Hola, mi amigo!

Join the fun!

Two posts... (thank you)... where're the rest?

Sometimes friends suck...

Well, more power to you, then! I'll be interested in seeing how it works out.

I have posted. Please note the time stamps. When I leave off for each character we're looking at the following...

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  Goncalvo: still way ahead of everyone else...

  
  


• 
  

  Fin: 1:23 PM (Cracker and Maggie haven't returned to the ship yet. As a matter-of-fact, this is about the time Maggie is randomly murdering people.)

  
  


• 
  

  Cracker: 3:12 PM (Maggie is in her cabin, though Cracker and Sharky don't know that she's even on board yet.)

  
  


• 
  

  Maggie: 2:45 PM (Fin may, or may not, be on the ship as we haven't yet reached that point in his storyline. Cracker isn't back on board when Maggie arrives on the ship, but Shark Tooth is though he's gone directly below deck so she doesn't see him and none of the crew know enough to report anything to her.)

  
  

Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), roughly 7:23 P.M.; The Sun Dog

(OOC: I am honestly trying to get everyone caught up with Goncalvo&hellip

Goncalvo walks the deck of the Sun Dog. It feels strange to be aboard a ship at anchor. The usual pitch and yaw of the deck are held in check by the anchor that ties them to the seabed. In a way, it is like being on land. The ship is calm, almost as if it is sleeping. Here and there a stray deckhand sets about a minor task with no more urgency than that of a starfish opening a clam. So different from when under sail and all hands moving with a purpose to ensure the ship moves according to the Captain’s whim.

The Captain says where the ship sails but it is Goncalvo who is in charge of how. The crew furls or unfurls yards of canvas to allow the wind to propel them according to his sets. Only he knows how to read the stars and use the astrolabe to determine their location. True, he relays that information to the Captain and makes sure she impresses the crew with her ability to get them to their destinations safely but in truth, he is the key to their safe journey. Oh, there are other aspects of sailing that he knows little or nothing about. Gunnery is a loud and dirty job that he avoids. Battle plans are not his specialty, though he takes careful note of the decisions the Captain makes during a fight; one day he might wish to become a captain himself, but for now, he is content to be a Sailing Master.  

A rumble in his stomach reminds him that he has not eaten in a bit so he makes his way to the galley (which is, in fact, just a sectioned off portion of the hold large enough to allow whichever sailor is assigned to prepare meals enough room to perform the duty while having direct access to the food stores). Hopefully, the cook will have something other than hardtack available.

Making his way down the hatch and into the darkening confines of the hold, the Sailing Master finds the dank space void of people. The cooking space is cold having not been used all day and the food stores are alarmingly bare. Crowe would have assigned a number of the crew to set about procuring more foodstuffs, but such a chore usually takes a day or two to arrange, so it is likely old, dry salt pork and some scraps of biscuits for his dinner.

Scavenging amongst the crates and barrels, Goncalvo puts together a decent spread of a handful of salted pork, two smallish rusk biscuits, Suffolk Cheese, and a tankard of Arrack drudges. There are other sailors spending their coin on far better meals in Tortuga for certain. Unfortunately, waiting for the remainder of the ship’s officers to meet means not returning to shore.

(OOC: Time is roughly 7:30 PM)

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Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), roughly 1:15 P.M.; The Sun Dog

Resplendent in her white blouse, baggy gray cotton trousers, and thigh-high boots, Anne Cole has her hair pulled up beneath a red cloth, her saber at her side, and a brace of two flintlocks across her bosom secure in a black leather baldric. Squinting her lovely eyes, she scans the deck from left to right before spotting her quartermaster.

“I weren’t expectin’ you ‘til after dark, Mr. Crowe,” she states before thinning her lips and standing firmly with her feet a shoulder-width apart, hands on her hips. “Whate’er you’ve experienced ashore is likely t’ be a tale judgin’ from the blood you’re wearin’.”

The genuineness of the smile that plays on Fin’s lips when Anne’s eyes meet his is a thing rarely seen by anyone aside from the Captain and her sister. If there is anyone on sea or shore of this God-forsaken world that the swarthy quartermaster truly loves, surely, it is the Sisters Cole… and, at times like this, when he’s had more than just a little to drink, he occasionally finds himself wondering if that love might not exceed the platonic, familial sort that he freely admits. He shakes the thought away, tamping down the rum-stoked warmth in his chest and belly as he forces his gaze to let go of the stunning Anastasia Cole and regard the blood that spatters his still damp clothes.

“Aye, luv,” he chuckles, brushing ineffectually at a bloody streak on his tunic, “Disappear from th’ place fer a few years an’ ever’body wants ta throw ye a welcome ‘ome party when ye return… Din’t turn out th’ way they were hopin’, I reckon.”

With a faint shrug and that characteristic half-a-smirk playing on his lips, Crowe strides in his Captain’s direction, lifting the bottle by way of an offer as he approaches, “Took me less time than I’d figured ta find a bit o’ work, too,” he says, drawing up within arm’s reach of the woman and pulling the stopper from the bottle. “No’ th’ biggest haul, right up front,” he admits, “A hundr’d guinea ta go fetch a bloke who’s playin’ a game o’ hide-an’-go-bugger-yerself wit’ one o’ th’ local fops. We pull it off, though, an’ it’s like ta open our h’rizons ta bigger an’ better opp’rtunities…”

“We can’t be sittin’ in th’ doldrums if we wanna capitalize on this’n, though, Capt’n. Th’ lubber offerin’ th’ purse fancies hedgin’ ‘is bets an’ has already go’ more’n one other crew on this lad’s scent.” His eyes slide away from her for a moment, panning across the Dog’s deck and across the waves, too, where they briefly linger on Tortuga’s shore before coming back to meet Anne’s, again. “Anythin’, yet, from Cracker er th’ rest?”

