foot on that cursed rock wi' th' intent to do them in, and it weren't no picnic, I can promise ye tha'. Or had it not occurred to ye to think I might have been forced to it?"


 


“Unfortunately, Maggie,” Captain Cole responds with cold accusation, “Every time ya run afoul o’ somethin’ ya got yer reasons. So, I imagine this’ll be no different.”


 


True to form, the two women begin the world famous Dance of the at Odds Siblings, sparring with words, glares, pacing about, pointing fingers, allegations, defences, and finally sullen silence.


 


As the silence draws on, Maggie throws herself into a chair, drapes a leg over the arm, and allows her head to fall backward; hat dropping to the floor. She doesn't bother with it, but reaches up to pinch the bridge of her freckled nose.


 


"Look,” she musters. “I be truly sorry for whatever fresh hell this send our way. But you asked for it, so I'll tell it t’ ya plain..."


 


And she does. She shares with her sister the details of all that transpired the moment she stepped foot on dry land, leaving nothing out, embellishing nothing. She doesn't see any reason to shave a bit here or there, and knows Anne will see past her rashness to the facts as Maggie presents them. And her dander rises again recounting that bitter old man in the dress shop, who only had to but giver her a damned dress. She tells up to the moment of seeing Cracker before her in the passage, and closes her eyes.


 


"An' I didn't come to ye straightaways because I jus' needed to get me head straight again or else all we'd 'ave done is fight and squak at each other like two mad ol' hens."


 


Anna raises her thin eyebrows and peers amusedly across the room at the girl she’s been taking care of practically their whole lives, “As if we didn’t?”


 


Maggie raises her head and frowns, watching her sister. "Aye, I got some o' that done. Though, bein' fair, not a whole hell of a lot." And she proceeds to lay out for Anne all she was able to glean about the physical layout of the island, what little she got before things went sideways.


 


"Next time I go ashore, might do to have a change of clothes, after all. And as hateful an idea as I find it, parading about as washer woman might not be too terrible. in terms o' gettin' more better acquainted wi' the lay o' th' land, as it were. But maybe after a bit, when they're not roustin' up the womenfolk lookin fer me?" She laughs joylessly, with a bitter edge to it.


 


“Might be best if you don’ set foot t’ Tortuga’s soil fer a time,” Anna holds up a hand to forestall any argument. “Crowe may ‘ave some adventure fer ya.”


 


Closing her eyes for a moment, the older Cole sister breathes out and snatches a bottle of whiskey from the shelf behind her. Padding across the cabin she offers it to Maggie and says, “I’m pleased tha’ you’re well, Mags.”


 


"I won't lie," the younger sister murmurs, turning to look at her sibling. "Fear comes in many flavors, and today I tasted a new one." Taking a long pull on the bottle she lowers it and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. "so what's our next move?"


 


“We drink,” Anastasia holds out her hand to receive the bottle back. “We drink some more, an’ we take the edge off. Then we eat, get sober, an’ meet with the officers o’ this ship t’ gather t’gether all o’ the intelligence available.” Tipping the mouth of the bottle to her lips, Anna takes a quick pull resulting in a grimace and sucking on her teeth as she offers the beverage back to Maggie.


 


(OOC: Time is roughly 4:25 PM)


 


----------------------------------------------------


 


Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), aboard the Sun Dog, 7:30 P.M.


 


Evening finds Captain Cole sitting at the head of the small table that has been brought up from the cargo bay area for the purpose of councils such as these. A cooler evening breeze draws the Caribbean heat from the deck and off the attendee’s flesh while a jug of ale is present to be shared amongst the lot of them should they wish to imbibe. At this table sits Fin Crowe to Anne’s left and Maggie Cole to her right. Goncalvo and Cracker share the other end.


 


“In summary,” Anne slowly turns the tin cup with the amber liquid on the table, “we’ve still no’ been visited by the port authority, so this is likely one o’ them ports tha’ require me t’ go ashore which I’ll do t’morrow. We’ve precious li’l on the powers here’bouts but ‘ave already sold t’ one—Mr. Virgil Grover—whilst Mr. Crowe’s received an offer o’ bounty from an agent o’ the other—Mr. Davenport—or so we assume…”


 


This prompts a short nod from the quartermaster and his dark eyes lift from their contemplation of the ale in his mug. “More’n assumption at this point, luv,” he rumbles. He doesn’t elaborate immediately, though; instead, he lifts his mug and takes a drink, allowing the Captain to continue.


 


“An’,” Cole continues, “we likely ‘ave an issue brewin’ with the authorities ‘ere that’ll need addressin’.”


 


Crowe returns his mug to the table, here, and his eyes, too, flick across the table to where Maggie sits. He says nothing but offers the tempestuous woman a wry smile and a quick wink.


 


Anastasia’s green eyes flit briefly to where Maggie sits and her mug stalls its rotations. “This be where ideas be brought t’ the table. How’re we t’ no’ get dashed on the political rocks o’ Tortuga whilst buildin’ a network o’ folks willin’ t’ give us line when probable hauls be runnin’ these waters? The crew be happy fer the time bein’ so long as their purses are full. This… well, we all know this is no’ long asail an’ other captains’ll be poachin’ our crew once they learn there be a female captain o’ this boat. So, spill yer guts.”


 


"If this is like most ports the local constabulary will have hot heads but short memories,” the sailsmaster advises. “There is always something going on and today’s news is forgotten as quickly as it spreads. This is likely not the first, or last time, an officer of the port will have met an untimely end. Time and distance often aids one in forgetting old, distant problems when new ones close at hand pop into play. Perhaps now would be a good time to set sail for the Indies and search for a fat merchant ship to plunder. The only thing guaranteed to make near any harbormaster forget past transgressions is a fat purse of gold."  Goncalvo falls quiet and waits for the Captain's reply.


 


The Sailmaster’s words evoke another clipped nod and a grunt of what might be interpreted as concurrence from Fin. Still, the quartermaster holds his tongue, preferring to hear what Cracker has to say before he speaks, himself.


 


Cracker sits at the table and listens to the captain give her little speech. He doesn’t like the talk about losing crew members. Others might be stupid about Captain Cole, but he knows a good captain when he sees one. He isn’t going anywhere and the thought of deserters irritates him a great deal. Still, her main point is well taken. A ship sitting in port makes no money and can pay no sailors. They needed to find a target and that means information.


