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You are here: Home --> Forum Home --> Recent posts by Bromern Sal
Topic: Bring Me That Horizon Q&A
Subject: I apologize that it took so long to post!


With everyone split up like they are and my penchant for long-windedness, it took quite a while to write the post. Enjoy, and here's to the next set of player posts!

Posted on 2017-07-27 at 18:00:58.

Topic: Bring Me That Horizon
Subject: Progress...


Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), roughly 10:35 A.M.; The Le Porc Fattest Tavern

"New here, eh?" the chubby man says after eyeing the Portuguese sailor up and down. "I wasn't aware any trade was due this day. Please, be seated." He points to the remaining chair at the table between the other two and continues. "I am Captain Thomas Levy of the Azure Seas. This is my sailmaster," he motions to the wiry fellow,"Mr. Olsen, and this is my quartermaster, Mr. Fernandez. We thank ye kindly for the libations, Mr,?"

Goncalvo takes the offered seat. "My name is difficult to pronounce for most not of Portuguese blood. Call me Mr Jonnie for ease sake, it is what most end up calling me anyway." Motioning for the bar wench, "A round of ale for my new friends and another of the same as I had before for me.

"As for arriving cargo, we made an unscheduled stop to repair some damage and replace a few lost souls. Ran into a bit of nasty weather. It is up to the captain to choose whether to unload here or maintain our cargo for another port. I just take the ship where told."

This elicits a knowing chuckle from Mr. Fernandez and a smile from the other two while having the necessary effect that the Portuguese sailmaster is looking for and breaking the ice a bit more. Conversation is guarded, but friendly enough. Beginning with simple talk about the local weather patterns this time of year to which Fernandez has a great deal to expound upon. Occasionally, Olsen chimes in with a wry comment about how certain conditions make the transport of sugar more difficult than others, or the risks of losing cargo to flooding in heavier storms. There's even the story of a ship that was lost in the recent Spring gales somewhere north of Bahie du Mole with no survivors. One hundred and thirty men lost their lives during that storm and the local cane farmers lost hundreds in profits as well as a good fifty slaves. The captain is grim as he retells the tale like he had been there, which, of course, was impossible. The three appear to be ready to relax and willingly accept the drinks Goncalvo plies them with (OOC: Watch your coin. You'll need to let me know how much of it you're willing to spend. You can purchase enough ale for one person to get drunk on by spending 1 penny. I've posted a breakdown of currency on the 1st post of the QA thread) but they also do not seem to be in any kind of hurry. This may take a while.

After a time, the Dog's sailmaster presses for the information he's seeking. "From what you mentioned about knowing the arrival of cargo, I infer that you are men who know things. Always good to meet someone with an eye towards business.

"Soon as repairs are done we head toward the American coast. I cannot say I have been there before so I am not familiar with the wind patterns or the safest routes. I'd hate to be stuck with my sails hanging limper than a eunuchs peter. And, it would be a shame to run into any trouble on the way, especially any trouble that brings its own ship."

Captain Levy settles back in his chair and smiles softly at his battered clay mug as he turns it slowly about with two fingers at the base. "Winds be as they are about channels and shorelines. Currents too. Ships, now, ships are another tale to be told, Mr. Johnny." He raises his eyes and Goncalvo can sense mistrust in that hooded gaze. A quick glance towards Fernandez and Olsen reveal that they've fallen mysteriously thoughtful and contemplative, the skinnier of the two wearing a deep frown to boot.

"No captain in his right min' would talk ‘bout courses with any other than his own sailmaster an' navigator. So, beggin' yer pardon but I'll politely ask tha' we change the subject."

(OOC: Time is roughly 11:35 AM.)

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

Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), roughly 10:45 A.M.; The Wharf

"Th' more things change," Fin rumbles, nudging Cracker with an elbow and nodding towards the wharf. "Best place ta start huntin' prey, Cracker," he continues as he takes his first steps in the direction of the quay, "is ta check th' places where it eats an' s**ts," Without another word, Crowe strides for the wharf, pausing only once, and, then, just long enough to pull a smoldering twig from the remains of some salt's campfire and use the thing to finally light the cigarillo he's been chewing.

Cracker says nothing in response and wanders with Fin along the docks, keeping his eyes open to try and identify any cargo being unloaded or, more significantly, loaded onto a vessel. There are ships of all sorts, perhaps numbering in the ten to twelve at anchor, and Tortuga proves an interesting port as the pair moves along.

Once quayside, Fin mounts the salt and sea stained docks and moves through the throng of folk milling about the crates and cargo that are stacked and scattered along the planks of the piers. As he walks, he smokes and surveys the array of shipments along with the faces of the people he passes. At the end of one long dock, Crowe catches sight of a bedraggled wharf-hand whom, it appears, has taken a moment from his task of stacking piles of provisions in order to prop himself against a cluster of rum barrels and enjoy a puff or two from his pipe. A long draw on his own cigarillo and a few steps brings Fin alongside the barrel stack where the wharf-hand stands puffing on the pipe and staring wearily out over the harbor. Fin leans casually against a barrel and, for a long moment, says nothing. He simply stands and smokes and, like the wharf-hand, lets his gaze skim from ship to ship where they bob in the bay.

Cracker hangs back, feeling that a second lurking presence will only make the dockhand feel uncomfortable. Instead, he moves towards the ship that seems to have the most appealing cargo getting loaded.

The wharf-hand puffs absently on his pipe and, with something of a discontented sigh, blows a smoke ring into the air toward the boats that buoy on the blue waters of the harbor. For his part, Fin blows a jet of smoke past his own lips, shooting it through the middle of the hand's smoke ring as it slowly expands and roils away on the wind.

"Long day ahead," Fin's rasping voice finally breaks the silence, though neither man's gaze falls away from their surveying of the ships. It is more a statement than a question.

"Aye," the wharf-hand returns, sparing only a sidelong glance at the dark man who leans against the rum barrel, "an' she looks ta be a hot'n, as well."

"Mmm," Fin rumbles with a fractional nod as he takes another drag from his smoke; his squinting stare still dancing over the bay.

"I‘m a'ready wringin' in me own juices," the wharf-hand fumes softly, poking at the dregs of his bowl with a splinter he pulls from a deck board, "an' by th' time th' next boat sallies out, I figger I'll be all but melted, an' fer what? A penny' an' a half-pence." The man sighs his exasperated sigh again, spits into the water off the side of the dock, and clamps the stub of his pipe back between his teeth.

"Sounds 's if ya might need anoth'r line o' work," Fin grumbls in reply.

"So says you an' th' missus," the hand answers around his pipe stem. "It's God what don' seem ta agree."

Fin snorts out a short chuckle at that, sending a cloud of his own smoke billowing out on top of it. "Tha's th' way it seems ta work," he says. "Anythin' o' interest goin' out er comin' in?"

The wharf-hand's shoulders tense a bit and he turns to actually look at the surly man who is now crushing out the remains of his cigarillo on top of the rum barrel. "Reckon tha' d'pends on who's askin'," he remarks cautiously, his eyes going from weary to wary.

Smiling a mirthless smile, Fin flicks the crushed stub of his cigarillo into the water, dips his fingers into his belt, and draws them back out with a silver coin pinched between them. "Th' man who'll give ya more'n a penny' an' a half-pence fer th' right scuttlebutt, mate."

Staring at the proffered coin, the wharf-hand's brow furrows into a webwork of crisscrossed lines deepened by a lifetime of weather abuse. Sticking his pipe abruptly into his mouth with a click of clay to tooth, he says nothing further to Fin, but pushes from the barrels and walks slowly away. After a few feet of this casual strolling, the man retrieves his pipe and taps it completely out before slipping it into a pocket of his trousers. He doesn't grant the Dog's quartermaster another look as he sets about his duties once again. The best, Crowe can hope for at this point is that he'll keep his mouth shut merely because that's what people do who wish to live.

