[Main Chapter] Improper Acquisitions

Old Rose Harbor is Anaxas' main trade port; it is also the nation's criminal headquarters, home to the Bad Brothers and Silas Hawke, King of the Underworld.
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Raksha
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Sat Feb 09, 2019 6:50 pm

8th Ophus, 2718
OLD ROSE HARBOUR | EARLY MORNING
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The winter morning was cold. Bitterly cold. The sky was grey and thick with clouds, threatening snow though for the moment it held back. It was still cold enough for ice to lay dangerously undetected on the half cobbled streets in some of the better area’s of the Rose, and for breath to steam in thick plumes from rum-warmed mouths. And there were a few of those, waiting in the chilled morning air, everyone of them on edge. The Bad Brothers, with guns cocked and blades ready, fields or glamours drawn close and eyes everywhere. At the dock, a simple kenser drawn wagon waited as it was loaded with what looked like sacks of wheat from the cargo container of the last ship in from Muluku that evening.

“Don’t like this.” Muttered one of the crew members as he handed another sack to his counterpart. She nodded, hefting the coarse hessian bag and placing it securely into the back of the wagon, dark eyes scanning the docks under her woolen cap. Her breath huffed from above her scarf in a wet steamy cloud and the kensers that were hooked to the wagon snorted nervously. The wooden vehicle was a decent size, able to hold two drivers as well as about fifteen medium sized sacks in the rear. It was unassuming, a merchants device, and built for long travels between cities.

“Me either matey, me either.” She grumbled as she turned back to take the next sack. Both hands were under the employ of Silas Hawke, and per the word of mouth that had swept through all of the Bad Brothers, they were on high alert. There had been a rumour, a good piece of intel provided to the King, that the Drain had plans to raid their next inbound shipment of Crop. When or where, there had been no specifics, but the possibilities were endless. In Muluku, on the open ocean, in the dock, along the road to Vienda…it was driving the King mad. As such, he had been cautious this time, overly so. The vials of the highly addictive content had been packed into the next wheat shipment, hundreds of birds worth of stock, and stored in the bowels of the ship as it had sailed across the seas into the Rose.

And nothing had happened.

So now, they unpacked the shipment into the wagon for the next leg of its travel, through the streets of Old Rose and onto the long highway into Vienda. Silas had called on everyone he knew, insisting on men to be stationed on the ship, the docks, the windows and rooves of the streets. To be drunks in disguise along the way, whores peddling their goods, whatever it took. If there were Drain members anywhere, they would be hard pressed to get to the wagon. It was impossible to tell who was a Brother and who was a civilian, Hawke aware that if they knew he had people around, the Drain would wait till they were out of the Rose to hijack him. Once on the road to Vienda, he had plans to take a detour and use a side entrance into the galdori city, one that the Drain surely would have no idea about, using his contacts there.

Bloody vultures.

The chill morning felt frozen with anticipation. Even those who had no idea what was going on could sense a tension in the air, a strange quiet seemed to fall onto the seaside city. Even the gulls were quiet, only the crashing of the morning tide on the beach seemed to speak to the world.

Everyone watched. And everyone waited.

Mod NoteShow
Hi All, this thread is open to anyone in the Rose. If you're a Bad Brother, or in Hawkes employee, you can assume he has roped you in to help. Either by keeping watch or joining the actual action. If you're not a Bad Brother or in his employ, you are welcome to be caught in any potential crossfire. This thread comes with personal risk, though I would never kill or maim a PC without discussion first.

I will be posting once every 3 days, unless there is a request to wait for someone to reply, or other IRL circumstances impact my rhythm. You don't need to PM to join, just jump in where-ever and when ever you like. :)


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Leander
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Sun Feb 10, 2019 3:28 pm

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Little more than a mediocre counterfeiter, Leander was new to Silas’ Hawke’s service - and a rather reluctant new recruit at that. He was also a scrawny little weed of a boy, valuing intellect and cunning wit to see him through life, rather than stupid, brute force. For these reasons, the passive thought it laughable that Hawke had called on him to assist with his drama. But it seemed that everyone with ties to the man, and their mothers, had been called upon for the same thing.

There was nothing special about his presence, and Leo felt no swell of pride at being thought of to help. If anything, he thought nothing more of it than a terrible inconvenience. He had drunk a little too much last night, so his head was pounding. Worse, Resha had set a number of tasks for him to complete by last week… none of them had even been started, and he had set aside today to bash through them (or so he told himself). The bottom line was that the passive’s heart was not in it, and the sun blaring down on top of him from his vantage point on one of the nearby balconies was not making his day any more palatable.

