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  #46  
Old Dec 22nd, 2023, 02:51 PM
Roekahs Roekahs is offline
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Victor YoungVictor happily chats with Kinklaw, the pretense of the dice-rolling savant gone. Now they speak of things that Victor does not need to feign or veil. He is good many things, just not the things he sometimes wishes he were good at – namely, legal things.

The first match unfolds below them, barely registering in Victor's mind. His attention is fixed on the new line of business that may be opening to him. But then there is a lull in the conversation and Victor finally has a moment to look around.

For the first time since entering the building it seems that he can see the real nature of the patrons. Perhaps it is the reflection of what is happening in the ring on the faces in the crowd, or perhaps it is just a projection of his own conversation – with one of the Faerie folk while another flanks him – but the supernatural is suddenly on full display. The fangs bared by one patron during a moment of rage at the on-stage performance, the fire burning inside the eyes of another – not the metaphorical fire like of desire, but real magical fire, and the completely mundane bravado of another patron while all of this goes on around them.

Victor knows himself to be the latter if anyone were to make the observations he is making.

And he loves it.

There are potential dangers everywhere. Not registered. There was the near-ejection from earlier in the evening. Forgotten. Victor is right where he wants to be. This is the city that everyone is asleep on.

Having had no vested interest in the first match, Victor barely reacts to the conclusion. However, as the announcement for the second match rings through the arena, Victor springs to his feet. He joins his voice to the cheers for Andre.

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  #47  
Old Dec 23rd, 2023, 09:07 PM
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Rumble Fahrad listened intently as Cassandra spoke. She was shrewd and clever, and more than she appeared to be. All things Farhad found delightful.

She was a piece on the board, that much was obvious, but whether she would prove to be a simple pawn or something more would need to be developed. Perhaps, she would even be revealed to be more than a piece on the board, but a player.

Farhad smiled, many would think it obvious that one who saw the world in such a way would see themselves as one of the players, but Farhad was so keenly unaware of his own place in the world. He didn’t play the game any more than he moved at the behest of others. No, Farhad in this situation, was the board. Unflinching, unfaltering, eternal. A thousand games had been played since Farhad first walked the earth, and thousand more would be played in the coming years – no matter what those fools at the Ordo had planned.

Lupus Alpha. Farhad said under his breath for no one in particular to hear.

A terrible stage name.

Lupus. Latin for wolf. The Romans, it seemed, were a constant motif. A long dead empire replaced by a pathetic little collection of states that no longer control anything other than a tract of land known for its incompetent dictators and terrible architectural design. The empire had crumbled away and yet one thing was certain – though many greater and far more impressive Empires had graced the world, none had matched the Romans in propaganda.

And Alpha, stolen from the Greeks, stolen from the Canaanites – an ox. Perhaps more appropriate than the lupus – sans the transformation Andre was ever so more ox like.

We’re going to work on the name…I think. Something more, personal than some Romanized drivel.

Farhad looked to Cassandra for her thoughts on the matter.

When the hairs on the back of Farhad’s neck stood to attention – as if he had invoked the wrath of Adad.

Quote:
“The Wolf…His mother wastes away. I would have you reveal the reason to me. Tell me all you know…”
Yet another ill omen appeared.

Farhad placed his thumb and forefinger tightly against the bridge of his nose.

Shamash take you. Farhad whispered, his irritation growing into frustration with the spirit who was even more maladapted to the times than he.

Ms. Beall – There is a show. Farhad gestured to the match. As distasteful as it is, it is discourteous to the performers, and annoying to those of the audience, to whisper. You ring like a bell caught in a gale.

Farhad glared briefly, where he assumed the spirit was haunting, and turned his head back to the upcoming show. With luck the spectre would take offense, as she often did, and dissipate.
OoCFarhad would like to reserve the right to assist Andre in the match, but I don’t want to roll before the fight starts.
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  #48  
Old Dec 28th, 2023, 12:42 PM
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Andre, the Wolf
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His world still pain, his lupine body not yet fully formed, the Wolf rises from the ground, ears perked up as they snatch the bluegrass plucking that drifted aabove the roaring crowd. The Buzzard's walk out hoedown. There is no time to lick away the agony. The show has begun and it is time to hunt down the carrion that stands in his path to the Morgue.

Doors are thrown open unceremoniously. Hands reach out for high fives as a mountain of muscle barrels towards the ring, hands which are ignored in the blur (luckily for their owners the Wolf discards the desire to snap wrists and rend fleshy palms--the hunter must not be distracted by sheep when he hunts a buzzard).