(OOC: Sorry, but the roll failed.)

As Fin continues to talk to the dockhand behind him, Cracker moves on to a ship that has caught his attention; a barquentine of a dark, rich coffee color with three masts and about three hundred tons. It appears to the bosan to be loading a cargo of large, square crates that could contain anything from sugar to coffee, potentially good prizes if a buyer can be found and the crates remain in good condition in the taking. Cracker approaches the ship next to his target first and advances on what appears to be the quartermaster, who is busy overseeing the loading of the cargo. William's real goal is to watch the target ship, but he speaks briefly to the man in front of him, asking where this ship is heading.

"I've sailed on a number of ships, so I could help you. But right now I'm without a crew. And I need to get home. So I'm wonderin' where yer headed. If I might be of service on this ship here. I'm experienced, as I said." He ducks his head low, trying to seem like a man desperate for a job. He isn't going to be disappointed when the man sends him away, as he doesn't really want a job. This man is a poor replacement for Fin and the Cole sisters.

As expected, the ship's quartermaster responds to Cracker's 'I need a job' routine by sending him away. "We're headed to London sailor, but I have a full crew, so unless you want to pay your way home, this ship isn't your answer. There's more here headed out soon—and a few taverns where hiring happens. Look there." The man looks hard at Cracker and is about to add a curt "move on!" but Cracker has already done so.

Moving off quickly—his attempt on the first ship just a feint as if he actually is looking for work, it's best to look like he is moving ship to ship to be sure his story can be checked if needed. So, he moves directly from this ship to the one he is most interested in, being sure that a couple of sailors see him approach from the other vessel. He finds a man directing the loading of goods onto the ship—probably the quartermaster, although he might well be a bosun like Cracker, himself. The game is afoot despite the boatswain's inability to determine the type of cargo being loaded.

Approaching the man with his hat in his hands, Cracker states in as pleading a voice as he dares, "Sir. I'm looking to ship out with a good crew, sir. I've been a good boatswain afore sir. I can do good work."

Turning from his duties, the broad-shouldered individual with a closely shaved head and a scar under his left eye looks the smaller individual up and down while Cracker rolls his hat a few times in hands to give the look of a desperate man.

"Where are you headed to sir?" William presses. "My Mam, Sir. I have received news it goes poorly. I need to get home. but I can work my way there. I'm a good sailor. It is a fine ship, sir., I've served on her like afore. Where is it headed, sir.? If only—"

"We're already at full muster, salt," the fellow replies in a deep voice that practically resonates in Cracker's bones. "I'm ‘fraid you'll no' find passage here."

William persists, still wringing his hat. "My Mam, sir,"

Sighing, the fellow looks over his shoulder at the activity on board and then turns back to the boatswain of the Dog. "Look here, we're due in the Colonies within five days. Where's yer port o' call?"

"Carolina, sir."

"Well, we're t' put in at Georgia, but I could, perhaps see if the quartermaster has a need. It will at least take ya tha' far."

"Oh, no, Sir!" Cracker becomes agitated. "That is no good, Sir. I need a vessel going to Carolina, Sir. My Mam, she is in Carolina, Sir. No, that won't work. But, I thank you, Sir." He drops his head a bit and turns to go, but stops and turns to look over his shoulder at the dismayed sailor. "Sir? Carolina, Sir. I need to get home. Do you know if any of these other ships are headed that way? Do you know sir? Could you help a fellow Bosun?"

Frowning and shaking his head, the other bellows while waving William away, "I care no' where others be sailing, salt! Get off with ya."

(OOC: Time is roughly 11:00 AM.)

----------------------------------------------------
Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), 11:15 A.M.

"I'll show ya mine if ya show me yours," Anna Cole states coldly after a moment's thought.

Grover flashes a wily grin, "Delightful."

"Mags," Anna begins without taking her eyes off the wide features of the proprietor. "Head on back t' the Dog an' prepare t' receive a visitor."

Maggie turns her head to look at Anna as if she hasn't heard her correctly. If Anna is to look at her, she will be able read the thoughts dancing in her head. Why should we give in to this man? Why not find someone else? But she knows that Anna always has a plan and that she doesn't always share the details with her; so she simply gets to her feet with an audible deep sigh.

"Aye, Captain," she replies and, without another word, turns and strides from the Tavern into the blazing sun and the rising temperatures. Her angry strides leave no doubt to her thoughts on her orders.

She returns directly to where the longboat had previously beached without obstruction and then waits for five minutes while it brings the third round of Sun Dog sailors ashore. Most on the Dog know not to pester her even good naturedly, but being hungry for wenches and ale they barely pay her any heed as she commandeers a seat on the return voyage, allowing the assigned sailors to row back to the ship as ordered. Once aboard, she gathers some of the watchmen left aboard and makes sure to address anything she thinks might seem out of place to a fence. She has the men clean up the deck, though most of it is already shipshape as the sailmaster doesn't allow the men to go ashore without all the lines properly stowed and secured.

Maggie next turns her attention to the hold and organizing their sparse prize of goods that for sale to the merchant when he comes aboard. Once everything is ready (approximately twenty minutes after arriving on board the deck of the Dog), she has the men return to their duties as she stands upon the forecastle and looks out over the water towards the dock to keep an eye out for the longboat that would bring Mr. Grover and her sister.

She hasn't much longer to wait and can see through Anna's long glass the pair approach the shore from the town. The Dog's longboat is still beached with a single man stationed to protect it and man its oars should the need be. Mags watches as her sister engages in brief conversation with the sailor and then, when Mr. Virgil Grover boards, Captain Cole assists the crewman in pushing the boat into the softly rolling surf before climbing in herself. Another few minutes and the longboat is aside the Sun Dog, the rope ladder hanging over the side and a couple of watch sailors standing by.

Anna is first to board, followed by Mr. Grover who pauses at the rail to scan the deck before swinging his leg over and fully boarding.

"Seen some rough seas, have ya?" Grover remarks dryly as he spots the still unrepaired damage from their last hunt.

"Rougher than some," Anna replies. "Satisfied tha' we are who we say we are?"

"No' quite," Virgil rolls his thick jaw about and considers the lay of the land, as it were, but Captain Cole is tired of playing the complacent and presses the issue.

"You asked t' see the ship, Mr. Grover," she narrows her eyes strikes a stubborn pose, feet shoulder-width apart, fists on her hips. "You've seen ‘er. I'll allow fer you t' inspect the cargo seein' ‘ow yer here, but mind yerself, sir. I'll no' accept a wit further insult withou' answerin' it in kind."

Grover lazily turns his tiny eyes to the protesting woman and with as little release of energy as possible, raises his eyebrows into the sweat beginning to form on his forehead. Beneath his walrus mustaches, the large man presses his lips together as his shoulders square to the much smaller captain. The watch sailors shift warily and drop their hands to their pistols and swords but make no further move. Virgil's beefy hands remain relaxed, however, and after a moment's further consideration he motions with his left and accompanies the extended arm with a low, "Then, t' the hold, captain."

Motioning the watch to the hold grating, Anna turns sharply on her heel and strides purposefully to the latched door they open. Hovering at the top of the descending stairs, she stiffly mimics his recent motion by extending her left hand towards the opening and offering, "After you."

Knowing Maggie's moods, Anna meets her eyes and gives a slight shake of the head before following the hulking tavern owner into the lower reaches of the Sun Dog. The message isn't so much to dissuade Mags from following and participating in the engagement as to warn to rage off and remind her to keep a cool head about her.

