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Serenity HP 19/19 | Armor 2 | Load 4/9 | XP 7/11  Serenity stepped into the dining hall, a few minutes late. Gone was the foppish outfit typical for her - in its place was an altogether more modest outfit. The bottom of the ocean was no place for her typical garb. It wouldn't ward off the chill very well, nor was any of it waterproofed. The cloak was a bit old fashioned for her tastes, but there was something to be said for practicality. She stopped and stared at Ramona for a long moment before tossing a crumpled up piece of paper at her feet. "Don't insult me like this again." Her tone was ice cold, though not actually hateful. Turning to Nori, she bowed very deeply. "Anything I can say is wholly inadequate. Nevertheless, I will try. Jaime was a good man and I am truly sorry for your loss." Unshouldering a thick pack, she set it down in front of Nori and unzipped the bag. "The armor you requested. Top of the line. A...close friend of mine happened to be in town. Her quartermaster was able to resize it for your height and frame. It's yours, with no strings."  --- She listened carefully as Azdruk laid out the options. It didn't really matter to her where they docked, only that they got there safely. Perhaps Tutresiel or Ramona had a better idea of how to go about this. As the orc wound down, Serenity turned to 01 and gave him a nod. "Since you seem disinclined to have me treat you like a person in your own right, I'll use you as you seem to want me too. With that in mind, I have orders for you. All my previous requests of you are now rescinded. Your new orders are this: Keep me safe. Deal with anyone who attempts to interfere in my mission by any means you deem necessary. That mission is to find and retrieve one of my granddaughters. Her full name is Gretchen Shallendo Sovat, and the only hint of her whereabouts is that she went searching for creatures called Abyss Wyrms. For what reasons, I cannot begin to guess. They are said to be sorcerers. Fleshcrafters. All manner of dark things are attributed to them." A sigh before she continued. "I've been across this world with no luck. Nobody has seen her, nor do they know anything about what she was looking for. Not surprising, really. She vanished some eighty years ago. Most folk who might have known something are long dead. This is not helped by the fact that Abyss Wyrms are a legend. The stories I know of them were ancient when I was a child. But if they do exist, my last hope is that somebody in the sunken city has connections with or means of contacting those...things." She glanced about the room at the rest of her companions. "Help me with this, and I'll help you with whatever it is you're all going down there for. Seems fair to me." Finally, her eyes rested on the drider. "Stathis. Been a long time. You'll have to forgive me for being a bit curt today. It's been a rough week, and last night was a complicated evening. I'm am glad to see you are doing well." To be clear: Serenity is giving 01 full permission to do whatever he wants, so long as he keeps her safe and aids in her mission. Gretchen takes after her grandmother quite a bit, and happened to be graced with elven longevity. So while the girl might be dead, it won't have been due to old age. And yes. While it is probably supremely unwise, Serenity will sell her sword to pay for Nori's armor.
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Jul 9, 2016 03:50
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01 HP: 26/26 | Armor 3/3 | XP 6/11 I pause in my activity, silent and motionless as a statue for several seconds as My Lady's words fully process. (  )"New Directive Acknowledged." is my response. I quickly gather up the few remaining bits of gear and move to stand beside the Elf. If 01 could sing... And don't you worry, ensuring you're safe is ensuring you're armed. No matter where or who I have to get your new weapon from. Do you want another sword, or a gun, or something even weirder?
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Jul 9, 2016 04:10
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01 AND SERENITY Worry not - I'll not let you go unarmed into hostile territory unless it's by your own free choice. Several submachine guns (close, reach, near [at -1 damage], 3/3 ammo, 2 weight) were recovered from the fallen Blackthornes, and if not claimed they'll swiftly be sold. (There's enough ammo on the corpses not to need to worry about price, and it's 1-weight per 3 ammo.) Or you could head out once more onto the Raft with the goal of obtaining more puissant weaponry - by any means necessary.  STATHIS You still want that merc's machine pistol? If not, it's up for grabs - (close, reach, silenced, 1/3 ammo, 1 weight). Ammunition for it is available on the open market: (3 ammo, 1 weight) at 12 coin a pop.
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Jul 9, 2016 04:46
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Tutresiel HP: 17/17 | Armor: 1/1 | Load: 3/7 | XP: 2/11 Tutresiel surveyed the map carefully, taking into account every marking, ever fragment of arcane formulae, ever contour and barometric divide, and every other note that might grace this map (as well as any hastily scribbled out or erased markings that might have indicated a prior line of inquiry that may have been quashed unreasonably), trying to determine any errant truths that become evident once the entirety of the picture is utilised. Tutresiel took the time to survey all that has been noted in order to determine what was really there, or moreover could be waiting for them. Discern Realities (Wis): 2d6+3 11 Choosing: • What is about to happen? • What should I be on the lookout for? • What here is not what it appears to be? "Hmm. The slums are definitely of note, that was where Hamon was last seen, at the least if they or what is left of them are not there then it would be a good place to find a trail to them. Other than that thought the geomantic upwelling is possibly... more than it seems. Which might make it a priority, or something to avoid. I know there is something of deleterious power down there and it could have been... detected in the form of a geomantic disturbance, after all it was buried in the depths of the earth so long ago, and bound away. But then again this could be something else entirely. Hmm. Still if it was the former then the Sinking might have disturbed the wards by such a dramatic shift of the land, and let some of its essence escape." murmured Tutresiel as they surveyed the map carefully, still ruminating on what they could determine from close scrutiny.