Everyone was on edge: squinting downwards, there were no obvious signs of Hawke’s henchmen, though Leo knew they were around. But it seemed like everyone moved with a hurried pace, heads cast downwards as that would hide them from something they felt was coming. The tension was palpable to everyone. But if anyone glanced upwards towards Leander’s balcony, they would see a boy lazing around, at ease with the world.

Cursory glances downwards had nothing to do with the instruction to ‘remain vigilant’. Instead, it was more to keep him from boredom; the loose thread on the hem of his shirt could only keep him entertained for so long, after all.

Leander had been forced to be here, he was only present in body, but his mind was far adrift. He had no stake in Hawke’s business: if the day went tits up, it would have no impact on Leo’s life whatsoever. And if the contrary happened… well, Leo doubted he would be personally rewarded either, so what did it matter to him?

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Kit
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Sun Feb 10, 2019 6:33 pm

8th Ophus | EarlyMorning
Old Rose Harbour
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It was too clocking cold for this. Too clocking cold to be stood on a street corner singing for...he checked the box at his feet...yes, mostly forts, couple of hats. Kit stamped his feet, watching his breath fog the air, and reached inside his greatcoat for the flask he’d filled this morning. This was ridiculous, and needless, but he sure as hell didn’t have to be sober for it. He sang better when he was guttered anyway…

He’d considered packing up and getting back to his cosy apartment at least three times now, but it honestly wasn’t worth it. When the King snapped his fingers, the Brothers jumped, or there were consequences.

He took a swig and relaxed just a touch as the rum burned its way down his throat, then replaced it in his inside pocket and reached for another song, field tucked in tight as a second skin.

“As I walked by the dockside one evening so fair...”

Kit’s voice rang out, smooth and clear among the bustle of the harbour street, as he leaned back against the shopfront. He’d had permission of the owner to be here so he knew he wouldn’t be moved on.

“...To view the salt water and take the sea air...”

Gloved hands in his pockets, his blue eyes surveyed the street, checking for anything out of the ordinary. Gods above, what even was Hawke ferrying that he needed every single Brother, and more besides, on watch for the entire clocking route?

“...I heard an old fisherman singing a song...”


Everyone was bundled up against the cold, and even familiar faces took a while to recognise. He shifted his foot, feeling the comforting length of the knife sheath in his boot.

“...Won’t you take me away boys my time is not long…”

Alioe, his ears were fucking freezing. Ah, right. Not the cargo itself, it was the Drain they needed to be worried about. Fuckers. If they were stupid enough to try anything today, they were going down.

He stamped his feet again and swore softly to himself before launching into a ringing chorus.


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Muse
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Tue Feb 12, 2019 3:24 pm

8th of Ophus, 2718
DOWN BY THE DOCKS | EARLY MORNING
"That's mine, ye chen." Quiet words became a thick cloud of hot breath while two men walked in the dull light that came before dawn. Tristaan was dressed more for movement than against the bone-chilling cold that had clawed its way into the Harbor, feeling the ache of regret for not putting on more layers in his bones and sore muscles. Grey eyes drifted over the gloved hands of the blond galdor next to him which held the six-chamber pistol he'd bought from the masked stranger in Vienda.

"Is it now?" Corwynn didn't look over at the dark-haired passive, his own firearm slung comfortably on his hip, cheeks and nose already red from the frigid temperatures. They walked carefully through the ice-crusted alleyways leading toward the docks in order to take their places, the older gunman unfortunately given the task of keeping an eye on Yulina's favorite odd-job man. He'd yet to see the value in Tristaan other than the scrap could take a hell of a beating and still stay conscious long enough to win one of Boriand's fights in the Rose Arena. Perhaps there was some secret in his diablerie or his worth really was measured in the weight of his indomitable will.

"Oes. Bought 't fairly." Grunted the passive, tilting his head to meet the sharp-blue gaze of the Taxman, shoving numb hands with knuckles still bruised and scabbed from a fight just the night before into the pockets of his threadbare wool coat and burying more of his face into the thin knit scarf he wore.

"Had it taken fairly, too, if I recall."

"Havakda. That's a matter 'f opinion."

"True. I will admit I'm biased." Chuckled Corwynn, smug and quite aware of where both of their loyalties truly lay.

"Y' gonna jus' play with it 'r give it up already? I ent proved m'self reformed 'nough yet?" It was Tristaan's turn to smirk, but the expression was sour instead of amused.