 


“Captain,” the bosun pipes up. “I spent my time today posing as a sailor looking for work. I spied out some of the docks and found out where some of these ships are headed. Towards the North American coast is a common one. At least a couple of nice ships are headed that way. I couldn’t tell you what their cargo was as it was pretty well crated, but they were headed out ‘fore long. Details available if desired, but this is really just general info on one or two ships.” He feels a bit uncomfortable adding the last bit, but given the captain’s own comments, it seems needed.  “And Captain, since you mentioned the risk of losing crew members, I think I could o’ gained a berth on at least a few ships. Admittedly, they thought I was desperate to reach Georgia to see my sick mum, but it doesn’t seem like there is a surplus of sailors here.”


 


He looks at the first mate as he continued. “A bit later the First Mate brought Shark’s Tooth and I ashore to try and gather more information. I’d already done the dock thing, so I followed some sailors to a bar and drank ‘em up a bit. They talked about a ‘Gory Tremane’ as a man I needed to talk to if I was lookin’ for a spot on a ship. It wasn’t quite clear if this guy was just the quartermaster on the Minnow or if he was a bigger name in the port at large. At first, I got the sense that this Tremane was a big name for anyone looking for work. That he was a player here. But they also said he could be found on the Minnow which lends itself to thinkin’ he might just be the quartermaster for that one. I’m not sure, but one of ‘em seemed irritated that I’d been given the name, as if it was somehow a secret or something.”


 


As expected, the Bosun relates the details of his various excursions into town. Much of what Cracker says props up Fin’s own, as yet, unspoken assessment of the place—lots of tight lips and a semblance of fearful secret-keeping pervades Tortuga Bay. The mention of Gory Tremane piques Crowe’s interest and, from behind a fresh tipping of his mug, he first arches a brow, then, seems to slip into a deeper contemplation, trying to piece this name in with the others he’s learned today.  


 


Here Cracker nods at the Dog’s quartermaster, “I don’t think Crowe here’d be upset about crewmen givin’ out his name to prospective recruits.” Earning a shake of Fin’s head in agreement, the bosun continues, “That makes me think he might be more.” Cracker shrugs. “But honestly, I don’t have much to go on beyond the name of a person and a ship.”


 


He leans back in his chair a bit. He’s had his say and hopes it helps. When he’d first heard the name Tremane, he’d thought it might be important, but the more he thinks about it, the less sure he is. But the guy had reacted suspiciously. Why would his identity be a secret?


 


Still shirtless, as he had spent some time scrubbing Kidane’s blood from his tunic and had left it to dry in his cabin, Fin Crowe occupies his usual position to the Captain’s left. He sits in brooding silence, a mug of ale cupped between his hands. Fin floats in his quiet consideration for a moment longer, his eyes skimming the faces at the table as his thoughts shuffle and sort themselves in his mind. He indulges in another sip of ale before his gaze meets Anne’s and it is then that he sets the mug aside and laces his fingers together on the table before him. “From th’ minute me an’ Cracker set foot t’ th’ docks,” he says in the wake of a heavy puff of air that escapes his lips, “I figgered there were somethin’ off-kilter ‘bout this place. Took me a bit of lookin’, listenin’, an’ thinkin’ to piece t’gether exactly wha’ tha’ might be but, giv’n wha’ I’ve heard from th’ lot o’ ye an’ some others, here an’ ashore, I c’n say wit’ more’n some certainty, it’s fear. Th’ balance o’ power’s been tipped, hereabouts, an’ th’ folk o’ this town be terrified o’ th’ way she’s leanin’.”


 


Fin’s gaze ticks to Cracker (OOC: Shark’s Tooth is not there as he isn’t an officer). “Yer new mate, Daxon, filled me in on some scuttlebutt tha’ helped put th’ pieces t’gether fer me.” His attentions shift back to Anne, then, and he continues.


 


“Yer man, Grover,” he offers, “he’s a local lad made good, as I hear told, an’ fer a time, held a good deal o’ sway in Tortuga but th’ folk here’re figgerin’ he’s on his last leg. This Davenport fella; he’s an aristocrat come over from England an’s ruthless enough as to have all but taken th’ place over, stealin’ power from th’ likes o’ Grover an’ pilin’ it all on his side o’ the scale, savvy? Th’ peacock wha’ offered me th’ bounty job, t’day, he’s rumored t’ be th’ bloke wha’ handles Davenport’s less savory op’rations. Havin’ seen fer myself th’ way folk react t’ th’ man an’ knowin’ th’ sort o’ blokes he’s prone ta hirin’ on, I’m figgerin’ tha’ Davenport’s th’ iron-fisted type tha’ people’re wont t’ avoid crossin’ fer fear o’ their lives.”


 


“As t’ th’ politics o’ it,” Crowe leans back in his chair and lifts his hands to push back his hair as he heaves a sigh, “We climb aboard wit Grover an’ we’re on the wrong side o’ power in this town but there’s th’ chance we c’n help shift some of it back… mebbe even take some of it fer ourselves… O’ course, tha’ll be much akin ta cuttin’ yer wrist an’ swimmin’ wit’ sharks.


 


On t’other hand,” Fin continues, “we get in bed wit’ Davenport an’ we are th’ sharks, aye? No’ th’ sort o’ shark I’d care ta be, mind ye. I’m more’n a wee bit familiar wit’ th’ sort wha’ run fer th’ man an’, truth o’ it is, I’d jus’ as soon kill th’ lot o’ ‘em as give ‘em a sideways eye. We’d be well off, fer sure, so long’s we kowtowed ta ever’thin’ th’ man said but, th’ second we aired so much’s a question, he’d likely have us killed.


 


As ta Maggie’s predicament,” he says, storm colored eyes fixing on the First Mate, “I ain’t certain she’s got much ta worry on. If this town’s deep in Davenport’s purse as I been led ta believe, he won’ find it hard ta replace some dandy politician an’ a f*#kin’ guardsman; it’ll be li’l more’n a tick in his ledgers, I reckon. Bloody hell, I killed one o’ Oken’s lads t’day, meself, an’ th’ bugger din’t so much’s blink… jus’ offered me a job an’ tossed wha’ he figgered might be some threatin’ words inta th’ wind.


 


Anyway,” Crowe says, reaching for his mug, again, “we stay here long, Capt’n, an’ we’re like to kick th’ hornets’ nest. Tha’ much be certain. How we handle th’ hornets once they be angry an’ swarmin’, tha’s another matter all t’gether.” He tips the mug to his lips and offers up an ambiguous raising of his brows to indicate he’s finished for the moment, then, reclines in his chair allowing the others to mull over what he’s brought to the table.


 


Anastasia stares at the table’s worn surface for a moment as quiet descends upon them. She considers the options, the information, and the possibilities during this time. Not sure how much of that precious commodity has passed, she finally settles on their course.


