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Topic: The Continuing Adventures of Sam Dash (A Voyages of Rocinante spinoff)
Subject: Prologue: Beaumonde

Eisley Moss Spaceport, Beaumonde
Aboard Rocinante

Despite the fact Rocinante was docked at one of Beaumonde’s busier spaceports, it was relatively quiet on the Firefly’s decks in the wee hours of the night. It never got to the hear-the-crickets-chirping level of quiet, of course – this is a spaceport, after all – but, quiet enough, at least, that Sam Dash knew that Wyatt and the rest were well into their respective good night’s sleep… Something that he was pretty sure he hadn’t had, himself, in a good three months, now… The last of them (Ma, by the sounds of it) had turned in a couple of hours ago and it wasn’t long thereafter that the only sounds to be heard aboard the stalwart Firefly were those made by the various mechanicals and, occasionally, the rumble of a snore or the incoherent babble of sleep-speaking.

The pilot’s whiskey-hued eyes drifted slowly, nostalgically, around the now bare walls of his cabin and finally, as he heaved a sigh and scratched at one whisker-stubbled cheek, fell to the over-stuffed duffel bag that was nestled between his feet.

“Reckon it’s time,” he mumbled half-heartedly and, at the same time, willing himself to move before he talked himself out of it again… Will aside, Sam didn’t move at just that moment… leastways, not with the intention of climbing out of his cabin and slipping off into the night-cloaked port. He did, however, reach down and pluck a folded piece of paper out of the duffel’s exterior pocket and, another puff of anxious air blowing past his lips, unfolded the thing and read the words he’d written there just a few moments earlier…


This isn’t the easiest thing I’ve ever written – not that I write much, anyway – and, I thought more than once about writing it at all… Hell, it’s been my way for a long time to just up and leave without a word spoke or even so much as a look back. Safer, quicker, and more painless that way, get me? Thing is, all them other times, all them other places and folk I set in my wake, I knew none of them was meant to last or to mean much, anyway, so it weren’t a chore at all to just up and go… truth be told, puhn yoh, I conjure it was supposed to be that way with you, too. Supposed to just be Sam Dash, driving the boat til driving the boat weren’t the thing to do anymore, then off Sam goes to… well… wherever. Thing is, you made a friend of me, Wyatt… A friend, honest and true. You know things about me that ain’t but two or three other folk in the whole ruttin’ Verse knows and, still yet, you and me come to an understanding that I ain’t come to with none other… and, maybe brother’s more fitting in this situation… Tah mah duh, I’m startin’ to sound like Will with her flowery love poems and such! Anyway, I know as you know what I’m getting at, here, so I’ll just let it go at that… kinda the way I always have… and say what I was aiming to say when I first started writing this mi tian gohn.

It’s time for me to get off this boat, puhn yoh. I been here longer than’s safe for any of us, puhn yoh, and the longer I stay, the worse it’s bound to get. I ain’t worried so much for myself, neither, as I am for you and yours (ain’t that a kick in the nethers)… I reckon it didn’t really occur to me just how close things were getting til this last run, really… We brushed up against the Alliance some, and you know how I get with that – Made me a mite skittish and I should’ve knowed then as it was time to go. Friendly as we are and comfortable as I’ve got driving Rocinante for you these last couple years, though, I talked myself into brushing it off as my standard twitchiness – but, when that meh lien duh jyah jee (shameless hussy) Bridgette made like she knew more’n she should about me, that was the cincher… that’s when I knowed better’n to have believed that I’d be driving Roc forever or that I could ever stop running from who and what I was, get me? Weren’t never my aim to hurt you, Wyatt, or none of the rest as I’ve come to think of as my family on this boat, but, if I stay, I fear that’s like to happen sooner more than later. Best way to keep all of you out of trouble that ain’t yours, I cotton, is to put as much space between me and the rest of you as can be put. And, the easiest way to get that done without the chance of you talking me out of it is to slip out whilst the rest of you are sleeping. I’m sorry.