Mercifully cooler than the deck, the Dog's hold is mostly empty. Faint odors of saltwater, sweat, and other unpleasantries hang in the air with a persistence. Stronger whiffs of lime and oil caress the nostrils of all who have made their way into the shade, farming implements are tied against the small stack of barrels containing the raw lime, rough cut lumber in a pile approximately six feet tall and eighteen feet long runs up to the other side, and set next to the lumber are various pieces of residential furniture. The "treasure" is embarrassing to the captain, but she cannot run a ship without what little money it will bring in and is determined to negotiate the best price for it.

"This be it?" Grover folds his arms across his chest and rocks with the delicate sway of the ship.

"Aye," Anna cagily watches his response. "This be it."

"Wha's tha' smell?"

"Lime," Captain Cole replies steadily.

"Lime? Wha' the ‘ell is that good fer?"

"It's good fer somethin' or they wouldn' be shippin' it, now would they?" Anna boldly proceeds. "The furniture an' the wood'll bring a fair price on the market. As will the farmin' goods. I'll wager a pretty penny tha' the barrels o' lime'll fetch a fairly decent price as well. I'm willin' t' part with the whole cargo lot fer five hundred crowns."

To his credit, Virgil doesn't openly scoff. Doing so might have won him a shortsword in the gut by an irate Hellfire Maggie and it is possible that he sensed as much. Instead, he calmly counters with, "A hundred crown in cash, two hundred in promise at the sale o' the goods, an' another ten shillings in drink fer each o' yer crew at my tavern."

Anne begins a methodical stroll about the hold, her thumbs hooking her belt as she mentally works through the offer. After a time of consideration she turns to face the large business man and counters, "Four hundred an' seventy five crown. Two hundred in cash, two hundred in promise on the sale, an' seventy-five t' split amongst my crew in food, drink, an' women courtesy o' yerself."

And that's how the negotiations proceed for the next few minutes before Mr. Grover concedes to a price of four hundred crowns, one hundred and fifty in cash, two hundred and twenty-five in promise, and twenty-five in food, drink, and wenches for the crew. Anna accepts Virgil's outstretched hand and allows hers to be engulfed in its mass for a few shakes before extracting it.

"I'll see ya back t' shore, Mr. Grover," she declares and starts for the stairs.

"There be one last thing, Captain Cole," Virgil tilts his head on his thick neck and waits for her to turn around and face him again. "I'm wond'rin' if I can sweeten our relations a little."

"Careful, Mr. Grover," Anna Cole cautions, a wary look resting on her beautiful, freckled face.

"There was a time when I held a much larger share o' the sales here," Grover ignores her warning and charges forward with his offer. "Tha' is ‘til Davenport muscled me out. I wan' me share back an' I wouldn' mind seein' ol' Davenport experiencin' some o' the hurt he's put on my business as well."

"An' what makes you think we're the types t' handle tha' sort o' thing, Mr. Grover?" Anna refrains from looking to her sister to catch Maggie's reaction.

"Yer new t' Tortuga," Virgil replies easily. "Ya ‘ave little t' nothin' ‘cept what I jus' ceded in these here negotiations besides yer ship an' crew. People in these parts rely on reputation as much as skill an' ya do this, you'll be building on tha' reputation quickly and fiercely."

"Besides ‘avin' you owe us a rather large favor," Captain Cole states.

"Besides the favor," Virgil repeats.

"I'll think on it, Mr. Grover," Anna turns and begins ascending the stairs. "Meanwhile, I'll ‘ave me crew deliver the cargo t' yer warehouse if you'll tell Maggie where it be."

As the captain achieves the main deck, Virgil turns to Hellfire Maggie and scratches at his jaw. "I no longer ‘ave access to the main warehouses. Those be Davenports' now. Yer crew can deliver the goods t' me tavern. We'll put it in with the stores fer now.

"Davenport thinks he's dug in quite well, Maggie," Virgil shares in a quiet voice. "He won' be expectin' trouble. Should be easy, an' might include a nice haul fer the Sun Dog too. I'll be happy t' discuss shares o' whatever Davenport holds with yer captain at her leisure."

(OOC: Time is roughly 12:15 PM.)

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

Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga (Ile de la Tortue), 11:17 A.M. - Port of Tortuga - The One-Eyed Parrot

"We been keelhauled fer shur!" Shark Tooth squints through his swollen right eye at the wounded man who lies bleeding on the floor with his own dagger protruding from his left leg.

"Muh name's Shark Tooth... Wylie 'Shark Tooth' Stryker. Ah best be gittin yer leg ta stop leakin' ballast ... shur dun look purty!"

Blackheart listens to his new found friend and feels relief that he is receiving help. "Me name is Daxon Blackheart mate. I am indebted to ye fer yer help."

"Ah be needin uh rum ter clean yer leg," the other man replies before turning gingerly to flag down one of the wenches swishing about in her skirts serving the remaining patrons.

A brunette with large, watchful eyes and pouting lips that give her the appearance of one none-too-pleased with being the one to answer the summons approaches if a little slowly. Shifting her gaze from the beaten man requesting her attention to the one still bleeding all over the floor, she stops a good four paces from Shark Tooth's right side and awaits his word.

"The salt ‘ere needs uh hand, miss," he struggles to look upon her face with his damaged one eye. "Is thar a surgeon about?"

"This be Tortuga Bay, mister," she winces as though feeling his pain as he talks. "We're no' like Boston ‘r the like with doctors an' such."

Wylie allows his head to droop a little with the news but presses on, "Then ah needs some o' yer ale an' a cloth."

"I'd be beat fer sure if I let ya bloody up one o' the cleanin' rags," the woman gasps.

Daxon moves slowly. He has been awaiting instruction from Wylie as to not further cripple the situation, well aware of the beating Shark Tooth took intervening and not being sure why someone would do that for a stranger. Now, at the onset of her argument, he checks his pockets for a token of payment to help Wylie get whatever he needs to assist and is comforted to find his coin purse still beneath his belt. Removing the leather bag made from the scrotum of a large bull he'd picked up in his travels, Blackheart grimaces as pain shoots up and down his leg. The sensation is nearly enough to do him in but he manages to keep his wits about him as he lies back down fully upon the floor. Fishing two fingers into the mouth of the purse, the wounded sailor finds a half-penny and holds it up high enough that the wench might see it.

"I'll see what I can do," she mumbles while taking the long way around Wylie's table and timidly approaching the fallen Blackheart to snatch the coin from his fingers.

As the serving girl makes her way to the bar under the watchful eye of the grizzled barkeep, Shark Tooth grunts away the pain coursing all through his body from the beating and does his best to help his new friend up to a tabletop. It's a challenge due to the wounds both have sustained but by the time the serving wench returns, Daxon the Blackheart is positioned somewhat securely on the table, his injured leg propped up on the back of one of the chairs, his other foot resting on the seat of the same chair.

"The ale is a farthin' an' the cloth's another," the woman says with obvious disgust in her voice while waiting to deliver the mug and stained cloth for the money to exchange hands. Once she's in receipt of the coins, the amber colored liquid is placed to Daxon's left along with the cloth and she quickly returns to the bar.

Dipping the cloth in the rum, Shark Tooth begins to explain his position. "Ah run me a gun crew aboard the Sun Dog—we jus' dropped anchor—bu' some time ago ah los' me a man an' need t' fin' a replacemen'."

Fire ignites within the wound in Blackheart's leg as the cloth is administered and Wylie grips the hilt. Again, Daxon is able to stave off the desire to pass out.

"This'll ‘urt, mind ya," Stryker casually says just as he yanks the dagger free and another jolt of lightning snakes through Blackheart's body. Darkness threatens the edge of Daxon's vision and he presses his lids together tightly to ward it off, gasping through the effort. Shark Tooth continues his work by pouring a large portion of the rum over the bubbling wound mixing the golden liquid with the bright red in a torrid spill of color.

