To those asking around, it's not too uncommon to find Damian here, particularly when there's new art up. He's here now with Lori and Jerome - and of the three, the seven foot Jerome really tends to be the one that draws the eye at first. Damian's currently eyeballing a painting of a shipwreck with a critical expression, and Jerome's looking fairly bored but well-behaved.
The door opens, admit one Pobble. Or half admit. A second taken to hastily suck the last from a cigarette including a small burn of the filter before he flicks it out past the dirty fella he has in tow. Stepping fully inside the gallery, he lightly adjusts the sit of his top hat as he holds the door for Cash, peering across with a sharp and determined expression. His thin lips are set in a crooked line, silver tipped fingers tapping against the door as he scans the room.
In comes those that don't belong. Unless perhaps, this gallery's patrons tend to be low end. Damian and company prove this theory false. And so Cash and Pobble's entrance goes noticed. Cash, the more sluggish of the two, follows in tow with denim collars propped up against the relentless foul weather of Erin's Valley. Relaxed, slumped and stumbling in alcohol steps. He's concealing a bottle in that jacket of his, no doubt moonshine of grandpa's ripest variety. Hard to follow his gaze behind the drapery of hair that covers. But he's behind Pobble in a purely heterosexual fashion. Eyes fix on the array of free beverages, but he stays the course lain before him by his contemporary. Into the gallery proper.
Lori is actually interested in the art. Her arms are folded across her chest, a bag slung over her head so that the strap lays across her body, boots planted firmly on the ground. "...and nobody does those really great huge, big fucking sea ship scenes anymore where the waves are like 30 feet tall and there's some poor motherfucker hanging from the rigging on the mast and the ship's like hanging in mid air at the top of a wave at a seventy-degree angle n' shit? Man, I love those. They're not ART, but I love them."
Must be that time of day, when people stop by the Gallery for either a looksee of new art, or perhaps a triple espresso from the cafe. For the redhead that soon steps inside, it's for the latter. Kirra is needing her caffeine fix, seriously. Graceful steps take her from the front door towards the cafe where she smiles at the guy behind the counter, "Hey there, Billy. The usual, please?" In hand, she's already got the correct change laid on the counter for him, sliding it across when he hands over the paper cup, "Thanks, Billy. Don't let 'em stress ya too hard today." As she turns away, words are over-heard, and peering into the gallery proper, she sees the trio before the ship picture. "Hey there. " That's directed it Lori with a brief smile before she takes a sip of the strong brew from her cup.
Damian glances down at Lori for a moment, then looks back up at the painting, pursing his lips thoughtfully. "They have movies about that these days, so no one needs it in art anymore. Attention spans like guinea pigs. In ten years, we won't have galleries at all, more's the pity." Though not directed at him he glances Kirra's way, then looks at Lori questioningly.
Lori says, "Géricault? Fuck Géricault, man. Romanticism is a waste of my goddamned time..." The rest of her thought is cut off, and she turns to look where Damian's looking. Monkey see, monkey do. "Oh," she says, "Kirra." This for Damian's elucidation. Lori lifts a hand to wave at her."
Pobble continues to hang near the door, side stepping to stand next to Cash, inclining his head towards the man as his gaze lights on the trio with the obvious bodyguard affliction. "Intrestin'. You know, I asked that old guy about buying that entropic peice. He never got back to me though, the fucker." His attention flicks briefly over Lori and Jerome before settling on Damian, lips pursed in consideration. "Think that might be him?" he murmers to his comrade.
A solemn nod, that's the answer Pobble gets as Cash reveals the libations he's been hiding badly under his coat. Lazy eyes follow a passing gallery goes before his worn sneakers get side tracked by the crackers with the brie. Cheese is good. Cash's spidery grasp scoops up a few appetizers as he passes the server. One is hidden in his pocket, presumably for the never ending winter. And when the chewing's done, he pulls from his dingy and unlabeled bottle. A few small rivers of one million proof run down into his bearded chin.
Kirra's smiles is a bit brighter as Lori speaks her name, a nod given as if to signal the other got it right, "How's your friend? Everything turn up ok with him?" She questions, seriously concerned before she looks to Damian, her head nodding in greet, "Nice to see you again, sir. I hope your day has been pleasant?" Polite is the redhead as she stands there gripping the cup of caffeine, sipping from it at times. Hand lifts, a brush of fingers to tuck away a dark lock, the light shimmering against the few studs in her ear. Cash and Pobble are spared a glance, shadowed green eyes skimming over them both before she turns back to Damian and group.
Damian regards Kirra for a moment, then nods with a small smile. "Pleasant enough," he agrees. "And yourself?" The rest of the room is given what was intended to be a quick glance, but his attention is caught by the rather odd pair that's just arrived. Pobble is merely studied for a moment with a curious look, but then Cash is given a mild but still fairly plain look of disgust. "Lovely," he murmurs to the two standing near him.
Lori shrugs at Kirra, "He's as fine as he's going to get." And that doesn't necessarily answer her question. Lori lets Kirra have at Damian, the pleasantries being exchanged and all. She turns to eye the wall of dark meat behind her and is about to say something but is distracted by Pobble and his hat and his coat. She lifts a hand, waves limply, but glances at Cash. She lifts her arm and glances at her watch. "Whatcha say, huh? Five minutes to the cops get here? Pick a number..."
l
The blue haired Pobble raises a brow at the implication, whispering loudly to his companion. "I think she's talking about us mate." He doesn't look away from Damien though, a mildly amused smile forming. With a somewhat glacial pace he begins to head across towards the man, hands sliding down into the oversized pockets of his yeti-like coat. Although eyes are slightly glossy, there is a definate clarity to his expression.
And backing the skinned Polar-Bear, the drunk, having lost his shyness at being less than sober. Though it's only notable by the criss crossing path his sneakers march him. Cash, wiping the remains of munched cracker crumbs clinging to the mop of hair that grows with a will it's own. Bottle now corked, and stuffed back under his coat. Worn like a shoulder holster, complete with form fitting strap. A quick draw on the Bushmills. Fastest drunkard on the west coat. Somewhere behind Pobs, Cash stands. Looking extra casual about their approach.
Kirra nods once to Lori at her answer, no words given to try and say sorry or give condolences. To Damian, the redhead chuckles lightly, her voice an easy alto, "Pleasant enough, yes, even with the weather." Shoulders are given a slight shrug before Lori's words call attention back towards the other two strange men. A quick study, and she asides back, "Ten if they're lucky and the cops are busy."
Damian lifts an eyebrow as he sees the two coming his way, turning to face them, expression going neutral but still slightly curious. Jerome's showing more interest; the man can't really help but loom, gaze fixing as well on the approaching men with more of a warning glare. "Suddenly I appreciate Drew that little bit more," Damian notes idly to Lori. "I suspect I know where this might be heading."
"Well you're the only fucking one," Lori tells Damian, her brow drawing into a delicate scowl. "What gives, Pobs?" Lori asks of her acquaintance. To Damian she says, "This is Pobble." The other . . . gentleman . . . is ignored. Her hands move to adjust the strap of her bag.
Paying no heed to the imposing figure of Jerome, Pobble's smile grows just a small ammount. "Right. I forgot you all had a dress code. I was hoping to find Artus and negociate a deal." he offers, a dry and transparent guise in response to Lori's query. Given the casual hostility, he remains calm and confident, hand removed from pocket to scratch lazily at his chin. Smile becomes a mild smirk as he comes to a halt a short distance from Damian. "I don't suppose you happen to be Griffin?"
Large man, that Jerome. Small man, that Cash. They're now in close proximity, the smaller of the two looking upwards. Though unimposing, he shows no sign of being intimidated by his counterpart. On the contrary. He pulls one of the cracker he pocketed, offering it up between long nicotine stained fingernails. "You wan' a cracker, man?"
A sip, a look, and the redhead sighs, curiously watching the proceedings, yet slipping to the side out of the way. From a painting on the wall, to the gathering group, Kirra looks, brows furrowed slightly as she studies both Cash and Pobble, then the better outfitted ones of Lori, Damian, and Jerome. Hmm.
The name 'Pobble' gets Lori another glance from Damian, and a look of some recognition; precisely how much isn't particularly clear. He looks back at the man, then past him at Cash for a lingering moment. Distaste registers briefly again in the form of a faint sigh. "I am -a- Griffin," he agrees, looking back at Pobble with a small, amused smile. "I'm sure I am not the only one, even in this city. And no, I don't have any spare change. Or cigarettes. Or drugs."
Lori glances around very briefly, satisfied that noone is approaching the extraordinarily odd group of people. Her hands absently adjust the strap on her bag once more while she peers up at Pobble. When Damian speaks, her luminous green eyes flick up at him but soon return to 'Pobs'. Amazingly, she doesn't speak. One may note the position of her stance. That is, she is a step back and to the side of Damian, having given sufficient room for him to maintain his personal space yet remains near enough to touch.
Ooh. Burn. Pobble develops a wan and almost hurt expression that quickly dissapates. "Tres dole, mon ami." murmers the cockney, in a badly affected accent. A silver nail taps his chin before the hand returns to the pocket whence it came. "Damian Griffin?" he asks in clarification, a small glance given to Jerome, perhaps to see if he does in fact want a cracker.
Jerome doesn't seem to want a cracker. The man folds his arms across his chest, dipping his chin and looking down at Cash with a frown. Maybe he doesn't talk.
"Suit yerself, man." And so ends Cash's generosity. The cracker finds its grave in the drunkard's maw. The folding of arms is a distinct gesture of intolerance, impatience, or anger. Take your pick, Cash isn't phased. His callused hands dig into dingy denim caves as he munches up the cheesy snack. And he slouches, dull brown eyes drifting to the art hanging for its life.
"I'm partial to movies, kinda.." His artistic commentary, though it's unlikely to make the latest version of Art Speak. Cash, there's an economy of energy to his movements. Perhaps he stores it in some internal vat, ready for the tapping should a fitting situation arrive.
Glancing up at Jerome nearby, Kirra spares a momentary grin at a thought, head shaking a bit as she holds back a hint of laughter for some reason as she studies the tall guy. Dropping her gaze, she turns back to the two who question Damian, studying them further, listening to the conersation that comes. Espresso is sipped upon, slowly savored by th redhead who doesn't deem words from her important at this moment.
Damian looks back at Cash as the man speaks, and the distaste shifts for a moment into something more ponderous. But not too long, not long enough to be rude or dismissive, before he's looking back at Pobble. "Yes. Damian Griffin."
Lori watches Pobble, waiting. A thumb is stuck under the strap of her bag, potentially ready to pull it over her head. Kirra is forgotten, alas, in favor of the more compelling pair in front of her.
"Interestin'" murmers Pobble quietly. His expression becomes neutral as he slowly slides a hand into his coat, the motion similar to the one he might take pulling a gun. A crooked smile snaps back to his lips, "Been wanting to talk to you, we have."
Lori purses her lips and stares up at Pobs. One hand is extended to the side toward Kirra, a 'come hither' crook of her finger motioning her over. Lori's eyes never leave Pobble.
Inch by inch, attention shifts. Cash is used to glares, though he's the aura of a man accustomed to his lot in life. Kirra, Lori, Jerome, Damian, he's been given those looks one thousand times over, and they've lost their weight. From the mediocre art to the beefcake that stands sentry near him. A lazy transition and he takes his time about.
"You like Kung Fu movies, man?" This, more than anything is disappointing. "You ever seen Enter the Dragon? I've seen that movie four thousand eight hundred times...." Fingers come out from their hidey hole to wiggle in demonstration. Cash caught, fishing for a reaction deeper than arms crossed.
Kirra narrows eyes as Pobbles moves, his hand reaching into his coat. The motion of the finger crooked her way by Lori does gain her attention, the redhead moving behind Jerome and over towards the other female with a quiet step, keeping out of the way of the others as she does so. The look that's given to Lori is of a questioning nature, gaze divided by the other girl, and the guys.
Damian merely continues to regard Pobble evenly, although Jerome slides a hand into his jacket in a mirroring gesture of Pobble's own. The large man is splitting his attention between both Pobble and Cash, though with slightly heavier focus on the former. "So," Damian replies smoothly, "You've found me. Not exactly a huge achievement, but go you all the same. Bear in mind that attempting to shoot, stab or otherwise fuck with me in here would be really quite stupid. Or anywhere else, actually. If you have something to say to me then by all means, you have my full attention."
Lori moves her arm back by about half a foot, extends her index finger and holds it there in a 'wait' sign. Her head is turned to the side just enough so she can watch Pobble and keep an ear canted toward Kirra.
Pobble rolls his eyes, the needle point pupils loosing their fix on the man for the briefest second. "You think I'm some sort of fucking retard?" A terribly oversized boot taps at the floor. "The appearance of a crackhead does not a crackhead make." That's deep philosophy for you, spoken in tones that mock the underestimating statement. He snaps his hand from his coat, fingertips glinting around a crisp eggshell white business card. He twists his wrist, offering the card to Damian face down. In contrast to the sharp style hinted at by the glimpse of its front, the once plain back has been marked with a red sharpee in a ragged X. The smile that accompanies the movement is precise and professional, "We need to talk. Not here. Do call and we can do lunch or somesuch."
"Hey man" Lazy words from chapped lips concealed by overgrown hair. "Like, take 'r easy. 'N I won't snap that elbow out..." Cash obviously now looking a few clicks south of Jerome's face. Mainly towards that hand that so obviously tucked under his jacket. Though he looks anything but threatening, with eyes fluttering on the verge of a drunken black out. Still, his callused hands remove from their denim pockets to dangle on either side of his form loosely.
Kirra strangely obeys the silent command from Lori, her steps paused to the side where she might keep both the other and the men in her sights. Too curious is this whole scene, and Gods know the redhead is the curious sort.
Damian gives a rather disparaging laugh, though it doesn't seem aimed directly at Pobble so much as the conversation. "I don't know you from any other man on the street, and frankly, the majority of them -are- fucking retards. I like to err on the side of caution. So much easier for everyone involved. Lori." There's a command in that, his intention made relatively clear when he inclines his head towards the card the other man is offering. Paranoid, or just an arrogant jackass? Probably both. Jerome curls his lip in an aggressive leer at Cash; the hand doesn't slide back out of his jacket, but he doesn't look like he's right about to whip anything out and start firing wildly, either. Still doesn't say a damn word. Damian's gaze continues to linger on Pobble, then he nods. "A question for you and your companion, since we move in similar circles. Does the name Harbringers Inc ring a bell?" His attention shifts to include Cash as well as he waits for an answer.
Lori leans forward and reaches out to take the card from Pobble quite easily. Damian's command goes into her head, through her nervous system, and into her spinal cord, it seems, so that his will appears to move her slender body rather than her own. The ugly thing is that it's so natural, kind of graceful in a way.
The card relinquished, Pobble's hand returns to his pocket. He goes slip a glance at Jerome, seeming almost dissapointed at the lack of action from the bodyguard, lip pushing out slightly as if he's willing the big man to do something. As he turns back to Damian, his gaze lingers on Lori, a thin peirced brow heading up towards his hat in what could be amusement. Still, he doesn't question, attention fixing once more on Damian. "Harbringers Inc." he repeats pensively, "No immediate tingling of bellage. I can pry perhaps."
"You don' like... talk much, eh? Farrr out." Cash observes, returning the scowl he receives by Jerome with a needy expression. That need, another pull from the bottle stung under his jacket. And so it's uncorked again for a pull. Cheeks filled with whiskey make for a funny smile. One that's wiped by a dingy denim sleeve, tugging with it a few errand strands that are nearly trapped in his lips along with the gulp. His mouth smacks at the sensation. He enjoys it.
Relaxing a touch once the card is offered over, Kirra continues to nurse the cup of espresso, careful sips taken of the still steaming brew. Quiet she remains, at least for now, yet she does straighten, her gaze turned to study Damian's profile from where she stands as he mentions Harbringers. From him to Pobble she trains her gaze, that curiosity growing now as she listens in on the conversation.
Damian nods once to Pobble, though he waits for Cash's reply - or rather, lack of one in regards to his question - before his attention resettles fully on the top-hatted man. "Ahh, well. It's nothing of import, really. I was merely curious." He glances to Lori, hand lifting for a moment to absent-mindedly brush some loose strands of her hair back behind one of her ears, then the hand slides down to take the card from her so he can have a better look at it himself. "I'm sure I will be in touch," he tells Pobble in a more off-hand fashion.
Lori's head tilts about ten degrees to the other side as Damian touches her so he can better access to touch her. She doesn't look at him but looks at Pobble instead, her luminous green eyes affixed on him, trying to see past his third eye and into the contents of his skull, no doubt.
"I hope so. I'd hate to have to track you down again." Pobble replies, as if the tracking was something he'd considered unnescessary to begin with, the tone carrying a subtle implication. He stares in silence for a moment, finally nodding and as his lips once more comform to the proffessional and curt smile template. He steps back, boots heavy on the floor of the gallery. "We'll be seeing you Griffin. Do take care." he states, nudging Cash in the universal Time-To-Go manner.
This signals more wiggling of Cash's callused fingers. To Jerome and Damian mainly, the females of the royal court neglected. A messy spin of his rubber heels and Cash follows in tow. Not as an underling. More of a silent partner. And of course, his path out the gallery passes those tasty cheesy crackers again. One for the road.
Make that two.
Slightly distanced, yet seemingly a part of Damian's group, Kirra remains there behind him, shadowed green eyes watching still. As it appears this little meeting is coming to an end, she relaxes further as she moves another step to the side to now stand at Lori's other side, her gaze attracted by the painting there.
Thursday, April 22, 2004
Sunday, April 18, 2004
Garou fun at The Pulse
The Pulse - Main Room
The Pulse seems rather aptly named, for as soon as one enters it becomes obvious that the name was given to the establishment for the resounding rhythms that echo across the club. Even from the outside, the vibrations can be felt if one places a hand against the wall - a pastime that is quite popular among the younger crowd that isn't allowed entrance yet.
The entryway to The Pulse is well guarded by two bouncers that check ID of those entering the establishment, a stamp being placed on the hands of those that are actually old enough to drink while those between the ages of sixteen and twenty get in without.
To the left of the club is the bar, although small it holds the basic stock standards. The prettier bottles are pressed up front although occasionally Jell-O Shots and other drinks are set up for the young crowd to sweep up in festive joy. On the counter side of the club, lays the dance floor that bears the amazing resemblance to a mosh pit more than anything else, a sea of bodies twisting and turning to the hard-handed music. Towards the rear of the club, a few tables and boots are set up, for those that actually come here for the conversation.
Contents:
Lori
Alabaster Smith
Kirra
Drake
Andrea
Obvious exits:
Out O
Alabaster Smith sits down at Large Table.
Lori is looking at you.
Andrea starts to pick up her drink for a swallow, pausing with it in half tilt towards her mouth as she looks to the man across from her in the booth, "Need?" The word carrying with it a tone that half says she's not sure she actually wants to get an answer.
Small Table (#1) has 3 empty places.
Large Table (#2) has 4 empty places.
Present is: Alabaster Smith.
Dark Booth (#3) has 4 empty places.
Long Bar (#4) has 7 empty places.
Dance Floor (#5) has 15 empty places.
Alabaster Smith steeples his fingers, and nods. "Oh yes. Ah tend to peoples' spiritual needs, and crises of conscience."
Pobble enters with a small crowd, waiting his turn to flash ID and get his hand stamped. He scratches absently around the mark with a glinting nail as he steps out of the influx of clubbers, fishing in an oversized pocket of his yeti like coat for cigarettes as he's caught in the unfailing gravity of the bar and drawn towards its promises of hard liqour.
At the bar, Kirra listens to whatever Drake tells, her, and then shakes her head, turning to slip from the stool she'd been sitting on. Another comment is made, words lost under the beat of music to any but the man they're told too before the redhead turns and heads for the door, weaving her way through the crowd that's entering, disappearing outside.
Kirra makes her way out of the club.
Kirra has left.
Andrea doesn't move the glass from its halfway journey towards her mouth, the contents teetering on almost dribbling out the top. "Ah. Well. Thats very nice of you." She gives Alabastar another smile, "You must be very busy."
Alabaster Smith beams at Andrea, apparently quite sincere. "Ah'll admit it keeps me on my toes. Even though many people don't think they need it, everyone sooner or later needs help."
Lori is on the sidelines sucking soda through a straw, evidently, since there are no stamps on her hands. Her body is bouncing gently to the beat of the music while she enjoys the cold liquid. As soon as she finishes the soda, though, she abandons it and plunges back onto the dance floor to learn some more kewl movez. She certainly is an energetic little thing.
Drake listens to whatever it is Kirra has to say, then shakes his head. Runing fingers through his hair, he sighs and follows her out, absently pushing his way past anyone who gets in his way. The bulk's good for something at least.
Drake makes his way out of the club.
Drake has left.
Pobble slides sideways onto a stool, easing his coat out behind him. Despite the warmth of the club, he almost appears cold as a slightly shaking hand lifts a smoke to his thin lips. A request is mumbled to the bartender, and repeated a little louder before it's understood. Once the glass of clear liquid arrives, he rotates slowly on the stool top, leaning his furry bulk back against the bar to survey the crowd, one giant boot tapping against the footrest.
Andrea is quiet for a long, drawn moment, a glance given as Drake makes his way out after the girl, the corner of her mouth quirking back up into another half grin. Looking back to her table mate she nods slowly, "I bet. Never hurts to have someone watching out for ya."
Lori gets run over by Drake and winds up on her ass. She's hollering something out there on the dance floor as she tries to pick herself up, and the words "dickhead" and "fuckwad" are prominent during the tirade to those close enough to hear it.
Alabaster Smith nods solemnly. "Ah can be a very good friend," he says profoundly, regarding Andrea.
Lori stomps back toward the bar. Stomp, stomp, stomp! "Goddamnit!"
Andrea watches him carefully, even the most stoic would likely get the bit of edginess to them that the topic of conversation is clearly starting to work into her. "Well...ah, thats good. Great even. I'm sure there's just bunches out there that could use, ah, that kinda help."
Pobble swills his liqour around the glass as he digs for a lighter, body twisting to search the other pocket and comming up trumps. A tiny neon pink number is sparked and a deep breath taken as he tries to focus on the tables and floor, his attention finally managing some form of clarity as it comes to rest upon the stomping girl heading towards him. He seems to tense up, as if convinced she's comming for him.
Alabaster Smith grins toothily at Andrea. "Oh relax, Sister. Ah wouldn't force my beliefs on you. Just remember Ah'm here if you ever need me, or the help Ah can give."
