In Service: A Science Fantasy Quest
- Thread starter I.F. Ister
- Start date
- Original
- Location
- Denton, Texas
Actually a great idea! Fuck if I know who to call but that's a good plan
I.F. Ister
Fortifying The Thread
- Pronouns
- He/They
Current leanings on SB are towards Sean
I.F. Ister
Fortifying The Thread
- Pronouns
- He/They
Alrighty, voting is now closed, lets rock
Our winner:
[X] Phone somebody you know (Who? Persuasion Roll of varying difficulties depending on who you call)
-[X] Sean, see if our fae friend has a metal car and will drive us to pick up a metal chainsaw.
Our winner:
[X] Phone somebody you know (Who? Persuasion Roll of varying difficulties depending on who you call)
-[X] Sean, see if our fae friend has a metal car and will drive us to pick up a metal chainsaw.
The Quest for the Chainsaw 1
I.F. Ister
Fortifying The Thread
- Pronouns
- He/They
Fishing out your phone, which you find yourself using a lot today, you quickly dial Sean's number—the soothing tunes of Irish fiddle players filling your ears as you listen to his ringtone.
"Itza? It's been a while." Special Agent Sean McCullen comments as he answers the phone in his subtle Irish accent. "How's it going? Holding up okay? You haven't really been at work recently, well, you haven't been mentally there at least."
"Hey, Sean." You reply as you rock on your heels, hands in pockets as you stare at the cloudy horizon line far in the distance. "I'm doing okay, for the most part. Currently working through some stuff in my personal life."
"Ah, damn." He mutters as he grunts softly. You can hear the shifting of weights and the clanking of machinery in the background—it would seem that he's at the gym. "Your parents botherin' you? I know you had some trouble with them."
"Eh," you shrug and then immediately realize that he can't see the motion in the first place, "something to do with that."
"Family matters are never fun to deal with, unless it's a wedding—then it gets real exciting." You can hear the fond grin in his voice as he thinks back.
"I was actually calling you to ask you about that."
"What, a wedding?" That vocal grin of his grows wider and wider. "Sorry Itza; you're cute and all but I'm not exactly looking to settle down just yet." Your eyes widen as you feel piping hot blood rush to your face. You thank your lucky stars that he can't see your mortified appearance, your mind conjuring up the half-formed words he'd tease you with if he could. "Oh man," he laughs at your expense, "I bet that you've got one helluva look on your face right now!"
"Can we move on, McCullen?" You stamp down the red hot sensation on your face as you violently suppress any rebellious thoughts that might be lingering around.
"Ooo," your mind's eye can almost see Sean's smirking grin as he carries on, "calling me by the surname. I must be in trouble!" He draws out his syllables as he continues to torment you with those damnable teases! "Well, Miss Williams," he adds an extra smiling emphasis to your last name, "how can this lowly Dullahan assist you today?"
You take a moment to compose yourself, finally wrestling control over your rioting emotions before launching into the preliminary steps of gaining his help as you sink to sit on the wooden porch step. "Before I tell you anything, I need to know if you have a couple days off saved up. Do you?"
"Aye, I've got a couple." Something tells you that he's being a bit facetious right now, but you can't put your finger on what exactly—beyond it not being malicious. "Why do you ask?"
"Because I need a ride." You're not sure why you're being so cagey on this, perhaps for the drama? You are a super-scientist, after all, drama tends to come with the territory.
"A ride where?" He squints vocally, suspicions rising in his voice.
"Lawrence. Lawrence, Kansas."
"...Kansas is the place with the tornados, right?"
"Yep, smack dab in the middle of the Founding United States." You confirm.
"And where's this Lawrence?"
"East-Northeast, in between Topeka and Kansas City. About a day by car."
"By car? What about by ghost horse?" That's something of a non sequitur, but whatever, you'll roll with it. Not like you've never said anything like that before.
"Uh, are ghost horses faster or something? If so I would assume so."
"Aye, they are." He answers before asking another question of his own. "Now, why are you asking me this? It must be important for you to actually reach out to someone."
"Can you keep a secret?" You almost demand him to answer—your words filled with an authority that brooks no contest.
"Of course I can! I'm a feckin' fae ain't I?!" He sounds a tad bit insulted that you'd even ask that, his accent growing stronger along with his ire.
"Sorry, I just had to make sure that you weren't going to shout it to the rooftops." You hurriedly apologize, unforeseen and irrational fears racing through your mind as you wait for him to speak.
"Itza, you're my friend." It's a good thing you're already sitting because that'd probably knock you off your feet if you weren't. "The only way anyone'd get your secrets outta me is if they pieced it together from the crumbling remains of my shattered mind. I promise that on the hallowed crypts of my honored ancestors."
You have absolutely no idea how to respond to that so you decide to just go ahead and tell him, trusting in the strength of the oath he swore. "A particularly dangerous book that I'm hesitant to say the name of was in the possession of my family and guarded in the family Mausoleum alongside our founder. That book was stolen. I aim to get it back. One of the tools of my family's founder has recently resurfaced in the collection of the Winchesters down in Lawrence. I would go down and collect it, but I lack a way of actually getting there. That's where you come in."
(Persuasion Roll DC 25: 95+5=100, success, Jesus Christ on a bike, Itza!
94+0=94, double success, well I'll be damned)
"Itza, on a scale of zero–thirteen—with zero being no more dangerous than a children's paperback, ten being the literal Book of the Dead, and thirteen being the Book of Life, how bad are we talking here?"
"It's kinda ironic that you put that book as ten…" You trail off with a hollow chuckle.
"Holy Mary, Mother of God…" Sean swears under his breath in a continuous stream of Irish-accented vitriol that lasts for a full twenty-five seconds—all in one breath and not reusing any curses. "You had the Necro-feckin'-nomicon Ex-Mortis all this time?"
"Yes, yes we did. The founder of my family was the one who killed the Kandarian."
"Jesus." Sean declares for a final time before falling into a silence for a few moments. "So, what's the plan?" He asks like he just wasn't swearing the strongest you've ever heard—save for that time you encountered one of Santa's Workshop Elves.