 


“We’re too new t’ these waters t’ make brash decisions,” she counsels. “So, we’re not going t’ tie ourselves off t’ either boat jus’ yet.”


 


Turning her steely-eyed gaze to her quartermaster, Captain Cole begins to give orders. “Crowe’ll put together a small crew from the Dog—one tha’ includes Maggie. You lot’ll complete the task set t’ you by Davenport. This’ll put us even on the scale while I ‘sess out which tide we’re gonna sail. Goncalvo, you can ‘elp me with the task. Cracker’d make a good addition t’ yer crew, Mr. Crowe. Any questions?”


 


(OOC: Time is 7:50 P.M.)



Posted on 2018-04-17 at 22:30:10.

Topic: Supernatural Q&A thread
Subject:


No sweat! Good luck on your exam.



Posted on 2018-04-17 at 20:33:31.

Topic: Bring Me That Horizon Q&A
Subject:


As you may have noticed, I did not post last night. We had a huge windstorm and I spent the evening chasing parts of my house, my yard, and my garbage cans around the neighborhood. I guess that means that the winds did not stay fair...



Posted on 2018-04-17 at 11:11:46.

Topic: Bring Me That Horizon Q&A
Subject:


I have been swamped with RL, but will look to have a post in place tonight if the winds stay fair. Thanks for your patience.



Posted on 2018-04-16 at 17:36:14.

Topic: Advice for a new RDI GM
Subject:


Hey, Nomad! Welcome to the club.


1.  What is the best way to handle dice rolls?  I have been in games that handled this in a variety of ways.  What would you recommend?  Why?


Advice: I've used the Inn's die roller. It can email the player directly if you plug the email in. More recently, I've found roll20.net to be the best solution. Their die roller is pretty comprehensive and stores the rolls in the chat for reference. Plus, you can tie them into the character sheets and invite the players to roll bringing them into the game more.


2.  I've seen people having trouble posting pictures.  But I also think this got updated recently.  Is there anything I need to know about this?


Advice: That has been resolved. Just plug a URL into the "Add picture" feature when posting and you're good.


3.  How many threads can you have for one game?  Most seem to have a game thread, a Q&A thread, and frequently a recruitment thread that later goes dormant for obvious reasons.  Is it easiest to just post character sheets at the top of the Q&A thread?  


Advice: Every new thread adds the potential for confusion, so I usually keep it to the Recruiting, Q&A, and Game, but I know that Alacrity has done a Character thread as well. It really is a matter of preference.


4.  I've seen many GMs reserve the top 10 or so slots of the Q&A thread.  Are there specific things you do with these or are they 'just in case' slots?  


Advice: These are reserved for games where you need to introduce additional things to the players that will have import such as world structure, adventure information, rules, etc.


Additional Advice: I also keep the character sheets on Google Drive and share them with the players so they can edit them and check them as they need to. In addition, I've taken to adding the character sheets to roll20.net so their stats and skills can be tied right into the die roller and I can use the mapping tools.



Posted on 2018-04-14 at 18:59:30.

Topic: Hunter the Vigil, A supernatural Game
Subject:


Colum shrugs, "Might as well. You got WiFi?" 


Producing his cellphone from the inner breast pocket of his leather jacket, McRath waves it side to side for emphasis. "What's your address, Alex?"


Receiving the information he needs, the biker manually enters it into his phone's contacts. "What's your last name, Alex?" It's useful to have the whole contact filled out, especially when traveling like he does. (OOC: Assuming there's no reluctance to share such...) Nodding, Colum finishes the contact information and then sends the address through to the Google Maps app before pocketing the device once again.



Posted on 2018-04-10 at 21:34:11.

Topic: Hunter the Vigil, A supernatural Game
Subject:


"Beats me," Colum shrugs and looks to the kid with a severe expression. "But you best heed your own advice, Haze. This type of business ain't no place for a kid. And what about you, Pastor? How dirty are you willing to get your hands?"



Posted on 2018-04-06 at 21:58:48.

Topic: Flesh & Blood - A CyberPunk Game
Subject:


I've made the update, chombattas. Now, if you'll note, there are some differences in time stamps. The group in the mallplex ends this interaction around 6:45 PM, so the regrouping would be "scheduled" for 7:00 PM. I've rolled for random encounters and Ghlahn and Charlie are lucky enough not to have any, so you folks are free to post your wrapping up/cleaning up overwatch and making your way to the front of the mallplex to be there by 7:00 PM. Casino is another story altogether as he's engaged in a random encounter right now. So, we'll see how that pans out. 


Tann, feel free to build this post out through PMs to me so you can catch up with the others (if Casino survives... muahahahahaha! ).


As for those in the mallplex with Dr. Carey, don't hesitate to add more to the conversations if things spring to mind as you're reading through it. I've allowed for a little play in time just in case other thoughts come to you.


I look forward to your posts!



Posted on 2018-04-04 at 15:20:14.

Topic: Bring Me That Horizon Q&A
Subject:


I like the posts thus far. I'm looking forward to the promised additions.



Posted on 2018-04-04 at 15:15:25.

Topic: Flesh & Blood - A Night City Adventure
Subject:


West Park Mallplex | Night City Integrate | Midcity | UrbanZone - March 8th, Day 2 (Saturday), 6:30 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)


“A couple of weeks past,” Dr. Carey muses while still observing the drifting art. “Young Jace approached me asking about Parental Rights in regards to their children. He was vague in his inferences, but was keen on the particulars in a child’s legal options where Parent Time is concerned. I found it odd at the time especially since Jace had never spoken of his family before… at least not to me. The entire conversation was quickly forgotten as the issues with my wife escalated, but I do recall this intensity to him that I’d not witnessed before.


“He’s something of a lonely boy, as a matter-of-fact,” Carey continues in a level lecturing tone. “And I didn’t see him spend much time with the other boys. He tended to like the company of adults—socially, I mean. He would engage in conversation about topics that most children his age veer away from. It was most endearing and I think you’d find that the staff at the school are all quite taken with him. He was such an amenable sort that I even witnessed him speaking with the janitorial staff on a number of occasions. Strangely enough, I don’t recall any other students even taking the time to notice the maids and custodians working the buildings and grounds except to, perhaps, make fun.”


Shaking his head, Phil finally looks back up at the edgers. “I’m sorry. I wish I could offer more but it isn’t exactly good form to get close to the children and as I already said, Jace is something of a loner.”


Parental rights?, thinks Echo to herself, The poor kid! What were his parents doing to him to make him want to be away from them?