Lori is coming for Pobble... in a way. Or at least near him. "Hey, did you kill that polar bear all by yourself?" Lori asks as she gets to the bar. She sits on a chair and flumps, dropping her chin in the palm of her hand.
Pobble narrows his one eye, while the brow raises above the other. "It's dead? Fuckin' awesome." He leans a little towards the girl, to whisper conspiratorially just loud enough to hear. "It tried to eat my monkey." A silver nail taps the glass harshly before he lifts it to knock back half of the noxious liquid, eyeing Lori sidelong. "Something the matter then is it?"
Andrea clears her throat slightly, "Thats cool. So, um." She pauses again for a second, taking a drink before continuing. "You been, ah, helping people around here long?"
Alabaster Smith nods. "Ah've been here for a few months now, ever since Ah decided to make this city my new home. It's been an interesting time."
Lori looks at Pobble equally sidelong. "What? With the coat? Fuck all if I care," she says loudly enough to be heard over the music and shrugs. "I bet somebody spraypaints it, though!"
Andrea can't help but grin at that, scooting in her seat to cross her legs, "Good interesting or bad interesting, because I've learned there can be a vast difference."
Pobble frowns, confusion apparent on his face. "Why would someone spraypaint a dead polar bear?" He shakes his head before knocking back the remainder of the drink and plonking the empty down on the bar. He waves a hand in a circular motion, trying to wind his thoughts back on track. "I meant the stomping and Goddammit."
Alabaster Smith smiles at that. "Ah fear it's actually been quite a mixture of both."
Andrea shrugs, "Thats how its supposed to be though right? Too much good and the good doesn't seem so good anymore." It must make sense to her at least. "Keeps you from getting biased."
"Oh that!" Lori says, "Some dickhead pushed me down on the dance floor, that's all. I didn't see him coming, and he just brushed me off like a mosquito. Somebody's always got to ruin it."
Alabaster Smith chuckles, nodding. "Oh yes. It keeps us busy, at the very least."
Pobble nods glumly, peering across at the writhing mass of bodies. "Bastards." he agrees, "Seems alright in here though, I guess." His foot is still caught in the infectious tapping cycle, much to the chagrin of his leg which he tries to push down to stop it from jiggling.
Lori puts her other elbow on the bar so she can set her chin in both hands and watch people or something. "Yeah, it's all right. I can't drink, though, and I don't have any friends... so I guess all I can do is dance or something. Mleh. Hey, you got an extra cigarette? Can I have one of those?"
Andrea grins a bit more at that, "Well, you know what they say about idle hands." She stretches a bit, looking over at the belongings stuffed into the seat next to her then back to Alabaster, "If you'll 'xcuse me I think I'm gonna jet out, migrate around and find myself a place to crash."
Dennis comes into the club from the streets outside.
Dennis has arrived.
Pobble pulls out the mysterious extra cigarette that happened to come free with his regular pack, offering it over with a lopsided smile that fades as he considers. "Don't have any friends? How comes?"
Alabaster Smith grins at Andrea. "By all means. It's been a pleasure chatting with you. Ah hope we'll meet again soon."
Lori explains to Pobble, "I just got here. Hey, can I have a light too?"
Andrea reaches over to grab her backpack, sliding out of her seat as she slings it over her shoulder, settling it into place before reaching for the guitar that was nestled closest to the wall to keep it safe. "Yeah, I suffer from bad penny syndrome, it's bound to happen." She grins at Alabaster. "Have a good one." Turning to make her way towards the door.
Andrea makes her way out of the club.
Andrea has left.
Pobble hands across the pink neon flame. He flashes a grin, swivelling slightly on his stool to face the girl. "Well, Welcome I guess. Dr. Steve is me, pleasure t'meetcha."
Lori dips her head down with the cigarette jutting from her pink lips so she can suck on the flame. She takes a big ol' lungful of smoke as she rises back up again. "Lori," she counters. "What the hell is that doctor thing all about?"
People don't see Dennis enter so much as they perceive a shift in the air. Whether it's directly attributable to him or not is up for debate, but there's a distinct feeling of unease in the room, as if something had changed in a way both subtle and difficult to pin down. It's the air of change, radical and swift and random, and perhaps that's what's so frightening: because most people, their protestations to the contrary, want nothing so much as some social guarantee that tomorrow will be a lot like today was, even if today was miserable. There are no guarantees anymore except change, and that might perhaps account for the unease which seems to follow Dennis around. Grizzly Adams, Mountain Man of Washington, Agent of Fortune, Butler of Chaos. Or, then again, maybe the uneasiness has nothing to do with metaphor and everything to do with the nigh-homicidal scowl on his face. Different philosophers, different ideas, all that.
Zoe comes into the club from the streets outside.
Zoe has arrived.
Zoe is looking at you.
Pobble shrugs just a touch, raising a hand at a passing bartender to indicate he's in need of service. "If y'earn it you may as well use it right?" Uncertainty flickers across his features as he pulls the last from his cigarette and stubs it into a nearby ashtray, blowing the smoke upwards away from Lori.
In the beginning, people didn't go to Washington State; they wound up in Washington as a way of getting away from other things. It led to the state's original population being self-reliant outdoorsy types who have become increasingly more rare as the state has become overrun with Starbucks and Microsoft. Most of the Lumberjack Brigade has already left Erin's Vale for Alaska, but there are still some holdouts, people who still seek self-reliance amidst the espresso and traffic jams. Dennis Larson is one of them. He may not be dressed like one right now, but his mien, his build, his air of self-confident self-reliance, give him away as clearly as day.
He's not a large man, being of average height with an average build. Yet for all that, his average build is solidly built, his torso a gymnast's wedge shape and his muscles lean and well-defined. He's quite fit, fit in a way which is rarely seen nowadays; it's the fitness that comes from exertion and work, not time on Nautilus equipment. Scars on his hands and forearms attest to a life of manual labor, and his thirty-year-old face alternates between tanned and sunburnt depending on whether or not he remembered to pack sunblock. That, too, is rare nowadays; in an economy where most people work indoors, Dennis clearly works under the Wenatchee sun.
His hair is cut in a short low-maintenance style, the Nordic yellowness bleached to white-blonde by the sun, with eyes so pale a gray they evoke nothing so much as bleach. Dennis is dressed differently than he usually is; his flannels and jeans have been traded for a suit and tie. It's not Giancarlo Ferre or Giorgio Armani, certainly, instead just some cheap off-the-rack thing that's barely had any tailoring done to his form. In some sense, the unassuming dark suit makes him all the creepier. If he wore designer threads he'd be less unnerving, because after all, who'd want to start a fight while wearing a five thousand dollar suit?
A two hundred dollar suit, on the other hand...
Dennis says, "As an FYI, if you're a mortal or a mage with a WP < 6, you're going to feel distinctly uncomfortable around Dennis. If you're Fae, you're probably wondering what all the hubbub is about. :)"
"Yes, I'm sure that's all very interesting, but what /kind/ of doctor? Or are you the ooh-spooky-mysterious type? Like, what gives?" That's from Lori. She's gazing up at Pobble nicely enough, but the words coming out of her mouth are pretty unpleasant in contrast.
Into the club slips yet another figure looking to enjoy dancing the night away. After having her ID checked at the door, Zoe moves further inside, steps slow and graceful as she begins to make her way towards the bar. Lips hold a smile, and there's more than a few she stops to greet and speak with at times before continuing on, the skirt of her dress swaying with each step she makes.
Pobble delays the explanation to request another drink, and as he does so a mild shiver takes him, causing him to tense briefly inside the warm expanse of his yeti covering. He turns back to Lori, "Chemical engineering." Not so spooky or mysterious. Not even terribly interesting. A sheepish little smile is offered, as he glances to the side, needle point eyes scanning for something.
Lori looks all excited by that. "Chemical engineering? Rock!" She sucks on the cigarette again, licking the taste of nicotine from her pink lips. "I oughta do that, but life is too short to spend it in a classroom all the time, don't you think? I don't even have my high school diploma. Hah!" This amuses her greatly.
Pobble nods agreement distractedly, seeming unsatisfied in his search and turning back to his conversational partner. "Yeah, seven years is a long fucking time. Still." he trails off, lips curling back into a crooked little smile. "It was an interesting time."
Dennis heads over to the counter for a drink, albeit not without incident; some people are eager to get out of his way and some people are eager to get into it, usually college fratboys who've substituted liquor for courage and want to show the world they're not afraid. Dennis walks by them in stone-faced silence, taking contemptuously no notice of either those who edge away or those who remain. He finally comes up to the counter and growls out an order to the barkeep, one which does not carry over the din of the room.
Lori tilts her head away from Pobble to look at Dennis. It's just a big flop of her head, pigtails and green tubes bouncing with the sudden motion. Her big green eyes look at him pretty openly, sizing up the guy that makes everybody skuttle out of the way like cockroaches.
Who would think the tomboy could clean up so well? Surely no one that knows her and has seen her in her usual jeans and boots, grubby from digging in the garden. And yet, tonight Zoe seems to have taken special care with her dress. If she notices the path Dennis has made towards the bar, it's not obvious as she waves her own way through people, laughing at times before nodding to the bar before continuing onwards. Once there, she tiptoes, leaning against the bar, and making her order, giving the bartender a smile before he moves off to fix her drink.
Pobble faces away from Dennis, but his arrival at the bar definately unsettles the man. Silver nails tap together with a quiet clacking lost in the overwhelming beat of the music. He turtles down in the high collar of his enormous coat, pausing the tapping to toss a bill on the bar and take up his drink, clutching it with both hands.
Well, someone fits in here like a Preakness winner in a glue factory. Dennis's total lack of fitting-in is almost painful: he's wearing a suit and tie, not fashionably goth attire. He's wincing at what he'd call the 'noise', apparently enough of a cultural philistine that he doesn't grok the magnificence of Einsturzende Neubauten especially when played at high volume. He just remains silent and mute as the barkeep hands him an iced tea (what, no trendy booze and forty-dollar quintuple-distilled vodkas?) and--why, is that the sound of teeth grinding, barely audible over the noise? Yep. He turns to give Zoe a faint nod of recognition, and then turns to give Lori a scowl. "What the f--" He stops, shakes his head, starts over again in a concerted attempt at remaining civilized. "What're you looking at?"
Alabaster Smith has staked out his table like a little independent fiefdom in the middle of the chaos, and from it, he watches the drama of the other people with vague interest and amusement.
"I knew you were going to say that," Lori says. "Goddamnit, they always say that." She shakes her head in disappointment and looks away to have a drag off of her smoke, flicking ash on the floor absently.
Pobble indulges in a mix of ostritch and snake avoidance behaviour, keeping his back to the imposing figure while remaining still. Teeth pull in the corner of his lower lip, finger tapping uneasily against his glass still, being the only movement besides breathing. He almost looks like he's not exactly sure why he's entered this strange mood, but given his glossy pinpoint pupiled eyes it's not unreasonable to blame it on an acid flashback.
Wine delivered, the tomboy passes the money to the bartender before lifting the glass for a sip. It's then that Zoe sees Dennis standing off to the side in his suit and tie, a brow raised as she looks at him from over the rim of her wineglass. His snap at the girl seems to amuse her for some reason, lips quirking into a smile before she turns her gaze towards the dancefloor. Unconsciously, she sways to the music, the silk of her dress following each move she makes.
Dennis bites down an acerbic response to Lori and downs a rather large fraction of his iced tea in one long gulp. Mmmm, cold and bitter, just like his heart. A few of the bouncers are beginning to gather closeby, as if anticipating trouble brewing, but Dennis pays them no heed. Apparently he gets that reaction enough that he's become inured to it.
Lori stabs out her cigarette. Stabby, stabby, stabby! "What's the matter with you?" she asks Pobble without a drop of apparent empathy.
"Oh, nothing." replies Pobble in a tone that lacks anything that even vaguely resembles conviction. He knocks back his liqour sharply, smacking the glass back down on the counter. "Cold." he murmers as an afterthought, sliding hands into pockets and pulling the furry mass tighter about his body.
Zoe glances around, watching people, taking note of those reactions around her, and the bouncers that seem to be edging closer. Pushing away from the bar, she actually moves closer to the suited Dennis, and pausing near him, she lets her glance travel over him before returning to his face. Chuckling, she says lightly, "What's got your undies in a twist tonight?" Ok, so she might be dressed all fancy, hardly looking like herself, but the tomboy is still there and forthright as ever.
Lori reaches out to fluff Pobble up. "You should eat more! Put some meat on those bones... no wonder you're cold--wait, now I'm beginning to sound like... nevermind." She yanks at Pobble's coat, as if he's not warm enough in it.
Pobble should be warm, it is after all sweltering in the packed club. The close proximity of the bouncers seems to make him all the more edgy, pressing his side up against the counter top as he scratches his forehead just under the rim of his hat. "I shouldn't wear my coat inside, else I'll be cold when I go out." he murmers, mantra-like.
Dennis's scowl is the sort of thing which would be legendary if he didn't make it look so easy. "Same thing it ever is," he answers as he drains the rest of his iced tea. He looks around for the barkeep, getting visibly annoyed when it's clear the barkeep's trying very hard to pretend he doesn't exist. A bellowed order consisting of more vulgarities than prepositions later, the barkeep hurriedly comes over with a refill. Dennis doesn't pause to watch the scurrying: he returns his attention to Zoe. "People are idiots. That's what it always is."
Zoe cradles the glass of wine in her hand as she watches Dennis go bellowing for the refill, shaking her head at him quietly. When his attention returns, she replies lightly, "Some are, but you know, if you didn't doom and gloom glare at everyone, they might not be such idiots." A shoulder lifts in a shrug, a sip taken from the wine in her glass before her gaze slips towards the dance floor again, the music gaining another roll of hips before she shoots the angry man a look and grin.
Lori pauses in her conversation with Pobble to turn her head and grin sharply at Dennis. Something he said must have pleased her because she just has that kind of look on her face. "Hah!" Soon her gaze is back on Pobble and she chucks him a few times on the shoulder. "You don't look so good. Maybe you should come outside and get some fresh air. That's a good idea. Come on, get your narrow ass out of the chair already," she says, hopping off of her own chair. Sproing!
Pobble considers for the briefest of moments before nodding, sliding off the stool in a way that only moves him further from Dennis, oversized boots thudding down onto the floor. Hands push immediately into pockets and with a stooped pose he makes for the door in a roundabout path, almost scuttling through the crowds with only a quick glance back to check to see wether Lori is following.
"This ain't my Doom Glare," Dennis announces. Note that he doesn't protest. Protests indicate that one party is in the weaker position. The majority never protests the minority. The large do not protest the small. An oak does not protest a sapling. Dennis /announces/. "If it was my fuckin' Doom Glare, some poor sumbitch woulda already experienced what we like t' call an embarassin' loss of voluntary bladder control." He's not shouting, per se, but people are definitely doing the back-away-slowly thing and the bouncers are doing the creep-ahead-while-thinking-they-aren't-getting-paid-enough thing. "No, people are stupid, that's all, an' I'm fuckin' tired of it." Ah, at last, proof that he is human: is he not echoing a universal human feeling?
Lori is laughing at whatever Dennis is saying as she walks away from him. Yes, indeed, she is following Pobble but at a leisurely pace. What, like she's going to miss the big white coat in the crowd? She'd have to be retarded /and/ blinde.
Or even blind.
Pobble wastes no time in making his exit, a wan smile given to the door men at their half hearted comments regarding the enjoyment of the rest of the evening.
You leave The Pulse for the streets outside.
Downtown - New Town District(#433RJs)
-= Erin and Pike =-
Hip dance clubs and upper scale restaurants line the streets of New Town, everything from the newest teenage fad to old style swing dancing being seen easily on these streets. The young to middle aged crowd seems to frequent this area, a culturally diverse area with everything from the preppy high school jock to the pierced stoner hang out on the strip to find the new coolest spot to go on the weekends. The billboards seem to have taken notice of the party society in the area as well, various ads for entertainment places and items showing up more frequently than in other sections of the city.
To the side of the area a rather pleasant mini-park has formed, a statue of Zeus standing proud. At various times during the day and night, automated sprinklers go off to make sure that every plant receives the nourishment it requires for perfect blooming. Speckles of colors ranging from a deep violet to a cottony soft baby blue line the edge of the statue for a quaint place to stop and indeed, smell the flowers.
Obvious exits:
The Pulse TP North on Pike N South on Pike S West on Erin W East on Erin E
Lori comes out from The Pulse's doors.
Lori has arrived.
Lori comes wandering out of the club after you, not looking at all like she's fleeing or otherwise upset.
Pobble is waiting just next to the door, already having lit a pair of cigarettes, one between thin lips and the other dangling precariously between his fingers. He glances across as a clubber exits, catching Lori as she follows and his brow creases into a frown. "Hey.. sommatter?"
Lori reaches out to snatch the cigarette from his fingers. "Huh? Speak up. You don't look so good." She resists patting his face, though, but only just.
Pobble shuffles back against the wall, still huddling in his behemothic coat as he draws a slow drag from the cigarette, letting the fumes drift out from his mouth to coil around his hat. "You look miffed is all, something the matter?"
Lori takes a deep drag from the cigarette he gave her and shakes her head. "Nope. Yes. Maybe. I always look miffed. Usually." She frowns at him, but not unkindly--if such a thing is possible. "Fuggediboudit." The girl looks him over very carefully, not missing much of anything. "So, Doc, what do you do with this PhD of yours?"
"Oh, stuff and things. You know how it is. The life of the freelance chemist is a dull and boring one." Pobble smirks at that, sharing a private joke with himself as he ashes the cigarette onto the pavement. "Fuggediboudit." he adds, mimicing your tones with a lopsided grin.
"Ohhhhhhhh, so you're a dealer!" Lori shows him a sharp grin. "No, you're not a dealer; you're too much of a pussy to be a dealer." Ow. She has another drag off her smoke, flicking ash negligently aside on the sidewalk.
Pobble smirks, "Right. I studied chemistry so I could better explain to customers how their shit worked." Glossy eyes roll as he pulls on the smoke. "Yes, I'm a pussy and a dealer." A laugh escapes him as he shifts against the wall.
"Better explain to customers how their shit worked?" Lori looks confused. She shrugs, however, and steps closer to Pobble, turning at the last second to lean up against the wall next to him. "A pussy -and- a dealer. You know, pussy dealers don't last long."
Pobble stares across the street, fingering the filter of his smoke. "I noticed." he murmers absently, "Fuckers." His reverie ends with a start, almost twitching as he glances back to the girl at his side. "I'd say I'm neither, but the former is possibly subjective given recent incidents."
Lori tilts her head so she can gaze at Pobble. Her hand lifts, putting the cigarette to her lips briefly. "Oh yeah? Interesting. You know sometimes I get it right. Anyway, what about recent events? Someone try to shake you down or something?" Lori reaches out and plunges her fingers into the fur of the coat. Oooooh... soft and plush! Okay, even if it's not real, it's still like a big teddy bear.
Pobble doesn't seem to mind the wandering fingers, "You could say that." He nods slowly, flicking away the half smoked cigarette into the gutter, gaze following its arc. His lips open as if to elaborate further then decide against it. "Well.." he says finally, turning back towards Lori with a bright but apologetic smile. "Would love to stay and chat but I need to get back, feed the monkey and lie down." A card is pulled from somewhere inside his coat and handed over. It's a crisp number, eggshell white. The name Dr. Steve and the address of an alley way in the Tackett Slums, completed with a cell number. Nudging your arm with his elbow he pushes off from the wall. "Call if you get bored, no-friends girl."
"Hah, cool," Lori says. "Hey, I might just do that. Thanks for the number. You take care now, okay? Don't get into any trouble..." She babbles on, waving at you with your own 'business' card.
The Pulse seems rather aptly named, for as soon as one enters it becomes obvious that the name was given to the establishment for the resounding rhythms that echo across the club. Even from the outside, the vibrations can be felt if one places a hand against the wall - a pastime that is quite popular among the younger crowd that isn't allowed entrance yet.
The entryway to The Pulse is well guarded by two bouncers that check ID of those entering the establishment, a stamp being placed on the hands of those that are actually old enough to drink while those between the ages of sixteen and twenty get in without.
To the left of the club is the bar, although small it holds the basic stock standards. The prettier bottles are pressed up front although occasionally Jell-O Shots and other drinks are set up for the young crowd to sweep up in festive joy. On the counter side of the club, lays the dance floor that bears the amazing resemblance to a mosh pit more than anything else, a sea of bodies twisting and turning to the hard-handed music. Towards the rear of the club, a few tables and boots are set up, for those that actually come here for the conversation.
Contents:
Lori
Alabaster Smith
Kirra
Drake
Andrea
Obvious exits:
Out O
Alabaster Smith sits down at Large Table.
Lori is looking at you.
Andrea starts to pick up her drink for a swallow, pausing with it in half tilt towards her mouth as she looks to the man across from her in the booth, "Need?" The word carrying with it a tone that half says she's not sure she actually wants to get an answer.
Small Table (#1) has 3 empty places.
Large Table (#2) has 4 empty places.
Present is: Alabaster Smith.
Dark Booth (#3) has 4 empty places.
Long Bar (#4) has 7 empty places.
Dance Floor (#5) has 15 empty places.
Alabaster Smith steeples his fingers, and nods. "Oh yes. Ah tend to peoples' spiritual needs, and crises of conscience."
Pobble enters with a small crowd, waiting his turn to flash ID and get his hand stamped. He scratches absently around the mark with a glinting nail as he steps out of the influx of clubbers, fishing in an oversized pocket of his yeti like coat for cigarettes as he's caught in the unfailing gravity of the bar and drawn towards its promises of hard liqour.
At the bar, Kirra listens to whatever Drake tells, her, and then shakes her head, turning to slip from the stool she'd been sitting on. Another comment is made, words lost under the beat of music to any but the man they're told too before the redhead turns and heads for the door, weaving her way through the crowd that's entering, disappearing outside.
Kirra makes her way out of the club.
Kirra has left.
Andrea doesn't move the glass from its halfway journey towards her mouth, the contents teetering on almost dribbling out the top. "Ah. Well. Thats very nice of you." She gives Alabastar another smile, "You must be very busy."
Alabaster Smith beams at Andrea, apparently quite sincere. "Ah'll admit it keeps me on my toes. Even though many people don't think they need it, everyone sooner or later needs help."
Lori is on the sidelines sucking soda through a straw, evidently, since there are no stamps on her hands. Her body is bouncing gently to the beat of the music while she enjoys the cold liquid. As soon as she finishes the soda, though, she abandons it and plunges back onto the dance floor to learn some more kewl movez. She certainly is an energetic little thing.
Drake listens to whatever it is Kirra has to say, then shakes his head. Runing fingers through his hair, he sighs and follows her out, absently pushing his way past anyone who gets in his way. The bulk's good for something at least.