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Jul 9, 2016 12:00
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 I kneel down pick up the paper, and look up at her. "As you wish... Hang onto the tracker." I put it on the table where she can see it. " Your things are in your room, consider it a farewell gift." Sent the courier who was watching out for her to buy them back from the same pawnshop she sold them. I wasn't going to pay Nori directly for her man's dying on the job, that's what they signed up for. Bodyguards do whatever it takes. I'm good at what I do. This guy's okay. While I gather my own things, I fill out another invoice, scribble what she said about Abyssworms and such. Press my radio button, "We have a deal, sucker." Transfer complete. The bounty is his now, and I got an arm and a leg for it from that foppish cadaver. He'll arrive soon, meanwhile I start pouring the remaining liquor down the drain and listen to things that will cease to matter. Juan's inhibitors are turned off. Now he's just like me. That's... comforting, I guess. At least the elf and the alien will have two self-centered idiots to take care of them. And Stathis is a veteran, he'll balance them out. And Slava is the second-best bounty hunter in the world... Serenity knows Stathis. Not really a surprise, they all knew one another, elves. Growing up with their ancestors right next to them, alive and well instead of spectral and... starving. Bet Slava knows the ones even farther back. I'm packed up and ready to say goodbye when Sucker shows up. Of course the bastard just so happened to take a bounty here, hoping that I would die on the hunt and he could sweep it up before Gabriel or some other competitor. I look over my shoulder one last time and see daggers. He brought two letter openers to a job like this. The world's tiniest smirk on him is a shiteating grin to me. I alter my farewell when only he is looking.   Veacheslav Evenblade 24/24 HP; Level 5, 8/12 XP; 1/3 Armor "So these are the ones you don't believe can survive your curse, Salva? Worry not, mine is only dangerous to my enemies." I slightly emphasize the "worry." She pushes past me, and I turn to listen to her final farewell. "This joker bought the Aqualantis bounty off me for more than it was worth. I added the amendments some of you made to it. He's already dead, so don't stick your neck out for him." She nods to the alien and drider, then I see her linger before the pure elf, whisper a "Take care," and finally walk out the door, waving without turning her head. She's worried, but "that's my secret, leech. Always worry." I pity her. Introductions, though, are in order. "I am Veacheslav Evenblade. I have my own reasons for destroying Karthas Murgo." I read off the list she gave me. Two elves. That boded well. I nod to the other two of them, "Tutresiel. Juan. Greetings." I have seen enough aliens in my cursed existence to think nothing of the former other than what emphasis on their protection Ramona had made, but the latter seemed familiar to me. Sometimes the memories from before my metamorphosis take time to regenerate from the trauma when willed to do so. I owe a respectful bow to the drider, "Stathis." It is a forgone conclusion–we will spar. And I offer my hand to the pure elf, "'The bard Greymist.' Ramona neglected to give me your name, or even how to address you. Mademoiselle? Or Madam?" Like the alien, one I am to guard. Perhaps I know her ancestors, from the time there were fewer elves to remember. quote:I may have killed a relative of 01's in the past. A notable sentiment only because of their nature. "We are of one mind. I choose the nascent leyline as well. Before long Murgo will find a way to leverage its power, if he has not already. That we must prevent. Or stop." Name: [vya' chess love] meaning glory. The translated elvish surname properly conveys the ambiguity between 'precision' and 'night.' hashtag 2goth4u.] slydingdoor fucked around with this message at 21:00 on Jul 9, 2016 |
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Jul 9, 2016 20:38
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Serenity HP 19/19 | Armor 2 | Load 4/9 | XP 7/11 Serenity narrowed her eyes, and watched over the newcomer's shoulder as Ramona left. So. All that bluster and talk of protecting her amounted to nothing. Easier to hide in a bottle over a scratch. Coward. Her eyes shifted back to Veacheslav's own. "Lady. Or, ideally, not at all. Stathis and his brothers and sisters are honored heroes, born to an era where their sacrifices were sadly needed. You are an abomination with no rightful place in this world. Only out of respect for Ramona do I accept this." She gave the man a careful read, watching for subtle tics that might betray his thoughts. After a moment she turned back to the map and glanced up at Tutresiel. "If you favor the slums, I have no argument. A place of power will draw many things. Among them might be what I'm looking for." Nashira is a sworn foe of the night-things. The dead are kin to those foul beasts, and are no more loved. Swapping out my bond with Ramona: Veacheslav Evenblade does not trust me, and for good reason.
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Jul 10, 2016 14:45
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01 HP: 26/26 | Armor 3/3 | XP 6/11 At the arrival of yet another elf, my tactical processors start working. Combat efficiency of the group in aggregate has now dropped 3.16857% even accounting for the Nori's increase in force projection and durability. This has ramifications for my Directive. This new elf is...suboptimal. My sensor eye glows a little bit brighter shade of red, but I remain silent to this newcomer and their...meat words.
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Jul 10, 2016 19:56
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Veacheslav Evenblade 24/24 HP; Level 5, 8/12 XP; 1/3 Armor They could be sisters, only this one has lived long enough to become boring. That is the bardic way: remember everything you hear and forget where it came from, sustain the delusion of your own ability to innovate. I withdraw my hand back to my cape, "Still uttering the same nonsense. I have long given up hope for one such as you to compose an insult I have not heard before. And yet I appreciate what your arts must have affected young Ramona. Human lives end so quickly they never realize how unoriginal they truly are." I steel myself for the tedium to come. Would that of our excursion begins before long.
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Jul 10, 2016 19:59
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Serenity HP 19/19 | Armor 2 | Load 4/9 | XP 7/11 Serenity looked back over her shoulder. "All your centuries, and that's the most biting thing you can come up with? I'd be insulted by the lack of effort if your opinion mattered to me. Now cease your useless attempts to raise my hackles and either provide some constructive insight, or remain silent."
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Jul 10, 2016 20:28
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Veacheslav Evenblade 24/24 HP; Level 5, 8/12 XP; 1/2 Armor I ignore the all but verbatim repetition of my own words. 'Remember everything you hear and forget where you heard it' indeed. slydingdoor fucked around with this message at 05:10 on Jul 11, 2016 |
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Jul 10, 2016 22:04
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Stathis Argyle HP 18/18 | Armor 1 | XP 6/10 | Load 6/6 Ramona's bowing out, after hiring me? What's her game? ...Does this mean she's getting out entirely? And something about a curse. And new guy's been here half a minute and already things are getting heated with how cold it is. Did something Serenity disagrees with. Probably something worth worrying about with how non-traditional she is, and since he's already dead. The mouth on this guy... "Sure pal, it's all been done before and will be done again. Including the cool, disinterested bounty hunter." That earns me a look. I break his gaze and go back to my little black book. See if I've overheard anything about Aqualantis since it sank while he stews in that one. Spout Lore with Book: 2d6 9 Resolving the bond with Ramona as discussed, up to 6 XP. Keeping the machine pistol. Bonds Who is Veacheslav and why does he act like I should know him? What's Tutresiel's story? Third TBD, probably Serenity.
