The first scene begins with a shot from above, following a single vulture as it sails over the Sands, clutching a sealed letter tightly in its clawed grasp. As it flies, the Narrator speaks the first lines in a gravelly tone, worn and weathered from many years on this harsh earth. "For years, this land has known one master. One man, who rules it with a fist as tight as that which he grips his money with. A dreadful man, a wonderful man. A man known as the Rail Baron." The vulture's path takes it over a wastebone, and we get a brief glimpse of a great mansion, covering every inch of the ancient skeleton. But as the vulture flaps its wings once, twice, it quickly disappears and once again there is only sand beneath. "But this man, though he hardly seems far from one, is no god. Though he is firmly ensconced within the clutches of undeath, he is mortal still. A fact that, while heavily doubted, will soon be tested. Those who seek an end to the Baron, who would see his dread reign end, are as follows." As the vulture goes, it passes through a stream of smoke emitted from a train passing below, and the shot changes, first to one of Cormac Brungir, hard at work. As each character is named, there is a brief shot of them, as a sealed letter flits down from above, dropping into their path. "A dwarf not so unlike the Baron on the surface, yet at the same time no closer to him as the stars are to the earth. An unnatural creature, a patchwork man seeking his purpose in life. A courageous warrior, a light in the darkness, yet at the same time a dread conqueror potentially as tyrannical as the land's current lord. An entertainer down on his luck, looking to find the cash to buy himself some. A creature more machine than man, seeking vengeance for the loss of the fellow Rail pirates he once worked beside. And finally a rogue gunslinger, who looks for naught in life but the thrill of the calm before the storm. These are our players in this godsforsaken game. May the worst Wasterners win." And with that, the shot finally moves to a seventh character, shrouded in shadow. As a fat cigar between the man's lips is lit, we see the mutton-chopped sillhouette of the Rail Baron's face, as he lets a somewhat jovial, somewhat sinister smile play across his wide, pale face.
Seven days ago, something very curious happened, which spread ripples throughout the Waste. Something that had never been seen before, something not even thought possible. A poster appeared on the Board. Now, this wasn't anything unusual. The Waste is no stranger to criminals, and neither is it a stranger to people with money. Those with money put a wanted poster on the Board, and the same poster appears all over the Waste. Then, those in need of said money take it, and either carry out the job or die trying. But the poster did not have the ugly mug of any old criminal scrawled upon it. Instead, it had the smiling visage of our very own Rail Baron. For whatever reason, each of you decided to take this poster seriously, and snatched it off of your town's Board. Barely a few hours later, a letter addressed to each of individually and signed with the letter M dropped from the sky, as a vulture flapped away, soon hidden by the smoky air. You were instructed to meet seven days from then at the town of Pointer, a town built on the pointing, six-fingered hand of a great humanoid skeleton. These seven days have passed, as you made your ways across the Waste, either by train or mount. Now, as the sun dips below the horizon, plunging the Waste into a slightly deeper gloom than the one it's in during the day, you sit in the Wormblood tavern wondering where your employer is. Five other people have entered at around the same time as you, each clutching a similar letter to yours, each wondering the same things as you.
Please introduce and describe your characters, and ask any questions you would like to ask about the area you find yourselves in. Let the game commence!
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
"Ignorance is bliss, and you look absolutely miserable."
This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
Immediately drawing too much attention to himself, simply by standing there, Hugeo Chromeye tries to ignore the stares he gets. He could try to sneak in unnoticed, but if he managed to do that, would his employer be able to find him? Both his eyes scan the area, but each does so separately. One brown, regular Human's eye. The other is a shiny, metallic eye, darting from angle to angle, searching for signs that a person in the place might give to identify themselves as M, or perhaps a vulture.
This man, his body - save for his head, neck, his right hand and a small part of his chest - is made of aluminium, coloured black so it won't reflect the sun's light and draw even more attention. Some parts of it are covered by leather for some extra protection. His right eye is also metallic, though it is shiny, almost like silver. No, even shinier than silver. It is otherwise colourless and looks more like a metal ball with a hole. The skin - in the few places where he still has it - is a natural complexion. His hair, which he still got, is brown. The eye that isn't metallic, the iris of it, is also brown. If one had to give him an age, he looks to be in his late twenties. His cheeks and chin are completely shaved. He carries a small backpack, and that seems to be it.
Perception, in case it matters, to find someone who might be M, or a sign from him: 14.
If he cannot see anyone after searching for a while, Hugeo will approach the bartender; perhaps they would know. He needs to be subtle though... as much as he can. "Emm..." he tries to make it sound as if he's wondering, though it is actually a question. Then, he starts to talk with the bartender about drinks. Not that he had much interest in those, as they had no effect with no flesh for the alcohol to affect. Instead, he tries to slip in a secret message, using a secret Pirates' Cant. The person behind the bar might not understand any of it, but it was worth a try. The words he's trying to hide are: "Are you M? If not, do you know where I might find them?"
Edit: In case it wasn't clear, he's trying to use Thieves' Cant, which I simply renamed to Pirates' Cant for obvious reasons.
Having already taken a seat, a pale dwarf sits muttering to himself as he messes about with a rifle or the parts of one. On the table in front of him sits a rolled out leather tool pouch, each tool meticulously placed. He seems to be to enthralled in his work to notice much else as if oblivious to his surroundings. Still if one looks close enough they would see him occasionally look a around and them pat what looked like a hound that sat next to him.
After several minutes the rifle was quickly put back together and carefully moved to lean against the table. The dwarf then sat up and whistled for the hound, metal rubbing together as it moved and blew out from where a mouth would be. If follows Cormac as the dhamphir dwarf moved to take a seat at the bar.
"What can ya tell me about this? I heard that someone is out for the blood of the baron?" He asks the bartender, putting a bit of coin on the counter.
