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 Ramona 21/26 HP; 5/11 XP; 3 Armor Ramona turns her hearing down a little so she can concentrate on what she's scanning. When the sword's thrown away and the ineffectual hitting starts, she continues to scan while grappling the elf's scabbard and pressing it into its owner's hands, also a way of pushing her back. She says something in Elvish, then shifts back to Common, "You should hang on to this--watch your back, whatever happens." It's a callback to what the drat bard had said to her earlier, back before apparently three hundred years of innocence had to come to an end. Made sense though. Lot of lucky people lived long, lucky lives, where the worst things that happened were inconveniences, setbacks, predictable failures, embarrassments. That was what it was like to start out with a giant family of immortals and to take a profession all about traveling the world, meeting people and trading songs. The currency of love. No matter where you ended up, you could just sing for your supper. Not everyone had it so safe. The epithets get louder, so Ramona turns up her amp so her steely voice can stand up to the bard's ability to project her profanity. She speaks Elvish, in the hopes that it'd matter. "You didn't see everything I did. You wouldn't be doing what you're doing if you really thought I just shoot randomly at anything that annoys me, defies me. But I can't afford to rely on my reflexes to keep evr--me alive. I have to use my brain, evaluate the risks. I can't afford to place infinite value on just anyone's life. I have to save that for people who matter."
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Mar 3, 2016 15:33
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Serenity HP 18/18 | Armor 2 | Load 4/9 | XP 6/10 "You don't have the right to make that decision! You don't get to decide who matters!" Letting go of the armor, Serenity dropped back to the deck and stared angrily at the armored giant. Her hand ached from the blows but she would not give Ramona the satisfaction of showing it. She stood there, breathing heavily, fists clenched so tightly her already pale skin was turning stark white. She wanted, for a brief moment, to say something. She knew the bounty hunter well enough to have an idea what she was about, and on the tip of her tongue was any number of heartless, cutting remarks. Things that could wound even through all that steel. But what purpose would that serve? She would get to feel smugly satisfied for a moment, and then spend the rest of her life regretting that she had been that cruel. There were regrets enough in her past without adding more to them. So she bit her tongue and closed her eyes, waiting for the fury to pass. At last, she opened her eyes again and there was only a sad elven woman. "Life never stops hurting. Gods willing, you have millennia of it ahead of you. And in the course of all those long years, absolutely nothing will ever be certain. You will never stop having to 'evaluate the risks'." She wanted to continue, to try and say something that would make the woman reevaluate her choices, but there was nothing. Words were just words. As pointless and cruel as Oliver's death was from her perspective, Ramona had her reasons. Serenity felt very tired all of a sudden, the adrenaline fading and leaving only fatigue and heartache in its wake. "I am sorry for whatever happened to you that made killing the Captain the right choice. I would take your pain upon myself, if I could. But I could not do that for my children, and I cannot do it for you." With that, she turned and made her way to the stairs heading below deck, silently hoping things had gone better there.
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Mar 3, 2016 18:27
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Ramona 21/26 HP; 5/11 XP; 3 Armor gently caress you and your played out past-swap, guilt-absolving redemption fantasy, Ramona thinks to herself, not wanting to chance it against the elf's hearing or her mic toggle with the faulty light. It's a good thing the lights hide her sneering face. The inane apology, and "if only it had been me" were never more than empty words. Slaves and freewomen heard them time and time again from the privileged ignoramus attempting a grand gesture of sympathy. All they really wanted to do was ease their guilty conscience, not help you, not even listen to you. Listening hurt them, and their present and future pain was more important than yours. So all you get is them wishing the impossible, whose subtext wasn't even "I love you and am ashamed that the world, my people and I failed you," it was "I hate what you have become as a result of the suffering you survived and adapted to, I could have recovered into a real, whole person, dealt with it better." Only a doormat thanked them for such a "gift." Not Ramona, she just continues her scan, back to the bard, comments on the unsolicited lecture, and answers the implied question: "I already know all that poo poo. But I'll tell you what happened to me: I grew up!" Interfere: 2d6 8 feel my pain, feel it! 
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Mar 3, 2016 22:29
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PADRE For a few glorious moments, you hold in your hand a blaze of mighty and indefatigable solar glory, lighting up this room so bright and stark that all nearby is but a black-paper outline against that magnificent and unbearable light. Paint blisters and smokes. Crusts of ice bubble and plume steam. Shadows fling themselves knife-edged away from you in all directions. The crew shrink back and cover their eyes; the zombies nearby react as though you’d thrown boiling acid at their faces - but you, as befits your status as a Lantern, are unblinded and unburnt. For the two seconds or so before your will slips, anyway. There’s a good reason that creature Tutresiel feels off - that the stars it wields have that alien and hostile flavor to the light they cast. That’s because they are alien -- as cold and distant as those that light up the night, uncaring and aloof. Not so your own light; your own Mote - and buddy, maybe you should’ve thought twice before browbeating THE SUN when you’re standing next to all this extremely flammable fuel. The bottom drops out of your stomach as realization dawns - you were never in control at all. Not even for a moment. The light merely suffered its smallest cousin to play at chaining it for a while. What you held there in your hand was all that your joined wills are capable of holding in check…and you know now with awful certainty that all the Sun need do to sear you, and this ship, and a few square miles of ocean to cinders and ash is simply open its mouth and YELL. Mote’s as panicked as you are, fortunately - and slams shut the connection before any more than the barest hint of solar displeasure can pass through. But even that much is enough to inflate your little light like a red-hot party balloon! He swells alarmingly and bursts from your hand, roiling with barely contained pressure - and look out, he’s about to blow! Collateral damage is certain. It’s too late to stop this from happening, but you can at least vent him in whatever direction you want the pressure release to go -- tell us where that is, and what or who is in the way. If anybody’s in the way they take your damage, ignoring armor. What do you do? quote:You command the light to attack – temporarily blind or stun a group within Near range.  01 You contemptuously kick aside another rotting softskin and prepare to give it a decisive re-deathblow. A slithering sound from behind - the two you carved so beautifully yet lurch onward, hungry for your silicon brains. One pulls itself towards you with hands alone, torso tangled in its own guts; another totters forwards on the sliced stumps of three limbs and a leg. The third reaches up to embrace you as well, and !!!!******>--> s�D�!욈=��`:$ > Noetic::Optical::BufferOverflowException: afferent thread at <0x00001787a20> received SIGABRT, restarting... Your eye went out! You’re stunned! Your other senses are okay, though. What do you do? THRASH 01 got the zombie off you, but you’re still stunned! What do you do? EVERYBODY ELSE Your stuff is coming as time permits. Keep on  ing and it should be up soon. 