"The Dog—she be a righ' swift ship—is captained by Anna Cole. Ah know, ah know. A woman, ya say! Bu' she's go' more guts than mos' men an' a ‘ead on her shoulders t' boot. Her li'l sis is the first mate—Ah know, ah know. It works on the Dog t' have a first mate. We call her Hellfire Maggie an' she deserves it, too."

Tying the rum soaked cloth around Blackheart's thigh, Wylie unsympathetically pats his work drawing more groans from between Daxon's clenched teeth. "Got us a good quartermaster as well, an' our sailmaster is gifted. You'll need t' meet with Fin—he's the Dog's quartermaster—an' Hellfire Maggie afore ya can sign on, but what say ye? Oh! An' we ‘ave Mr. Hughes too. He's our ship surgeon. He'll do ya a lot better than ah did fer tha' hole in yer leg."

(OOC: Time is approximately 11:25 AM.)

Posted on 2017-07-27 at 17:59:03.

Topic: Genesis Q&A
Subject: Huzzah!


Updates! Feed the puppy Benedryl and tell work you need to take a "potty" break.

Posted on 2017-07-26 at 10:21:15.

Topic: Voyages of the Rocinante - Firefly RPG QnA
Subject: I've made my play...


Wyatt is not even interested in winning if he feels (Intuition) that he can gain some valuable contacts. If not, then he'll do his best to win at least a few hands to keep himself even, if possible. He'll engage in conversation without revealing too much about Roc's crew or history and steer clear of drink. Once the evening has drawn on, or in the case of the Man in Tweed leaving or getting restless, he'll politely break away and ask Eagle for that introduction. If he can, Wyatt will catch Willow's eye as he's about to engage in business and her skillset is much appreciated.

Posted on 2017-07-25 at 19:06:21.

Topic: Voyages of Rocinante - Serenity/Firefly RPG
Subject: Day 1, Whitefall - Necessity, "The Slaughterhouse", 8:00 PM PT


Feeling the slowdown of wits that accompanies a heavy meal, Wyatt had taken his leave of the ranch to attend to captainy things. Things such as double-checking maintenance reports, searching out potential business leads on the cortex, check up on the latest news (especially as is pertinent to Roc), and catch up on communications with those that would still deign to speak with him. This is how the afternoon is spent, nary any interaction with anyone as to whom he don't have to engage. As the day draws on, Captain Sung forces himself to ascend his room ladder and meet up with Ma to discuss pantry needs and to see what all she would like if he can locate it from the town. Money is as tight for the scarred matron as it is for everyone else so the list is short. The time spent together is pleasant all the same. Ma has a way of knowing when Wyatt is stressed and calming him through distractions and idle "chatter." She knows as well as any that Sung's soul is troubled; that he worries as to how he's going to keep Roc afloat and his crew fed. By the time he's to skidattle, she practically has to force him away from the game of backgammon they are playing (something they often do as they discuss the larder) and shoo him out the door to the cargo bay where the mule is stored.

Wyatt doesn't know what to expect of Necessity. The name is quaint but the meaning isn't lost to him. Having been a ranch owner himself before the war, he knows the struggles these people face. First thing he notices is the lack of apparent planning in the sprawl of the town. Buildings are lining the main street, sure enough, but after that it would seem that a child spilt his toy structures and someone righted them but left them where they lay.

Rolling up on the Slaughterhouse, Wyatt takes in the three-story building with no patio or veranda outside with a critical eye. A large, well-dressed man at the door carrying a sidearm greets Eagle-Eye pleasantly enough and smiles warmly at Wyatt as he approaches, opening the door for new arrivals. Captain Sung takes a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting before drawing in the lay of the establishment like a long breath.

"There be rules here," Eagle speaks up from Wyatt's elbow, "Kim don't put up with trouble so don't give any. You get one warning and then you are out. You are here on my word so I'd appreciate it if we kept things civilized." He smiles at Wolf. "No fighting. Do not draw a weapon unless you hear a siren or someone yells, ‘reavers.' Women serve food and booze here—nothing else. You looking for company, the Honeydew will do ya. Oh, if you do hear sirens, there's a basement there," He points to a trapdoor in the centre of the room. "Men head to doors and window and defend, women and young'un go to the basement first, then we maintain an orderly retreat. If we're breached, the door is sealed and we take care of each other—you catch my meaning."

Sung does know what he means. Stories of Reavers have been all over the Cortex. Most are dismissed outright, but not by this captain. Wyatt has seen atrocities committed by men who claim to be civilized and he can well accept that those caught on the god-forsaken fringes of the ‘Verse could do far worse. Not deeming anything their host has said as response worthy, the dark-haired captain follows Eagle-Eye towards a six-person table where four players are involved in a game of poker.

"Evening gentlemen," Eagle says as he approaches and points to one of the empty chairs, "Where's Ernest?"

The man dealing barks a laughed, "Oh, he ain't gonna be here tonight. Got himself a woman that won't say no so he is occupied."

"Really?" Eagle-Eye sounds surprised and Wyatt immediately assumes that this Ernest isn't exactly a player with the womenfolk. "When did he meet her?"

"Recent hire of serving staff as I understand it," the fellow responds. "Apparently, she likes to serve him more than dinner." The other men at the table laugh and ante in.

"Oh. Well good for Ernest. He could use a little TLC. Or a lot. Either way gentlemen, this here is (introduces all who are there). This here is Dimitri, he's a sheep wrangler."

Dimitri, the dealer, nods and smiles, "Nice to meet you. Sheep wrangler is not as dirty as Eagle makes it sound."

"This here is Giles, a cattle rancher."

"Pleasure," Giles replies doffing his bowler hat to reveal a balding head.

"This is Hiram. He ain't a farmer but we let him hang out."

"And I am so honoured by your letting me lose, too. Evening." Hiram stands and makes a point of shaking everyone's hand.

"Enos—he owns the general store."

Enos nods without saying anything.

"And this is Jeremiah, another cattle rancher. We got a lot of them in these parts."

"Hello!" Jeremiah says like he has discovered a gold coin. His gaze is fixed directly on Fenris.

Eagle pats Wyatt on the shoulder and gestures slightly to the bar and a man in a tweed suit, sitting alone. "That there is Saul Potter. I can take you over to him if you like and introduce you—before we start a new hand. Or if you'd like to join the game—Ernest's good fortune can be yours as well. We don't play big money, we just like a social game. He is likely to be there all night. We can grab a couple of chairs if you boys want to join. The more the bigger the pot."

Eyeing the suit, Wyatt wets his lips with the tip of his tongue and contemplates the social position he's just been put in. On one hand, if he heads straight for a resolution of possible business he can put that side of their plight to rest, potentially. On the other hand, doing so might paint him to be a none-too-friendly type and that could hurt his chances for future business. Ranchers and farmers have the occasional needs that a crew like Roc's can fulfill, but without networking there's no real chance of coming up flush. Turning back to the table, Sung considers what little money he has and his chances of winning anything. He is not a gambling man. When he commits to something it is because he ethically has to, or he knows that he's got a good chance of coming out on top. Of course, winning at poker with a bunch of potential clients isn't exactly a way into their confidence. Losing, on the other hand,

"It's been somethin' of a day, Eagle, an' yer likely wantin' t' kick yer boots up an' have a good time fer a bit. I don't mind a game o' cards every now and again. What's the game?"

(OOC: Answer)

"Well," Wyatt pushes his hat back on his head and raises his brow. "If'n there's room at the table you can deal me in." Looking at his remaining crew, Wyatt gives them the nod releasing them into the wilds of the saloon.