(Will post more when I can, for now off to work I go.)
This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
A distractingly loud and raucous round of laughter comes from one well lit end of the bar where we find a tall Half-elf, with black shoulder length hair and clothed in a drab suit looking slightly too large and like it has seen better days, he relaxes into a comfortable lean as he regales a story to an amused rabble of Dwarves and Gnomes.
"... And that's when the brute came back to the table, dagger in hand and demanded another round! I looked down at the bleeding stump where his first finger had been and said, 'looks like you could do another four rounds! hahaa!"
Another round of laughter from the seemingly drunk Gnomes and Dwarves, as the Half-elf finishes the dregs of his own drink.
"Best game of five finger filet I've ever played and the winnings were that I didn't pay for another drink the whole night! Speaking of, I have many more stories to tell should you wish to hear, but I'm afraid I couldn't possibly continue with a dry throat! who would like to do the honours?
Persuasion: 24
The corners of Dusty's mouth curl into a smug smile and he wiggles his empty glass in front of him, as the collection of patrons around him shuffle uneasy, Dusty takes the time to survey his surroundings for anyone else with a letter akin to his, or any suspicious people who could be the mysterious M that drew him here.
The bartender raises an eye as Hugeo speaks a short string of gibberish, and does not seem to understand at all. He finishes polishing a glass, and sets it gently down onto the bar. "Err... what was that, again? If you're lookin' to buy a drink, it's one cent a glass, ten for a mug of some of the better stuff."
Dusty:
The patrons of the bar look amused by your little tale, but just like you have seen all over the Waste, wherever you try to bring brightness to the land, you can see the deep gloom that lurks behind their eyes. You receive a chuckle or two, however, which is at least more than you've gotten for quite a while. When you ask for a drink, however, the smiles fade, and no one seems willing to step forward. One dwarf, a table over from your place at the bar, speaks up. "I'd toss a penny to a starvin' artist, but I need to support my own art first." He tips back his glass, indicating exactly what his "art" is. Just as you're about to give up, however, a silver ten cent coin slides across the bar, deflecting off of your glass and into your lap. Looking back to its origin, you see a fair haired human with a heavy five o'clock shadow and a far less dour expression than the rest of the bar's inhabitants. "Marcus Kirk, at your service. You wouldn't happen to be 'M', would you?"
In addition to this man and the other party members, the only other notable people Dusty notices are a group of three gaudily dressed people, though their brightly colored clothes are faded and worn. They are eyeing you closely, and you notice a letter clutched in one of their hands.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
"Ignorance is bliss, and you look absolutely miserable."
The brief shot following the mention of a warrior-turned-conqueror flickered to the sandswept stones before a bone-carved building. Judging from the signs and medals dotting the outside framework, the building seemed to be of a sheriff-like, military sort.
Drags in the sands leading from the precinct showed a figure - scrawny, scraggly, dark-haired, frantic; the man's identity unimportant, save being sentenced for holding up a bank some week ago. Handcuffs prevented quick movement - as did, judging by the spattering of blood on the ground, a deep incision to one of his achilles. Panicked gasps escaped his lips as he desperately struggled to hobble away.
A figure slowly walked from the darkened door, a frenzied glint in the vaguely draconic, golden eyes. Stalking slowly, methodically - and within a few moments, and with a gurgled cry from the miserable captive, the dragonborn's sword pierced through the man's back, burying halfway to the hilt in sand below. The red-scaled dragonkind placed a boot on the man's shoulder and pulled the blade cleanly free.
Slowly, the dragonborn lifted his eyes to the people silently staring at the spectacle, shoulders heaving in wrathful breaths. Agreement shone in some of their eyes - violent justice is sometimes the norm in the wastes. Others displayed ultimate fear at the monstrous being - dragonborn tend to be rare in the wastes, and despite Isoldus's reputation of an exceedingly admirable and capable leader, to see him like this seemed to validate buried assumptions about his kind. Most took a step or two back.
Isoldus stared back. These people should be afraid of him - fear is a symptom of respect, no? Besides, his laws were fair. Nobody would miss such a criminal. Either way, they should recognize his appropriate position as a ruler - for none enforced the laws of the land more justly than him.
The tavern's creaky, wooden doors swung upon upon the arrival of Isoldus. The usual, hushed conversation buzzing through the rough-and-tumble inn momentarily ceased as the populace's attention shifts to the almost foreboding aura surrounding the figure who entered a moment before.
Many a tale has been told over desert campfires about the dragonborn - often exaggerated and misconstrued as all stories are. What needed no exaggerating, however, was the commanding presence seemingly hanging around the red-scaled being's frame. Steel almost polished to impossible levels of glamour reflected the lamps poorly illuminating the dull tavern. Slung over one shoulder, the dragonkin carried a wood-steel shield emblazoned with the symbol of a rearing dragon.
The dragonborn stood just short of seven feet in height. The combined weight of the impressively muscled frame and armor too heavy for most to wear caused the floor to groan in attestation to Isoldus's arrival. Wisps of smoke curled from the dragonborn's dragon-like snout as piercing, golden eyes narrowed over the occupants of the tavern, searching for more than just the person he arrived to meet. The figure had no skin - rather, plating of bloodred scales surrounded where the armor didn't, negating the need for any non-defensive clothing. His hands ended in claws - and he wore no shoes, instead revealing draconic legs and feet perhaps more convenient to traverse the desert sands than custom-made shoes. A sword swung lightly at the dragonborn's hip. Something about the figure's countenance implied he looked down on the use of guns; swordsmanship, to the figure, was a form of art, a precise game of skill.