You blink in surprise. After all that swearing and panic-fuelled fear, he's ready to get to work? Just like that? Is that normal Human behavior? You don't know, people have never really been your strong suit and even that's when you're in person. People over the phone are just about impossible for you to grok.
"I've got some evidence that's being traced to a person by a third party friend of mine. It's going to take some more time, about two days or so by my estimate, to complete it. So I thought that it would be a good idea to grab high quality demon slaying equipment."
"How high quality? Just out of curiosity."
"Chosen One."
You can hear him open his mouth and then close it—his teeth clicking shut. "At this point I'm not surprised any more. I'm sure I'm going to wake up tomorrow in a cold sweat, but that's a problem for Future Sean as it seems that you've overloaded my surprise meter for the time being."
"My vengeance for earlier." You grin as his chuckle carries over the line.
"Aye, fair enough." You share a moment of laughter as the exact moment he called himself your friend cemented itself in your memories. "Whats your address? I'll be swinging by soon. But, before I go, there's one thing I must ask you. Carriage or Horse?"
Carriage or Horse?
[ ] Carriage
[ ] Horse
"Also, Kansas City's in Missouri? Why's it called Kansas City then and not 'Missouri City'? They need to get their heads on straight." Sean comments blithely, only realizing the pun he just made when you start laughing.
(Sean's Opinion of you has increased from 4/20 to 7/20 (Definitely, positively, friends—as much as you hesitate to believe it. Though… given some of his comments… maybe there's…?))
~~~~~~~
GM's Note: The Haircut has claimed its first activation and I had a lot of fun writing this update, I won't lie.
Voting will be called tomorrow at 5 PM CST and make sure to have a wonderful day!
"Itza? It's been a while." Special Agent Sean McCullen comments as he answers the phone in his subtle Irish accent. "How's it going? Holding up okay? You haven't really been at work recently, well, you haven't been mentally there at least."
"Hey, Sean." You reply as you rock on your heels, hands in pockets as you stare at the cloudy horizon line far in the distance. "I'm doing okay, for the most part. Currently working through some stuff in my personal life."
"Ah, damn." He mutters as he grunts softly. You can hear the shifting of weights and the clanking of machinery in the background—it would seem that he's at the gym. "Your parents botherin' you? I know you had some trouble with them."
"Eh," you shrug and then immediately realize that he can't see the motion in the first place, "something to do with that."
"Family matters are never fun to deal with, unless it's a wedding—then it gets real exciting." You can hear the fond grin in his voice as he thinks back.
"I was actually calling you to ask you about that."
"What, a wedding?" That vocal grin of his grows wider and wider. "Sorry Itza; you're cute and all but I'm not exactly looking to settle down just yet." Your eyes widen as you feel piping hot blood rush to your face. You thank your lucky stars that he can't see your mortified appearance, your mind conjuring up the half-formed words he'd tease you with if he could. "Oh man," he laughs at your expense, "I bet that you've got one helluva look on your face right now!"
"Can we move on, McCullen?" You stamp down the red hot sensation on your face as you violently suppress any rebellious thoughts that might be lingering around.
"Ooo," your mind's eye can almost see Sean's smirking grin as he carries on, "calling me by the surname. I must be in trouble!" He draws out his syllables as he continues to torment you with those damnable teases! "Well, Miss Williams," he adds an extra smiling emphasis to your last name, "how can this lowly Dullahan assist you today?"
You take a moment to compose yourself, finally wrestling control over your rioting emotions before launching into the preliminary steps of gaining his help as you sink to sit on the wooden porch step. "Before I tell you anything, I need to know if you have a couple days off saved up. Do you?"
"Aye, I've got a couple." Something tells you that he's being a bit facetious right now, but you can't put your finger on what exactly—beyond it not being malicious. "Why do you ask?"
"Because I need a ride." You're not sure why you're being so cagey on this, perhaps for the drama? You are a super-scientist, after all, drama tends to come with the territory.
"A ride where?" He squints vocally, suspicions rising in his voice.
"Lawrence. Lawrence, Kansas."
"...Kansas is the place with the tornados, right?"
"Yep, smack dab in the middle of the Founding United States." You confirm.
"And where's this Lawrence?"
"East-Northeast, in between Topeka and Kansas City. About a day by car."
"By car? What about by ghost horse?" That's something of a non sequitur, but whatever, you'll roll with it. Not like you've never said anything like that before.
"Uh, are ghost horses faster or something? If so I would assume so."
"Aye, they are." He answers before asking another question of his own. "Now, why are you asking me this? It must be important for you to actually reach out to someone."
"Can you keep a secret?" You almost demand him to answer—your words filled with an authority that brooks no contest.
"Of course I can! I'm a feckin' fae ain't I?!" He sounds a tad bit insulted that you'd even ask that, his accent growing stronger along with his ire.
"Sorry, I just had to make sure that you weren't going to shout it to the rooftops." You hurriedly apologize, unforeseen and irrational fears racing through your mind as you wait for him to speak.
"Itza, you're my friend." It's a good thing you're already sitting because that'd probably knock you off your feet if you weren't. "The only way anyone'd get your secrets outta me is if they pieced it together from the crumbling remains of my shattered mind. I promise that on the hallowed crypts of my honored ancestors."
You have absolutely no idea how to respond to that so you decide to just go ahead and tell him, trusting in the strength of the oath he swore. "A particularly dangerous book that I'm hesitant to say the name of was in the possession of my family and guarded in the family Mausoleum alongside our founder. That book was stolen. I aim to get it back. One of the tools of my family's founder has recently resurfaced in the collection of the Winchesters down in Lawrence. I would go down and collect it, but I lack a way of actually getting there. That's where you come in."
(Persuasion Roll DC 25: 95+5=100, success, Jesus Christ on a bike, Itza!
94+0=94, double success, well I'll be damned)
"Itza, on a scale of zero–thirteen—with zero being no more dangerous than a children's paperback, ten being the literal Book of the Dead, and thirteen being the Book of Life, how bad are we talking here?"
"It's kinda ironic that you put that book as ten…" You trail off with a hollow chuckle.
"Holy Mary, Mother of God…" Sean swears under his breath in a continuous stream of Irish-accented vitriol that lasts for a full twenty-five seconds—all in one breath and not reusing any curses. "You had the Necro-feckin'-nomicon Ex-Mortis all this time?"
