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You are here: Home --> Forum Home --> Recent posts by Bromern Sal
Topic: Bring Me That Horizon Q&A
Subject:


We are excited to have you back. I haven't written any continuation because I believe that the ball is in your court.



Posted on 2018-05-21 at 10:58:03.

Topic: Flesh & Blood - A CyberPunk Game
Subject:


Thanks, Espatier. I have that sourcebook but as we're playing in the V3 version of Night City (basically), the Enclaves have taken over concepts of Chinatown, Little Japan, etc. mixing races based on alt-cults. So, in effect, there is no more Chinatown just a high concentration of like-minded, Chinese living within any given enclave alongside Japanese, American, English, Latino, etc...


Thank you for the posts thus far. We are still waiting on a post from Keeper and Aletheia before continuing.



Posted on 2018-05-21 at 10:55:34.

Topic: Flesh & Blood - A CyberPunk Game
Subject:


Great questions.



  1. Where was Jace last seen?  Was it at the school?  Was he ever seen leaving the school?  I'm asking because if he was never seen leaving the school those Upstairs Downstairs vans seem pretty important to me.

    Answer: He was last seen at the school outside of his dorm. The last recorded instance of him is the one that Blossom just found. He was not seen leaving the school.


  2. Is it possible to trace the vehicles? This would mean who was driving them, what their schedule was, and where they went. Did they reach their next scheduled stop on time?

    Answer: In order to trace the vehicles, one would need a clear shot of the license plate which you don't have. An alternative method is to find out which company vehicles were scheduled for the school through the company's computers that Blossom needs to be onsite to access. If she has access to their logs, she might be able to find information that will lead to the right vehicle and even a record of its GPS log.


  3. If Jace never left the school these seem like really important questions. If he did, they are borderline meaningless. 

    Answer: I like that you're thinking this through and that you posted the questions in character so there can be interaction... hint, everyone, interaction. I'm awarding you 1 Creative Currency for being engaged.



Posted on 2018-05-18 at 11:22:43.

Topic: Flesh & Blood - A CyberPunk Game
Subject:


Looking forward to it. 



Posted on 2018-05-17 at 10:41:01.

Topic: Fly Eagle Express
Subject:


Huzzah!



Posted on 2018-05-15 at 13:19:06.

Topic: Flesh & Blood - A CyberPunk Game
Subject:


Thank you for all of your posts. I enjoy the added flavor. 


I've updated the game. Here are some key points to help you with your posts.



  • Everyone regrouped outside of the mallplex and made your way to the bar (Glass Bottom Bar & Grill) together with the exception of Blossom who met you there.

  • It's been a good long while since you slept. I've taken the liberty of making Endurance checks for each of your characters and the results are in the post. Please play accordingly.

  • Enclave access is specifically tied to your dog tags. Each character has dog tags, but not all within your group are of the Edgerunner alt-cult. This means that those of you who aren't are treated with more suspicion than those of you who are, and when you are members, you're still treated with suspicion unless you're a regular (like Cred-Stick Charlie is).

  • Keep in mind that the time when you reach the Enclave is roughly somewhere around 9:00 PM and when everyone wakes from their naps, it is 11:00 PM. 

  • EnduroDrink is like a Monster only chemically charged to actually increase one's endurance for a short period of time. Each EnduroDrink will provide a +1 Endurance for 2-hours. So, in the case of being required to make another Endurance check (which a 2-hour nap will put off for 4-hours instead of 1-hour), you'd be at a +1 if such a roll is required within that 2-hour period of having ingested the drink. Too many of these can cause a heart attack.

  • Ms. White is the headmistress of the Bartholomew School. Her only connection with Upstairs Downstairs, Inc. is that she approved the contract.


I hope this helps. I look forward to your posts.



Posted on 2018-05-14 at 17:19:12.

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


Glass Bottom Bar & Grill | Night City Integrate | Midcity | UrbanZone - March 8th, Day 2 (Saturday), 7:52 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)


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


As the two women's eyes meet, Echo's face breaks into a rare full grin, happy to see the girl after spending the last hours with so much testosterone.