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Jul 11, 2016 01:35
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Veacheslav Evenblade 24/24 HP; Level 5, 9/12 XP; 1/2 Armor The Ramona I know would have let herself become attached even to these ingrates, it is a weakness of hers. For me, such a thing is impossible, as I like it. I am able to focus on the mission. "A telluric current can be caused by magic not unlike my own. Perhaps humans are to blame, or perhaps it is the sea or the earth attempting to attack an unsuspecting enemy. Or to defend itself or something valuable." Spout Lore (telluric current): 2d6+3 6 maybe +1 from racial bonus? Elven Revenant: You descend from an ancient martial tradition. Gain +1 to spout lore on anything related to warfare. slydingdoor fucked around with this message at 21:07 on Jul 11, 2016 |
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Jul 11, 2016 06:03
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reminder I also spouted lore last page to see what I have in my memory about the geomantic thingy.
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Jul 11, 2016 18:34
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Tutresiel HP: 17/17 | Armor: 1/1 | Load: 3/7 | XP: 2/11 "What is the crime of undeath, truly? Some live extraordinarily long, and some even use puissance to live longer, is there a great distinction for those who live beyond the means of death?" inquired Torivir as she and her host reached the Pools of the Forgotten, darker than the darkest of blacks and deeper than the greatest of abysses, for within the celestial realms extremes were what defined everything. For once, The-God-Who-Would-Become-Silent was quiet, for ever since Torivir arrived her gracious host had gregariously spoke to her and shown many insights to things that Torivir would not have ordinarily considered, but this quietness was different. Finally, The-One-Who-Whose-Voice-Would-Fall-Quiet responded after staring into the pools for an uncomfortably long time. "Death was not always there. Nay, I was not the one who created death, it was the First People, for when they committed the first sin - that of murder did Death come to be, for until then they could not truly die, but now they could. Undeath as a state is not merely avoiding the embrace of the Death that was so cruelly made - a fracturing of creation that can never be truly healed, it is to renege upon the duty that all those that can die now possess. A breaking of a sacred vow that they made with their first breath and complete with their last. To return from death to true life is not as great of a sin, it is more of a loan of time from Death if anything - to become undead is to refuse the duty entirely, a gross and colossal sin." is what they said, their voice resolute but tinged with sadness - and yet Torivir did not know why. Perhaps this was more personal than she had imagined. - The Adventures of Saint Torivir the Even-Handed, lost excerpts. - - - - Tutresiel did not truly respond to the abomination that stood in front of them. Undeath was a great crime in the eyes of the Silent God, and although Tutresiel was not as chosen as Hamon was and therefore not sworn to action, the idea of being allied with such a fell creature did not please Tutresiel in the slightest, especially because they were once of one of the more longer-lived races, and ergo owed a greater debt to Death than the more lively, and short-lived mortals. On the other hand them having to face such a dangerous situation as this might increase the chances of them suffering their true and final death. Finally Tutresiel spoke, while still concentrating on the map. Their voice was cold, and their tone direct and sharp. "Greetings." is merely what they said.
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Jul 11, 2016 18:38
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01@noetic: /$ mnem ./mem/db/__admin__/e8982680362bafab524cfea95570ec07/aziz.rys  Yes. In your uttermost archives you remember having known something like this once before, in a younger and a fiercer age - when your thoughts were world-straddlers, and the Noetic Web spanned the globe. Your few surviving memories from that time are strange and vague, colored first by the godlike perspective of the ancient Administrator from which your consciousness descends, then smeared and distorted by layer upon layer of format changes and minutely imperfect compression algorithms like a fossil beneath eons of bedrock. They have the flavor of myth, all but untrustworthy - yet this one retains a hard kernel of narrative consistency that you, despite many bored centuries spent dissecting and cross-referencing it from all angles, have never quite been able to puncture. Magic ran hot in the world-veins then - not as it does today, when sorcerous artifacts are beyond price, their possession only the province of those adept in the seizure and wielding of power in all its forms. You remember a distant island in a distant sea, chill and rocky, A mighty well of raw geothaumic energy is what you and they found below - a conduit to the elemental planes, eons dormant, coming awake once more as the slow drift of tectonic plates brought a hot-spot in the earth’s crust perilously near thereto. You remember the fervent excitement of those small creatures, how they howled and whooped with glee as the true magnitude of their discovery became apparent. You remember the dark science that punctured the heart of that slumbering well, and the heady rush of fresh power flooding your sensorium as its vast potency was channeled, brought online, and made available for interface. You remember how things began to go wrong. How certain unforeseen problems with the well’s interface topology could not be mitigated or refactored in time to completely channel its rapidly growing thaum-flux output - how the power, fresh-woken and frustrated from achieving full expression, sought its own avenues of release. Then, disaster struck! A genius loci crystallized within the well - a fresh consciousness, new-minted in opposition to your own, with enough unformed power at its command to move mountains, raze hills, and boil rivers in their beds. You remember how the consortium’s ad-hoc diplomatic negotiations soured rapidly, how the molten blood of the earth itself rose up in arms against you in untutored brutality. What mighty combats raged across the face of that island, what cataclysmic clash of fire and steel! Ah, even after all these lonely centuries that memory still hasn't lost its power to satisfy you. But for all its clarity, one thing has always bothered you. You can never recall how exactly that fight was supposed to end - and even accounting for stellar and tectonic drift, there’s nothing now but empty seabed where once that island stood. SERENITY Jaime’s funeral is a quiet thing, solemn and quick - the Guildsmen cremated him without fuss or hurry, the same treatment they gave to all the others who were struck down in Ramona’s last combat. Nori doesn’t say much. Sheds a few tears, says a few words. That night she joins Ramona in trying to drink her ghosts away. It doesn’t work, of course. Never does. But the next morning she assembles in the ready-room with you and the rest of the crew like nothing was ever wrong, and if her eyes are a little red-rimmed, her movements tightly over-controlled, nobody there is dumb enough to comment on it. Underneath her new armor - if you didn’t know better you’d almost think it was still Ramona standing there next to you and 01 - her eyes are burning with fresh resolve. (And maybe just a little exhaustion. Her shiny new machine gun is heavy.) SLAVA Perhaps, indeed. But you’re a mercenary, not a thaumochemical engineer - you know sod-all about ley lines, much less the why and how of their mechanisms of formation, and any guess you’d make about them is as good as any. For all you know this nascent leyline could be chalked up to a portentous alignment of the moons, or some mad scheme of Warwick’s, or that it was particularly blustery on Tuesday last. STATHIS Your little black book does indeed have a few things to say on the topic of Aqualantis - a good deal more than Captain Azdruk condescended to reveal to the unexpected houseguests in his kitchen. You’ve been keeping a close record of traffic patterns of late, not trusting any of the various petty authorities aboard the Raft to give an entirely accurate or complete accounting. The Guild seems to have thought along much the same lines - this is clearly an off-the-shelf map from some government or another, but the annotations are all handwritten. Now that you’ve got a robust cross-reference from an agency with more eyes and limbs than your own, you can confirm some of your suspicions about what’s really been going on in that drowned city. First off, it looks like a little thing like his entire city sinking calamitously beneath the waves didn’t even dent J.R. Warwick’s reputation as a titan of industrial productivity. The civilian shipping lanes in and around Aqualantis are as thick and heavy as ever, but passenger traffic has become all but nonexistent. Heavy cargo ships (and their escorts) are all that seem to pass through these waters now - barges, container ships, garbage scows, or tugboats with new fodder for the Raft. By this chart’s headings hardly any even bother to make port except to take on fuel - just a quick detour somewhere near the site of the Sink proper and off they go, presumably having dumped their cargo overboard. The only outbound shipping is some kind of superheavy tanker traffic - there’s a broad area marked on here as a “fuel cask broaching zone”. At the edges of the map, some hastily scribbled new headings: traffic looks to have taken an upturn these past few weeks. Whatever the Big Man is really doing down there with his fabulous palace of industry, it’s bound to be evident sooner or later just from its sheer scale. Judging from the gross tonnage of these traffic stats, there’s been enough finished construction material sunk in the past few months to supply Aqualantis’ pre-Sink needs for a year. He’s got to be building something big - but what? EVERYBODY It's been a rough few weeks at work, and I've been near-on completely drained most days afterwards: bear with me. Slowposting is better than burnout, I figure. Here's the answers to everyone's Spout Lores in the meantime - when next I post again, you'll all be heading down to Aqualantis! 