“Aye,” Anne remarks in answer to his question. “The lot o’ them just went ashore t’ look into a fella by the name o’ Davenport tha’ has his hooks int’ a bit o’ everythin’ hereabouts.” Taking the bottle from her quartermaster, Captain Cole lifts it to her lips and pauses as her green eyed gaze drifts out towards the settlement. “Found a buyer fer the junk in the hold—one Mr. Virgil Grover. From wha’ I gather, he’s been a king on this chessboard for some time, but has recently been demoted by Davenport.”

Taking a long draw on the liquor, Anastasia Cole uses the back of her free hand to wipe away any lingering rum from her lips and hands the bottle back to Crowe. “This work you’ve chartered… whose wheelhouse does it reside in?”

(OOC: Assuming a, “A feller by the name of Oken who works for someone I don’t know…&rdquo

“If we’re t’ make Tortuga our port, it stands t’ reason we best be gettin’ a feel fer the waves beneath our hull an’ the sharks tha’ lie beneath them waters ‘fore we cast off, wouldn’t ya say, Mr. Crowe?” Walking towards the rail, Anne expects him to follow. Leaning her trim belly against the rail, she grips the weathered wood with both hands and narrows her eyes as though she can see the various actors along the beach in full detail. “Truth be told, I wish you’d have been here t’ join Maggie in her search for details on this Davenport. Bless her, but she wouldn’ know guile if it spent the night with her in ‘er bunk an’ slapped her awake in the morn.

“The work you’ve netted is a distraction tha’ doesn’t sound like it’d take the whole crew t’ complete, or am I missin’ something Mr. Crowe?”

(OOC: Assuming something akin to agreement&hellip

“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?”

(OOC: Time is roughly 1:23 PM.)

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

Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), Docks, 3:06 P.M.

Cracker whispers, "Does the captain know what happened with the first mate? Have you told the captain where you last saw her?"  

“You foolin’, sir?” Shark’s Tooth opens his one eye wide, a feat in and of itself since it, too, is swollen from his earlier brawl. “No’ my place, to be sure. I’m afraid tha’ honor falls on yer shoulders, Boatswain. I’m jus’ a lowly gunner, after all.” Scratching with thick fingers at his scruffy chin, Sharky tilts his head to the side and sniffs. “‘Course, you could always wait ‘til, Hellfire Maggie tells her herself.”

Wiley listens to the other sailor explain how he has been too afraid to speak to the captain about what he had seen and shakes his head. He looks Sharktooth in the one swollen eye and cusses, "Not your place?! You fool! You are a part of this crew."

He keeps his voice low so nobody else will hear, but Shark Tooth can have no doubt that the Boatswain is angry. "Your PLACE and your DUTY and your REASON FOR BEING ON THIS SIDE OF THE WAVES is to help make sure that this ship and the rest of its crew stays secure.  That does not just mean running a gun crew and getting in brawls; it also means making sure that the captain has the information she needs to make the decisions that will keep you, me, and the whole ship safe! You don't think knowing the First Mate is running is vital?"  

He starts to turn away, saying, "You had better hope your name does not come up—" when he stops. Turning back to Shark Tooth, he smiles, "No. I didn't actually see anything besides the First Mate and your sorry arse running through the streets. But you know more, and the captain needs to know EVERYTHING. You will come with me. Now. We are not waiting for Ms. Cole to return."  

Shark Tooth’s upper lip twitches but he straightens up during the dressing down and juts out his jaw when Cracker delivers his orders. “Aye, sir,” he practically growls.

The boatswain pushes Wylie ahead of them and they head back up to the main deck, around the main mast towards the Captain's quarters. Arriving at the closed door, he knocks and waits for a response.  

“Come,” Anne’s calm alto calls out.  

William Wiley removes his hat and holds it in his hands as he enters the captain's chambers.  He is followed closely by a very nervous Shark Tooth who seems to want to stay behind the boatswain as much as possible—and even in a captain's chambers there isn't much room to move around.

"Captain," he says with a dip of his head. "I'm thinkin' you probably already know, but it seems information you would want..."  He hesitates for just a moment to make sure he gets the words right before plunging ahead. "It seems our First Mate might be in some trouble with the local authorities."  He pauses a moment to see what reaction his words drudge up from the temperamental captain.

Anastasia Cole pauses in the review of maps spread out in unfathomable disorder upon her desk and looks up at her boatswain and gunner with raised, thin, dark red eyebrows.

"Just a bit ago,” Cracker hurries on, “I saw The First Mate and Shark Tooth here running through the streets. They ran like someone was after them. I don't know what happened, Captain, but they ran. After just a bit, Sharky and I were ordered back to the ship and she ran on.  Shark Tooth here might know more since he was already with her when I caught up. I came straight here." With that, he turns to the very nervous Shark Tooth.

“Aye, Cap’n,” Wylie coughs, keenly aware of the scrutiny he’s under and the vision he presents in his beat-up state. “I don’ know why, Cap’n, but Miss Cole done ran a soldier an’ someone looks like an official type bloke through on the wharf. Caused quite the stir, Cap’n. Plenty o’ folk runnin’ away an’ callin’ fer the guards. When I got t’ Miss Cole—Uh, see, we was—that’s t’ say Cracker ‘ere an’ me was ordered t’ split off from ‘er an’ see what we could drum us up as far as information on that Davenport bloke, so we wasn’t right nearby, but I caught sight o’ the tail end jus’ as she drove her sword through the fancy bloke’s belly an’ int’ the beach ‘neath ‘im.

“When I gots to ‘er side, she was all fired up an’ told me t’ run without offerin’ so much as a ‘ello. So, I ran, followin’ Miss Cole, an’ eventually Cracker ‘ere caught up wit’ us. Tha’s when Miss Cole ordered us back t’ the Dog.”

Anne sinks back into her large armchair and eyes the damaged man with a calculating eye for a full two minutes of silence during which time a small twitch develops under her right eye. Clenching her jaw, she pushes away from her desk and rises, pulling her hair back from her shoulders as she rounds the desk.