Bill Buzzard stands on the rope buckles at one corner of the ring draped in a long cape of dark feathers, plumes of white crowning his scraggly neck to match the long white haired mullet that crowns the bald peak of his head. A droopy mustche and a collossal beard hang past the Buzzard's chest and bulging belly. Skin hangs loosely where young muscle has been eaten away by time, wobbling from side to side as he waves to spectators.

As soon as the Buzzard sees Andre tearing towards him, the wiley wrestler leaps down into the ring and begins his ritual circling, a ritual the Wolf ignores. The Wolf knows no ceremony and does not wait for an arbiter to signal the beginning of the match. Only victory matters. Victory by any means. And the means the Wolf has at his disposal is pure unadulterated violence.

Hurling himself through the air, sailing above the ropes, the Wolf uses his body like a cannonball, thrusting forward a sharp knee at the last moment to add a spear tip to the bludgeoning weight of his impact. The knee lands clean on the Buzzard's beak, busting his crooked nose with a fountain of red and staggering the surprised older fighter backwards into the ropes which mercifully hold up his falling frame. The Wolf lands on his feet and crouches down on all fours, deciding whther to go for the throat or tear down his prey with a bite to the soft nether region.

 




 
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  #49  
Old Dec 29th, 2023, 12:44 AM
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Cole Schneider, the Veteran
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The fitting complete, Cole finds himself quickly in over his head. A strange man, possibly quite touched in the head, had burst into the dressing room shouting something. The intruder seemed confused about his own presence in the room, but before the Tailor could present a line of inquiry, the man was unceremoniously shoved into a locker.

So many questions rolled around unspoken. Who was this man and what was he doing in the locker? Then things really started getting strange. Andre's muscles started straining unnaturally under the spandex garment, more than that... it was like his very bones were rearranging themselves into a new shape... a more primal form. Intellectually understanding that the wrestler was a werewolf was a decidedly different thing than being faced with the visceral reality of it.

Cole's mind completely disassociated for a moment. A particularly professional and detached part of his psyche noted the physiological effects of lycanthropy and made notes about improvements he could make to the costume. Another part was still trying to process the man in the locker. Even now, eerie noises were emanating from inside, triggering deep memories in Cole's mind. Was the man haunted by some malevolent spirit? It might explain much of his actions... but not Andre's response.

But Andre was in no condition to answer questions. His transformation was well underway now, and Cole found himself driven from the wolf's lair along with the crowd that had been flowing into the room. Carried along by a wave of humanity, the tailor stood lost in the open arena once more. He spied Cassandra near the ring, talking to Farhad of all people. She was clearly busy. His questions would have to wait.

As the match began, Cole found a moment to finally try and gather his thoughts.

 

 
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Last edited by hafrogman; Dec 29th, 2023 at 12:45 AM.
  #50  
Old Dec 31st, 2023, 04:56 PM
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The RingLupus Alpha moves into the ring and immediately begins the combat. The Buzzard is wiley enough not to get caught by that first unexpected assault, but he was not prepared for the speed of Andre's pivot. He is caught See the OOC note; it's not entirely clear to me what the right about of damage for this attack is. Somewhere between 1 and 3....full-force by the attack, and is knocked off his feet by its intensity. The Buzzard scrambles and rolls and manages to make it back up to his feet.

Lupus is taking the direct approach, and on second try, he misses as the rubbery old man dodges out of the way. He lands a hit, but even against a lesser foe, it would have been a light tap. Lupus feels almost nothing. They make a few passes of this kind, trading blows that may leave bruises tomorrow, but leave no lasting harm. At one point, Andre has the old crow back into his corner, and the Wolf takes a solid kick right to the solar plexus. Andre rThanks to your Lupine 1-armoreacts almost not-at-all. The old man suddenly looks very worried. He dives to the mat, apparently looking for something hidden near his cast-off walk-up gear. Lupus is too fast, and the Buzzard doesn't have time to find what he was looking for. He rolls out of the way, with a new desperate look in his eyes.

Andre again presses in, and this time, The Buzzard jumps straight at him, arms and legs out like a cat displaying his claws. He wraps his legs around Andre as best he can, and looks for the one spot he knows a dirty old man can do some damage: the eyes. Before Andre can react, there is a thumb in his right eye. He pulls the finger away as soon as he can, but the Buzzard claws as much as he can on the way out, Andre takes 1-harm (that is, 2, lessened by the 1-armor) and takes -1 going forward on his next roll. But the Buzzard's move was desperate enough that the Buzzard opened himself up to another harm in executing it.ripping the skin. Andre slams him down on the ground (did the Buzzard just try to bite him as Andre performed the slam?). Andre can feel the warm blood running down his face. He can only see out of the left eye, perhaps because of the tumb, perhaps because of the blood.