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Mar 4, 2016 04:55
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Serenity HP 18/18 | Armor 2 | Load 4/9 | XP 7/10 "Grew up into what, exactly?" Serenity shook her head. "I'm not going to stand here and feed your persecution complex, Ramona. I've heard this story more times than I can count. Lived it, too. You don't have a monopoly on sorrow. Just on refusing to move past it." She continued warily down into the depths of the ship. She glanced around to get an idea of what the situation was, and if there was anything she could do to improve it. Apparently Thrash was causing some trouble, as if there weren't enough problems to go around. Her head wasn't in the right space for it, though. Ramona's merciless execution of Captain Price weighed on her. It had been beyond her control, yet she still felt responsible somehow. She could forgive the bounty hunter for it, but she would never be able to forget it. Discern Realities: 2d6-2 6 Shardix fucked around with this message at 05:22 on Mar 4, 2016 |
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Mar 4, 2016 05:09
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01 HP: 18/25 | Armor 3/3 | XP 5/10 | -1WIS !!!!******>--> s�D�!욈=��`:$ > Noetic::Optical::BufferOverflowException: afferent thread at <0x00001787a20> received SIGABRT, restarting... Optics... NULL FEED ...processing... 3 targets. Target designate 1: the thump-thump-sploosh of a torso dragging itself. Target designate 2: pressure sensors informing me I am being grappled. Target designate 3: unable to discern target between background noise and other softskin-...non-viable targets. I allocate extra processing to my other sensors, attempting to build a coherent sense of what's happening. Defy Danger INT 7 But there's too much going on, too many sources of sound: feet stomping, objects being slammed and kicked and dragged and thrown, zombies groaning, people shouting and screaming, one of the softskins is even praying. The wall of sound in this very enclosed room renders me even more blind. Error 404 fucked around with this message at 06:09 on Mar 4, 2016 |
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Mar 4, 2016 06:02
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RAMONA Your spotlight’s not much use in this drat fog. Hardly goes out twenty feet, even, before it’s just swallowed up and gone. Whatever snapped up that bird isn’t showing itself -- the ocean’s as silent and still as it was before all this madness came upon you. If there’s anything out there waiting to eat your face, it’s just not hungry enough to do it right now. Price’s limp corpse is sprawled bonelessly across the wheel of your ship. He got blood all over it. To spite you, clearly. The bullet wound above his right cheekbone is a clear sign he died by gunshot - your gunshot - while facing away from you. How in hell are you going to explain this to his crew? You’d better be on the lookout for them. Jaime and Donnie especially. At least his last moments were spent doing something useful. The ship’s on course for the change you ordered Jaime to make - reverse course and 30 degrees to port. That smoldering machete of his is scabbarded at his side: looks like some kind of quick-discharge battery in the handle dumps a bunch of resistive heat into the blade when you turn it on. Electromagnetic field, too, with all that wiring. Could come in handy. He’s got a gun, but yours are better. Not even worth bothering with, really. If you take it, add the smoldering machete (1 weight, 1/2 ammo, close) to your inventory. Spend 1-ammo to give it the tag red-hot for a little while; you can recharge its ammo from your suit’s reserves when you Make Camp. As you get ready to dump his corpse out the door, you spy somebody slight and pale hanging upside-down by her knees from atop it. It’s a little girl. She looks at you and smiles. Licks her lips. There’s a spatter of something silvery-green at the corner of her mouth. ”You bought him.” Her tiny voice crackles tinnily through your suit’s radio. ”Paid for him. But he didn’t do what you wanted him to do." ”So you killed him.” She giggles and kicks her feet. ”Pricey’s dea~d, Pricey’s dea~d,” she sing-songs. You can see straight through her. Her hair waves in the breeze like drowned kelp. ”He had something for you,” she says, and lets herself drop headfirst straight to the deck. Her head caves in like a balloon animal and pops back out to its normal dimensions again like nothing’s wrong. She pretends to pick herself back up again and hands you something small and cold, smiling prettily. ”He fought it, y’know,” she confides to you, laughter bubbling in her voice. ”He fought it the whooooole time. Kept thinkin’ about his wife. Hee-hee. Maybe she’ll get his life insurance.” She curtseys and kicks off the deck, drifting gently away. ”He tasted real good.” It’s a...coin?  No. Oh, no. Not again. It’s Savior. Not as bright as he was the night you spat him out into the moonlight anymore, is he? No, no. Now you can see him for what he really is. A curse. Your curse. And here he is again, back to haunt you as always. Add the black pearl (0 weight, cursed) back into your inventory, and tell us what you did to try and get rid of it the last time. You have the bridge. What do you do? TUTRESIEL AVTOTAR brings the first: a bedraggled, waterlogged, too-young specimen, arms covered in bruises and defensive wounds. Seven candles thump to life, their radiance drawing the light from your surroundings and funneling it into the circle’s perimeter. The ritual words ring out in silence. Draw down the stars, each in their turn - homely yellow, soothing orange, slumbering red. Let them sink gently into the dead man’s heart and limbs. Cleansing stellar fire sears away that used-up body and consumes his spirit in a wash of crackling sparks. No vagrancy will be permitted these men and women. Not when a servant of the Silent God is here to move them along to their legal and righteous reward. The living can hardly do more than watch from their sickbeds. Many stare at their quartermaster -- the man you know as AVTOTAR -- in shock and dismay. As the rites begin, one or two attempt to rise; their fellows motion for them to lay back down again, as it becomes clear you’re acting in their best interests. One by one, you feed the dead to your stars, putting them forever beyond the reach of this spectral scourge. Outside this consecrated circle, a dull thumping roar and screams of pain and fright ring out. The ship lurches gently and begins to reverse its direction of travel, and the ghost-ship follows along at its glacial pace - its hull sweeping through your ship perpendicularly! There’s no place its influence will not touch for at least a moment or two: and while the rites are nearly done, a few more corpses yet remain to be disposed of, and those still living haven’t stopped needing their wounds closed and bones set. Can they survive this specter’s fell aura without aid? You can choose: finish off the rest of these dead guys, or cut the ritual short and cast your protection out against the living. Or something else! What do you do? SERENITY The situation’s pretty bleak. Trashed cabins, trashed kitchen, portholes shattered, an engine room held together by ghosts and spit, and far, far too many good sailors dead. You are so tired. And oh, do your hands ever hurt. Try not to flex ‘em too hard. The deathly chill is gone from the air, but even so it’s clammy and damp and you feel much too old for this poo poo. As you pass the crew quarters, something about the light coming through the hatchway sucks at your vision like a missing tooth. It’s dark in there somehow, even though the lights are burning. The only light at all there comes from a circle of strange candles where the angel Tutresiel is feeding corpse after corpse to a knot of tiny, campfire-bright stars. Nashira preserve you -- is that Quartermaster Mills dragging another one over? You hadn’t a clue he was anything more than another salty old career man. You can see Domhnall in there too, sprawled out against a crate on the floor, watching the angel the way a wounded gazelle might watch a sleeping tiger. He’s missing a finger and sporting one hell of a shiner, but he’s definitely not dead. Not by a long shot. He doesn’t know yet what happened to his captain. None of them know but you. Without warning, a hot flare of light and roar of sound come from abaft you, in the engine room. The ship judders and begins to reverse course. Shouts, screaming, a resonating bellow of pain and challenge - what the hell’s going on down there?! What do you do? 01, PADRE, THRASH Further action is on hold until Padre tells us where Mote's getting vented. 
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Mar 6, 2016 03:10
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Ramona 21/26 HP; 5/11 XP; 3 Armor It's less than surprising that drat pearl shows itself again like it always did, or that a nearby scavenger immediately scooped out the captain's spirit she severed from his body, so it might manifest itself like all the other ones on the ghost ship had done. And just like all the ghosts that talked at her when she lost focus, or through her radio, this one tries to gently caress with her, and not even in an original way this time. They always "fought it," that was barely true at best, considering how suddenly the would lose to it and decide to try to kill her. Oh, he had a wife? So what. Just meant getting home to her again was the excuse he used to steel himself to take on Ramona. Ah well, it was just a stupid kid, or taking that form at least. Can't expect something like that to know that Ramona isn't manipulated by anything that mutable, and doesn't pity her enemies no matter how sad their eulogies were. She turns on the machete and slices the manifestation in two, dispersing it and its late meal. She owed it nothing, but considered setting it free a gift, perhaps in return for the annoying thing's taking care of the captain's ghost before it started haunting her. As for him, at least the wire around his blade is made out of some special metal, so it goes into a compartment in the suit. It'd outlive him, and she'd make it better than it was. The crappy battery, ugly wires--pretty much all the rest of it is garbage, like the captain's body that the ghost picked clean. They go into the sea together, fittingly. She'll tell crew that a zombie albatross carried him off and she shot it down. The pearl goes into another compartment, in case it was tricking people with that flickering form--that coin form. Maybe that's why even if she didn't try to get rid of it--kept it in a purse or whatever like she'd been doing--it'd still switch places. Be in a pocket instead of the purse. Be stuck in her boot or fall out of her hair. Made sense, those things had been happening more since she hosed it by staying on an island by herself, far away from anyone else. It must have started teleporting around, causing mischief. To punish her for trying to be clever. Or maybe there were more of them, and when they met, the bigger one ate the smaller one--like everything worked in the ocean. From the bridge, she just focuses on the fog and the ghost ship drifting away.