I’d consider it a kindness if you’d pass my warm fuzzies on to the rest. Tell Ma that I’ll miss her cooking and I’ll be thinking about her every time I hit the bunk and pull that blanket she knitted for me over my toes. Tell Asher that I’m right sorry I pilfered his guns – ain’t like the Kid needed all of them anyway – and that, maybe, some day, I’ll figure out a way to make up for it. Give Miss Will a kiss for me and let her know that I truly appreciate everything she ever done to keep me out of trouble… and for pretending not to notice when I was ogling her doing her yoga and s#!t. Ha Ha. See what you can do about keeping Wolf aboard as long as he’ll cotton to it. Rutter’s tough as nails and can sure take care of his own self, no doubt, but the big galoot’s deserving of a proper home and folk like you to keep watch over him when that chip on his shoulder starts to tip one way or the other.

I reckon that’s it, puhn yoh. I keep writing and somebody’s like to wake up and keep me from sneaking out.

You got yourself a good crew, here, Cap, and I don’t figure you’ll have much problem finding someone to replace a wu ming shao jwu (nobody) like me. Hell, mebbe you’ll even get to drive your own damn boat for a spell, huh?

Thanks, again, for everything, Wyungsung. Hope to meet up with you again someday when things ain’t so tight in the sky. Til then, though, you keep flying, brother.


“Ya sound like a ruttin’ girl,” Dash smirked, considering for probably the twelfth time whether or not he should leave the letter at all or, like all the other times he’d had to do it over the years, would he be better off jut disappearing without so much as a nod to them as he’d come to fly with. He drew in a deep breath as his eyes skimmed over the letter once more and, as he let that breath out in the form of a third and final sigh, folded the thing back up and got to his feet.

“Didn’t come to love none o’ them others as family, I don’t reckon,” he told himself, hoisting the bag and slinging it over his shoulder, “but I had me a home here. Can’t just up and leave these folk like I left them others.” He took his last steps across the floor of his cabin and, as he reached the ladder, gave one last look over his shoulder before turning out the light and climbing up to the fore passage. Once there, he glanced towards the cockpit, talked himself out of flopping himself into the seat that was no longer his one more time, and, still fighting the urge to stay, forced himself in the opposite direction.

He stopped in the dining area just long enough to leave the letter on the table where someone was sure to find it and forced himself not to look around or reminisce in this part of the ship, at all. Sam knew that, if he did, he’d scare himself off of leaving again and, to his way of thinking, his staying wouldn’t bode well for Wyatt and the rest in the long run…

Suck it up, Dash, he told himself, swallowing the lump in his throat, and making his way down the stairs to the cargo bay, Ain’t an option, stickin’ ‘round here. Ya care fer these folk the way ya say, then yer best ta put as much distance between you an’ them as can be put, get me?

…Sam got it, of course, and knew that the voice telling him to run was the wiser of the two that’d been battling it out in his brainpain since that fiasco on Regina, but that wisdom didn’t make him like it any better. As much as he outright hated the woman, now, he wondered if he ought not be thanking that guay toh guay nown, Bridgette, for throwing his twitchy into overdrive back in the guts of the Hornsilver Mine…

“Are you really gonna let him ruin your chance for a big score, Sam,” she’d cooed at him that day, trying to get him to turn on Wyatt for a fortune in platinum, “This much cash and you'd be free…truly free. No more hiding? Aren't you tired of hiding?"

Gorram right I’m tired o’ runnin’, he fumed inwardly as he slipped out the forward cargo-bay door and down the ramp into the fuel and smoke scented air of Eisley Moss, but, I reckon runnin’s what I do. ‘Specially when it comes ta keepin’ my skeletons outta the closets o’ them as I consider family. That’s where ya humped it up, ji nu… Figurin’ as what I’m runnin’ from’s gonna be slowed er settled wit’ any ruttin’ amount o’ money… Din’t know me th’ way ya conjured, did ya?

The now former pilot of the Firefly Class transport called Rocinante, realizing that his last few steps were of the angrily stomping sort and were causing his boot heels to clatter a might loudly on the paved and grated thoroughfares of the spaceport, stopped in his tracks, then, scowled, adjusted the shoulder-strap on his duffel, and turned to look back the way he’d come… But ya knew somethin’ din’t ya? He smiled sadly as he took in the ship’s silhouette and felt his heartstrings tugged on by the sight of that ruttin’ horse on her side. Knew somethin’ ain’t nobody else in th’ Verse oughta know less’n I told ‘em m’self. Although he couldn’t force himself to take his eyes off the ship, just yet, Sam managed to get himself back into his walkin’ away again by taking a few steps backwards as he finished his thought. An’ if you know, then who else knows… an’ what kinda hell’s all that knowin’ gonna rain down… an’ how many more folk’re gonna get their ruttin’ ears full o’ it ‘fore yer done?