Having started with the kindness act, Fixer decides he might as well continue with the good cop routine. He steps over and leans on a chair near their host. "Everything we've heard about the kid seems positive. He seems like a nice kid, although, at the moment, you seem to have the most personal comment about him we've heard. It doesn't seem like he had many people to talk to. Except you a bit, perhaps." He pauses to think a moment, "Parental rights? You mean like he was asking about getting free from their control? One of those 'divorce your parents' sort of things? Have I got the right idea?"  He shakes his head. "Ouch. If you thought he didn't have a lot of friends at school, it kinda sounds like he didn't have 'em at home either. Any idea why? Or do you know anything about his parents?"


Moving to sit near the seemingly shaken man, trying to keep his attention on her so the others can search, Echo softly asks him, “Sir, have you met Jace’s parents at all? Perhaps at teacher conferences or some such?”


“No,” Phil shakes his head. “Jace’s parents are pretty high up the food chain working for some megacorp or another. Jace has told me that he usually deals with personal assistants and I’m afraid that’s all any of us at Bartholomew have access to as well.”


“How did they seem?” the nomad gently presses. “Were they interested in how he was doing at school, or concerned in any way?”


“It has been all very business-like. They are mostly concerned with his marks.” Dr. Carey shakes his head apologetically.


Hearing the teacher’s response, Fixer has a couple of follow-up questions. "Since you teach law—even if corporate and family law aren't the same thing—I suppose you were a logical person to ask. And a friend to him, which probably helped as well. What did you tell him about it? What are his options?"


“Also,” Echo adds, “did you happen to notice any friends his age, anyone at all that he spoke to or seemed to hang around with more often?”


Echo waits patiently for his answers with a small smile, trying to keep eye contact with him.


“I instructed him on the legal process,” Phil looks up at the far corner of the room. “Most of this can be found online, so I doubt I told him anything he didn’t already know if he were serious in his investigation. The cost might be prohibitive; most of these children don’t come into any money until they come of age. Let’s see… I did tell him that I couldn’t help him with any such endeavor as it is in direct conflict with my employment contract.


“As for friends his age? Acquaintances, maybe, but no one he spent a lot of time with in particular that I’ve noticed. He really was a bit of a loner, more prone to spend time with staff than fellow students. As I’ve said, I’d see him talking with the grounds crew and janitorial staff more than the children his age.”


"Is there anyone else he might have asked about this?” Fixer acknowledges the information they’ve received with a nod and takes the conversation in a different direction. “Either someone you told him to talk to or maybe a logical other person on staff to ask? Or someone in the neighborhood? Honestly, we don't have much to go on and right now this might be Jace's best shot."  


“I am forbidden from directing students to non-school resources by my contract,” Dr. Carey replies after taking a deep breath. “So, no. I did not direct him to any others and seeing how the other teachers at Bartholomew have similar clauses in their contracts, I saw no need to refer him to any of them. As for neighborhood contacts… You may have noticed that the Bartholomew School is a walled institution. Visitors to the school are closely monitored and the local color isn’t allowed to interact at all with the students. So, I highly doubt he’s had any help from the neighborhood.”


“Here’s the summary, old-boy,” Vegas chimes in, affecting a much more friendly tone while wearing a genuine-looking smile. “We’re charged with finding this poor boy before the cops have to be brought in. It’d look bad for the school to deal with a missing student and I’m sure you can understand the sensitivity of it all. You’ve suggested we can look around and I appreciate that. It’ll help ease the minds of those holding the purse strings, if you get my meaning.


“But back to the info you have been able to share already,” the crooner spreads his hands wide, “you’re telling us that there’s no friends or other people at the school who’re close enough to Jace that they might know more?”


“That’s what I’m saying,” Phil levels his tired eyes at the solo. “I believe the other teachers would confirm my information. I would see him walking the halls happily talking with a maid, but I would rarely, if ever, see him engaging with the other children.”


"We don't want to upset your wife any,” Fixer interrupts, thinking the professor might be getting agitated by the same line of questioning. “It looks like things are tough enough there already. But, if you’re going to let us look around, we really need to get a look in the back room. Is there a way to do that without upsetting her? I don't know if it helps or hurts to play to her fantasy—be part of the game world, you know? But, for Jace's sake, a quick look would be great." He pauses, "I guess there is no chance that Jace knew her? No, just grasping at straws. The clock is ticking on this one."


“Professor,” Bloodbank scratches at the stubbly hairline at the base of his neck, his brow furrowed. “You could use some rest. If you’d like, I can administer a sedative that’ll safely put her out for a good six or seven hours. We’ll be able to do all of the looking we need to in order to satisfy our orders without disturbing her rest and you’ll be able to get some solid sleep once we’re gone.”


Phil studies the tall, black-haired young man for a moment and then nods, his shoulders slumping slightly. “That will be most appreciated.”


Mimicking the teacher’s slight dip of the head in acknowledgment, the med-tech sets his bag on the floor and crouches to unzip it. Finding his hypospray secure in the elastic strap along the inside wall of his smart bag, he then locates the correct canister for the sedative. Rising, he walks close enough to Dr. Carey that the man can read the label on the canister and shows him that it is as he says. Receiving another nod of approval from the skinny educator, Colin slips it into the administering device and says, “If you all will excuse me for a moment…”


“There’s no security devices lying about that we need to be aware of, Dr. Carey, is there?” Vegas asks as their team medic moves into the bedroom.


“On my salary?” Phil chuckles ruefully and shakes his head.


“Right,” Motioning fixer and Echo to join him in their walk-through of the apartment, the Frank Sinatra look-alike gathers his bearings by looking about for a period of two seconds before making his way over to the kitchen area. Snagging the comm-unit Fixer made for them, Luke Reeves, aka Vegas, turns the volume up just a bit and holds down the action button. “The kid doesn’t appear to be here, and the professor doesn’t appear to be our culprit. Regroup at the mallplex entrance in fifteen.”


Returning from the room, Bloodbank smiles at their host and informs him that the sedative has taken effect—Phil’s wife is sleeping a deep and restful slumber. Moving to join the others, the medtech speaks in a low volume, “I’ve checked the bedroom and there aren’t any hiding places I could find, nor any sign of a child. Just more of the poor woman’s crazy.”


“Yeah, well,” Vegas tilts his head dismissively, “The group isn’t reimbursing you for that drug. That act of kindness was all you, Mr. Bleeding Heart."


Sharing his gaze with the others, the crooner continues, “The kid ain’t here, and I don’t think he ever has been. I’ve notified the rest of the team to regroup. Time to share what little we’ve learned and strategize on where to go from here.”