Drake makes his way out of the club.
Drake has left.
Pobble slides sideways onto a stool, easing his coat out behind him. Despite the warmth of the club, he almost appears cold as a slightly shaking hand lifts a smoke to his thin lips. A request is mumbled to the bartender, and repeated a little louder before it's understood. Once the glass of clear liquid arrives, he rotates slowly on the stool top, leaning his furry bulk back against the bar to survey the crowd, one giant boot tapping against the footrest.
Andrea is quiet for a long, drawn moment, a glance given as Drake makes his way out after the girl, the corner of her mouth quirking back up into another half grin. Looking back to her table mate she nods slowly, "I bet. Never hurts to have someone watching out for ya."
Lori gets run over by Drake and winds up on her ass. She's hollering something out there on the dance floor as she tries to pick herself up, and the words "dickhead" and "fuckwad" are prominent during the tirade to those close enough to hear it.
Alabaster Smith nods solemnly. "Ah can be a very good friend," he says profoundly, regarding Andrea.
Lori stomps back toward the bar. Stomp, stomp, stomp! "Goddamnit!"
Andrea watches him carefully, even the most stoic would likely get the bit of edginess to them that the topic of conversation is clearly starting to work into her. "Well...ah, thats good. Great even. I'm sure there's just bunches out there that could use, ah, that kinda help."
Pobble swills his liqour around the glass as he digs for a lighter, body twisting to search the other pocket and comming up trumps. A tiny neon pink number is sparked and a deep breath taken as he tries to focus on the tables and floor, his attention finally managing some form of clarity as it comes to rest upon the stomping girl heading towards him. He seems to tense up, as if convinced she's comming for him.
Alabaster Smith grins toothily at Andrea. "Oh relax, Sister. Ah wouldn't force my beliefs on you. Just remember Ah'm here if you ever need me, or the help Ah can give."
Lori is coming for Pobble... in a way. Or at least near him. "Hey, did you kill that polar bear all by yourself?" Lori asks as she gets to the bar. She sits on a chair and flumps, dropping her chin in the palm of her hand.
Pobble narrows his one eye, while the brow raises above the other. "It's dead? Fuckin' awesome." He leans a little towards the girl, to whisper conspiratorially just loud enough to hear. "It tried to eat my monkey." A silver nail taps the glass harshly before he lifts it to knock back half of the noxious liquid, eyeing Lori sidelong. "Something the matter then is it?"
Andrea clears her throat slightly, "Thats cool. So, um." She pauses again for a second, taking a drink before continuing. "You been, ah, helping people around here long?"
Alabaster Smith nods. "Ah've been here for a few months now, ever since Ah decided to make this city my new home. It's been an interesting time."
Lori looks at Pobble equally sidelong. "What? With the coat? Fuck all if I care," she says loudly enough to be heard over the music and shrugs. "I bet somebody spraypaints it, though!"
Andrea can't help but grin at that, scooting in her seat to cross her legs, "Good interesting or bad interesting, because I've learned there can be a vast difference."
Pobble frowns, confusion apparent on his face. "Why would someone spraypaint a dead polar bear?" He shakes his head before knocking back the remainder of the drink and plonking the empty down on the bar. He waves a hand in a circular motion, trying to wind his thoughts back on track. "I meant the stomping and Goddammit."
Alabaster Smith smiles at that. "Ah fear it's actually been quite a mixture of both."
Andrea shrugs, "Thats how its supposed to be though right? Too much good and the good doesn't seem so good anymore." It must make sense to her at least. "Keeps you from getting biased."
"Oh that!" Lori says, "Some dickhead pushed me down on the dance floor, that's all. I didn't see him coming, and he just brushed me off like a mosquito. Somebody's always got to ruin it."
Alabaster Smith chuckles, nodding. "Oh yes. It keeps us busy, at the very least."
Pobble nods glumly, peering across at the writhing mass of bodies. "Bastards." he agrees, "Seems alright in here though, I guess." His foot is still caught in the infectious tapping cycle, much to the chagrin of his leg which he tries to push down to stop it from jiggling.
Lori puts her other elbow on the bar so she can set her chin in both hands and watch people or something. "Yeah, it's all right. I can't drink, though, and I don't have any friends... so I guess all I can do is dance or something. Mleh. Hey, you got an extra cigarette? Can I have one of those?"
Andrea grins a bit more at that, "Well, you know what they say about idle hands." She stretches a bit, looking over at the belongings stuffed into the seat next to her then back to Alabaster, "If you'll 'xcuse me I think I'm gonna jet out, migrate around and find myself a place to crash."
Dennis comes into the club from the streets outside.
Dennis has arrived.
Pobble pulls out the mysterious extra cigarette that happened to come free with his regular pack, offering it over with a lopsided smile that fades as he considers. "Don't have any friends? How comes?"
Alabaster Smith grins at Andrea. "By all means. It's been a pleasure chatting with you. Ah hope we'll meet again soon."
Lori explains to Pobble, "I just got here. Hey, can I have a light too?"
Andrea reaches over to grab her backpack, sliding out of her seat as she slings it over her shoulder, settling it into place before reaching for the guitar that was nestled closest to the wall to keep it safe. "Yeah, I suffer from bad penny syndrome, it's bound to happen." She grins at Alabaster. "Have a good one." Turning to make her way towards the door.
Andrea makes her way out of the club.
Andrea has left.
Pobble hands across the pink neon flame. He flashes a grin, swivelling slightly on his stool to face the girl. "Well, Welcome I guess. Dr. Steve is me, pleasure t'meetcha."
Lori dips her head down with the cigarette jutting from her pink lips so she can suck on the flame. She takes a big ol' lungful of smoke as she rises back up again. "Lori," she counters. "What the hell is that doctor thing all about?"
People don't see Dennis enter so much as they perceive a shift in the air. Whether it's directly attributable to him or not is up for debate, but there's a distinct feeling of unease in the room, as if something had changed in a way both subtle and difficult to pin down. It's the air of change, radical and swift and random, and perhaps that's what's so frightening: because most people, their protestations to the contrary, want nothing so much as some social guarantee that tomorrow will be a lot like today was, even if today was miserable. There are no guarantees anymore except change, and that might perhaps account for the unease which seems to follow Dennis around. Grizzly Adams, Mountain Man of Washington, Agent of Fortune, Butler of Chaos. Or, then again, maybe the uneasiness has nothing to do with metaphor and everything to do with the nigh-homicidal scowl on his face. Different philosophers, different ideas, all that.
Zoe comes into the club from the streets outside.
Zoe has arrived.
Zoe is looking at you.
Pobble shrugs just a touch, raising a hand at a passing bartender to indicate he's in need of service. "If y'earn it you may as well use it right?" Uncertainty flickers across his features as he pulls the last from his cigarette and stubs it into a nearby ashtray, blowing the smoke upwards away from Lori.
In the beginning, people didn't go to Washington State; they wound up in Washington as a way of getting away from other things. It led to the state's original population being self-reliant outdoorsy types who have become increasingly more rare as the state has become overrun with Starbucks and Microsoft. Most of the Lumberjack Brigade has already left Erin's Vale for Alaska, but there are still some holdouts, people who still seek self-reliance amidst the espresso and traffic jams. Dennis Larson is one of them. He may not be dressed like one right now, but his mien, his build, his air of self-confident self-reliance, give him away as clearly as day.
He's not a large man, being of average height with an average build. Yet for all that, his average build is solidly built, his torso a gymnast's wedge shape and his muscles lean and well-defined. He's quite fit, fit in a way which is rarely seen nowadays; it's the fitness that comes from exertion and work, not time on Nautilus equipment. Scars on his hands and forearms attest to a life of manual labor, and his thirty-year-old face alternates between tanned and sunburnt depending on whether or not he remembered to pack sunblock. That, too, is rare nowadays; in an economy where most people work indoors, Dennis clearly works under the Wenatchee sun.
His hair is cut in a short low-maintenance style, the Nordic yellowness bleached to white-blonde by the sun, with eyes so pale a gray they evoke nothing so much as bleach. Dennis is dressed differently than he usually is; his flannels and jeans have been traded for a suit and tie. It's not Giancarlo Ferre or Giorgio Armani, certainly, instead just some cheap off-the-rack thing that's barely had any tailoring done to his form. In some sense, the unassuming dark suit makes him all the creepier. If he wore designer threads he'd be less unnerving, because after all, who'd want to start a fight while wearing a five thousand dollar suit?
A two hundred dollar suit, on the other hand...
"Yes, I'm sure that's all very interesting, but what /kind/ of doctor? Or are you the ooh-spooky-mysterious type? Like, what gives?" That's from Lori. She's gazing up at Pobble nicely enough, but the words coming out of her mouth are pretty unpleasant in contrast.
Into the club slips yet another figure looking to enjoy dancing the night away. After having her ID checked at the door, Zoe moves further inside, steps slow and graceful as she begins to make her way towards the bar. Lips hold a smile, and there's more than a few she stops to greet and speak with at times before continuing on, the skirt of her dress swaying with each step she makes.
Pobble delays the explanation to request another drink, and as he does so a mild shiver takes him, causing him to tense briefly inside the warm expanse of his yeti covering. He turns back to Lori, "Chemical engineering." Not so spooky or mysterious. Not even terribly interesting. A sheepish little smile is offered, as he glances to the side, needle point eyes scanning for something.
Lori looks all excited by that. "Chemical engineering? Rock!" She sucks on the cigarette again, licking the taste of nicotine from her pink lips. "I oughta do that, but life is too short to spend it in a classroom all the time, don't you think? I don't even have my high school diploma. Hah!" This amuses her greatly.
Pobble nods agreement distractedly, seeming unsatisfied in his search and turning back to his conversational partner. "Yeah, seven years is a long fucking time. Still." he trails off, lips curling back into a crooked little smile. "It was an interesting time."
Dennis heads over to the counter for a drink, albeit not without incident; some people are eager to get out of his way and some people are eager to get into it, usually college fratboys who've substituted liquor for courage and want to show the world they're not afraid. Dennis walks by them in stone-faced silence, taking contemptuously no notice of either those who edge away or those who remain. He finally comes up to the counter and growls out an order to the barkeep, one which does not carry over the din of the room.
Lori tilts her head away from Pobble to look at Dennis. It's just a big flop of her head, pigtails and green tubes bouncing with the sudden motion. Her big green eyes look at him pretty openly, sizing up the guy that makes everybody skuttle out of the way like cockroaches.
Who would think the tomboy could clean up so well? Surely no one that knows her and has seen her in her usual jeans and boots, grubby from digging in the garden. And yet, tonight Zoe seems to have taken special care with her dress. If she notices the path Dennis has made towards the bar, it's not obvious as she waves her own way through people, laughing at times before nodding to the bar before continuing onwards. Once there, she tiptoes, leaning against the bar, and making her order, giving the bartender a smile before he moves off to fix her drink.
Pobble faces away from Dennis, but his arrival at the bar definately unsettles the man. Silver nails tap together with a quiet clacking lost in the overwhelming beat of the music. He turtles down in the high collar of his enormous coat, pausing the tapping to toss a bill on the bar and take up his drink, clutching it with both hands.
Well, someone fits in here like a Preakness winner in a glue factory. Dennis's total lack of fitting-in is almost painful: he's wearing a suit and tie, not fashionably goth attire. He's wincing at what he'd call the 'noise', apparently enough of a cultural philistine that he doesn't grok the magnificence of Einsturzende Neubauten especially when played at high volume. He just remains silent and mute as the barkeep hands him an iced tea (what, no trendy booze and forty-dollar quintuple-distilled vodkas?) and--why, is that the sound of teeth grinding, barely audible over the noise? Yep. He turns to give Zoe a faint nod of recognition, and then turns to give Lori a scowl. "What the f--" He stops, shakes his head, starts over again in a concerted attempt at remaining civilized. "What're you looking at?"
Alabaster Smith has staked out his table like a little independent fiefdom in the middle of the chaos, and from it, he watches the drama of the other people with vague interest and amusement.
"I knew you were going to say that," Lori says. "Goddamnit, they always say that." She shakes her head in disappointment and looks away to have a drag off of her smoke, flicking ash on the floor absently.
Pobble indulges in a mix of ostritch and snake avoidance behaviour, keeping his back to the imposing figure while remaining still. Teeth pull in the corner of his lower lip, finger tapping uneasily against his glass still, being the only movement besides breathing. He almost looks like he's not exactly sure why he's entered this strange mood, but given his glossy pinpoint pupiled eyes it's not unreasonable to blame it on an acid flashback.
Wine delivered, the tomboy passes the money to the bartender before lifting the glass for a sip. It's then that Zoe sees Dennis standing off to the side in his suit and tie, a brow raised as she looks at him from over the rim of her wineglass. His snap at the girl seems to amuse her for some reason, lips quirking into a smile before she turns her gaze towards the dancefloor. Unconsciously, she sways to the music, the silk of her dress following each move she makes.
Dennis bites down an acerbic response to Lori and downs a rather large fraction of his iced tea in one long gulp. Mmmm, cold and bitter, just like his heart. A few of the bouncers are beginning to gather closeby, as if anticipating trouble brewing, but Dennis pays them no heed. Apparently he gets that reaction enough that he's become inured to it.
Lori stabs out her cigarette. Stabby, stabby, stabby! "What's the matter with you?" she asks Pobble without a drop of apparent empathy.
"Oh, nothing." replies Pobble in a tone that lacks anything that even vaguely resembles conviction. He knocks back his liqour sharply, smacking the glass back down on the counter. "Cold." he murmers as an afterthought, sliding hands into pockets and pulling the furry mass tighter about his body.
Zoe glances around, watching people, taking note of those reactions around her, and the bouncers that seem to be edging closer. Pushing away from the bar, she actually moves closer to the suited Dennis, and pausing near him, she lets her glance travel over him before returning to his face. Chuckling, she says lightly, "What's got your undies in a twist tonight?" Ok, so she might be dressed all fancy, hardly looking like herself, but the tomboy is still there and forthright as ever.
Lori reaches out to fluff Pobble up. "You should eat more! Put some meat on those bones... no wonder you're cold--wait, now I'm beginning to sound like... nevermind." She yanks at Pobble's coat, as if he's not warm enough in it.
Pobble should be warm, it is after all sweltering in the packed club. The close proximity of the bouncers seems to make him all the more edgy, pressing his side up against the counter top as he scratches his forehead just under the rim of his hat. "I shouldn't wear my coat inside, else I'll be cold when I go out." he murmers, mantra-like.
Dennis's scowl is the sort of thing which would be legendary if he didn't make it look so easy. "Same thing it ever is," he answers as he drains the rest of his iced tea. He looks around for the barkeep, getting visibly annoyed when it's clear the barkeep's trying very hard to pretend he doesn't exist. A bellowed order consisting of more vulgarities than prepositions later, the barkeep hurriedly comes over with a refill. Dennis doesn't pause to watch the scurrying: he returns his attention to Zoe. "People are idiots. That's what it always is."
Zoe cradles the glass of wine in her hand as she watches Dennis go bellowing for the refill, shaking her head at him quietly. When his attention returns, she replies lightly, "Some are, but you know, if you didn't doom and gloom glare at everyone, they might not be such idiots." A shoulder lifts in a shrug, a sip taken from the wine in her glass before her gaze slips towards the dance floor again, the music gaining another roll of hips before she shoots the angry man a look and grin.
Lori pauses in her conversation with Pobble to turn her head and grin sharply at Dennis. Something he said must have pleased her because she just has that kind of look on her face. "Hah!" Soon her gaze is back on Pobble and she chucks him a few times on the shoulder. "You don't look so good. Maybe you should come outside and get some fresh air. That's a good idea. Come on, get your narrow ass out of the chair already," she says, hopping off of her own chair. Sproing!
Pobble considers for the briefest of moments before nodding, sliding off the stool in a way that only moves him further from Dennis, oversized boots thudding down onto the floor. Hands push immediately into pockets and with a stooped pose he makes for the door in a roundabout path, almost scuttling through the crowds with only a quick glance back to check to see wether Lori is following.
"This ain't my Doom Glare," Dennis announces. Note that he doesn't protest. Protests indicate that one party is in the weaker position. The majority never protests the minority. The large do not protest the small. An oak does not protest a sapling. Dennis /announces/. "If it was my fuckin' Doom Glare, some poor sumbitch woulda already experienced what we like t' call an embarassin' loss of voluntary bladder control." He's not shouting, per se, but people are definitely doing the back-away-slowly thing and the bouncers are doing the creep-ahead-while-thinking-they-aren't-getting-paid-enough thing. "No, people are stupid, that's all, an' I'm fuckin' tired of it." Ah, at last, proof that he is human: is he not echoing a universal human feeling?
Lori is laughing at whatever Dennis is saying as she walks away from him. Yes, indeed, she is following Pobble but at a leisurely pace. What, like she's going to miss the big white coat in the crowd? She'd have to be retarded /and/ blinde.
Or even blind.
Pobble wastes no time in making his exit, a wan smile given to the door men at their half hearted comments regarding the enjoyment of the rest of the evening.
You leave The Pulse for the streets outside.
Downtown - New Town District(#433RJs)
-= Erin and Pike =-
Hip dance clubs and upper scale restaurants line the streets of New Town, everything from the newest teenage fad to old style swing dancing being seen easily on these streets. The young to middle aged crowd seems to frequent this area, a culturally diverse area with everything from the preppy high school jock to the pierced stoner hang out on the strip to find the new coolest spot to go on the weekends. The billboards seem to have taken notice of the party society in the area as well, various ads for entertainment places and items showing up more frequently than in other sections of the city.
To the side of the area a rather pleasant mini-park has formed, a statue of Zeus standing proud. At various times during the day and night, automated sprinklers go off to make sure that every plant receives the nourishment it requires for perfect blooming. Speckles of colors ranging from a deep violet to a cottony soft baby blue line the edge of the statue for a quaint place to stop and indeed, smell the flowers.
Obvious exits:
The Pulse TP North on Pike N South on Pike S West on Erin W East on Erin E
Lori comes out from The Pulse's doors.
Lori has arrived.
Lori comes wandering out of the club after you, not looking at all like she's fleeing or otherwise upset.
Pobble is waiting just next to the door, already having lit a pair of cigarettes, one between thin lips and the other dangling precariously between his fingers. He glances across as a clubber exits, catching Lori as she follows and his brow creases into a frown. "Hey.. sommatter?"
Lori reaches out to snatch the cigarette from his fingers. "Huh? Speak up. You don't look so good." She resists patting his face, though, but only just.
Pobble shuffles back against the wall, still huddling in his behemothic coat as he draws a slow drag from the cigarette, letting the fumes drift out from his mouth to coil around his hat. "You look miffed is all, something the matter?"
Lori takes a deep drag from the cigarette he gave her and shakes her head. "Nope. Yes. Maybe. I always look miffed. Usually." She frowns at him, but not unkindly--if such a thing is possible. "Fuggediboudit." The girl looks him over very carefully, not missing much of anything. "So, Doc, what do you do with this PhD of yours?"
"Oh, stuff and things. You know how it is. The life of the freelance chemist is a dull and boring one." Pobble smirks at that, sharing a private joke with himself as he ashes the cigarette onto the pavement. "Fuggediboudit." he adds, mimicing your tones with a lopsided grin.
"Ohhhhhhhh, so you're a dealer!" Lori shows him a sharp grin. "No, you're not a dealer; you're too much of a pussy to be a dealer." Ow. She has another drag off her smoke, flicking ash negligently aside on the sidewalk.
Pobble smirks, "Right. I studied chemistry so I could better explain to customers how their shit worked." Glossy eyes roll as he pulls on the smoke. "Yes, I'm a pussy and a dealer." A laugh escapes him as he shifts against the wall.
"Better explain to customers how their shit worked?" Lori looks confused. She shrugs, however, and steps closer to Pobble, turning at the last second to lean up against the wall next to him. "A pussy -and- a dealer. You know, pussy dealers don't last long."
Pobble stares across the street, fingering the filter of his smoke. "I noticed." he murmers absently, "Fuckers." His reverie ends with a start, almost twitching as he glances back to the girl at his side. "I'd say I'm neither, but the former is possibly subjective given recent incidents."
Lori tilts her head so she can gaze at Pobble. Her hand lifts, putting the cigarette to her lips briefly. "Oh yeah? Interesting. You know sometimes I get it right. Anyway, what about recent events? Someone try to shake you down or something?" Lori reaches out and plunges her fingers into the fur of the coat. Oooooh... soft and plush! Okay, even if it's not real, it's still like a big teddy bear.
Pobble doesn't seem to mind the wandering fingers, "You could say that." He nods slowly, flicking away the half smoked cigarette into the gutter, gaze following its arc. His lips open as if to elaborate further then decide against it. "Well.." he says finally, turning back towards Lori with a bright but apologetic smile. "Would love to stay and chat but I need to get back, feed the monkey and lie down." A card is pulled from somewhere inside his coat and handed over. It's a crisp number, eggshell white. The name Dr. Steve and the address of an alley way in the Tackett Slums, completed with a cell number. Nudging your arm with his elbow he pushes off from the wall. "Call if you get bored, no-friends girl."
"Hah, cool," Lori says. "Hey, I might just do that. Thanks for the number. You take care now, okay? Don't get into any trouble..." She babbles on, waving at you with your own 'business' card.
Thursday, March 25, 2004
Girls of Future Past
Naoko pages: Late last night, around 2:30 am, a really bizarre paradox ripple fluttered over the town. The epicenter seemed to have been from somewhere far off in the woods, about 10 miles outside of town.
Naoko pages: Is that bait enough?
Gabbi State Park - Park Entrance(#675RJs)
The tall buildings may be seen off in the horizon, but obviously this area is not one of static business. Instead, the only real remains of city life are seen in the often crowded parking lot of the state park, vehicles of all sorts packed into the small parking spaces. It is one of the few parking spots that automobiles of every price can be found, everything from the latest BMW to the old Honda with a rusty bumper.
Up ahead, adjacent to the parking lot the actual entrance to the park is visible. A small ranger station is the first thing visible, where a ranger can be seen at all times manning the station and answering any question that may come up. Smaller booths are set up as well, selling various overpriced camping gear, t-shirts, as well as maps of the area.
Contents:
Naoko
Obvious exits:
Gravel Road to Cabin GR South S East E North on Gabbi N
It's night. It's breezy out. It's a bit chilly. Of course, the gal walking up the street seems to pay no heed to this. She's wandering, a bit confused, stopping from time to time and looking at the sky. When she does, she holds some sort of weird-looking binoculars up to her eyes. A frown, and she shakes her head. "God! Another five miles, at LEAST." Japanese accent; English definately not the first language.