"Hola, Chica!" She says to Blossom, still grinning. "Thanks for saving space."


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


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


Echo's eyes practically complete a 360-degree rotation in her head at the crooner’s move, wondering if she should mention his rudeness towards the poor doctor to Blossom, but deciding that though the pretty Asian might look fragile, she could most likely hold her own against him. Besides, she’s no telltale—that would be childish and the team doesn’t need anything to drive a wedge between them. Plus, she has her own issues to deal with.


Scooting into the booth opposite Blossom, she removes her balaclava and grabs a few napkins, trying to dry at least her face and hands, and focuses on putting what little info they gathered from the doc in the forefront of her mind while dismissing Vegas' shortcomings.


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


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


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


"A Coke for me, please," Echo says, not wanting to dull her senses with alcohol. Plus, she dislikes the taste of beer, wine is more to her liking.


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


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


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


Upstairs Downstairs Inc. the fixer thinks as he listens to the conversations that surround him. Luther works his skills with scanning the interwebs on his agent while sitting at the bar/restaurant. He asks for just water. No alcohol for him.


"Near as I see it we've got a couple of options," the dapper solo leans forward after ordering his beer and addresses the team from beneath the brim of his fedora. "There is still a bunch of school staff that could have some insight. We could track each of them down and pay them visits like we did with the Professor back there. If we go that route, I suggest we start with this Ms. White. She's the headmistress, or whatever, for the Bartholomew School and may be able to clue us into some high-level s***.

"We can chase down whatever leads from this Upstairs Downstairs, Inc. I imagine that might take some more ops work but it seems like Jace had some cozy talk time with at least one of the employees. So, that might be our best lead yet.

"And last, but perhaps something that we can do while working on another angle, is that Cred Stick Charlie here might be able to put his feelers out to see what the word on the street is concerning the boy. I hear tell that blokes in your line of work, Charlie, are somewhat adept at that sort of thing. Starlight wouldn't have glued us together if she thought you could be anything but helpful."

"I've been through the footage with as fine a tooth comb as digitally possible," Blossom adds around the straw she has in her mouth. "The only vehicles that arrive on scene or leave during our window belong to the Upstairs Downstairs peoples."


"All of those options sound appropriate,” Ghlahn adds in a low, barely-audible tone, “but they sound like jobs for someone who blends in a bit more than I do. Unless you want to try to scare them into talking that is. If any of you want me to go with them I certainly won't say no, but if not I'll just watch from a distance for now."


Fixer listens to the options before chiming in, "Ok, well, all of that makes some sense. Certainly, Cred-stick should do what he does. That just makes sense. It is what he is here for. I'm for looking into the cleaning staff. Let's go talk to Mrs. White."


“Choombas!” Charlie states emphatically, “I found a website matching the description of Upstairs Downstairs Inc and it looks like we have a contact number with some standard Monday through Friday postings.”


Cred-Stick Charlie taps a few keys and then listens to the agent for a few seconds before continuing with a frown, “Yup, just  like I thought... answering service.”


As Luther sits and listens to the others, he begins to put in some work time on his Fixer Business. Luther taps away at his touchscreen as the group talks about everyone's next move. Absently pulling out his alt cult dog tags, he begins to rub them between his fingers for a bit. He takes a couple of sips of water and then closes his eyes and recites a Native American prayer.


Great grandfather, hear his child’s prayer, I need guidance and directing for this little one is lost in this growing metal city, for I have lost my way. This child asks for forgiveness for missing time with his living clan and not dancing in the great prayer circle. Luther sighs as if he didn’t get something inspirational or divine after his soft words and sits in silence.


Echo crumples the now sodden napkins into a ball and sets them on the table. She takes the time to look up and inspect their new team member, 'Cred-Stick' Charlie, scanning Ghlahn, and Casino as well. The petite nomad offers a polite nod to Charlie; a brief smile and nod to Ghlahn; and a broader smile and nod to the solo that makes her eyes sparkle when his meet hers. Suddenly realizing her gaze lingers too long on him, she grabs the damp napkins back off the table and dabs at her arms, blushing. Saved from anyone asking awkward questions by the arrival of their drinks, Elizabeth 'Echo' Cooper focuses on her Coke, listening to the ideas from the team and agreeing they were all good next steps before offering one of her own.