"Don't talk to me about playing with things, Mister Greymoore. You're only trustworthy because that stolen bird of a witch you claim is yours too happens to be clocking heavy with child." The Bad Brother sneered, his voice almost breaking the hissed whispers the unlikely pair spoke in despite the bubble of Quiet the galdor had surrounded them in and continued to upkeep while they snuck their way through the forgotten, dirty warehouses.

"Ne, ersehole, I'm only trustworthy 'cause Yulina's alive."

"Did you just—" The blond gunman barely contained laughter, crystalline gaze hardening like the frozen, salty ground beneath their feet. With a bit of flair, Corwynn offered the butt of the six-chambered weapon to the passive, waiting for the curious creature to take the pistol before reaching into his coat and producing the dark-haired man's holster, belt, and the hard leather case he'd kept bullets in, "—gods, you may be alright after all. Just remember who to clocking aim at, Mister Greymoore."

"Oes. I know what side I'm playin' for today, Cor." Just today? Not that he had a choice, after all.

The threat in the Taxman's field was oppressively tangible, but Tristaan had grown used to being around galdor fields in the presence of Master Boriand. He was allowed a moment to hike up his coat and replace his firearm to it's proper place, wincing at the painful cold that raked over skin marked with fading yellow bruises and a few fresh scabs—signs that he hadn't won his last fight in the Rose Arena, much to everyone's surprise. If Corwynn's gaze wandered over the other man—who, despite the weighty bit of ego he hid beneath his tekaa-colored, tarnished exterior, was far from unattractive, appealing in his own way, honestly—while he waited in the shadows between two dilapidated warehouses, well, he certainly wasn't ashamed of himself.

The older gunman didn't really have any shame, after all.

They continued in the darkness, falling quiet again as they approached the docks themselves, the layout of the entire heart of the Rose familiar to both men because they'd lived enough of their lives on the brined wood in one way or another.

"Up there's our spot." He added, glance lingering with a slow exhale of heated breath, tugging up the hood of his coat to hide his rather unmistakable blond, "Rooftop view for us. You first."

Tristaan said nothing, a familiar pre-combat nervousness settling like smoldering charcoal in the cavity of his chest still not hot enough to warm him against the chill. It crawled up his spine anyway, tingling through his nerves like a match lit and set to kindling, aware that it was no longer himself he was responsible for looking out for. He was living for lives other than his own and therefore couldn't afford to make reckless mistakes. Fingerless gloves were hardly enough barrier, either, and he winced and hissed his way up the frozen, painfully cold metal ladder toward the third story roof of the abandoned row of shops that once stood so close to the docks. Corwynn remembered the shops well—a fishmonger and a little pub, both run by the same family, both loyal taxpayers until their eldest child fell sick. The penalty for backtaxes had been far too much for them to pay, and what was left of the fishmonger and his wife probably was nothing but sand by now at the bottom of the Harbor.

The pair of very different men silently found their places on the roof, tucked behind the lip of it where a tattered awning flapped loudly in the wind, able to see through the holes in the faded canvas. Just far enough away that he couldn't feel the other man's ramscott old field, the dark-haired passive set about loading his pistol, ignoring how his face stung and his fingers wanted to shake in the cold.

The Bad Brother let go of their Quiet spell, mentally freeing himself of the concentration while he, too, set about finding his position against the low half-wall that rose near the front of the building. Peeling paint barely read the family's name and business—Knockles and Sons, Fish and Beer—but the spot gave an almost unrivaled view of the ship and the wagon and the three narrow streets that spilled out onto the docks, allowing Tristaan and Corwynn an opportunity to open fire as quickly as possible.

Dawn was just starting to creep over the horizon, reluctant in the chest-crushing cold. Whatever the Drain had planned, it wasn't just the older galdor who worried they'd already been made even before they arrived—even Tristaan knew a trap when he heard one. Not that either of them were about to admit that to each other, however. Not yet.
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For the sake of ease and my sanity, I'm sticking Corwynn and Tristaan together. Should they get separated, I'll write their accounts respectively.
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Raksha
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Tue Feb 19, 2019 4:34 am