The paladin's head ended in two, devilish horns on either side. A long, spined tail slowly lashed around his ankles. A look of determined, unwavering neutrality rested on the figure's expression - attempting to read the facial inflections of a dragonborn may be difficult, especially considering so few have seen one before. Regardless, the figure made two confident steps forwards, cleared his throat with another exhalation of grayish smoke, and ventured to speak, addressing all in the bar while they still took in the figure's appearance.
"I am Isoldus, a martial and enforcer of justice. Not the law, mind you - justice. A man I have only heard referred to as 'M' requested my presence. Would anyone direct me towards him?" Isoldus growled, voice a low, furnace-like rumble.
The door to the bar bangs open and a rather bizarre figure strides into the room, well over two meters tall and a couple of hundred kilos, with a pebbly greyish hide that looks faintly reptilian, he scans the room with lopsided eyes, one orange and one green, one seeming to be sliding down his face, the other sliding up. A thick leather cloak conceals most of his body, and any equipment he might be wearing, though from a leather strap hung over his left shoulder suspends a sawed off shotgun, while held carelessly in one hand, a massive iron bar almost as tall as the creature carrying it.
"Letter says come here," he says in a rough bellow. "Kronk here, who knows about this," and he waves a letter that looks familiar to the ones the others bear. Hairless, but for a white beard, Kronk's visage is not such as to put folks at ease but, there is something about him, some sense of a terrible experience carried within that softens the initial trepidation many feel when first confronted by his massive presence. There is one thing though; around his neck he wears a red-iron medallion that exudes a faint, deeply disturbing aura, for it depicts an alien horror eating itself, a figure that almost seems to writhe when not directly regarded.
"Water." He grumbled as he bellied up to the bar.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Panic is a mechanism that strengthens the gene pool.
"Don't worry, big guy," quips the bartender, "you won't find many laws 'round here. 'Course, won't find much justice neither, but that's 'sides the point." He tilts his head in the direction of Mr. Kirk, as he sets down another freshly polished glass. Strangely enough, you all notice that the number of glasses he has polished in your brief stay here vastly outnumbers the number of patrons currently present in the bar. "Ask Junior, I heard he's lookin' for the same person." Marcus briefly, but visibly scowls at the name 'Junior', though he says nothing.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
"Ignorance is bliss, and you look absolutely miserable."
"No justice?"The dragonborn folded his arms and narrowed his eyes. "I'm sure you can find honor if you look hard enough, though I suppose the sand has blinded the eyes of most." Isoldus treated the bartender to a single, curt nod in appreciation before turning towards Junior and stepping a pace or two away from the man. The wooden floors of the tavern creaked underneath Isoldus's weight.
He casted a critical once-over along the man known as Junior - sizing up combat ability by his stance, demeanor, posture, and relative sobriety. Fights are usually won before blades are drawn. "Are you Junior?" Before the man can respond, Isoldus interrupted with; "Don't bother explaining the context. Names mean nothing. You are looking for this 'M' as well, correct? Along with the others who I assume gathered here for the same purpose?"
"I-" 'Junior' starts, but is cut off quickly. "I'd rather you don't call me that. Marcus Kirk, please. I got a letter from the M person, yeah. Told me some people were comin' to Pointer, who could help me. I don't suppose you might be one of those people?"
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
"Ignorance is bliss, and you look absolutely miserable."
Dusty regarded the silver coin and snatched it up, quickly pocketing it before sliding effortlessly along the bar towards Marcus Kirk.
"seems, to me, we are both here for the same person then"
Dusty nods his head back in the direction of the three gaudily dressed people watching him, and without breaking eye contact with Marcus, he amusedly beams,
"Also seems that there's a few more here too. so what, do tell, is your motivation to take down the bar.."
Dusty's question is Interrupted by the introduction and exclamation of Isoldus.
"well well, you ever seen a lizard get that big eh? never seen one of those dragonborns before" Dusty whispers hastily to Marcus.
As Isoldus questions the barkeep and then turns his attention to Marcus, Dusty silently witnesses the conversation thus far.
"excuse me, Ahem.. Isoldus, I believe you called yourself? There seems to be quite a few of us here for the same reason, but so far this 'M' has not made themselves known, and so currently we know as much as you I'm afraid"
He then nods around the room gesturing toward the few people holding letters or noticeably waiting on something or someone, his gaze lingers confusedly upon kronk before snapping back toward both Isoldur and Marcus.
"you can call me Dusty, if it pleases.."
Dusty straightens his ill fitting suit and stretches out a hand expectantly for a shake.
This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
"Nevermind. None of your drinks can interest me now. My drinking days are long gone." Hugeo responds to the bartender. Though he got no information from this person, it seems the bar is gradually becoming crowded, and to his discomfort, with some big-figured men who take most of the space, as well as a law-man. Better not draw more attention than usual. He thinks about his position for a moment. It is strange to enter a bad and drink nothing, and some might not appreciate it. Unfortunate, but Hugeo sees no point in spending his cents on drinks. Hopefully, this M will come before matters get heated. Though he does not join their conversation, and seemingly ignores the rowdy bunch on the stools next to him, his metallic eye turns in their direction, watching them separately from the other eye. Meanwhile, the other eye looks down to the letter in his hand. Perhaps he missed something there, a clue to the next step? After all, there are so many people with letters here. He doubts this M is going to pay all of them. Hugeo opens his letter and reads again. Could he have missed something the first time he read it?
Finally, one more person pushes open the door. Entering the pub is a tall and lanky, but nevertheless wirily looking human figure. Having a revolver spinning around his finger one, two times before holstering it, he stops for a moment and, with his 3yes still closed, halts right in front of the door.
The human's clad in a long, brown leather coat flopping losely down the sides. Underneath the coat he wears simple looking leather armour that shows signs of extensive use. Fingerless gloves and a classic cowboy hat made from the same, mundane brown leather round up his appearance. All his gear is in quite the state, having been worn and used excessively, but somehow not a piece shows any signs of dirt.