"Blossom", she asks, turning to the woman, "I'm guessing that vid has a timestamp on it? Could you get into their employee schedules and see which female workers were out there that day, and working in that building? That might save a bit of time by hopefully gaining some names without having to chat with the bosses. I feel the less we talk to regular folk", her eyes dart to Vegas and back before she can stop herself, "The less folk might be alerted to us coming about and asking questions."


“Already thought of that, Peach,” the hacker shakes her head slowly causing the reflection of overhead lights to sway within the heart-shaped sunglasses she wears. “There’s a timestamp, sure ‘nuff, but the employee records are sealed. I’d need to be on-site to pull that data. Good thinkin’, though!”


Casino listens to the various idea's he catches himself looking around at the other runners, his gaze settling on Echo. For better or worse there is a bond growing between them. "I think Blossom and Vegas are on the right track so I'm in. Let’s do as Fixer said; check out this Miss White."


Luther nods, then speaks, “Yeah, I’ll ask around a bit and see what kind of info that I can get and I’ll check back with you guys soon via agent.” He looks upon his alt cult dog tags, then nods to himself. “Anyone wanna go down to the Edgerunner's Enclave? We could take the underground shortcut near here... anyone?”


“You’re bailing on us?” Vegas stares flatly at the new addition to the team.


“Now hold on,” Bloodbank sets his beer down and leans forward. “We’ve been at this for no small amount of time and I’m willing to wager that not many of us are operating on much sleep. So, we either proceed with a lot of stim, or we catch an hour or two of shut-eye, and an Enclave could allow us some solid downtime while putting this man in his element.


“I know Jace doesn’t have a whole lot of time, but we’re no good to anyone dogged out and foggy.”


(OOC: Endurance Checks by Character rolled using Roll20.net. The current challenge level is 18. At this point, for every additional hour your characters go without sleep, the challenge level increases by one:


Bloodbank: rolling 1d10 + 12 = (5)+12 = 17 (exhausted - needs rest)


Vegas: rolling 1d10 + 19 = (10)+19 = 29 (Exploding 10) rolling 1d10 + 29 (4)+29 = 33


M'harú Ghlahn: rolling 1d10 + 12 (2)+12 = 14 (exhausted - needs rest)


Fixer: rolling 1d10 + 12 (5)+12 = 17 (exhausted - needs rest)


Echo: rolling 1d10 + 20 (3)+20 = 23


Casino: rolling 1d10 + 19 (6)+19 = 25


Blossom: rolling 1d10 + 12 (3)+12 = 15 (exhausted - needs rest)


Cred-Stick Charlie isn’t included in this because he joined the group later and it is assumed he’s operating on a full-night’s sleep.


)


“We don’t have that kind of time to waste,” Vegas argues while spreading his hands, palm up.


“I agree with Bloodbank,” Blossom mumbles, the charge seemingly draining from her as her shoulders slump with the realization of how tired she is.


Luther looks upon the group, “Well... if anyone changes their minds I can be reached on my agent.” Rising, he tugs his overcoat about him and reaches for his drone case.


“Now, hold on,” the Sinatra look-alike shakes his head and looks down at the table. “I don’t like the thought of us not being able to take action quickly when needed, so I’ll concede. How ‘bout the lot of us soft-shoe our way to this Enclave and everyone can get some rest while Charlie, here, does his song and dance routine. A couple of hours tops, and then we are back at it. What say you all?”


(OOC: Assuming no complaints&hellip


Luther turns and leads the group from the bar once they gather up their things.


Enclaves for the various alt-cults are staggered throughout the stretch of nano-builder constructs spanning the whole of the California coastline. Edgerunners, Desnai, Cee-Metal, Riptide… all of the alt-cults, and there are multiple Enclaves for each one with Edgerunner Enclaves being the most prevalent. The node in the dog tags syncs up with the agent to give directions to the Enclave entrances making it easy to find the one that each individual is associated with and dog tag I.D.s are shared across each alt-cult’s network to provide access for all members wherever they may be in the sprawling mass of humanity.