“Shoulda put one in yer brainpan, si san ba ,” he growled softly through clenched teeth as he tore his gaze off of Rocinante, at last, and, turning on his heel, disappeared into the night-shrouded depths of Eisley Moss.

The Flying Firkin Bar
On the outskirts of Eisley Moss; Two hours later

It should have taken him forty-five minutes or so to walk a direct route from where Rocinante was docked to this place but he’d circled back and around more than once and, counting the time he’d spent hovering in the shadows of a doorway across the street from the dilapidated little saloon so he could watch nothing happen, Sam finally made it to the waypoint that Tink’s boy had passed him on the docks, yesterday, in just a little less than two hours. His gaze flitted nervously from one end of the street to the other and back again before he finally extricated himself from the shadows, spat in the dirt at his feet, and then strode across the road to rap out a quick but precise series of knocks on the Flying Firkin’s steel-clad door. His eyes twitched back to the street – this end and that – as he waited…

Are them ruttin’ shadows movin’? His hand fell to the butt of the pistol strapped to his hip and he squinted into the dark. C’mon! Answer th’ gorram door!

…There was the sound of muffled footsteps behind the door, then, and the rasping sound of metal on metal as a narrow slit in the door opened and a pair of bleary eyes appeared on the other side. “Closed,” a tired voice attached to the unfocused grumbled.

“Izzat right,” Sam sneered in response, his fingers still dancing on the Avenger’s grips, “gorram nice o’ ya ta haul yer pi guh outta yer bunk so’s ta tell me… What? I din’t knock proper?”

“What the hell you want?”

“Li’l fairy tol’ me this here was a hollow tree.”

“One of them Lost Boys, are ya?”

“Well, go suh,”Dash rolled his eyes and finally let his hand drift away from his pistol long enough to clap twice and sigh; “I do believe in ruttin’ fairies.”

The voice on the other side of the door snorted and the eyes blinked once before the panel slid shut. “Step back a minute,” the man yawned over a series of thunks and clunks as various locks were disengaged, “an’ keep your hands off the iron or, for sure, I’ll put a hole in you.”

Ya wouldn’t be th’ first ta try… The pilot scowled, rubbed at his whisker-stubbled chin, and, as the door opened, spit in the dust at his feet, once more, and, so as to keep from getting a hole put in him, kept his hands at shoulder height, palms out.

The door groaned on its hinges as the man on the other side hauled it open and Sam cringed, certain that the sound would draw the unwanted attention of whatever eyeballs might be lurking in the dark at his back. His first instinct, when the door had opened enough to allow it, was squeeze himself through and get himself out of the open… having dealt with Tink and her cronies more than once over the years, though, Sam knew better. Regardless of how twitchy he’d been described as over the years, Tink and her kind took Dash’s level of paranoia and boosted it to the level where he figured they were ‘flying without containment,’ so to speak, and any hint of strong-arming through that door would surely get him ventilated quicker than slapping leather would. Still, it took a considerable amount of anxious toe-tapping to hold that impulse at bay.

The Flying Firkin’s proprietor grunted as he appeared from behind the door, becoming more than just a pair of eyes behind a peephole. He was a beefy kind of fellow, not fat but broad and solid for sure. One of his thick hands clutched Mare’s Leg that Sam couldn’t help but notice was aimed right at his gut and the other was holding shut the front of the worn flannel housecoat he wore. “A’right,” he rumbled, gesturing with the cut-down rifle, after an overlong couple of seconds of squinting at Sam, “Get on in here.”
“‘Preciate it,” Dash nodded without taking his eyes off the man. He hitched the strap of his duffel to a more comfortable spot on his shoulder and, turning sideways to avoid brushing into the fire-plug of a proprietor or his gun, slipped through the door. He hadn’t had a chance to turn around before the Firkin’s boss had the door shut and bolted again.