The StandsUp in the stands, Victor and Brassa watch the bloody match. On the floor near the outside edge of the stands, Cole tries to make sense of what just happened in the locker room. A few connections go off in his head. He had seen this man, Vasili, around the Coliseum a few times, wearing his suit, mingling with the crowd. Irritating and maybe a little invasive, but nothing remarkable. But seeing him now, dirty, roughed up, and harrowed, memories from a past life come back to Cole. He had met Vasili before. The man was a two-bit denizen of the shadows. A Vamp, walking the scummiest back alleys of DC. He was a lowlife, even by Vamp standards, weaving a web that entrapped junkies and runaways. Now he's... this? A 'Missionary'? A suited evangelizer, putting on a clean face? Something has changed, or at least that's what he wants folk to believe.

Farhad stands ringside and Cassandra stays at hand. Then a voice begins to whisper. At first, the seer just tilts her head slightly to listen - how many voices does this one hear in her daily business. But then her brow furrows - this is not a familiar voice. But she takes the presence of a new voice in stride until Farhad responds reproachfully. "Oh, you know this one? Interesting..." The Oracle does not need to 'watch' the match per se, but she is focusing her attentions on it. After Farhad's rebuke, Cassandra tilts her head in the direction from which Anne spoke. In a voice almost as quiet as Anne's (which is quite loud, given the shouting crowd), "Why are you concerned with this ones family?" she indicates Andre with a raise of the chin. "Your own kin is in grave peril, are they not? A namesake? There are places, spirit, where even you can not follow. The Wolf's mother rests while your blood wanders down that twisting path..."

OODM@jbear: Yes, a 12 is obviously a success! One that means you need to choose to either 1) inflict great harm, or 2) take something from the Buzzard. it will probably be worth reading the move, because "take something" can be very conceptual (like 'take his dignity'). I am also not entirely sure how much damage the Buzzard has taken. You have 2- harm natural weapons in your transformation. Which I assume means teeth and claws. But are you using those in this battle - literally rending and biting? Or are you doing more "standard" wrestling moves like punch and kick and flying elbow drop type stuff? Those standard moves would be 1-harm rather than 2 (though you can bump it up with the 'inflict great harm' option.

This system's combats are cinematic and not marked by strict turn orders or timing. The match has been going on for about 3 minutes at this point, and presumably the outcome of your narration can make it take some time more. The drama that gets us to the outcome (as dictated by rolls) is more important than the timing and mechanics of the combat itself.

@Roe: I'm not reading any actions that I need to react to in your post - which is fine, Victor is literally the audience here! But if you're looking for something to interact with, let me prod you with a reminder that Kinloaw asked some questions in my Dec 10 GM post that I don't think anyone ever answered.
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Old Jan 2nd, 2024, 12:17 PM
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The Spectre
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Anne Charlotte Beall, the Spectre
Memory is a living thing. It grows and changes, it perceives, recalls, and forgets. It is influenced by emotion and thought, happenstance and the passing of time. It is shaped and at the same time shapes the one it serves and defines.

Anne’s memory was like the Spectre herself, a shadow of something that had been in its prime much greater than it currently was. Moments, places and individuals became as insubstantial as a puff of smoke and before she realized it they dissipated into nothingness, leaving behind them more holes than substance. The spirit’s determination, her hatred and bitterness, was all that anchored her to this world, all that kept the few memories that remained from scattering like sheep fleeing from a wolf. But even this power, Anne’s insistence of existing in a manner that wasn’t meant for a mortal being, could not fully resist entropy. Like a dog it could guard the entrance to the decrepit mansion that was the Spectre, but it could do little about the broken windows, the flaking paint and the crumbling ceiling.

The Oracle’s words were like a revelation to the Spectre, the birth of light in a cave that had remained dark for a very long time. It made her forget about Vasili and the Missionaries, the Wolf’s lack of gratitude and his ailing mother and her annoyance at being rebuked by a thief. There was only one thing around which everything revolved, a single sun in Anne’s shrinking solar system.

Annie!

Pressing her lips against Cassandra’s ear, her hands desperately grasping her shoulder and arm, Anne’s voice, simultaneously whisper and scream, asked, begged for an explanation.

"Annie!? Is the blood of my sister in danger? How? Why? What is the path that leads to her demise? I must stop her from walking it!"

Annie had inherited Anne’s name, which to the Spectre’s eyes was an obvious tribute to her memory, but other than that the two were completely different. Annie was bright. She was curious and determined, as creative as an artist and as uncompromising as a rebel. She was all the things that Anne Charlotte Varney, daughter of an English Earl, hadn’t been and the Spectre was desperate that she would never come to become like her.