Once again being pelted by the cool rain, faces masked to filter against the harmful toxins in the air, the group find themselves traversing garbage infested alleyways, backstreet corridors, and narrow, busy streets filled with people focused on their various interests and barely paying the team any mind. Eventually, the Edgerunner’s agents notify each individual that they are upon the Enclave entrance as they come to the narrow, gated mouth of an alley.


Bathed in the red neon glow of a nearby sign, the dark street and alley present an ominous, devilish facade. Twisting and turning in on itself, the iron gate is a work of art the likes of which could rival the famous gates of Charleston, SC, and hunkered down beneath a sparse awning are two individuals wrapped in the shadow’s embrace. Standing in front of the gate, the team watches one of the shadows tear away from the relative comfort of the alcove, a single glowing red eye focusing on them.


With a trucker’s ball cap turned backward on his head and a NuCybe eye splice for his left eye, the burly looking, bearded caucasian fellow lumbers up to the gate with his hands tucked into the heavy wool peacoat he wears.


“Tags,” he says in a surprisingly high voice.


Charlie holds his up knowing that the node is being read by the cyberware in the gatekeeper’s eye. Stepping aside, he allows Vegas to move in next, then Blossom followed by Bloodbank. Next comes Casino and Fixer leaving the non-Edgerunner members for last.


“And these?” the Kevin Smith look-alike asks bluntly giving a nod to the remaining team members.


“They’re with us,” Vegas states, rolling his shoulders to throw the water from them.


“Oh yeah?”


“Yeah,” Vegas smiles his lopsided grin. “Bill me.”


“Count on it.”


Stepping up to the lock, the guard passes his hand over it and the gate clicks providing the team entrance.    


“Don’t need t’ remind you that this lot is your responsibility,” his red eye settles directly on Vegas’ sculpted face with an unsaid addition to the warning.


“Best behavior,” Vegas raised his hands defensively. “I promise.”


At the end of the alley, the team finds themselves stepping into an open bazaar with the massive skyscrapers and starscrapers framing the open-air marketplace in glittering borders that eventually break up the clouds overhead with crisscrossing walkways. Noise is a huge element of the atmosphere here; people calling out to each other, the hum of conversation mixed with the baritone of generator engines playing the baseline, and even the sounds of dogs barking. Navigating the maze is no easy thing. More often than not, vendors and service providers move their tents around to avoid bill collectors, take advantage of available space, and run various rackets and that’s just the market. The surrounding buildings are all Edgerunner Enclave property, locked down from the outside with access only given from within the bazaar. Inside those towering giants, more profitable businesses exist—those that can afford the storefronts—housing units are rented, gardens and parks exist, and eventually, the Enclave Council quarters look down over their small kingdoms.


Strolling down one of the sodden corridors, stepping over beer cans, plastic bags, and various other trash while trying to avoid bumping shoulders with equally drenched inhabitants, the team discovers a coffin motel off to the right.


Each coffin unit is stacked on top of the foundation units and clamped down using electromagnetic locking mechanisms to keep them from being knocked over by any event short of a cataclysmic one. Elevator platforms sit in front of each column with very little space between them and a CredChip Reader installed right on the platform. A holographic woman in a nighty hovers over the top of the whole assembly beckoning passersbys with an enticing gaze and a crooked finger while lounging seductively on her side. A much less attractive Asian man stands just in front of the temporary domiciles yelling in heavily accented English, “Get rest! You do it now! Cheap. No rats!” while a mangy looking, real-life dog, sits forlornly at his muddy, booted feet.


“This work for everyone?” Vegas turns and addresses his team. “Two hours enough time?”


“Two hours is better than nothin’,” Bloodbank nods and wearily walks past the crooner to board one of the elevator platforms.


“You no regret!” the Asian man grins exposing rotting teeth and blackened gums. “You sleep like baby.”


“Well,” Blossom stifles a yawn with the back of her hand. “That’ll keep me up.”


“I can think of other things much more pleasant to keep you up,” Vegas sweeps in with a roguish smile.