Posted on 2017-07-25 at 19:02:47.

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


I appreciate the well-wishes. I have returned and am ready to continue this seafaring adventure.

Posted on 2017-07-25 at 17:21:40.

Topic: Flesh & Blood - A CyberPunk Game
Subject: Thank you all.


I'm back and will be looking to continue the game, read the updated posts, etc. shortly.

Posted on 2017-07-25 at 17:21:00.

Topic: Genesis Q&A
Subject: SilentOne...


Writer's block is only ever overcome by writing. I'm not talking about the ever present option of waiting for inspiration. I'm referring to actually beating writer's block into submission.

Write about anything. Describe the room you are in, your most recent meal, how annoying that freakin' fly is that's buzzing around your head. Anything. The very act of writing (no matter how good or bad the subject, grammar, or prose) is what breaks through the muck of the block.

And for the rest of you! I've returned from my anniversary weekend so... ARE YOU READY TO RUMBLE!?

Posted on 2017-07-25 at 17:20:18.

Topic: Flesh & Blood - A CyberPunk Game
Subject: This upcoming Monday


By way of an FYI, I may or may not be posting Monday. This weekend is my wedding anniversary and I'll be spending tomorrow through Monday with my wife. Depending on the downtime, I may get the post in.

Posted on 2017-07-20 at 14:49:46.

Topic: Bring Me That Horizon Q&A
Subject: Mission Trips...


Have I mentioned that I love the fact that you do those, Hammer! I'm more than happy to carry your character whenever you need me to in those cases.

FYI - My wedding anniversary is this weekend. Rather than become un-married, I will be devoting tomorrow through Monday to my wife which most likely means I will not be posting an update to the game Monday but will post Tuesday. There may be down time from the festivities where I will post, but I thought I'd give you a heads up just in case.

Posted on 2017-07-20 at 14:45:58.

Topic: Star Trek: the Edge of Duty Q&A
Subject: I hear tell


That the Captain is preparing to make a post!

Posted on 2017-07-19 at 10:40:36.

Topic: Looking for games
Subject: These are all great games!


There's also the Cyberpunk game that has been going for a while but isn't even out of its infancy in terms of where they stand in the Run. I have a Medtech character that could use a player as the one I recruited from elsewhere seems to have vanished.

Posted on 2017-07-19 at 10:39:51.

Topic: Flesh & Blood - A CyberPunk Game
Subject: Thank you for the post!


I appreciate it, Keeper.

Looking forward to everyone else's posts.

Posted on 2017-07-19 at 10:38:03.

Topic: Genesis Q&A
Subject: No bread for me...


Which eliminates most of the burger and all of the onion rings.

I'll go with a nice steak though! Steaks are like burgers but without the cape. No capes.

Posted on 2017-07-19 at 10:36:06.

Topic: Bring Me That Horizon Q&A
Subject: I see that...


...The cheeseburger properly nourished you. Great post. I didn't leave you a whole lot to work with and you passed muster. It honestly wasn't intentional.

The character creation side is moving right along. I'll hopefully have a couple of additional character sheets out to players this week.

I'll be making the game update Monday as scheduled since it looks like we still have some players who need to post.

Posted on 2017-07-19 at 10:34:21.

Topic: Bring Me That Horizon Q&A
Subject: I'm glad the results of the fight...


... didn't turn you away Elious. And, Eol, I'm good with what you've done.

Posted on 2017-07-18 at 16:01:12.

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


Loved it all.

Posted on 2017-07-18 at 10:54:31.

Topic: Flesh & Blood - A CyberPunk Game
Subject: We've updated!


The game is underway again. Thank you for all of your posts last week.

Looking forward to your posts. Make sure you provide me with the following in your posts:

  • What your character does while trying to sneak their way along.

  • What your character does if they are engaged in combat.

  • What your character does if another character is wounded or dropped.

  • What your character does if they are forced to retreat.

  • What your character does if they make it to the compound again - in other words, how they approach the back door and exit the building.



  • Posted on 2017-07-17 at 19:22:41.

    Topic: Flesh & Blood - A Night City Adventure
    Subject: One Task Done... Escape?


    West 43875 St. 52 High -- The Bartholomew School Grounds and Sewage/Runoff Drainage System | Night City Integrate | High City | UrbanZone - Day 2 (Saturday), 4:08 AM 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)

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

    Hugging the wall with both reloaded guns drawn, Vegas chooses his sentry post; close enough to aid his companions in case they are ambushed once they entered the office, but far enough away from the office door to engage a security team which would hopefully buy Blossom enough time to access the information the group needs to continue their search for the missing boy.

    Although not much time actually passes, it feels like forever since he has handed the card over to the pretty nomad and yet Fixer feels that he knows what's on everyone's mind. They are coiled as tight as springs. What would they find behind the door? Bullets? A flash-bang that blinds them all so the bullets can rip into them? Or something equally as devastating? Best not to dwell on that, he decides. And on top of all that, where the hell is Casino? Holding the large solo's stuff isn't exactly slowing Fixer down, but it would be nice if he could unload back to it's rightful owner. So he waits, slightly removed from the pending results of his most recent work.

    As Echo accepts the card from Fixer, she looks at Blossom waiting for her to back away. Seeing the netrunner in as safe of a position as possible, she looks over to Bloodbank and nods, whispering with a small grin, "Here's where the fun begins." She cannot see the medtech's expression behind his cracked, grinning skull combat mask but he does hold his handgun up and shifts his grip in preparation.

    Inserting the newly-made keycard into the slot, Echo silently asks the Fates for fortune on this part of their mission. She really doesn't want to kill anyone, but will do so if her companions lives are put in danger. Also, she will like to have a long, serious three-way talk with those that took the boy and her rather large survival knife.

    Echo hears a small click and the door opens just enough to not relock itself. She puts her arm up to signal the others down the hall that she's going in, and ever so slowly opens the door just enough to see in a little. Behind her, the silvery samurai summoned by Blossom stands at the ready, katana before him.

    Silence greets her audaciousness at first. The visible chamber beyond the door lit by yellow fluorescent lights, a faux wood desk up against the wall to the immediate right of the door. Judging by the amount of space left between the doorframe and the corner of the room, Echo can estimate that either the security office is small (maybe 3x5 meters), or the door sits on the far side of one of the walls expanding the room deep beyond her immediate vision. The wall running parallel to her line of sight against which rests the desk, is also home to a series of monitors. Flat screens hung three tall and an unknown number wide, each depicting various scenes in full color, high definition, of the school grounds and halls. And that's as far as she gets before hell breaks loose.

    Rapid fire automatics blare on the other side of the door, jarring the barrier with force enough to kick it from the leather-clad nomad's loose grip and push it against her left shoulder, but none of the rounds penetrate the metal of the door. The number of rounds pelting the reinforced door is enough to give the smart young woman pause. Her gut tenses up and her blue eyes flash towards the masked visage of the medic across from her as a really bad feeling rapidly spreads throughout her body at the thought of rushing in.

    "Let me do it," Blossom suggests from behind the nomad and the samurai presses forward.

    Bloodbank dips his head in agreement and acting on her better judgment, Echo steps back away from the door and towards the crouching wardriver. Pausing before the slightly opened door, the shimmering samurai warrior construct brings the sword up over its right shoulder and then leaps forward, crashing into the door with a bang that echoes down the hall. It is fast but the distance it has to clear is formidable when facing automatic weapons fire. However, the one thing that the sacrifice of the construct does provide is cover for additional support fire and that's when Echo turns the corner and enters the room.

    Warm excitement courses through her adaptive nano connections as she raises the H&K MP2020 over the left shoulder of Blossom's attacking construct and pulls the trigger. Now, on burst mode, the submachine gun kicks in her hand sending three armor-piercing rounds into the man standing at the back of the room. His right leg jerks, then dust or blood spray, or something kicks up from his lower ribs area, and finally, his helmeted head snaps back and yet he somehow remains on his feet!