"Yes, yes we did. The founder of my family was the one who killed the Kandarian."
"Jesus." Sean declares for a final time before falling into a silence for a few moments. "So, what's the plan?" He asks like he just wasn't swearing the strongest you've ever heard—save for that time you encountered one of Santa's Workshop Elves.
You blink in surprise. After all that swearing and panic-fuelled fear, he's ready to get to work? Just like that? Is that normal Human behavior? You don't know, people have never really been your strong suit and even that's when you're in person. People over the phone are just about impossible for you to grok.
"I've got some evidence that's being traced to a person by a third party friend of mine. It's going to take some more time, about two days or so by my estimate, to complete it. So I thought that it would be a good idea to grab high quality demon slaying equipment."
"How high quality? Just out of curiosity."
"Chosen One."
You can hear him open his mouth and then close it—his teeth clicking shut. "At this point I'm not surprised any more. I'm sure I'm going to wake up tomorrow in a cold sweat, but that's a problem for Future Sean as it seems that you've overloaded my surprise meter for the time being."
"My vengeance for earlier." You grin as his chuckle carries over the line.
"Aye, fair enough." You share a moment of laughter as the exact moment he called himself your friend cemented itself in your memories. "Whats your address? I'll be swinging by soon. But, before I go, there's one thing I must ask you. Carriage or Horse?"
Carriage or Horse?
[ ] Carriage
[ ] Horse
"Also, Kansas City's in Missouri? Why's it called Kansas City then and not 'Missouri City'? They need to get their heads on straight." Sean comments blithely, only realizing the pun he just made when you start laughing.
(Sean's Opinion of you has increased from 4/20 to 7/20 (Definitely, positively, friends—as much as you hesitate to believe it. Though… given some of his comments… maybe there's…?))
~~~~~~~
GM's Note: The Haircut has claimed its first activation and I had a lot of fun writing this update, I won't lie.
Voting will be called tomorrow at 5 PM CST and make sure to have a wonderful day!
- Location
- Denton, Texas
Thank god we weren't misunderstood. And that Sean is fucking Ride or Die bitches!
Super secret science agent and pop star sensation Itza Williams and Sean the fucking Irish Dullahan. Our adventure will be glorious
Super secret science agent and pop star sensation Itza Williams and Sean the fucking Irish Dullahan. Our adventure will be glorious
im so glad we went with the Siren Blues.
and, i guess the whole conversation was flavored a bit, to reflect the shampoo?
REALLY REALLY glad. Curious if Sean will notice the magic or not, its kind of subtle, i assume at least.
and, i guess the whole conversation was flavored a bit, to reflect the shampoo?
I.F. Ister
Fortifying The Thread
- Pronouns
- He/They
Got it in one.
I.F. Ister
Fortifying The Thread
- Pronouns
- He/They
Alrighty, voting is now closed!
Our winner:
[X] Horse
Our winner:
[X] Horse
The Quest for the Chainsaw 2
I.F. Ister
Fortifying The Thread
- Pronouns
- He/They
Sean said he'd be here shortly, so, while you're waiting on the porch step, you decided that it would probably be a good idea to research the threats and local powers of Kansas.
Since you don't have access to the Archives at the moment, you're just scrolling through the sites and who's-who wikis from your phone.
Engrossed in the articles and biographies on your phone, you don't notice the vehicle pulling up on the street—only paying attention once an engine is gunned.
Head snapping to the sound, you're of two minds of what you see before you. On one side, you're somewhat disappointed that Sean wasn't talking about a literal horse—those feelings came from the same source as those rebellious thoughts from earlier. On the other hand, you're very happy that it isn't an actual horse as that would likely be painful after a while.
Sean sits astride a black motorcycle—a cruiser if you remember correctly, his thick arms covered in a leather jacket as they cross under his sparkling eyes and pearly white teeth. His unruly curly red hair has been slightly tamed since last you saw him, slightly longer too as the ends tickle the lobes of his ears. While it does still look a bit corpse-like, his skin looks far healthier too—you can even make out a light splash of freckles across his nose!
A pair of helmets sit next to him on the seat of the motorcycle, which you now notice is unusual. Steam rises from the exhaust in regular bursts, like a predatory beast breathing in a cold and quiet night. The headlight is solid red and glowing, like an ever-watching and all-observing eye. The wheels spark as they press against the pavement and the whole vehicle has this air of tenseness to it, like it could leap into motion at any moment.
Momentarily speechless, you give Sean an opening to work with. "Like what you see?" His grin grows into a smirk as your cheeks gain a low simmer.
"You know, when you said 'ghost horse' I was expecting an actual ghost horse. Not whatever that is." You say, gesturing at the whole ensemble with your phone as you rise from your spot on the porch.
"It is a ghost horse," he insists with a laugh, "some just look like this now."
"How does that work?" You question, your arms folding in front of you.
"Well, ghost horses, and to a lesser extent ghost carriages, are bonded with the Dullahan thanks to millenia-old treaties." The handsome Dullahan begins to explain from across the strip of cracked sidewalk and surprisingly well-kept grass. "And since they're spirits they can shapeshift into things that are close enough to them." The broad-shouldered man pats the rubber grips with an affectionate look in his eye. "This here is the Black-Fire Charger, a ghost horse that's been in my family for generations of Dullahan."
As you open your mouth to respond with more questions, you spot out of the corner of your eye the door opening and Sandy emerges. She looks from you to Sean, a questioning look in her eyes. "Who's this, Itza?"
"Sean, a friend from work that's giving me a ride down to Kansas." You reply, mentally clocking that you didn't actually tell your landlady that you'd be going anywhere. You've gotta get better at that. "And this is Sandy, my landlady." You say to Sean.
"A friend from work, huh?" She sends a wink down your way that has Sean guffawing in the background. Oh goddammit, not her too! "And isn't Kansas kinda far away? What're you going down there for?"
You shrug. "Got a call saying that an heirloom important to my family is down there. We're heading to go pick it up, should be about two or so days."
