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You are here: Home --> Forum Home --> Rules-based RPGs --> Dungeons and Dragons --> Bring Me That Horizon
Parent thread: Bring Me That Horizon Q&A
GM for this game: Bromern Sal
Players for this game: Eol Fefalas, Keeper of Dragons, Nomad D2, Altaira
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    Messages in Bring Me That Horizon
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Eol Fefalas
Witless Protection
RDI Staff
Karma: 427/28
6520 Posts


Here's The Rub

Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement; The Rub Del Monte, roughly 11:29 A.M.

“We got pork on the spit an’ beer on draft,” the slip of a serving girl says without meeting Fin’s eyes. “If’n ya want wine, we gots that too. There’s fresh baked bread comin’ outta the oven in a moment if yer so inclined t’ wait, an’ we’ve some goat’s cheese if you like the bite of it.

“What’ll it be, sir?”

Hard, narrowed eyes peer at the girl through the veil of smoke Fin had just blown into Tortuga’s clinging air. “A bit o’ the pork, cheese, an’ bread, snippet,” he rasps after a moment, his breath and a faint breeze teaming to dissipate the lingering smoke, “an’ a mug o’ yer beer. Ye can bring th’ food when th’ bread’s done but I’ll be takin’ th’ beer quick’s ye can fetch it.”

((OOC: Assuming nothing more from the girl than a positive response and her turning to go.))

The Sun Dog’s quartermaster nods curtly at the serving girl’s response, his eyes scouring her, as she turns to go, for any sign of a slaver’s mark. He’d seen none as she had approached and, likely as not, given her station as a serving wench, any such brand would be in a place easily covered by blouse or skirt. Regardless, Fin looks… Fin always looks…

As the child skitters away, disappearing back into The Rub’s interior, Fin draws on his smoke, again, and reclines into the chair in such a way as to balance its lopsided legs before letting his gaze, once more, sweep the bustling street below. Awaiting the serving girl’s return, his eyes are keen for the appearance of a long-hated, familiar face and his hearing piqued for any other news of note that may waft from the crowd.



Posted on 2017-11-06 at 09:28:27.

Bromern Sal
A Shadow
RDI Staff
Karma: 124/10
3029 Posts


Moving right along...

Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), roughly 5:35 P.M.; Beach

“Which inn, sir?” she purrs, looking up at Goncalvo from beneath her lashes. “There are some that’s not friendly to people stowing away and such when a room is only paid for two.”

Reaching out her dainty (if somewhat dirty) hand at about waist level she allows the tip of her tongue to touch her lips invitingly. “We could walk there together…”

Goncalvo is surprised as the woman extends her hand and agrees to his suggestion. But, he also notices her obvious look over her shoulder into the alley. It is obvious that something is in there. Her inquiry into the name of the inn might be to allow a companion to overhear and prepare. Pulling her close, Goncalvo whispers into her ear, "Time to end the act, lass. Who is it that lurks in the alley and makes you so nervous?"

Leaning into the sailsmaster, the young woman shudders but refuses to meet his gaze. With her full bottom lip extended into a pout she affects a tremor in her voice, but it is obvious to the Portuguese sailor that it is an act. She is not truly afraid of him, at least not as much as she fears whatever awaits her elsewhere. “I can be whoever you want, master.”

Small body pressing against his, she is seductive in her proximity and the scent of jasmine wafts into Goncalvo’s nose as her hair passes just beneath it. “Your grip is strong. I’ll be the servant girl you an’ yer wife need to punish.”

Turning in his grip, she practically melts into him, a delicate hand against his chest seeking the skin beneath the cloth while her face finally turns up towards his. Eyes half-hooded in the act of proffered pleasure, the whore breathes heavily through slightly parted lips that offer a world of pleasures.

(OOC: Time is roughly 5:36 PM.)

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

Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), roughly 11:29 A.M.; The Rub of Del Monte

“We got pork on the spit an’ beer on draft,” she says without meeting his eyes. “If’n ya want wine, we gots that too. There’s fresh baked bread comin’ outta the oven in a moment if yer so inclined t’ wait, an’ we’ve some goat’s cheese if you like the bite of it.

“What’ll it be, sir?”