“Where is she?” she asks simply though there’s a tremor to her voice. Tying her hair back with a bit of black cloth, she looks back on the two men. “Where’s my sister now?”

(OOC: Assuming a blank look or a denial of knowledge&hellip

“Find her,” Anne growls. “Bring her t’ me.”

(OOC: Time is about 3:12 PM)

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Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), Docks, 2:15 P.M.

With her dreams of finding a suitable disguise dashed, Maggie races past the ladies in the back and bursts out the door like a force of nature. Beneath the awning, she pauses in the shade to get her bearings. The sea calls to her, sending her its beloved scent on the breeze. Taking another precious moment, she secures her weapons before taking off to her left, towards the safety of the sea. With her booted feet rapidly pounding the ground, she pushes herself farther, faster, almost flying.

She knows people will turn and stare, that some will whisper and point. She doesn't care. She just wants the ship back beneath her feet, wants to just put some distance between her and any who might be pursuing her, and with it perspective, and move on. And deal with whatever her sister has in store for her.

While she runs, she works out what exactly went down and the many ways this may have an effect on the upcoming work they hope to find here, and the ways in which it might actually help them. And wouldn't that just be an unintended bonus if it turns out to be the case?

Ahead, she can see the masts and tied off sails of the ships in port, and a heavy weight lifts from her chest. Something inside her relaxes, just a little, and she scans the horizon as she races towards them, looking for her ship, her home, her world. She can't wait to throw herself down onto her bunk and decompress after this mess, and heaven help anyone who might stand in the way of that. But she knows it won’t be that easy, and she knows she won't get that chance for a while.

It's not till she's in sight of the longboat that she feels truly back in control of herself. She’s confident that once aboard, the uncertainty and fear she feels will vanish. With barely a glance around the beach, she breaks from the backstreet path she’s been traversing and immediately slows her gait from the sprint to a fast stride, leaving those around her to bear witness to the walking maelstrom that is Maggie Cole.

Tom Harris is the sailor manning the oars at this time of day and he looks up from the shell he’s inspecting with a bit of surprise when she calls to him to get the boat in the water. Scrambling to obey the fiery redhead, Harris drops the iridescent conch into the lapping waves and turns to heave the launch from its rest in the sands. Maggie is quick to set her right hip to the starboard edge of the boat and roll her toned body up and into the lurching longboat where she plants herself on the foremost bench and pulls her coat up about her shoulders. Only when Tom turns the boat with the oars so that her back is towards the Dog and her eyes are able to easily scour the beach does she see the patrols she’s just missed stopping women and pulling them up to inspect.

“Enjoy yer time ashore, Miss Cole?” Seamus smiles.

(OOC: Maggie’s reply, as it is&hellip

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.

(OOC: The timestamp here places Maggie right between when Shark Tooth returns to the boat and Cracker’s return. So, I just had Maggie head for her cabin as you’ve already indicated her desire to go there.)

(OOC: Time is roughly 2:45 PM)

Perhaps I'm not understanding...

Who are you and what did you do with Roger? 5E?! Really?

It appears as though I have player posts in full so I'll work on getting a continuation in place pronto. 

FYI - Merideth has expressed an interest in taking on the role of the doc, Ebenezer. I'll be working on that character sheet and she'll be joining us once I've completed it.

Will they be all holy-fied?

Ding! Ding! Ding! We have a winner, winner, chicken dinner! You determined the correct skill, Tann. Persuasion & Fast-Talk is what Casino would use unless he's attempting to seduce the kid... ew. And it doesn't appear that you removed the skill from your sheet on Roll20, so go ahead and roll.

I'm looking forward to everyone else's posts. Thank you to those of you who have already regaled us with your stories!

I'm afraid not, Tann. Different skill points. 

We are pleased to announce that the webcomic is returning to the Inn!

Just see the latest comic to confirm for yourself.

With everyone involved, I vote we just post out the conversation.

I've continued the conversation and brought it to the kitchen table to involve everyone else.

Excellent post, Eol and Nomad. As usual. Do I see others on the horizon?

And I have replied, good sir.

How about all y'all? The rest of you getting posts together?

The pilot glances sideways as the Captain flops himself into the co-pilot’s seat and, as the man tends to do when he is pondering a weighty matter, plucks off his hat and starts turning it round and round in his hands. Dash doesn’t say anything right away, though; just keeps himself immersed in his calculating until…

“You got any concept as to how we get one Petrie, Mr. Reverend’s son, on board ‘fore we burn atmo,” Wyatt queries wearily from across the bridge, “an’ avoid havin’ Patience hire every bounty hunter this side of Reaver Space to hunt our sorry skins down an’ relieve us of ‘em?”

At this, Sam abandons his figuring for a moment and, reclining in his seat a bit, scratches at his head and puts some thought to this new equation Wyatt has placed before him. “Petrie, huh,” he murmurs, “Him bein’ th’ one as knocked up tha’ li’l Chloe girl we got stashed away in th’ infirmary?”

“That’s the one.”

“Guay, Cap,” Dash sighs, “in the time we got left ‘fore we’re set to dust off this rock, I dunno. Don’t leave a whole ruttin’ lot o’ time ta conjure up no elaborate schemes, get me?” He chuckles a little, leans back a might further in his chair and scratches again at the whiskers that bristle out from his jaw. “I conjure we could kill ‘im…”

Wyatt tilts his head ever so slightly to the side like an inquisitive dog and raises his eyebrows at his friend.