"Ah well, have fun you two. And make sure to be safe, alright?" Of course you're not going to be safe, traveling long distances is never safe—not with how the roads are these days. "Unintended consequences can throw your lives into chaos." Wait, is she…? "Which is why you should always use protection." Oh by the spirits of long dead mad geniuses.
Your palms slap against your face, covering your eyes while your cheeks gain a nuclear heat as Sean doubles over with a wheezing, choking laugh. Sandy herself has the look of the cat that caught the canary as she pivots and saunters on through the door disappearing back to the kitchen with a flick of wave.
Sean wipes a tear from his eye as he recovers from nearly dying of laughter—you having uncovered your eyes though you still sport some heated cheeks, though they cooled off some.
"She is a riot!" He declares, pushing off the parked motorcycle as he swaggers on over to you. "And she's your landlady? That's gotta be great."
"What she is is a menace." You mutter, squinting at the giggling figure of Sandy through the window. A thought occurs to you, a suitable way to get vengeance on Sean. If you invite him over for dinner, you can get him to try some of Sandy's concoctions! It'll be glorious!
"Menacingly awesome." Sean replies as he leans a well-muscled arm on one of the porches supporting the roof of the porch, his head tilted down at you. He's close enough now that you have to lift your head up to look him in the eye—you're not even that short, dammit! You're 5'7", way above average for women, and you still only barely come up to his neck!
A rebellious part of your mind points out that there are advantages to being this close to him, namely the fact that you can faintly make out his abs from under his slightly-too-small white t-shirt. That, of course, sparks another wave of heat to rise in your cheeks before you can quench it fully.
"So, wanna get going?" He asks, that damned smirk of his back on his face.
"Yeah, lets get going." You slip by him and walk up to the motorcycle, Sean a step behind. "Sean," you begin as he swings a leg over the seat and wraps his hands around the handlebars, "where am I gonna sit?"
He blinks, a blank look on his face as he replies. "I… hadn't thought of that…" The Dullahan rubs his chin as he thinks. "I guess I could get Charger to make a sidecar if you wa-"
"I'm not doing that." You interrupt him as you sigh, knowing what you're going to have to do. That damnable part of your mind cheers on as you climb behind him, Sean strangely quiet as you settle in. "Drive." You command, your hands resting on his shoulders—which are nice and sturdy, well-optimized for carrying heavy things over long distances.
"Yes Ma'am!" He responds, gunning the engine and peeling out from the street—harmless sparks shoot off from the tires.
~~~~~~~
After a few minutes of driving, you begin to tell Sean about Kansas and the threats present there.
"Kansas as a whole has a rather large population of spellcasters among the people living there, second only to Massachusetts among the states—though there's also just a lot of really haunted places there." You begin as you get push the thoughts of how nice this feels back into the abyss they came from. "While most other places have about 1:40 for the ratio between non-normal individuals and humans, Kansas has a ratio of about 1:13—high, but not nearly the 1:7 of Massachusetts or the ungodly 1:3 of the Independent Nation-State of Florida."
"Why's Florida so wild?" Sean asks just like hundreds of thousands of people have before him. "And did you say Independent Nation-State, how'd that happen?"
"Curse of the Florida Men and when it declared succession and floated off into the middle of the Atlantic, which sparked a whole shit storm."
"That… is goofy." He declares succinctly as you continue on.
"Something that must be noted about the states, and about America as a whole, is that the United States of America no longer really exists. At least, not in the same form as before the Calamitous Years. During the two-ish decades of chaos and violence the federal government fell apart, and fell apart hard—leaving the governments of the states to pick up the pieces while the feds were reorganizing. As such, the USA—now officially called the UNSA, or United Nation-States of America, is a collective mess of states that are all nations unto… themselves…" You trail off your long-winded speech as you notice Sean looking at you with an amused expression. "What?"
"Why are you telling me that? I live in the UNSA." He remarks as you sullenly shuffle and shrug.
"Well, I dunno," you mutter, "maybe you didn't know and then that would be useful for you."
He laughs, shaking his head as you scowl at the back of his helmet. "Well, why don't you carry on then?"
With that, you launch into another long-winded lore-dump.
"Kansas is governed from the state capital of Topeka by Governor Smitty Wizzen, a particularly wizened wizard who is best known for throwing a 18-headed hydra that had been threatening Wichita at a fleet of gnome airships that were raiding the Flint Hills region in Southeast Kansas—a forty mile throw. Kansas as a nation-state is currently locked in a low-level cold war with Missouri, a rivalry from the First Civil War that flared up in the Second—with neither side winning that stupidly bloody throwdown. Four-hundred thousand people lost their lives, a stupidly high deathcount for a pair of states that collectively have about six million people between them."
"Four-hundred thousand!?" He exclaims in abject shock, jaw hanging open as he slips a bit into his Irish accent. "How the feck did that happ'n?"
"I have no damn clue." You shake your head. "I was already twenty tabs deep when I stumbled across that little tidbit and I didn't feel like opening another forty."
"Fecking outrageous." He mutters while you prepare your next section.
"Western Kansas has sort of embraced a strange aesthetic and culture sourced from an old movie. There's a city-state by the name of the Emerald City, roads paved in yellow brick that seem to lead you where you need to go, covens of wicked witches, and dimension-hopping tornadoes. Overall, it seems to be a rather strange place that I'm glad we're not visiting."
"I think I watched that movie when I was a kid, I thought the color change was cool." Sean remarks with a shrug, your hands feeling the slabs of muscles shift with the movement. This time you manage to clamp down on any thoughts before they have a chance to form, your passion for talking about knowledge overriding your… whatever you have towards Sean.
"Eastern Kansas, on the other hand, is a place you are visiting. It's split into a multitude of factions that all, officially at least, bend the knee to Governor Smitty Wizzen. In the North you've got the Gnomish Enclaves, the group that most openly defies the Governor and periodically leads raids on the other parts of Kansas—and parts of Nebraska and Missouri. To the West you've got Basilica, an offshoot of the Knights of the Church that operate as protectors for the local populace. Basilica is headquartered out of the Cathedral of the Plains in Victoria. More Eastwards you've got the Jayhawkers who operate out of Lawrence—so we're probably gonna be encountering them sooner or later. The Jayhawkers are led by the restless spirit of John Brown and, unlike Basilica or the local monster hunting groups, protect people out of a pure altruistic desire. As such, they're much smaller than most other groups but also fiercely loyal to the Governor." You're nearly done with this bit of an explanation, which makes your tongue cheer with delight—talking this much isn't something you're used to but there's just something about talking with Sean that makes you never want to stop. That would be an impossibility, eventually your body would give out, but not if you remain well hydrated, so you take a drink of water.