    Seeing that Echo has been preceded into the room by the samurai construct, Vegas turns his attention back down the hall towards the receptionist area, heart thumping in his chest, both handguns trained on the mouth of the corridor as he guards against reinforcements. In fact, he returns fire with his Arasaka Minami, spraying the doorway and his assailants with twenty rounds of hot lead that has Echo ducking behind the bulk of the samurai as it is shredded. Miraculously, not a single round penetrates the construct enough to threaten the nomad and the samurai presses forward.

    Taking a deep breath, Bloodbank rounds the corner amidst the rat-a-tat-tat of submachine gun fire immediately fired up from his reflex booster and lining up the crosshairs from his optic splice and smart weapon on the bogey over the right shoulder. Perhaps out of pure luck, perhaps out of reflexive training, the target drops lower into a crouch and the medtech's shot buries itself into the wall where he had been.

    Adjusting his bag so that the weight is more evenly distributed, Fixer considers how much assistance he could offer with the rapid intelligence of a genius. With his Uzi, he'd be as likely to hit his allies as not and with his Avenger he might be of some use, if he could unlock his joints and swallow the block of ice weighing down his innards. There was a very hot firefight taking place in that room and the techie just can't bring himself to press after the medtech!

    Slashing at the security officer on the left side of him, the samurai's sword scrapes through the drywall and wood studs of the wall as the man ducks under the strike, right into the oncoming burst from the attacking nomad. This time, the three rounds of armor-piercing 11mm burn him and he falls against the wall, dropping his Minami and sliding to the ground.

    Glancing over his shoulder, Vegas can see both Fixer and Blossom still crouched in the hall but there's no telling what's going on in the room; just more gunfire. Returning his attention to the area he's guarding, the dapper solo presses his lips together and maintains position.

    This time, Bloodbank calculates the flow of the target's movements and puts a round right into the forehead of the helmet, snapping the man's head back with the impact and drilling a hole into the armor. Staggering, the soldier barely manages to avoid another slashing attack from the badly damaged samurai with the glowing eyes but such a move puts him right in Echo's line of fire.

    Another pull of the trigger and three rounds bury themselves into the black-garbed soldier's body. One to the gun that convulses him as the second tears out his throat and the third drives his left shoulder into the wall. He spills forward and tumbles over the legs of his companion's body.

    "Clear!" Bloodbank calls and Blossom slips into the room with a rustle of leather and flash of thigh.

    Taking but a moment to locate the computer array, the diminutive netrunner immediately sets about connecting while Bloodbank cautiously moves to check the vitals on their victims and Echo stands guard.

    In the hall, Vegas hears the call of clear and recognizes the medtech's voice despite it's strained sound. Restraining himself in his desire to look after the beautiful netrunner's position, the Chairman of the Board remains vigilant in his guard.

    "I'm in," Blossom informs the room. "Gonna just, OK! I've found the security footage for the past month. I'll load it to the cloud and set a program to oversee the command, done. One last, fun time is over! Let's get the hell outta here."

    Disconnecting herself from the machine (the whole event took less than a minute) the pretty little Asian practically dances out the door followed immediately by Bloodbank and Echo.

    "She's got it," the medtech calls out. "Let's go!"

    Outside, Ghlahn snaps his magazine in place and frowns as one of the standing team members rushes towards him, assault rifle at ready, firing a three round burst. The end of the fired rounds' trajectory is unknown to the red-headed sniper, but the fact that the man is rushing his position is grounds enough to back off, or is it? There's just one running his way. The other is running towards the injured team member's position. Reloaded, Ghlahn has a decision to make.


    Posted on 2017-07-17 at 19:19:16.

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


    That's what you'd do. You'd lead right up to any information actually being given, describe actions, etc. If you are bribing, you ask for a bribe check. If you are convincing, you ask for such a check, if you are gathering information, you ask for that check.

    I've updated the game. Things got really interesting for a couple of you.

    Posted on 2017-07-17 at 12:44:31.

    Topic: Bring Me That Horizon
    Subject: Update... Pay close attention.


    Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), 10:00 A.M.

    The Sun Dog's longboat carries a total complement of fourteen comfortably, sixteen when cramped. Having lowered it to the crystal blue waters below the first of the Dog's crew to go ashore boards by climbing down the rope ladder one at a time under the watchful jealous gaze of the rest of the crew not assigned to their various tasks of making sure the ship is at rest. Anna is last to venture onto the boat and deftly moves to the bow of the small vessel where she plants herself next to Maggie and adjusts her sash and sword to a more comfortable position. Eyeing her sister for a moment, the unlikely captain allows her thin eyebrows to rise just a little before leaning forward and saying in a low tone, "We're attemptin' t' establish positive relations this day, Mags. Tha' scowl yer wearin'll likely move people away jus' like a squal movin' in would."

    (OOC: Mags' reply.)

    Shaking her head in mock dismay, Captain Cole settles her mouth in an amused smirk and pats the side of the boat loudly. "Let's make shore, boys!"

    With a heave and a hearty call of deep-voiced excitement, the men set to rowing and within short order the first of the Dog's crew to set foot on Tortuga arrive at the beach, driving the vessel right onto the shore. Anna is quick to stand and jump into the ankle deep water as the momentum of the waves and the rowing carries the boat further into the mud. Striding forward, she again adjusts her belted blade and the pistol brace to a more comfortable sitting while ignoring the curious looks from those repairing nets and sails in the warm Caribbean sun. Everyone has their orders and she doesn't feel the need to repeat herself. Making her way up the beach, she barely spares her sister a glance to make sure she's with her and before long, the two women find themselves walking into the packed earth streets of the settlement.

    In discussion with Fin, and through her own information gathering, Anna has determined where they'll stop first. There's a tavern close to the waterfront that is supposedly run by one Vergil Grover, a businessman with a shipping interest in the Islands that carries up to the New World and across the ocean to British soil. The last that Fin had heard from his stint in the Islands was that Mr. Grover was the man to see for the fairest price. Anna isn't at all delusional enough to pretend that any man in this world will see a female captain as someone to deal fairly with and she's prepared to do what she must to establish her reputation amongst the powers that be as a solid contender. Finding the street that Grover's tavern is located upon proves to take close to a half hour and by the time the two Cole women push through the swinging doors they are glistening with sweat.

    Grover's tavern is simply named, Grover's Tavern and despite the prominence that the owner supposedly holds, it is a simple affair. The taproom is wider than it is deep with a low-hanging ceiling that reminds Anna of the hold of a smaller ship complete with rafters that people need to duck under and lanterns swinging in the occasional intruding breeze through porthole sized windows. Two serving maids maneuver throughout the square tables bearing tankards and mugs in their arms and playfully inciting the patrons to tips through flirtation. Sourness hangs in the air as a strong odor mixed with the stench of spiced sweat exacerbated by the heat. There's barely a murmur at this time of day as those that are in attendance are either early drinkers or leftovers from the night before. Standing at the entry for a short few seconds, Anna allows her eyes to adjust to the dim light before moving boldly towards a nearby table.

    "Thars a women's club a few blocks down the street, miss," one of the serving wenches smiles broadly in her approach to the table. "Perhaps you'd be more comfortable there?"

    Anna ignores the suggestion, preferring to allow Mags to reply, and continues to assess the room. (OOC: insert Maggie's retort as appropriate). In the far corner another door leads to the back and it is there that the serving women constantly return, so it is there that Anna assumes the proprietor resides.