"Tell me, please tell me. Promise me that it is not too late. She is my ward, my responsibility. I would have her be her own woman rather than a slave of fate. Tell me what you know. Tell me how she can be saved."



 


 
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  #52  
Old Jan 3rd, 2024, 03:55 AM
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Before the fight started Brassavola continued to chime in occasionally to the talk between Victor and Kinklaw, her dark eyes scanning the crowd as though the conversation was largely boring to her. And that was the truth, it was largely uninteresting except for what she could extract from Kinklaw about his own position and loyalties in the the landscape of the Folk. From his answers it seemed he hadn't changed much.

He remained a brutal, but effective tool of his Lady and his loyalty remained unwavering. If Brassa wanted to influence him it would be through assisting his standing with her and his Court. That, or...her eyes took at the hungry expression on Kinklaw's face as he and Victor chatted. Getting the mortal man to promise Kinklaw something, that would do it. It was an option, not a particularly appetizing one to the Fae, but certainly an option.

Kinklaw was also, like every other good soldier, hungry for information on the disbanded Courts and their hidden members (of which she was one). She could feel him poke and prod to see where her allegiances laid and despite her best efforts his beady eyes got some answers from her, or at least the means by which to get an answer. She would never trust him enough to tell him freely, but her glittering eyes told him that if Kinklaw was firmly under her control, perhaps then she would divulge her true Court. A small frown at the mention of relatives, quickly suppressed but not quickly enough, told him that the threatening of one such relative would also likely be enough to get it out of her. Kinklaw was blunt, cruel, but effective.

Now Brassa watched the match with interest. She recognized the Wolf, Andre. Such power. She had witnessed it once before and been the one to quell it and now the boy/wolf was in her debt. A debt she planned to call upon one night, but tonight was not that night.

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  #53  
Old Jan 6th, 2024, 09:05 AM
Roekahs Roekahs is offline
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Victor YoungThe match holds Victor's attention. He cannot recall witnessing an event quite like the one unfolding before his eyes. It is primal. It is violent. It is – at its most basic – just sport. Despite his attention being captured by the spectacle, Victor can feel Kinklaw's eyes on him at various ebbs in the action; or perhaps the man's eyes never leave him at all but he only notices at those moments. A shiver runs down his spine.

As the action elicits a particularly loud cheer, Victor leans close to Kinklaw. "If you got stuff – objects – that need to be somewhere other than where they is, I can do it. People I ain't done, but maybe."

Victor pulls back as the action picks back up. Subtly, he pulls his phone from his pocket. Keeping it low near his waist, Victor flips through it for a moment and then holds it out to Kinklaw. Victor has the weird sense that all the effort is unnecessary – this is a place to bring people together and for deals to be made – but the landscape is still too new; he can't help but try to conceal what he can until he knows this world better.

As the match continues, Victor gently throws his arm around Brass's shoulders and leans close. "Thanks for that. Might help pay some bills. You need any business done tonight, I'm your guy."

OOCI had kind of hand-waved Victor's response to the questions, but since you asked again I decided to answer more specifically. It is still generally a vague answer, but Victor wouldn't give much more than that to someone new anyway

 
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Old Jan 6th, 2024, 02:35 PM
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Rumble The chattering continued at his side – thought the topic abruptly changed.

Sufficient.

Though his intention was the apparition’s relocation, it was enough to see her attention drawn to something that, for now, was irrelevant to Farhad.

…except…

A ward.

And she seems attached.

That could add the specter to his collection, and there was still plenty of space in the Hoard. It would be a paltry replacement for what she lost, of course, but Farhad was not one to miss a business opportunity.

CRUNCH

Oh yes, the match.

Farhad turned his attention back to the odious blood sport – luckily, his contender was winning.

By what appeared to be a considerable margin, though the old man clearly had seen his share of close calls.

An apex predator himself, Farhad’s eyes glint at the first sign of true fear in the man’s eyes. It was brief, he was an experienced fighter, but it was there, and like any creature used to hunting, it sent a shiver down Farhad’s spine. Something else caught the businessman’s attention – the man’s brief but panicked search.

Farhad, fulfilling his role as manager, but never forgetting his role as gentleman, excused himself briefly from his companions, and went to the side of the ring to jeer his gladiator’s target.

Farhad did his best to play to the crowd and jeer his opposition clambering up the side of the ring shouting, but never interfering in the match – that would be unsportsmanlike, but unfortunately Farhad had this… damnable cane. A cane which just so happened to get caught in the Buzzard’s cast-off walk-up gear, knocking it from the ring.