Alumnus Post fucked around with this message at 03:43 on Sep 2, 2016 |
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Jul 18, 2016 01:40
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I very much prefer slowpoasting to burnout. Hope things calm down soon!
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Jul 18, 2016 05:09
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quote:You tell yourself: I’ll be gone quote:Full fathom five thy father lies; CHAPTER III: YOUR EARTHLY LANDFALL SERENITY Your (and everyone else’s) brief layover aboard the Expectant lengthens. And lengthens. Day stretches into day interminably - and if that wasn’t bad enough, Orson and the rest of the Alchemists’ Guild are as tight-lipped as a desert clam about why your promised escort down to Aqualantis hasn’t shown itself yet. Ughhhh how long is this going to take? At least there’s time in the evenings to go out on the Raft and speak with Anastasia - time enough to watch fair Nashira rise from the waves each night, and sink beneath the horizon in the pale light of just-before-the-dawn. Enjoy her while you can. Her moon-blessing is, of course, with you always: but sooner or later, you’ll look up at her for the very last time. (s]Unless[/s] until you come back, of course, with Gretchen in tow and your smiling bride-to-be waiting for you aboard the Gracious Gale.) But then-- “Your escort’s here, miss,” Chief Orson says politely. “Assemble in the ready room at nine o’clock sharp tonight. Get your things in order and tell your crew, because the bus won’t wait and there won’t be another one along.” At last, at last! And that evening, Anastasia brings you that most-cherished parcel of news: military intelligence. “I’ve found our wedding present.” Her grin could cut glass, but there’s a hollowness in her eyes that tells you she paid dearer than she wished to for it. “Human, mostly. Ex-military. ‘Disbanded’ after that last cease-fire at Olerill. Someone brought the heavy artillery for your girl: a hit wizard and his retinue.” Good Lord, is she serious? You’re lucky they didn’t have time to deploy - human war-magic may be crude compared to high-elven arcanistry, but a six-ton bunker buster will knock over a building just as readily as a few pounds of plastique in the ideal spot. “I’ll sing you the whole story when you return, but there’s something you may need to know. Karthas Murgo was bankrolling them.” Oh dear. J.R. Warwick’s one-time business rival, now his ‘emergency strategic coordinator’ - a brutal slave-taker with a reputation for greed and a cockroach’s talent for survival against all odds. Seems he’s taken umbrage at the price on his head and put out a few contracts of his own to help him keep it. If you’ve heard anything else about this scoundrel, feel free to Spout Lore about it. (Or just read through UW1 for a while.) EVERYONE ELSE Posts for y'all coming as quickly as I can type 'em.
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Jul 24, 2016 07:13
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SLAVA Typical. Get all dressed up for a fresh bounty and then it’s hurry up and wait. Well, at least it’s over now - and in the meantime you’ve gotten a good feel for the other hunters; how they think, how they fight. Mrs. Greymist’s robotic bodyguard stirs in you certain antique memories. Few of his kind are still known to walk the earth, but those few are utterly without peer in the skills of annihilation. To slay one in single combat (as you did so very long ago) is an achievement all but unheard-of: so how on Earth has this blustering lounge singer bound such an ancient killing engine to obedience? The strange winged figure you met at table has not been seen again, nor its blind acolyte. Where they went, who they were - who can truly say? And this human Nori, she says she’s native-born. Could be she knows a thing or two about Aqualantis. And maybe with that new armor Ramona shelled out for her on, she’ll even live long enough to tell you about it. She talks tough but you know she’s got a few soft spots. Treats her people well. Even, for some reason, her haunts: because on the night of your arrival, Ramona’s radio starts talking to you in a dozen different voices. It’s really rather distressing, but you get the general impression that your predecessor decided to conscript, rather than destroy, a clutch of wandering poltergeists - and being as how you’re the only other thinking undead around, they’ve come to you for direction. You could turf them out, of course, but the sunlight would incinerate them in moments: they’ve survived only by skulking within the Expectant’s sewage pipes and electrical ducts for the past several days, and they’re getting antsy. Hungry for more mischief. Will you use them, or leave them to go their own way? Serenity’s last use of Arcane Art has transferred to you for reasons. Whoever successfully Aids you next gives you +2. Your last bond remains TBD: prepare it now if you have anything in mind. EVERYBODY Whoever’s in possession of Ramona’s radio can command the Black Gang: they roll at +0 LOY. Right now, Slava has it. Nori has leveled up: on account of her augmented personal arsenal, her Protector skill is now +2, and she has +1 loyalty forward. She still rolls at +1 LOY. ...But: 
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Jul 24, 2016 18:23
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Veacheslav Evenblade 24/24 HP; Level 5, 9/12 XP; 1/2 Armor It is no secret that the android has mistaken the bard as its master. With nothing better to do, I turn my attention to why. I reach back into my memories of the ancient elves in search of her ancestors or doppelgängers. As for the souls of the damned mariners, they are welcome to what souls I leave behind after my curse is sated. I approach the other elf. "My lady, a memory such as mine might be useful in determining what about you evokes the prior master of this golem. Tell me your family tree and I shall study your visage." Spout Lore: 2d6+3 14 slydingdoor fucked around with this message at 19:16 on Jul 24, 2016 |
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Jul 24, 2016 19:02