Naoko is looking at you.
The stillness of the night air is threatened by the sound of wet gravel being displaced from the road. Halogen brights tear the darkness apart as a behemothic Hummer meanders into view. The rain slick roads are no match for its traction but the driver doesn't seem to be the most competent, swerving and meandering over the road for no apparent reason. The vehicle slows as it nears the gates, a window lowering to allow the crisp air to enter and consequently push out the stale noxious smoke from within the cabin.
The girl leaps and almost drops her binoculars, catching them at the last minute. "Ohmigod. A car!" She stuffs the binoculars in the large duffel bag at her side and goes running, top speed, for it, waving her hands wildly. "WAIT! WAIT!" she yells, at the top of her lungs.
There is a crunching as brakes engage, the SUV grinding to a halt just in front of the woman. The interior is dark, windows tinted. Up close and out of the direct view of the blinding lights its easy to notice that the relatively new vehicle is banged up, scratched and not in the best of states. Smoke is exhaled through the open window and a tired voice calls out from within. "Awright there?"
The girl gasps, a bit out of breath, and takes a moment to get her bearings. "Yes.. no... I mean.. I guess so... Uhh... Hi." Naoko smiles oddly. "I.. uh... " She stops, and her eyes roam toward the sky, "Could I get a ride? I... I am kind of stuck."
Brilliant! That's the first word that usually pops to one's lips upon looking at this spry teenager: brilliant in her actions, brilliant in her speech, and, my god, brilliant in her appearance. Wherever this girl goes, she's always walking on sunshine. First, the basics. She's young, a teenager, around 15 or so years old. The heritage is clearly Japanese, for all of the features tell it true - the warm shade of her skin, the delicately sloped eyes of deep brown, the pert and gentle nose. China Girl, at first glance one might think, but unmistakably, she's Japanese. When she speaks, her accent most certainly confirms the ethnicity, while the times that she has to pause for her words confirms that English isn't her first language, either. A gal of small stature, she's only about 5'1" tall, and can't weigh more than 95 pounds, dripping wet. However, she more than makes up for that with the bold manner with which she presents herself. The jet black hair is cut short, feathered in the front like a flock of seagulls, and with an unhealthy amount of serious gel, she wears it spiked in every which direction, so that her silhouette looks like a starburst. Furthermore, the hair is streaked with vibrant electric blue, adding color to the mix. Her every action seems as if it were driven by a live current, with the setting cranked all the way up to "hyper-manic."
The future's so bright, you gotta wear shades - and the same is true for her clothing. She's dressed like she's ready to party like it's 1999. A white ringer t-shirt with the Pac-Man logo on it, and the words "Pac-Man Fever" is worn across her chest, decorated with red rings at the neck and sleeves. Over that, she wears a screaming neon yellow shirt, patterned with aqua blue swooshes that look like they were streaked on with quick strokes of a paintbrush. The skirt she wears is a bold black-and-white checkerboard pattern, and it flares out from her hips, reaching down to a few inches above her knee. Looking lower, she's got matching yellow leg warmers, pulled up to her knees, and stopping just above a pair of very retro-looking Keds - white with neon pink stripes, and neon pink shoelaces. The accessorizing is mostly in neon pink, from the Swatch Watch on her wrist that tells the time with artistically crooked hands over a light-up face, complete with a clear pink jelly-style wristband, to the giant neon pink plastic hoops that dangle from her earlobes. On each wrist is no less than 50 jelly bracelets in a rainbow of colors, intermixed with a few hand-woven friendship bands. Finally, the outfit is completed by blinding you with science: the overcoat that sweeps airily down to her knees is made of that technologically-innovative HyperColour (TM) fabric - the kind that changes color with changes in temperature. This one is in screaming orange, with spots of bright purple on it, indicating the warmer spots, and it's finished off with a chartreuse button on the lapel that reads, "Doc Brown was an amateur!" And that is Naoko - more fun than ninety-nine red balloons. Well, what do you expect? Girls do just wanna have fun!
The door opens, and the driver hops out. A cigarette hangs precariously from between his thin fingers and is ashed with the movement, grey rain floating down across his coat. He wrinkles his nose as he looks the girl over, then peers past her towards the sky with a curious expression as he takes a long slow drag. "Folks go home without you?" he enquires distantly.
View items have been set on the following objects in your area:
If it were possible to shade such a sunny disposition, it did just happen. A wave of distress over her face, and the young woman nods. "Uh.. Yeah.." she trails off, reaching over to zip up her duffel bag. "Something like that."
Pobble nods slowly, needlessly tapping his dwindling cigarette. He seems preoccupied with the night sky, staring up at it past the girl. The clouds are pregnant with heavy rain fall, and he steps past you towards the gates slowly. "Awful that is mate." he mumbles. Strangely, smoke continues to drift from the hummer, as if another ciggy had been left burning within. Or maybe there's more people inside. "Where'd you live?"
Her wide eyes shiver a little. "Uhm... Reno? Nevada?" Spoken as if she, herself, weren't sure about the detail. "I... yes, that was the last place I lived.. I.. I do believe."
"Christ on a bike." murmers the man. He's tapping his cigarette in a rythmic pattern, silver tipped thumb hitting the filter where the four corners of a square about it would be. As he does so he shifts it up and down, up and down. "Maybe they left you here on purpose." he observes, the blunt suggestion being stated with the same dreamy air. He's not really paying full attention to the conversation. Something else is more interesting.
Pobble rolls 3 (3 dice) at a difficulty of 4:
9 5 9
Achieving 3 successes, resulting in a complete success.
OOC Naoko says, "what is that for?"
OOC Pobble does a Prime sense, to check for anything going on in the foresty area. You could make an Awareness roll..
About ten miles to the south and west of here, there's the fading away of a source of primal energy... like a battery draining the last of its juice.
Naoko rolls perception+awareness vs 6 (3 dice) at a difficulty of 0:
8 7 9
Achieving 3 successes, resulting in a complete success.
OOC Naoko says, "weird. it only rolled half my dicepool. ah well."
OOC Pobble says, "Hrm. Either way"
The japanese kid shakes her head tightly, "No. They'd never, ever, ever do that. My parents love me very ... very.. much..." And she can barely choke out the last word, before tears start streaming out of her eyes.
Crying teenagers. The sound of sadness seems to draw Pobble from whatever trance he was settling into and he sucks the last from his cigarette before flicking it into the night. It skitters on the wet road and fizzles quietly. Turning, he moves to stand next to the girl, going to put a hand on her shoulder but seeming unsure and deciding against it at the last moment. "Hey. Sorry." He looks about sideways, searching for backup. Finding none, his lips twist into an uncertain grimace. "It'll be okay?"
Sniffly and still sobby, she replies, "Truth... truth is... I don't know where they are... something terrible happened... and... I don't even know where -I- am. In a big stupid forest or something... I don't like it out here."
In the vehicle, something scrabbles at the rear window. It's impossible to make out a shape inside with the darkness and the tinting. Pobble ignores it and settles back against the wet Hummer. "So eh.. How did you get here?" he asks, sounding almost curious.
She turns and peers at the window, taking a step away to try to glance inside. "I.." She sniffs. "I sort of... sort of.." She chews on her lip for a moment, "Wrecked my car." Not a very good liar.
A small shillouette vanishes down away from the window. Pobble just stares, looking close to sympathetic but mostly confused and awkward. He's obviously not used to crying teenage girls in the middle of the road at night. "Where at? Want me to call the police?" he asks after a few moments silence, and not sounding too set on the idea.
Pobble rolls 3 (3 dice) at a difficulty of 4:
5 4 10
Achieving 3 successes, resulting in a complete success.
She's clearly all sparkly. That much is obvious. But the most prevelant emotions are confusion and fear. Confusion, specifically. This girl has no idea where she is, what she's doing, what day it is... none of it. She's afraid, really afraid - afraid of what she'll do next, what'll become of her, and especially afraid for her parents. Underlying it all is a clearly highly creative and intelligent young woman who far surpasses most her age with her innovativeness.
Naoko shakes her head tightly, and says, "No... No sir... I... I was driving without a license, see... and... I don't want to go to jail." More terrible lies, the kind that she can barely keep a lid on. "I.. I just want to go someplace where.. where I can make a long-distance phone call, and... and figure out what to do."
Pobble looks less confused. Just a little. Silver tipped fingers fidget and to counteract this, they're sent on an errant into a pocket to pull out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. "Look, kid." begins Pobble evenly, "How about we make a deal?" The tiny figure is back in the rear window of the hummer, just an outline. "You tell me the truth, and I'll give you a phone and sort out anything you need to get yourself back on track?" He spreads his gloved palms openly, after popping a smoke between his lips and replacing the pack in pocket.
She rocks from foot to foot, and shakes her head tightly. "You'd not believe the truth if I told you, sir... no disrespect or anything meant, but... " Naoko smiles oddly, curiously, and then says, "I'm not a kid. My name is Xenon."
Pobble smirks at that, "Well, I am Dr. Steve. You can call me Pobble if you like." He sparks the cigarette, taking his time with the first inhalation. "You'd be surpised at what I'd believe." He smiles, but it's a serious smile. Cigarette is jutted out towards the invisible anomaly. "You'd also be surprised to know that other people will probably have noticed that, and they're definately not as nice as me."
"But... it..." She bites her lip again, and then forces a smile. "They won't find anything. In less than two hours, it'll all have reduced itself to its base elements anyhow, and sunk down into the ground."
Pobble shakes his head sadly, "Just because something isn't there anymore, doesn't mean people can't see it." The way he says this makes it sound obvious. Noting that he's maybe being harsh he manages a smile, trying to look reassuring. "I'm no stranger to bizarre shit. Trust me. You should come clean though Xenon, I can help you. Honest like."
She draws a deep breath. Her eyes roam skyward. She folds her hands at her waist. "I'm from the future..." she breathes, letting those words hang in the air, all dramatic-like and everything. "The future, Pobble." She looks to you and waits to see what you have to say to that. PLease please don't take her to the loony bin.
The shocking revelation leaves the Doctor looking unphased. "Right." he says, much like someone would say 'Fair enough.'. He nods, taking another nicotine dose and flicking ash off to the side where it sticks to the wet yellow body of the hummer. "How did you get here?" he asks, cigarette still between lips and waggling up and down as he talks.
Naoko shakes her head and draws back a little. "You don't believe me.. do you?" she asks, with that same wide-eyed expression. "I'm from the future. January 23, 1985," she tries to explain, and then looks down at her hands. "This is stupid. There's no way in hell you're going to believe me." Though every word she says is completely earnest. This broad must be out of her gourd.
Pobble laughs, inappropriately. This causes the cigarette to fall from his lips and fizzle out in a puddle near his feet. No loss. Someone inside the vehicle laughs too, a higher pitched but muffled sound. "I hate to break this to you," Pobble says honestly, "But 1985 is not quite the future." Standing up for this long is causing him to become a little unsteady, and wobbling to the side he twists and resteadies himself on the bumper.
Naoko looks you over once again, and says with a certain amount of certainty, "Sir," and waves a hand over your clothing, "Given your general apparel and demeanor, it is most evident that we are in the Vietnam-war protest era. Such people as you I studied in my American History classes."
There is sniggering from within the SUV. Pobble rolls his eyes, "Xenon.. When you were studying your American History classes, I was learning what fractions were." He shakes his head, smiling crookedly. "Also, being English I diddn't really give a fuck about the Vietnam war. I was too little to care about it."
"What time is it then?" she asks, now further confused at it all. "Funny. I thought... well, nevermind what I thought..." She regards you in a most curious fashion, and adds, "I... I've had...a hell of a day. I apologize. I'm.. I'm having a bit of trouble with my reality today."
PROVE: Naoko has the stat or ability echoes at or above level 2.
OOC Naoko says, "From that, and all that she's been through, timepieces malfunction terribly in her presence."
Pobble pulls a phone from his pocket. It's a bizarre thing, like a borg cellphone that started out mini and then assimilated bits from other things to increase its size. It's wrapped in a cross of neon yellow tape and maked with strange patterns. He glances down at the screen and frowns. "Bloody phone is screwy." he mutters, and tries to think. "It's may something, 2004. Night time." He shrugs apologetically, "Sorry I can't be more specific."
Naoko quirks her head to the side, and then her eyes nearly pop out of her head. She jumps, about a foot in the air, and smacks her hand against her forehead, causing the blue spikes in her hair to wobble. "2004!!!??" she squeals, surprised, delighted, confused, all at once. "I have to get to a phone. Immediately! The future of the free world may well depend on it!"
Pobble offers the contraption in his hand. Although it may be unrecognizable as a phone. He smiles, perhaps at your enthusiasm. A whisper from the depths of the vehicle says, "She's fucking crazy mate. Loony. Maybe she's.. y'know. One of them."
She eyes the phone, and then goes "Ahh! My father was working on one like this! Let's see... now... if I can... just..." Naoko sets the duffel bag down on the ground and unzips it. Dig dig dig. She finds this weird thing that's a tiny monitor with wires sticking out of it, and sets that on her lap. "Red... red... blue goes with blue... yellow and yellow... " The girl is now unwiring your telephone.
Pobble wrinkles his nose, looking uncomfortable at this. "You should be careful with that. It ain't normal. Doesn't.. oh never mind. I can always patch up a new one. Don't fuck with it too much and it'll be a secure line." He sighs, and the voice inside reiterates, "Fruitloop."
"Shh. I know what I"m doing." The kid starts wiring the device into the phone, and then pulls a simple 9-volt battery out. She slaps that into the socket on the monitor, and flips a switch on the side. An eerie hum as it powers up.
Naoko rolls 3 (3 dice) at a difficulty of 5:
5 5 8
Achieving 3 successes, resulting in a complete success.
Pobble quirks a brow, which dissapears under the beanie. He doesn't look too suprised, but just leans there watching. Something moves in the open doorway, a tiny figure peering from the shadows. "Whatcha doing then?" he asks quietly.
"Shh..." There's an image that forms on the screen, for a moment. A bunker, like an old army base, out in the middle of the desert. She taps a few buttons on the side of the monitor and it zooms in. Cobwebs. Dust. Broken beakers and destroyed machinery. There's a big big gaping hole where some large piece of machinery was ripped out, and only the cords and connections left. The whole compound looks like it was a battlefield. Her face falls... and falls.. and falls some more... and she flips the image off. "Oh... my god... they've got it..."
Rising up on his toes, Pobble attempts to see what's on the screen better. The critter in the truck begins to creep out too, becomming visible in the backwash of the headlights. Dave Monkey clutches a cigar and the smoke trails up around him and back into the air conditioned vehicle. "What?" they ask in unison, "Something wrong?"
"The second prototype of the Tachyon Field Multiplexer... they took it... " Whatever this is, this is BAD BAD BAD, judging from the expression on her face. "The Russians..." she trails off, after stating the name of the most frightful boogeyman she can name.
Pobble half smiles despite the situation, "The Russians aren't so bad anymore you know." "Right." Agrees the monkey with the cigar. Pobble does look puzzled however, tapping his silver fingertips together with a hard almost metallic sound. "I have no idea what that thing is though.. is eh, that what bought you back here?"
"But they have it... that's... that's... oh god, the future of the free world... THe Russians.. the bomb... Oh god... It's all so... so... bad... " And that's enough stress for Naoko. The girl gets all flustered in her cheeks, and stumbles to the ground, planting her hand there so she doesn't completely bruise herself up. "I need to eat. I haven't eaten in over two days..."
Dave Monkey scampers back into the SUV and returns with an opened jumbo bag of potato chips. They scatter about as he offers them across, from his perch up on the seat.
Pobble sighs, becomming confused and awkward once more. "Look, kid. Lets get you out of here, in case anyone else comes along. We can get you settled and then figure out what we're going to do about it all.."
OOC Naoko says, "can we say she fell asleep in the car? I need to go."
Naoko pages: Is that bait enough?
Gabbi State Park - Park Entrance(#675RJs)
The tall buildings may be seen off in the horizon, but obviously this area is not one of static business. Instead, the only real remains of city life are seen in the often crowded parking lot of the state park, vehicles of all sorts packed into the small parking spaces. It is one of the few parking spots that automobiles of every price can be found, everything from the latest BMW to the old Honda with a rusty bumper.
Up ahead, adjacent to the parking lot the actual entrance to the park is visible. A small ranger station is the first thing visible, where a ranger can be seen at all times manning the station and answering any question that may come up. Smaller booths are set up as well, selling various overpriced camping gear, t-shirts, as well as maps of the area.
Contents:
Naoko
Obvious exits:
Gravel Road to Cabin GR South S East E North on Gabbi N
It's night. It's breezy out. It's a bit chilly. Of course, the gal walking up the street seems to pay no heed to this. She's wandering, a bit confused, stopping from time to time and looking at the sky. When she does, she holds some sort of weird-looking binoculars up to her eyes. A frown, and she shakes her head. "God! Another five miles, at LEAST." Japanese accent; English definately not the first language.
Naoko is looking at you.
The stillness of the night air is threatened by the sound of wet gravel being displaced from the road. Halogen brights tear the darkness apart as a behemothic Hummer meanders into view. The rain slick roads are no match for its traction but the driver doesn't seem to be the most competent, swerving and meandering over the road for no apparent reason. The vehicle slows as it nears the gates, a window lowering to allow the crisp air to enter and consequently push out the stale noxious smoke from within the cabin.
The girl leaps and almost drops her binoculars, catching them at the last minute. "Ohmigod. A car!" She stuffs the binoculars in the large duffel bag at her side and goes running, top speed, for it, waving her hands wildly. "WAIT! WAIT!" she yells, at the top of her lungs.
There is a crunching as brakes engage, the SUV grinding to a halt just in front of the woman. The interior is dark, windows tinted. Up close and out of the direct view of the blinding lights its easy to notice that the relatively new vehicle is banged up, scratched and not in the best of states. Smoke is exhaled through the open window and a tired voice calls out from within. "Awright there?"
The girl gasps, a bit out of breath, and takes a moment to get her bearings. "Yes.. no... I mean.. I guess so... Uhh... Hi." Naoko smiles oddly. "I.. uh... " She stops, and her eyes roam toward the sky, "Could I get a ride? I... I am kind of stuck."
Brilliant! That's the first word that usually pops to one's lips upon looking at this spry teenager: brilliant in her actions, brilliant in her speech, and, my god, brilliant in her appearance. Wherever this girl goes, she's always walking on sunshine. First, the basics. She's young, a teenager, around 15 or so years old. The heritage is clearly Japanese, for all of the features tell it true - the warm shade of her skin, the delicately sloped eyes of deep brown, the pert and gentle nose. China Girl, at first glance one might think, but unmistakably, she's Japanese. When she speaks, her accent most certainly confirms the ethnicity, while the times that she has to pause for her words confirms that English isn't her first language, either. A gal of small stature, she's only about 5'1" tall, and can't weigh more than 95 pounds, dripping wet. However, she more than makes up for that with the bold manner with which she presents herself. The jet black hair is cut short, feathered in the front like a flock of seagulls, and with an unhealthy amount of serious gel, she wears it spiked in every which direction, so that her silhouette looks like a starburst. Furthermore, the hair is streaked with vibrant electric blue, adding color to the mix. Her every action seems as if it were driven by a live current, with the setting cranked all the way up to "hyper-manic."
The future's so bright, you gotta wear shades - and the same is true for her clothing. She's dressed like she's ready to party like it's 1999. A white ringer t-shirt with the Pac-Man logo on it, and the words "Pac-Man Fever" is worn across her chest, decorated with red rings at the neck and sleeves. Over that, she wears a screaming neon yellow shirt, patterned with aqua blue swooshes that look like they were streaked on with quick strokes of a paintbrush. The skirt she wears is a bold black-and-white checkerboard pattern, and it flares out from her hips, reaching down to a few inches above her knee. Looking lower, she's got matching yellow leg warmers, pulled up to her knees, and stopping just above a pair of very retro-looking Keds - white with neon pink stripes, and neon pink shoelaces. The accessorizing is mostly in neon pink, from the Swatch Watch on her wrist that tells the time with artistically crooked hands over a light-up face, complete with a clear pink jelly-style wristband, to the giant neon pink plastic hoops that dangle from her earlobes. On each wrist is no less than 50 jelly bracelets in a rainbow of colors, intermixed with a few hand-woven friendship bands. Finally, the outfit is completed by blinding you with science: the overcoat that sweeps airily down to her knees is made of that technologically-innovative HyperColour (TM) fabric - the kind that changes color with changes in temperature. This one is in screaming orange, with spots of bright purple on it, indicating the warmer spots, and it's finished off with a chartreuse button on the lapel that reads, "Doc Brown was an amateur!" And that is Naoko - more fun than ninety-nine red balloons. Well, what do you expect? Girls do just wanna have fun!
The door opens, and the driver hops out. A cigarette hangs precariously from between his thin fingers and is ashed with the movement, grey rain floating down across his coat. He wrinkles his nose as he looks the girl over, then peers past her towards the sky with a curious expression as he takes a long slow drag. "Folks go home without you?" he enquires distantly.
View items have been set on the following objects in your area:
If it were possible to shade such a sunny disposition, it did just happen. A wave of distress over her face, and the young woman nods. "Uh.. Yeah.." she trails off, reaching over to zip up her duffel bag. "Something like that."
Pobble nods slowly, needlessly tapping his dwindling cigarette. He seems preoccupied with the night sky, staring up at it past the girl. The clouds are pregnant with heavy rain fall, and he steps past you towards the gates slowly. "Awful that is mate." he mumbles. Strangely, smoke continues to drift from the hummer, as if another ciggy had been left burning within. Or maybe there's more people inside. "Where'd you live?"
Her wide eyes shiver a little. "Uhm... Reno? Nevada?" Spoken as if she, herself, weren't sure about the detail. "I... yes, that was the last place I lived.. I.. I do believe."
"Christ on a bike." murmers the man. He's tapping his cigarette in a rythmic pattern, silver tipped thumb hitting the filter where the four corners of a square about it would be. As he does so he shifts it up and down, up and down. "Maybe they left you here on purpose." he observes, the blunt suggestion being stated with the same dreamy air. He's not really paying full attention to the conversation. Something else is more interesting.
Pobble rolls 3 (3 dice) at a difficulty of 4:
9 5 9
Achieving 3 successes, resulting in a complete success.
OOC Naoko says, "what is that for?"
OOC Pobble does a Prime sense, to check for anything going on in the foresty area. You could make an Awareness roll..
About ten miles to the south and west of here, there's the fading away of a source of primal energy... like a battery draining the last of its juice.