He draws deeply on a cigar while the doors fall shut behind him, exhales and opens his eyes. A patchy beard covers part of his face, dirty bits of hair escape from underneath his hat here and there. A single coin made of some red-black metal dangles down his neck, held up by a leather shoelace strung through a whole that had obviously been shot right through the centre. His grey eyes scan the room, finally resting on the spectacle arising around the impressive dragonborne. Then, he finds the bartender.
Taking another hit of the cigar, he paces over to the counter, the hilts of his leather boots causing the wooden planks to creak. The thingling of metal on metal can be heard as he puts some coins on the counter under the palm of his hand. He slumps down on a barstool and turns around. A moment later, a foaming glass lands on the counter on his right - the usual. Grabbing the handle with his right, he takes a gulp and seizes up the interior once again. This time not failing to notice the construct and the patchwork creature, he puffs and blows for a moment, visibly taken by surprise, but not giving away any other emotion on his face. He quickly regains his composure and, as he puts down the ale again, produces a letter in the same hand. He turns back to the small crowd around the dragonborn and waves the letter in the air. "You lot here for the Baron ay? Found M yet? He has a wide grin on his face as he ends, but somehow the smiling gesture is not reflected in his eyes. Instead, the grin seems manic, almost hungry to an extent.
"Marcus,"The Dragonborn assertively nodded. Some may call him a tyrant, others call him cruel - none can't say he had his manners. "If only for clarity, I was summoned under the pretense a man named 'M' was waiting for us, though in reality I was called to aid you?" The Dragonborn's tone remained difficult to read. He seemed equally as interested to aid Marcus as he seemed apprehensively reprimanding.
Upon Dusty's words, Isoldus's steely glare glanced towards the man introducing himself as Dusty. By the time Dusty's hand reached out to shake, Isoldus's powerful claw met the man's hand, shaking with formidable, controlled strength in a practiced, confident manner. "I am sure you heard my introduction, Dusty." Isoldus's golden eyes met the man, analyzing his stance and demeanor with the practice of a general sizing up soldiers.
As the gunslinger's entrance sounded, Isoldus's gaze continues to swivel towards the cowboy-like man. A nearly imperceptible smirk played over the dragonborn's snout - Isoldus had little respect for the ostentatious wielders of firearms. While Isoldus respected the power of firearms, he could never bring himself to truly respect those who use them over the more traditional forms of weaponry. Perhaps the draconic aspect of him still clung to tradition. "We have not found an 'M', and my suspicion grows we never will."
Regardless, Isoldus held up a clawed hand, scales on his palm riddled with scars and roughed-over blemishes accustomed to swordfighting. He momentarily stepped towards the three gaudily dressed strangers, bought his shield to his side, and treated them to a customary bow, spined tail lashing outwards to act as a necessary counterbalance against his weight. "You three seem to be in the know. Have you heard of an 'M', or a possible reason for this gathering?" he rumbled, eyeing each individually.
Marcus shrugs, taking another swig from his glass. "Look, I'm about as much in the know as the rest of you. I just got the letter that told me y'all could help. And speakin' of that, if you'll hear me out, I do got a bit of an issue I could use some help with. And if this 'M' fella's to be believed, you might be interested. It's..." He leans in, casting a conspiratorial glance around the room. "It's related to the Baron." He then returns to nursing his drink, waiting for a response.
As Isoldus then addresses the three costumed people, the one clutching the letter speaks. While her clothing might suggest otherwise, her voice has the same twang and her face the same jaded expression of any other Wasterner. "Well... we got a letter too, from the 'M' guy you're talkin' of. Leader of the troupe had us turn right 'round and head here to Pointer. Thought it was real important, I guess. Anyways, he told us to be lookin' out for folks like you, clutchin' letters like you got. Told us to bring you back to the Cirque. We ain't parked a hundred feet off of the town, shouldn't be much of a journey if you're willin' to come along."
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
"Ignorance is bliss, and you look absolutely miserable."
As Dusty's hand is released from the large grasping talon of Isoldus' handshake, he watches on in some stunned shock as he listens to the interaction between the Gaudily dressed people and Isoldus' gravelly questioning, Dusty interjects,
"now why would anyone wanna leave just now? not knowing anything about why we're all here, if the baron situation is involved you gotta admit the rewards are likely plentiful, What's the betting that any one of us here wouldn't wanna take care of some of the competition early, eh?"
Dusty settles back into a barstool and remembers what Marcus had spoken on before, quickly turning around he attempts to resume the conversation,
"so what's your beef with the Baron, Eh? and what's this issue thing you need help with?"
Kronk turns from the bar, "Kronk knows only what the letter spoke, felt need being here most strong. Hoping smashing dead-not-dead to being dust." His weird eyes glitter with obvious hatred so strongly one is tempted to step back from its intensity. "M no matters if joke or trick if can be doing that." He looks around the bar and then bellows, "WHO KNOWS M, THIS LETTER WRITER!" And he waves the letter, delicately held between two very large fingers, each ending with stubby, but sharp, talons. "Am waiting first step, waiting journeys beginning." Kronk's voice resembles the sound of gravel being dumped on a reverberating metal surface.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Panic is a mechanism that strengthens the gene pool.
The costumed woman looks somewhat taken aback at your words. "We don't want anything to do with that bounty. That's bad business. We're just performers, we don't want to be tied up in any of that. Lord Arc just wants to meet you, is all."
Marcus, on the other hand, looks as if he very much wants to be tied up in all of that as he speaks. "It's my sister, Irene. The Baron... The Baron's taken a bit of an interest in her. He's been comin' here himself, every night, tryin' to woo her. She wants nothin' of it, but that's not stoppin' him. I want to try and bring her out of this town, hide her away somewhere else, out of his reach. Somewhere farther from his mansion than Pointer."