After swallowing a couple mouthfuls of water, you launch into your final topic to talk about. "There are also some groups that roam around, like the Lord of the Dancing Dead, a necromancer that has a penchant for having his undead legions dance into battle. He's not a particularly dangerous person, so I don't think he'll be too much trouble. What is a dangerous person is the Wizard of the Wind. This ancient Wizard is another resident of Kansas that you might run into, but he's a neutral party in the politics of the Sunflower State so if we do we'll probably not have a fight on our hands. And if we do… then we'd best find a way to de-escalate as he's one helluva powerhouse."
~~~~~~~
You're about two thirds of the way through the journey at this point, in the outskirts of Kansas City, when the sun starts to set.
Sean suggests staying the night in a motel, but you kind of want to just keep on going through the night. However, being delirious from a lack of sleep probably isn't a very good thing to be.
Which do you choose? (Fair warning for if you choose to spend a night in a motel, you'll be sleeping in different rooms. Itza's not at the stage where she'd be okay with sleeping in the same room with Sean, let alone the same bed, and certainly not with him—even if some small parts of her mind would disagree.)
[ ] Spend a night in a motel
[ ] Carry on through the night
~~~~~~~
GM's Note: I am having so much fun writing this, this is great!
Voting will be called tomorrow at 5 PM CST, have an absolutely fantabulous day, everyone!
Since you don't have access to the Archives at the moment, you're just scrolling through the sites and who's-who wikis from your phone.
Engrossed in the articles and biographies on your phone, you don't notice the vehicle pulling up on the street—only paying attention once an engine is gunned.
Head snapping to the sound, you're of two minds of what you see before you. On one side, you're somewhat disappointed that Sean wasn't talking about a literal horse—those feelings came from the same source as those rebellious thoughts from earlier. On the other hand, you're very happy that it isn't an actual horse as that would likely be painful after a while.
Sean sits astride a black motorcycle—a cruiser if you remember correctly, his thick arms covered in a leather jacket as they cross under his sparkling eyes and pearly white teeth. His unruly curly red hair has been slightly tamed since last you saw him, slightly longer too as the ends tickle the lobes of his ears. While it does still look a bit corpse-like, his skin looks far healthier too—you can even make out a light splash of freckles across his nose!
A pair of helmets sit next to him on the seat of the motorcycle, which you now notice is unusual. Steam rises from the exhaust in regular bursts, like a predatory beast breathing in a cold and quiet night. The headlight is solid red and glowing, like an ever-watching and all-observing eye. The wheels spark as they press against the pavement and the whole vehicle has this air of tenseness to it, like it could leap into motion at any moment.
Momentarily speechless, you give Sean an opening to work with. "Like what you see?" His grin grows into a smirk as your cheeks gain a low simmer.
"You know, when you said 'ghost horse' I was expecting an actual ghost horse. Not whatever that is." You say, gesturing at the whole ensemble with your phone as you rise from your spot on the porch.
"It is a ghost horse," he insists with a laugh, "some just look like this now."
"How does that work?" You question, your arms folding in front of you.
"Well, ghost horses, and to a lesser extent ghost carriages, are bonded with the Dullahan thanks to millenia-old treaties." The handsome Dullahan begins to explain from across the strip of cracked sidewalk and surprisingly well-kept grass. "And since they're spirits they can shapeshift into things that are close enough to them." The broad-shouldered man pats the rubber grips with an affectionate look in his eye. "This here is the Black-Fire Charger, a ghost horse that's been in my family for generations of Dullahan."
As you open your mouth to respond with more questions, you spot out of the corner of your eye the door opening and Sandy emerges. She looks from you to Sean, a questioning look in her eyes. "Who's this, Itza?"
"Sean, a friend from work that's giving me a ride down to Kansas." You reply, mentally clocking that you didn't actually tell your landlady that you'd be going anywhere. You've gotta get better at that. "And this is Sandy, my landlady." You say to Sean.
"A friend from work, huh?" She sends a wink down your way that has Sean guffawing in the background. Oh goddammit, not her too! "And isn't Kansas kinda far away? What're you going down there for?"
You shrug. "Got a call saying that an heirloom important to my family is down there. We're heading to go pick it up, should be about two or so days."
"Ah well, have fun you two. And make sure to be safe, alright?" Of course you're not going to be safe, traveling long distances is never safe—not with how the roads are these days. "Unintended consequences can throw your lives into chaos." Wait, is she…? "Which is why you should always use protection." Oh by the spirits of long dead mad geniuses.
Your palms slap against your face, covering your eyes while your cheeks gain a nuclear heat as Sean doubles over with a wheezing, choking laugh. Sandy herself has the look of the cat that caught the canary as she pivots and saunters on through the door disappearing back to the kitchen with a flick of wave.
Sean wipes a tear from his eye as he recovers from nearly dying of laughter—you having uncovered your eyes though you still sport some heated cheeks, though they cooled off some.
"She is a riot!" He declares, pushing off the parked motorcycle as he swaggers on over to you. "And she's your landlady? That's gotta be great."
"What she is is a menace." You mutter, squinting at the giggling figure of Sandy through the window. A thought occurs to you, a suitable way to get vengeance on Sean. If you invite him over for dinner, you can get him to try some of Sandy's concoctions! It'll be glorious!
"Menacingly awesome." Sean replies as he leans a well-muscled arm on one of the porches supporting the roof of the porch, his head tilted down at you. He's close enough now that you have to lift your head up to look him in the eye—you're not even that short, dammit! You're 5'7", way above average for women, and you still only barely come up to his neck!
A rebellious part of your mind points out that there are advantages to being this close to him, namely the fact that you can faintly make out his abs from under his slightly-too-small white t-shirt. That, of course, sparks another wave of heat to rise in your cheeks before you can quench it fully.