“So can I,” Blossom quips, tossing her soaked platinum hair over her shoulder with a deft turn of her head as she glides past the solo. “But I think I’ll try my luck with the nightmares for the time being, choomba.”


“She don’t know what she’s missing,” the fedora-wearing gunman grins at his partner. “You gonna try to get some shut-eye?”


(OOC: Casino’s reply… we can continue this conversation if necessary, otherwise, if Casino is down with catching some Z’s, then Vegas will resign himself to the same.)


(OOC: Two hours of sleep within the coffin compartment costs 5 NCD/hour, so a total of 10.)


To Luther, the Enclave is like an underground club scene. They have gaming to entertain the inhabitants as well as music, mind-numbing sounds blasting out of small to medium stalls in what the fixer can only call a soulk (Bazaar).


His shoulders relax a bit as he makes his way to find an Agent Center away from the matchbox sleep modules where the others are going to spend the next couple of hours. Luther knows that his agent won’t connect unless he can connect via the Enclave’s secured network. Once again using his dog tags as his ID, the Native American entrepreneur is allowed to make and receive network calls via his agent. Inside the booth, where Luther sits connected to the private network via his agent, it is hot and humid, sweaty-smelling, with the additional odor of “Dorph” smoke.


** SECURING LINES **


** TUNNELING **


** SECURED LINE ACHIEVED **


His agent’s app transcends from red to yellow while connecting, then finally green. Mentally activating the menu, he makes his selection.


VOICE CALLS --


Welcome to the Edgerunner Voice Network, Choomba. Who do you want to connect with? The pleasant female voice sounds in his head.


Kelsey Dawn, he responds.


His agent rings the other end to no avail till the voicemail picked up. “Ms Dawn? Yeah, this is Mr. Charlie. Yes, the one that met you during your Battle of the Bands downtown. Well, the reason why I’m calling you is simple... you’ve got talent and I would like to see—with your permission—if you would allow me to book a few gigs. If you’re interested in making some additional money?”


She’ll know how to reach him so Luther doesn’t leave anything further. Mentally disconnecting the call, he reaches out again.


VOICE CALLS --


Welcome to the Edgerunner Voice Network, Choomba. Who do you want to connect with? The pleasant female voice sounds in his head.


"Sunny" Higgins, he sounds off.


His agent rings the other end, but again, to no avail resulting in voicemail picking up.


“Ms Higgins... it’s me, Mr Charlie. Are you still interested in my proposition about making some extra credits as my secretary? We can work out the details over dinner if your free this week.”


He again disconnects and charts another call.


VOICE CALLS --


Welcome to the Edgerunner Voice Network, Choomba. Who do you want to connect with? The pleasant female voice sounds in his head.


"Packer" Jones, he inputs.


Voicemail again...


“What’s crackin Packer? You still got that boom boom, POW, dorph right? I think that I might have a new drop for you to set up shop soon. I’m dealing with a rocker group so I’m talking exclusive rights if you want to work a little something, something, player. So if you're feeling me, hit me up... No shade…


“Mr Charlie, peace out.”


And another disconnect. Luther is tired of talking to voicemails, but this is what fixers need to do to be that type of person. It is just like the others said, “Feast and Fame or Famine and Foolhardiness.”


Damn can’t a brother catch a break here, Luther thinks back to his prayer and closes his eyes while mouthing the words, “Please Grandfather...”


VOICE CALLS --


Welcome to the Edgerunner Voice Network, Choomba. Who do you want to connect with? The pleasant female voice sounds in his head.


Yo Suk-Chul, he thinks, hoping his prayer has been heard. This time, there’s a click on the other end.


“‘Sup?”


“CHOOMBA! Mr. Charlie here, and I got some sweet deals on some new shoes. Croakers that don’t ask questions, so let’s config something, eh? And if you need an experienced dropman, hollar atcha boy, here first!”


“Sigan-i majchwoseo, Mister Charlie! How many do you got? What’s the tag?”


“8 pairs of shoes, Choomba,” remarks Luther. “Eight hundred.”


“We’ll take six,” Yo Suk-Chul immediately responds. “How soon can you have them delivered?”