Naoko rolls perception+awareness vs 6 (3 dice) at a difficulty of 0:
8 7 9
Achieving 3 successes, resulting in a complete success.
OOC Naoko says, "weird. it only rolled half my dicepool. ah well."
OOC Pobble says, "Hrm. Either way"
The japanese kid shakes her head tightly, "No. They'd never, ever, ever do that. My parents love me very ... very.. much..." And she can barely choke out the last word, before tears start streaming out of her eyes.
Crying teenagers. The sound of sadness seems to draw Pobble from whatever trance he was settling into and he sucks the last from his cigarette before flicking it into the night. It skitters on the wet road and fizzles quietly. Turning, he moves to stand next to the girl, going to put a hand on her shoulder but seeming unsure and deciding against it at the last moment. "Hey. Sorry." He looks about sideways, searching for backup. Finding none, his lips twist into an uncertain grimace. "It'll be okay?"
Sniffly and still sobby, she replies, "Truth... truth is... I don't know where they are... something terrible happened... and... I don't even know where -I- am. In a big stupid forest or something... I don't like it out here."
In the vehicle, something scrabbles at the rear window. It's impossible to make out a shape inside with the darkness and the tinting. Pobble ignores it and settles back against the wet Hummer. "So eh.. How did you get here?" he asks, sounding almost curious.
She turns and peers at the window, taking a step away to try to glance inside. "I.." She sniffs. "I sort of... sort of.." She chews on her lip for a moment, "Wrecked my car." Not a very good liar.
A small shillouette vanishes down away from the window. Pobble just stares, looking close to sympathetic but mostly confused and awkward. He's obviously not used to crying teenage girls in the middle of the road at night. "Where at? Want me to call the police?" he asks after a few moments silence, and not sounding too set on the idea.
Pobble rolls 3 (3 dice) at a difficulty of 4:
5 4 10
Achieving 3 successes, resulting in a complete success.
She's clearly all sparkly. That much is obvious. But the most prevelant emotions are confusion and fear. Confusion, specifically. This girl has no idea where she is, what she's doing, what day it is... none of it. She's afraid, really afraid - afraid of what she'll do next, what'll become of her, and especially afraid for her parents. Underlying it all is a clearly highly creative and intelligent young woman who far surpasses most her age with her innovativeness.
Naoko shakes her head tightly, and says, "No... No sir... I... I was driving without a license, see... and... I don't want to go to jail." More terrible lies, the kind that she can barely keep a lid on. "I.. I just want to go someplace where.. where I can make a long-distance phone call, and... and figure out what to do."
Pobble looks less confused. Just a little. Silver tipped fingers fidget and to counteract this, they're sent on an errant into a pocket to pull out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. "Look, kid." begins Pobble evenly, "How about we make a deal?" The tiny figure is back in the rear window of the hummer, just an outline. "You tell me the truth, and I'll give you a phone and sort out anything you need to get yourself back on track?" He spreads his gloved palms openly, after popping a smoke between his lips and replacing the pack in pocket.
She rocks from foot to foot, and shakes her head tightly. "You'd not believe the truth if I told you, sir... no disrespect or anything meant, but... " Naoko smiles oddly, curiously, and then says, "I'm not a kid. My name is Xenon."
Pobble smirks at that, "Well, I am Dr. Steve. You can call me Pobble if you like." He sparks the cigarette, taking his time with the first inhalation. "You'd be surpised at what I'd believe." He smiles, but it's a serious smile. Cigarette is jutted out towards the invisible anomaly. "You'd also be surprised to know that other people will probably have noticed that, and they're definately not as nice as me."
"But... it..." She bites her lip again, and then forces a smile. "They won't find anything. In less than two hours, it'll all have reduced itself to its base elements anyhow, and sunk down into the ground."
Pobble shakes his head sadly, "Just because something isn't there anymore, doesn't mean people can't see it." The way he says this makes it sound obvious. Noting that he's maybe being harsh he manages a smile, trying to look reassuring. "I'm no stranger to bizarre shit. Trust me. You should come clean though Xenon, I can help you. Honest like."
She draws a deep breath. Her eyes roam skyward. She folds her hands at her waist. "I'm from the future..." she breathes, letting those words hang in the air, all dramatic-like and everything. "The future, Pobble." She looks to you and waits to see what you have to say to that. PLease please don't take her to the loony bin.
The shocking revelation leaves the Doctor looking unphased. "Right." he says, much like someone would say 'Fair enough.'. He nods, taking another nicotine dose and flicking ash off to the side where it sticks to the wet yellow body of the hummer. "How did you get here?" he asks, cigarette still between lips and waggling up and down as he talks.
Naoko shakes her head and draws back a little. "You don't believe me.. do you?" she asks, with that same wide-eyed expression. "I'm from the future. January 23, 1985," she tries to explain, and then looks down at her hands. "This is stupid. There's no way in hell you're going to believe me." Though every word she says is completely earnest. This broad must be out of her gourd.
Pobble laughs, inappropriately. This causes the cigarette to fall from his lips and fizzle out in a puddle near his feet. No loss. Someone inside the vehicle laughs too, a higher pitched but muffled sound. "I hate to break this to you," Pobble says honestly, "But 1985 is not quite the future." Standing up for this long is causing him to become a little unsteady, and wobbling to the side he twists and resteadies himself on the bumper.
Naoko looks you over once again, and says with a certain amount of certainty, "Sir," and waves a hand over your clothing, "Given your general apparel and demeanor, it is most evident that we are in the Vietnam-war protest era. Such people as you I studied in my American History classes."
There is sniggering from within the SUV. Pobble rolls his eyes, "Xenon.. When you were studying your American History classes, I was learning what fractions were." He shakes his head, smiling crookedly. "Also, being English I diddn't really give a fuck about the Vietnam war. I was too little to care about it."
"What time is it then?" she asks, now further confused at it all. "Funny. I thought... well, nevermind what I thought..." She regards you in a most curious fashion, and adds, "I... I've had...a hell of a day. I apologize. I'm.. I'm having a bit of trouble with my reality today."
PROVE: Naoko has the stat or ability echoes at or above level 2.
OOC Naoko says, "From that, and all that she's been through, timepieces malfunction terribly in her presence."
Pobble pulls a phone from his pocket. It's a bizarre thing, like a borg cellphone that started out mini and then assimilated bits from other things to increase its size. It's wrapped in a cross of neon yellow tape and maked with strange patterns. He glances down at the screen and frowns. "Bloody phone is screwy." he mutters, and tries to think. "It's may something, 2004. Night time." He shrugs apologetically, "Sorry I can't be more specific."
Naoko quirks her head to the side, and then her eyes nearly pop out of her head. She jumps, about a foot in the air, and smacks her hand against her forehead, causing the blue spikes in her hair to wobble. "2004!!!??" she squeals, surprised, delighted, confused, all at once. "I have to get to a phone. Immediately! The future of the free world may well depend on it!"
Pobble offers the contraption in his hand. Although it may be unrecognizable as a phone. He smiles, perhaps at your enthusiasm. A whisper from the depths of the vehicle says, "She's fucking crazy mate. Loony. Maybe she's.. y'know. One of them."
She eyes the phone, and then goes "Ahh! My father was working on one like this! Let's see... now... if I can... just..." Naoko sets the duffel bag down on the ground and unzips it. Dig dig dig. She finds this weird thing that's a tiny monitor with wires sticking out of it, and sets that on her lap. "Red... red... blue goes with blue... yellow and yellow... " The girl is now unwiring your telephone.
Pobble wrinkles his nose, looking uncomfortable at this. "You should be careful with that. It ain't normal. Doesn't.. oh never mind. I can always patch up a new one. Don't fuck with it too much and it'll be a secure line." He sighs, and the voice inside reiterates, "Fruitloop."
"Shh. I know what I"m doing." The kid starts wiring the device into the phone, and then pulls a simple 9-volt battery out. She slaps that into the socket on the monitor, and flips a switch on the side. An eerie hum as it powers up.
Naoko rolls 3 (3 dice) at a difficulty of 5:
5 5 8
Achieving 3 successes, resulting in a complete success.
Pobble quirks a brow, which dissapears under the beanie. He doesn't look too suprised, but just leans there watching. Something moves in the open doorway, a tiny figure peering from the shadows. "Whatcha doing then?" he asks quietly.
"Shh..." There's an image that forms on the screen, for a moment. A bunker, like an old army base, out in the middle of the desert. She taps a few buttons on the side of the monitor and it zooms in. Cobwebs. Dust. Broken beakers and destroyed machinery. There's a big big gaping hole where some large piece of machinery was ripped out, and only the cords and connections left. The whole compound looks like it was a battlefield. Her face falls... and falls.. and falls some more... and she flips the image off. "Oh... my god... they've got it..."
Rising up on his toes, Pobble attempts to see what's on the screen better. The critter in the truck begins to creep out too, becomming visible in the backwash of the headlights. Dave Monkey clutches a cigar and the smoke trails up around him and back into the air conditioned vehicle. "What?" they ask in unison, "Something wrong?"
"The second prototype of the Tachyon Field Multiplexer... they took it... " Whatever this is, this is BAD BAD BAD, judging from the expression on her face. "The Russians..." she trails off, after stating the name of the most frightful boogeyman she can name.
Pobble half smiles despite the situation, "The Russians aren't so bad anymore you know." "Right." Agrees the monkey with the cigar. Pobble does look puzzled however, tapping his silver fingertips together with a hard almost metallic sound. "I have no idea what that thing is though.. is eh, that what bought you back here?"
"But they have it... that's... that's... oh god, the future of the free world... THe Russians.. the bomb... Oh god... It's all so... so... bad... " And that's enough stress for Naoko. The girl gets all flustered in her cheeks, and stumbles to the ground, planting her hand there so she doesn't completely bruise herself up. "I need to eat. I haven't eaten in over two days..."
Dave Monkey scampers back into the SUV and returns with an opened jumbo bag of potato chips. They scatter about as he offers them across, from his perch up on the seat.
Pobble sighs, becomming confused and awkward once more. "Look, kid. Lets get you out of here, in case anyone else comes along. We can get you settled and then figure out what we're going to do about it all.."
OOC Naoko says, "can we say she fell asleep in the car? I need to go."
Tuesday, March 16, 2004
Random Wallets
Downtown - New Town District(#433RJs)
-= Erin and Pike =-
Hip dance clubs and upper scale restaurants line the streets of New Town, everything from the newest teenage fad to old style swing dancing being seen easily on these streets. The young to middle aged crowd seems to frequent this area, a culturally diverse area with everything from the preppy high school jock to the pierced stoner hang out on the strip to find the new coolest spot to go on the weekends. The billboards seem to have taken notice of the party society in the area as well, various ads for entertainment places and items showing up more frequently than in other sections of the city.
To the side of the area a rather pleasant mini-park has formed, a statue of Zeus standing proud. At various times during the day and night, automated sprinklers go off to make sure that every plant receives the nourishment it requires for perfect blooming. Speckles of colors ranging from a deep violet to a cottony soft baby blue line the edge of the statue for a quaint place to stop and indeed, smell the flowers.
Contents:
Artus
Lily
Obvious exits:
The Pulse North on Pike South on Pike S West on Erin East on Erin
Artus shrugs resignedly. "I try the occasional sketch in the privacy of my own home, but I typically become distracted by shadows cast by leaves, or water splashing over a stone, and lose my interest in the endeavour." He turns a corner onto Pike Street. "Creativity is my forte only so far as my appreciation of its rigors, products, methods." He smiles, perhaps a bit roguishly (though at what is slightly uncertain), and says, "Thank you, though."
Lily trails along at Artus' side, playing with a silver lighter. Up, catch. Up, catch. She'll drop it if she isn't careful, set her fool self afire. Her reply to the gentleman at her side is quiet, very quiet indeed, but the afternoon crowd is thin enough that perhaps it carries. "You are quite welcome. And I would be interested to see some of these sketches, if you keep them."
A rare clear afternoon breeds foot traffic through the downtown area, even on disastrous days such as this. Drawn to this area of commerce, out of hunger or fiduciary necessities, is a healthy smattering of homeless. Hoping to reap the rewards of a generous public on this fine day. The blue skies encourage the spirit of charity.
So it's easy to lose Cash here, easy to mistake him as another beggar. Or drunk. Well drunk he might be, but his wandering sneakers carry the hallmark of a traveling handyman rather than a sedentary bum. In his hand a half empty bottle, his march eastwards an absent shuffle. Moving away from the setting sun and headlong into darkness.
Perhaps by the very virtue of his aura of abandonment, the woebegone, tattered vagabond attracts the attention of Artus Cimber. "Perhaps I spoke in haste," he tells Lily, though exactly which conversational tidbit he's referring to is unclear. He stops suddenly, having just passed a public mailbox, and opens the drop slot as though to make certain his mail was properly deposited. Reaching in as though to dislodge a stubborn envelope, he passes a few idle remarks, then, satisfied at last, withdraws his hand. Keen observers would note he now holds something, when previously he carried nothing. Gently, he alters Lily's course so as to intercept the wandering man with the run-down shoes.
Lily envinces no surprise at her partner's behavior, receptive to the new course and instantly scanning the afternoon crowds for the likely reason. Up, catch. Up, catch. The silver lighter flashes one last time before she slips it into a pocket, clasping her hands behind her back in the timeless manner of the absent-minded academic sort. "It does not due to be too hasty, I suppose," she murmurs absently, still searching the sidewalk. Cash? Possibly. Her brows lift in mild curiosity as she wagers he's the reason. "One can do a good dead now and then, if one is careful not to boast. The gods hate overweening pride."
The soles, just as worn as the man who wears them. Chin slightly angled upwards, as to point his dull brown gaze towards the neon signs that are just starting to come alive in the time before dusk. A few small rivers of alcohol clinging to his chin, sending a hundred proof droplet towards the thirsty cement every ten steps. Cash. Absent and wandering. It's a wonder he didn't stumble directly into the fire hydrant he just passed. Or the waitress moving with intention towards her second shift. His fingers, a loose spider grasp upon the neck of his glass feeder. He says something about 'socks' and how they never come back in pairs. But who pays heed to the ramblings of street folk.
Artus manipulates the object in his hand with deft rapidity; the motion looks somewhat like a shuffling of cards. Finished in a trice, he keeps it hidden against the palm and underside of his arm. Having crossed the street, he regains the sidewalk and approaches Cash from behind on loud, obvious footsteps. He calls out in a voice obviously British: "Pardon me, my good man."
Lily rolls her eyes Heavenward, murmuring something in a foreign tongue and shaking her head in a long-suffering manner, but she follows Artus, several careful paces behind. Despite her initial response, there is something keenly wary about the way she approaches, ready for anything; her hands are no longer clasped behind her back, but held loosely at her sides. "He is harmless," she offers reassuringly to Cash. Her own accent is from a good bit East of the UK, calling to mind a Bela Lugosi impression. "Best merely to humor him."
Overhead, the sky starts to darken to amber as the sun begins its westward descent. Soon it will be full night.
Still locked in his internal debate on foot ware, Cash doesn't stop immediately. Instead, his pace slowly grinds to a halt as the realization sets in, he's being addressed. And not by his inner voice. He turns to peer over a shoulder, just above the upturned collar of his jacket. Normally, that'd be a nice ward against the harsh chill of this city. Today though, its function is purely aesthetic.
Eyes are suspicious and squint at the albino tracking him down. Cash's grip upon the bottle tightens. Protect the assets first. "Uhhh... hey… man." That's the best he can manage. Count Lily; he keeps in the corner of his watch, brushing aside some of his hair that obscures a blurry gaze. He focuses and defocuses, the way drunk men do.
Artus, to his enormous satisfaction, is not telepathic, nor is he an albino, and thus a point of possible contention is done away with before it even becomes an issue. His smile is mild and genuine, his face is expressive and seems to change often, as whim or weather dictate. "I'm frightfully sorry to disturb your meditation on this brisk afternoon, but certain circumstances compell me to intrude when otherwise I would simply acknowledge your presence with a nod and continue on my way in deference to your obvious high station among devotees of the Tao." He turns up his palm, displaying a brown leather wallet--hardly a thing to carry every adjunct required by a gentleman, but certainly sufficient for simple excusions given the efficiency of modern currencies. "To whit: you dropped this during your shuffling."
"Indeed, you did," Lily murmurs. Her expression is less open than that of her companion, but her lips curve in an implied smile, though it may be directed as much at Artus' back as at Cash. "Terribly clumsy of you, sir. You should be more careful. There are footpads about."
The random threads of fate that brought these three together carry with them a certain deliberate nature. A predestined set of laws that seem to hover above Cash, pressing and trumping the natural order of things. To those who can sense such aberrations, there is something not all together Kosher about this bum, despite the Star of David hanging upon his neck. A curse, a charm, a blessing from a one eyed Gypsy. Or a charge account the size of the eastern seaboard ran up upon Miss Cleo's line.
Chapped lips hesitate a response, and his brow rises in a Vulcan like fashion to regard the offering. "Wha'... I 'aven't carried a wallet for four years... man. Whaz' tha' catch." Cash leans back to drench his innards with a gulp of whiskey.
Artus considers the situation with nonchalance, as if never had it occurred to him there might be some difficulty. "To a true student of the Tao, a year is as a day." He puts on an expression as of one ransacking his memory banks for the necessary information. "I disctinctly recall saying nothing to the effect that it happened just now. And, as you will notice--" he says, flipping open the wallet "--there is no proof of ownership available to refute me, though I confess in my haste to return this property, it may have departed for parts unknown. Still, it would seem to be an aspect to the situation with little weight for consideration." He indicates the wallet. "Here is the wallet." He opens the billfold. "Here is the money contained in the wallet." He indicates the crowd of afternoon shoppers. "Here is the crowd, manifestly deigning no search for its missing property." He straightens. "Therefore, I now tender you the wallet and all its contents, free of charge, wholly and forever, in full and in total, with neither disclaimer, nor yet corollary expectation." He proffers the item in question to Cash.
"It also may be that the Tao has less to do with it than does Marx," Lily opines mildly. "Perhaps my friend merely wishes to reapportion the capital reasources currently within this wallet, so that it no longer lines the pockets of those content to profit from the exploitation of others but rather rewards Labor, isolated from the work of his hands and bleeding, ever bleeding, to oil the wheels of capitolist hegemony. Or," she adds, "Maybe he is a crazy person."
The barrage of words find their home in an accepting recipient. Cash takes them all, in full, and without protest. The wallet, however, is still viewed with suspicion. Words are free, even fancy ones. And as Artus and Lily assault him with the Queen's English, there is no lack of understanding. But the manner with which he is approached is suspect even in it's self. Never mind the wallet that's most likely filled with a deadly nerve agent. It seems obviously a ploy of some sort. But living out here, one gets used to three card Monty. Cash thinks himself smarter than the average shell game. So he takes it. Opens it. And inspects for Anthrax.
"Yer both like... fucking nutz… man." He comes to that conclusion in a roundabout way, without sugar coating. Still holding the magic bullet, Cash looks back up between the generous duo. Waiting for them to pull badges. Or to pull their faces off and reveal the alien circuitry beneath. And suddenly, he finds this situation funny, as his smirking lips betray.
Artus brightens. "Your imputations mock us, sir!" he says, laughing to show he comprehends the joke. He looks as though he might pat Cash on the shoulder, but restrains his boisterous demeanor... either by reason of decoum or the aforementioned infectious diseases. The contents of the wallet are very crisp and very green and boast very large numbers. "After four years of emptiness, it must be gratifying to once again hold the wallet which has so long served you." With a sigh of contentment, he steps back, mission accomplished and perfectly executed. "And please take no offense if you notice the contents to be organized in a fashion at odds with those in which you left them. So long away from its owner has made this wallet a little eccentric and I may have slipped in a reimbursement or two where I noticed a lack." He tips an imaginary hat.
"And we are not /both/ fucking nuts," Lily adds in her precise manner. "I can tell a hawk from a handsaw." With that, she turns and begins walking along the former course she shared with Artus, fishing the lighter from her pocket again. Up, catch. Up, catch. Hand to hand, back and forth. Maybe she's teaching herself to juggle. "Coming, Karl?"
Well, the spirit of generosity is alive and well in Erin's Vale. This is good for those who live off the kindness of strangers. Someone call Blanche. Cash, convinced the moment of entrapment has faded, slides the wallet home into the back pocket of his greasy jeans. The denim scarecrow turns slightly to watch the woman juggle away. Perhaps being called 'nutz' by an untouchable is amusing, and surely it was meant almost as a compliment. One which fingers the odd couple out of a sea of hegemony.
And back to Artus as he's not completely out of view yet. Cash returns the nod. His smile says 'I see you, seeing me'. "La Chiam." A Jewish toast, the bottle is tipped in his direction. The encounter over, his shuffle restarts. Something new to ponder.
Artus reaches up to adjust the set of the shirt on his shoulders, then puts both hands in the pockets of his pants. He falls back into step with Lily, sweeping to one side of the disaffected vagrant... or Taoist master. It's all a matter of perspective. "Take care, sir," he calls over his shoulder. "It was a pleasure meeting you after all these years of searching." As he passes a trashcan, he throws something in, then continues on his way, seemingly in the highest of spirits.
-= Erin and Pike =-
Hip dance clubs and upper scale restaurants line the streets of New Town, everything from the newest teenage fad to old style swing dancing being seen easily on these streets. The young to middle aged crowd seems to frequent this area, a culturally diverse area with everything from the preppy high school jock to the pierced stoner hang out on the strip to find the new coolest spot to go on the weekends. The billboards seem to have taken notice of the party society in the area as well, various ads for entertainment places and items showing up more frequently than in other sections of the city.
To the side of the area a rather pleasant mini-park has formed, a statue of Zeus standing proud. At various times during the day and night, automated sprinklers go off to make sure that every plant receives the nourishment it requires for perfect blooming. Speckles of colors ranging from a deep violet to a cottony soft baby blue line the edge of the statue for a quaint place to stop and indeed, smell the flowers.
Contents:
Artus
Lily
Obvious exits:
The Pulse
Artus shrugs resignedly. "I try the occasional sketch in the privacy of my own home, but I typically become distracted by shadows cast by leaves, or water splashing over a stone, and lose my interest in the endeavour." He turns a corner onto Pike Street. "Creativity is my forte only so far as my appreciation of its rigors, products, methods." He smiles, perhaps a bit roguishly (though at what is slightly uncertain), and says, "Thank you, though."
Lily trails along at Artus' side, playing with a silver lighter. Up, catch. Up, catch. She'll drop it if she isn't careful, set her fool self afire. Her reply to the gentleman at her side is quiet, very quiet indeed, but the afternoon crowd is thin enough that perhaps it carries. "You are quite welcome. And I would be interested to see some of these sketches, if you keep them."