A look of feigned concern crossed Farhad’s face for a moment if the Buzzard, or anyone else, looked in his direction.

Cursing his clumsiness Farhad slowly climbed down to the gear, pocketing anything suspicious -his fingers moving with preternatural speed. The dragon seized what he could that was of interest, making a show to mock the cast-off gear as he politely folded it and placed it gently near the corner of the ring.

His duty done, Farhad cheered for Andre as he made his way back to his ringside companions.
OoCI considered rolling ‘let it out’ but am uncertain if this requires a roll as the item is unattended and can be removed using conventional means. it could be done with more supernatural finesse if you prefer.
Let it out: 11
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Last edited by wodine; Jan 6th, 2024 at 02:49 PM.
  #55  
Old Jan 8th, 2024, 11:53 AM
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The StandsBrassa and Victor watch the match with interest, chit-chatting with Kinklaw in an attempt to both keep him useful to them, but also to keep him at arm's length in terms of what he knows about them. Both reveal something of themselves - Victor shares some information about his not-so-legal enterprises, and Brassa lets it slip that while she is a savvy information operator, she has connections that could provide easier leverage to who she is and what she is doing.

The conversation up in the stands stays light as the crowd cheers for the painful ebb and flow of the fight. Kinklaw puts Victor's contact info into own phone, and text-repiies his own number back. Suddenly, Kinklaw looks like he is hit by the impact of a back to this in a second. Notice the last fieldset is also in the stands.massive headache...

The RingLupus struggles to see through his bloody face. As his focus is lost, the Buzzard grins and strikes. Another flurry of blows fails to deliver much impact, even as Andre does not offer much active resistance. The Buzzard steps back, shaking his head. His hands open and close, as if desperately wishing they held something. But they do not.

There is no time to ponder in this sport. The Buzzard dives back in, dropping to a feet-first slide. The feet meet Andre's left leg, but the Buzzard pads the blow. He's not trying to kick. He's bracing. He reaches in with both hands to wrap around Andre's knee. In a blink, he pulls at the knee with his hands, and pushes with his feet. The crowd is loud enough that only the wrestlers hear a pop. Suddenly, Lupus' leg does not want to bear weight. It will not bear weight, except with extreme pain.

The Buzzard attempts to roll away, having executed a move that would be illegal in any sort of sport that had rules regulating its moves.

RingsideFarhad (as all the above is going on) overhears the juicy nugget that Anne has a mortal and vulnerable relation. But then the fight proceeds and the whispered conversation goes on. He doesn't feel he can eaves-drop for the whole match. He prowls the ring, he shouts from the ropes, and then he slips down, to find his hand passing through the Buzzard's ringside stash. It comes out with a small, black, two pronged electrical device. It is so electrical-taped and jury rigged that it takes a moment to figure out what it is. A taser. Smaller than ones that are meant for public use of force, but possibly even stronger, given all the effort made to modify it.

As Farhad drifts away, Anne presses her case to Cassandra. The wrestler is becoming visibly annoyed, with her attention split between specter and match. "Strange spirit! This isn't the time. Can't you see..." she interrupts herself to clap and cheer for one of Andre's solid blows. "Listen, I don't know your 'kin'. I just see glimpses. Images and motion. Reasons do not come with it." The audience is not close enough to hear Andre's knee pop, but The Oracle is. She groans as the Buzzard attempts to dodge away. "I will take one short look now, and then you need to go. This isn't something I do for free." She looks neither in Anne's direction, nor the wrestling match. There are a few moments where there are only the noises of the fight and the crowd, and then Cassandra jumps as if she is startled. "Oh no. Something saw me... How? Someone..."

The StandsKinlaw shakes his head, to try to rid himself of the headache. A furious look is now on his face. He stands up and points at Cassandra. "Hey! What's she doing? Somebody get her!" Of course, in a cheering audience focused on the fight, no one pays him a lot of mind. But heads all around them turn to face Kinklaw, Brassa and Victor. When no one does as he commanded, Kinlaw mutters "for ****s sake," followed by a sharply barked "MOVE!" to the audience members in front of him. He begins walking straight down the risers like they are stairs, stepping on hands and coats, bracing on shoulders and shoving heads to speed is path to the arena floor, creating a wave of disturbance that is immediately noticable to everyone attending the event.

From the back of the arena, Cole can hear some shouts from one of the back passages.

OODM@jbear: Since the system is... slippery in its need for initiative, I don't think it's too big a deal if I just take two actions in a row here. The rules tell me that my main mechanic is 'create drama and impetus when they are needed'. Andre again takes 2 harm but it is reduced to 1 harm through Wolfy power. Notice the harm rules: we're now moving into a range where it will not just heal 'on its own,' which is why I upped the stakes a bit here. Scars are always possible, to avoid harm entirely. Though, presumably no one in this arena is literally trying to murder their opponent. Accidents happen and permanent injury is definitely an occupational hazard.