“What’s yer name, son,” the man asked as they stood in the green neon tinged shadows of the entryway.

“Sam Dash,” Sam answered, not failing to notice his host still had him at gunpoint, “You Firkin?”

The man snorted (maybe it was supposed to be a chuckle) and shook his head as the barrel of the Mare’s Leg finally dipped. “Name’s Von. Von Dutch. Place was called The Flyin’ Firkin before I picked it up… Just too ruttin lazy to change the name.

Strange things afoot in Neverland for ya, Mr Dash?”

“It’s just Dash… an’ yeah… that’s why I’m here an’ not where I was, get me?”

“Yeah,” Von nodded, “I get ya.”

“She wave in, yet?”

“Nope. She knows yer here, though,” Von replied as he skirted around the pilot, “I reckon you’ll be hearin’ from her soon enough.

This way,” he added, clumping down a shot set of steps that served to disgorge patron from the Firkin’s entry into the barroom.

The sweat on his palms had started to cool and, as Sam followed Von Dutch across the scuffed and stained plank floor of the place, he tried to rub the itch away on the worn denim that encased his legs. “Been doin’ this kinda thing fer a minnit, have ya,” he asked for no other reason than to break the silence.

“What’s that,” Von asked in return, squinting back over his shoulder as he led Sam behind the bar, “runnin’ this place or squirrelin’ away folk like you when the fairy says so?”

Whaddya mean “folk like me”? Sam wanted challenge the man’s tone, just then, but, given the situation (not to mention the fact that, if he admitted it, Sam was the alluded to type of folk) he decided to force his drying throat to swallow that particular retort and, as Von toed a threadbare rug out of the way and stooped to lift open the trap-door it concealed, he simply shrugged and said; “Both, I reckon.”

“Been runnin’ this dump for about a year,” Von answered, flipping a switch under the bar that lit up the corridor secreted beneath their feet and revealed the rough-hewn steps that descended to it, “Been on the hook with Tink for a mite longer but she didn’t have much use for me…” He gave a jerk of his head, then, indicating that Sam should go on down, and, when the pilot’s feet hit the second tread, finished; “…up to now.

Wha’d you do to hump things up so bad for yerself, anyway?”

Sam kept walking. Having the man behind him (one of Tink’s or not) in this tight space stood the hairs up on the back of his neck. Von asking that particular question didn’t help, either… Sam had been wondering that same thing for months, now… When he reached the bottom of the steps, he quickly surveyed the short hallway ahead of him, and then flicked a glance back to keep an eye on his host as the man finished his descent. “Conjure I got too ruttin’ cozy wit’ what I thought were a good thing,” he smirked after a second.

Von nodded once, then gestured down the hallway with the barrel of the Mare’s Leg; “Room’s down to the end on the left,” he said, “Ain’t much but a bunk and whatnot but it’ll do for as long as you’ll be here.”

Ku,” Sam chuffed, his eyes flicking in the direction indicated.

“I’ll bring ya down some food come breakfast time. Coffee, too. There’s a little fridge in there I stocked with a couple o’ beers and some water if you get thirsty ‘fore then. Reckon you’ll need anything else? Once I go back up these steps, Mr Dash, you’re down here as to such a time as she gets you figured… Can’t have you popping your head up whenever you take a whim to do so, dohn mah? ”

“It’s shiny,” Sam returned, already making his way to the end of the hall, “don’t figger it’ll take her long ta work her magic.”

“Hope not,” Von responded, already making his way back up the steps, “No offense, mister, but I don’t need your trouble following you in here and, the sooner you’re gone, the more peaceable I’ll be with the idea you were ever here.

“Story o’ my gorram life,” Dash snorted just before the trapdoor banged shut and he opened the door to the tiny room where he’d be spending the next couple of days.

Posted on 2014-09-11 at 15:08:07.
Edited on 2014-09-12 at 12:50:53 by Eol Fefalas

Topic: The Continuing Adventures of Sam Dash (A Voyages of Rocinante spinoff)
Subject: The Continuing Adventures of Sam Dash (A Voyages of Rocinante spinoff)

Okay, so, Sam Dash from Alacrity's Voyages of Rocinante is probably one of the favorite characters I've ever had the opportunity to play... Unfortunately, due to one circumstance or the other at the time, I kind of had to walk away from that game (and a few others) and, as such, put Sam aside, too.