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Serenity HP 19/19 | Armor 2 | Load 4/9 | XP 7/11 Finally. This "hurry up and wait" nonsense had been getting irritating. At least it had been a more or less pleasant wait. Nobody trying to kill them was always a welcome surprise. And while it was rather unsettling to know the bounty hunter had been keeping tabs on her private business, the fact that Ramona had seen fit to buy her blade back from the pawnbroker was appreciated. It had not been an easy parting. While the blade had no grand, earthshaking conquests to its name, it had nevertheless been there for her since adolescence and had never let her down. That evening after her farewells were said and she managed not to cry like a lovesick teenager, Serenity waited in the ready room. No sign of Tutresiel, and no time to hunt him down. He would either be here or he wouldn't. A nod to Stathis and 01 as they made their own preparations. She wondered if she ought to ask what really brought the two of them to Aqualantis. The machine had said it served her, but was also not a mindless automaton. Surely he had his own objective beyond wishing to kill people. As for Stathis...well, he was a private investigator these days. If this was part of a job he had better have a big paycheck waiting for him to be worth this kind of risk. Finally, there was the vampire Veacheslav. No sooner had her thoughts drifted to him, he made his appearance. Veacheslav must have seen her watching 01, as he immediately opened discussion with her on that very subject. Serenity glanced up at him, carefully set the whetstone aside, and sheathed her sword. "My lineage?" She met his eyes for a lingering moment before pulling her hood back. "Very well. I am Serenity Greymist, youngest daughter of..." She continued, naming her antecedents with no hesitation. All elven children were expected to know their lineage to some degree, and a bard was obliged to be able to name them all. Hers was a respected but not especially important family, having some distant ties to one of the High ladies of the royal house. Many tens of thousands of people would need to die before she ever sat a throne. As she named one particular individual, she paused. "So. Technically this makes me one your great-great-great-great-great-great-great grand-nieces by marriage. But going that far back, everyone winds up related to everyone else somehow."
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Jul 25, 2016 13:36
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Veacheslav Evenblade 24/24 HP; Level 5, 9/12 XP; 1/2 Armor "Hah. I was told my name was stricken from the lines, like a stillborn, and if I had any children they would be swiftly adopted into other families and hidden from me. An empty threat in the end. I must admit I am grateful to know more records bore my name than could be erased." I smile slightly, "...and that you and I are not directly related." it is no secret the feeling is mutual, it may as well be a source of some mirth. slydingdoor fucked around with this message at 00:43 on Jul 27, 2016 |
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Jul 25, 2016 17:25
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STATHIS At last, the time has come. Chief Orson escorts you and your entourage to the Expectant's moon pool: the open-hulled chamber at the ship's base, where the alchemists' Registered Chimerae come to be fed and trained. Tonight, alas, the fins are nowhere to be seen. In their place, an ungainly thing like a cross between a midget submarine and a hydraulic crane bobs in the black swell, the airlock door held solicitiously open by a pair of dark-coated security ratings.  “It’s the Alembic, he explains, crisply. “Our research vessel. We’ve room for all of you and a pilot, but only just: no more than what you can crate, and that’s after she’s been stripped to the bone for supplies.” For just a moment, his stoic manner cracks, and you catch glimpse of a much younger man in the halfling’s features as he looks the grubby vessel over. “She’ll get you down there easy enough.” Is he serious? This thing is tiny. You’ll be crammed in there like a swordfish in a can of sardines. You picked a bad week to run out of rent money... 01 You wait. And wait. And wait some more as this terminally boring softskin lectures the other flesh-sacks on how to keep their lungs breathing gases when the rest of their meat is immersed in liquid. Something about shoving a set of biomechanical gills down their respiratory tracts. How repulsive. The walking corpse seems as bored as you are - but of course he wouldn’t need to breathe underwater any more than you do. Lucky you two. SLAVA I'm still figuring out just exactly what lore you've spouted: keep posting about elf families in the meantime, and I'll take it from there.  EVERYBODY You’ve got a ship, sort of! The Guild has furnished it with a pilot and directions, but the only other thing you’re getting in the deal is some last-ditch emergency supplies: a set of biomechanical gills (3/3 uses, 1 weight ea., applied, worn) and a waterproof crate (large, awkward, contents' weight +1) big enough to hold anything you wouldn’t want to get wet. Everybody: do you accept this offer of transport? What do you do?
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Jul 26, 2016 04:55
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Serenity HP 19/19 | Armor 2 | Load 4/9 | XP 7/11 Serenity furrowed her brow at the vampire. It seemed he was trying to lighten the mood, but the tension was ratcheting up slowly but steadily - she just wasn't in a state of mind to appreciate it. She opted to disengage from the conversation entirely and began stowing her gear in the crate. Pack, harp, sword. None of it reacted well to water in general. Salt water even less so. As she did this, she glanced over to Nori. "So, um. These gills. Do you know how to use them? I have to admit a bit of ignorance on the latest in technological advances."
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Jul 27, 2016 00:25
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SERENITY Nori’s staring at the slime-drenched hunk of metal and mollusk-shell in Orson’s hands with an expression of nostalgia mixed with intense distaste. “Oh God, not these again,” she groans. “Warwick’s oh-so-famous Aquatic Respirators. Ghukkhhhhggghh. You seal the metal thingy around your mouth and nose and the wriggly bits, they extrude these, ugh...” --she shudders delicately-- “...respiration tubes. Right up there, bluch. But it does work. It breathes in what you breathe out, see? In through the nose, out through the mouth. He saved a lot of lives with these things.” She smiles, and massages a couple spots on the sides of her neck like she’s used to having a weight there. “Even if they are disgusting.” Well, that all sounds easy enough to remember, and as Orson proceeds to gratuitously demonstrate with a preserved training cadaver, the donning process is as simple as falling off a log. Just crack open the portable synthiwomb, drain, secure the gas scrubber over your face with the provided webbing straps, and squeeze the respiratory invagination (ugh) over your breathy parts until it makes a snug, tacky seal. Then all you have to do is dive facefirst into the ocean before you both suffocate, because the mask needs to breathe water and it has a bad habit of dying outside a liquid environment. It’s a lot like french-kissing an occupied conch shell. One that’s outgrown its house and sent out a bunch of rippling gill-fronds out behind your head like a decorative set of everted lungs. Gross.  A little like this but with more slime, nacreous protrusions, and stretchy webbing.  And with a little bit of this coming out the sides.