A rare clear afternoon breeds foot traffic through the downtown area, even on disastrous days such as this. Drawn to this area of commerce, out of hunger or fiduciary necessities, is a healthy smattering of homeless. Hoping to reap the rewards of a generous public on this fine day. The blue skies encourage the spirit of charity.
So it's easy to lose Cash here, easy to mistake him as another beggar. Or drunk. Well drunk he might be, but his wandering sneakers carry the hallmark of a traveling handyman rather than a sedentary bum. In his hand a half empty bottle, his march eastwards an absent shuffle. Moving away from the setting sun and headlong into darkness.
Perhaps by the very virtue of his aura of abandonment, the woebegone, tattered vagabond attracts the attention of Artus Cimber. "Perhaps I spoke in haste," he tells Lily, though exactly which conversational tidbit he's referring to is unclear. He stops suddenly, having just passed a public mailbox, and opens the drop slot as though to make certain his mail was properly deposited. Reaching in as though to dislodge a stubborn envelope, he passes a few idle remarks, then, satisfied at last, withdraws his hand. Keen observers would note he now holds something, when previously he carried nothing. Gently, he alters Lily's course so as to intercept the wandering man with the run-down shoes.
Lily envinces no surprise at her partner's behavior, receptive to the new course and instantly scanning the afternoon crowds for the likely reason. Up, catch. Up, catch. The silver lighter flashes one last time before she slips it into a pocket, clasping her hands behind her back in the timeless manner of the absent-minded academic sort. "It does not due to be too hasty, I suppose," she murmurs absently, still searching the sidewalk. Cash? Possibly. Her brows lift in mild curiosity as she wagers he's the reason. "One can do a good dead now and then, if one is careful not to boast. The gods hate overweening pride."
The soles, just as worn as the man who wears them. Chin slightly angled upwards, as to point his dull brown gaze towards the neon signs that are just starting to come alive in the time before dusk. A few small rivers of alcohol clinging to his chin, sending a hundred proof droplet towards the thirsty cement every ten steps. Cash. Absent and wandering. It's a wonder he didn't stumble directly into the fire hydrant he just passed. Or the waitress moving with intention towards her second shift. His fingers, a loose spider grasp upon the neck of his glass feeder. He says something about 'socks' and how they never come back in pairs. But who pays heed to the ramblings of street folk.
Artus manipulates the object in his hand with deft rapidity; the motion looks somewhat like a shuffling of cards. Finished in a trice, he keeps it hidden against the palm and underside of his arm. Having crossed the street, he regains the sidewalk and approaches Cash from behind on loud, obvious footsteps. He calls out in a voice obviously British: "Pardon me, my good man."
Lily rolls her eyes Heavenward, murmuring something in a foreign tongue and shaking her head in a long-suffering manner, but she follows Artus, several careful paces behind. Despite her initial response, there is something keenly wary about the way she approaches, ready for anything; her hands are no longer clasped behind her back, but held loosely at her sides. "He is harmless," she offers reassuringly to Cash. Her own accent is from a good bit East of the UK, calling to mind a Bela Lugosi impression. "Best merely to humor him."
Overhead, the sky starts to darken to amber as the sun begins its westward descent. Soon it will be full night.
Still locked in his internal debate on foot ware, Cash doesn't stop immediately. Instead, his pace slowly grinds to a halt as the realization sets in, he's being addressed. And not by his inner voice. He turns to peer over a shoulder, just above the upturned collar of his jacket. Normally, that'd be a nice ward against the harsh chill of this city. Today though, its function is purely aesthetic.
Eyes are suspicious and squint at the albino tracking him down. Cash's grip upon the bottle tightens. Protect the assets first. "Uhhh... hey… man." That's the best he can manage. Count Lily; he keeps in the corner of his watch, brushing aside some of his hair that obscures a blurry gaze. He focuses and defocuses, the way drunk men do.
Artus, to his enormous satisfaction, is not telepathic, nor is he an albino, and thus a point of possible contention is done away with before it even becomes an issue. His smile is mild and genuine, his face is expressive and seems to change often, as whim or weather dictate. "I'm frightfully sorry to disturb your meditation on this brisk afternoon, but certain circumstances compell me to intrude when otherwise I would simply acknowledge your presence with a nod and continue on my way in deference to your obvious high station among devotees of the Tao." He turns up his palm, displaying a brown leather wallet--hardly a thing to carry every adjunct required by a gentleman, but certainly sufficient for simple excusions given the efficiency of modern currencies. "To whit: you dropped this during your shuffling."
"Indeed, you did," Lily murmurs. Her expression is less open than that of her companion, but her lips curve in an implied smile, though it may be directed as much at Artus' back as at Cash. "Terribly clumsy of you, sir. You should be more careful. There are footpads about."
The random threads of fate that brought these three together carry with them a certain deliberate nature. A predestined set of laws that seem to hover above Cash, pressing and trumping the natural order of things. To those who can sense such aberrations, there is something not all together Kosher about this bum, despite the Star of David hanging upon his neck. A curse, a charm, a blessing from a one eyed Gypsy. Or a charge account the size of the eastern seaboard ran up upon Miss Cleo's line.
Chapped lips hesitate a response, and his brow rises in a Vulcan like fashion to regard the offering. "Wha'... I 'aven't carried a wallet for four years... man. Whaz' tha' catch." Cash leans back to drench his innards with a gulp of whiskey.
Artus considers the situation with nonchalance, as if never had it occurred to him there might be some difficulty. "To a true student of the Tao, a year is as a day." He puts on an expression as of one ransacking his memory banks for the necessary information. "I disctinctly recall saying nothing to the effect that it happened just now. And, as you will notice--" he says, flipping open the wallet "--there is no proof of ownership available to refute me, though I confess in my haste to return this property, it may have departed for parts unknown. Still, it would seem to be an aspect to the situation with little weight for consideration." He indicates the wallet. "Here is the wallet." He opens the billfold. "Here is the money contained in the wallet." He indicates the crowd of afternoon shoppers. "Here is the crowd, manifestly deigning no search for its missing property." He straightens. "Therefore, I now tender you the wallet and all its contents, free of charge, wholly and forever, in full and in total, with neither disclaimer, nor yet corollary expectation." He proffers the item in question to Cash.
"It also may be that the Tao has less to do with it than does Marx," Lily opines mildly. "Perhaps my friend merely wishes to reapportion the capital reasources currently within this wallet, so that it no longer lines the pockets of those content to profit from the exploitation of others but rather rewards Labor, isolated from the work of his hands and bleeding, ever bleeding, to oil the wheels of capitolist hegemony. Or," she adds, "Maybe he is a crazy person."
The barrage of words find their home in an accepting recipient. Cash takes them all, in full, and without protest. The wallet, however, is still viewed with suspicion. Words are free, even fancy ones. And as Artus and Lily assault him with the Queen's English, there is no lack of understanding. But the manner with which he is approached is suspect even in it's self. Never mind the wallet that's most likely filled with a deadly nerve agent. It seems obviously a ploy of some sort. But living out here, one gets used to three card Monty. Cash thinks himself smarter than the average shell game. So he takes it. Opens it. And inspects for Anthrax.
"Yer both like... fucking nutz… man." He comes to that conclusion in a roundabout way, without sugar coating. Still holding the magic bullet, Cash looks back up between the generous duo. Waiting for them to pull badges. Or to pull their faces off and reveal the alien circuitry beneath. And suddenly, he finds this situation funny, as his smirking lips betray.
Artus brightens. "Your imputations mock us, sir!" he says, laughing to show he comprehends the joke. He looks as though he might pat Cash on the shoulder, but restrains his boisterous demeanor... either by reason of decoum or the aforementioned infectious diseases. The contents of the wallet are very crisp and very green and boast very large numbers. "After four years of emptiness, it must be gratifying to once again hold the wallet which has so long served you." With a sigh of contentment, he steps back, mission accomplished and perfectly executed. "And please take no offense if you notice the contents to be organized in a fashion at odds with those in which you left them. So long away from its owner has made this wallet a little eccentric and I may have slipped in a reimbursement or two where I noticed a lack." He tips an imaginary hat.
"And we are not /both/ fucking nuts," Lily adds in her precise manner. "I can tell a hawk from a handsaw." With that, she turns and begins walking along the former course she shared with Artus, fishing the lighter from her pocket again. Up, catch. Up, catch. Hand to hand, back and forth. Maybe she's teaching herself to juggle. "Coming, Karl?"
Well, the spirit of generosity is alive and well in Erin's Vale. This is good for those who live off the kindness of strangers. Someone call Blanche. Cash, convinced the moment of entrapment has faded, slides the wallet home into the back pocket of his greasy jeans. The denim scarecrow turns slightly to watch the woman juggle away. Perhaps being called 'nutz' by an untouchable is amusing, and surely it was meant almost as a compliment. One which fingers the odd couple out of a sea of hegemony.
And back to Artus as he's not completely out of view yet. Cash returns the nod. His smile says 'I see you, seeing me'. "La Chiam." A Jewish toast, the bottle is tipped in his direction. The encounter over, his shuffle restarts. Something new to ponder.
Artus reaches up to adjust the set of the shirt on his shoulders, then puts both hands in the pockets of his pants. He falls back into step with Lily, sweeping to one side of the disaffected vagrant... or Taoist master. It's all a matter of perspective. "Take care, sir," he calls over his shoulder. "It was a pleasure meeting you after all these years of searching." As he passes a trashcan, he throws something in, then continues on his way, seemingly in the highest of spirits.
Monday, March 15, 2004
Chick'n & Biscuits
You pull open one of the glass doors and step inside Papa's Chicken Shack.
Slums - Papa's Chicken Shack(#1559RJs)
Papa's is a little different from most fast food joints as one can tell when they step through the doors. From it's employees dressed comfortably in jeans and tshirts, to the checkered plastic cloths that cover the tables in the dining area, it speaks of a family run business - the big guy in back even answers to 'Papa'. Above the counter with it's single register lies a menu board - if it can be fried, it's probably up there. Dine-in or carry-out, either way, the extra grease on the side is free!
Contents:
Rusty
Thomas
Obvious exits:
Out (O)
Rusty shakes his head slowly at Thomas, and starts talking quickly between bouts of animalistic mastication, "I sleep in the woods mostly. There was this other kid who slept in a garbage bin but that's stupid. People can find you." He has a good ten - okay now six piece of chicken in front of him. Thomas doesn't seem to be eating. He sucks his fingers clean of grease, though the layer of dirt and god knows what else remains. "Plus people are scared of me."
The old man shuffles in from the street, the early spring stink of the trash thawing out in the surrounding slum wafting in with him. Digging in to his coats pockets he prodcues a collection of crumpled singles and a handful of change, obviously from a productive afternoon, and dumps it out on the counter. Tonights dinner in the planning.
Thomas seems to ponders this. Garbage bin. "Rai.", he guesses. For some reason another name pops up too, but he knows for a fact that this kid is no longer sleeping there. "But yes, of course they are.", he says, once more smiling lightly at the kid sitting in front of him, trying to choke himself on chickens. And fries. And ketchup. And ....
Rusty dumps a mound of relish in his mouth and then follows with some chicken torn off from the drumstick. He mixes it around in his mouth. He turns his head to look to Compton for a moment, but in the grand scheme of things what does some care kid about some old guy. Except to comment that he smells better than the old guy. "Man, that guy smells worse than me." Unlikely. He looks to Thomas. "So.. are you a knight or something?"
Chik'n biscuits. Combo #3 appears after Compton counts out the dollars and cents and pockets his savings. The plastic tray and paper cup of Coke and his sorry carcass settle down in to a both by the front door and tucks in.
Thomas turns to look at the man Rusty seems to indicate, before he raises an eyebrow. "I think you are about equal.", he comments, sniffling slightly, before actually scoffing at the next question. "A knight? No, certainly not.", he states in his habitual quiet voice, shaking his head. "I am just myself.", he clarifies. As the older man settles, Thomas attention seems to settle as well, back completely on the kid sittion opposite of him.
Rusty goes through eight pieces of chicken at a frightening rate and he's talking quickly. "Okay. Where did you come from?" He pauses as he's talking and then chokes on something, it could be a lot of things, in his throat. He turns and heaves, his beady eyes bulging and watering and forming a red ring. You're pretty sure something comes up because suddenly his cheeks bulge and some liquid escapes his tightly pressed lips. He blinks and then gulps back hard. Then he chokes a bit more, coughing into the floor and slipping off his seat.
(OOC) Rusty says, "hehehe I hope nobody's having dinner right now"
(OOC) Thomas warns he has to retreat to bed soonish.
(OOC) Rusty says, "okie"
(OOC) Rusty says, "Compton's next right?"
(OOC) Compton is good.
(OOC) Thomas says, ".nods ;)"
WEATHER REPORT: The clouds overhead begin to lower, blanketing the land in fog.
Thomas seems to take a moment to consider the question, but instead is ultimately interupted as the poor kid almost barfs up all the food again. "Been eating too fast, have you?", he asks, quite simply, looking, watching the poor kid struggle with containing the contents of his stomach. Well, if he throws up, he throws up. If not, then not. "How long ago since you ate anything proper, hmm?", he wonders. No, it is not the food, nor an alien trying to break free of his chest. Calm down again.
Rusty sniffs and blinks some of the water from his eyes, seeming to have gotten ahold of himself. He gulps a couple times. Climbs back onto his chair. "I.." he reaches to take a gulp of rootbeer. "I just drank my own puke." He hehehs. Then he pales. "I don't feel so good. Can I get it to go?"
Thomas nods his head. "I am sure they will pack it for you, if you ask nicely.", he says, nodding in the direction of the counter. And should Rusty indeed go to let his food be packed up, Thomas would get up, cross the floor, 'loose' a five-dollar note near the table of the older man sitting there, before slipping out, leaving the kid to return to an empty table. He would know where to find him if he really wished to, now. No need to press the charitability too far, is there?
(OOC) Thomas thankies for the RP but I am nearing keyboard face.
(OOC) Rusty says, "hehe.. thanks. Later!"
Thomas goes home.
Thomas has left.
Compton peers at the fiver like a scorpion on the shitter. Looking around quickly for the sting, he extends a Birkenstocked foot and drags the moolah back and under his table. Careless people.
Rusty walks back to the table, pausing to let out a long belch. He furrows his brow when he sees the table's empty and gives a snort. He ambles over to Compton and kicks the back of the old guy's chair leg to get his attention. "Hey. You see where the guy I was talking to went?"
Compton puts a protective arm around his grub, and hunkers down, eyeing the street urchent warily. Over a gobfull of buscuit he manages, "Out tha door." he manages with a gravelly voice.
Rusty glowers at the door. "Oh." He squints his beady eyes at Compton and kicks his chair again. "Hey, what's your problem?"
"'m fuckin eatin." he barks, spittle and chunks of bread hit the table as if to make the point valid.
Compton did seem to be enjoying it too, taking his time. Not like some starving people... "Wot's yers?"
Rusty furrows his brow, a little taken aback. "-You- looking at me like that. Fuck. I jus' asked a fucking question.." He pauses in his muttering and glances quickly at the unhappy kitchen staff. "Quiet down, dummy."
"Settle down son." he says in a tired way, plucking another tuft of buscuit from the basket. "Yer friend dropped this.." and the $5 is dragged back out from under the table for you to see.
-------------------------[ Info Report for Rusty ]--------------------------
GENERAL INFO:
That ratty kid you see wandering the park every now and again that probably has no home. What do you know about him? Well, mostly, that he smells bad and likes to growl at inanimate objects.
-----------------------------------[ - ]------------------------------------
Overhead, the sky starts to darken to amber as the sun begins its westward descent. Soon it will be full night.
Rusty stoops and grabs the bill. He stuffs it in his pocket, grinning, "Thanks." He sucks on his rootbeer till it makes a gurgling sound and then discards the empty cup on the table in front of Compton. "Who're you?"
Compton chews and chews, watching you thoughtfully. Weighing the options here. Give up a name, his name... "Cash" he says eventually, offering up a calloused bony hand.
Rusty furrows his brow. "Your name's Cash? Like Jonny Cash?"
"Yeah. Like Jonny Cash. Parents were fans." his tone getting a slight edge to it, like he's used to having this coversation over and over again.
"You gotta name?" COmpton asks.
Short, about 4 and a half feet tall, stocky. He has straight black hair that falls lightly over his forehead, grown over at his ears and the back of his head. His eyes are nearly all black, beady and round, the quiet sunken eyes of some carrion bird. His nose is short and pressed up on his face, and below are a pair of thin lips that pull a length across his baby-fat rounded jaws. He has a pastey complexion, as though he hasn't seen the sun. Across the left side of his forehead and disappearing into his hairline is some mottled white scar tissue.
The crumpled and sweat-yellowed collar of an oxford shirt peeks out from under a wool v-neck sweater, sleeves rolled up to accommodate his short arms. His tummy bulges over the waistline of gray slacks that have been ripped at the cuffs and knees. His hands are short and stubby with black dirt pushed up underneath every fingernail. Peeking out from underneath ragged pant cuffs are leather shoes, muddy and scuffed to all hell.
Rusty nods slowly and then suddenly realizes something. He reaches to shake your hand. The half of his thumbnail is missing and seems to be leaking some yellow liquid. "Rusty." His grin is strange, a little too big. He's smelly and dirty but there's something extra about him that makes him a little extra unpleasant to be around.
Birds of a feather. Compton is spooky too. Not scary-spooky, but weird spooky. Like he's seen it all, and stands outside of the normal way of things.
He gives your hand a breif single shake and lets go. "Ya from 'round here kid?" he asks.
WEATHER REPORT: The fog lifts slowly revealing an overcast sky.
Rusty shrugs. "I'm not from anywhere particular. I mean, yeah I live around here..." He crawls up onto a chair across from you. "How about you?" He wipes the back of his hand across his nose, streaking a snail's trail across a cheek. It gathers above a similar streak that's crusted over. Disturbed the crust flakes and snows onto the front of his shirt.
"You, ah got some..." Compton starts, pointing to his cheek, "Something right here."
"Yeah, few blocks east of here by the old GE Plant." *munch**munch* "How old are ya kid?"
Rusty turns his head to the side and starts scratching at his cheek. The light snowfall becomes a storm. He furrows his eyebrows at the old guy's question. "I dunno.. I'm pretty old. How old are you? 100?"
The sun dips below the horizon in the west and the Waxing Crescent moon rises behind the clouds with the ending of the day.
Compton snorts, going for a drink of the Coke, "Not quite. So, who was yer friend? A rich mark?"
Rusty furrows his brow at Compton. "Uh yeah. Something like that, I guess." He stares down at the table and then crosses his arms tightly in front of him. His stomach makes unhappy noises and he turns his head, going pale. "You live by the GE plant? I heard it was haunted. And has monsters."
Compton perks up a bit at this, "Really? Monsters? Sez who?" This seems to amuse him some.
Rusty shrugs at Compton's interest. "Sez everybody. Like, I dunno what they look like or nothing. Just monsters. And it's haunted.. Like and the monsters know everything you're doing and where you are and they're all hairy an shit like little uh waddya call it... gremlins."
"Ya wanna see for yourself?" Compton asks, barely containing a laugh, stuffing his hole with a wing instead.
Rusty snorts at Compton's dare. "I'm not afraid of monsters. I chase away monsters alla the time." He pauses and then opens his mouth to let out a loud sickly belch except for the smell he seems to be doing better after that.
"Oh yeah?" and a chunk of breast follows the wing, "What kind? Succubi? Dybuuks?"
Compton... says.
Rusty narrows his beady eyes. "Yeah.. and.. and giant spiders."
Slums - Papa's Chicken Shack(#1559RJs)
Papa's is a little different from most fast food joints as one can tell when they step through the doors. From it's employees dressed comfortably in jeans and tshirts, to the checkered plastic cloths that cover the tables in the dining area, it speaks of a family run business - the big guy in back even answers to 'Papa'. Above the counter with it's single register lies a menu board - if it can be fried, it's probably up there. Dine-in or carry-out, either way, the extra grease on the side is free!
Contents:
Rusty
Thomas
Obvious exits:
Out (O)
Rusty shakes his head slowly at Thomas, and starts talking quickly between bouts of animalistic mastication, "I sleep in the woods mostly. There was this other kid who slept in a garbage bin but that's stupid. People can find you." He has a good ten - okay now six piece of chicken in front of him. Thomas doesn't seem to be eating. He sucks his fingers clean of grease, though the layer of dirt and god knows what else remains. "Plus people are scared of me."
The old man shuffles in from the street, the early spring stink of the trash thawing out in the surrounding slum wafting in with him. Digging in to his coats pockets he prodcues a collection of crumpled singles and a handful of change, obviously from a productive afternoon, and dumps it out on the counter. Tonights dinner in the planning.
Thomas seems to ponders this. Garbage bin. "Rai.", he guesses. For some reason another name pops up too, but he knows for a fact that this kid is no longer sleeping there. "But yes, of course they are.", he says, once more smiling lightly at the kid sitting in front of him, trying to choke himself on chickens. And fries. And ketchup. And ....
Rusty dumps a mound of relish in his mouth and then follows with some chicken torn off from the drumstick. He mixes it around in his mouth. He turns his head to look to Compton for a moment, but in the grand scheme of things what does some care kid about some old guy. Except to comment that he smells better than the old guy. "Man, that guy smells worse than me." Unlikely. He looks to Thomas. "So.. are you a knight or something?"
Chik'n biscuits. Combo #3 appears after Compton counts out the dollars and cents and pockets his savings. The plastic tray and paper cup of Coke and his sorry carcass settle down in to a both by the front door and tucks in.
Thomas turns to look at the man Rusty seems to indicate, before he raises an eyebrow. "I think you are about equal.", he comments, sniffling slightly, before actually scoffing at the next question. "A knight? No, certainly not.", he states in his habitual quiet voice, shaking his head. "I am just myself.", he clarifies. As the older man settles, Thomas attention seems to settle as well, back completely on the kid sittion opposite of him.
Rusty goes through eight pieces of chicken at a frightening rate and he's talking quickly. "Okay. Where did you come from?" He pauses as he's talking and then chokes on something, it could be a lot of things, in his throat. He turns and heaves, his beady eyes bulging and watering and forming a red ring. You're pretty sure something comes up because suddenly his cheeks bulge and some liquid escapes his tightly pressed lips. He blinks and then gulps back hard. Then he chokes a bit more, coughing into the floor and slipping off his seat.
(OOC) Rusty says, "hehehe I hope nobody's having dinner right now"
(OOC) Thomas warns he has to retreat to bed soonish.