I never did stop wondering what might have become of the rude and crude pilot dude after he slipped off into the night all those months ago on Beaumonde, though, and, after a long break (and also inspired by Alacrity recently shooting me a PM asking me to whip up a letter from Sam), I decided to drag our errant pilot out of mothballs and, maybe, figure out just where he's been and what he's been doing since he sadly left his family in his wake. What follows, I hope, is just the beginning of those tales... Hope you enjoy it.

Oh, and as always, questions, comments, criticisms, spare change are all gladly accepted.

Posted on 2014-09-11 at 15:07:42.
Edited on 2014-09-11 at 15:21:22 by Eol Fefalas

Topic: M&M3 New Camelot: Noir Camelot Q/A
Subject: Well, then...

...I won't worry too much about it because if I'm crazy at least I'm crazy with Roger!

*nekkid crazy dance*

Posted on 2014-09-09 at 16:48:39.

Topic: M&M3 New Camelot: Noir Camelot Q/A
Subject: Whoa...

...I thought you had already posted something for Christina, dude!

I must have hallucinated it!

Posted on 2014-09-09 at 15:16:20.

Topic: Ads on the Inn?
Subject: I like the change... you said, the Google Ads seemed to become increasingly irrelevant. Great decision, boss!

Posted on 2014-09-05 at 22:12:15.

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

Fantastic episode, folks!

Gorram inspiring, even!

It's my understanding that Wyatt'll be getting a message from an old friend, here, pretty soon and, well, let's just say that between this past chapter and Roger poking my noodle by asking me to pen said missive, I've started throwing myself at "what happened to Dash after he disappeared in the night?"... Hoping to have a first installment of "The Continuing Adventures of Sam Dash" tacked up somewhere on these loverly boards of ours sometime this weekend.

Keep flyin', folks... See ya in the world.

Posted on 2014-09-05 at 22:09:00.

Topic: AMC's The Walking Dead
Subject: Boingity-boingity-boingity!

TWD marathon on Netflix in progress as I type this! By the time I get to the end of Season 3 (again) Season 4 should be ready to watch (it hits the 'Flix on 28 September, I believe), then, I'll binge that on a weekend and wait two more weeks for Season 5! I. AM. TOTALLY. SPAZZIN. OUT.

Posted on 2014-09-05 at 22:02:49.

Topic: Waggity-Wag, Everybody!!
Subject: Well it's about gorram time!


Good ta see ya back on the boards, Big Red!

Posted on 2014-09-03 at 12:20:43.

Topic: M&M3 New Camelot: Noir Camelot Q/A
Subject: Yup...

...first person seems to fit Mr Nobody! I liked it.

Considered something similar for Samael but, for whatever reason, ended up changing my mind. Still not sure that I've completely "found his voice" yet, but... first post is up and I'm working on it, I guess.

Posted on 2014-09-02 at 20:22:20.

Topic: Noir Camelot - Issue 1, Series 1 - The Disappearance of Prof. Stern
Subject: Angels watching over me...

On the roof of the Church of Our Lady of Victory
He stood there, among his stone-wrought brethren, and, through the rain, gazed out over the city he had come to consider home in these past months. It was a night very much like this one when he had, in some small sense of the word, first revealed himself to the citizens of New Camelot. Standing here, now, with his wings folded around him against the rain that, despite its persistence, would never truly wash away the filth that plagued the city, he couldn’t help but recall that first encounter…

Her name was Aggy Hartwell and she had scarcely graduated high school. Young, excitable, and caught up in the exuberance brought on by achieving that valediction and, so, moving into the beginnings of her adult life, Aggy and a couple of her friends had ventured out into the city seeking the ‘appropriate celebration.’ Unfortunately for them, that first foray into the spectacle of speak-easies and swing dances led them into parts of New Camelot that were far darker than the sings and streetlights would ever have led them to believe. Their evening had started at what seemed to be a tame enough gin joint with a steady stream of Dapper Dans vying for the girls’ attentions, some with more success than others… again, unfortunately. It was one of these sharp-dressed charmers that had, in the end, wooed the giggling girls away from the city’s safer venues and into the far more private clutches of an underground club run by the Onigumo family.