Sam grins at Wyatt’s reaction and throws his hands up in mock-defense, “You asked th’ question, Wyungsung. I’m jus’ spittin’ back th’ answer. Gettin’ my own self kilt worked fer me fer many a year, right?” He shrugs, then, and turning in his seat to more fully face Wyatt, laces his fingers behind his head and ponders further; “O’course killin’ m’self took weeks o’ plannin’ an’ an assist from Tink on th’ back end an’, as I done said, we got jus’ a sniff more’n twelve hours ‘fore we burn atmo… We kill this Petrie kid an’ we gotta do it quick an’ ugly…

“I din’t figger we was et ta turn this run inta no honeymoon cruise, Cap,” Dash smirks, “buuuut, ya want I should send a wave ta Neverland an’ see if we can get some fairies ta work some o’ that tian-ling-ling, di-ling-ling? ‘Bout th’ best I c’n come up wit’ given our schedule, get me?”

“Naw,” Wyatt tosses his hat on the console and stares at it with a slight frown on his face. “I ain’t promised nothin’ t’ Chloe ‘cept we ain’t bringing her beau along on this cruise. The more I percolate on the matter, though, the more I think ‘bout… well, the more prone I am t’ consider, ya know?

“Now, this killin’ idea holds more merit than originally struck me, Puhn yo.” Turning back to the wirey pilot, Sung considers the concept for a couple of seconds in silence. “Quick an’ dirty might jus’ be the best path. There’d need t’ be proof he’s dead an’ our best bet would be t’ put the blame where it best helps these poor folk under that pofù of a woman gov’nuh’s thumb.”

This might take more knowledge of the politics of the region and Wyatt isn’t sure he wants to involve anyone outside of his crew. He doesn’t trust easy and though he’s been treated well by a few planetside, he is still loathe to extend himself. Then there’s the theater behind what Sam has proposed. Can Stephanie create a blood pack and with Wolf’s help rig it to explode by remote in a real enough way to be convincing? Then what? Someone has to be witness to the whole performance… someone who can also account for why there’s no body. And why is that? What could possibly cause the body to vanish?

“Maybe yer too right this time, Sam,” the captain shakes his head and then turns his attention to the bridge doorway and what lays beyond. “In order t’ pull this off we’d need t’ make damn sure people think he’s dead and gone while not leavin’ a body fer burying.”

Drawing in a deep breath, Wyatt stands and scoops up his headwear, “Let’s run the concept by the rest o’ the crew at breakfast an’ see if’n any o’ the others ‘ave themselves a better go of conjurin’ up something magical.”

Once their conversation finalizes, Wyatt makes his way back down the stairs from the bridge, down the main hall, and back into the galley where he joins Ma in finishing up the breakfast prep. He works in silence while still pondering the prospect of killing off Petrie Tubbs for the sake of a young pregnant girl’s love of the man and his misplaced guilt over his own wife’s and child’s murders. Noticing that the table is set and food is all but placed, he snatches up the intercom mic and informs the crew that the meal is ready.

“Mornin’, folks,” Sam almost sing-songs as he steps into Roc’s gathering room, “Hope ya’l’s night was’s good as mine!” Grinning like a fool and absently humming under his breath again, Sam makes a beeline for the galley and, after planting a kiss on Ma’s cheek, helps himself to a large cup of the freshly brewed coffee before taking his usual seat at the table. “I got me some, last night,” he grins at the faces around the table following a long, satisfied pull from his mug, “How’d ya’ll do?”

Wyatt takes up his chipped ceramic mug and sips at his own black brew while surveying those present and observing their various reactions. He doesn’t engage. Sam already knows what’s on his mind.

The pilot chuckles, softly and fondly, recalling the hours he spent with Misty. Then, his gaze skinning faces, again, he asks; “So, we gonna talk ‘bout this job, now, er we gonna get chores an’ s#!t outta th’ way first?” Not waiting for an immediate answer, his eyes fix on Wyatt; “Cap, I got some plans an’ back-up plans laid out on m’ console if’n ya wanna take a gander…”

“I ‘ppreciate it, Sam,” Sung acknowledges and shifts in his chair at the head of the table as he gently sets his mug down. “First, I’m playin’ with an idea that could use y’all’s input. I already ran this past the Gentleman Dash, here, so he’s got a leg up on the rest o’ ya as far as thinkin’ on it, but the more minds we put to it, the more likely we’ll come to a good conclusion. So, here it is…

“Young Miss Chloe has revealed who her child’s father is,” Wyatt meets each of those who are present’s eye as he continues. “She’d like fer him t’ join her on this new leg o’ her life an’ be the father to her child, but it ain’t as easy as us jus’ takin’ on another passenger. Her beau is a rather prominent figure on Whitefall. It jus’ so happens that he’s the preacher’s son, Petrie Tubbs.

“From what I gather, Petrie’s father, Reverend Tubbs, is in tight with Patience. So, we go cartin’ off the Reverend’s son and we’re likely drawing attention from one of the Rim’s most prominent warlords makin’ our lives difficult an’ dangerous. ‘Course, this could also help us with that black cloud hangin’ o’er our heads since the gorram Lián méng started bein’ all friendly-like with us. Puts us back on the side o’ things where we make our bread an’ butter… kinda.

“Anyway, Sam suggested we kill the poor kid an’ while I was mildly amused with the idea at first the more I pondered, the more I think his idea has mettle. The problems, as I sees it, is that we got less than half a day t’ make it happen, we gotta convince folks hereabouts that Petrie is, in fact, dead, an’ we gotta do so in a way that leaves no body t’ inspect. And, it’d be a bonus if we could conjure up a way t’ put the blame on someone else that’d help those like Eagle Eye in their politics with Patience.”

Leveling his gaze directly at each of his crew—his family—Wyatt asks, “Ideas?”

Sorry, Keeper. Everyone is so far behind Goncalvo that I need to get them all caught up.

Everyone else, I've updated the game to a point where your input is needed. Also, Lady Dark, Maggie is being awarded a Knowledge Point (KP) in Intimidate, which is a skill she does not yet have. So she'll need to keep attempting to intimidate people to keep building on that skill in order to get a full Skill Point. I've also awarded her with a KP in Streetwise. Those exploding 10's when rolling for ideas of what she'll encounter in any particular direction pay off.

Looking forward to your posts!

Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), roughly 7:23 P.M.; The Sun Dog

Since Goncalvo is the furthest ahead on the timeline, we’ll try to get everyone else caught up pronto.

(OOC: Time is roughly 7:23 PM)

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Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), roughly 12:23 P.M.; The Rub of Del Monte

He washes the grin away with another tip of mug to lips and, wiping his mouth on his sleeve before setting the cup back down on the table, he offers the dandy a curt nod. “Well then,” he rasps, rising from his seat now, “bein’ as tha’s th’ case, I reckon I’d best set ta work, aye?

“Ye’ll be hearin’ from me soon enough, Mester Oken,” the Sun Dog’s quartermaster promises, “an’ I’ll have yer thief in tow…”  As Fin hasn’t seen Oken so much as smell the first mug of rum he’d poured, the pirate casually lifts the bottle of rum from the table and takes a quick pull directly from the thing’s neck. “Apologies in advance if’n I should have ta kill any o’ yer other crews,” he chuffs, turning for the door now, bottle still in hand, “Tha’s th’ price o’ business like this, savvy?”

“Either that, Mr. Crowe, or you’ll not find this port so friendly as you have,” Elias Oken calls after him as the quartermaster parts.

Stepping back onto the street, Fin is slapped by the heat of the midday sun. Something nearby smells of manure and the flies have really set into their annoying dance. Crows and smaller birds hop about on nearly everything looking for some morsel to steal while chickens, dogs, and cats scurry about underfoot. People about their daily routines add to the commotion on the street and the stench in the air, but those close enough to him to, perhaps, engage (even accidentally), drawback. Others on the street who aren’t privy to what went down within the Rub of Del Monte pay him no mind.

Meandering back towards the beach, Fin keeps a close eye on his surroundings while occasionally taking a pull off of the rum. The harsh liquor stimulates his body with shivers and warm that threatens to overheat the man while at the same time, it soothes his nerves. In his wandering, he spots a couple of the others from the Dog and nods as they call out to him, but he doesn’t join them. He’s got business to attend to, after all.

Arriving at the beach, Fin’s narrowed blue eyes dart along the shoreline for signs of the Dog’s boat, eventually falling on it and a sailor near some of the fishermen who had just come back from their morning haul. Trudging through the shifting sands, the athletic quartermaster makes short work of the distance between them.

“Ahoy, sir!” Cyril Daumier calls out as he catches sight of his quartermaster. Springing to his feet from where he was sitting on the bow of the launch, the large-nosed fellow turns and positions himself to push the craft from the beach.

(OOC: Room for whatever interaction Fin wishes to have.)

The sea is calmer this time of day, but calmer doesn’t mean calm. Fighting the waves, the two sailors eventually roll themselves into the launch, their footwear and most of their clothing soaked through. With seawater and a small amount of seaweed floating in the bottom of the launch, Cyril begins to pull on the oars.

“Please tell me tha’ the ladies are delectable an’ the ale flows freely,” the Frenchman calls over his shoulder to Fin.

(OOC: Fin’s reply&hellip

“Bless me an’ God forgive,” Daumier laughs and shakes his head. “Canna wait too much longer t’ wet my whistles.”

Ten minutes later and the launch is bumping up against the Dog’s hull near the rope ladder. Cyril nods the ship’s officer away and then calls up, “Any others goin’ ashore?”

Chimwemwe’s bald head peers over the rail to the right side of the rope ladder Fin is ascending. “No,” the African says simply and vanishes from sight once more.

An unladen Fin Crowe crests his ascent with athletic ease and rolls over the weathered banister to plant his booted feet firmly on the main deck. Chimwemwe greets him with a nod before returning to the rope repair work he’s focusing on. Salazar and Blaize Campbell are just emerging from below deck with Campell’s tools and a bunch of wood. Aside from these, there are few sailors in view. About to continue forward towards the Captain’s cabin, Fin is drawn up when Anne flushes herself outside.

Resplendent in her white blouse, baggy gray cotton trousers and thigh-high boots, Anne Cole has her hair pulled up beneath a red cloth, her saber at her side, and a brace of two flintlocks across her bosom secure in a black leather baldric. Squinting her lovely eyes, she scans the deck from left to right before spotting her quartermaster.

“I weren’t expectin’ you ‘til after dark, Mr. Crowe,” she states before thinning her lips and standing firmly with her feet a shoulder-width apart, hands on her hips. “Whate’er you’ve experienced ashore is likely t’ be a tale judgin’ from the blood you’re wearin’.”

(OOC: Time is roughly 1:15 PM.)

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Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), Docks, 3:03 P.M.

William Wiley looks around the deck of the Dog and doesn't see the captain. He really doesn't want to track her down. Somehow, searching for a woman famed for her temper when her sister is in trouble with the law does not sound like fun. But delaying talking to her under the circumstances might have even worse repercussions. Between a rock and a hard place—hopefully would leave Cracker more than just crumbs.  

His first move is to find Sharky, which he does below deck. The bruised and battered gunner is breathing heavily through his swollen lips and stowing his weapons. Pulling him aside, Cracker whispers, "Does the captain know what happened with the first mate? Have you told the captain where you last saw her?"  

“You foolin’, sir?” Shark’s Tooth opens his one eye wide, a feat in and of itself since it, too, is swollen from his earlier brawl. “No’ my place, to be sure. I’m afraid tha’ honor falls on yer shoulders, Boatswain. I’m jus’ a lowly gunner, after all.” Scratching with thick fingers at his scruffy chin, Sharky tilts his head to the side and sniffs. “‘Course, you could always wait ‘til, Hellfire Maggie tells her herself.”

(OOC: Time is about 3:06 PM)

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Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), Docks, 2:14 P.M.

"Now give me a damned dress, you rotten old man, so we can both be about our important business."

Raising his eyebrows, the old man produces his cutting knife. “Now, girly, you can’t be serious.”