(OOC) Rusty says, "okie"
(OOC) Rusty says, "Compton's next right?"
(OOC) Compton is good.
(OOC) Thomas says, ".nods ;)"
WEATHER REPORT: The clouds overhead begin to lower, blanketing the land in fog.
Thomas seems to take a moment to consider the question, but instead is ultimately interupted as the poor kid almost barfs up all the food again. "Been eating too fast, have you?", he asks, quite simply, looking, watching the poor kid struggle with containing the contents of his stomach. Well, if he throws up, he throws up. If not, then not. "How long ago since you ate anything proper, hmm?", he wonders. No, it is not the food, nor an alien trying to break free of his chest. Calm down again.
Rusty sniffs and blinks some of the water from his eyes, seeming to have gotten ahold of himself. He gulps a couple times. Climbs back onto his chair. "I.." he reaches to take a gulp of rootbeer. "I just drank my own puke." He hehehs. Then he pales. "I don't feel so good. Can I get it to go?"
Thomas nods his head. "I am sure they will pack it for you, if you ask nicely.", he says, nodding in the direction of the counter. And should Rusty indeed go to let his food be packed up, Thomas would get up, cross the floor, 'loose' a five-dollar note near the table of the older man sitting there, before slipping out, leaving the kid to return to an empty table. He would know where to find him if he really wished to, now. No need to press the charitability too far, is there?
(OOC) Thomas thankies for the RP but I am nearing keyboard face.
(OOC) Rusty says, "hehe.. thanks. Later!"
Thomas goes home.
Thomas has left.
Compton peers at the fiver like a scorpion on the shitter. Looking around quickly for the sting, he extends a Birkenstocked foot and drags the moolah back and under his table. Careless people.
Rusty walks back to the table, pausing to let out a long belch. He furrows his brow when he sees the table's empty and gives a snort. He ambles over to Compton and kicks the back of the old guy's chair leg to get his attention. "Hey. You see where the guy I was talking to went?"
Compton puts a protective arm around his grub, and hunkers down, eyeing the street urchent warily. Over a gobfull of buscuit he manages, "Out tha door." he manages with a gravelly voice.
Rusty glowers at the door. "Oh." He squints his beady eyes at Compton and kicks his chair again. "Hey, what's your problem?"
"'m fuckin eatin." he barks, spittle and chunks of bread hit the table as if to make the point valid.
Compton did seem to be enjoying it too, taking his time. Not like some starving people... "Wot's yers?"
Rusty furrows his brow, a little taken aback. "-You- looking at me like that. Fuck. I jus' asked a fucking question.." He pauses in his muttering and glances quickly at the unhappy kitchen staff. "Quiet down, dummy."
"Settle down son." he says in a tired way, plucking another tuft of buscuit from the basket. "Yer friend dropped this.." and the $5 is dragged back out from under the table for you to see.
-------------------------[ Info Report for Rusty ]--------------------------
GENERAL INFO:
That ratty kid you see wandering the park every now and again that probably has no home. What do you know about him? Well, mostly, that he smells bad and likes to growl at inanimate objects.
-----------------------------------[ - ]------------------------------------
Overhead, the sky starts to darken to amber as the sun begins its westward descent. Soon it will be full night.
Rusty stoops and grabs the bill. He stuffs it in his pocket, grinning, "Thanks." He sucks on his rootbeer till it makes a gurgling sound and then discards the empty cup on the table in front of Compton. "Who're you?"
Compton chews and chews, watching you thoughtfully. Weighing the options here. Give up a name, his name... "Cash" he says eventually, offering up a calloused bony hand.
Rusty furrows his brow. "Your name's Cash? Like Jonny Cash?"
"Yeah. Like Jonny Cash. Parents were fans." his tone getting a slight edge to it, like he's used to having this coversation over and over again.
"You gotta name?" COmpton asks.
Short, about 4 and a half feet tall, stocky. He has straight black hair that falls lightly over his forehead, grown over at his ears and the back of his head. His eyes are nearly all black, beady and round, the quiet sunken eyes of some carrion bird. His nose is short and pressed up on his face, and below are a pair of thin lips that pull a length across his baby-fat rounded jaws. He has a pastey complexion, as though he hasn't seen the sun. Across the left side of his forehead and disappearing into his hairline is some mottled white scar tissue.
The crumpled and sweat-yellowed collar of an oxford shirt peeks out from under a wool v-neck sweater, sleeves rolled up to accommodate his short arms. His tummy bulges over the waistline of gray slacks that have been ripped at the cuffs and knees. His hands are short and stubby with black dirt pushed up underneath every fingernail. Peeking out from underneath ragged pant cuffs are leather shoes, muddy and scuffed to all hell.
Rusty nods slowly and then suddenly realizes something. He reaches to shake your hand. The half of his thumbnail is missing and seems to be leaking some yellow liquid. "Rusty." His grin is strange, a little too big. He's smelly and dirty but there's something extra about him that makes him a little extra unpleasant to be around.
Birds of a feather. Compton is spooky too. Not scary-spooky, but weird spooky. Like he's seen it all, and stands outside of the normal way of things.
He gives your hand a breif single shake and lets go. "Ya from 'round here kid?" he asks.
WEATHER REPORT: The fog lifts slowly revealing an overcast sky.
Rusty shrugs. "I'm not from anywhere particular. I mean, yeah I live around here..." He crawls up onto a chair across from you. "How about you?" He wipes the back of his hand across his nose, streaking a snail's trail across a cheek. It gathers above a similar streak that's crusted over. Disturbed the crust flakes and snows onto the front of his shirt.
"You, ah got some..." Compton starts, pointing to his cheek, "Something right here."
"Yeah, few blocks east of here by the old GE Plant." *munch**munch* "How old are ya kid?"
Rusty turns his head to the side and starts scratching at his cheek. The light snowfall becomes a storm. He furrows his eyebrows at the old guy's question. "I dunno.. I'm pretty old. How old are you? 100?"
The sun dips below the horizon in the west and the Waxing Crescent moon rises behind the clouds with the ending of the day.
Compton snorts, going for a drink of the Coke, "Not quite. So, who was yer friend? A rich mark?"
Rusty furrows his brow at Compton. "Uh yeah. Something like that, I guess." He stares down at the table and then crosses his arms tightly in front of him. His stomach makes unhappy noises and he turns his head, going pale. "You live by the GE plant? I heard it was haunted. And has monsters."
Compton perks up a bit at this, "Really? Monsters? Sez who?" This seems to amuse him some.
Rusty shrugs at Compton's interest. "Sez everybody. Like, I dunno what they look like or nothing. Just monsters. And it's haunted.. Like and the monsters know everything you're doing and where you are and they're all hairy an shit like little uh waddya call it... gremlins."
"Ya wanna see for yourself?" Compton asks, barely containing a laugh, stuffing his hole with a wing instead.
Rusty snorts at Compton's dare. "I'm not afraid of monsters. I chase away monsters alla the time." He pauses and then opens his mouth to let out a loud sickly belch except for the smell he seems to be doing better after that.
"Oh yeah?" and a chunk of breast follows the wing, "What kind? Succubi? Dybuuks?"
Compton... says.
Rusty narrows his beady eyes. "Yeah.. and.. and giant spiders."
Wednesday, March 10, 2004
Dumb Groo Scene
You enter the waxworks. The large double doors swing open for you.
Dark Horizons Waxworks - Main Room(#1957RJ)
This room is not particularly large. Just an entrance room, really. Heavy black curtains hang over the windows in front, shutting out almost all of the ambient light from the world beyond. The room is lit only by real candles and gas lamps. The air carries an old, almost must scent to it, giving you the sense of walking in to a building centuries old, even though it is a relatively new rennovation.
The walls are mostly wood panelled but not in any particular order. Chaos seems to be theme of the decor. The ceilings are high. Ridiculously high seeming, as if they extended far beyond human vision, in to the pitch depths up above. Something may be lurking up there, even now. In several spots there shelves are set in to the wall. Each shelf is empty. The books themselves appear to be sunken in to the walls, giving the room an even odder feel. The floors are completely bare of any sort of coverings. Just finely polished stone. In the center of the main room is a series of ten chairs. The really nice kind, with deep seats and thick velvet cushions. There is a circular table in the middle of them with two books displayed.
Off to the left side is a smallish office. In the back center of the room, you can see a pair of doors, oaken. One door has the face of a smiling demon, a brightly polished brass nameplate under it says Fiction. One door has the face of an angry, almost leering demon, another brightly polished brass nameplate under this one says Fact. There are no visible handles, just a hole in each open mouth with tongues sticking out.
+views available
Contents:
Polar-bear
William
Matt
Petra
Zoe
Suliman
Cornelius
Read Me
Obvious exits:
Fiction (FI) Fact (F) Out (O)
(OOC) Zoe would think not, no.
(OOC) William says, "It's a horse."
(OOC) William says, "Never seen an albino before?"
(OOC) Petra says, "A horse is a horse."
(OOC) Cornelius says, "It is not a horse. :P"
(OOC) Polar-bear says, "Of course, of course."
(OOC) Polar-bear says, "But no, wouldn't walk through the street like this."
(OOC) Cornelius says, "Just checking."
(OOC) William says, "Man. Nobody saw Mulan."
Compton slinks in. The collar of his old army coat turned up against the shitty 'Vale weather. In his hand is one of those new fangled super-tiny cam-corders. Pretty high tech swag for an old bastard. He glances around at the exhibits with bloodshot eyes before going straight in to recording.
Polar-bear's form blurs and a new shape steps forward.
(OOC) Cornelius says, "We're not posing just yet Compton... waiting for the final consensus that we're ready."
(OOC) Zoe hmms, "Cornelius - taking place before it opens? Right?"
(OOC) Cornelius says, "I understand that to be the case, ja."
Cornelius pages: How did you come to be here today? :)
You paged Cornelius with 'By foot. SNiffing around based on Penny's and Pobbles reports to the College.'.
Cornelius pages: Mm. Right now we're about to have a blow up party.
(OOC) Cornelius says, "Well, begin posing kids. Compton just walked in."
(OOC) Petra says, "Um..."
(OOC) Matt says, "Well appearently Compton's being allowed to horn in on our scene. So let's go."
Matt hands out the contents of the backpacks, giving Petra and Suli the extra radio detenators. "Get them on the villans first, we blow those, then deal with the others.
Jacob arrives with Zoe. The big guy tries to look small an inconspicuous, or as close as he can manage.
The museum is quiet. In the center of the main room is a massive display set up that is covered by a large white tarp.
Petra nods, taking it with one hand, shotgun held in another. She whirls at the sound of motion and levels the shotgun at the sounds. She is, of course, wearing a mask. She simply nods, then, and keeps moving. "Let's do this."
as soon as they're inside, Matt decides that another form might be better for this and shifts to crinos.
Matt's form blurs and a new shape steps forward.
With Jacob, Zoe moves quietly, a rifle in hand, and follows behind the others. Keeping an eye on things as Matt hands out the charges, she glances to the tall guy who came in with her, a slight nod given to him before she moves once more.
Suliman accepts his set of detonators and then moves out behind Petra. Nothing more to see here, despite the utterly blank expression on his face.
Jacob watches Matt. Hmmm. Good idea. He takes the hint.
Jacob's form blurs and a new shape steps forward.
Matt stalks to the new display and rips the cover off of the thing; "I think I know, but let's bee sure."
"Well, why not," says the guy who was even taller than Jacob, at some point. And he too changes.
In the middle of the room is a scene of Central Park near the fountain. It is nearly a perfect replica of it, down to the little blades of grass. Even the tree seems real. But that's not the horrific part. The awful part is that there are several hundred bodies all piled about in the middle of the park. Each of them appear to have suffered a different fate. Disemboweling. Burning. Dismemberment. Crucifixion. Bludgeoning. Animal attack. Each one is a master craft of work, with the horror of the demise painted in to the face of each one shown here. There is not one peaceful soul. For anyone who troubles to count, there are six hundred sixty five dead here.
Some of these faces resemble pictures taken of those who have died over the past few weeks. In the center of it all is a rabbi standing before an altar. There is a pillow on the altar with two gold rings.
It's not that he disappears exactly. He's there, sorta. Just on the edge of your periphery vision the old bum hovers. You may see him, but quickly your vision is distracted to something else and when you look again, he's somewhere else. Slippery, elusive, Compton.
Matt frowns; "Thought I saw someone. Be careful." He looks at the sculpture, and takes out four charges, calmly slapping them on the thing. "I have a present for asshole. These are coded to a seperate code. Suli. Jacob, Petra - take fact. The rest of you with me in fiction.
Petra nods. "On it." She looks around once, taking the right flank as they approach the doors to Fact. A faint shudder runs through her.
Suliman nods. "We're on it." He takes up a flanking position on Petra easily within arm's reach, but behind her.
Vanguard-Walker looks around and sniffs the air. He nods and shuffles along with Petra.
Petra levels the shotgun at the door and murmurs, "One of you open it and step back. This may get hot."
---------------------------------[ Glance ]---------------------------------
Compton.............Dirty old man.
Height: 1.8m Weight: 67 kg. Age: 69 App: 2 Cha: 1
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Vanguard-Walker.....Tall, burly and blond.
Height: Way Weight: I shud Age: App: -3 Cha: 3
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Jumpstart...........11' werewolf
Height: Big Weight: A lot Age: App: 2 Cha: 3
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
StormcrowSTandsAloneTall, muscular and black haired, generally dressed in jeans and a t-shirt
Height: 6' 0 Weight: 210 Age: 28 App: -2 Cha: 3
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Petra...............Black-haired, bespectacled geekgrrl.
Height: 5'6" Weight: 150 Age: 24 App: 2 Cha: 2
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Zoe.................Average body, brown hair, topaz eyes, tanned skin.. tomboy-ish
Height: 5'5" Weight: 125lbs Age: 18 App: 2 Cha: 2
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Suliman.............Tall, thin Arabic man with dark hair and eyes.%r
Height: 6'2" Weight: 190 Age: App: 3 Cha: 3
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Cornelius...........
Height: 5'3" Weight: 120 Age: App: 2 Cha: 2
-----------------------------------[ - ]------------------------------------
Jumpstart lumbers along after the tall black-furred thingy.
Zoe nods to Matt, her gaze upon the display, turning away when she finds the one of her grandmother. Rifle in hand, she moves to follow after Matt down Fiction hall, lips holding a faint frown.
(OOC) Cornelius says, "If you guys are going to split up, gimmie a sec."
Suliman eyes the door, then looks at Vanguard and motions to him. "Take the door if you would please? I think the bite of the door mechanism might be more firm today than the last foray.
StormcrowSTandsAlone hands Petra a long length of the detcord. "Use this to cut a door if you need to.
Quiet will be joining you in three seconds.
Quiet has arrived.
Quiet enters the oaken wooden door marked Fact.
Quiet has left.
(OOC) Cornelius says, "Quiet will be in Fact. I will take the group to Fiction."
(OOC) StormcrowSTandsAlone nods. "Okay - both groups have the detcord, good for cutting new doors. :)
Vanguard-Walker blinks. Bite? Last foray? Seems he didn't get all the details. OH well. He stretches out his arm to push open the door.
(OOC) Cornelius says, "Just as a notice, any action you are doing that you want me to adjudicate, let me know via page after you pose it. Sometimes I realize it, sometimes I don't."
Well, without toggling the handle, Vanguard-Walker finds that the door ignores his push. Gotta stick your hand in the demon's mouth, chappie.
StormcrowSTandsAlone nods. "Alright let's do this.
StormcrowSTandsAlone enters the oaken wooden door marked Fiction.
StormcrowSTandsAlone has left.
Vanguard-Walker says, "How 'bout we just knock it in?"
Suliman sighs, grimaces and steps up to the door, sticks his hand into the demons mouth.
StormcrowSTandsAlone exits from the room markd Fiction.
StormcrowSTandsAlone has arrived.
(OOC) Cornelius says, "Which door boss, Fact or Fiction?"
(OOC) Cornelius says, "To Suli."
(OOC) Suliman says, "Fact."
Cornelius rolls 4 (4 dice) at a difficulty of 6:
(10) 3 (10) 4
Achieving 2 successes, resulting in a moderate success.
Jumpstart slips between Stormcrow and Zoe, grunting in an 'excuse me, oh excuse me' fashion. Gamely, bravely, foolishly, he does that hand-shoving thing to open the door. Demon's tongue, yadda yadda.
Cornelius rolls 4 (4 dice) at a difficulty of 6:
(8) 3 -1- (8)
Achieving 1 successes, resulting in a marginal success.
Suliman rolls 4 (4 dice) at a difficulty of 8:
2 7 (10) -1-
Achieving 0 successes, resulting in a failure
Cornelius rolls 4 (4 dice) at a difficulty of 6:
5 2 2 2
Achieving 0 successes, resulting in a failure
The demon's mouth closes on Suli's hand and he growls, roars and drops the detonators to grab the closing jaw and hold it up. "Help!" he hisses.
Jumpstart rolls 5 (5 dice) at a difficulty of 8:
6 (10) 5 3 2
Achieving 1 successes, resulting in a marginal success.
Vanguard-Walker jumps forward to grab the demon jaw, top and bottom, in an effort to pry them open.
(OOC) Jumpstart says, "...and there was an earthquake when he landed."
(OOC) StormcrowSTandsAlone says, "Heh."
Zoe hears the hiss, her head turning to look back at the others to see what's happening before turning back to warn Jumpstart, eyes widening. Hands tighten around the rifle, her gaze cautiously glancing around.
StormcrowSTandsAlone rolls strength (7 dice) at a difficulty of 6:
(8) (10) (7) (6) 5 4 2
Achieving 4 successes, resulting in an exceptional success!
CLANK. Jumpstart's big, /very/ big -- but fast enough. No snappyhand for him. ((NEENER, FUCKER!))
Jumpy's door, however, remains closed.
StormcrowSTandsAlone growls and moves to help Suli. He manages to pry the damn thing open, and as he does Suili's hand comes free and the door clicks open.
((Give me two people on this one.)) He moves to the other door, and sticks his own hand in to open it as soon as Jumpstart and someone else are in position.
(OOC) StormcrowSTandsAlone says, "that was me. sorry."
Suliman snarls a bit in saying, "Thanks." He stoops to retrieve his explosives and growls, "Let's go." He then shoves open the door.
Jumpstart spits on the door, and then his massive paws lock upon the demon jaw, even though he shakes his head. ((I /could/ attempt a little magic... Maybe the Gauntlet's too tough, though.))
(OOC) StormcrowSTandsAlone says, "Guys? There's some confusion. Vanguard was on the door, but I didnt' see it. what're you doing, V-W?"
Vanguard-Walker jumps forward to grab the demon jaw, top and bottom, in an effort to pry them open.
Petra keeps the shotgun leveled, eyes narrowed, anger in her gaze.
(OOC) Vanguard-Walker says, "You made the roll, it's good. Let's not backtrack."
(OOC) StormcrowStandsAlone says, "I didn't make a roll yet - that was to free Suliman's hand, not the other door. :)"
Clipped Ear enters from the street.
Clipped Ear has arrived.
(OOC) Clipped Ear is going to roll for stealth. "What would be a good difficulty? :)
(OOC) Vanguard-Walker says, "I Was with Suliman wasn't I? Me & Petra?"
(OOC) StormcrowStandsAlone says, "were're in the main room stil"
(OOC) Cornelius says, "No one has left the room yet."
(OOC) Cornelius says, "Suli's door is open. The other is not. WHo is going to open the other door? Just indicate it to me."
(OOC) StormcrowStandsAlone says, "I am."
(OOC) StormcrowStandsAlone says, "That's what I was trying to convey, sorry."
(OOC) Clipped Ear says, "Would diff 4 or 5 be alright with everyone? Considering how small and unnoticible I am?"
(OOC) Cornelius says, "5 is fine."
(OOC) Cornelius says, "Jump & Storm, give me a Str roll. Diff 6."
StormcrowStandsAlone rolls strength (7 dice) at a difficulty of 6:
(8) -1- -1- 4 (10) 2 (10)
Achieving 1 successes, resulting in a marginal success.
Jumpstart rolls 9 (9 dice) at a difficulty of 6:
4 (9) 5 (7) 2 3 (7) 4 2
Achieving 3 successes, resulting in a complete success.
Clipped Ear rolls Dex+stealth+4 (11 dice) at a difficulty of 5:
2 2 (5) (7) (9) 4 (6) (6) 3 (10) 4
Achieving 6 successes, resulting in an unbelievable success!
Cornelius rolls 2 (2 dice) at a difficulty of 6:
(7) 4
Achieving 1 successes, resulting in a marginal success.
Cornelius rolls 2 (2 dice) at a difficulty of 6:
(10) 3
Achieving 1 successes, resulting in a marginal success.
There are loud thumps as Storms and Jump bash against the door. It cracks a bit in the middle but it manages to hold against the force of their blows. The leering demon face seems to mock them.
The bum stands against the wall, over by the door, slouching in a patently James Dean kinda way... if James Dean looked like Jack Palance with a mullet. Arcane energies drift and weave their way around him, making him hard to spot by anyone actually looking for him, never mind those engaged in para-military activities. The cam-corder in his hand, silently recording in to a next-generation flash-ROM.
StormcrowStandsAlone rolls perception+alertness (5 dice) at a difficulty of 8:
3 3 7 -1- 5
Achieving -1 successes, resulting in a botch!
Petra rolls Perception+alertness (5 dice) at a difficulty of 8:
(10) 3 (8) (10) (8)
Achieving 4 successes, resulting in an exceptional success!
Jumpstart rolls 3 (3 dice) at a difficulty of 5:
-1- 3 2
Achieving -1 successes, resulting in a botch!
(OOC) Clipped Ear says, "Is that to notice Compton?"
(OOC) Clipped Ear says, "And if someone could page me the scene, I'd appreciate it. :)"
(OOC) Zoe shall page.
Quiet pages: What is your Willpower? Your sheet doesn't have it.
Clipped Ear pages: Arcane, right? Whats the diff to spot you. I've been sent in to recon so I'm looking around.
p quiet = 6
You paged Quiet with '6'.
You paged Clipped Ear with 'Arcane 5. Standard diff +5'.
Clipped Ear pages: Whats would say would be the standard diff in this situation?
You paged Clipped Ear with '4+5=9'.
(OOC) StormcrowStandsAlone says, "Right. screw this."
-----------------------[ Wiznote: #5 on Clipped Ear ]-----------------------
Rat Stats
Strength -1 (1), Dexterity +2 (5), Stamina +2 (5), Perception +3 (6), Stealth +2 (6). This form also has the ability to do bite damage.