8th Ophus, 2718
OLD ROSE HARBOUR | EARLY MORNING
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A​​s the last sack was placed into the wagon, the two dock hands waved to the Brothers on the ship, indicating they were done with the cargo and the pallet could be moved back on board using the series of ropes and pulleys that connected to a wooden crane. As they moved to collect the pallet, the driver turned to take up the reins, giving his counterpart a wane look. Both men, for all intents and purposes, looked to be simple couriers. They were human, dressed for the weather in hand-me-downs and holey jackets, dreary scarves pulled round their faces and caps pulled low to protect their ears from the chill of morning. The kensers, a grey dappled mare and a beige colt snorted, their eyes blinkered and long ears hanging down, thicker fur grown in for the cold.
​​
​​ “Right then. Vienda bound.” The man holding the reigns said a fraction louder than was normal, before flicking them gently to get the kensers to move. The creatures balked at first, breathing heavy plumes from widened nostrils and arching their necks. He urged them on, and with a nervous gait the hooved beasts moved.
​​
​​In the shadows of an alleyway, a young woman with a few missing teeth and garish rust colored hair peered out into the street as the wagon began to take off, sucking her teeth and shaking her head.
​​
​​ “I say Hawke’s jus’ lost th’ plot, scared o’ his own shadow right? If there were any Drain folk ‘round, they’d have been scared off by now.” She growled to her counterpart, not bothering to look back and check on the other woman as she spoke, trusting that her companion had her back. And indeed, it was her back that was had first, as a large dagger slipped through the red heads ribs from behind and a hand wrapped around her mouth. Dragged into the shadows and dropped on the ground against the wall, the other woman cleaned her blade and looked around with keen dark eyes. Her hair was tucked tightly into a woolen knit hat, her face hidden by the thick scarf that kept out the cold. Leaning against the wall of the alley where her companion had previously stood, she thumbed her nose as though stopping it from running.
​​
​​Across the street and further up on the Queen, another Brother leaned on the railing of the beached ship and sighed, putting the butt of a hand rolled cigarette between his lips.
​​
​​ “I could have stayed in bed for this. Ain’t nothing happening here. Not in this bloody clocking cold.” He grumbled, patting his pockets for a light. Suddenly one appeared before him, a crisply lit snap of fingers and a brief utter of monite. The man looked over the witch that had appeared beside him with an appreciative smirk. She was painted, dressed in thick winter robes, but even in the chill of the morning she managed to get a bit of clevage on display.
​​
​​ “Come now. A big, strapping man like you being scared of a little cold. That’s not right.” Purring and lighting his cigarette, the tumble leaned closer and presented more of a show for the Brother.
​​
​​ “You want Miss Heron to warm you up? I got a lovely bed, and a nice warm spot. Right here….if you’re keen.” Grabbing his hand and pressing it against private places, she distracted the man as in the street below two more of Hawkes men were swiftly and secretly replaced.
​​
​​The little wagon moved along the street, kenser hooves clopping with almost an echo along the way. They passed Kit and his stubborn busking, the sound of his voice ringing off their wheels and into the crisp morning air. A gentleman had paused to listen to the music, watching the wagon go by. He was older, perhaps in his late fourties, with narely more than a pair of blue eyes and white whiskers peeking between his cap and scarf. Rubbing gloved hands together, he looked up and back at the buildings behind them, before looking back at the wagon. It was a nervous glance one that seemed concerned about a great many things.
​​
​​ “Clock this. S’like a ghost town today.” He growled, moving closer to Kit with a grunt.
​​
​​ “Where’s the pallbearers right? Could cut a knife with this atmosphere!” The old man snapped loudly, glancing away again and rocking in an agitated motion and waving his hand. He was shaking his head and swearing at the wagon, at Kit, at everything and nothing.
​​
​​ “Young King’s gone and scared the pants off himself! Where’s the backbone? Silas Hawke! You’re afraid of shadows boy! Of shadows!” He hooted and yelled with spittle flying from his mouth. From the rooftops, guns and fields focused on the man as he began to cause a scene. Angrily the old man kicked Kit’s collection box, sending the contents flying with an angry yell.
​​
​​ “Where’s the King then?! Hiding on his throne?! Come out Silas! Come out, come out!!” He was sobbing now, a strange mix of rage and fright, before reaching into his jacket pocket for something that glinted in the morning light. Before he could make a move, a gunshot cracked in the morning air and the old man seemingly dropped dead, his hand still tucked in his jacket for the item unseen. It was all that the city needed however, and suddenly chaos erupted. The kensers screamed in fright, reading and breaking a run in the rickety wagon, whilst around the rooftops and alleyways cries of pain or gunshots signaled the Drain members nestled in the city springing to life.
​​
​​Across the way from Leander, a wick with bright blue hair was uttering a spell, curling his hands around what could only be described as a small bottled ball of lighting and hurling it at the Brothers on the rooves. Those who it hit screamed in agony and dropped to the ground thrashing as electricity surged through their bodies. It was a devestating attack, taking down groups at a time, and would need to be stopped quickly.
​​
​​From their vantage point Tristaan and Corwynn would see three figures on horseback hammering down the streets towards the wagon. One right behind them like a hungry ghost from the afterlife with sword drawn, one coming down an adjacent street with a pistol in hand and the other parallel to the wooden vehicle. They were looking to intercept the load, either to take it over or take it down.