“As soon as I can get a runner to drop them off, I'll contact you to drop a pin so I’ll know where to meet.”


“You got it,” the voice on the other end responds. “Don’t wait too long. Gotta move the merch. It’s starting to stink.”


** CALL ENDED **


“Thank you, Grandfather,” Luther says out loud, his voice echoing dully from the odorous booth. Now he’s got to find some runners to drop off the goods.


VOICE CALLS --


Welcome to the Edgerunner Voice Network, Choomba. Who do you want to connect with? The pleasant female voice sounds in his head.


Tomás Japón, he orders, but he’s back to voicemails.


“Vato, Diego me! You need some work Perro?!”


Cred-Stick Charlie manually ends the call while trying to hide his frustration.


VOICE CALLS --


Welcome to the Edgerunner Voice Network, Choomba. Who do you want to connect with? The pleasant female voice sounds in his head.


Flore "Feathers" Messier, his thoughts refocus only to have his frustration levels rise with the sound of her voicemail service answering.


“Feathers!” he attempts to hide his consternation. “Hey, baby girl, you need some work? You know us natives need to stick together, right FAM?”


** END CALL **


Luther sighs, “Just one Grandpa, but thank you for that one.” Exiting his private booth, he begins to wander about the enclave in search of GIRI work. Heading towards the vehicle yards where sounds of engines and the clanking of the metal ring out over the blasting, grinding, music.


Putting out his feelers to other fixers on the network as well as asking around the enclave about doing some “back-scratching,” Luther asks around a bit to several vendors. He makes several posts within the Enclave’s network sites to a mess of info brokers to assist with working on his problem. With time all problems would get solved, but Luther doesn’t have time and neither does the quarry. Charlie spends more of his time posting with his NuCybe interface about trading GIRI for pay or additional GIRI as well. Soon, Luther hopes to gain more information than just an address, agent number, and webpage.


Looking over his last posting to the network boards to see if it had the “hustle and flow,” he decides to drop another post. Fingers flying across his agent’s touchscreen, Cred-Stick Charlie writes...


What’s good FAM, Bless up!


Mr Charlie here...


Listen up players and playettes, I’m on one!. I’m out here to ride hard with my new Fam here in the night city and I ain't got nothing but love and want to share my blessings, so welcome to the hot spot and I’m looking to trade and make Giri with affiliates. No shade to the haters because I’m just getting my grinding on. I’m looking to wheel and deal while making some Giri, so hit me back if you got something that you might need help with. Hollar atcha boy boy first. Remember FAMILY over friends, no shade.


415-555-1234@CA.Night_City#9246


Cred Stick Charlie


Satisfied with his GIRI post, he is confident that work or GIRI will come his way. So, to pass the time, Luther makes his way through several crowded, small, traffic-heavy areas. Inquiring with different vendors that are hawking their wares along the way.


(OOC: Espatier rolled 1d10+9 Gather Info (6)+9 = 15 (Streetwise), to Streetdeal: 1+11 = 12


Looks like Charlie isn't getting any good results yet.)


Time’s rolling up on the two-hour mark and still no love from the network. Resigning himself to a bad report, Cred-Stick Charlie makes his way back to the coffin motel.


Two hours just isn’t enough to be fully rejuvenated, but it is enough to pull him together for a few hours. Soft guitar wakes Bloodbank from his slumber and for a moment the medtech doesn’t know where he is. He’s staring at a ceiling scarred by deep cut graffiti in the cream-colored plastic, marked by pen and—Is that blood?—, but then it comes back to him. Jace, the team, their timetable… snatching the agent from his chest, Colin rolls over and hits the call button. A couple of seconds later he’s greeted by a beep as the lift arrives and his coffin door unlatches. Pushing the door open, the medic slides out and drops his booted feet to the corrugated steel platform of the lift, hoisting his bag over his shoulder in the process.


Scanning his surroundings through the eyeholes of his combat mask, Colin breathes in the filtered air and considers how tired he still is. Could he operate under these conditions? Yes. Would it be better if he had a clearer head and less fatigue? Yes. Thinking back to his Medical School days, Bloodbank considers their options.