One would think, given the severity of the situation, this would not be a prudent time for laughter, but the sight of the old man before her, his dark skin creased and wrinkled with many a year, induces laughter that begins as a snort, melts into a chuckle, and then evolves into a hearty guffaw.

"Aye, but I ain’t the one standin’ here brandishin’ a toothpick, aint I, ye spiteful ol bastard. You think spillin me blood wi' that—" and again, she can't help it; the absurdity of it all has caught up to her by now, "—is gonna please yer own master any? Because I'll be sure to bleed all over as many o’ these fine rags as I can afore the beatin' o’ me blackened little heart stops."

She doesn't have long. The longer she waits—the longer she delays and plays these games—the longer it will take her to get back to the Dog—Back to safety. Although, she's fairly certain if Sharky and Cracker have made it back to the ship already, her sister might have worse things in store for her then any law here.

A dullard could have responded quicker than the old man, but respond he does… eventually. Slowly replacing his cutting knife in his apron pocket, he steps to the side and a little behind one of the tables bearing the store’s wares. “I’ll no’ stop ya, but I’ll no’ lie fer ya none neither. My skin ain’t fer sale fer yer freedom.”

Seething, she takes a step back and lowers the blade a little—enough that she'll run him through if he advances, or take off his wrist if he's intent on using that sad little blade—and sighs. For a moment, she steals a quick glance towards the back of the room, and narrows her eyes.

"you and I be headed fer a reconking, ye mean old s***e. Be sure o' that. But not today." And with that she leaps forward and sprints past the tailor’s assistant and into the back room.

Hovering near the furthest wall to her left is a pair of black women, one older and one younger, huddling against each other near a table filled with various colored threads. The back door to the shop is to the far right, however, and it is to and through this exit that the fiery first mate bolts.

Sunlight is not her immediate companion as there’s an awning’s shadow she must break free from first. With sunlight stinging her thinned eyes, Maggie visually swallows her new surroundings with a desperate hunger.

The backstreet is much thinner than the main street she had been on shortly before. A thin wagon could fit down it going one direction but no one would be able to pass the other way and would be forced to step right up against the buildings to avoid being dragged under the wheels. Tall and cradling, the buildings on either side rise up into the blue of the Caribbean sky as two to three story wood structures painted mostly white and accented by turquoise, sky blue, red, green, and brown. Other alleys cut into the facade without any care for how it breaks up the patterning of the structural faces but on the street she has now found herself there are precious few people in her immediate vicinity and, for that matter, nearly as far as the eye can see to the right and left.

Almost instinctively, Maggie can tell that the ocean is off to her left, the right should take her deeper into the city, and any of those small alleyways will likely take her to less prosperous parts of town.

(OOC: Time is roughly 2:16 PM)

You done good. 

I've posted as well. So, game on!

I'm awarding Espatier 1 IP in Persuasion & Fast-Talk for the Persuasion & Fast-Talk performance.

West Park Mallplex | Night City haveegrate | Midcity | UrbanZone - March 8th, Day 2 (Saturday), 6:11 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)

“Done your research, Doctor Carey?” Vegas casually accuses.

Phil’s expression turns sharp for the first time since the group entered his apartment. “I teach corporate law, sir. A knowledge of kidnapping insurance and negotiation agency options is required.”

Fixer listens as the group converses with their armed host. He is glad to see that at least one other in their numbers has picked up on the kindness bit. Being a jerk usually doesn’t pay—Well, sometimes it does, but not often, and likely not with someone like this. 

But he isn’t the group’s mouthpiece, so he stays in the back and continues to look around the room while listening to the conversation. Corporate law? That was an interesting bit. It doesn’t likely mean much, but it might mean the guy knows some interesting things. He looks to see if there is a good way to get a glimpse behind the curtain into the room the "queen" has gone into, but he doesn’t want to push his luck.

“Of course you would know that, sir,” Echo says gently to the now annoyed man hoping to calm him back down. “That’s been a well-known fact for hundreds of years and anyone with a minimum of intelligence would know,” she says with a glare at the crooner. “Please forgive our gruff ways, we are all genuinely concerned for Jace’s welfare, and have found very few leads. If there is anything you remember, no matter how insignificant you may think it is, please tell us so we have that better chance of finding him alive.”

Echo finishes with what she hopes is a warm smile and not the anxious terror she feels in her gut from speaking in front of a group. Shoving her hands in her pockets to hide how badly they are shaking, she swallows; never one for public speaking as it usually makes her feel nauseous and dizzy, she couldn’t let Vegas’ accusation stand. It just isn’t right. She is able to keep eye contact with Dr. Carey, trying to give him even more reason to at least trust her, and waits for his answer, if he has one.

“Hey,” the dapper solo spreads his arms and cocks his head to one side while affecting that famous smile. “I get that there’s reason to take some offense at what I just said, Doc,” folding his arms, Vegas’ countenance changes as his face becomes stern, “thing is, there’s a life at stake here and pussy-footin’ around isn’t going to get us nowhere. I’m still not sure you didn’t have something to do with Jace’s disappearance—” holding up a hand to forestall any objections, he continues. “A search of your domicile would help settle my mind, though.”

“And I suppose I’m supposed to trust you lot explicitly?” Dr. Carey affects a thoughtful frown.

“It’s like she said,” Bloodbank chimes in, giving a nod to the nomad, “anything you can give us to help…”

“He’s right,” Phil awards Vegas with an ungracious nod. “There’s little time to waste and allowing myself to take offense at the urgency of your treatment of me in my own home isn’t going to assist in Jace’s safe return. So I will do as the… um, young lady… suggests and ply my memory to see if anything useful presents itself. Meanwhile, you can feel free to walk about. I’ve nothing to hide. The only thing I do ask is that you not bother my wife.”

“That’s all I was sayin’,” the crooner explains before turning and nodding to the others. “We won’t disturb a thing, Doc.”