@wodine: the taser has a bunch of tags. It's 1-harm, S-harm (it does stun damage and requires the target to Keep Their Cool to remain standing), it is AP (armor piercing), concealable, and intimate (the closest range).

@Roe - I'm not 100% clear on what Victor is sharing from his phone. Images of goods to be fenced? Contact information? clarified ooc, and sentence added to the first 'stands' fieldset.
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Last edited by Wynamoinen; Jan 8th, 2024 at 12:09 PM.
  #56  
Old Jan 8th, 2024, 07:08 PM
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The Spectre
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Anne Charlotte Beall, the Spectre
There were few things that Anne hated more than pleading with someone. She, the Earl’s daughter, the daughter-in-law of George Beall, founder of George Town, wasn’t even used to making requests. She merely had to voice a desire and others made certain that it became reality.

But that was a long, long time ago, when she had been a young thing of pale skin and rosy lips. A rare beauty she had been called in her time, and she had silently agreed with the men who would only with great difficulty tear their eyes away from her. But this had been the past. What was she now?

The Oracle had called her a strange spirit and she was right. This world was strange to her and she was strange to the world, no longer a part of it, like a shadow born of an object that was no more. It was no longer enough to simply voice a desire. Now, she had to beg to get her way - or force others to comply.

Her persistence, though unseemly, bore fruits. Cassandra promised to “take a short look”. She made clear, however, that it would cost Anne. The Spectre readily agreed. you can’t take (something) from someone who doesn’t have (it)“Ουκ αν λάβοις παρά του μη έχοντος”, protested Lucian with Menippos’ voice and Anne could easily have done the same. She owned nothing but her memories, and even they were so tattered that she sometimes wondered how they were able to keep her alive. No, not alive. Keep her from being completely lost in oblivion, was more accurate.

The Spectre leaned over the Oracle anxiously, though she took care not to touch her, and waited for her promised revelation.

She didn’t have to wait long. It seemed that Cassandra was more of a spy than a prophet and that others could take offense at her indiscretion. Others who were so near that their voice could be heard over the shouts of pain and excitement that dominated the arena.

One of the Fae was looking for her.

Anne rose, glaring at the man doing everything he could to reach Cassandra. Boyish face, tight red curls, bright green eyes full of cruelty and cunning.

"Depart", Anne said to Cassandra, roughly pushing her towards the exit to emphasize her point. "I shall deal with your pursuer. In return you shall reveal to me what you have seen."

Not waiting for the Oracle to agree, or indeed to say anything, Anne moved towards Kinlaw with determination. For her, the crowd didn’t offer any resistance, as she could simply pass through it as easily as others could cross an empty room. Things were different for the Fae, however. All Anne had to do was stir up a little unrest and he would become painfully aware of this fact.

In the end, it was all too simple for someone with an invisible, immaterial body to turn the spectators against the Fae. A shove here, a push there, and Anne was able to make the red-haired man appear more inconsiderate of those between him and the fleeing Oracle than he was. Many cursed angrily, others started shaking their fists, and some rose from their seats, loudly demanding that the offender be removed before they did so themselves.

Anne could only stare in disapproval. It was so sad. She was surrounded by base animals, beasts! Without a word, she turned around and followed the Oracle. She was done with this place.



 


 
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  #57  
Old Jan 9th, 2024, 07:10 PM
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The Wolf
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Pain and blood. Andre's familiar companions. The dislocation of his knee is of no more concern than the Missionary who had escaped his improvised imprisonment in the locker. To the Wolf there is only one concern: finishing the Buzzard.

Perhaps Andre would have been concerned with putting on a show. He would surely have liked to climb up onto the ropes and vamp up the crowd. Such pageantry and showmanship are irrelevant to the Wolf and no such concern emerges from his subconscious. He might have cursed that his transformational rage had allowed a curious lead to escape, a lead which for all he knew might have shed some light on his mother's illness. He would certainly have been concerned about the unnatural angle of the bottom part of his leg. But Andre's desires, his will, are completely drowned out by the primeval beast wrestling the rubbery man in the ring.

With the pop of his knee and the pain of placing his foot on the mat comes an elevation to the Wolf's savagery that causes the crowd to wince and gasp. Many look away. Some turn away to shield their eyes from the spray of blood. The ring is not a place meant for murder. The Wolf's response to his injury is clearly no accident. But the Wolf has no care for protocols. This is not sport. This is a hunt. The Wolf is no cat, he does not toy with his food.