“Feelin’ better?” Vegas calls as the medtech steps into the mud and strolls towards where the team is gathering.


“A little,” Looking about, Colin continues, “Anyone up for EnduroDrink? Bet we could find some shops selling the stuff nearby.”


“That stuff tastes like s***, but you can live on it,” Blossom injects with a smile as she unwraps a lollipop. “I could use the boost.”


“Fine, we’ll see about grabbing some on our way out,” Vegas concedes. “Now, where’s that fix—There he is! Charlie! What’d you find out?


(OOC: Charlie’s turn to report&hellip


“Well, that’s that,” Vegas grumbles and looks out at the mass still milling about despite the later hour of the evening. “OK, I’ll put it to the lot of you. Should we pay the headmistress of Bartholomew School a visit at her home—a place that is likely pretty heavily secured—or do we head on over to the Upstairs Downstairs, Inc offices and see if we can’t get Blossom some alone time with a server?”


(OOC: Time is 11:05 P.M. PST)



Posted on 2018-05-14 at 17:11:03.

Topic: Flesh & Blood - A CyberPunk Game
Subject:


Congratulations! Glad to hear it.



Posted on 2018-05-12 at 21:15:21.

Topic: Flesh & Blood - A CyberPunk Game
Subject:


Where is everyone? Guys? Hello?



Posted on 2018-05-05 at 09:56:15.

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


I steal Roger's words all the time. Shamelessly. 



Posted on 2018-05-01 at 17:46:09.

Topic: Bring Me That Horizon Q&A
Subject:


I knew the culprit well... I spent yesterday prepping my drone for some fly time. I was just checking.



Posted on 2018-04-30 at 09:04:05.

Topic: Bring Me That Horizon Q&A
Subject:


Has Spring taken the crew's attention? Argh an' all that!



Posted on 2018-04-29 at 16:52:20.

Topic: Flesh & Blood - A Night City Adventure
Subject: A little help...


"Near as I see it we've got a couple of options," the solo leans forward after ordering his beer and addresses the team from beneath the brim of his fedora. "There are still a bunch of school staff that could have some insight. We could track each of them down and pay them visits like we did with the Professor back there. If we go that route, I suggest we start with this Ms. White. She's the headmistress, or whatever, for the Bartholomew School and may be able to clue us into some high-level s***. 


"We can chase down whatever leads from this Upstairs Downstairs, Inc. I imagine that might take some more ops work but it seems like Jace had some cozy talk time with at least one of the employees. So, that might be our best lead yet.


"And last, but perhaps something that we can do while working on another angle, is that Cred Stick Charlie here might be able to put his feelers out to see what the word on the street is concerning the boy. I hear tell that blokes in your line of work, Charlie, are somewhat adept at that sort of thing. Starlight wouldn't have glued us together if she thought you could be anything but helpful."


"I've been through the footage with as fine a tooth comb as digitally possible," Blossom adds around the straw she has in her mouth. "The only vehicles that arrive on scene or leave during our window belong to the Upstairs Downstairs peoples."



Posted on 2018-04-29 at 16:48:07.

Topic: Flesh & Blood - A CyberPunk Game
Subject:


There's no need to apologize, Tann. There are a couple of players who have things going on and we all understand.


As for what to post next...


Blossom has shared through the video that the name of the support services company is Upstairs Downstairs, Inc. Charlie will have dug up the office locations address and websites (something that any of you could do if Cred Stick Charlie gets too busy with his personal business to share the information... not that he will, but just in case). 


The group needs to decide what your next course of action is and it looks as though if the conversation isn't scintillating enough, Charlie's going to book it to his enclave.


For the sake of making things a little easier, Vegas will suggest the following:


"Near as I see it we've got a couple of options," the solo leans forward after ordering his beer and addresses the team from beneath the brim of his fedora. "There are still a bunch of school staff that could have some insight. We could track each of them down and pay them visits like we did with the Professor back there. If we go that route, I suggest we start with this Ms. White. She's the headmistress, or whatever, for the Bartholomew School and may be able to clue us into some high-level s***. 