“Oh,” he adds as an afterthought, “I’ve received a message from Blossom. She’s going to try and meet up with us as well.”


(OOC: Time is 6:45 PM PST)


 


----------------------------------------------


 


Wolf Point Plaza | Night City Integrate | Midcity | UrbanZone - March 8th, Day 2 (Saturday), 6:07 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)


Ghlahn moves into the room after cutting through the lock. It seems that for some reason security is higher than expected in the building. Moving towards the bank of windows he finds his luck going from bad to worse. The windows do not open. There is little time to search for another vantage point and it is unlikely that the other rooms have windows of a different sort. Resigning himself to the inevitable, he examines the window to determine if a torch will melt the glass. It’s worth the chance of being discovered. The only options are to cut through the window, break the window, or simply watch the street beyond and, if needed, break the window with a quick first shot. Taking out the torch, he lights it up.


If the flickering light from his cutting tool is drawing any unwanted attention, the Cee-Metal edger will have to wait to see the results. Glass, just like the rest of the buildings in the sprawling metropolis spanning the entire Californian coast, will be repaired by the nanobuilders that constantly tear older, dead buildings apart to reuse the materials in newer constructs. There’s no way for Ghlahn to determine when the nanobuilders for this building will make their presence known and all he can do is hope that the hole he’s rapidly melting away will last long enough for the rest of his team to reemerge from the mallplex.


Slipping the barrel of his .44 Nomad through the newly cooled hole just enough to rest the weapon in without drawing more attention to his position, M’haru Ghlahn establishes his overwatch position. Now comes the time that most people dread—the waiting.


(OOC: Time is 6:10 PM PST)


 


------------------------------------------


 


Tranquil Grotto | Night City Integrate | Midcity | UrbanZone - March 8th, Day 2 (Saturday), 6:10 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)


With the fifth floor a total bust Casino decides that there’s nothing to do but head up to the sixth floor and hope to find an open spot or room to provide overwatch from. However, his plan is quickly put on hold as the large solo turns to make his way back to the elevators.


“Holy s***! You startled the hell outta me, solo. You a f****** solo, right? You look like a f****** solo. S***! You here to croak someone? F***. Can I watch?”


Maybe fifteen or sixteen years old, the young man making his declaration of surprise wears a red, green, and white leather jacket. His head is shaved into a short mohawk that’s been dyed neon green. He’s of Indian heritage or a half-breed, and hovering over his left shoulder is a SkyWorm cybernetic companion—a six-inch drone that acts as an entertainment device, recording device, and net link. Having controlled his first instinct to kill the kid all he could do was talk. Being a bad lier Casino would take a chance and tell the truth.


“Naw, kid. Not here to kill anyone. Just looking for a place to watch that building across the way,” the big solo casually replies.“Hey, maybe you can help me. Know any good watch spots?”


“Bruh! You got the right Raff,” the teen smacks his chest, causing the leather jacket to jingle all of the metal accouterments attached to the zippers and pinned through the leather supplement. “I can pass ya through the gate to the s***, Hammerhead! So long as I get paid, savvy? Twenty’ll have you sittin’ in comfort, true! There’s a park just ‘round the bend with an open view of the s******* ‘plex. You got a meatbag scoped inside that ‘plex, Choomba? Bet it’s a Sheila some corpse zombie’s pissed she’s playin’ input for another John, right?”


Further back the way Casino had come—towards the elevators—the music that had chased him this direction in the first place is getting louder.


(OOC: Time is 6:12 PM PST)


 


-------------------------------------------


 


Infinity Towers - 3rd Floor - West Beach Garden | Night City Integrate | Midcity | Urban,Zone - March 8th, Day 2 (Saturday), 6:08 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)


As with most boardwalks, the ground beneath his high-end half-boots is wood. Benches line the wood rail (which sits just inside the Plexglass barrier between the outside world and the inside) and despite the architect program’s best efforts, their surfaces are wet from the rain being blown in. Here, too, people walk the length; some are arm-in-arm, and others are walking real animals, or cyberpets, and still others are leaning against the rail looking out on the city street twenty meters below oblivious to the rainfall and the large air purification fans that filter out the pollutants from outside.


Charlie finds a quiet place to sit, an empty wooden bench near the wooden rail so that he can work in peace within the safety of the Infinity Towers. Settling in, he opens his laptop case removes the drone from the foam encasement, setting it on the ground at his feet. Producing his agent, the well-dressed fixer calls up the control app and begins his real-time feed.


Charlie centers on Infinity Towers and decides to fly his drone over all three buildings (Wolf Point Plaza, Tranquil Grotto Building, and Infinity Towers) despite the earlier conversation with the large, leather-clad solo named Casino. The problem he must overcome is that though the mallplex consists of most of the structure visible within this level of the integrate, it continues into the next level so there’s no conceivable roof to fly over. Luther is left to fly his drone at an altitude that provides a decent bird’s eye view while skirting the exterior of the mallplex. With this realization, Charlie goes to work and begins to identify potential targets, look for his teammates and.


“ Alrighty people,” buzzing motors lift the small drone from its perch and out over the Tower’s street. “Let’s find out where everyone is...”


Setting the Skymaster Delta Cross XLT in a slow forward trajectory, the Native American thrusts his hand into his coat’s breast pocket and retrieves the device Fixer put together for them. Double-tapping the action button, he breaks squelch twice in short succession.  


“Charlie's up,” Luther "marks up" on the channel and hopes that one of his teammates will answer to let him know if anything is going on.


Glancing down at his agent while he waits, Cred Stick Charlie performs a quick survey, spinning the Skymaster about so that the camera can sweep the street below. So far, he isn’t able to see anyone that he recognizes. Setting the walkie-talkie on his right thigh, close to his abdomen, the fixer returns his attention to the screen and now with both hands, begins to direct the drone on its path. Mentally calling up the time from his agent to his optic splice, Luther registers the hour.


Sending his drone through the air traffic is done with caution. While it has a built-in obstruction and anti-collision sensors, some corporate delivery drones move at a high-enough speed that collisions aren’t unheard of. Then, there are anarchists who just like to watch the world burn and might find it fun to shoot down a drone. They don’t usually target corporate machines, but a private drone? Those are fair game: not as much chance of repercussions being dealt.


Twelve minutes is what it takes to fly the full route. Thumbing the autopilot control on, Luther sets about reviewing his business on a split screen function of his agent while waiting for some news.


(OOC: Time is 6:25 PM PST)



Posted on 2018-04-04 at 15:07:54.