By the time Aggy realized that someone had slipped her a Mickey, both of her friends had succumbed to their own similarly doped drinks and were being dragged into some dark backroom. Aggy herself managed to stagger out of the club and into the rain-soaked streets before the drugs took too much of a hold on her and, thanks to the biting rain and a burst of adrenaline, had even been able to outrun the two Japanese goons who had pursued her into the night for a short time. The drugs won out over her stamina and determination before long, though, and her spinning head guided her face first into the pock-marked pavement of some garbage choked alley. Her stockings and the skin on her knees alike burned away as she tumbled headlong into the trash of the dank backstreet, her hands, too, suffered scrapes and cuts as they flew out before her in a futile attempt to keep her head from ultimately bouncing off the pavement. She made a weak attempt to get back to her feet but, between the drug-tainted alcohol, the fatigue, and, now, likely, a concussion, Aggy found that she scarcely had the energy to scream when the Onigumo thugs finally caught up to her.

That scream, if she had even let it loose, at all, got snatched away by the wind that seemed, suddenly, to come from all around her… or, perhaps, muffled by the ruffling pop-pop-pop of what sounded like an enormous pair of wings just above her head… Aggy tried to scream again and, at the same time, lift her eyes to see just what it was she was screaming about, but her vision was oh so blurry and her head so very heavy that all she could remember for a long moment was a brilliant flash of light followed by another powerful, omnidirectional gust of wind… and, then, the sensation of… flying?

When she awoke, some short while later, Aggy found herself lying on the grass amidst a small copse of trees on the edge of Excalibur Park… miles from where she last remembered being and farther, she was sure, than she would have been able to make it on foot in what certainly must have been the very short time that had passed. She blinked in confusion, reached up to touch the spot on her head where it had met the street and, only then, when her fingertips failed to find the expected bump or cut or even trickle of blood, did she realize that a curious winged creature crouched beside her. Aggy nearly screamed again but something about the reassuring, yet, somehow sad smile he offered when her eyes met his stifled the scream and, instead, evoked another blink.
His sky-blue eyes sparkled from behind the long, raven-hued tendrils of hair that fell across his face and, despite the fact that he was clad in what appeared to be some sort of ancient armor worked in silver and blue, and had an enormous pair of blue-black wings issuing from his back that, now, sheltered them from the rain that fell on New Camelot, she felt more comforted by the creature’s presence than afraid of its appearance. Aggy opened her mouth to speak, realized that she had no idea what to say, and, offering a sheepish grin, closed it again.

The creature said nothing, either, merely returned the smile, offered a faint nod and placed his hand gently over the wound on her knee.

Aggy managed a squeak as the creature’s hand began to glow and she felt a tingling warmth spread through her… and a stunned gasp when the creature’s hand moved away to reveal clean, undamaged skin where, just an instant ago, it was a ruined as her stockings still were. “Are… Are you an angel, Mister?”

The question seemed to confuse him and, for an instant, that soft, enigmatic smile melted into something of a frown as he seemed to consider the answer. His wingtips seemed to flutter, then, in an attempt to flick the rain away and, the gentle smile returning as he mended the scrapes on her other knee, answered; “I don’t know… I… I am only Samael…”

Aggy Hartwell had told Samael about the friends who had been with her, that night, and, after he had seen her safely home, he had spent the next two weeks in search of them, eventually locating them (and a half dozen other opium-addled young women) locked in a shipping container on a ship (owned by one of the Onigumo Family’s interests) bound for Japan. Samael suffered grievous injuries in rescuing and returning the girls but, also, garnered more than a little suspicion and consternation as to his appearance… the populace of New Camelot seemed more interested in pointing out what was “wrong with him” as oppose to what he might have done “right”… and, so, he had flown away in hopes of finding a place where he might hide and recover from his wounds (which he found to be no small task for a ‘circus freak’). It was during this time… and,
after The New Camelot Herald published an article, based on an interview with a Miss Agatha Hartwell, titled Saved by an Angel… that Father O’Brian had somehow managed to find him… offer him some sort of refuge… and, better, still, a chance to belong somewhere.

“…Are you an angel, Mister?”