    "I wish t' speak with Mr. Grover," she turns a cold and calculating eye on the wench. There's no misgivings, no judgment, just a detached icy presence addressing a servant. "Business."

    Raising her eyebrows, the serving girl looks to be about to reply with a practiced retort but thinks better of it. Glancing between the two armed red-heads, she nods briefly and turns to make her way briskly to the back room. Both of the Cole sisters can see that they've drawn the attention of the few patrons present; men staring over their mugs with dirty, swarthy complexions and sunken eyes filled with self-loathing and hate. And though Anna is mentally categorizing the perceived danger of each man, she otherwise makes them think that they are of no interest to her by using a short fingernail to dig at the wood grain in the scarred tabletop and staring, for the most part, at the door through which the waitress went.

    A few minutes pass before a burly man in a stained leather apron over a rough cotton shirt with an open collar follows the maid from the back and looks to where she points. Vergil Grover is no more than five eleven with a bald head, large handlebar mustaches, two huge gold hoop earings that drag his lobes down, and a broadness about him that makes Anna immediately think of a bull. The all-seeing eye is tattooed on his chest between his collarbones, staring out from the opening in his collar and his beefy forearms are covered with additional ink from Asian styled dragons to African tribal marks. He stands in assessment for a brief time before touching the serving wench's bare shoulder and sending her on her way as he clomps towards the Cole's table.

    "You demanded an audience?" he rumbles in a voice that heralds straight from the center of the earth. The sarcasm wasn't lost on Anna.

    Rising up, she looks him in the eye, standing with no more than a foot and a half between them. "I asked t' meet with Mr. Grover, an' if'n yer ‘im, then I'm pleased with the service o' yer establishmen' thus far."

    "I'm Virgel Grover," he replies, the left side of his mustaches twitching. "An' who might you be, young miss?"

    "I am Captain Anna Cole o' the Sun Dog," Anna motions to the chair opposite her and to Maggie's right. "An' this is my first mate, Maggie Cole."

    "Ne'er heard o' ya," he remains standing and so, too, does Anna. "Either o' ya. So, tell me why I should be wastin' my morning talking with ya an' be quick ‘bout it."

    "We was told tha' you'd be the one we want t' strike up a business relationship with t' offload cargo." Captain Cole tilts her head, the plume on her hat drifting a little in the breeze caused by the motion. "If tha's no' true, well then, we'll be on our way. I've no time t' waste with pleasantries, Mr. Grover."

    Suspiciously eying the two women through beady little orbs, Virgel chews his tongue and frowns. "Two women come int' my place an' want t' do business, Captain an' first mate, ya say?"

    "Aye," Anna replies evenly. "Captain an' first mate o' the Sun Dog. New to Tortuga."

    "How, in the bloody nine, is it tha' two women captain a ship?" Apparently deciding that at least this bit of information is worth his time, Grover steps to the side and pulls out the proffered chair. "Most sailors can barely stand to be on board a ship when women are passengers."

    "I'm no' gonna sit here an' debate the merits o' my captaincy, Mr. Grover," Anna attempts to steer him back to the matter at hand. "Are ya interested in me cargo, or should I be lookin' elsewhere fer a business partner?"

    "Tell ya what, miss," Virgil slides easily into the chair and places one heavy arm on the table. "You spend that sass elsewhere. I can tell that ya got spunk, an' the other one here seems t' have the devil ‘n her heart. So, I've no doubt that the two o' you can muster enough steel t' hold yer own in most situations. But, I've got t' test the waters ‘fore I cast off. I'd like t' inspect yer hold before committin' t' a thing."

    Anna can sense Maggie's response coming. Most often, the cargo is brought to a location for inspection. The only reason that Captain Cole can fathom Grover wishing to see their hold is to get a better idea of the women he's dealing with and how they run their ship.

    "I'll show ya mine if ya show me yours," Anna Cole states coldly after a moment's thought.

    Grover flashes a wily grin, "Delightful."

    "Mags," Anna begins without taking her eyes off the wide features of the proprietor. "Head on back t' the Dog an' prepare t' receive a visitor."

    (OOC: End time at roughly 11:00 AM)

    *  *  *  *  *

    Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), roughly 11:00 A.M.; The One-Eyed Parrot

    Shark Tooth sets his now-finished third mug of grog on a nearby vacant table, as he slowly, but cautiously, glides silently between the tables and chairs filled with the boisterous patrons who had gathered to relieve themselves of gold, silver, and other personal possessions, he finds another nearly vacant table within range of the brewing ruckus. The Master Gunner focuses his gaze upon a certain buccaneer silently sipping his ale much to the annoyance of a group of rum-sodden patrons who are taking great offense to the perceived insult of being ignored.

    Seven or eight ruffians gather around the brooding buccaneer with the apparent intent to teach the silent sipper some manners—not because of any particular insult, but rather because they are ready to dispense a flogging for no particular reason and it seems to them that now is as good a time as any!

    One of the ruffians has barely gotten the words "You bilge-sucking rat!" out of his mouth, when the silent sipper leaps to his feet and smashes his ale mug against the side of his slow-witted head. Another of the agitators manages a hurried, "Blimey!" before having his legs cut out from under him by a well-timed leg sweep! Unfortunately, that's as much advantage as the buccaneer maintains as the rest of the mob falls upon him while he attempts to regain his feet, fists flying, booted feet kicking.

    Blackheart Daxon has been using this pub as a temporary refuge from his past; dwelling on the losses he has endured in his time. Considering the loss of his parents, who were murdered by a double-crossing trader in front of him is always angering. He sits silently sipping his ale. Petty talk means nothing to him anymore. He has lost too much, all things considered, with the recent passing of his captain—the only person who he cares about after his parents' death. He had been with that captain for years and traveled from land to land. Hearing the chatter and insults coming from the scallywags near him does not distract him enough to keep him from seeing the stranger approach a nearby table; a man apparently new to these parts.

    "Reckon'd yer better t'an us, ya scum bag. Yer a deck washer." Blackheart decides that he has had enough as he absorbs the insults being thrown at him. Bracing himself and having no time to deal with fools, he grips his mug firmly. One more insult thrown and he leaps, smashing the cup against the face of a dirty old pirate delivering the words! If the group of sailors wants trouble, they'll get it from him. Not waiting to see the results of his surprise attack, Daxon follows his swing with a leg sweep while pulling his dagger from its sheathe in his belt. That's when the room darkens for the rush of bodies swarming him and he feels the first kicks and punches landing against his legs, back, ribs, and neck.

    Shark Tooth has seen enough and leaps into the fray! Fists swinging, he is determined to even the odds and perhaps acquire a new friendship for his trouble! His aft attack delivers a telling blow to the back of a thin-haired man with an octopus tattoo on the back of his deeply tanned neck. The fellow grunts and staggers forward a step before regaining his balance and turning towards this new threat.

    Overwhelmed by the odds, Blackheart lashes out with his blade and lands a back-handed cut on the thigh of one man, hearing the satisfying cry of pain penetrate the scuffle just as he's clocked in the right jaw by a heavy hand that drops him to his knees. He twists just as a boot careens into his abdomen and tenses against the pain that ripples through his gut.

    Another two of the trouble-causers turn with their octopus inked fellow and spread to face the interloper. "Lookin' fer a beatin', eh?" one growls as, perhaps hoping to distract Shark Tooth while the other two rush him. Octopus goes low while his shirtless friend attempts a haymaker. Able to avoid the latter, Wylie is wrapped around his middle and driven back onto a table only to have the piece of furniture roll to the left and spill both men to the ground below amidst raining mugs and sour ale.

    Driving both hands down on Octopus' back, Shark Tooth strike hard and the air is pushed from the man's lungs. Wylie is able to grip the sailor by the shoulders and roll him from on top just in time to receive a boot to the face that kicks his head back and drops him to the floor, stars in his eyes.