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Mar 6, 2016 04:17
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Serenity HP 18/18 | Armor 2 | Load 4/9 | XP 8/10 There was too much going on. The angel was feeding bodies into a void, Domhnall appeared to be losing his mind, and it sounded as though the crew were being butchered further in. Okay. Deep breath. One thing at a time. She stepped in the quarters towards Domhnall, glancing aside at Tutresiel. "I'll trust you are not doing something...unholy. I'll have an explanation later, be certain." Her voice was unwavering steel. Emotion was shoved out of the way for the more necessary strict pragmatism required now. Putting that matter aside, she knelt down and slung one of Domhnall's arms over her shoulder. "On your feet, sailor. We need to secure this ship, and I need you in your right mind. Now snap out of it!" She looked him in the eye until he met her gaze, and gave him a reassuring nod. "On your feet. We'll get this handled." She helped him walk out of the room, away from the strange ritual. Some things men just weren't meant to witness. One arm was supporting Domhnall, the other on the hilt of her blade, and she stared towards the engine room. She wasn't sure she wanted to see what was happening in there. But if there was anything she could do, she had to try. Stalking towards the entrance, she moved inside and flicked her gaze about, rapidly assessing the situation. Discern Realities: 2d6 2
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Mar 6, 2016 18:56
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 Ramona 21/26 HP; 5/11 XP; 2 Armor drat, the ships weren't diverging as smoothly as she predicted. The ghost ship was trying to stay in whatever contact it could for as long as it could, so right now they were forming a perfect cross. Ramona alters course for straight ahead full bore, such that the best the ghost ship could do is let the connection turn from a cross to a T before breaking off and getting left in the Harpy's wake. Just in case another manifested ghost comes up to try to take the wheel, Ramona leaves the suit behind again, with her gun so it can defend itself via remote control. A portable visor and earpiece come with her, checked and ready with her whip and power fist, so she can defend herself from the inevitable fights that erupted around her thanks to the conflict-curse. Staying above decks wasn't going to do anything for the people down below, so that's where she goes. Also she needs to make sure Serenity and Tutresiel stay alive.
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Mar 6, 2016 20:27
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Tutresiel HP: 10/17 | Armor: 1/1 | Load: 3/7 | XP: 2/10 Tutresiel did not reply vocally to Serenity's petty complaints, however they did nod in agreement, insight was insight - the search of insight was a noble task, mostly. However greater matters were afoot. Tutresiel knew the twofold importance of what they were doing, as well as maintaining the sanctity of those who still lived here, the wounded would especially be vulnerable to such an assault, if either of these events were allowed to unfold it could spell disaster for many. Concentrating deeply, Tutresiel attempted to eke out sufficient power from the ritual itself, simultaneously continuing dead cleansing aspect while projecting power outwards in order to ward the living present here against the encroaching darkness. Tutresiel clapped their hands together, clasping them tightly as they concentrated, evoking a silver-white glow about themselves as the projected their will, subvocalising additions and clauses in their holy speech, attempting to add further reach to the ritual, and to cause the script of the circle to extend outward, forming an outward projecting aspect - rather than merely inverting the ritual, attempting to add a two-fold aspect that was empowered by more efficient use of the power of the Silent God. Tutresiel forced their will upon the semi-malleable nature of the ritual in order to accomplish this, having already recognised the presence of AVTOTAR long before they managed to find their physical presence, Tutresiel was in tune with the fabric of reality in this specific room, which was all the area that they needed for this grand manifestation to cover. The light of the candles burned brighter and brighter... Using the +1 from the successful DR earlier to locate AVTOTAR. Defy Danger (Wisdom): 2d6+3+1 10
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Mar 6, 2016 21:05
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 Padre Clavo Damage: 1d6 | Armour: 1 | HP: 17/17 | XP: 1/10 If you wear big pants, don't be surprised when you trip, was the saying that rattled through Clavo's mind as the energy spilled out of his control. With the last of his will, he directed the flare towards one of the zombie crewmen that didn't appear to be standing near anything too dangerous, hoping that the dead body would soak up some of the energy. Then, everything was white. Damage: 1d4 2
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Mar 7, 2016 03:03
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PADRE No holding it even a breath longer. The sun’s pent-up indignation comes spewing out of your little Mote in a high-pressure gout of ruddy-gold light so thick and bright it seems to roil like water! It blasts clean through a zombie and shears off an arm and half its head, setting the rest of it aflame like it was made of magnesium shavings soaked in gasoline. The blast keeps right on going, too - screaming down the centre aisle between the two engines and splashing against the sternmost hull plating in a dazzling crash of thunder. The hull lets out a wrenching scream of tortured metal as the too-rapid temperature change strikes it - and the world lights up like God’s own flashbulb. Up. Can’t get up. Ears ringing; vision spotty. Get up. Comprehension comes to you in disconnected flashes. Jaime staggers past you, one hand clamped to his face. The zombie you struck staggers away and caroms off an overturned tool cabinet, its face and torso engulfed in bright, smokeless fire. You think you hear someone yelling, a long, long way away. Mote wavers drunkenly overhead, like a limp balloon. You’re stunned! So are the crew! And that zombie’s bound to blunder into something flammable. What do you do? THRASH Somewhere over all that ringing in your ears, you think you can hear Maw-Meow yelping in pain! You're stunned! What do you do? 01@noetic:~$  With your optic sensors nonfunctional, you must rely on a bevy of other senses to reconstruct the events that just transpired. Your few wide-spectrum EM detectors report a huge surge of heavy- and charged-particle emissions in the last few seconds, and your olfactory pickups are getting the distinctive odors of burning flesh and overstressed alloys - but no burning engine oil. Curious. Audio sensors are no help at all. Absolute pandemonium, that's all you can make out. Pressure sensors are nominal, clear indications of two softskins scraping at the weak points in your armor...and one of them is trying to claw your blaster out of your hand! You're free to act now, but at -1 forward. What do you do? RAMONA AND SERENITY Serenity, it looks like you’re going to find out what happens when a captain and first mate both walk into a bard - because Ramona left her suit on ‘waldo’ mode and came down to meet Domnhall with you. He still looks pretty out of it, but he steadies visibly as you pull him out of the angel’s ritual grounds and help him to his feet. There’s a bloodstained rag tied around his right hand, and he takes pain not to put any weight on it as you help him up. He asks you what the gunshot he just heard was. What do you tell him? Ramona, when the blast goes off in the engine room it drowns your radio in a gluey-thick blanket of blessed, silent noise for a few seconds. Silver linings, I guess. The ship’s on course to neatly T-bone this ghost-ship. On the one hand, you’ve gotten the engine room and the crew out from under it. On the other hand, it means there’s a lot of very thick ecto-steel in your way now. Whoever built this tub while it was still a real ship must have been expecting it to take cannon fire or something. You'll have to go through it one way or another if you want to get to the engine room. Oh, and Donnie’s in your way too. He’s leaning heavily against Serenity and looking back at the crew quarters like he’s expecting the shadows in there to reach out and drag him back in. Be sure to update your armor and character sheet with your new stuff, and mark off the 1-use of healing potion you used before. The weird wiring is 0 weight. What do you two do? TUTRESIEL Your ritual is proceeding as planned. More to come once I have the time to write it. Alumnus Post fucked around with this message at 07:23 on Mar 7, 2016 |
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Mar 7, 2016 07:20
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01 HP: 18/25 | Armor 3/3 | XP 5/10 | -1WIS I swing around, trying to whip the two dead softskins off of me. Defy Danger (STR) 13
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Mar 7, 2016 07:54
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01 >> I/Optical: dereferenced efferent threads pruned, cognitive interlocks ok, booting... You whip it real good! The zombies grappling with you fly off in opposite directions, unable to keep a good hold on your armored shell. It sounds like they banged off a bunch of steel on their way out too. You rise to your feet, un-disarmed but still unfortunately blinded. The room's still a cacophony of noise and panic, but you think you can make out the sounds of the two you threw off getting back on their feet (or stumps, such as it is) for another go. One of the softskins is chanting something in a high, thready voice. Another one roars a challenge to an unseen foe, and you hear the ugly, meaty thumps of flesh striking flesh at high speed. You're not stunned anymore. After you make your next move, your vision comes back online. What do you do?