Mod NoteShow
Hi All, this thread is open to anyone in the Rose. If you're a Bad Brother, or in Hawkes employee, you can assume he has roped you in to help. Either by keeping watch or joining the actual action. If you're not a Bad Brother or in his employ, you are welcome to be caught in any potential crossfire. This thread comes with personal risk, though I would never kill or maim a PC without discussion first.

I will be posting once every 3 days, unless there is a request to wait for someone to reply, or other IRL circumstances impact my rhythm. You don't need to PM to join, just jump in where-ever and when ever you like. :)

Kit, Leander, Tristaan and Corwynn - You have some choices to make, what you do is up to you, but any actions will be rolled for and could have yet unknown consequences. Or not! Either way, good luck!


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Ketziana Dimere
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Tue Feb 19, 2019 11:10 am

Old Rose Harbor8 Ophus 2718: Early Morning
Ketziana did not want to be out. But when Hawke gave her an order, she wasn't nearly stupid enough to not follow it. When Hawke said she had to prove her loyalty before he would give her a sign for her store, she readily agreed. It wasn't as if he really gave her a choice.

Ketzi hadn't expected to be assigned as a caller for a brothel. She tried not to shudder as she stood in front of a brothel, dressed in clothes that managed to be revealing while keeping the Gioran relatively warm. Of course, that was the key word – relatively. She imagined that any Anaxi woman who was stuck outside on this day in this clothing would be freezing and, admittedly, it was cold enough that Ketzi felt the nip in the air and pulled her cloak tighter.

But the brothel owner didn't care about whether his callers were warm or not. He had money to make. The brothel "mother" had complained that Ketzi didn't have much to work with, but there was nothing Ketzi could do about that. It's not like she could magic up a bigger pair of breasts or wider hips.

When the "mother" was done dressing her up and putting makeup on her face, she gave a shrug and sighed. "Well, you're unusual enough that you might draw in one or two people, even if you ain't got no meat and bones to you."

Ketzi bit her lip and headed outside, waiting and trying not to show how nauseous she was as she tried to entice customers into the brothel. Hawke had told her that mornings were always quiet at brothels, so she wasn't surprised when almost no one paid her any attention. She was relieved that nobody went into the brothel, simply because it was full of Bad Brothers waiting to be called into action. She didn't want to end up being responsible for innocents getting killed in what she expected was to come.

Hawke hadn't told her what was in the shipment they were protecting, but Ketzi knew that if Hawke was this protective of it, it was probably nothing that was good or legal. He had just told her to come to this brothel at a certain time and look out for trouble. If trouble showed up, she was to run into the brothel and get Hawke's men to break it up, then hide inside the brothel. Ketzi was glad that Hawke was smart enough to see that she would be a liability in a fight.

Ketzi recognized one of the buskers as a customer that had come into her store and was surprised to see him out. Is he a Big Brother? she thought to herself. She started when old man started a ruckus and couldn't keep back a scream when a gunshot rang out and the crazed man fell. She ran into the brothel, yelling "Something's up!"

The common room was full of Big Brothers and they immediately went into action. Weaponry flashed in the light as it was pulled from hidden scabbards and holsters, then they flowed out the door like a flood. Ketzi barely got out of the way before she was crushed. She closed the door after the last of the men in the brothel left, then helped a couple of the girls move some tables in front of it, barricading the whores and their managers in the building and, hopefully, keeping them safe.

"Back door secure?" she asked as they finished moving tables and she tried to catch her breath.

"Lona went to check. Go back behind the bar. Hawke said you can't defend yourself. We can," the prostitute said as she drew a couple daggers from her boots.

Ketzi just nodded and hurried into her assigned hiding place, closing her eyes and pretending she didn't hear the screams, gunfire, and chaos outside.
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Leander
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Mon Feb 25, 2019 2:02 pm

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Dimly, the youthful passive heard someone calling out in from the ground. A cursory glance around caused the boy to note the loading of the wagon had finally finished, and he tuned into the end of one of the man’s shouting. The boy sorted as he heard the King of the Underworld’s name slandered, a challenge if there ever was one. It was a healthy amount of respect - or was it self preservation? - that had Leo do no more than snort, but there was no rage at the slight to his lord’s good name. He had no particular allegiance, save the one thrust upon him.

Then the gunshot. Now, that did have his neck crick at the speed at which it turned towards the noise, searching out a source, though he could not see it.