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
"Ignorance is bliss, and you look absolutely miserable."
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Seven days ago, something very curious happened, which spread ripples throughout the Waste. Something that had never been seen before, something not even thought possible. A poster appeared on the Board. Now, this wasn't anything unusual. The Waste is no stranger to criminals, and neither is it a stranger to people with money. Those with money put a wanted poster on the Board, and the same poster appears all over the Waste. Then, those in need of said money take it, and either carry out the job or die trying. But the poster did not have the ugly mug of any old criminal scrawled upon it. Instead, it had the smiling visage of our very own Rail Baron. For whatever reason, each of you decided to take this poster seriously, and snatched it off of your town's Board. Barely a few hours later, a letter addressed to each of individually and signed with the letter M dropped from the sky, as a vulture flapped away, soon hidden by the smoky air. You were instructed to meet seven days from then at the town of Pointer, a town built on the pointing, six-fingered hand of a great humanoid skeleton. These seven days have passed, as you made your ways across the Waste, either by train or mount. Now, as the sun dips below the horizon, plunging the Waste into a slightly deeper gloom than the one it's in during the day, you sit in the Wormblood tavern wondering where your employer is. Five other people have entered at around the same time as you, each clutching a similar letter to yours, each wondering the same things as you.
Please introduce and describe your characters, and ask any questions you would like to ask about the area you find yourselves in. Let the game commence!
"Ignorance is bliss, and you look absolutely miserable."
Immediately drawing too much attention to himself, simply by standing there, Hugeo Chromeye tries to ignore the stares he gets. He could try to sneak in unnoticed, but if he managed to do that, would his employer be able to find him? Both his eyes scan the area, but each does so separately. One brown, regular Human's eye. The other is a shiny, metallic eye, darting from angle to angle, searching for signs that a person in the place might give to identify themselves as M, or perhaps a vulture.
This man, his body - save for his head, neck, his right hand and a small part of his chest - is made of aluminium, coloured black so it won't reflect the sun's light and draw even more attention. Some parts of it are covered by leather for some extra protection. His right eye is also metallic, though it is shiny, almost like silver. No, even shinier than silver. It is otherwise colourless and looks more like a metal ball with a hole. The skin - in the few places where he still has it - is a natural complexion. His hair, which he still got, is brown. The eye that isn't metallic, the iris of it, is also brown. If one had to give him an age, he looks to be in his late twenties. His cheeks and chin are completely shaved. He carries a small backpack, and that seems to be it.
Perception, in case it matters, to find someone who might be M, or a sign from him: 14.
If he cannot see anyone after searching for a while, Hugeo will approach the bartender; perhaps they would know. He needs to be subtle though... as much as he can. "Emm..." he tries to make it sound as if he's wondering, though it is actually a question. Then, he starts to talk with the bartender about drinks. Not that he had much interest in those, as they had no effect with no flesh for the alcohol to affect. Instead, he tries to slip in a secret message, using a secret Pirates' Cant. The person behind the bar might not understand any of it, but it was worth a try. The words he's trying to hide are: "Are you M? If not, do you know where I might find them?"
Edit: In case it wasn't clear, he's trying to use Thieves' Cant, which I simply renamed to Pirates' Cant for obvious reasons.
Varielky | Emma
Having already taken a seat, a pale dwarf sits muttering to himself as he messes about with a rifle or the parts of one. On the table in front of him sits a rolled out leather tool pouch, each tool meticulously placed. He seems to be to enthralled in his work to notice much else as if oblivious to his surroundings. Still if one looks close enough they would see him occasionally look a around and them pat what looked like a hound that sat next to him.
After several minutes the rifle was quickly put back together and carefully moved to lean against the table. The dwarf then sat up and whistled for the hound, metal rubbing together as it moved and blew out from where a mouth would be. If follows Cormac as the dhamphir dwarf moved to take a seat at the bar.
"What can ya tell me about this? I heard that someone is out for the blood of the baron?" He asks the bartender, putting a bit of coin on the counter.
(Will post more when I can, for now off to work I go.)
Rekuberk Onc Level 8 | Half Orc | Barbarian (The Tales of the Fellowship of the White Cloaks)
Kayassa Level 3 | Satyr | Warlock (Cleath13's LMoP)
Bertolt Silentlash Level 3 | Variant Human | Bard (Our Little Lives Kept in Equipoise: Death House)
Daerthe Narcion Level 4 | Drow | Rogue (Karmoli's Great Upheaval)
A distractingly loud and raucous round of laughter comes from one well lit end of the bar where we find a tall Half-elf, with black shoulder length hair and clothed in a drab suit looking slightly too large and like it has seen better days, he relaxes into a comfortable lean as he regales a story to an amused rabble of Dwarves and Gnomes.
"... And that's when the brute came back to the table, dagger in hand and demanded another round! I looked down at the bleeding stump where his first finger had been and said, 'looks like you could do another four rounds! hahaa!"
Another round of laughter from the seemingly drunk Gnomes and Dwarves, as the Half-elf finishes the dregs of his own drink.
"Best game of five finger filet I've ever played and the winnings were that I didn't pay for another drink the whole night! Speaking of, I have many more stories to tell should you wish to hear, but I'm afraid I couldn't possibly continue with a dry throat! who would like to do the honours?
Persuasion: 24
The corners of Dusty's mouth curl into a smug smile and he wiggles his empty glass in front of him, as the collection of patrons around him shuffle uneasy, Dusty takes the time to survey his surroundings for anyone else with a letter akin to his, or any suspicious people who could be the mysterious M that drew him here.