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Mar 7, 2016 15:24
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sorry, I've bbeen en feeling something wretched ever since Thursday. Fortunately, I'm not holding anyone up. Thrash HP: 25/25 | Armor: 2 | XP: 2/10 As the tin-clad never-eater handles the walking meat sacks, Thrash shakes himself off and takes a moment to adjust is apron, wiping gore on it in the process. "I'd cook ye a meal, buts I knows ye wouldn'ts touch it." Suddenly, a flash and a bang filled the engine room corridor. The Orc chef had just gotten up when he felt like he'd been knocked off his feet again. "Oi! Ye bright burning bast'id! Wuzzat?" He said realizing he couldn't hear clearly. Somewhere off to one side he could hear the goat-like screams of Maw, likely blasted too. "Shuddit!" He yelled, unable to hear himself. His ears were not working so well, but his eyes were back in focus. He could see a bright burned my spot in the dark and eventually realized it was a burning corpse, upright and stumbling around. This flaming fellow must have exploded somehow. He was going to give the blighter some licks of his knife and see if he still want to explode. hack and slash: 2d6+3 10 Damage: 1d6 5 No fucks given about Maw just yet, as far as Thrash knows, he is just being a bitch.
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Mar 7, 2016 19:46
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THRASH Don't sweat it. Get better and chillax. You're still stunned, though! That means you have to Defy Danger to hack that guy up without missing something crucial or succumbing to the effects of stun. Go ahead and roll for it please; use whatever modifier makes sense. 
Alumnus Post fucked around with this message at 22:48 on Mar 7, 2016 |
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Mar 7, 2016 20:09
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Serenity HP 18/18 | Armor 2 | Load 4/9 | XP 9/10 Serenity glanced aside at Ramona as she appeared, then returned her gaze to Domhnall. "The captain didn't make it. Dark energies took hold of his body, and he was trying to steer us directly into the ghost ship. Ramona...put him to rest. I've seen this sort of thing before. Believe me, there nothing we could have done." That last bit was true, at least. If there had been one of the foul spirits she had encountered in the distant past, it could have possessed a man. And it would have been nigh impossible to dislodge it without killing its victim. But such things had little at all to do with the undead. They were a far different sort of evil. Serenity felt a bit queasy at even mentioning them, let alone to lend credence to a lie of all things. Yet it was what came to mind to avert a mutiny. If the crew turned against Ramona and the rest, odds were that nobody was going to live through the night. Just chalk up another stain in her soul. She doubted Ramona would complain about its condition all that much. Kneeling, she took hold of Domhnall's bloodied hand before he could fully register what she had said. "Hold still. I think I can mend this." She quietly sang her song again, willing the flesh to mend and regrow the lost finger. Arcane Art: 2d6+3 6 Serenity was going to heal him. In the face of that hateful lie, though, she will pay a price. Shardix fucked around with this message at 01:16 on Mar 8, 2016 |
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Mar 8, 2016 01:13
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Ramona 21/26 HP; 6/11 XP; 1 Armor "I'm sorry," creaks Ramona, who clears her throat and sniffs. "Let me ... help," she holds a finger to her earpiece and tries to hum along with the song, but chokes up and coughs, turning her head. Serenity really was a good person. Blest. Holy. The one clear voice on her radio, that silenced all the others--his voice--convinced her of that. Being willing to lie for a wretch like Ramona, let alone die for her...now she knew it wasn't a bardic ruse, and for one shameful second she even believed it might not be worth the risk. Too bad that second was that one, in the middle of a spell that was losing itself. Aid Serenity: 2d6 5
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Mar 8, 2016 02:04
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Thrash HP: 25/25 | Armor: 2 | XP: 2/10 Thrash'a head was pounding, spinning even. However he was able to rely on his orcish resilience to push through. Defy Danger STR: 2d6+3 7
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Mar 8, 2016 03:54
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TUTRESIEL Your holy words twist together and redouble upon themselves, knotting and reknotting the power of the Silent God until it bursts out of the ritual candles and showers this room in miniscule pinpoints of bright blue-white light. There is a barely-audible rushing noise and the faintest perceptible breeze; an impossible feeling of space, as though the room had suddenly trebled in size. The ghostly vessel’s influence passes over you, and under you, into and across the empty spaces between your holy angles. It moves over the face of this circle weightlessly, and the men gape in wonder and terror at this glimpse of worlds beyond the seas they know. The ritual comes to a close, and sanity and normality return to the bunkroom once more. The candles clap their wicks shut with a rushing noise and an eerie sucking distortion in the light nearest them. Quartermaster Mills sags to his knees, bone-weary. A fine dusting of white ash and a few gold teeth are all that mar the sanctity of your circle. What do you do? SERENITY You kneel before Oliver’s first mate and take his injured hand in yours, singing that old healing hymn one more time. For the first couple verses Ramona actually hums along with you, before she gets too choked up to hold the tune and trails off. Nothing happens. You sing the next couple verses. Domhnall eyes you curiously, opens his mouth for a second, but makes no effort to pull his hand away or interrupt you. Nothing continues to happen. And why would it? That healing song of yours is a hymn against evil and treachery, after all, and you just lied to this man’s face. He’s the one person on this ship who most deserves to hear the truth right now - that the woman standing next to you executed his captain and employer on suspicion, and took his command by right of conquest - and you lied to him to spare his feelings and insulate Ramona from the consequences of her actions. Words have power. Your words rather more than most. Small wonder your Art fails you in deed, when by your speech you’ve failed it in spirit. The words of your song are like cold ashes on your tongue. Be grateful Nashira’s light is gone from the sky. You really don’t want to see her looking at you right now. You have -1 ongoing to Arcane Art until you either Make Camp or tell the rest of the crew about what really happened to Mr. Price. What do you do? RAMONA As Serenity’s sterile healing song dies away, Domhnall pulls his hand out of hers with a grimace of pain and takes you aside. “Aye,” he says, nodding grimly. “Somethin’ got ahold of ‘im, dinnit? Somethin’ tha’ thing makin a bonfire out of m’ best men gave to him. I saw ‘im take it.” He unscrews a battered silver flask and takes a long pull out of it. “Saw the way it changed in ‘is ‘and. Told the cap’n ‘e was mad to take this job, I did. An’ now he’s gone.” He drains the flask and wheezes gently. A watery light comes back into his eyes. “Y’ killed him. Didn’ ye? No choice in the matter. Oh, yes.” For a split second his face gets very hard. “No choice at all.” “Orright then.” He claps his hands briskly. “Well, lass, I ‘spect you’ve got deep pockets, ovverwise you’d not ‘ave been able to afford th’ old lunatic.” He winks at you conspiratorially. You can smell the liquor on his breath, and blood and stale sweat, and something sharp and chemical underneath all of those. “I’ll be wantin’ ‘is salary, o’ course’, an’ a firteenth share of the profits, an’ first pick at any licker ‘n spirits wot come our way in due course of plunderin’...” Debate him, and delay further, at your peril. That ship’s hull is still in your way, by the way. What do you do? BELOWDECKS When you while I keep typing up you guyses' stuff, I get to write you better stuff. 
Alumnus Post fucked around with this message at 05:19 on Mar 9, 2016 |
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Mar 9, 2016 05:14
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Tutresiel HP: 10/17 | Armor: 1/1 | Load: 3/7 | XP: 2/10 For once, calmness was restored (but for how long?), and Tutresiel had a moment to consider their next move. As they thought, they made the least sign of Ka-Toraq, causing the symbols and sigils that Tutresiel had drawn upon the floor to evaporate entirely, as though being burned away by an unseen blaze, before they gathered up the candles once more. "You have performed well, AVTOTAR. But tell me, how did you come across such knowledge? It is a rarity in these aeons that many know, and by now there are only a few sources of knowledge..." inquired Tutresiel to the weary quartermaster, extending an arm in order to assist the man in rising from his position, Tutrusiel's manner seeming almost human, perhaps these times in this world have affected them somewhat.