Samael sighed, tearing his gaze away from the rain-swept city and allowing it to pan over the assemblage of sculpted seraphim with whom he shared the church’s roof. “I don’t know,” was still his answer to this day… he couldn’t remember what he was… where he was from… but he did know, thanks to Father O’Brian and those others who, from time to time, the Father summoned to Our lady of Victory, that he had a place and a purpose, here, and, if this city needed an angel, he may someday answer “yes” if he could. The summonses issued by the good Father would go a long way towards leading him on the path to that acceptance and, so long as O’Brian called on him, as was the case, again, tonight, Samael would answer with that goal in mind. As his sigh washed away on the rain, so, too, did Samael vanish from the rooftop of the old church, leaving his stone-faced brothers to keep their vigil while he (in the company of those others Father O’Brian had taken to calling The Knights of New Camelot) went to watch over another of New Camelot’s citizens from a much closer vantage point. This one’s name was Gwendolyn Marionette-Stern and her husband had gone missing.

Samael emerged from an alcove into the meeting area and smiled his greetings to the others assembled there. When all of them had arrived, Father O’Brian cleared his throat and said; "Thank you for coming. "I know it's a short notice, but this required some urgency."
The priest stretched his arm to the door, then, and an attractive woman in a red dress and expensive fur coat, sauntered hesitantly in. "These are the friends I told you about," the priest offers as the woman looks them over with as much trepidation as were belied by her steps. "Please, tell them what you told me."

The woman nodded and, after a moment, began her tale…"My name is Gwendolyn Marionette-Stern. Professor Albert Stern is my husband…"

Gwendolyn told them of Albert’s work in theoretical physics and his specialized research into Zygma Wave and how, despite being a “good man” and a “loving husband and father”, he had been working on something of late that, she feared, might have had something to do with his disappearance. She told them of secret phone-calls in the middle of the night, of Albert having slept in his office or not at all... and then, before things got really bad, becoming an utter recluse, avoiding everyone. Three nights ago, following an argument she had overheard on one of her husband’s “secret phone calls,” their car had been vandalized and, shortly thereafter, Albert’s office burned to the ground, apparently, with the Professor still inside… at least according to the Police.

"But I know he is alive," Gwendolyn said with a tissue to her eye. "Yesterday morning, I noticed that someone had entered our home and taken something from the safe. Albert was the only person who could have opened that safe, and he did it in a hurry. It was still open when I woke up and nothing else had been moved." She gracefully wiped away a rogue tear that had escaped down her cheek.

"Please," she implored. "Sebastian needs his father and I need my husband. Can you find him?"

“Lady,” Nobody rumbled, then, “can you give us something more to go on? It is a big city and he is one guy. Where did he hang out? Who were his friends and associates? Who would he go to if he was in a jam? Any little detail might help.”

“Yes,” Samael said, then, stepping forward, himself, and regarding the woman curiously, “and, maybe, after you’ve given us those details, you might allow us to accompany you home and, perhaps, have a look at your husband’s safe?”

Posted on 2014-09-02 at 20:20:19.

Topic: M&M3 New Camelot: Noir Camelot Q/A
Subject: Yay game!!!

If today stays quiet work-wise, I should have a post before long.

Posted on 2014-09-02 at 13:52:52.

Topic: Trilogy Ten Year Anniiversary
Subject: Congratulations!

Ten years is quite the accomplishment for a PbP game... especially one in which the posts are so consistant from week to week (even with character turn-over and whatnot)!

Kudos and best wishes, Tann, to both you and your players!

Posted on 2014-09-02 at 13:50:43.

Topic: M&M3 New Camelot: Noir Camelot Q/A
Subject: For my part...

...I don't really see Samael actually needing an alternative headquarters. I kind of imagine that if he's allowed to "roost" in the belltower or some such (anywhere he can sort of hide and watch the city/sky at the same time) he'll be a happy camper... especially if he's getting fed semi-regularly.

Also... don't imagine Sam being much for riding in a car, either (would his wings alow him to get in, even if they were folded... even if he could, would there be room for others in there... Nobody's friggin' huge, after all) but, I'm not opposed to tweaking the Wreker's ride if that's the way everyone else wants to go... call it "rent" on the bell tower.