Hard, narrowed eyes peer at the girl through the veil of smoke Fin blows into Tortuga’s clinging air. “A bit o’ the pork, cheese, an’ bread, snippet,” he rasps after a moment, his breath and a faint breeze teaming to dissipate the lingering smoke, “an’ a mug o’ yer beer. Ye can bring th’ food when th’ bread’s done but I’ll be takin’ th’ beer quick’s ye can fetch it.”

Dipping her head, the serving girl turns and quickly weaves about the tables and through the peeling doors.

The Sun Dog’s quartermaster nods curtly at the serving girl’s response, his eyes scouring her, as she turns to go, for any sign of a slaver’s mark. He’d seen none as she had approached and, likely as not, given her station as a serving wench, any such brand would be in a place easily covered by blouse or skirt. Regardless, Fin looks… Fin always looks…

As the child skitters away, disappearing back into The Rub’s interior, Fin draws on his smoke, again, and reclines into the chair in such a way as to balance its lopsided legs before letting his gaze, once more, sweep the bustling street below. Awaiting the serving girl’s return, his eyes are keen for the appearance of a long-hated, familiar face and his hearing piqued for any other news of note that may waft from the crowd.

Low conversation from the next table drifts tantalizingly close to being comprehensible but is carried away on the wind and drowned in the cacophony of the street. Left to his smoking, Fin cannot help but be lost in his dark thoughts. After what seems like an eternity of basking in the flavor of tobacco and the sticky breeze that lazily kisses his bronzed skin, the Dog’s quartermaster is drawn from his reverie to the doors as they spit out the waif of a girl with a tin mug in hand practically spilling over with frothing beer.

Thunk, splosh, the mug is set before him almost too late as the wench spins about and quickly makes her way back inside. Perhaps luck is smiling on the foul-tempered man, or maybe his God-given instincts for self-preservation are at play, either way, as she leaves his table Fin’s narrow eyes are drawn to a table near the other end of the balcony.

Five men occupy the seats and ten eyes appear to be fixed upon him right up to the moment when his two meets theirs. Quite suddenly, the five men find their conversation, drinks, and the settlement’s skyline more interesting than the quartermaster. One, a wide-faced individual with ruddy features and a shaggy mane of dishwater blonde hair, braves another glance Fin’s way and though it is furtive, the quartermaster is fairly certain that there’s recognition behind that gaze.

Again, Fin Crowe searches his memory for the identity of the man and once again, he cannot place him. To the best of his recollection, Splotchy-Face is an unknown.

(OOC: Time is roughly 11:36 AM.)

----------------------------------------------------
Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), Docks, 1:08 P.M.

Maggie weighs her options, she doesn't want to stand on the bottom of a boat, that would expose her to unwanted attention from the many eyes in the area. She prefers to work in the shadows and is never comfortable with strange eyes lingering on her too long.

She glances again at the tall, thin building with the bell tower; while it would giver her a nice aerial view, if she could get up there, she would be at a greater distance away and might not be a good idea.

She looks at the pyramid of stacked crates and nods as she chooses this as her most obvious choice; yes it would probably attract a little attention, but currently no one seems to be paying any attention to the covered crates. With a glance around to see if anyone is paying her any attention, she strides over to the crates and quickly, but steadily, makes her way up so that she has a good look at the warehouse area. She looks for any sign that might giver her any clue of where she might go to find information on warehouse owners.

Now comes the boring part of the work. Sit. Wait. Watch. Sometimes for hours on end and even as long as days on end. Of course, she couldn’t very well sit atop crates for days and she doubts that Anna will give her that much time to get this all sorted out. A ship cannot sit in harbor for long before the crew begins to search for another captain.

Settling in for the long haul, Maggie is engrossed in the activities surrounding the unloading of a wagon by three black men hoping that the boss will show when she’s caught off-guard by a the clearing of a throat behind her. Twisting about, the red-head sees a tall, lean man wearing a smallish tri-cornered cap, a brown coat with tails, and a dingy white shirt collared by a loose black tie. His pants are knee-length, dark brown, and plain but fairly well-kept and his cream stockings nearly reach the cuffs of his pants. He wears worn leather shoes with dark-gray iron buckles on the outer sides. Forehead creased beneath the cap, he stares at the first-mate with a deep scowl on his thin lips but contradicting half-hooded eyes.