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Mar 9, 2016 18:50
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01 HP: 18/25 | Armor 3/3 | XP 5/10 | -1WIS I strike out at the nearest noise I can reasonably assume to be one of the not-deads. Hack & Slash 14 damage: 1d8+1 9 With a burst of static, my Ocular sensor feed resumes, bringing the auditory pandemonium into focus, softskin crew staggering at random, the orc bellowing and flailing at a not-dead.
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Mar 9, 2016 19:35
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Serenity HP 18/18 | Armor 2 | Load 4/9 | XP 9/10 Serenity's heart fell as her powers failed her. She had known she had made a mistake almost as soon as the words left her mouth, but what was done was done. She regretted speaking of such obscenities, yes. But she did not regret the reason why she did so. She was not her husband. Her life was not lived as an embodiment of right actions and right thinking. To be sure, she tried to live well, but even she was given to a bit of pragmatism at times. That pragmatism rarely worked out for her was...an unfortunate quirk of fate. Nashira always did have a reputation for favoring the pollyanna As Domhnall pulled his hand away, Serenity sighed and regained her feet. "I...I'm sorry." It was an apology both to him for failing, and to Nashira for blasphemy, and to everyone for that lie. She doubted the moon was willing to listen to her right now, however. She was a moody bitch sometimes. And in this case, entirely warranted. Taking a step back, she listened as Domhnall spoke, and she had a sinking suspicion he had not bought that fib in the least. It wasn't stopping him from taking advantage of the situation, though. Serenity is going to remain silent for the moment, and see how Ramona responds.
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Mar 10, 2016 04:48
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Ramona 21/26 HP; 6/11 XP; 1 Armor The second ends, and whatever shimmer in her eyes the words from the radio caused, they dry up now. Ramona holds her breath to keep the noxious vapors the man is venting outside of her, and returns his fake friendly voice. "You're right, I'd do anything to make sure my little secret stays with you." She offers her hand to shake. Then she squeezes, and doesn't let go. As her handshake is firmer than his, so too is the split second of her harsh glare. The fake friendly voice continues now that the 'anything' isn't desperation or relief, it's a warning. "What a good grip you have, healthy man! You must want to live a long time to keep so fit. Since you're already keeping one for me, I might as well let you in on another little secret: I just hate it when someone I don't trust tries to get the better of me--with the gloating, the wanting me to beg for mercy or bargain--for my life. I'm tired of listening to the same old poo poo , so nowadays I just...skip to the end." She squeezes harder. Still hasn't blinked. "That reminds me, whatever your name is, could you repeat your terms? I don't recall anything after the 'and.' Make it quick, because If I don't get moving there won't be a ship for you to captain, right?" Damned blackmailers, it's never worth paying them anything, because they never stop asking for more. When it came down to it, it's about unchecked power corrupting. She'd done enough pro bono work for freewomen trying to make it on their own to learn that. Turns out the best you could do is show those assholes that the money they demand can be better spent making friends. Very temperamental, overprotective friends, who like to keep their power in check. But it isn't just that. It's the beginning of the conflict curse coming into play. Stoking this man's greed, making him think she owed him, more and more, and then she wasn't paying him enough, what he deserved, but what might he be able to get for taking Ramona dead or alive, and for her loot, how might he accomplish that? Men went manic when the curse ignited the vice--or "virtue"--that fueled them, the idea of Ramona's dying made them giddy. Maybe it didn't have to be that way. Maybe this idiot could be the first one to successfully shake it off once it found its entrance. It sucks that he's drunk and concussed, but his best chance to do so was now--early treatment--and her veiled threats were the way to help that along. Bowing and scraping would make it worse, and imagining having to do that again, as if she were still in chains, repulses her. And not that it's every been a possibility in her mind before, but there's also no dead lover around to convince Domnhall that she's really... really great and he should value her as a person. Parley: 2d6+2 9 Not bluffing. I have ideas of how to kill him if he doesn't get the picture and back off.
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Mar 10, 2016 16:27
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Padre Clavo Damage: 1d6 | Armour: 1 | HP: 17/17 | XP: 1/10 Clavo scrubbed furiously at his eyes with the heels of his hands, teeth grinding together furiously. Blinking erratically, he squinted around him as the chaos of the engine room continued. "Mote! Mote, where are you chivo?" he called. Looking up, he saw his accomplice floating lazily, perhaps more stunned than Clavo himself was. Clavo clucked his tongue and held up the calabash. It had been years since it had held any liquor, but he fancied that he could still smell it, just a hint. Painstakingly, Mote drifted down and rested in the gourd, and Clavo replaced it on his hip. Well. He could barely see or hear, and his magic weapon friend was out of sorts. Next best thing then. He shook his head vigorously and tried to fight down the disorientation. Defy Danger +WIS (to shake off the stun): 2d6+1 6 FFS
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Mar 10, 2016 18:02
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Serenity HP 18/18 | Armor 2 | Load 4/9 | XP 9/10 The regret over her lie drained from Serenity, replaced by contempt. Always, always, throughout the centuries, this posturing and dick waving. It was so wearisome. Nor could she ignore the chaos in the engine room any longer. Her attempts to heal the first mate had failed, and he was now preoccupied. It came to her to lend what aid she could in this chaos. Slipping through the entrance, the elf seemed to blend into the scenery; seen but dismissed. An inconsequential addition to the scrum. As she moved, it was difficult to tell precisely what was going on, except that it was the exact opposite of topside. Spotting the telltale flicker of the Lantern's little light, Serenity ducked in that direction, eyes open for any errant blows that might come her way. Defy Danger (by getting out of the way): 2d6+1 12 Keeping low and moving fast to avoid notice. Given this mess, rolling it seemed proper. Correct me if I'm wrong. As she caught up to the Lantern, she saw Jaime there clutching his face. No time for propriety. She grabbed hold of his shirt and yanked him behind her. Barking a quick "Stay!", she glanced aside at the old man. "Sorry about the delay, Padre. How are we doing?" Looking closer, he seemed pretty well blasted. "Hey! Snap out of it. If ever we needed a guiding light, I'd say now is the time." Drawing her blade, she stood ready at Clavo's side, thankful to only be risking her life, not her emotions. Aid Padre Clavo: 2d6+1 11 Bump that 6 to a 7, Vulpes
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Mar 10, 2016 23:54
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SERENITY AND PADRE Serenity, you leave Ramona to her negotiations and forge ahead on through the corridor, unconcerned with the ship's width of ghostly steel plate and ectoplasm in between you and the engine room. As you pass through the hull your entire body seizes up like you just jumped naked into a vat of dry-ice slush -- the ship’s aura is horribly, life-suckingly cold. It’s a labor even to breathe, let alone move your feet or push your way through the hull again at the end. Numbness clutches at your fingers and toes as you stand over the entrance to the engine room. Better hope it’s warm down there. Since you Kool-Aid Womaned through the ghost-ship without the slightest regard for it having been in your way that whole time, you take three damage, ignoring armor: one for each side of the hull and one for the spaces in-between. You weave through the chaos below like smoke. What the hell went on down here? A few hull plates far astern are cracked and warped, their surfaces blue-green with heat oxidation patterns. The sounds of violent combat echo and re-echo off the walls: fists and wood hitting flesh, metal banging, moans of pain and confusion, one of the crew is actually on fire oh Goddess is there too much fuel in this room right now for him to be on fire and also missing an arm and half his head, but he doesn’t seem to notice because he’s too busy trying to rip out Thrash’s throat and feast on his roasted lungs. When you Defy Danger, please put what modifier you’re using in the Orokos description or in the post, (+DEX, +CHA, etc…) because your DM is a lazy lazyhead.  