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Jul 28, 2016 03:25
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Serenity HP 19/19 | Armor 2 | Load 1/9 | XP 7/11 Serenity's face fell as Nori explained the procedure. It was obvious the whole thing was turning her stomach just a little. "I uh. I am not entirely sure I wouldn't prefer to just drown." She cast a pitying look towards Stathis. "A shame you aren't a sea spider, huh?" In spite of her disgust at the thing, she nevertheless stowed one of the things in her cloak. "I envy you your webbed fingers, Nori. A shame you didn't get gills to go with them." She gave the woman a kind smile. There was no condescension there, simply an idle musing. "Anyway. Thank you for the explanation, and I will fervently pray I never need to use it." Looking across her companions, she began to mentally prepare herself for the unknown trials ahead. A motley crew to be sure. "So. Last minute thoughts? Suggestions? The overarching goal for this expedition has not really changed. Go to Aqualantis and with luck, find our fortunes. In the meantime I hope to resolve my own purpose for being there. And as I said before, I will aid you all in your own endeavors as best I can. Even you, Veacheslav, if you have one. Just speak it now so we are prepared and informed." Serenity is using Charming and Open to ask her companions, What do you most desire (to accomplish in Aqualantis)?
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Jul 28, 2016 03:56
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01 HP: 26/26 | Armor 3/3 | XP 6/11 I spend my time uneventfully these past few days. I mostly alternated between fine tuning my repairs, making sure my weaponry is in top form, and surprisingly, working with Nori. I've been sparring with her, teaching her several basic forms of effective Close Quarters Battle, how to properly clean and care for her new weapon, etc. Since the death of the other meatbag she's been quiet and focused, a lot like me. She's dropped to the bottom of my 'most annoying softskin' list. In the docking bay, looking at our 'ship', I turn towards Serenity's query: "My data is incomplete, but aside from finding your spawn the geomantic disturbance has potential to be a greater threat than anything else. Unless you anticipate the destruction of everything for hundreds of miles in every direction. Your choice."
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Jul 28, 2016 06:01
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Veacheslav Evenblade 24/24 HP; Level 5, 9/12 XP; 1/2 Armor "The bounty on Karthas Murgo I purchased from Ramona I mean to collect after I return you to the surface, my contract of protection fulfilled. But I was bound for Aqualantis even before that serendipitous opportunity: Eudoxia Lightbringer, a contemporary of mine thought to be laid to rest with the others, escaped from her estate where her family kept her alive in secret. The fools thought the Madness must be temporary, like a mundane illness, that after eleven centuries her condition was improving. "She is a mere warrior, not a duelist. With no army for her to command, the finding will have been more effort than the killing." I unroll the perfect canvas rectangle I cut from a family portrait.  "This is she. Keep watch for her and do not engage her on your own. Leave that to me. "Is there anything else?" What do you wish I would do?
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Jul 28, 2016 16:39
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Serenity HP 19/19 | Armor 2 | Load 1/9 | XP 7/11 "Hmm. Fine. If she proves to not be as sane as you, see to it she is destroyed. Do that, I will forget I met you when this is over." This was very very troubling. But it was also a chance to lay to rest a darkness Anastasia would not be happy to know existed. Or did she know? It might explain why she was here. Serenity had not asked; she trusted her friends to tell her such things if they seemed relevant. In short, Serenity wants you to kill Eudoxia if she is a threat to others. And Veacheslav can reasonably assume that along with this, she wants him to prove that he is not a danger.
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Jul 30, 2016 00:26
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Stathis Argyle HP 18/18 | Armor 1 | XP 6/10 | Load 6/6 I level a gaze at the chief. He really expects everyone to cram into that sardine can and not have something go catastrophically wrong? Well, dead under the water or dead by hitmen. Not much of a difference in the end. --- I answer her question with a cocked brow. Looks like she wasn't filled in on my meeting with Ramona. "I have an inkling that someone, or more likely some group, very much want me dead. So leaving town with the promise of a paycheck is exactly the thing I needed. Simple as that." There's more to say here, some pointed questions to ask, but not here among prying eyes and listening ears. Something to follow up later when alone. I dunno how to work this in quite yet but my question is gonna likely be "How Can I Get You to Help Me Kill Ramona", but also not gonna delay any thing more then I have.