"So, wanna get going?" He asks, that damned smirk of his back on his face.
"Yeah, lets get going." You slip by him and walk up to the motorcycle, Sean a step behind. "Sean," you begin as he swings a leg over the seat and wraps his hands around the handlebars, "where am I gonna sit?"
He blinks, a blank look on his face as he replies. "I… hadn't thought of that…" The Dullahan rubs his chin as he thinks. "I guess I could get Charger to make a sidecar if you wa-"
"I'm not doing that." You interrupt him as you sigh, knowing what you're going to have to do. That damnable part of your mind cheers on as you climb behind him, Sean strangely quiet as you settle in. "Drive." You command, your hands resting on his shoulders—which are nice and sturdy, well-optimized for carrying heavy things over long distances.
"Yes Ma'am!" He responds, gunning the engine and peeling out from the street—harmless sparks shoot off from the tires.
~~~~~~~
After a few minutes of driving, you begin to tell Sean about Kansas and the threats present there.
"Kansas as a whole has a rather large population of spellcasters among the people living there, second only to Massachusetts among the states—though there's also just a lot of really haunted places there." You begin as you get push the thoughts of how nice this feels back into the abyss they came from. "While most other places have about 1:40 for the ratio between non-normal individuals and humans, Kansas has a ratio of about 1:13—high, but not nearly the 1:7 of Massachusetts or the ungodly 1:3 of the Independent Nation-State of Florida."
"Why's Florida so wild?" Sean asks just like hundreds of thousands of people have before him. "And did you say Independent Nation-State, how'd that happen?"
"Curse of the Florida Men and when it declared succession and floated off into the middle of the Atlantic, which sparked a whole shit storm."
"That… is goofy." He declares succinctly as you continue on.
"Something that must be noted about the states, and about America as a whole, is that the United States of America no longer really exists. At least, not in the same form as before the Calamitous Years. During the two-ish decades of chaos and violence the federal government fell apart, and fell apart hard—leaving the governments of the states to pick up the pieces while the feds were reorganizing. As such, the USA—now officially called the UNSA, or United Nation-States of America, is a collective mess of states that are all nations unto… themselves…" You trail off your long-winded speech as you notice Sean looking at you with an amused expression. "What?"
"Why are you telling me that? I live in the UNSA." He remarks as you sullenly shuffle and shrug.
"Well, I dunno," you mutter, "maybe you didn't know and then that would be useful for you."
He laughs, shaking his head as you scowl at the back of his helmet. "Well, why don't you carry on then?"
With that, you launch into another long-winded lore-dump.
"Kansas is governed from the state capital of Topeka by Governor Smitty Wizzen, a particularly wizened wizard who is best known for throwing a 18-headed hydra that had been threatening Wichita at a fleet of gnome airships that were raiding the Flint Hills region in Southeast Kansas—a forty mile throw. Kansas as a nation-state is currently locked in a low-level cold war with Missouri, a rivalry from the First Civil War that flared up in the Second—with neither side winning that stupidly bloody throwdown. Four-hundred thousand people lost their lives, a stupidly high deathcount for a pair of states that collectively have about six million people between them."
"Four-hundred thousand!?" He exclaims in abject shock, jaw hanging open as he slips a bit into his Irish accent. "How the feck did that happ'n?"
"I have no damn clue." You shake your head. "I was already twenty tabs deep when I stumbled across that little tidbit and I didn't feel like opening another forty."
"Fecking outrageous." He mutters while you prepare your next section.
"Western Kansas has sort of embraced a strange aesthetic and culture sourced from an old movie. There's a city-state by the name of the Emerald City, roads paved in yellow brick that seem to lead you where you need to go, covens of wicked witches, and dimension-hopping tornadoes. Overall, it seems to be a rather strange place that I'm glad we're not visiting."
"I think I watched that movie when I was a kid, I thought the color change was cool." Sean remarks with a shrug, your hands feeling the slabs of muscles shift with the movement. This time you manage to clamp down on any thoughts before they have a chance to form, your passion for talking about knowledge overriding your… whatever you have towards Sean.
"Eastern Kansas, on the other hand, is a place you are visiting. It's split into a multitude of factions that all, officially at least, bend the knee to Governor Smitty Wizzen. In the North you've got the Gnomish Enclaves, the group that most openly defies the Governor and periodically leads raids on the other parts of Kansas—and parts of Nebraska and Missouri. To the West you've got Basilica, an offshoot of the Knights of the Church that operate as protectors for the local populace. Basilica is headquartered out of the Cathedral of the Plains in Victoria. More Eastwards you've got the Jayhawkers who operate out of Lawrence—so we're probably gonna be encountering them sooner or later. The Jayhawkers are led by the restless spirit of John Brown and, unlike Basilica or the local monster hunting groups, protect people out of a pure altruistic desire. As such, they're much smaller than most other groups but also fiercely loyal to the Governor." You're nearly done with this bit of an explanation, which makes your tongue cheer with delight—talking this much isn't something you're used to but there's just something about talking with Sean that makes you never want to stop. That would be an impossibility, eventually your body would give out, but not if you remain well hydrated, so you take a drink of water.
After swallowing a couple mouthfuls of water, you launch into your final topic to talk about. "There are also some groups that roam around, like the Lord of the Dancing Dead, a necromancer that has a penchant for having his undead legions dance into battle. He's not a particularly dangerous person, so I don't think he'll be too much trouble. What is a dangerous person is the Wizard of the Wind. This ancient Wizard is another resident of Kansas that you might run into, but he's a neutral party in the politics of the Sunflower State so if we do we'll probably not have a fight on our hands. And if we do… then we'd best find a way to de-escalate as he's one helluva powerhouse."
~~~~~~~
You're about two thirds of the way through the journey at this point, in the outskirts of Kansas City, when the sun starts to set.
Sean suggests staying the night in a motel, but you kind of want to just keep on going through the night. However, being delirious from a lack of sleep probably isn't a very good thing to be.
Which do you choose? (Fair warning for if you choose to spend a night in a motel, you'll be sleeping in different rooms. Itza's not at the stage where she'd be okay with sleeping in the same room with Sean, let alone the same bed, and certainly not with him—even if some small parts of her mind would disagree.)