The Buzzard seeks to crawl away from his brutal leg lock, but the veteran wrestler can barely breathe after Alpha's knee busted his nose. He's been sucking in air through his mouth when he can and his efforts to pound the 7 feet tower of flesh and bring him down on the mat have left him exhausted, at the limits of his stamina. His scurried escape is slow.

The Wolf paw clamps down the Buzzard's ankle. Claws dig into muscle and ligaments dragging him back towards the predator's jaws. The Buzzard squirms and flaps, twisting to break Wolf's hold, desperate to reach his discarded walk-out clothes and the handy electrified weapon hidden amongst the folds. Unable to stand, the Wolf cannot reach the Buzzard's neck with his hungry jaws. He lashed out with his other claw instead, cutting upwards like four daggers. The claws tear through the Buzzard's gaping jaw and slice through his tongue, their tips pressing against the roof of the shocked man's mouth. If not for his gasping for air, the blow might have otherwise cut deep enough to pierce the man's brain.

The Wolf bares a demented smile. He speaks or tries to. A howl emerges instead, a call to the pack to feed. Unless someone or something intervenes or Bill Buzzard throws himself on the Wolf's mercy, prostrating himself in defeat, the Buzzard is going to have his jaw torn off.


 


 
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Last edited by jbear; Jan 9th, 2024 at 07:15 PM.
  #58  
Old Jan 12th, 2024, 03:54 PM
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Victor YoungEverything is glorious. Things have not looked quite this rosy in … a while. New opportunities in new arenas is just such a new … wait … what is happening? Kinklaw? Victor's eyes narrow as the new acquaintance – whose number still glows brightly on the screen of his phone – reels in pain.

Victor follows Kinklaws head as the Fae sweeps the crowd. Then he identifies a woman, but which one is not immediately clear. Victor stands stunned, attempting to assess the situation, but Kinklaw is too impatient and suddenly the stands are a haphazard jumble of curses and yells.

Through all the chaos, Victor's eyes settle on a woman. Based on her reaction to the chaos, she must be the one that drew Kinklaw's ire. The path to her is blocked by the tumult, but Victor is not so easily deterred. His eyes dart upward, away from the woman. All the focus is down, in the direction of the ring. It takes some practice to be slippery in a crowd, but practice is not something Victor is short on. Flowing against the throng, against the attention of the crowd. It is only a moment before he breaks free and has near free range of the upper floor.

It isn't something he does consciously – in fact it was the one thing he was exceptional at in police academy – but Victor has the layout of the building memorized. Most areas he had only traversed once and several areas he had been denied entry, but the number of paces in a hallway from a restricted door to an unrestricted door provided a room size. Accessible areas, crowded areas, restricted areas, and exits all flash in his minds eye. The fastest path to the exit nearest the woman's current position is. And Victor's feet are already thudding along the path.

Victor tears around corners and down stairs. He makes good time despite dodging small groups here and there, but even still it feels unlikely that he will be able to cut off the path of the woman before she reaches the exit .. inside. It is a split moment decision and Victor skids past the corner, twisting to alter his path back down a hallway and toward the exit. Bursting through the doors, Victor sprints along the side of the building. Now he can move, unhindered. He turns the corner just as the door starts to open, so he launches his shoulder into the out-swinging door, feeling the thud and then the give as the person on the other side topples backward. For a brief moment Victor pauses, hoping it was actually his target and not someone like Andre because the night might turn real sour if it was the latter. It is only a brief moment of doubt, though, and Victor yanks the door open to stand in the doorframe.

There she is. A moment of relief washes over Victor, but then the adrenaline flushes his system again. Who she is and why Kinklaw suddenly went berserk is unknown. Doubt, adrenaline, confusion. An odd concoction. Trying not to betray the internal turmoil, Victor says, "Hold on just a minute. Where are you scurrying off to? I believe someone wants to have a word with you."

All this for someone he barely knows? Is he that desperate for work? Or that desperate for the supernatural? Victor pushes those thoughts aside.

OOCLet it out = 8; Take definite hold of something vulnerable or exposed: Cassandra's escape route

 
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  #59  
Old Jan 14th, 2024, 05:31 PM
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Rumble Farhad had just tucked the pilfered object away when he heard the crowd erupting from every direction.

The first thing that caught Farhad’s attention was the trouble in the stands.

It appears that the one gifted with sight did not see the trouble brewing right before her eyes. How poetic.

Farhad thought back to all the stories he had heard all those years ago back when humanity was still figuring itself out – they had always enjoyed cursing those with gifts, and it seems this one would make a fitting tale for the Hellenists – Homer would have been proud.