Perception: 17
Travin Tiller, Junk Dweller Bard, AURYN.
The Ironmaiden, Questionable Artificer, Descent into Avernus.
DM, Peacekeepers of Northmorrah
Hugeo:
The bartender raises an eye as Hugeo speaks a short string of gibberish, and does not seem to understand at all. He finishes polishing a glass, and sets it gently down onto the bar.
"Err... what was that, again? If you're lookin' to buy a drink, it's one cent a glass, ten for a mug of some of the better stuff."
Dusty:
The patrons of the bar look amused by your little tale, but just like you have seen all over the Waste, wherever you try to bring brightness to the land, you can see the deep gloom that lurks behind their eyes. You receive a chuckle or two, however, which is at least more than you've gotten for quite a while. When you ask for a drink, however, the smiles fade, and no one seems willing to step forward. One dwarf, a table over from your place at the bar, speaks up.
"I'd toss a penny to a starvin' artist, but I need to support my own art first."
He tips back his glass, indicating exactly what his "art" is. Just as you're about to give up, however, a silver ten cent coin slides across the bar, deflecting off of your glass and into your lap. Looking back to its origin, you see a fair haired human with a heavy five o'clock shadow and a far less dour expression than the rest of the bar's inhabitants.
"Marcus Kirk, at your service. You wouldn't happen to be 'M', would you?"
In addition to this man and the other party members, the only other notable people Dusty notices are a group of three gaudily dressed people, though their brightly colored clothes are faded and worn. They are eyeing you closely, and you notice a letter clutched in one of their hands.
"Ignorance is bliss, and you look absolutely miserable."
Isoldus - Opening Scene:
The brief shot following the mention of a warrior-turned-conqueror flickered to the sandswept stones before a bone-carved building. Judging from the signs and medals dotting the outside framework, the building seemed to be of a sheriff-like, military sort.
Drags in the sands leading from the precinct showed a figure - scrawny, scraggly, dark-haired, frantic; the man's identity unimportant, save being sentenced for holding up a bank some week ago. Handcuffs prevented quick movement - as did, judging by the spattering of blood on the ground, a deep incision to one of his achilles. Panicked gasps escaped his lips as he desperately struggled to hobble away.
A figure slowly walked from the darkened door, a frenzied glint in the vaguely draconic, golden eyes. Stalking slowly, methodically - and within a few moments, and with a gurgled cry from the miserable captive, the dragonborn's sword pierced through the man's back, burying halfway to the hilt in sand below. The red-scaled dragonkind placed a boot on the man's shoulder and pulled the blade cleanly free.
Slowly, the dragonborn lifted his eyes to the people silently staring at the spectacle, shoulders heaving in wrathful breaths. Agreement shone in some of their eyes - violent justice is sometimes the norm in the wastes. Others displayed ultimate fear at the monstrous being - dragonborn tend to be rare in the wastes, and despite Isoldus's reputation of an exceedingly admirable and capable leader, to see him like this seemed to validate buried assumptions about his kind. Most took a step or two back.
Isoldus stared back. These people should be afraid of him - fear is a symptom of respect, no? Besides, his laws were fair. Nobody would miss such a criminal. Either way, they should recognize his appropriate position as a ruler - for none enforced the laws of the land more justly than him.
The tavern's creaky, wooden doors swung upon upon the arrival of Isoldus. The usual, hushed conversation buzzing through the rough-and-tumble inn momentarily ceased as the populace's attention shifts to the almost foreboding aura surrounding the figure who entered a moment before.
Many a tale has been told over desert campfires about the dragonborn - often exaggerated and misconstrued as all stories are. What needed no exaggerating, however, was the commanding presence seemingly hanging around the red-scaled being's frame. Steel almost polished to impossible levels of glamour reflected the lamps poorly illuminating the dull tavern. Slung over one shoulder, the dragonkin carried a wood-steel shield emblazoned with the symbol of a rearing dragon.
The dragonborn stood just short of seven feet in height. The combined weight of the impressively muscled frame and armor too heavy for most to wear caused the floor to groan in attestation to Isoldus's arrival. Wisps of smoke curled from the dragonborn's dragon-like snout as piercing, golden eyes narrowed over the occupants of the tavern, searching for more than just the person he arrived to meet. The figure had no skin - rather, plating of bloodred scales surrounded where the armor didn't, negating the need for any non-defensive clothing. His hands ended in claws - and he wore no shoes, instead revealing draconic legs and feet perhaps more convenient to traverse the desert sands than custom-made shoes. A sword swung lightly at the dragonborn's hip. Something about the figure's countenance implied he looked down on the use of guns; swordsmanship, to the figure, was a form of art, a precise game of skill.
The paladin's head ended in two, devilish horns on either side. A long, spined tail slowly lashed around his ankles. A look of determined, unwavering neutrality rested on the figure's expression - attempting to read the facial inflections of a dragonborn may be difficult, especially considering so few have seen one before. Regardless, the figure made two confident steps forwards, cleared his throat with another exhalation of grayish smoke, and ventured to speak, addressing all in the bar while they still took in the figure's appearance.
"I am Isoldus, a martial and enforcer of justice. Not the law, mind you - justice. A man I have only heard referred to as 'M' requested my presence. Would anyone direct me towards him?" Isoldus growled, voice a low, furnace-like rumble.
The door to the bar bangs open and a rather bizarre figure strides into the room, well over two meters tall and a couple of hundred kilos, with a pebbly greyish hide that looks faintly reptilian, he scans the room with lopsided eyes, one orange and one green, one seeming to be sliding down his face, the other sliding up. A thick leather cloak conceals most of his body, and any equipment he might be wearing, though from a leather strap hung over his left shoulder suspends a sawed off shotgun, while held carelessly in one hand, a massive iron bar almost as tall as the creature carrying it.