Padre, Serenity helps you to your feet and stands watch while you blink the stars out of your eyes and contemplate how incredibly bad of an idea it was to be impolite to the sun. Who probably technically owns your little light. Or leases it to you or something. Lanternlore isn’t exactly your strongest suit. (Is it?) Poor little Mote’s sagging inside his gourd like a runny egg - maybe you’d better give him some time off from the cutlery work while he gets his wind back. You’re not stunned anymore. Also I think your XP count blew up again. Do fix it - I’m too lazy to keep track of everyone’s stats. If you want, you can Spout Lore to tell us about what kind of relationship the Sun has to the Lanterns’ little lights. Maybe you know something! Suddenly, there’s a bellow of rage and pain from over by the fuel lines to the fore of you - a musclebound frogman completely picks up another of the crew, socks him in the teeth until he stops trying to eat raw frog arms, and chucks him straight into a railing! The man crashes into it with a woody thunk, but starts getting back up again, seemingly indifferent to the impact. And to how his entire face is smashed to a bloody pulp. A slight woman toting an improbably-flared blunderbuss darts out from behind a stack of empty cargo pallets, shoves the muzzle against the man’s chest, and blasts his heart and half his ribcage into soup. He doesn’t even care. Doesn't even notice how he should already be dead thrice over. His hands shoot out and grab her by the throat, tightening with a horrible soft strength. Jaime spits something very obscene and breaks into a sprint - but he doesn’t get two steps before another horribly mutilated sailor, this one neatly missing several large chunks from its torso, reaches up from where he sprawls on the deck and snares Jaime’s ankle with a bloody-nailed hand, sending him crashing to the floor!  What do you two do?THRASH Orcish resilience is right. A lesser man would be howling in unbearable pain after a walking corpse tore out bits of your freaking flesh with his bare hands (and teeth) while also being on fire. Gah! You carve off great slices of muscle...but he just keeps coming, neck wobbling crazily after you chopped out one side of his windpipe. He’s hot -- way, way too hot -- and as he tears into you, your nose catches the ominous scents of gasoline and smoldering furs... You take 01 Your blade flashes out snicker-snack and strikes the not-dead’s head from its shoulders. The rest of the body immediately collapses in a heap. A spurt of chill, thick blood occludes your newly rebooted ocular inputs for a moment or two, but you flick it aside and take stock of the situation. A portion of the hull abaft you is buckled and warped in a pattern indicative of extreme thermal stress. Softskins and not-deads are grappling in a battle for their lives, the broken engine stands bereft of engineers and its guts exposed to the world, and your oh-so-wonderful master is down here, probably to give you orders again. Intervention is likely essential - but for who, or what? What do you do? * * * * * * RAMONA Donnie’s blithe grin quickly mutates into a scowl of pain, as it becomes clear you’re not letting him off the hook that easily. You bear down with your merciless spring-steel grip and a fine sweat breaks out on his forehead. “Aah. Aahhhoww ow gently caress,” he grates, as he tries fruitlessly to pull his hand out of yours. “OW. Ow me fuckin’ -- ow let go, OW -- alright, ALRIGHT! gently caress the fuckin’ money!” His face twists up in pain and fear. He looks back once over his shoulder at a barracks full of wounded men and women, then back at you. Wha’ever it is yer goin’ down there tae do, jus’...jus’ keep us out of it, innit? We make it to the Raft ‘thout sinkin’ or starvin’, an’ then jus’ ye let my men go, free ‘n clear. There’s an ‘ospital ship or two moored there owt well enough; most like they’ll have berths for allus as got hurt. They’re nae good t’ye now, any road. Not worth nothin’ to no-one. Pay off th’ sawbones, pay th’ next of kin, then any as made it and still want to leave, you let ‘em leave, lass. Jus’ let ‘em go on home.” “Alright? Now come wi’ me.” He looks nervously at the ghost-ship’s hull, still quivering gently from where Serenity shoved her way through it, and shudders. “Brrr. Th’ men need a doctor, and I reckon tha’s ye, lass. I dunnae want t’leave them alone with tha’ thing anymore’n I have to. Come on ‘n help me stitch ‘em up.” Playing nursemaid to these wounded, right now, will assure him of your goodwill towards the ship and crew. What do you do? TUTRESIEL Quartermaster Mills gives you a wry look. “Six years as a watchman during the Elvenwars, lord,” he tells you. “M’ watch captain was of the faith. A good thing, too.” He leans heavily against a nearby bunk, breathing raggedly. His face is grey and lined with exhaustion and pain. “Triage,” he says dully. He bends down effortfully and cracks open the chest at the foot of the bed, and shoves a bundle of clothes into your hands. “Cut these up for rags. Gotta...got a spirit-stove somewhere…” He wobbles a little on his feet and starts searching through the mess, one hand clamped tight to his ribs. What do you do? Alumnus Post fucked around with this message at 19:28 on Mar 13, 2016 |
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Mar 13, 2016 07:08
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Tutresiel HP: 10/17 | Armor: 1/1 | Load: 3/7 | XP: 2/10 Tutresiel accepted the bundle of clothes gratefully, pulling the curved blade with deadly sharpness from the depths of the Pall. "For is it not said: 'The hands of a healer* are clean of the blood that stains them'." said Tutresiel as they got to work, using its keen edge to neatly trim the fabric into bandages. Not the most efficient use of time but a necessary one, would or could Tutresiel have mastered the truth of the illusion of presence upon this world then they could manifest in multiple places simultaneously. But perhaps that would be for another time. "It would not do for you yourself to expire while you attempt to tend to others, quartermaster. If you are seeking to assist the wounded and weary here, it would be best if you were the first one to receive succour, so that you might better perform your duties." stated the masked figure, the slightest touch of concern contaminating their voice. *Not a precise translation, some interpretations favour other professions.
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Mar 13, 2016 20:25
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 Ramona 21/26 HP; 6/11 XP; 1 Armor Dom's hand is released. "Done." It was already part of the contract with Price anyway. As soon as she can break her steely gaze it immediately follows Serenity disappearing into the ghost ship. This was bad--if the Harpy kept its pace such that ghost ship's relative movement through it were technically reduced in duration, then the ghost ship would pass completely through the rear of the Harpy soon. Ramona had been prepared to just hope that the guys stuck back there could survive that, because they were already insured if they didn't. But it just got complicated, because the elf had infinite value now. The ghost ship would have to pass through the Harpy on its own, and Ramona knew how to make that happen. She speaks quickly while moving back to get space for a running start, "Can't stay, these will survive--trust the alien. The other side though, might not. Drop sea anchor and stop the Harpy's movement or their odds go down. Good man. I'm going through." She blocks her ears eyes nose and lips in the crook of her arm to protect them from the cold, and powers through the ghost ship. DD strength: 2d6+2 9 On the other side, she ignores the flames for now and follows the screams, whip drawn and held in her powerfist like a garrote. She beholds the scene and immediately silences any voices in her head--she's completely focused on the rhythm of battle now. "Sound off the living!" she orders, so she knows who not to kill, then--when she beholds what is and isn't still fighting--"and remove the heads!" Her first priority is Nori, being throttled. From across the room she tries to whip her grappler around the neck of the donut with arms, then she runs forward, reeling the line in taut all the way and letting it slide through the grip of her power fist, then she yanks it behind her and twists it around her body while attempting to drop a falling backfist with her amplified arm onto the skull of the zombie that pulled Jaime to the ground. Hack and Slash; messy forceful damage: 2d6+2 12 1d10+1 5 I figure I'm still saving some people that should fulfill the guy's thing. If the DD str is actually a BBLG trigger instead, then I'll choose "It doesn't take a long time" and "Nothing of value is damaged," leaving "It doesn’t make an inordinate amount of noise" and "You can fix the thing again without a lot of effort." slydingdoor fucked around with this message at 18:10 on Mar 15, 2016 |