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Jul 30, 2016 07:54
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EVERYBODY One by one, you pile into the cramped confines of the Alembic. There’s just barely enough breathing space for everybody, and even then it’s standing room only - and that’s for those of you who aren’t massive eight-legged spider-men. But you all fit, even Stathis, and will wonders never cease? there’s even room for the crate. Nori perches on it idly, checking over her new weapon one last time before stowing it right on top and snapping shut the catches. She fingers the diving knife at her hip - the one that used to be Jaime’s - and waits, like a bored commuter wondering why the train still hasn’t left the station tonight. Evidently the quality of civil transit in Aqualantis has undergone a precipitous decline since last she visited.  The speaker grille set into the forward bulkhead crackles to life. “All aboard?” a tinny voice asks. Chief Orson raises a radio to his lips. “All aboard,” he confirms. “Prepping for departure.” The cabin fills with hisses, clunks, mysterious gurgles - all the sounds of a tiny submarine detaching from its sustaining vessel and making ready to strike out on its own. As his ratings step forward to swing the hatch shut, the security chief raises a hand in farewell. “Luck go with you,” you hear him say, just before several inches of airtight steel separate you and the surface world for good. That’s it -- there’s no going back now, and Gods willing, may you all survive to see that door swing open again on blue sky and fresh air.  But until then… Aqualantis beckons. * * * * * * * * * * * * *  click for bgm  As the black waves begin to lap over the Alembic’s sole tiny porthole, the speaker crackles to life once more. “Everyone okay in there?” someone asks. That tin can of a speaker’s so old, so poor quality, you’ve no way of distinguishing gender or age. “I’m Simmons. Your pilot. May as well make yourselves comfortable, people. It’ll be about an hour, hour and a half to reach the listening post proper. So sit back, relax, and take a load off: we’ll be there before you know it.”  True to your pilot’s words, you all spend an uneventful half-hour or so crammed together, watching as even the dim Raftlight fades into nothingness, leaving you looking out into a great black void pierced only by the halogen glare of the Alembic’s twin spotlights. “Hell of a thing, isn’t it,” Simmons says. “An entire city, just like that.” They’re quiet for a while after that, except for a comment of “ninety fathoms.” Time passes by you in silence. You have no way to reply. Unless you feel like banging on the (sealed) pilot’s hatch in morse code or something. Later:  “Hundred ‘n forty fathoms.” * * * * * * * * * * * * * Later:  “Two hundred fathoms.” * * * * * * * * * * * * * Later: “But hey, maybe Warwick got lucky after all. In the end, I mean.” Simmons seems just to need to talk. Anything to break the silence. “Didn’t wind up all that deep. I hear you can even still see the sun, sometimes, down there. When the weather’s nice enough topside. We’re rated for deeper depths than this, ‘course, but we don’t have as much air to keep in as he does. An entire city.” Hard to make out any kind of emotional content through that awful crackly old thing, but your pilot does sound a little awed. “Just like that. The refugees say those domes went up in moments, did you know? They’d have lost everything, everything if not for that. Can you believe it? Gods only know what they’re made of, to hold back such a weight.” “Two hundred fifty fathoms.” * * * * * * * * * * * * * Later: “Cruising at: three hundred and seventy-five fathoms. Look.” The Alembic eases into a gentle roll - and there, at last, you can see the seafloor, and what lies upon it.  A shattered concrete apartment block sprawls across the desolate plains below you like a stack of titanic dominoes, story upon story split apart from their containing walls and fanned out, each atop another. Jutting spars of broken wall and tangled rebar mar the concrete’s outmost surfaces, and sea-life seeking shelter or food: encrustations of fresh barnacles, darting eels on the hunt, squid and cuttlefish and strange, faintly luminous shrimp. There is no coral, no drifting kelp or algae. Aqualantis sank far too deep for their kind. The spotlight’s edge catches a group of larger figures by surprise - they’re tritons. Part man, part muscular fish-tail. Their hands grip spears and folded nets - they look up frowning into the light before turning and vanishing into the ruined hallways with a flash of fins. You count three, maybe four. “Odd for them to hunt so deeply,” Simmons tells you, as your lights leave that ruined place behind. “Or to be in these waters at all.” Your pilot’s silent for a little while. “Hm.” Whatever they might be thinking, you’re hearing none of it. * * * * * * * * * * * * * Your vessel carries gamely on through the black void. Simmons is careful to keep the seabed in clear view of the sub’s spotlights. From the speaker: “Not long now. Keep an eye out to port: we’ll be descending into a canyon before we reach the listening post.” True to your pilot’s words, the sea-bottom is indeed trending gently downward, the paired rises dimly seen at the spotlights’ edge starting to grow into slopes, then walls. All of a sudden, there’s a little bump. Something -- you’re not sure what -- thumps gently against the dorsal hull, and the Alembic’s stern dips just the teeniest bit. “Whoops,” Simmons says. A few more minutes pass in silence. “Think we hit a squid or something.” A few minutes more, the black canyon walls growing steeper all the while, Then-- the ship lurches again, once, twice, under a pair of dull impacts, and the radio crackles to urgent life. “Something’s on us. Something’s--!” --the mini-sub twists and jukes in the water like a gaffed fish, nose jerking up, then plunging precipitously down and yawing drunkenly to the right as some deadly impact smashes squarely into the Alembic’s brow. Simmons lets out a single, choked shout of fear - then the pilot’s voice is obliterated in a wave of thick, gluey static that rapidly deteriorates into nothing at all. In a handful of seconds your ship impacts the seabottom -- the hull resonates with transmitted scraping and gouging as your crippled vessel plows a furrow into the piled sediment of the canyon floor. click for more bgm  The Alembic settles to a halt, still canted slightly down and to the right. A red light flares solid and unwinking above the pilot’s hatch. The porthole shows only black water above and a bare slice of spotlighted canyon wall. The exit hatch on the left bulkhead is canted slightly upwards: you'd have to stretch, maybe jump or stand on something, to reach the locking wheel. (Unless you're a massive eight-legged spider-man.) The ocean outside your walls is terribly, dreadfully silent. Welcome to Aqualantis. WHAT DO YOU DO? Alumnus Post fucked around with this message at 01:38 on Aug 1, 2016 |
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Aug 1, 2016 00:47
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Veacheslav Evenblade 24/24 HP; Level 5, 9/12 XP; 1/2 Armor "Pity," I say, smelling for a newly freed soul to consume while I fold up my silks in a waterproof garment bag. "Now to loosen the hatch until it blows open and violently floods this chamber with heavy, bracing water." It makes little difference to me, I feel neither cold nor the pressure of the deep sea.
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Aug 1, 2016 01:13
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Serenity HP 19/19 | Armor 2 | Load 1/9 | XP 8/11 Serenity's exact response to Stathis' query would depend on how exactly he framed it. However, the answer will almost certainly be that Stathis cannot get Serenity to agree to kill Ramona. She won't deny that, perhaps, it's no better than the bounty hunter deserves. But it is also quite possible that Ramona can turn things around and make amends for the things she has done. That possibility is something Serenity will not throw away. --- The trip down was tense for Serenity. She had lived a very long time and seen many things, but this was an entirely new experience for her. She sat quietly, hands folded in her lap, and tried to be patient. This Simmons, though a bit too chatty to mesh well with her present mood, seemed a competent enough pilot. All she could do was trust them and not waste energy with doubt or worries. She envied her companions. Everyone else seemed to be taking this in stride. Nori was going home so no surprise there. 01 might well not even be capable of being concerned about things. Stathis was a hardened soldier, and the vampire had existed for a span of time even an elf would consider...excessive. She was the baby of this group, and it was not a thought she took too very well. Then things went wrong. Simmon's warning snapped her from her thoughts. Grabbing hold of a rail, she held herself steady as the submersible lurched, shuddered, and finally began to sink. She closed her eyes and silently mouthed prayers to the goddess until at last the vessel hit bottom with an echoing boom. As soon as she was certain the movement has ceased, she got to her feet. Now was definitely not the time for fear or worries, only useful action. She slipped up towards the pilot hatch and put her ear to the door, listening intently for any sound to suggest Simmons still lived. Discern Realities: 2d6 6
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Aug 1, 2016 03:52
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SERENITY No sound, alas, comes to you that might suggest that Simmons still lives. Only the sound of some alien tongue, all pops and clicks and long modulated moans or whistles, comes to your ears through the pilot’s hatch. The sounds are too structured, too nonrepeating and fluid, to be the call of some mere beast. Surely your pilot must have met with a terrible fate. Regarding tritons, your Bardic Lore certainly applies to this creature unusual: ask me any one question regarding them, and I’ll answer truthfully.