Chaos descended - screams and shouts and men running every which way on the ground. If it had been hard to tell who was friend from foe earlier, Leo had no hope of guessing who was who now. He thought he recognised a few faces, but they were moving so fast he could not keep track of them, and the caterwauling on the ground was overwhelming.

Light and colours joined the fray. Out of the corner of the eye, he noticed something shaded like vibrant sapphire glinting against the sun. He glanced over to see a… magical something (he guessed wick but he wasn’t quite sure) doing unknown magical spells. He watched in awe, and a fair amount of jealousy, as he conjured and controlled pure electric energy in his hands, discharging them at people. Across each roof, these luminescent orbs were being hurled, which was Leander’s first clue this wick was not on the side of the Bad Brothers. The second clue was the collision with their targets, where they only produced more screams.

Bodies thrashing, the victims lost control of their muscles, some of them falling metres to the floor. More and more balls of lightning were summoned and catapulted quick fire, forcing dozens to the floor, useless to fight in Hawke’s name. Even if it didn’t kill them, there was no better word to describe it than a slaughter. Leander had to do something, and fast. The attack hadn’t lasted long so far, but he knew it probably wouldn’t last much longer, and it was only a matter of time before he was the wick’s next target.

He needed to get out of there.

With movements far slower than his mind was racing, Leander returned to a crouched position and crept away from the edge of the balcony. Back pressed up against the wall, he kept his eyes fixed on the blue-haired pitcher and fumbled blindly for the doorknob. Fingers snagging it, he gripped tightly and twisted, pushing slowly, aiming for a silent escape from the carnage. Escape from the building would be futile, and his pride was hit hard for the cowardice. But, as he crept into the building, he told himself that he would watchfully wait by a window, planing a strike that would hit the enemy hard.

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Muse
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Wed Feb 27, 2019 3:00 pm

8th of Ophus, 2718
DOWN BY THE DOCKS | EARLY MORNING
"Theoretically speaking, Mister Greymoore—"

"Tristaan's fine, Cor."

"Theoretically speaking, Tristaan, if you were to off Yulina, how would you do it?" Whispered the blond galdor, crystalline gaze traveling over the roads they had vantage points over and drifting to check on Brothers stationed on other buildings' dilapidated, sun-bleached roofs. Whether Corwynn was making idle conversation to distract him from the frigid, biting cold or whether he was genuinely interested was impossible to tell from his tone. The Bad Brother didn't entirely love all of his King's pets or his so-called siblings (if one wanted to make that kind of joke), but at the same time, he lived and would most likely die for the crime organization he'd sold his soul to ... twice.

The dark-haired passive had loaded his pistol mechanically, slinging the rest at his hip—a task made more difficult by tingling, numb fingers. He sucked in a chilled breath through his teeth, grey eyes not leaving their lookout, growling in low tones in return, "Dunno yet. Do y' care? I'm th' balach who'll make 't quick, ye chen. Ne, wait, I prob'ly won't."

"No. And she wouldn't do you the same favor."

"Oes." Grunted Tristaan, movement cutting his sarcastic riposte off before it reached the tip of his tongue. Shifting ever so slightly, catching sight of the wagon moving. Someone's loud voice rang out in the sharp air above the morning din of the docks and he scowled.

Silas was no real king. Just an imposter.

Even the king of Anaxas was barely sane.

Was there a difference?

Steely orbs slanted sideways for a heartbeat, catching blue hues. A jaw clenched—a question—met with a sea-worn smirk of honest resignation. Yes, the older gunman caught it, too. Whatever it was, it felt wrong. The two men, vastly different, still seemed to exist on the same taut, dangerous line of thought. Looks were exchanged and hammers drawn back, the passive able to feel the strangely tangible, immensely powerful movement in Corwynn's field as he gathered it to himself like some weathered fisherman drawing up his catch in a net, like the tide shifted sand.

A slow exhale and then everything fell apart loudly and suddenly—gunshots and shouts, glass breaking, movement.

Where were the King's men on the street?

"Clock the circle." The blond galdor hissed, thumb on the other hammer of his double-barreled firearm, "Tris—"

"I'm shootin' th' horses, no' th' men. Then we'll need t' get down. Cover's blown. Do whatcha want, ol' man, but I've got your back 'f y' get mine, ye chen." The passive was already moving, uncaring of whether or not that was the Bad Brother's plan because he already had his own. He thought outside of everyone else's damn boxes. He was still alive, wasn't he? Risking jumping to his feet, he was the first to stand, firing two of his six shots at two of the three horsemen—aiming specifically for their horses with every intention of killing them and dropping the massive creatures on their riders.