"Letter says come here," he says in a rough bellow. "Kronk here, who knows about this," and he waves a letter that looks familiar to the ones the others bear. Hairless, but for a white beard, Kronk's visage is not such as to put folks at ease but, there is something about him, some sense of a terrible experience carried within that softens the initial trepidation many feel when first confronted by his massive presence. There is one thing though; around his neck he wears a red-iron medallion that exudes a faint, deeply disturbing aura, for it depicts an alien horror eating itself, a figure that almost seems to writhe when not directly regarded.
"Water." He grumbled as he bellied up to the bar.
Panic is a mechanism that strengthens the gene pool.
Isoldus:
"Don't worry, big guy," quips the bartender, "you won't find many laws 'round here. 'Course, won't find much justice neither, but that's 'sides the point."
He tilts his head in the direction of Mr. Kirk, as he sets down another freshly polished glass. Strangely enough, you all notice that the number of glasses he has polished in your brief stay here vastly outnumbers the number of patrons currently present in the bar.
"Ask Junior, I heard he's lookin' for the same person."
Marcus briefly, but visibly scowls at the name 'Junior', though he says nothing.
"Ignorance is bliss, and you look absolutely miserable."
Kronk:
The bartender, upon receiving your request, pours a foaming glass, and curtly drops it onto the bar before you.
"No water here. That'll be a penny."
"Ignorance is bliss, and you look absolutely miserable."
"No justice?" The dragonborn folded his arms and narrowed his eyes. "I'm sure you can find honor if you look hard enough, though I suppose the sand has blinded the eyes of most." Isoldus treated the bartender to a single, curt nod in appreciation before turning towards Junior and stepping a pace or two away from the man. The wooden floors of the tavern creaked underneath Isoldus's weight.
He casted a critical once-over along the man known as Junior - sizing up combat ability by his stance, demeanor, posture, and relative sobriety. Fights are usually won before blades are drawn. "Are you Junior?" Before the man can respond, Isoldus interrupted with; "Don't bother explaining the context. Names mean nothing. You are looking for this 'M' as well, correct? Along with the others who I assume gathered here for the same purpose?"
Isoldus:
"I-" 'Junior' starts, but is cut off quickly. "I'd rather you don't call me that. Marcus Kirk, please. I got a letter from the M person, yeah. Told me some people were comin' to Pointer, who could help me. I don't suppose you might be one of those people?"
"Ignorance is bliss, and you look absolutely miserable."
Dusty regarded the silver coin and snatched it up, quickly pocketing it before sliding effortlessly along the bar towards Marcus Kirk.
"seems, to me, we are both here for the same person then"
Dusty nods his head back in the direction of the three gaudily dressed people watching him, and without breaking eye contact with Marcus, he amusedly beams,
"Also seems that there's a few more here too. so what, do tell, is your motivation to take down the bar.."
Dusty's question is Interrupted by the introduction and exclamation of Isoldus.
"well well, you ever seen a lizard get that big eh? never seen one of those dragonborns before" Dusty whispers hastily to Marcus.
As Isoldus questions the barkeep and then turns his attention to Marcus, Dusty silently witnesses the conversation thus far.
"excuse me, Ahem.. Isoldus, I believe you called yourself? There seems to be quite a few of us here for the same reason, but so far this 'M' has not made themselves known, and so currently we know as much as you I'm afraid"
He then nods around the room gesturing toward the few people holding letters or noticeably waiting on something or someone, his gaze lingers confusedly upon kronk before snapping back toward both Isoldur and Marcus.
"you can call me Dusty, if it pleases.."
Dusty straightens his ill fitting suit and stretches out a hand expectantly for a shake.
Travin Tiller, Junk Dweller Bard, AURYN.
The Ironmaiden, Questionable Artificer, Descent into Avernus.
DM, Peacekeepers of Northmorrah
"Nevermind. None of your drinks can interest me now. My drinking days are long gone." Hugeo responds to the bartender.
Though he got no information from this person, it seems the bar is gradually becoming crowded, and to his discomfort, with some big-figured men who take most of the space, as well as a law-man. Better not draw more attention than usual.
He thinks about his position for a moment. It is strange to enter a bad and drink nothing, and some might not appreciate it. Unfortunate, but Hugeo sees no point in spending his cents on drinks. Hopefully, this M will come before matters get heated.
Though he does not join their conversation, and seemingly ignores the rowdy bunch on the stools next to him, his metallic eye turns in their direction, watching them separately from the other eye.
Meanwhile, the other eye looks down to the letter in his hand. Perhaps he missed something there, a clue to the next step? After all, there are so many people with letters here. He doubts this M is going to pay all of them. Hugeo opens his letter and reads again. Could he have missed something the first time he read it?
Investigation, if it matters: 5.
Varielky | Emma
Finally, one more person pushes open the door. Entering the pub is a tall and lanky, but nevertheless wirily looking human figure. Having a revolver spinning around his finger one, two times before holstering it, he stops for a moment and, with his 3yes still closed, halts right in front of the door.
The human's clad in a long, brown leather coat flopping losely down the sides. Underneath the coat he wears simple looking leather armour that shows signs of extensive use. Fingerless gloves and a classic cowboy hat made from the same, mundane brown leather round up his appearance. All his gear is in quite the state, having been worn and used excessively, but somehow not a piece shows any signs of dirt.
He draws deeply on a cigar while the doors fall shut behind him, exhales and opens his eyes. A patchy beard covers part of his face, dirty bits of hair escape from underneath his hat here and there. A single coin made of some red-black metal dangles down his neck, held up by a leather shoelace strung through a whole that had obviously been shot right through the centre. His grey eyes scan the room, finally resting on the spectacle arising around the impressive dragonborne. Then, he finds the bartender.