Finally releasing the handgun, Phil Carey seats himself in such a way as to allow his knees to act as a rest for his elbows. Tapping his thin bottom lip with his finger he stares over Vegas’ head at the strange piece of art in the corner.

(OOC: You can walk around and look things over, but if you’re thinking of trying to get into the computer or if you go into the bedroom, you’ll draw Phil’s attention and there will be interaction.)

“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 takingen 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.”

(OOC: Time is 6:30 PM PST)

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Wolf Point Plaza | Night City Integrate | Midcity | UrbanZone - March 8th, Day 2 (Saturday), 5:58 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)

Cursing his luck, Ghlahn stares at the unmoving door. He is a man of many skills but bypassing security is not one of his best. Sometimes the best option, when faced with an obstacle, is to simply avoid it. Ghlahn picks up his things and moves a few doors down to the temp agency.  Should be a little easier to get into a temp agency. Nothing worth stealing in there so they should have minimal security.  

Dynamicworks Temp Agency is located in a typical office prefab cube with slate gray light-weight cement walls housing electronics that project ever-changing broadcasts of available legitimate work positions ranging from temporary to potential for hire jobs in an array of glassy-looking lights adorned by colorful company logos and always the words See Inside flashing or pulsing below the title. The entrance to this location is barely inset from the hall and as the wiry man approaches a flat ray of greenish light flickers to life and begins to scan him from head to toe.

Ghlahn has seen these scanners before and doesn’t worry about it. Designed to do nothing more than taking a cursory exterior reading, the limited AI interpreting the information the scan gleans makes a decision about potential employment opportunities. The Cee-Metal enclaves have a similar body shell scanner to determine how a member might best assist with enclave work for the day.

Stepping forward, he checks the door to the agency and hopes for an easier time. It’s locked, but the lock is primitive and standard. A key lock with tumblers set into the aluminum frame of the L-shaped handle.

Looking to the right and left once more, the red-headed solo squints through his combat mask’s goggles and takes a moment to determine whether any of the sleeping and bundled forms are taking an interest in him. Seeing none, he frees his wrist from obstructions once more and sets about working at the lock with his insectoid pick kit. Two minutes into the work and he’s frustrated.

Allowing the arms of the kit to retract into his bodyshell, Alex tugs the sleeve of his jacket back into place and swings his smartbag around to dig into the main compartment once more. Retrieving his torch, he sets his jaw and begins cutting away at the lock. Thirty seconds later and the locking mechanism falls away as molten slag. Returning the torch to the bag, the masked redhead grips the handle, pauses, and inspects the area surrounding the frame for any sign of additional security. Another thirty and he’s assumed an all clear due to a complete lack of any visible wires, laser sensors, or other paraphernalia.

Pulling the door open, Ghlahn takes a breath and steps through. Open space has been sectioned off with tan and brown cubicles masted by a receptionist’s desk. Obviously, profitability isn’t something this business struggles with. They don’t even have a holo-sec—a holographic secretary service—to greet people who approach the desk. Artificial green eyes lift to take in the back wall where a bank of offices are divided by two hallways leading deeper into the prefab cube.

Were this business showing more signs of technological advancements, M’haru Ghlahn might be concerned about a construct lying in wait. That kind of financial commitment to protecting assets is the realm of much more profitable business.

Striding through the sardine can of stations, the team sniper accesses the random choice algorithm in his body shell and comes up with the left hall. Darker for the lack of the large windows looking out of the face of the building, the hall is tight due to architect programs packing as much into the space as they can. Every five paces or so, two doors flank him barring access to additional offices. These are not the goal, however. Colliding with the corridor at the end is a cross hall. And again, the random algorithm determines that he continue on to the left. Left towards another hall breaking to the right before running the sniper into a conference room.

Taking the right, he sees his end goal, a larger office with a window overlooking the circle and the mallplex beyond. This office space is also locked requiring a repeat performance with the torch opens the room to him and within a couple of breaths he is setting his smart bag on the desk and looking out through the rain pelted panes at the building containing the advance portion of his team. Panes of glass that do not open.

(OOC: Time is 6:07 PM PST)

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Tranquil Grotto | Night City Integrate | Midcity | UrbanZone - March 8th, Day 2 (Saturday), 5:54 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 he finally reaches his first destination, Windy Grounds West Park, Casino finds himself facing a flat stainless steel door without a handle, but wide enough to allow for two people to easily pass each other as they walk through in opposite directions; the door is a barricade that requires a keypass to pass through. The keypass box sits to the right and unlike those keypasses that require the card to be inserted or swiped, this has a little laser that reads the cards through a Plastek case protecting it from tampering. Glancing overhead in frustration, Casino watches the words, Windy Grounds Park get blown away by a wind animation only to “grow” back into place from the nothingness below the holographic display to be blown away again moments later.

Cursing under his breath that the chances are quite good the other parks offered their tenants the same level of protection, the big solo takes a step back. All he can really do is continue to try and find a good spot to use to cover his assigned exits. Laughter, raucous, boisterous declarations using street lingo, and music invades the hall to his right quite suddenly. Liquid steel courses through his veins, but the idea of tangling with a boostergang isn’t thrilling. Moving down the hall to the left, he proceeds to check the rest of the circle-facing prefabs, Aprico Co. Apartment Complex is old school secure with an iron gate that looks like it was installed after the building security failed. Behind the gate is an alcove approximately five meters deep with what appears to be storage lockers on either side and a green door with a large steel plate behind the doorknob offering additional security against someone wanting to kick it in.

Passing by the gate, Casino proceeds on to Whitewater Estate. Security on this private residence is higher—not the high level stuff one finds in the High City, but definitely better than at Aprico Co. Apartment Complex. Still, it’s beyond his skillset so he continues on. Meanwhile, the sounds he is hoping he had left behind aren’t growing dimmer. Those responsible seem to be matching the distance between them while moving down the hall in the same direction he is.