He is accompanied by a man of average build wearing a black tri-cornered cap with dark brown hair pulled back in a ponytail and tied off by a black ribbon. He wears a white, high-collared blouse with billowing sleeves the underarms of which are stained yellow from sweat. Dark blue pants cuffed at the knee are tucked into gray stockings. These, in turn, run into the black hob-nailed shoes that are also worn and dingy. A baldric runs across his chest to the left ending in a large pouch. At his waist, a broad, black leather belt is home to a flintlock pistol and a sheathed saber. He carries a rifle in his hands with a bayonet attached to the end.

“Pray tell,” the willow-man sneers condescendingly at Maggie once he has her attention, “what do you pretend to be about?”

(OOC: Time is approximately 1:40 PM.)

Leaving Shark Tooth behind him, the Bosun moves off down the docks in the opposite direction from where he had gone earlier. He doesn’t stop at the first ship he sees, but keeps moving, looking for some sailors standing away from the ships. A little farther down he sees what he is looking for, what appears to be a couple of low-ranking officers sitting on some crates a little ways away from some ships. They appear to be just enjoying some time ashore. As Cracker approaches, another man arrives and the three men turn and make their way off into town. Cracker can hear a bit of what they say and it isn’t hard to deduce where they are heading—they don’t just want their feet on the terra firma, they also wan the other sweet rewards that time ashore can provide and are going to start their search in a nearby tavern.

Cracker thinks about heading to the ships, but reconsiders as this might work just as well, so he follows them into a tavern only a couple of blocks away called the Three Headed Goat. He sticks to his usual pattern and closes one eye as he enters the darkened interior and then switches eyes once inside. As usual, his vision quickly returns to normal and the establishment unfolds before him revealing a thinning commons room with a few tables either occupied by one or two individuals or altogether empty. Usual sorts fill the remaining seats—sailors and dockhands, even a couple of people Cracker would classify as more City than Street. A few whores work their trade in an attempt to land clients who are willing to pay for more than just company, but they are sticking to the outskirts of the room leaving him free to move in the wake of those he follows inside straight to the scarred oak bar. As the three order their ale, Cracker does the same, motioning to the elder bartender with a thinning ring of white hair about his liver-spotted bald scalp and a dangling waddle beneath his spiky white stubbled chin. The smile that the boatswain wears isn’t feigned, he’s been wanting a drink all morning. Fishing a couple of farthings from his purse, Wiley passes them over to the grizzled man and accepts his amber-colored ale.

Raising it in salute to the other three he says, “Ah, one of the two main reasons to return to shore!”

The other three raise their mugs in response and one adds, “And to the other reason we will hopefully be enjoying soon!” He passes a look towards the whores at work in the tavern. Cracker allows his eyes to follow the others gaze and alight on a very nice, if a bit young, prostitute.

“I have been at sea for awhile…” then he grins a bit, “but not so long you forget some things!” He takes a swig of his drink and asks the nearest of the three, “Where you gentlemen coming from?”

The closest—a fellow with a bulbous nose and a burn scar on his forehead that leads into a stringy mop of unkept hair—grins at the use of the word “gentlemen” revealing three large gaps amongst a mouthful of thin, yellowed teeth. Next to him, a younger man with a tall and athletic build, broad in the shoulders and heavily tattooed, leans forward to reply, “The Dirk of Denmark.”

“Aye,” Toothless hoists his mug and pauses in taking a swallow to add, “may she ferev’r sail.”

“An’ you?” This from the third man; a fellow with a close matte of curly black hair, a flat face with Italian coloring and wide-set brown eyes. “Where do you hail from?”

“I’m on a ship what needs a load. I’d love to stay ashore a bit, but…” and here Cracker stares a bit at his mug, “...sitting in a tavern is a good way to spend one’s pay, but doesn’t make more. The quartermaster on ship is lookin’ for work, but will they find it? Always great when your—lovelihood—oh my...” he seems to lose focus as a very lovely young lady passes through the tavern and pointedly catches his gaze with an inviting one of her own. His companion's eyes follow his and not one of them doesn’t share in the appreciation. “Ah livelihood—depends on some other’s labors. We’ll see what he finds or I might be lookin’ for somethin’ new.”