Farhad was prepared to aid his new friend – she had proven insightful, and that insight was valuable, if primarily intangible.

CRUNCH

Another noise caught Farhad’s attention.

Turning back to the match, the battered and broken body of the Buzzard hit the ground with a loud thud – and the ‘wolf’ was bearing down on him to snuff out what little life remained. This was… unfortunate.

Farhad was indifferent to the violence or the life of Buzzard, he was clearly not an honorable warrior, and yet, Farhad had made an investment, and that investment was potentially about to depreciate considerably.

Farhad had watched empires rise and fall and he had seen heroes and villains alike changed forever after blood stained their hands, and Andre, the carrier of the wolf, would not survive such brutality with ease. No doubt the already fragile giant would further degrade, his mother was already a point of suffering, another could cause him to become unstable, and Farhad could not, would not, tolerate an unstable investment.

The Buzzard, it seemed, was in the arena alone – he had no manager, no person in his corner, if he had, Farhad wouldn’t be standing here with his own ill-gotten gains. This fight was clearly over, but it seemed that with the commotion in the crowd, that no one was going to stop this fight from ending in a blood bath.

Farhad cursed under his breath and snatched the closest piece of the Buzzard’s gear that had just gone through and tossed it into the ring, throwing in the towel for the Buzzard. The match was over, no one could have doubted that.

The match is over you’ve won.

Farhad entered the ring with speed that should not have been possible by someone using a cane. His body slithered through the ropes, the cane never out of sync with his steps, causing little vibrations on the mat.

The hunt is over, but this, this broken man, this is mine. It is my claim!

Farhad shouted, his booming voice carrying through the arena, though with the chaos in the crowd it was unlikely that any far from the ring could hear him.

Farhad stood, his polished designer shoes on the body of Buzzard, his cold eyes glaring at the massive Wolf before him. His eyes locked with the eyes of the predator, and he revealed his true nature. Farhad’s eyes flickered and for a moment, the façade dropped.

Time stood still and the Wolf sensed what truly stood before him.

The man was replaced by a writhing mass of scale and gold. Eyes glinting with intellect and majesty that had seen the world forged and shaped. Farhad was one with the beginning, before skies and earth were named, he swam in the saltwater of the dark primal sea. He stood as a pillar that supported the gemstone of the world. His body shifted with time and chaos, at times it was that of snakes, toads, scorpions, frogs or lizards. He was a king of the winds and seas, a monster and destroyer of the worlds, and all together indifferent to the passage of time as shooting stars passed by and kingdoms rose and fell, all as the man in the old-time suit walked down the road, castles and skyscrapers rising and collapsing with each of his steps.

Only a second had passed, and the real world collapsed in, the mask securely restored, an average height, middle eastern man in a suit that looked more appropriate for a museum than a night out now stood facing down the hulking wolf, but his resolve was that of stone – the wolf now saw him for what he was, an Apex creature – and he had staked his claim.

OoCLet it out: 11

I will claim the vulnerable almost corpse of the Buzzard.

@Jbear I’d like to open up the possibility of frighten, intimidate, or impressing ‘the Wolf.’ I’m not trying to force the wolf to do anything and I don’t have any sort of long term gotcha I’m trying to plan, I just thought it would be neat if there was like a cloying subconscious fear of Farhad to play with for the wolf, not necessarily Andre. It doesn't have to be mechanical or anything just a fun story element. I left the conclusion of my post vague to see how you feel about it.
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Last edited by wodine; Jan 14th, 2024 at 06:07 PM.
  #60  
Old Jan 16th, 2024, 02:44 AM
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Brassavola eyed the match though with increasing disinterest. The physicality of violence was her least favorite kind of physicality, especially when it lacked the personal entanglement that gave life its depth of flavor. She knew the child, Andre, but not this Buzzard and from what she knew of the two they shared had no past history to add emotion to this confrontation. It was purely for 'sport', as it were, the enrichment of gamblers and the entertainment of the chortling masses. Such things bored her, though she kept a polite gaze on the match in case something developed that she could use.

And such a thing did develop, though it nearer to her than she would have liked. Kinklaw, shouting and pointing at a woman that was near the side of the ring. Brassa's attention grabbed onto this swiftly, her eyes following Kinklaw's pointing finger to a face she knew, or at least Hit on Put a Name to a Faceknew of. Cassandra. An oracle.

There was commotion in the crowd and gasps, but before she could really see what was happening, Victor sprinted away from her. Instinctively, Brassa followed him, though the young man was far faster and more dexterous than she. He threatened to lose her in the crowd and the twists and turns of the buildings he dashed through.
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