[ ] Spend a night in a motel
[ ] Carry on through the night
~~~~~~~
GM's Note: I am having so much fun writing this, this is great!
Voting will be called tomorrow at 5 PM CST, have an absolutely fantabulous day, everyone!
I.F. Ister
Fortifying The Thread
- Pronouns
- He/They
Alrighty, voting is now called.
Our winner:
[X] Spend a night in a motel
Our winner:
[X] Spend a night in a motel
The Quest for the Chainsaw 3
I.F. Ister
Fortifying The Thread
- Pronouns
- He/They
"Motel, definitely don't want to be delirious for this." You decide as Sean nods in agreement. A few moments later he pulls into a poorly maintained parking lot outside of a seedy-looking motel in the outskirts of Kansas City. The name of this seedy-looking motel is 'Darelene's Stop and Drop Motel', a rather interesting name for a place such as this.
The sun is touching the horizon, far in the distance—what you can see through the buildings at least. The horizon is turning an orangy-pink with streaks of golden yellow streaming past fluffy gray clouds that drift across the sky.
The smell of barbeque fills the warm air as people mingle in front of their nearby homes, beers in hand and tongs in the other as fathers with jiggling beer bellies laugh and grill chicken wings. Children play yard games on the street under the watchful eye of their gossipping mothers standing off to the side in packs of their own. None of the children draw too close to the motel and if they do they're quickly herded away by observing adults.
None of that really draws your attention as you're focused on the run-down motel in front of you. It's old, decrepit, run down, a mere shadow of its former self. The once-white paint peels off the wooden walls in great flakes, just brushing your hand against it too hard sends a flurry of paint flecks flying.
The overall structure of the building is a two-storied affair, an open-air stairway made of welded metal plates and twisted rebar gives access to the second floor walkway—which is supported by a series of wooden posts connecting the second story to the first. There are seven doors on each floor, with the seventh door of each floor dedicated either to the front desk or the personal residence of the building manager.
The door, a painted green metal rectangle with the words 'Front Desk' scrawled onto a brass plate, squeaks as you open it—a small bell jingles as the door opens fully against hinges that need a good oiling. A four-bladed ceiling fan spins lazily, likely doing more damage to the electricity bill than the actual temperature of the place. The floorboards creak as you follow the trail of cigarette smoke to the front desk.
Manning the front desk is, presumably, Darlene. Darlene is an old lady, about in her late fifties, with a green visor over her head and a trashy-looking cigarette hanging from her pursed and wrinkly lips as she peers down at a crossword puzzle book she's got open on her cluttered desk.
The desk itself has a wired telephone, a green mat in the center of the desk, an old dusty mug with the words '2nd Place Winner of KCMO's Motel Contest, 2172' printed on it holds pens and pencils of various designs. An old computer, square and rugged and boxy, sits at an angle at the corner of the ensemble, drawing it all together with its cream-colored mechanical keyboard.
Filing cabinets line the walls to the left of Darlene, not all of the drawers are fully closed and look to have been open for quite some time.
Your footsteps draw Darlene from her crosswords and her face gives you the overall impression of a crab.
"How can I help you?" The landlady sounds exactly like you'd expect from the old, bedazzled glasses perched on the end of her nose and the curly gray hair tied back with a rubber band. Her pale blue eyes flick from you to Sean and back. "Couples' rooms cost 30% more for a total of $26 per night per person."
You sigh mentally as you corral the heat rising in your cheeks. Alright, this has gone on far longer than it has any right to. You've gotta get your emotions under control here and stat, this is far too important to allow yourself to be distracted by any feelings, strangely nice or otherwise. Indulging in these exotic sensations was a pleasant surprise, but it's starting to get out of hand here. You can address these nascent desires once this is all over and you have some time to yourself for introspection.
"We'd like a pair of rooms for just the night, we'll be out of your hair come morning." You announce, fishing out your wallet and opening the bill fold as Sean examines the memorabilia on the poorly-wallpapered walls—memories of once happier times now long gone.
"That'll be $36 for the lot." Darlene intones, finishing off the horizontal section of the crossword puzzle. You lay down four bills and receive four in change along with a pair of keys. "Yours is 104," she nods to you before nodding towards Sean, "his is 206." She fixes you with a stern glare from over her wide glasses. "And no 'nightly visits', you hear? The extra 30% is to pay for cleaning costs and I'll ban you if you try and flout that."
"Got it." You nod as you toss Sean his key, internally grossed out by the idea of not cleaning up after oneself. What sorta things are they doing in there that'd require proper cleaning chemicals?
With that outta the way, you say your goodbyes to Sean after agreeing to both be up by 6:30 AM at the latest. After that, you retire to your room while Sean heads out to explore the town a little.
The room itself is a simple affair. A twin-sized bed with cheap sheets and a single lumpy pillow sits flush with the far wall. A small sitting area rests to the right of the door, a window in the wall looks out onto the parking lot as the sun sets. A kitchenette stands in an alcove to the left and beyond the bed, a door leading to a bathroom sits in the right wall of the alcove—right behind the bed's headrest.
The overhead light buzzes as you flick the lightswitch on. Closing the curtains you begin undressing, preparing to take a quick shower before bed. A floorboard, about two paces from your bed, creaks loudly as you step on it.
After lathering up and rinsing off, you change into your sleepwear—blue pajama pants and a soft, loose-fitting shirt. These fuzzy pants have little yellow ducks on them, which sends a flutter of dopamine to your brain and causes you to smile.
Before you can get to bed, however, you need to complete a few more tasks. Brushing your teeth, running through the day's events, and setting up some basic alarm systems—never hurts to be prepared.
After priming the laser-activated alarms, you stretch, yawn, turn out the lights, and climb into bed. After placing your glasses on the nightstand, of course.
Sleep comes quickly and you soon find yourself in blissful oblivion.
~~~~~~~
The soft sounds of your back-up alarm system wake you from your slumber. Your sleep-addled brain slurches around, wondering why the back-up's buzzing sound would be playing in your ear. That is, until you remember that the back-up only goes off when the primary and secondary alarm systems are disabled, meaning that somebody's breaking in.