Topic: Hunter the Vigil, A supernatural Game
Subject:


“My take on the guy who left this envelope?” Alex returns to the question at hand. “For what it is worth, my gut says to trust him. Not,“ he quickly turns to the kid he’d previously called Fry, “blindly Haze. I have heard you. But it is possible that not all juju is the same. He didn’t seem like the Man in White. When he was up here, he dropped it off and then left expecting to be unseen. When I was able to follow him, he was surprised. He was also frightened. Not of me. I think he was afraid of the Man in White. 'Eyes are always watching,' he said. He was getting information on this thing but seemed almost terrified that his role would be found out. I’m not sure what he was. He was badly scarred. If I were to guess, I’d suspect that he was a victim of something like our Man. His scars, his fears, he was afraid, but something was driving him to overcome that fear and act. I’d have thought him a human victim, but as Haze indicated, his eyes were red and he had an unearthly ability to slip the mind. I don’t know what he is.” Alex looks back at Colum, “Yes, it is possible that what he was afraid of was his boss who had sent him with that envelope and would be angry if he saw him speaking to us. It is possible. But that isn’t what it felt like. His name is Damian.” Like the Devil, McRath immediately associates, remembering a sermon from some time ago when he was much more innocent.


“I’m not sure what hunting this thing actually means. Something is causing these events. But while I know I don’t want to end up somethings dinner,” Alex's eyes dart towards the kid, “but if someone had been able to do anything to help his parents, what would that have been worth?”


“What do we actually have besides this envelope? All I knew when I got here—and all I’ve been able to learn from those I talked to here—can pretty much be summed up as ‘a man-in-white has been seen around when good people go bad.’ That’s it. I wouldn’t even know where to go from there. In fact, this is where I came to try and learn more. And all I learned was more of the same.” Alex's gaze drifts to each of them and he holds up the envelope he has in hand. “Except for this. Unless you know more than I do, this is the only lead we have.”


Again, Alex looks around at the others at the table, “I agree, we need to be cautious about how much we trust it, but it is at least something. Energy fluctuations and really good people as targets—some of which seem to have achieved a bit of notoriety for their good hearts. This is something. Is there any history of paranormal activity associated with electric effects? Is there a way to track when and where such effects take place? Going backward, this might allow us to expand on the pattern this envelope identified. At the very least it might confirm or debunk it. Going forward it might be predictive. Likewise, at least a couple of the targets seemed to have had reputations for ‘goodness,’ for lack of a better word. We could look up the previous victims—were their stories in the paper about them? Is there one particular media source in which many of them were mentioned? If so, like the electricity, that could prove to be predictive.” 


He shrugs. “You asked my opinion. The envelope provides something. What else do we have? What do you know?”


"Let's assume we can trust this docket," Colum leans slightly forward so that the lack of volume in his voice isn't a hindrance, "like you say, it only proves that there's an electrical issue before these events and that the victims were decent people. But, you're right. It does provide something to start with. 


"Here's what I'm going to do." Tacking off items on his left fingers with his right, the biker continues, "I'm going to look into each of the victims and see if there's anything in their histories that ties them together. Next, I'll check the history on the locations where each of these people worked and lived. Perhaps there's some sort of connection there; perhaps not. After that, I'm going to search through newspaper articles, local church bulletins, and event announcements to see if anyone else in this community pops out as a potential target. While I'm doing this digging, I'll send the information we have on the Man in White to my contacts and see if anything rings their bells. I'll better know how to approach this... thing... once I've collected all of this information.


"So, I guess the only question outstanding is, are any of you interested in working with me?"



Posted on 2018-04-02 at 11:51:09.

Topic: Flesh & Blood - A CyberPunk Game
Subject:


All players have posted! I'll be making an update to the game either today or tomorrow. Look frosty, meatbags!



Posted on 2018-04-02 at 11:30:32.

Topic: Bring Me That Horizon Q&A
Subject:


No sweat. I've posted! Carry on.



Posted on 2018-03-30 at 13:00:03.

Topic: Bring Me That Horizon
Subject:


Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), roughly 1:23 P.M.; The Sun Dog


 


“Tell me then,” Anne draws his attention to her eyes by turning her face slightly towards him, her red hair catching in the warm breeze and drifting lazily about her freckled cheeks. “Is this somethin’ you wish to pursue?”


 


Fin tilts his head slightly to one side in lieu of a shrug, his gaze dancing between the clear, green pools of Anne’s eyes and the wind-driven capering of her fiery locks as he contemplates the query. “Up t’ you in th’ end, Capt’n,” he answers after a moment, “As I said, th’ up-front haul’s not much – a hundr’d guineas be a hundr’d guineas – but th’ promise o’ bigger an’ better on th’ return’s somethin’ worth a considerin’, anyway.”


 


His eyes let go of hers, then, and he lifts the rum bottle, again. He doesn’t drink from it this time, though; instead, Fin just looks at it for a long moment, his brow furrowing slightly as he seemingly gets lost in quiet contemplation. “Th’ way this blue-bird, Oken, acted,” Fin rumbles softly, then, his gaze still fixed to the bottle in his hand, “an’ th’ way others made way fer ‘im, gives me cause ta believe that he’s in a fair position o’ power, Annie.” A mirthless smirk plays across his lips as his gaze comes back to briefly meet hers before redirecting toward the town beyond the beach. “If what ye say bout this Grover an’ Davenport’s true, I’m figurin’ Oken’s a hand o’ one er t’other… likely Davenport if Grover’s playin’ th’ deposed king, aye? F#%kin’ peacock had too much swagger bout ‘im ta be lined up wit’ a failin’ monarchy…”


 


Fin takes a long pull from the bottle then and turns to face Anne in the process. “If we’re t’ make Tortuga our port,” smiling a bit, he parrots her earlier words, “it mightn’t hurt ta take a wee swim wit’ one o’ th’ bigger sharks in ‘er waters, savvy?”


 


“Aye, but I don’ like gettin’ in bed with strangers,” Anne chews on her tongue and narrows her flashing eyes. After a moment, she allows a minute shake of her head and continues. “An’ there’s no profit in honest work. We need t’ find a mark worthy o’ this crew’s time, Fin. ‘Fore we no longer ‘ave a crew. An’ as you say, a hun’red guinea be a hun’red guinea. Tha’s a li’l o’er five an’ a half gold per man,” she turns a sly eye towards her quartermaster and unceremoniously takes the bottle from his hand, “which won’ las’ a man but one, maybe two days, ashore.”


 


Drawing hard on the rum, Anne uses the back of her sleeve to once again wipe her mouth as she delivers the bottle back into Fin’s hand. “Still a lot o’ daylight left. Others’ll return t’ the Dog later this eve an’ we’ll know more then.