“If’n yer quartermaster’s worth their salt, you’ll be fillin’ yer purse soon enough,” Toothless takes another long pull on his ale and uses the back of his hairy left arm to wipe the froth from his mouth.

“Heh,” the younger man stretches his back and looks about the room. “While you old dogs are yappin’ away like women in a knittin’ circle, I’mma gonna git me some alone time.”

Slapping the shoulder of Toothless in good natured fun, Tattoo quickly guzzles the remainder of his drink and slams the dented tin mug to the countertop with an exuberant belch. “Wench! Prepare yerself, for the ocean’s ‘bout to get a little rough.” Two of the whores rush to meet his challenge and rather than turn one of them away, the young sailor wraps his arms about both waists and laughingly drags them towards the back hall.

“What ship did ya say yer from?” the dark, curly-haired fellow leans forward and eyes Cracker with a dull gaze waiting on his reply.

(OOC: Time is approximately 1:25 PM.)


Posted on 2017-11-07 at 13:39:46.

Altaira
Veteran Visitor
Karma: 13/0
120 Posts


Oh, so Sorry

Settling in for the long haul, Maggie is engrossed in the activities surrounding the unloading of a wagon by three black men hoping that the boss will show when she’s caught off-guard by a the clearing of a throat behind her. Twisting about, the red-head sees a tall, lean man wearing a smallish tri-cornered cap, a brown coat with tails, and a dingy white shirt collared by a loose black tie. His pants are knee-length, dark brown, and plain but fairly well-kept and his cream stockings nearly reach the cuffs of his pants. He wears worn leather shoes with dark-gray iron buckles on the outer sides. Forehead creased beneath the cap, he stares at the first-mate with a deep scowl on his thin lips but contradicting half-hooded eyes.

He is accompanied by a man of average build wearing a black tri-cornered cap with dark brown hair pulled back in a ponytail and tied off by a black ribbon. He wears a white, high-collared blouse with billowing sleeves the underarms of which are stained yellow from sweat. Dark blue pants cuffed at the knee are tucked into gray stockings. These, in turn, run into the black hob-nailed shoes that are also worn and dingy. A baldric runs across his chest to the left ending in a large pouch. At his waist, a broad, black leather belt is home to a flintlock pistol and a sheathed saber. He carries a rifle in his hands with a bayonet attached to the end.

“Pray tell,” the willow-man sneers condescendingly at Maggie once he has her attention, “what do you pretend to be about?”

Maggie turned and took in the look of the two gentlemen eying her where she sat atop the pile of crates. She noted the sneer of contempt from the speaker and chose to pay it no mind; to anger him by replying in kind might draw too much attention. She rose to her feet and made her way down the crates and hoped down to stand in from of the speaker.

“Good day Gentlemen,” she said with a smile as she stood before them, “I take it this be your goods in these here crates?”

“Sorry to be standing up there, but I was looking for some of my crew who are late in returning to the ship. No good scallywags get ashore, get drunk or whoring and forget their duties. Those crates just made a good place to get a look about it all. I don’t mean to offend.”

She smiled pleasantly and hoping to disarm any hostility they might have towards her actions; she crossed her arms simply, this placing her hands closer to her blades, if needed, and looked at the men and raised an eyebrow.

“My name is Maggie Cole,” she said still smiling politely, “First Mate on the Sun dog. Who might you Gentlemen be?”

She could be charming when she needed to be, she hated being pleasant, but sometimes it was necessary, as Anna had told her upon many an occasion. She knew she was pretty, and men found her attractive and desirable, and at times like this, it wasn’t beneath her to use her feminine charisma when she thought it might help.


Posted on 2017-11-13 at 07:52:51.

Eol Fefalas
Witless Protection
RDI Staff
Karma: 427/28
6520 Posts


Are ya eyeballin' me, boy-o?

Low conversation from the next table drifts tantalizingly close to being comprehensible but is carried away on the wind and drowned in the cacophony of the street. Left to his smoking, Fin cannot help but be lost in his dark thoughts. After what seems like an eternity of basking in the flavor of tobacco and the sticky breeze that lazily kisses his bronzed skin, the Dog’s quartermaster is drawn from his reverie to the doors as they spit out the waif of a girl with a tin mug in hand practically spilling over with frothing beer.