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Mar 13, 2016 20:47
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Serenity HP 15/18 | Armor 2 | Load 4/9 | XP 9/10 Gods, how had she forgotten the deathly cold of the ghost ship? It bit deeply, freezing the soul as much as the body. Was that what it felt like to die? Shaking her head, Serenity attempted to dispel such grim thoughts. She had to focus on the here and now. Pain was only transitory, after all, and giving it more heed than it deserved would only get more people killed. She cast a quick glance over her shoulder. "Padre, j-just stay behind me. I'll k-keep them off you." Her teeth were chattering again, and she silently prayed Ramona didn't show up to slap her into that damned suit again. "Zero! You s-still alive in here?" It was hard to see in all the smoke and fire and chaos, but the machine should have no trouble hearing or finding her. As she waited for a response, she dropped into a defensive posture, ready to eviscerate anything that tried to go for the Lantern. True, she was obligated to stay alive for Ramona's sake, but the old man was special. It was a rare few to be given the sun's blessing, and it behooved her to ensure he did not fall here. Defend Clavo: 2d6 11 Hold 3
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Mar 13, 2016 21:45
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Padre Clavo Damage: 1d6 | Armour: 1 | HP: 17/17 | XP: 7/10 "Thanks chivo, but that's not how this Lantern thing works," said Clavo. "Unfortunately," he added ruefully. That's good, he thought, the fear somehow kept at a remove that he attributed to shock and the blurry state he was in after Mote's blast. Kind of thing a real Lantern would say. "You want to help me, help me get those deader off those two." He snatched up a wrench from the deck and swung it wildly at the arm holding the gunwoman. At least this one doesn't have any teeth, he thought absently. I'm trying to break the zombo's grip, but I don't know if that would be considered to be in combat, so DD+STR I guess? If it's H&S, just take the roll to mean that. Defy Danger +STR: 2d6-1 9 Vulpes Vulpes fucked around with this message at 02:56 on Mar 17, 2016 |
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Mar 17, 2016 01:03
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Serenity HP 15/18 | Armor 2 | Load 4/9 | XP 9/10 As the Lantern seized the wrench, Serenity gave him a nod. She shunted the icy agony to the back of her mind and forced her limbs into action, circling quickly behind the corpse and smashing the pommel of her sword into his skull. Given he had just had his insides blown out, a thump like that wouldn't even faze him but it should provide enough of a distraction to let Clavo finish the job. "...Zero?!" Still no reply from the machine man. Spending 1 hold to give Padre +1 Hold 2
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Mar 17, 2016 04:42
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THE ENGINE ROOM Ramona, as you sprint through the corridor, deadly cold tears at you through your wetsuit - but you’ve long since learned to sneer at cold, even and especially the kind of cold you get after hours of soaking in seawater. You know how best to hide your tender bits from its savage bite. Your equipment, on the other hand, isn’t so lucky. That shock combo bang-up a little while ago must’ve ruptured a seal or two somewhere besides just the cockpit - and while you’ve doubtless hardened your weaponry against immersion in saltwater or wintry air, their waterlogged circuits don't seem to fare so well when the air temperature is low enough to freeze your breath as it plumes from your nose and mouth. Something important inside your gear’s guts crackles, shorts, and breathes a coil of fine grey smoke as its soaked innards freeze solid... Choose one. The chosen effect applies until you have access to a forge and to replacement parts for that component of your signature weapon: tell us what those parts are, and I'll tell you where you can probably find them. -Your weaponry’s malfunctioning! Pick either your grappler or your powerfist. When you Hack and Slash using that weapon, take -1 to the roll. This applies to your last post, but you don’t need to retcon, even if someone decides to Interfere with you. When you don’t use that weapon in your attack, you don’t get the penalty. -Your vibroglove shorted out! It’s giving you some seriously unpleasant feedback. When you take damage while wearing your powerfist, choose one: either take -1 forward, or take the damage without the +1 armor it gives. Your entrance to the melee is swift, brutal, and merciless. Nori's assailant didn't go down quite the way you had planned -- the grappler caught him around the armpit and side of the neck -- and when your taut wire slices into his freezing flesh you just don't have enough oomph to actually sever his neck completely. Instead the wire sinks two inches deep and binds tight against his bones, and when you drop your weight the sudden yank tears his balance away completely - but not his grip. Him and Nori both go down together. The powerfist strike bullets into Jaime's man like a freight train. You missed the head by a couple inches; but that's okay, because you got the entire rest of his arm instead. It just shatters like a chunk of ice dropped onto pavement. Jaime pulls free of its loosened grip, fumbles for his gun, and dumps panic fire into the general vicinity of the zombie's head. One takes it through the eye and what's left of the body stops moving. A strangled, whistling gasp of breath. "gently caress! NORI!" Jaime shouts. His voice bells off the walls like a drill sergeant's. He chucks the spent gun aside and dives into the tangle behind you, punching and slashing. He hacks at the zombie's flesh where he can, but the grappler and Nori keep getting in the way. Obscenely, its one good hand keeps tightening, and Nori's face is going purpley-blue with detained blood and lack of oxygen - until Padre, of all people, rushes in and starts swinging too! Serenity hangs back until the perfect moment presents itself, and smashes the zombie hard across the temples. Its muscles go limp for a couple moments - long enough for Padre to dart in and strike a telling blow on the man's hand. There's a dull crack and a couple of the fine bones shatter like brittle ice! Nori manages to get a couple fingers under its awful grip and sucks desperately for a scrap of air. It's definitely a Hack and Slash, and you did 1 damage to that guy! If you elect to press the attack, you can do +1d6 damage (roll for it!) but you'll also take I made your damage roll before Shardix posted, mea culpa :shobon Jaime roars like a freaking lion and, leaving his knife stuck in the zombie's back like an icepick, hauls the creature to one side and with one tremendous heave, pries its hand the rest of the way off her neck like it's some kind of fleshy bottlecap. Fingers snap like party favors. Nori flops to the deck like a fish and heaves desperately for breath through a crushed windpipe. The zombie lurches about to face its attacker and goes right for Jaime's throat, bearing him to the ground and clawing at his face and neck with the ruins of its one good arm!  What do you three do?Meanwhile, Thrash fends off the flaming zombie with a will, trading knife-strikes and merrily blazing swipes of its hands...until, finally, the solar fire consuming its body breaks through its skull and reaches its brain. The awful vitality animating it falters and melts away like lake-ice in spring, and what's left of its body stutters, totters, and falls right on top of you. While still being on fire. In fact, it's even more on fire than it was a few seconds ago, and you're starting to catch too! Stop, drop, and roll!  YOU'RE ON FIRE and have to Defy Danger right meow to put it out! What else do you do?01@noetic: ~$ THE MEDICAL BAY Updates incoming pending the time to write a bunch more.
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Mar 17, 2016 05:04
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01 HP: 18/25 | Armor 3/3 | XP 5/10 | -1WIS @noetic: ~$ //subdir-query -- $plybk: Is he alive or dead? My Lady's voice registers in the auditory melange, my answer is cut short by the flaming not-dead attempting to remove the orc's head. Suboptimal. $plybk-~: Has he thoughts within his head? Directives suggest saving the orc takes priority. I step forward to do battle with the flaming corpse. Hack & Slash 10 choosing extra 1d6 dmg damage 8 I bring up my sword in another graceful arc, tearing into the crackling flesh of the not-dead, to be followed with a kick to dislodge it from the Orc.