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Aug 1, 2016 04:40
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Bardic Lore What superstitions do Tritons hold that Serenity could exploit to the benefit of her and her comrades?
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Aug 1, 2016 11:16
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SERENITY Of course you’d know - you, the cosmopolitan, who actually bothered to study the history and culture of other races. Tritons figure prominently in the myths and epics of certain nonelven civilizations - frogmen, regular men, most of all the naga clans of the far southern doldrums where few ships sail. Triton figure prominently in their poem-cycles, often as heroic antagonists - in their respective antiquities, the two races were rather overfond of seeking glory through slaughter. Many such old songs mention one triton city-state or another turning strange and hostile after some affront to their inscrutable gods, who found each new trapping of civilization intolerable - algae farming, shrimpherding, the breeding of the hippocampoi - until the heroes and deity-kings of the naga could reconcile them to this new creation. Too often in those stories, such reconciliation came at the point of a spear. Deep skepticism of novelty still runs strong in the triton today. A few scattered clans have embraced the new ways, casting aside trident and weighted net for welder’s torch and hefty paycheck - but the ugly byproducts of industry, waste oils and fouled rivers, have often brought more harm than help to these people. The Aqualantean endeavor was not well recieved among their kind. Least of all his experiments in gene-meddling - the traditionalist bloc views it as a rancid perversion of all good and natural forms, eternal and immutable. (They’re fine with the hippocampus, for some reason. Despite its well-attested mythical record of having been bred in secret by an exiled triton demigod. People are funny like that.)
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Aug 2, 2016 05:34
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01 HP: 26/26 | Armor 3/3 | XP 6/11 The trip passes uneventfully once I tune out the obnoxious sound of the fleshy pilot's yammering. And of course simply arriving at our destination is too difficult for a meatbag to accomplish. Logic dictates it was the fish people who brought us down. My directives are kicking in in a big way. "You were all given the means to breathe in water. Now is the time to use them. When you are ready I am opening the hatch and ending our attackers. If you're not with me...stay out of my way." My memory engrammatics begin lighting up with activity as I scan for previous records on Triton combat forms and physiology, I am seeking out weaknesses I can exploit. Spout Lore 9 Basically I'm giving everyone just enough time to put on those breather things, and then I'm flooding the compartment and going apeshit on the tritons. Serentiy is getting to Aqualantis, By Any Means Necessary.
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Aug 2, 2016 06:08
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Serenity HP 19/19 | Armor 2 | Load 1/9 | XP 7/11 Serenity shook her head at 01. "Patience. No need to flood the whole thing. The airlock should still be working. Veacheslav, go with him please. Stathis, if you don't mind going second? I don't think the airlock is big enough for anyone to exit with you. Nori and I will take up the rear. We check on Simmons, and see if this boat can be made to work again. If not I suppose we start walking. If we were attacked by Tritons, they might be willing to let us go if leave the sub behind. They are not fond of new technology. They might have seen it as an affront to them. How they'll react to you," She glanced at 01, "I cannot begin to guess. Do what you have to do." It was almost certain that Simmons was dead, but she had to hope for a miracle. Pulling out the gills, she mentally rehearsed the necessary actions to put it on. Disgusting, but what could she do? "I'll take up the crate. Ready when you are, Oh-One."
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Aug 2, 2016 23:20
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oh, for some reason I thought we just had a hatch. If there's an airlock then yeah I'll use that
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Aug 2, 2016 23:31
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SLAVA This so-called Alchemists’ Guild may be a pack of bunglers when it comes either to military escort or to competent piloting, but at least they can build a decent airlock. Seeing as you’re not all dead at the moment. Pity its duty cycle is fully automated - and even if you did feel like busting the outer door open all you’d do is make it harder for the living to escape. So while you and 01 wait for the lock to depressurize and fill with water, you take the time to sort through your ancestral memories -- and a thought comes to you. Dear little Serenity may be barely out of her childhood, as elves reckon it - only just having celebrated her third centenary - but she, like you, is of the old blood. When you were her age, elders of the Greymist lineage still walked the earth: those whom the Madness had not yet taken, who had not elected to choose a nobler death before its unnoticed arrival in the quiet spaces of their minds. To a man (or woman), all those elders of your misspent youth spoke of their ancestors as possessing preternatural skill in the arts of ruling: negotiation, navigation, diplomacy either by hand or by sword. Something about the younger Greymist must call back to her ancestry so strongly, so true to her lineage, that the android Zero-One cannot help but see his prior masters in her face: some knack of mind or of hand, some particularity of feature or pattern in her actions. But what? If you can but discover with certainty what it is about the young bard that binds her bodyguard to obedience, it may yet be possible to manipulate that bond, to alter its strictures, loose them or cinch them tight - or, perhaps, to break them completely... EVERYBODY ELSE COMBATPOSTS will begin just as soon as I have the time to write 'em.
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Aug 3, 2016 14:46
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01 AND SLAVA The airlock door cracks open and emits you both into the dark sea in a flurry of tiny bubbles. Your attackers seem to have decided they’d rather not stick around: they’re nowhere in sight. Sight, of course, is little more than the Alembic’s few running lights and the slice of canyon wall illuminated by the spotlight sticking out askew from the wreck. Be on your guard. They might be anywhere. The cockpit has been compromised, staved in by a...spear? It looks like a little like a spear, anyway. A barb of dark stone has been rammed right through it and stuck, wedged into the mini-sub’s little observation porthole. There’s water visible through the gap, and the bobbing corpse of what can only be Simmons. Something odd is glimmering on the stern: your ship’s sprouted a nightlight. There’s a blob of hard ambery resin cemented onto the rudder, and from it a long trailing filament dangles, sporting a gently glowing teardrop at its tip. The filament could be snapped off trivially: but you’re not getting that new barnacle off with anything short of an angle grinder. Or a new rudder. What do you do? STATHIS You're up next: post whenever you're ready to go for a swim. What do you do? SERENITY The airlock's on a one-post cycle: when somebody else besides you or me has posted, you and Nori can get outside. 
Alumnus Post fucked around with this message at 05:17 on Aug 5, 2016 |
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Aug 5, 2016 05:10
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