"We can chase down whatever leads from this Upstairs Downstairs, Inc. I imagine that might take some more ops work but it seems like Jace had some cozy talk time with at least one of the employees. So, that might be our best lead yet.


"And last, but perhaps something that we can do while working on another angle, is that Cred Stick Charlie here might be able to put his feelers out to see what the word on the street is concerning the boy. I hear tell that blokes in your line of work, Charlie, are somewhat adept at that sort of thing. Starlight wouldn't have glued us together if she thought you could be anything but helpful."


"I've been through the footage with as fine a tooth comb as digitally possible," Blossom adds around the straw she has in her mouth. "The only vehicles that arrive on scene or leave during our window belong to the Upstairs Downstairs peoples."



Posted on 2018-04-29 at 16:47:42.

Topic: Flesh & Blood - A CyberPunk Game
Subject:


Espatier, I've left a bunch of feedback in the GDOC. 



Posted on 2018-04-22 at 14:51:42.

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


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



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

Topic: Flesh & Blood - A CyberPunk Game
Subject:


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



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

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


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


Weather Conditions: High City (Thunderstorms, 15mph winds from the NE.) | Midcity (Rain, 10mph winds from the NE.) | Undercity (Fog and Rain, no winds.)


Air Quality Index: High City = 25 | Midcity = 42 | Undercity = 75 (masks required)


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


(OOC: Time is 6:50 PM PST)


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


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


Weather Conditions: High City (Thunderstorms, 15mph winds from the NE.) | Midcity (Rain, 10mph winds from the NE.) | Undercity (Fog and Rain, no winds.)


Air Quality Index: High City = 25 | Midcity = 42 | Undercity = 75 (masks required)


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


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


“Charlie's up.”


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


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


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


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


(OOC: Time is 7:02 PM PST)


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


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


Weather Conditions: High City (Thunderstorms, 15mph winds from the NE.) | Midcity (Rain, 10mph winds from the NE.) | Undercity (Fog and Rain, no winds.)


Air Quality Index: High City = 25 | Midcity = 42 | Undercity = 75 (masks required)


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


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


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


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


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


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


“Got any glass? Sticks? CPS? Rabbit?”


“Nope,” Casino confirms.


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


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


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


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


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


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


“He got any sticks?”


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


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


“Aw, c’mon!”


“That’s s***!”


“What makes you so special?”


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


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


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


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


“Are you a Syndicate for life?”


“You know it.”


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


(OOC: Time is 7:05 PM PST)


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


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


Weather Conditions: High City (Thunderstorms, 15mph winds from the NE.) | Midcity (Rain, 10mph winds from the NE.) | Undercity (Fog and Rain, no winds.)


Air Quality Index: High City = 25 | Midcity = 42 | Undercity = 75 (masks required)


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


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


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


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


“Interesting,” Luther tells himself.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


(OOC: Time is 7:04 PM PST)


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

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


Weather Conditions: High City (Thunderstorms, 15mph winds from the NE.) | Midcity (Rain, 10mph winds from the NE.) | Undercity (Fog and Rain, no winds.)


Air Quality Index: High City = 25 | Midcity = 42 | Undercity = 75 (masks required)


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


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


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


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


(OOC: Unless there’s any argument&hellip


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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



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

Topic: Bring Me That Horizon Q&A
Subject:


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



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

Topic: Bring Me That Horizon
Subject:


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


“Lose somethin’, Mistah Crowe?”


 


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


 


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


 


“Hughes go ashore, did he?”


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


(OOC: Time is roughly 3:15 PM)


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


“Bosun,” Anna snaps, “yer dismissed.”


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


(OOC: Time is roughly 4:25 PM)


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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


 


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



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

Topic: Supernatural Q&A thread
Subject:


No sweat! Good luck on your exam.



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

Topic: Bring Me That Horizon Q&A
Subject:


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



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

Topic: Bring Me That Horizon Q&A
Subject:


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



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

Topic: Advice for a new RDI GM
Subject:


Hey, Nomad! Welcome to the club.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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



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

Topic: Hunter the Vigil, A supernatural Game
Subject:


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


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


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



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

 


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