 


“Meanwhile,” leaning her left elbow against the gunwale, the beautiful woman faces the rugged sailor at her side. “I hear tell tha’ Shark Tooth brought a new recruit aboard my ship. You’ll go find ‘im an’ make sure he’ll do?”


 


“Ye’ll get no argument from me, luv,” Crowe nods in response to Anne’s last words on the matter, “I’ll see it happens as ye like it.”


 


Pushing away from the railing, now, and peering back in the direction of the town, the Sun Dog’s quartermaster asks; “Now, what about yer sister, then? Would ye be wantin’ me ta go find her er would ye rather jus’ wait her out?”


 


“Maggie?” Anastasia’s face softens. “Tha’ li’l bird needs t’ learn t’ fly on ‘er own sooner er later. We’ll see what she brings us this time. Yer free t’ go ‘bout yer duties, Mr. Crowe.”


 


Still contemplating the conversation she’s just engaged in, Anne Cole twists her body to fully face the Bay of Tortuga and wonders when the port authorities will be visiting the Dog.


 


(OOC: Time is roughly 1:28 PM.)


(OOC: Skip forward a couple of hours… 3:18 PM.)


 


After taking care of what duties he feels necessary for this time of day, Fin retires to his cabin in the forecastle across the narrow hall from Maggie’s. Three porthole-style windows are open to the bay allowing some of the heat to dissipate and a little wayward breeze to wander into the chamber on occasion. Though dimmer for the fact that the waning sun is towards the port and aft portions of the Dog, there’s still enough ambient light to eliminate the need for a candle or lantern. Propped up on his bed with his back to the inner wall, the quartermaster is enjoying another cigarillo and contemplating the events of the day when the distinct sound of a door closing across the hall pierces through his considerations. This is followed by boots falling purposefully on the wood floor and the faint echo of the door leading to the main deck being unlatched. It is here that Fin follows some muffled conversation between Maggie and what sounds like Cracker.


 


Fin hadn’t known that Maggie was back; she must have returned when he was off tending to other duties.


 


----------------------------------------------------


 


Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), aboard the Sun Dog, 2:45 P.M.


 


Watching the distance between them, wind off the water stirring her hair about her face as the patrols scurrying around rousting up women, a self-satisfied smirk twists her lips. "There be no place like home," she sighs, feeling herself relax a bit.


 


Reaching the Dog, Maggie ascends the rope ladder and moves past Chimwemwe without a word, heading for her cabin and the relief that it holds. But once inside, the confines of her cabin feel too close, and she paces, her energy building. Nothing satisfies her. Not the bottle of rum stashed in her bunk, or the peace of being finally off that wretched rock. She takes only a few moments to assemble herself, to make sure she's presentable and fearsome once more, before storming out and off in search of her sister. What happened back there may well have unintended consequences, and the Captain will need to know. Better from her own lips, than from a too quick lawman if they start searching ships.


 


(OOC: Time is roughly 3:15 PM)


 


Cracker quickly nods his head at his captain’s command and says, "Yes, Captain." He isn’t sure where to begin, but assumes the other Cole sister is still ashore.  "Uhm, Captain? Assuming the First Mate is still ashore, may I commandeer a few men to begin a search of the city? Shark Tooth and I alone can't cover much ground."  


 


“Do so, Mr. Wiley,” Anne snarls, “but do try t’ be a li’l discreet. Can’t ‘ave Tortuga thinkin’ we’re an invasion force.”


 


Cracker dips his head with a quick, "Sir," and left the captains quarters. Once outside, he turns to the gunner and lets out a breath of air in relief. "You got lucky. That could have gone much worse. We now need to find our missing officer. Go to your chest and grab some clothes—smaller and clean if possible—and put 'em in a bag. Get 'em from someone if you have to. Don't tell anyone why you need 'em, just get 'em. Keep your mouth shut. We'll be leaving this boat together in only a few minutes. I'll be on deck getting a few extra hands. Hustle."


 


Shark’s Tooth is no fool and immediately picks up on the Boatswain’s plan. He feels some relief at not having to speak when meeting with the fiery captain, but he’s also feeling put out by the bosun’s blame. Without more than a grunt, he moves off to obey the younger man.


 


William Wiley then moves the other direction across the main deck. Approaching the largest group of sailors (three, consisting of Chimwemwe, Zeno Contos, and Jackson Richards). "Ok, lads, break time is over. By any chance has the First Mate returned to the ship?"


 


“Aye,” Chimwemwe lifts his head from the dice game and slowly rises to his feet. “She be back.”


 


"Wait. She DID return? How long ago? Where did she go?" Hearing that she has disappeared into the bow of the ship, he can only assume that she has gone to her own quarters. Clearly, she has not gone straight to the captain or they would have run into each other. Ships aren’t that big and there are only so many paths that lead to that particular door.


 


His first thought is to go to the captain and tell her, but no; she had clearly said, 'bring her to me.' That means bring 'her,' not 'news of her.' Oh, this is not going to be fun.  


 


He looks back at the group of pirates and tries to cover the surprise he feels at the news. "Ok, when Shark’s Tooth gets here tell him 'change of plans.' Just tell 'im to stay here till I return." As he starts to turn towards the door leading to the First Mate’s and separately, the Quartermaster’s bunks, he throws one last question at the waiting group, "Anyone here see the quartermaster?  If you do, tell him I need to speak with him." And then, he spins on his heel and heads towards the First Mate's quarters. Did he want to find her there or is he hoping her chambers will be empty? He really doesn’t know.


 


Just as he reaches the door to the forecastle, Maggie “Hellfire” Cole pulls the barrier open and ducks through, stepping out onto the main deck, her freckled face shaded by the broad brim of her hat.


 


(OOC: Assuming some sort of interaction that eventually leads to Bosun Wiley escorting Maggie to Anne’s quarters&hellip


 


“Come!” Captain Cole’s sharp command pierces the red-painted door almost immediately after the knock sounds.


 


Stepping through to the relatively large room, the first mate and boatswain stare across the seemingly extended and long space between the door and the captain’s desk to where the older of the Coles is sitting imperiously with her fingers steepled before her shadowy face.


 


“Bosun,” Anne snaps. “Yer dismissed.”


 


(OOC: Assuming no objection to the orders&hellip


 


“What in the name of all nine hells,” Anastasia doesn’t raise her voice; there’s no tremor of rage either. She’s cold where Maggie runs hot, but there’s no mistaking her mood, “are ya doin’ killin’ officers o’ the city?”