    The use of a dagger in a fist fight is, perhaps, a bit uncalled for and the men pressing Blackheart are not forgiving. They drive him further to the floor and wrap his arm in a grip so that he cannot swing that blade again. The dour man finds himself completely immobile, held under the arms and up about the neck while two men stand in front and repeatedly strike him in the face. Mercifully, he's not long conscious and darkness soon sweeps him away.

    Mercy isn't so intent on bestowing anything Shark Tooth's way. Reeling from the kick to the face and the subsequent smashing of his head against the wood floor, he feels a weight press against his ribs as a body crouches over him, and that's when the beating really begins. The other two men set about securing his arms and legs so that he cannot fight back, but no matter how hard he is punched, no matter the cuts to his eyebrow, the split of his lip, he remains aware of the beating. Weakened to a point of being unable to fight back at all, Wylie Shark Tooth Stryker eventually feels the weight leave his upper body and through his swollen eye, can barely make out the shadowed silhouettes of the men who had delivered the beating standing over him.

    "That's a special gift from Toby O'Reilley o' the Foam Rider, ya one-eyed cur." The sound of spit being issued is how Wylie knows he's been spit upon. He doesn't feel it. His body is in shock from the beating. The assailants move away and the sounds of the bar return to normal. Wylie and Daxon have been left to recover of their own accord on the dirty floor of the One-Eyed Parrot.

    (OOC: Approximately fifteen minutes have passed, time being 11:15 AM).

    Finally feeling enough energy to move, Shark Tooth rolls over and drags himself to his knees. The table and chairs next to him have been righted and the crockery pulled away. Using what little returning strength he has, the Sea Dog's gunner pulls himself heavily into a chair and hangs his head over the table, trying to see through his swollen eye whether the man he had moved to help is conscious yet.

    Blackheart stirs, the blackness giving way to light as his eyes flutter open. Pain registers about his face and neck, his ribs throb, and there's a dull ache in his left thigh. Wincing, no longer dwelling on his losses but rather focusing on his present condition, Daxon strains to rest upon his elbows and looks down his length. Sticking out of his left leg at a right angle is his dagger. The ruffians had been kind enough to leave it with him, stabbing it through his muscle and into his bone. Blood soaked the floor beneath him and the throbbing turned instantly into a screaming pain.

    (OOC: All right, gentlemen. Your actions.)

    *  *  *  *  *

    Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), roughly 10:30 A.M.; The Beach

    Standing just outside of the surf, boots already spattered and dusted with the beach, Fin and Cracker survey the settlement and the fort on the hill beyond. The fort's position provides cover fire for the bay, but any ship positioning just outside of those heavies could pummel the coastal region of the settlement in comfort. At least for a while. Turning about on his heel, Fin can't see anything that would represent a standing navy. Ships are in the harbor, sure, but banners are showing varying ship allegiances and none are flying any colors representing any particular country. The question is, where to go to begin finding their next prize.

    *  *  *  *  *

    Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), roughly 10:30 A.M.; The Le Porc Fattest Tavern

    Eventually focusing on a table where three men talk about the weather patterns and their recent arrival in port, Goncalvo walks over to the table, "Good day gentlemen. I must admit, I overheard your talk regarding the blowing of the winds and found myself intrigued. My ship has just recently arrived and I find myself at a loss in regards to the local conditions. It would be a shame to see harm come to my good ship due to my lack of knowledge. If it pleases you, I would join your table and provide libations for all in return for any enlightenment you could provide."

    A chubby, red-faced man with short, curly gray hair and beard raises his eyebrows at being interrupted and places both hands on the edge of the table. He wears a gray long coat with black buttons and trim over a sullied brown cotton poet's shirt. A thick black belt is strapped over his left shoulder to his right hip and his middle girth is barely contained by the ornately silver buckled belt at his waist. A flintlock pistol is ready for a left-handed draw from his right side and a cutlass with a bronze handle is strapped to his left.

    To his right sits a rail thin man with wide eyes, pointy features, and a scruffy mustaches and beard of blonde that can barely be seen except in the right light. Long-necked and balding, he wears a simple red shirt that's been mended and patched a few times but has ruffles at the collar like a gentleman would have at court. His sword is slung from a belt over his right shoulder down to his left side and there's no apparent pistol.

    To the red-faced man's left is a dark-haired man with tight curls that extend into his thick beard and mustaches. Of Spanish heritage, he's olive-colored with hazel eyes that are lined about the orbs from squinting into the sun. He wears a faded blue long coat with silver trim and a sweat-stained blue blouse, open at the collar down to mid-chest to reveal a puff of graying chest hair. He carries a dirk, a cutlass, and a brace of two flintlocks.

    "New here, eh?" the chubby man says after eyeing the Portuguese sailor up and down. "I wasn't aware any trade was due this day. Please, be seated." He points to the remaining chair at the table between the other two and continues. "I am Captain Thomas Levy of the Azure Seas. This is my sailmaster," he motions to the wiry fellow,"Mr. Olsen, and this is my quartermaster, Mr. Fernandez. We thank ye kindly for the libations, Mr,?"


    Posted on 2017-07-17 at 12:41:40.

    Topic: Bring Me That Horizon Q&A
    Subject: I very much enjoyed...


    Reading everyone's posts thus far. Bravo.

    I apologize for the mistake I made in placing the game in the Freeform section and the confusion it has caused. I thought about putting it in the D&D section, but seeing as I harbor nothing but disgust for the rules of D&D on a whole, I didn't want to sully the realityBITES system with association.

    So, here are some common rules to writing posts that should be notes:


  • If you want the character to perform a skill check (the better you'll know once you receive your character sheets), just put it in parenthesis with an OOC: in front of the request. e.g. OOC: Awareness check.).

  • If you wish to engage in combat, or in the event that combat erupts, you'll need to provide me with an Offense, Defense, and general purpose (such as, Fin's purpose is to stay close to Anna and see to it she doesn't get flanked). That way, I can write out as much combat as possible without having to draw it out as that can get tedious in PBP games.

  • Small interactions with NPCs like what Eol posted with between Fin and Blaze is fine. You can rest assured that most of the NPCs will do whatever they are told. Longer discourses and special circumstances will require my involvement.



  • If I think of any others, I'll share them with you. I'll endeavor to update the game every Monday for sure and will do so with the majority of players having posted for their characters. If I don't have majority, I'll hold off a week to update the game until majority is attained. If I don't have majority for three weeks running, I'll consider the game dead and close it down. An alternative to shutting the game down is removing characters from play (which is really easy to do and is usually done through character death). I'll be happy to continue the game as long as I have players willing to play.

    Posted on 2017-07-17 at 10:41:28.

    Topic: Bring Me That Horizon Q&A
    Subject: I think so far is no worse than...


    most PG-13 movies would be. For the sale of the site, let's try to keep it at that rearing. The asterisks help a lot.

    Just a reminder that though I posted the game thread in the freeform section ood the site our little game is a rules based one. Benign interactions can be role- played out a bit, but interactions where the characters will potentially gain something (info, favors, etc.) have outcomes determined by skill checks and die results. Especially combat.

    Keep in mind that I named my game system realityBITES for a reason. Consequences do occur and they can be quite heavy.

    Posted on 2017-07-15 at 01:25:49.
    Edited on 2017-07-15 at 01:26:00 by Bromern Sal

    Topic: Bring Me That Horizon Q&A
    Subject: But...


    Writing is fun!

    Posted on 2017-07-14 at 17:30:42.

    Topic: Bring Me That Horizon Q&A
    Subject: Get to the tavern post haste!


    We've some hunting to do!

    Posted on 2017-07-14 at 10:40:44.

     


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