Off Topic
Tristaan's rolls are as follows:
SidekickBOTYesterday at 4:00 PM
Muse: 2d6 = (4+6)

Corwynn smirked, field a taut barrier of caution, oppressive and almost steaming with heat, shoving himself upward to empty both barrels of his own pistol (which did not reload with the same gracefulness as his magicless companion, much to his jealous chagrin) toward the third rider and then at the blue-haired wick tossing electrically-charged whatsits at his own Brothers.

Off Topic
SidekickBOTYesterday at 4:00 PM
Muse: 2d6 = (1+2)

As if to mock him, as if to make sure the dark-haired passive had that much more to be smug about, the older galdor's first shot misfired. He'd corrected the cracks—he'd fiddled and repaired—but there was a fizzle and he swore a series of vivid curses, breath a misty cloud in the below freezing weather. Clearly, he'd been far too full of himself today. With a growl, he shifted his aim and fired the second shot, aware that he was taking his own risks, and the bullet at least found its mark, even if it wasn't a fatal one.

If Tristaan judged him, he said nothing, holstering his weapon and moving to hop down from the roof without a second thought, deciding the blond gunman would just have to keep up with his spry, combat-focused thought processes.

Corwynn resisted the urge to toss his pistol, deft hands replacing it at his hip in a fluid, well-practiced motion even as he cast one last look at where the horsemen had been scattered while intoning Monite through grit teeth, bending the air around himself and his begrudging company, allowing them to fall two stories to the ground with a levetational lightness, much like he could control the buoyancy within an airship. In order to let the passive know of his plan, he simply shoved him over the edge with a wicked grin before stepping off the ledge like he knew he wasn't about to fall his way to broken bones,

"This way."

Off Topic
SidekickBOTYesterday at 4:01 PM
Muse: 2d6 = (6+3) = 9

Yes. Corwynn just shoved Tristaan off a building to catch him with a spell. He's a special kind of jerk. A little tantrum over that gunshow.

Tristaan gasped for breath and stiffled a scream by shoving knuckles against his teeth before he realized magic had slowed his fall. Landing lamely like some crippled cat in his moment of panic, he glared at the ersehole golly, jaw clenching again and resisting the urge to shout all the ugly words that came to mind.

Corwynn rolled his eyes and cocked his head toward the street, the pair of them moving swiftly and with the cover of buildings toward the marks they'd chosen, both of them ready and clearly expecting more resistance. The Bad Brother was also expecting more assistance, concerned that their carefully-laid plans had been spilled long before this set-up and that everything had just literally gone to the Ever of Hell right under his King's watchful gaze. Unwilling to let the entire opportunity be wasted, he was at least going to fuck up as many Drain members as possible, especially with this little scrap of a sapper right here with him.

Annoying, but useful, that fucking passive.

Tristaan just wanted to keep himself alive for all the obvious reasons, but endearing himself to the Brothers at this point in his life probably wasn't a bad option either. One hand on the butt of his pistol with four shots remaining, he moved swiftly, lithely along with the blond galdor toward the wagon, grey eyes studying alleys and rooftops, tense and prepared to take out more assailants and keeping alert for those in need of assistance, jent with his metaphorical leash be damned.
word count: 1256
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Kit
Posts: 47
Joined: Fri Jan 04, 2019 1:03 pm
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Race: Galdor
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Writer: Foxing
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Tue Mar 05, 2019 7:50 am

8th Ophus | Early morning
Old Rose Harbour
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Why in the world had he come out without a hat...his ears were clocking freezing…

The galdor paused in his song and looked askance at the old man as he ranted and railed, raising an eyebrow. Was he a Brother? Just a Harbour denizen who knew that something was going on? Or was he something worse… Kit’s stance shifted imperceptibly as he leaned against the wall, centre of balance readying in case he had to move with speed.

Then his box was sent flying with an angry boot and brows narrowed, his jaw clenching with a twitch of muscle.

“Now then Grandpa, no need to take it out on me…”

His voice was low and tense, edging towards a growl as he spoke through gritted teeth, but then everything happened at once, the man reaching for what Kit assumed was a weapon- as did someone else it seemed, for as he launched himself away from the cold wall with a hand outstretched, the crack of a gunshot split the frozen air and the old man dropped like a sack of potatoes.

“...SHIT...”

Kit automatically dropped to a defensive crouch, arm coming up to shield his head- that was from a rooftop, and he had no clue from what side or whether he’d be their next target. Chaos reigned as the kensers bolted, the wagon careening down the street, and as he swiftly bent to check the old man was really dead- and what he’d actually had inside his coat- the musician’s eyes flicked around the street attempting to place threats and allies, and anything that could be dealt with on street-level where he was.

