[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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Muse
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Tue Apr 09, 2019 3:58 pm

8th of Ophus, 2718
DOWN BY THE DOCKS | EARLY MORNING
Tristaan followed the motions of those still in play, grey eyes taking in the third rider he'd missed while the sounds of the wagon wheel breaking filling his ears. It took him a moment to recover from the sensation of first falling like a stone and then like a feather, the lingering adrenaline sharpening his senses and setting his heart racing against the scarred cavity of his chest. His breath burned with a cold fire in his lungs, the air just so frigid that his body longed to reject it. He still had his chilled fingers curled around his pistol, four more shots in the chamber, and formulated his plan while he and the blond galdor began to weave their way through the icy streets in pursuit.

They both cleared the alley in time to see the rider closing in on the now-dragging wagon full of Hawke's own goods, and he immediately took aim once he saw the man lift a clay jar from his satchel, firing not once, but twice: the first time at the jar as it was tossed in order to either shatter it or push it away from its intended destination inside the wagon and the second, once again, in hopes of crippling the horse in order to this time get a hold of the rider.

Tristaan's RollsShow
SidekickBOTToday at 2:13 PM
Muse: 2d6 = (4+2) = 6

4 = Success. Tristaan hits the clay jar and either shatters it or sends it careening from the wagon's interior. Up to you, Sho.

2 = Minor success. Tristaan manages to land a bullet in the horse, but it may or may not throw the rider.

2 bullets left.


There was no verbal communication between Corwynn and his passive companion, the two far too focused on the task at hand to waste words. The Bad Brother noticed the addition of another of his kind—Kit, a galdor like himself, and not a stranger, thank those of the Circle who'd bothered to pay a bit of attention to his person today. The older galdor was no longer prepared to shoot strangers on a whim, having no time to reload his firearm while giving chase, but true to himself, he managed to catch a glimpse at the other man and offer a smirk.

Tristaan's gunshots rang out in the icy air and his crystalline blue gaze followed the motion of the jar when the passive's accurate shot launched it in an opposite direction, the Taxman gathering his field with reflexive familiarity and raising a hand in a swift motion, Monite already on his chapped lips. The spells were comfortable, a mixture of Static and Physical mona moving together with his words and his well-executed leybridge, the air around the clay pot becoming heavy and thick, dragging it downward to the cobblestones as if suddenly under the influence of a gravity far stronger than Vita possessed and then enveloping it in a barrier of solid force to dampen the explosion.

Corwynn's rollsShow
SidekickBOTToday at 2:14 PM
Muse: 2d6 = (5+3) = 8

5 = Gravity successful.
3 = Barrier is a minor success.


"Stay with the wagon!" Growled the dark-haired passive as he turned toward the results of his second shot, hoping to stop the rider so long and his horse if necessary, ready to leap into combat in the hopes of keeping one of their attackers alive for questioning.

The blond gunman snickered at being told what to do, wary to be separated from his charge, but also wary to let the cargo out of his sight. Glancing toward Kit as if Tristaan had been talking to him, the Bad Brother hooked a thumb toward the passive, "Keep an eye on that one. Or lend a hand, would you?"

And then he was off.
word count: 703

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Leander
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Thu Apr 11, 2019 12:38 pm

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This was bullshite, Leander decided as he dove behind a chest of drawers as the window seemed to glow from the ball of magic flung in an attempt to hit him, utter bullshite. Colliding shoulder first with the floor, his head ricocheted off a table leg and he groaned in pain, hand putting pressure against his skull to try to minimise the throb. He did not know Hawke’s motivations, and Leo valued his life too much to dare asking, but where was the Gods thrice damned logic in sending in a fecking scrap when mona was going to play such a large part of the battle?

He had long thought the man had a screw loose, but this seemed to prove it. The Brothers seemed to be dropping like flies, and Leo refused to be one of them. “Circle guide me, I was not destined to die because that megalomaniac’s ego sent hundreds of fools to the slaughter.” The bolt of... whatever it was... had died against the wood, and no embers remained. Leo knelt up, winching as he did so and rolling the injured shoulder gingerly.