 


(OOC: Time is roughly 3:45 PM)


 


----------------------------------------------------


 


Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), aboard the Sun Dog, 7:30 P.M.


 


(OOC: I’m going to assume that everyone remains on the ship and that the rest of the afternoon/early evening is spent taking care of other duties. For the sake of regrouping everyone, the Captain will have called her “council” together to discuss the day’s findings, events, and options.)


 


Evening finds Captain Cole sitting at the head of the small table that has been brought up from the cargo bay area for the purpose of councils such as these. A cooler evening breeze draws the Caribbean heat from the deck and off the attendee’s flesh while a jug of ale is present to be shared amongst the lot of them should they wish to imbibe. At this table sits Fin Crowe to Anne’s left and Maggie Cole to her right. Goncalvo and Cracker share the other end.


 


“In summary,” Anne slowly turns the tin cup with the amber liquid on the table, “we’ve still no’ been visited by the port authority, so this is likely one o’ them ports tha’ require me t’ go ashore which I’ll do t’morrow. We’ve precious li’l on the powers here’bouts but ‘ave already sold t’ one—Mr. Virgil Grover—whilst Mr. Crowe’s received an offer o’ bounty from an agent o’ the other—Mr. Davenport—or so we assume… an’ we likely ‘ave an issue brewin’ with the authorities ‘ere that’ll need addressin’.” Anastasia’s green eyes flit briefly to where Maggie sits and her mug stalls its rotations. “This be where ideas be brought t’ the table. How’re we t’ no’ get dashed on the political rocks o’ Tortuga whilst buildin’ a network o’ folks willin’ t’ give us line when probable hauls be runnin’ these waters? The crew be happy fer the time bein’ so long as their purses are full. This… well, we all know this is no’ long asail an’ other captains’ll be poachin’ our crew once they learn there be a female captain o’ this boat. So, spill yer guts.”



Posted on 2018-03-30 at 12:59:32.

Topic: Voyages of the Rocinante - Firefly RPG QnA
Subject:


No problem. Been really busy at work, myself. 



Posted on 2018-03-29 at 15:10:35.

Topic: Hunter the Vigil, A supernatural Game
Subject:


"All right," Colum rumbles. "Pull it together, Haze. You don't wanna scare this crowd into a frenzy.


"Sorry about your parents. There's nothing right about what happened to you." Eyes darting over the head of the frantic young man, McRath surveys the crowd for indication of any who might have heard the skater's outburst. While assessing the situation, he continues in a much-reduced volume. 


"Things that go bump in the night are what I hunt and I'm not running. God brought me here for a reason and this pimpin' dude with the cane seems to be it."


"These," he shakes the envelope from the bottom causing the papers within to ruffle, "tell me one thing and one thing only. The Man in White is targeting god-fearing, good people for some reason and making them do bad things. It's like he's tainting their souls before killing them off.


"Maybe a demon, or a wraith-like creature drawing energy from eating their souls and he just likes to really screw them up before he dines... whatever his reason, I'm not running; I'm hunting."


Turning to Preston, Colum offers the envelope back and states, "Our little spy is another story. The Man in White doesn't seem to be particularly stupid. He comes across as more of a strategist manipulating people to do uncharacteristically evil things and that means we can't rule out the idea that this dossier might be concocted to throw us off his scent. 


"What's your take on this fellow, Alex? You met him—talked with him, even."



Posted on 2018-03-29 at 15:06:11.

Topic: Supernatural Q&A thread
Subject:


There may yet be a flogging if there's not another post forthwith by the one and only Eol. 


A suggestion, if I may be so bold, Impulse, would be to provide those who've seen the inside of the packet with the info contained therein and allow us players to post until we've hit an impass.



Posted on 2018-03-27 at 01:17:22.

Topic: Supernatural Q&A thread
Subject:


Sorry for any delay in my posting. I've since seen the light and have repented of my sin! 



Posted on 2018-03-26 at 11:45:56.

Topic: Hunter the Vigil, A supernatural Game
Subject:



When they reached the second floor Castle moves over to the table where the priest stands while the other man remains seated--A biker from the look of him. Interesting. "What can I do for you?" the priest asks.


Colum gives the newly arrived individuals a once over and then leans on his left elbow against the table, drawing the packet the clergyman has offered closer to him. Intent on perusing the contents, he pauses when the fellow answers.  


Castle turns to the kid and says, "Why don't you get some of the food and then come back." It is, after all, why the kid is here. He then turns and responds to the question. "Hey. I'm Alex. I was here for the meeting earlier. As have others here, I've seen the Man in White, and I saw when that envelope you have got dropped on the table. I'd be curious to see what is in it."


McRath turns an inquisitive gaze back towards Alex and raises his eyebrows. He has assumed that the packet he's been passed is something the priest put together, not something that has been dropped in their laps. Sensing that the information might be taken from him at any time, the biker slides the envelope from the table and opens it while smiling slightly at the newcomer and not bothering to even glance down at the contents of what's now in his hands. 


"Ephraim O’Malley," he says by way of explanation. "With the Biker Club Pastor Circuit." Now, he drops his gaze to the information and begins to skim through it. He knows nothing about this Man in White and has even less to offer to the immediate conversation. Perhaps whatever has been delivered to them in this dossier would help him understand more of what's going on here. Perhaps Alex will share more of what he knows with Prowler enlightening him further... and who's this kid? Is Alex dragging around baggage? A single parent with a responsibility for some punk? 


You know nothing yet, he chastises. Keep frosty.


"So, who dropped this love letter on the table, Alex?" McRath says in his deep, rolling bass as he continues to rifle through the contents.




Posted on 2018-03-26 at 11:45:13.

Topic: Bring Me That Horizon Q&A
Subject:


Fluff is good! Mmmm... fluff.


OK, the Quartermaster would be who the Boatswain reports directly to unless given other orders. Chain of command would be something akin to...



  1. Captain

  2. First Mate

  3. Quartermaster / Sailing Master

  4. Boatswain

  5. Gunner Sergeants


Of course, normal pirate ships wouldn't have a first mate, but that's neither here nor there for the Dog. Auxilliary positions (like surgeon, carpenter, etc.) would have precedence in giving orders under certain circumstances, but would still report to the boatswain and then on up the line.


I'm looking forward to the rest of the posts.



Posted on 2018-03-26 at 11:27:45.

Topic: Flesh & Blood - A CyberPunk Game
Subject:


So, it's all good now? By the way, feel free to reach out to fellow players (all-y'alls) if they haven't posted. Get's to be a drag being the one to always poke and prod.



Posted on 2018-03-26 at 11:21:18.

 


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