Posted on 2014-08-27 at 13:18:18.

Topic: M&M3 New Camelot: Noir Camelot Q/A
Subject: Great idea!

I like the sounds of pooling the points and giving our "headquarters" a nice little reno! Count me in!

Posted on 2014-08-26 at 17:13:44.

Topic: M&M3 New Camelot: Noir Camelot Q/A
Subject: Yay for bonuses!!!

Thanks, Skari! I'll have to think about what I might want to do with them for a bit... take a look at the character sheet and whatnot, decide if I wanna spend 'em now or later...

As for the delay... no worries, dude. Real life takes it's toll from time to time and, hey, you know, there's that whole volcano thing (which, quite honestly, would freak me right the hell out! ), soooo... We're all here, ready and raring to play whenever you are, Oskarmus Prime.

Posted on 2014-08-26 at 13:03:06.

Topic: A New Person is Me
Subject: Well, hullo, New You!!!

*climbs to the top of the text wall... streeeeeettttttches (cuz it's been a minute or seven thousand since I've done this, donchaknow?)... aaaaaaand... ka-jingle-pounceskadivebomb!!!*

Good to have you about, Stormy! Here's hoping you find what you're looking for here in our delirious domain... I'm sure you will... you just might have to poke it with a stick or something from time to time.

And, as to the rest of you Innmates (except Tann, who had one ready)... Where's them towels, now?!?!? Huh?!?!?


Posted on 2014-08-19 at 13:54:57.
Edited on 2014-08-19 at 13:55:57 by Eol Fefalas

Topic: I am Groot
Subject: LOL

Posted on 2014-08-18 at 16:54:59.

Topic: M&M3 New Camelot: Noir Camelot Q/A
Subject: Sam...

...has been updated and resubmitted. There was a bit of a "damage issue" with the last submission, so, taking a cue from an alternate "angel of light" run at the character that good ol' Ayrn shot at me, I've done a mix and match of that and my original... Here's hoping he flies this time.

Posted on 2014-08-17 at 21:49:52.

Topic: M&M3 New Camelot: Noir Camelot Q/A
Subject: LOL

"Nobody loves me!!!!"

Posted on 2014-08-12 at 16:30:14.

Topic: M&M3 New Camelot: Noir Camelot Q/A
Subject: Spiffy... *nods*

...I could totally see Samael "roosting" on the belltower of a church!

Posted on 2014-08-12 at 15:41:30.

Topic: Grugg's Crappy Month
Subject: Curse you, real life!!!

What is an Inn without a Grugg, I ask you?!?! It's downright Gruggless... which is far worse than Gruggfested!

We demand shorter hours for our Lasagna-disposing beard-boy or, verily, our anger and woe shall intesify to the point where all Innmates climb atop their tables and in one voice scream out We WILL NOT be sporking bother-free any longer! Prepare thyself, tiny region of Canada in which Gruggles is confined, s#!^s about to get real!!!

Maybe not in those exact words... and likely not quite as dramatic as all of that, either... but you get the point, right?

.>Bloop! End pointless postery!

Posted on 2014-08-11 at 18:13:29.

Topic: M&M3 New Camelot: Noir Camelot Q/A
Subject: Final draft for Samael...

...with a bit of background has been submitted at last!

No more tweaking my character, Ayrn.

Posted on 2014-08-11 at 18:08:10.

Topic: M&M: New Camelot Knights
Subject: *nods*

That works, too!

Posted on 2014-08-07 at 16:58:45.

Topic: M&M: New Camelot Knights
Subject: Ah... yeah...

...I guess they might, huh?

Hmmm... could you add a "Thunderclap" or "Groundstrike" as an alternate effect of your super-strength, maybe?

Posted on 2014-08-07 at 16:52:43.

Topic: M&M: New Camelot Knights
Subject: Wouldn't that be nice?

Minions cost around 15, though, I think...

...maybe you could get a disembodied voice as a minion for 4 points, though... and it could be a hot lady voice, I suppose.

In all seriosuness, though, I'd maybe throw those extra points at Fighting or Awareness or maybe both. *shrugs* just my opinion.

Posted on 2014-08-07 at 16:38:56.
Edited on 2014-08-07 at 16:40:51 by Eol Fefalas

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