The passive risked a glance out of the window, first checking roofs for any assailants who might be looking his way, then channeling a glance downwards. Bodies littered the ground, and Leo had no doubt a fair few, if not all, would be dead. He wondered what call Hawke had over mona to cause so many idiots to blindly fall for their King. Surely no one in their right mind would do as those poor sods had done? “Fecking...” he muttered, turning once again from the window and resting his back against the wall.

Coerced into the service of the King of the Underworld, the passive had no love for Hawke. He had been placed upon the balcony as a watcher and, as far as Leo was concerned, he had completed his directive. He had watched the fight begin, and his services were no longer required. Leander was not naïve enough to believe that, should the senior Brothers learn of his apparent cowardice and inactivity, there would be no consequences...

But the vague threat of punishment was not enough to spur him to fight for the cause. But the reality way that outside was so chaotic, no one would remember if he was involved or not. Gods, he could just lie if asked, and say he played his part, however small it was. Decision made, the passive rubbed at his shoulder gently. It was not bleeding but it would surely blacken by the morning. If anything, that would support his claim of fighting. He settled in, head lying back against the wall, and listened to the shouts and cries from the fighters outside.

word count: 479
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Kit
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Mon May 13, 2019 12:47 pm

8th Ophus | EarlyMorning
Old Rose Harbour
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It was indeed a gun in the old man's trembling hands, and Kit's heart skipped a beat before realising there was no way the old git could shoot straight.

The golly spat, clearing the acrid taste of that split second of fear from his mouth as he aimed a swift angry kick at the man's head, not really caring if it connected. He'd considered attempting to snatch the weapon, but he'd never learned to shoot and honestly would be as like to blow his own foot off by mistake.

“Tosser..”

A second later and Kit was sprinting after the wagon, heart pounding, the musician tearing at greatcoat buttons to give himself the freedom of movement that he knew would be needed soon.

Finally. He'd been aching for something, anything, and the adrenaline coursing through him now made everything pinpoint sharp, his vision narrowing to focus on that careening wagon. More shots rang out and he ducked automatically, not slowing, but vaguely registering the figures that pounded the cobbles beside him, firearms out as horses screamed and collapsed mid-stride.

The musician's head snapped to the side just long enough to recognise the hard and chiselled features of his favourite golly.

...Cor…good…

Someone he could count on. And…

...that wick from the Arena…

Well, he could hold his own in a fight, Kit had seen that much.

He nodded at them both in recognition, not slowing, then swore as he looked back to see the explosive leave the rider's hand. He was sure it was going to hit- but hadn't counted on the Taxman's quick thinking and quicker tongue, the monite leaving the other golly's lips crisp and precise to enfold the object and resultant explosion in a blanket of muffling force.

“Shit! Good going, old man.”

His voice was breathless and joyful, flashing a grin at his one-time mentor before focusing on the fleeing man who'd flung the offending missile.

The syllables of the Instinct spell he'd been holding in readiness spilled from his own lips, calling the Mona to send a jolt of fear strong enough to make the dwindling figure curl reflexively into a ball- and hopefully fall off that damned horse.

Well, that's what he'd hoped. Maybe it was running full pelt on uneven ground, maybe it was the cold or the shock of adrenaline, but something went awry, he could feel it.
Off Topic
@Foxing: 1d6 = (2) = 2


...sweet Lady, let it be enough… he prayed, not waiting for the result.

"Keep an eye on that one. Or lend a hand, would you?"

That was Cor, cutting through the fog, and Kit laughed, short and sharp as a gunshot.

“Fuck d'you think...I'm doing...picking daisies? He can take ...care of himself..” came the breathless reply as they drew closer to the wagon, the lanky musician ready to throw out a hand in an attempt to catch hold and swing up onto the rattling vehicle.

word count: 544
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