Set by Banality on Wed Feb 04 02:25:58 2004
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Jumpstart leans into the door still more, staring at the demon face, as though he wills it to give way. Which, of course, doesn't work. Hell, he even leans so much that his own feet slip out from under him, and he skids down to one knee. ((Oofda.))
Clipped Ear rolls Perception+alertness+3 (8 dice) at a difficulty of 9:
6 8 2 7 4 4 3 (9)
Achieving 1 successes, resulting in a marginal success.
Petra rolls Perception+empathy (7 dice) at a difficulty of 6:
2 3 (8) -1- (9) (9) (6)
Achieving 3 successes, resulting in a complete success.
StormcrowStandsAlone takes out some of the detcord he's carrying and calmly frames the door, attaching a detenator. (( Get back.))
Quiet pages: You get a very clear, very compelling command in your mind to drop the camera and leave the museum at once.
Zoe watches, then as Storm starts to set the detcord, she begins to move back even before he says anything.
Petra steps back when commanded, silent. Focused. Stone-faced. She's not saying anything, just holding that shotgun.
Suliman steps out of the way himself. Now at last he decides to change, slipping into a form similar to the others.
StormcrowStandsAlone says, "((Change in plans. When I blow this. Everyone do this gallery first. Haul /ass/ - I want charges on every one of the villans as quickly as possible."
Suliman's form blurs and a new shape steps forward.
Of course, growling is not American English, nor the Queen's. But Jumpstart sure understands, too. He more or less shields the women, although they can still shoot around him and stuff. Yeah, stuff.
Unseen, a little rat slips into the building, squeezing under the door perhaps. He sticks to the shadows, scurrying around as he takes in whats going on, his alert little eyes dancing over the room and its occupents. When he sees the.. werewolves? He freezes in place. When Suliman goes wolfish as well, he just stares. Jesus.
You paged Quiet with 'How did Petra detect me? (Arcane 5)'.
(OOC) Khinjaar Arramil says, "Wolfish?!"
(OOC) Clipped Ear says, "Well.. you said similar. :p"
(OOC) Zoe giggles.. try kitty, Clipped.
(OOC) Clipped Ear says, "Oh. Boy!"
That little rodent stare gets even wider as he notices that is indeed not a wolf.. but a cat. He doesn't stick around for much longer, running back the way he came and slipping out under the door.
OOC) Clipped Ear heads out. "Everyone okay with that?"
OOC) Zoe laughs and nods.
OOC) StormcrowStandsAlone says, "sure."
OOC) Petra nodnods.
Zoe rolls alertness+perception (5 dice) at a difficulty of 8:
3 9 2 3 7
Achieving 1 successes, resulting in a marginal success.
Clipped Ear leaves the waxworks.
Clipped Ear has left.
Quiet pages: With a ridiculous roll against a very high difficulty.
You paged Quiet with 'Fine.'.
Quiet pages: It's the way the dice crumble. I'm sorry.
There is a sound of an explosion as the door goes when the charge explodes. Splinters fly everywhere. That which remains of the door is on fire but it is easily passable now.
Zoe grabs a few charges, and then readies herself to help once the door is blown to run inside and set them before getting out as quickly as possible as Storm says.
Compton packs up and leaves as quietly as he came. Popping the data-chip in to his pocket and strangley leaving the camera on a ledge as he leaves.
Petra pages: He did not follow the command.
You paged Quiet with 'No worries.'.
You paged (Quiet, Petra) with 'You get a very clear, very compelling command in your mind to drop the camera and leave the museum at once." Camera left, and Compton gone.'.
To (Compton, Quiet), Petra pages: Whatever. Be a twink.
You paged (Quiet, Petra) with 'Nice. Have it your way. Isn't like the scene is worth anything. Sorry Quiet.'.
Dark Horizons Waxworks - Main Room(#1957RJ)
This room is not particularly large. Just an entrance room, really. Heavy black curtains hang over the windows in front, shutting out almost all of the ambient light from the world beyond. The room is lit only by real candles and gas lamps. The air carries an old, almost must scent to it, giving you the sense of walking in to a building centuries old, even though it is a relatively new rennovation.
The walls are mostly wood panelled but not in any particular order. Chaos seems to be theme of the decor. The ceilings are high. Ridiculously high seeming, as if they extended far beyond human vision, in to the pitch depths up above. Something may be lurking up there, even now. In several spots there shelves are set in to the wall. Each shelf is empty. The books themselves appear to be sunken in to the walls, giving the room an even odder feel. The floors are completely bare of any sort of coverings. Just finely polished stone. In the center of the main room is a series of ten chairs. The really nice kind, with deep seats and thick velvet cushions. There is a circular table in the middle of them with two books displayed.
Off to the left side is a smallish office. In the back center of the room, you can see a pair of doors, oaken. One door has the face of a smiling demon, a brightly polished brass nameplate under it says Fiction. One door has the face of an angry, almost leering demon, another brightly polished brass nameplate under this one says Fact. There are no visible handles, just a hole in each open mouth with tongues sticking out.
+views available
Contents:
Polar-bear
William
Matt
Petra
Zoe
Suliman
Cornelius
Read Me
Obvious exits:
Fiction (FI) Fact (F) Out (O)
(OOC) Zoe would think not, no.
(OOC) William says, "It's a horse."
(OOC) William says, "Never seen an albino before?"
(OOC) Petra says, "A horse is a horse."
(OOC) Cornelius says, "It is not a horse. :P"
(OOC) Polar-bear says, "Of course, of course."
(OOC) Polar-bear says, "But no, wouldn't walk through the street like this."
(OOC) Cornelius says, "Just checking."
(OOC) William says, "Man. Nobody saw Mulan."
Compton slinks in. The collar of his old army coat turned up against the shitty 'Vale weather. In his hand is one of those new fangled super-tiny cam-corders. Pretty high tech swag for an old bastard. He glances around at the exhibits with bloodshot eyes before going straight in to recording.
Polar-bear's form blurs and a new shape steps forward.
(OOC) Cornelius says, "We're not posing just yet Compton... waiting for the final consensus that we're ready."
(OOC) Zoe hmms, "Cornelius - taking place before it opens? Right?"
(OOC) Cornelius says, "I understand that to be the case, ja."
Cornelius pages: How did you come to be here today? :)
You paged Cornelius with 'By foot. SNiffing around based on Penny's and Pobbles reports to the College.'.
Cornelius pages: Mm. Right now we're about to have a blow up party.
(OOC) Cornelius says, "Well, begin posing kids. Compton just walked in."
(OOC) Petra says, "Um..."
(OOC) Matt says, "Well appearently Compton's being allowed to horn in on our scene. So let's go."
Matt hands out the contents of the backpacks, giving Petra and Suli the extra radio detenators. "Get them on the villans first, we blow those, then deal with the others.
Jacob arrives with Zoe. The big guy tries to look small an inconspicuous, or as close as he can manage.
The museum is quiet. In the center of the main room is a massive display set up that is covered by a large white tarp.
Petra nods, taking it with one hand, shotgun held in another. She whirls at the sound of motion and levels the shotgun at the sounds. She is, of course, wearing a mask. She simply nods, then, and keeps moving. "Let's do this."
as soon as they're inside, Matt decides that another form might be better for this and shifts to crinos.
Matt's form blurs and a new shape steps forward.
With Jacob, Zoe moves quietly, a rifle in hand, and follows behind the others. Keeping an eye on things as Matt hands out the charges, she glances to the tall guy who came in with her, a slight nod given to him before she moves once more.
Suliman accepts his set of detonators and then moves out behind Petra. Nothing more to see here, despite the utterly blank expression on his face.
Jacob watches Matt. Hmmm. Good idea. He takes the hint.
Jacob's form blurs and a new shape steps forward.
Matt stalks to the new display and rips the cover off of the thing; "I think I know, but let's bee sure."
"Well, why not," says the guy who was even taller than Jacob, at some point. And he too changes.
In the middle of the room is a scene of Central Park near the fountain. It is nearly a perfect replica of it, down to the little blades of grass. Even the tree seems real. But that's not the horrific part. The awful part is that there are several hundred bodies all piled about in the middle of the park. Each of them appear to have suffered a different fate. Disemboweling. Burning. Dismemberment. Crucifixion. Bludgeoning. Animal attack. Each one is a master craft of work, with the horror of the demise painted in to the face of each one shown here. There is not one peaceful soul. For anyone who troubles to count, there are six hundred sixty five dead here.
Some of these faces resemble pictures taken of those who have died over the past few weeks. In the center of it all is a rabbi standing before an altar. There is a pillow on the altar with two gold rings.
It's not that he disappears exactly. He's there, sorta. Just on the edge of your periphery vision the old bum hovers. You may see him, but quickly your vision is distracted to something else and when you look again, he's somewhere else. Slippery, elusive, Compton.
Matt frowns; "Thought I saw someone. Be careful." He looks at the sculpture, and takes out four charges, calmly slapping them on the thing. "I have a present for asshole. These are coded to a seperate code. Suli. Jacob, Petra - take fact. The rest of you with me in fiction.
Petra nods. "On it." She looks around once, taking the right flank as they approach the doors to Fact. A faint shudder runs through her.
Suliman nods. "We're on it." He takes up a flanking position on Petra easily within arm's reach, but behind her.
Vanguard-Walker looks around and sniffs the air. He nods and shuffles along with Petra.
Petra levels the shotgun at the door and murmurs, "One of you open it and step back. This may get hot."
---------------------------------[ Glance ]---------------------------------
Compton.............Dirty old man.
Height: 1.8m Weight: 67 kg. Age: 69 App: 2 Cha: 1
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Vanguard-Walker.....Tall, burly and blond.
Height: Way Weight: I shud Age: App: -3 Cha: 3
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Jumpstart...........11' werewolf
Height: Big Weight: A lot Age: App: 2 Cha: 3
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
StormcrowSTandsAloneTall, muscular and black haired, generally dressed in jeans and a t-shirt
Height: 6' 0 Weight: 210 Age: 28 App: -2 Cha: 3
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Petra...............Black-haired, bespectacled geekgrrl.
Height: 5'6" Weight: 150 Age: 24 App: 2 Cha: 2
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Zoe.................Average body, brown hair, topaz eyes, tanned skin.. tomboy-ish
Height: 5'5" Weight: 125lbs Age: 18 App: 2 Cha: 2
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Suliman.............Tall, thin Arabic man with dark hair and eyes.%r
Height: 6'2" Weight: 190 Age: App: 3 Cha: 3
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Cornelius...........
Height: 5'3" Weight: 120 Age: App: 2 Cha: 2
-----------------------------------[ - ]------------------------------------
Jumpstart lumbers along after the tall black-furred thingy.
Zoe nods to Matt, her gaze upon the display, turning away when she finds the one of her grandmother. Rifle in hand, she moves to follow after Matt down Fiction hall, lips holding a faint frown.
(OOC) Cornelius says, "If you guys are going to split up, gimmie a sec."
Suliman eyes the door, then looks at Vanguard and motions to him. "Take the door if you would please? I think the bite of the door mechanism might be more firm today than the last foray.
StormcrowSTandsAlone hands Petra a long length of the detcord. "Use this to cut a door if you need to.
Quiet will be joining you in three seconds.
Quiet has arrived.
Quiet enters the oaken wooden door marked Fact.
Quiet has left.
(OOC) Cornelius says, "Quiet will be in Fact. I will take the group to Fiction."
(OOC) StormcrowSTandsAlone nods. "Okay - both groups have the detcord, good for cutting new doors. :)
Vanguard-Walker blinks. Bite? Last foray? Seems he didn't get all the details. OH well. He stretches out his arm to push open the door.
(OOC) Cornelius says, "Just as a notice, any action you are doing that you want me to adjudicate, let me know via page after you pose it. Sometimes I realize it, sometimes I don't."
Well, without toggling the handle, Vanguard-Walker finds that the door ignores his push. Gotta stick your hand in the demon's mouth, chappie.
StormcrowSTandsAlone nods. "Alright let's do this.
StormcrowSTandsAlone enters the oaken wooden door marked Fiction.
StormcrowSTandsAlone has left.
Vanguard-Walker says, "How 'bout we just knock it in?"
Suliman sighs, grimaces and steps up to the door, sticks his hand into the demons mouth.
StormcrowSTandsAlone exits from the room markd Fiction.
StormcrowSTandsAlone has arrived.
(OOC) Cornelius says, "Which door boss, Fact or Fiction?"
(OOC) Cornelius says, "To Suli."
(OOC) Suliman says, "Fact."
Cornelius rolls 4 (4 dice) at a difficulty of 6:
(10) 3 (10) 4
Achieving 2 successes, resulting in a moderate success.
Jumpstart slips between Stormcrow and Zoe, grunting in an 'excuse me, oh excuse me' fashion. Gamely, bravely, foolishly, he does that hand-shoving thing to open the door. Demon's tongue, yadda yadda.
Cornelius rolls 4 (4 dice) at a difficulty of 6:
(8) 3 -1- (8)
Achieving 1 successes, resulting in a marginal success.
Suliman rolls 4 (4 dice) at a difficulty of 8:
2 7 (10) -1-
Achieving 0 successes, resulting in a failure
Cornelius rolls 4 (4 dice) at a difficulty of 6:
5 2 2 2
Achieving 0 successes, resulting in a failure
The demon's mouth closes on Suli's hand and he growls, roars and drops the detonators to grab the closing jaw and hold it up. "Help!" he hisses.
Jumpstart rolls 5 (5 dice) at a difficulty of 8:
6 (10) 5 3 2
Achieving 1 successes, resulting in a marginal success.
Vanguard-Walker jumps forward to grab the demon jaw, top and bottom, in an effort to pry them open.
(OOC) Jumpstart says, "...and there was an earthquake when he landed."
(OOC) StormcrowSTandsAlone says, "Heh."
Zoe hears the hiss, her head turning to look back at the others to see what's happening before turning back to warn Jumpstart, eyes widening. Hands tighten around the rifle, her gaze cautiously glancing around.
StormcrowSTandsAlone rolls strength (7 dice) at a difficulty of 6:
(8) (10) (7) (6) 5 4 2
Achieving 4 successes, resulting in an exceptional success!
CLANK. Jumpstart's big, /very/ big -- but fast enough. No snappyhand for him. ((NEENER, FUCKER!))
Jumpy's door, however, remains closed.
StormcrowSTandsAlone growls and moves to help Suli. He manages to pry the damn thing open, and as he does Suili's hand comes free and the door clicks open.
((Give me two people on this one.)) He moves to the other door, and sticks his own hand in to open it as soon as Jumpstart and someone else are in position.
(OOC) StormcrowSTandsAlone says, "that was me. sorry."
Suliman snarls a bit in saying, "Thanks." He stoops to retrieve his explosives and growls, "Let's go." He then shoves open the door.
Jumpstart spits on the door, and then his massive paws lock upon the demon jaw, even though he shakes his head. ((I /could/ attempt a little magic... Maybe the Gauntlet's too tough, though.))
(OOC) StormcrowSTandsAlone says, "Guys? There's some confusion. Vanguard was on the door, but I didnt' see it. what're you doing, V-W?"
Vanguard-Walker jumps forward to grab the demon jaw, top and bottom, in an effort to pry them open.
Petra keeps the shotgun leveled, eyes narrowed, anger in her gaze.
(OOC) Vanguard-Walker says, "You made the roll, it's good. Let's not backtrack."
(OOC) StormcrowStandsAlone says, "I didn't make a roll yet - that was to free Suliman's hand, not the other door. :)"
Clipped Ear enters from the street.
Clipped Ear has arrived.
(OOC) Clipped Ear is going to roll for stealth. "What would be a good difficulty? :)
(OOC) Vanguard-Walker says, "I Was with Suliman wasn't I? Me & Petra?"
(OOC) StormcrowStandsAlone says, "were're in the main room stil"
(OOC) Cornelius says, "No one has left the room yet."
(OOC) Cornelius says, "Suli's door is open. The other is not. WHo is going to open the other door? Just indicate it to me."
(OOC) StormcrowStandsAlone says, "I am."
(OOC) StormcrowStandsAlone says, "That's what I was trying to convey, sorry."
(OOC) Clipped Ear says, "Would diff 4 or 5 be alright with everyone? Considering how small and unnoticible I am?"
(OOC) Cornelius says, "5 is fine."
(OOC) Cornelius says, "Jump & Storm, give me a Str roll. Diff 6."
StormcrowStandsAlone rolls strength (7 dice) at a difficulty of 6:
(8) -1- -1- 4 (10) 2 (10)
Achieving 1 successes, resulting in a marginal success.
Jumpstart rolls 9 (9 dice) at a difficulty of 6:
4 (9) 5 (7) 2 3 (7) 4 2
Achieving 3 successes, resulting in a complete success.
Clipped Ear rolls Dex+stealth+4 (11 dice) at a difficulty of 5:
2 2 (5) (7) (9) 4 (6) (6) 3 (10) 4
Achieving 6 successes, resulting in an unbelievable success!
Cornelius rolls 2 (2 dice) at a difficulty of 6:
(7) 4
Achieving 1 successes, resulting in a marginal success.
Cornelius rolls 2 (2 dice) at a difficulty of 6:
(10) 3
Achieving 1 successes, resulting in a marginal success.
There are loud thumps as Storms and Jump bash against the door. It cracks a bit in the middle but it manages to hold against the force of their blows. The leering demon face seems to mock them.
The bum stands against the wall, over by the door, slouching in a patently James Dean kinda way... if James Dean looked like Jack Palance with a mullet. Arcane energies drift and weave their way around him, making him hard to spot by anyone actually looking for him, never mind those engaged in para-military activities. The cam-corder in his hand, silently recording in to a next-generation flash-ROM.
StormcrowStandsAlone rolls perception+alertness (5 dice) at a difficulty of 8:
3 3 7 -1- 5
Achieving -1 successes, resulting in a botch!
Petra rolls Perception+alertness (5 dice) at a difficulty of 8:
(10) 3 (8) (10) (8)
Achieving 4 successes, resulting in an exceptional success!
Jumpstart rolls 3 (3 dice) at a difficulty of 5:
-1- 3 2
Achieving -1 successes, resulting in a botch!
(OOC) Clipped Ear says, "Is that to notice Compton?"
(OOC) Clipped Ear says, "And if someone could page me the scene, I'd appreciate it. :)"
(OOC) Zoe shall page.
Quiet pages: What is your Willpower? Your sheet doesn't have it.
Clipped Ear pages: Arcane, right? Whats the diff to spot you. I've been sent in to recon so I'm looking around.
p quiet = 6
You paged Quiet with '6'.
You paged Clipped Ear with 'Arcane 5. Standard diff +5'.
Clipped Ear pages: Whats would say would be the standard diff in this situation?
You paged Clipped Ear with '4+5=9'.
(OOC) StormcrowStandsAlone says, "Right. screw this."
-----------------------[ Wiznote: #5 on Clipped Ear ]-----------------------
Rat Stats
Strength -1 (1), Dexterity +2 (5), Stamina +2 (5), Perception +3 (6), Stealth +2 (6). This form also has the ability to do bite damage.
Set by Banality on Wed Feb 04 02:25:58 2004
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Jumpstart leans into the door still more, staring at the demon face, as though he wills it to give way. Which, of course, doesn't work. Hell, he even leans so much that his own feet slip out from under him, and he skids down to one knee. ((Oofda.))
Clipped Ear rolls Perception+alertness+3 (8 dice) at a difficulty of 9:
6 8 2 7 4 4 3 (9)
Achieving 1 successes, resulting in a marginal success.
Petra rolls Perception+empathy (7 dice) at a difficulty of 6:
2 3 (8) -1- (9) (9) (6)
Achieving 3 successes, resulting in a complete success.
StormcrowStandsAlone takes out some of the detcord he's carrying and calmly frames the door, attaching a detenator. (( Get back.))
Quiet pages: You get a very clear, very compelling command in your mind to drop the camera and leave the museum at once.
Zoe watches, then as Storm starts to set the detcord, she begins to move back even before he says anything.
Petra steps back when commanded, silent. Focused. Stone-faced. She's not saying anything, just holding that shotgun.
Suliman steps out of the way himself. Now at last he decides to change, slipping into a form similar to the others.
StormcrowStandsAlone says, "((Change in plans. When I blow this. Everyone do this gallery first. Haul /ass/ - I want charges on every one of the villans as quickly as possible."
Suliman's form blurs and a new shape steps forward.
Of course, growling is not American English, nor the Queen's. But Jumpstart sure understands, too. He more or less shields the women, although they can still shoot around him and stuff. Yeah, stuff.
Unseen, a little rat slips into the building, squeezing under the door perhaps. He sticks to the shadows, scurrying around as he takes in whats going on, his alert little eyes dancing over the room and its occupents. When he sees the.. werewolves? He freezes in place. When Suliman goes wolfish as well, he just stares. Jesus.
You paged Quiet with 'How did Petra detect me? (Arcane 5)'.
(OOC) Khinjaar Arramil says, "Wolfish?!"
(OOC) Clipped Ear says, "Well.. you said similar. :p"
(OOC) Zoe giggles.. try kitty, Clipped.
(OOC) Clipped Ear says, "Oh. Boy!"
That little rodent stare gets even wider as he notices that is indeed not a wolf.. but a cat. He doesn't stick around for much longer, running back the way he came and slipping out under the door.
OOC) Clipped Ear heads out. "Everyone okay with that?"
OOC) Zoe laughs and nods.
OOC) StormcrowStandsAlone says, "sure."
OOC) Petra nodnods.
Zoe rolls alertness+perception (5 dice) at a difficulty of 8:
3 9 2 3 7
Achieving 1 successes, resulting in a marginal success.
Clipped Ear leaves the waxworks.
Clipped Ear has left.
Quiet pages: With a ridiculous roll against a very high difficulty.
You paged Quiet with 'Fine.'.
Quiet pages: It's the way the dice crumble. I'm sorry.
There is a sound of an explosion as the door goes when the charge explodes. Splinters fly everywhere. That which remains of the door is on fire but it is easily passable now.
Zoe grabs a few charges, and then readies herself to help once the door is blown to run inside and set them before getting out as quickly as possible as Storm says.
Compton packs up and leaves as quietly as he came. Popping the data-chip in to his pocket and strangley leaving the camera on a ledge as he leaves.
Petra pages: He did not follow the command.
You paged Quiet with 'No worries.'.
You paged (Quiet, Petra) with 'You get a very clear, very compelling command in your mind to drop the camera and leave the museum at once." Camera left, and Compton gone.'.
To (Compton, Quiet), Petra pages: Whatever. Be a twink.
You paged (Quiet, Petra) with 'Nice. Have it your way. Isn't like the scene is worth anything. Sorry Quiet.'.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)