Thoughts raced through his head- it felt like the bugger had been set off deliberately, too much fear in that voice for just an angry drunk. He swore vehemently under his breath, gaze snapping up to the flashing pulses being flung overhead.

It was at moments like these that he regretted majoring in Perceptive, load of clocking use it was right now… ah well, he used what he had.

If nothing stopped him, he’d be off in a moment, haring down the street after the wagon, fixing the syllables for an Instinct spell in his head ready to trip off the tongue at a moment’s notice.

word count: 411
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Raksha
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: I don't bite. Much.
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Sun Mar 10, 2019 5:44 pm

8th Ophus, 2718
OLD ROSE HARBOUR | EARLY MORNING
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A​​s Leander moved, the wick caught him in the corner of his eye, glamour simmering and eyes wild. He flicked a hand, sending an orb in the passives direction, a thick cracking thing that sped towards him. Fortune would have it however, that the door he crept through was made of wood, not metal, and the blue ball of lightning exploded against it with splintering shards and burning ozone, but it didn’t conduct electricity into the man. He would manage to slip away, sporting a few splinters here and there, but mostly unscathed. The wick wouldn’t give chase, returning to his offensive area attacks on the Bad Brothers in the street.

Tristaan’s first shot took the frothing, steaming horse that pounded down the street directly behind the wagon in the chest. The creature squealed in pain, stumbling and going down, legs and neck snapping in a tumble as it rolled on the snowy ground. The rider flew, almost comical in another situation, sword lost and face coming in heavy contact with the street, rolling and bouncing and blood flying from a smashed nose and lost teeth. On the wagon ran, bumping and jolting around on the hard packed ground, kensers huffing with the strain. The stout creatures weren’t designed for galloping, and as such they wore out far quicker than horses.

The second shot was more merciful on the horse coming down the adjacent street, taking the beast through the skull and killing it instantly. It’s legs folded, and the pistol packing rider flew in a flurry of arms and legs, sliding along the street ahead of the dead creature and into the main road before the wagon. The kensers and the riders screamed, attempting to clear the man with an awkward jump, bouncing heavily over his body with sickening sounds. A crack sounded, though whether it was ribs or a wooden wheel was hard to say at this point.

Corwynn’s aim for the third seemingly unarmed man however, was a failure, the sound of the misfire ricocheting off the brickwork of the building with a high pinging sound. His second shot caught the caster in the shoulder however, the wick’s spellwork disintegrating with a sharp thunderous crack and a sizzling of flesh. A small bubble of electricity pulsed out from the man as he fell, catching alight anything wood or fabric around him. The roof top began to burn, though the snowfall luckily helped to keep it from a horrific blazing inferno. Still, the fire would slowly take hold should it not be dealt with, in the city built of old dry wood and cold stone.

As Kit knelt down beside the old man, the not-so-dead man scuttled back, drawing a pistol from his jacket and aiming it at the galdor with a shaking hand.

“Please sir, I didn’t mean none of it. They made me. They got me daughter. Just let me go, Hawke don’t need to know. He don’t!” The woeful creature pleaded, eyes wide with fear and gunhand clearly not steady at all. Kit would be able to make a choice: Kill the bastard, or leave him be.

Either way, once his choice was made and the galdor was after the wagon, he would see the passive fall—no glide—to the ground along side the other galdor. The trio would be almost together when the third rider ducked through a side alley to intercept the wagon just as the wheel broke with another crack. The kensers brayed in panic, kicking up their legs and throwing one of the drivers. The other took the reigns, trying to control the now very wonky and very rapidly slowed wagon, wheel disintegrating as they went. The rider reached into a satchel on the side of their saddle, pulling something out. A clay jar, the top spouting a cloth bunt, much like a Stacks Special, though it wasn’t quite the same. He shouted monite, and the end of the cloth took light, arm lifting to throw the jar into the wagon.

Flicking the reigns hard, the rider would make to turn the horse away at a fierce gallop, as though desperately trying to clear the area around the wagon.

Mod NoteShow
Hi All, this thread is open to anyone in the Rose. If you're a Bad Brother, or in Hawkes employee, you can assume he has roped you in to help. Either by keeping watch or joining the actual action. If you're not a Bad Brother or in his employ, you are welcome to be caught in any potential crossfire. This thread comes with personal risk, though I would never kill or maim a PC without discussion first.

I will be posting once every 3 days, unless there is a request to wait for someone to reply, or other IRL circumstances impact my rhythm. You don't need to PM to join, just jump in where-ever and when ever you like. :)

What to do boys, what to do? :D


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