Whitewater Private Park appears to be attached to the Whitewater Estate. Not something he’ll likely be able to gain access to and Tranquil Grotto Elementary... the thought of firing from the elementary school brought to mind images of the senseless school shootings that regularly pop up on the news. He does not want to be involved in anything close to that and will only use the school grounds as a last resort on this floor.

Time is of the essence and the fifth floor is turning out to be a bust. Deciding to head up to the sixth floor with the hope for better luck, the large man turns to make his way back to the elevators right when a person steps into view from further back down the hall towards the noise.

“Holy s***!” 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. “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?”

(OOC: Time is 6:10 PM PST)

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Infinity Towers | Night City Integrate | Midcity | UrbanZone - March 8th, Day 2 (Saturday), 5:57 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)

Charlie holds his agent up to within a few inches of the receiving agent and commands the device to share his contact info.

“ I want return the favor, okay?” Dipping his head and looking through the thin drizzle of dirty rain water pouring from the brim of his hat, the fixer quickly negotiates the price of entrance down another twenty-five percent. Once the transaction is completed he offers up his future assistance once more. “I meant it. Need anything in the future, just let me know.”

“Seriously? Maybe I will,” the guard replies as he holds his agent up to receive the data. “You shouldn’t get bothered by anyone, but if you do, you’re a guest of Ms. Holst. She’s practically senile and wouldn’t remember if you were her son.”

“ Thanks.”

Pressing a digital button on his flat screen panel opens the doors for the Native American fixer. “Remember, choomba, this access will allow you into the building and when you get to the West Beach Garden on the third floor I’ll buzz you through.”

“Good luck, Bakuto.” TechHair swirling in purple waves, the Asian returns his attention to his agent and Charlie shrugs off the clinging weather to step through the open portal.

A hold holdout of better times, the Infinity Towers is easily one of the higher-end buildings in this area of Night City. The lobby is more of an atrium with floating holographic plantlife overhead and designer-looking couches, chairs, and coffee tables arranged about pillars of smooth black marble with white and green veins. The lighting is more old-world chandelier style than modern display, though the LED energy-saving bulbs are certainly being used sharing a brighter, white light with the occupants. And occupants there are. A few of the people milling about in the lobby glance up as Cred Stick Charlie enters, but no one appears concerned and most, if not all, are confident in their security and feel that anyone let in is of no threat.

Infinity Towers ownership must be trying to sell a lifestyle because there are actual human servers in uniforms mingling with the residents. The lobby is obviously intended as a social gathering place and as the fixer moseys through the maze of furniture and pillars, he finally catches sight of elevators embedded into the black marble tile walls of the room’s interior and makes his way right over to them. Approaching the lift’s jade plated doors, Luther takes in the Latino woman in a black business suit standing by the control panel wearing a digital name tag displaying her profile from the shoulders up, slowly rotating on a central axis and sharing her name as Sofía Carita, Hostess. Rotund and a bit puggish, the woman politely smiles as he arrives.

“Going up, sir?” she asks with a slight accent.

(OOC: Assuming a positive response.)

With a nod, Ms. Carita turns and pushes the button that Charlie could have pushed himself. “Are you enjoying your day, sir?”

(OOC: Response.)

Waiting on the elevator affords the pair some small talk. Sofía is very adept at drawing out just enough to keep the conversation flowing while not even scratching the surface of the participant’s private life. By the time the lift’s arrival is announced by a soft female voice saying, “Main Floor,” Cred Stick Charlie doesn’t know a thing about Ms. Carita and she doesn’t know a thing about him, but they haven’t had a moment of silence between them.

Stepping into the elevator, Luther is greeted by an average-looking woman in a similar black pantsuit with another digital name tag presenting her name as Premwadee Chuan. “Good evening, sir,” she chirps in a high voice. “What floor please?”

(OOC: Assuming the number three is thrown around.)

“Right away, sir,” Premwadee cheerily declares and calmly presses the large, green three on the touch panel. Unlike Sofía, Premwadee does not engage in conversation. She doesn’t even attempt to and the elevator compartment is filled with the odor of Cred Stick Charlie’s wet clothing and Premwadee’s flowery perfume accompanied by the dulcet sounds of a violinist with piano and electric guitar streaming from the hidden speakers.

Charlie finds himself on the third floor shortly thereafter. The elevator lobby is similar to the main floor lobby except for one minor detail; a damaged portion of the wall is being repaired by builder-nanos. Glancing at the holographic display of the floorplan, the well-dressed fixer quickly determines where he needs to go and proceeds there in short order. There are few people who pass him in the hall and those who do pay him no mind. They are secure in their little world within the Infinity Tower and most pay no mind to each other so how are they to know if he’s a resident or visitor. Either way, it’s none of their concern and they move on.

West Beach Garden is accessed through a long set of glass doors that Charlie can easily assume is bullet proof. True to his word, Si Jun-Yeong admits the fixer and Cred Stick Charlie’s ears are almost immediately buffeted by the sounds of birds chirping, his skin is kissed by a pleasant warm breeze, and the light overhead bathes him in simulated sunlight. Carefully manicured grass grows on either side of a pink cement path imprinted to look like stone. Park benches are placed every so often and as the fixer looks over the lay of the land, he’s impressed by how many people are actually in the park.

Beyond the grass are groomed trees with large shade footprints. The winding paths lead up to the treeline and through them towards the street outside of the building. Charlie can even catch glimpses of the mallplex through the trees. Again, he’s practically ignored as he progresses through the trees and emerges on the other side to a stretch of sandy beach and a man-made lagoon. People lounge about in swimwear and children play in the water here, but it isn’t the bikinis and skin that the fixer is interested in and he continues to look ahead, following the beach to the sandy path on the left that leads to the wide boardwalk and the open air of the city beyond.

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.

(OOC: Time is 6:08 PM PST)

Gnarly!

 it.

I don't think we have. He's likely just a little busy right now.

I threw you a bone, Eol.