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Mar 17, 2016 08:42
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Serenity HP 15/18 | Armor 2 | Load 4/9 | XP 9/10 Too much chaos; too much pain. Would that she had the power to put these spirits to rest and grant them peace. All she could do now was protect those still living and save her tears for the dead until later. Whirling away from her foe, she took a moment to assess. Nori had collapsed, though she still lived. Hold on only a bit longer, little one. Gods willing, I still have favor enough to save you. Jaime surged with renewed vigor and tore the creature away, collapsing into a heap. The tables quickly turned, though, and the corpse seized the initiative. It tore violently at Jaime's face and the horrifying wounds it had sustained did not seem to slow it in the least. What did it take to kill this thing? With one quick stride, Serenity moved up and stuck her boot into the creature's head, using her weight and momentum to force it down onto the deckplate. As it clawed violently against her, she gripped her sword in both hands and drove the blade through its skull with all the force she could muster. Hack and Slash: 2d6+1 9 Damage: 1d6 4 (1 piercing)
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Mar 17, 2016 18:25
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SERENITY As you shove the zombie to the deck, Jaime slips aside from the melee, scoops up Nori by the shoulders and knees, and pounds up the stairs and out of the room as fast as his legs will take him. "GARLOV! ZEB!" he yells on his way out. "PUT THAT FIRE OUT!" The frogman rumbles his assent and hauls himself out a broken porthole with the strength of his arms alone, slipping quickly into the sea. The undead menace wriggles like a hooked eel under your boot and Ramona's grappling-wire, and gets in one good rake across your legs before you drive a foot of good dueling steel right through its forehead. What does it take to kill a zombie? Looks like that'll do it, alright. The hungry night glittering in its eyes gutters and flares out, and the poor man's once again nothing more than a horribly mangled corpse. It managed to deal THRASH AND 01 01's thaumium blade slices through the corpse's back like a steak-knife through a well-done roast. One good hard kick is enough to dislodge the remains - now hardly more than a man-sized lump of flaming cinders - from atop Thrash's thrashing form. Its body breaks into pieces as the blow lands, and a swirl of lights the color of campfire sparks wafts up from the broken edges and out into the air. Belay that defiance! 01 got you out of immediate danger, so you don't have to roll anymore. THE ENGINE ROOM The entry of two new combatants onto the field is more than enough to swing the battle rapidly in your favor. Serenity and her bodyguard finish up what Ramona started, and as the last body falls, Zebley crawls out from under the engine, trembling like a leaf. "Issi-issi-issi-is it over?" he stammers, eyes darting all over the place like he expects another one to drop from the ceiling right on top of his face. He catches sight of the remains of his boss and his face goes greeny-white. He swallows hard, turns and makes it about two steps before he doubles over and is noisily sick all over the deck. Ewg. Garlov slithers back in through another porthole, mouth and throat-sac bulging with seawater. The frogman purses his lips and makes like a big slimy firehose, spraying water all over Thrash, the burning corpse, and anything nearby that looks even slightly flammable. Ew. But at least nobody's on fire anymore. What does everybody do? THE MEDICAL BAY Tutresiel produces a neat pile of makeshift bandages in the time it takes for Quartermaster Mills to shuffle through the mess and muck and come up with a battered spirit-stove and, wonder of wonders, an unpunctured can of fuel! He sets up the apparatus on a relatively clear bit of crate and primes the pump until a merry little blue flame dances. "Water," he mumbles. "Get th' pot...th' water boiled…" He makes to stand up, but his legs give out and he sits down hard on the deck, breathing harshly. One side of his shirt is stained red. You spoke truer than you knew: bodies are heavy, after all. Heavy enough to weigh hard on cracked ribs and torn flesh. You help him to a spare bunk before he can aggravate the injury any further. The ship's first mate joins you as you're finishing laying Mills out -- he seems shocked to see an angel giving his men care as though it was some mortal nurse. Seeing the burner open and a pile of bandages waiting to be sterilized, he makes an about-face and hurries for the kitchen, returning shortly carrying a dented pot brimful with wash-water. Time passes as the two of you labor in near-silence, but for the occasional soft moan of pain, whispered prayer, or the sound of waves lapping against the hull. Whatever madness rages in the engine room does not touch you here. Scraps of clothing go into the pot; rough bandages come out, ready for application and hopefully sterile enough not to make things any worse than they already are. The really serious wounds yet go untreated, but there's enough spare clothes and water for boiling to bandage up anything that doesn't need stitches or a splint. Domhnall rummages for a scrap of steel rod and leaves it against the flame to heat. The anchor-chain up on deck rattles, clinks, and (eventually) shuts up as the anchor hits the sea-floor. The ship bumps gently and comes to a stop; through the portholes outside, you can see the ghost-ship beginning to make a slow, slow, ponderous turnaround. If you've got anything you want to say to these two, you can do it before the stuff below happens. Someone sprints heavily towards the barracks from the hallway outside. It's Jaime -- breathing like a foundered horse and bearing in his arms a slender woman perched at the very precipice of oblivion, her neck all purple-black with strangulation marks. Though she gasps and strains for breath, only the tiniest sucking noise comes from her crushed throat. He stumbles in on his last legs and lays her down on a cot. "Pl--," he gasps, entirely out of breath. "Hhuhhh. Plh. Help. Her." What do you do?
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Mar 18, 2016 15:07
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Ramona 21/26 HP; 6/11 XP; 0 Armor "Hold it, idiot," snaps Ramona at Jaime, "remember how I fixed the exact same problem with you not ten minutes ago?" She holds up the tube that was no longer necessary after Clavo used some bullshit magic to heal his neck when stupid rear end Juan had strangled him, and sterilizes it. Why'd she even bother learning emergency care instead of just magic? She scowls, not only for that but also for being a loner, guessing Nori and Jaime shared more intimate things than a trach tube. She does the same rear end thing, finds out the immediate danger is over and the ghost ship has completely passed through the Harpy, otherwise Jaime wouldn't be able to try to run from the engine room to the infirmary, sees a new helmsman is in place, and fucks off to her quarters with her suit walking behind her. If Dom bothers her about helping in the infirmary, she brushes him off, "Ask the Padre to heal everyone, I'd just get in the way." It's not a question of first aid training, but of state of mind. Also she bids Serenity to come to her quarters at some point, she has something to tell her. slydingdoor fucked around with this message at 17:25 on Mar 20, 2016 |
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Mar 18, 2016 20:44
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Padre Clavo Damage: 1d6 | Armour: 1 | HP: 17/17 | XP: 7/10 The danger apparently past for the moment, Clavo let out a breath and peeked and eye into the gourd at his hip. "How you doing in there, chivo?" Mote flashed wearily, and Clavo let him be. He had enough sick and wounded to care for that Mote could take a break. Healing Light: 2d6+2 7 Healing: 1d8 8 So maybe spread that around all the NPCs who need healing?
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Mar 19, 2016 12:54
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| # ? Apr 19, 2024 23:29 |
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 Serenity HP 14/18 | Armor 2 | Load 4/9 | XP 9/10 Yanking the blade out of what remained of the zombie's skull, Serenity permitted herself to slowly relax a bit. Zebley's query and subsequent noisy vomiting was strangely reassuring; nobody was going to take time to empty their stomach if the threat remained. She gave a nod of acknowledgement at Ramona's request, then turned to address the nearby crewmen. "Garlov. Zebley. Help get any wounded out into the hall, make things easier for the Padre." Yanking out a cloth, she quickly wiped off her blade before sheathing it. "Fine job, Father. It's an honor to see a Lantern at work." The elf gave Clavo a polite bow, no hint of condescension in her voice. "I had better see to Nori in case the angel needs a hand. I'll be down the hall if you need me." She gave him another quick bow before quickly striding towards the exit. "Zero! Thrash! If you could give the place a once over, make sure the undead are gone? I would really appreciate it." At that she ducked out and fairly sprinted down the hall to catch up to Jaime. She had not had time to look very close but she feared for Nori's life. In her time aboard she had gotten to know the crew as well as she could, and the idea of losing any more of them was untenable. As she came into the medbay she spared Tutresiel no mind. He would do what he would do, and she would do what she was able. Between the two of them, hope still remained. Her eyes shot immediately to Jaime and Nori, and it was impossible not to see how broken up the man looked. She could sympathize. "Be calm. I'll do what I can." Rapidly stripping off her jacket and gloves, she cast them and her sword into a corner. She silently beseeched Nashira to belay her disfavor - not for her own sake, but for this dying woman's future. Taking a seat on the cot, Serenity gently lifted Nori's head into her lap. A song came to her lips, and she sang quietly, willing the old magics to take hold. To prolong her life and ease her pain, if nothing else, until surgery or more powerful magics could be brought to bear. The powers may take what they wish from Serenity for her blasphemy against Nashira, but let them have mercy on the innocent. Arcane Art: 2d6+2 9 Healing Nori: 1d8 2 Shardix fucked around with this message at 18:05 on Mar 20, 2016 |
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Mar 20, 2016 18:03
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