Thunk, splosh, the mug is set before him almost too late as the wench spins about and quickly makes her way back inside. Perhaps luck is smiling on the foul-tempered man, or maybe his God-given instincts for self-preservation are at play, either way, as she leaves his table Fin’s narrow eyes are drawn to a table near the other end of the balcony.

Five men occupy the seats and ten eyes appear to be fixed upon him right up to the moment when his two meets theirs. Quite suddenly, the five men find their conversation, drinks, and the settlement’s skyline more interesting than the quartermaster. One, a wide-faced individual with ruddy features and a shaggy mane of dishwater blonde hair, braves another glance Fin’s way and though it is furtive, the quartermaster is fairly certain that there’s recognition behind that gaze.

Again, Fin Crowe searches his memory for the identity of the man and once again, he cannot place him. To the best of his recollection, Splotchy-Face is an unknown.

Though the gazes from the table at the other end of the balcony were surreptitiously diverted when his own eyes met theirs, Fin’s stare wasn’t as quick to veer away. A tight-lipped smirk plays on his features as he reaches for his beer, disappearing only for an instant when he lifts the mug to his mouth and pours a healthy swallow down his throat. Even then, over the rim of the mug, Crowe’s defiant glare frames the five men, daring them to look his way once more…

((OOC: Should any of them do so, Fin will not look away; instead, he’s more like to snarl out a challenge along the lines of “Th’ bloody hell ya lookin’ at, ya cannon-corkin’ mast mugger(s)?”…Otherwise…))

…He unceremoniously plunks the mug back onto the table, its place at his lips taken, again, by the still smoldering stub of his cigarillo. His storm-colored eyes remain locked on Splotchy-Face and his crew for a moment longer, the fingertips of his right hand playing lightly on the butt of the pistol tucked in his sash as he subtly shifts his weight in the seat. Then, not deeming it wise to keep his gaze in one place overlong, Fin exhales a cloud of smoke into the air, dismissing the table of five as his eyes and ears return to their surveillance.

((OOC: Fin hasn’t completely dismissed his “fan club,” of course… He’s keenly aware of them and has mentally put them near the top of possible perceived threats. That aside, he selected this spot in order to keep an eye peeled for Kidane (and, also, to “find a prize”), so that’s what he’s back to… watching and waiting (for both food and trouble).))


Posted on 2017-11-14 at 10:43:11.

Nomad D2
RDI Fixture
Karma: 36/4
1840 Posts


How to say somethin' without sayin' somethin' while askin' somethin' without really askin'

“What ship did ya say yer from?” the dark, curly-haired fellow leans forward and eyes Cracker with a dull gaze waiting on his reply.

Cracker hated the directness of the question as there was little wiggle room left in which to maneuver. But he took a bit of time responding by taking a long pull (but small actual drink) of his brew. Wiping his mouth as he put the mug down, he responded with a bit of a glaze in his eyes. “Didn’t name one. Been on lots. The Blue Kite, The Dog, the Dawn, and recently the Dolphin.”
(Made up the names, but the Dolphin is supposed to be one of the smaller ships on the other end of the dock from where these sailors were met. One that came in recently. I’m assuming Wiley has some such knowledge since he spent the morning wandering the docks.)

“But whatever ship I’m on tomorrow – sounds like things are good here? Some ports – nothing.” Then he grinned. “I like the sound of “fillin’ m’ purse! If that’s true, then perhaps I could do with a bit more purse emptyin!” He turned to the barman and called for another. When it came he raised it with a nod to his companions.

“What makes it so darn good for purses around here?”


Posted on 2017-11-15 at 18:31:45.

Keeper of Dragons
Devil's Advocate
Karma: 46/18
1935 Posts


a plan

Goncalvo holds the young woman in his arms and his heart races as he thinks of the games they could play. She was likely a skilled player. Lifting her back to her feet he took a moment to glance down the alley. Speaking loudly enough to ensure he was overheard but not so loud as to be obviously trying to do so he replied. "Let us be on our way then lass. The Rampart Lion is a bit of a trip but certainly one of the finest establishments in the city. There will shall meet my wife and begin our games."

OOC: I took the liberty of making up a name of an inn feel free to change if needed. Goncalvo plans to take a circuitous route and lose any followers and then head to the dock and the launch boat

Posted on 2017-11-16 at 19:33:57.

   
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