Taking another hit of the cigar, he paces over to the counter, the hilts of his leather boots causing the wooden planks to creak. The thingling of metal on metal can be heard as he puts some coins on the counter under the palm of his hand. He slumps down on a barstool and turns around. A moment later, a foaming glass lands on the counter on his right - the usual. Grabbing the handle with his right, he takes a gulp and seizes up the interior once again. This time not failing to notice the construct and the patchwork creature, he puffs and blows for a moment, visibly taken by surprise, but not giving away any other emotion on his face. He quickly regains his composure and, as he puts down the ale again, produces a letter in the same hand. He turns back to the small crowd around the dragonborn and waves the letter in the air. "You lot here for the Baron ay? Found M yet? He has a wide grin on his face as he ends, but somehow the smiling gesture is not reflected in his eyes. Instead, the grin seems manic, almost hungry to an extent.
Hugeo:
The letter says as follows:
"Ignorance is bliss, and you look absolutely miserable."
"Marcus," The Dragonborn assertively nodded. Some may call him a tyrant, others call him cruel - none can't say he had his manners. "If only for clarity, I was summoned under the pretense a man named 'M' was waiting for us, though in reality I was called to aid you?" The Dragonborn's tone remained difficult to read. He seemed equally as interested to aid Marcus as he seemed apprehensively reprimanding.
Upon Dusty's words, Isoldus's steely glare glanced towards the man introducing himself as Dusty. By the time Dusty's hand reached out to shake, Isoldus's powerful claw met the man's hand, shaking with formidable, controlled strength in a practiced, confident manner. "I am sure you heard my introduction, Dusty." Isoldus's golden eyes met the man, analyzing his stance and demeanor with the practice of a general sizing up soldiers.
As the gunslinger's entrance sounded, Isoldus's gaze continues to swivel towards the cowboy-like man. A nearly imperceptible smirk played over the dragonborn's snout - Isoldus had little respect for the ostentatious wielders of firearms. While Isoldus respected the power of firearms, he could never bring himself to truly respect those who use them over the more traditional forms of weaponry. Perhaps the draconic aspect of him still clung to tradition. "We have not found an 'M', and my suspicion grows we never will."
Regardless, Isoldus held up a clawed hand, scales on his palm riddled with scars and roughed-over blemishes accustomed to swordfighting. He momentarily stepped towards the three gaudily dressed strangers, bought his shield to his side, and treated them to a customary bow, spined tail lashing outwards to act as a necessary counterbalance against his weight. "You three seem to be in the know. Have you heard of an 'M', or a possible reason for this gathering?" he rumbled, eyeing each individually.
Isoldus:
Marcus shrugs, taking another swig from his glass.
"Look, I'm about as much in the know as the rest of you. I just got the letter that told me y'all could help. And speakin' of that, if you'll hear me out, I do got a bit of an issue I could use some help with. And if this 'M' fella's to be believed, you might be interested. It's..."
He leans in, casting a conspiratorial glance around the room.
"It's related to the Baron."
He then returns to nursing his drink, waiting for a response.
As Isoldus then addresses the three costumed people, the one clutching the letter speaks. While her clothing might suggest otherwise, her voice has the same twang and her face the same jaded expression of any other Wasterner.
"Well... we got a letter too, from the 'M' guy you're talkin' of. Leader of the troupe had us turn right 'round and head here to Pointer. Thought it was real important, I guess. Anyways, he told us to be lookin' out for folks like you, clutchin' letters like you got. Told us to bring you back to the Cirque. We ain't parked a hundred feet off of the town, shouldn't be much of a journey if you're willin' to come along."
"Ignorance is bliss, and you look absolutely miserable."
As Dusty's hand is released from the large grasping talon of Isoldus' handshake, he watches on in some stunned shock as he listens to the interaction between the Gaudily dressed people and Isoldus' gravelly questioning, Dusty interjects,
"now why would anyone wanna leave just now? not knowing anything about why we're all here, if the baron situation is involved you gotta admit the rewards are likely plentiful, What's the betting that any one of us here wouldn't wanna take care of some of the competition early, eh?"
Dusty settles back into a barstool and remembers what Marcus had spoken on before, quickly turning around he attempts to resume the conversation,
"so what's your beef with the Baron, Eh? and what's this issue thing you need help with?"
Travin Tiller, Junk Dweller Bard, AURYN.
The Ironmaiden, Questionable Artificer, Descent into Avernus.
DM, Peacekeepers of Northmorrah
Kronk turns from the bar, "Kronk knows only what the letter spoke, felt need being here most strong. Hoping smashing dead-not-dead to being dust." His weird eyes glitter with obvious hatred so strongly one is tempted to step back from its intensity. "M no matters if joke or trick if can be doing that." He looks around the bar and then bellows, "WHO KNOWS M, THIS LETTER WRITER!" And he waves the letter, delicately held between two very large fingers, each ending with stubby, but sharp, talons. "Am waiting first step, waiting journeys beginning." Kronk's voice resembles the sound of gravel being dumped on a reverberating metal surface.
Panic is a mechanism that strengthens the gene pool.
Dusty:
The costumed woman looks somewhat taken aback at your words.
"We don't want anything to do with that bounty. That's bad business. We're just performers, we don't want to be tied up in any of that. Lord Arc just wants to meet you, is all."
Marcus, on the other hand, looks as if he very much wants to be tied up in all of that as he speaks.
"It's my sister, Irene. The Baron... The Baron's taken a bit of an interest in her. He's been comin' here himself, every night, tryin' to woo her. She wants nothin' of it, but that's not stoppin' him. I want to try and bring her out of this town, hide her away somewhere else, out of his reach. Somewhere farther from his mansion than Pointer."
"Ignorance is bliss, and you look absolutely miserable."