A creaking floorboard alerts you to the presence of somebody in your room, about two steps away.
It's not Sean, he doesn't have the key nor is he aware of your alarm systems. And even if he was, he wouldn't know how to disarm both of them.
Which means that this is likely a hostile entity.
You can feel your gun and knife under the pillow, your right hand brushing up against them. You don't think that the intruder's realized that you're aware of their presence.
You don't have much time so you're going to have to act soon.
What do you do? (If you would like, you can write up a plan and receive bonuses for doing so)
[ ] Draw the gun (Likely to lethally wound the intruder)
[ ] Draw the knife (Less likely to lethally wound the intruder)
[ ] Subdue via CQC (Very unlikely to lethally wound the intruder)
~~~~~~~
GM's Note: I realized I might be playing it up a bit much with the feelings stuff so I have decided to to draw back on it a bit. Was it a bit much? Was it just right? Let me know
Voting will be called tomorrow at 5 PM CST, thanks for participating!
The sun is touching the horizon, far in the distance—what you can see through the buildings at least. The horizon is turning an orangy-pink with streaks of golden yellow streaming past fluffy gray clouds that drift across the sky.
The smell of barbeque fills the warm air as people mingle in front of their nearby homes, beers in hand and tongs in the other as fathers with jiggling beer bellies laugh and grill chicken wings. Children play yard games on the street under the watchful eye of their gossipping mothers standing off to the side in packs of their own. None of the children draw too close to the motel and if they do they're quickly herded away by observing adults.
None of that really draws your attention as you're focused on the run-down motel in front of you. It's old, decrepit, run down, a mere shadow of its former self. The once-white paint peels off the wooden walls in great flakes, just brushing your hand against it too hard sends a flurry of paint flecks flying.
The overall structure of the building is a two-storied affair, an open-air stairway made of welded metal plates and twisted rebar gives access to the second floor walkway—which is supported by a series of wooden posts connecting the second story to the first. There are seven doors on each floor, with the seventh door of each floor dedicated either to the front desk or the personal residence of the building manager.
The door, a painted green metal rectangle with the words 'Front Desk' scrawled onto a brass plate, squeaks as you open it—a small bell jingles as the door opens fully against hinges that need a good oiling. A four-bladed ceiling fan spins lazily, likely doing more damage to the electricity bill than the actual temperature of the place. The floorboards creak as you follow the trail of cigarette smoke to the front desk.
Manning the front desk is, presumably, Darlene. Darlene is an old lady, about in her late fifties, with a green visor over her head and a trashy-looking cigarette hanging from her pursed and wrinkly lips as she peers down at a crossword puzzle book she's got open on her cluttered desk.
The desk itself has a wired telephone, a green mat in the center of the desk, an old dusty mug with the words '2nd Place Winner of KCMO's Motel Contest, 2172' printed on it holds pens and pencils of various designs. An old computer, square and rugged and boxy, sits at an angle at the corner of the ensemble, drawing it all together with its cream-colored mechanical keyboard.
Filing cabinets line the walls to the left of Darlene, not all of the drawers are fully closed and look to have been open for quite some time.
Your footsteps draw Darlene from her crosswords and her face gives you the overall impression of a crab.
"How can I help you?" The landlady sounds exactly like you'd expect from the old, bedazzled glasses perched on the end of her nose and the curly gray hair tied back with a rubber band. Her pale blue eyes flick from you to Sean and back. "Couples' rooms cost 30% more for a total of $26 per night per person."
You sigh mentally as you corral the heat rising in your cheeks. Alright, this has gone on far longer than it has any right to. You've gotta get your emotions under control here and stat, this is far too important to allow yourself to be distracted by any feelings, strangely nice or otherwise. Indulging in these exotic sensations was a pleasant surprise, but it's starting to get out of hand here. You can address these nascent desires once this is all over and you have some time to yourself for introspection.
"We'd like a pair of rooms for just the night, we'll be out of your hair come morning." You announce, fishing out your wallet and opening the bill fold as Sean examines the memorabilia on the poorly-wallpapered walls—memories of once happier times now long gone.
"That'll be $36 for the lot." Darlene intones, finishing off the horizontal section of the crossword puzzle. You lay down four bills and receive four in change along with a pair of keys. "Yours is 104," she nods to you before nodding towards Sean, "his is 206." She fixes you with a stern glare from over her wide glasses. "And no 'nightly visits', you hear? The extra 30% is to pay for cleaning costs and I'll ban you if you try and flout that."
"Got it." You nod as you toss Sean his key, internally grossed out by the idea of not cleaning up after oneself. What sorta things are they doing in there that'd require proper cleaning chemicals?
With that outta the way, you say your goodbyes to Sean after agreeing to both be up by 6:30 AM at the latest. After that, you retire to your room while Sean heads out to explore the town a little.
The room itself is a simple affair. A twin-sized bed with cheap sheets and a single lumpy pillow sits flush with the far wall. A small sitting area rests to the right of the door, a window in the wall looks out onto the parking lot as the sun sets. A kitchenette stands in an alcove to the left and beyond the bed, a door leading to a bathroom sits in the right wall of the alcove—right behind the bed's headrest.
The overhead light buzzes as you flick the lightswitch on. Closing the curtains you begin undressing, preparing to take a quick shower before bed. A floorboard, about two paces from your bed, creaks loudly as you step on it.
After lathering up and rinsing off, you change into your sleepwear—blue pajama pants and a soft, loose-fitting shirt. These fuzzy pants have little yellow ducks on them, which sends a flutter of dopamine to your brain and causes you to smile.
Before you can get to bed, however, you need to complete a few more tasks. Brushing your teeth, running through the day's events, and setting up some basic alarm systems—never hurts to be prepared.
After priming the laser-activated alarms, you stretch, yawn, turn out the lights, and climb into bed. After placing your glasses on the nightstand, of course.
Sleep comes quickly and you soon find yourself in blissful oblivion.
~~~~~~~
The soft sounds of your back-up alarm system wake you from your slumber. Your sleep-addled brain slurches around, wondering why the back-up's buzzing sound would be playing in your ear. That is, until you remember that the back-up only goes off when the primary and secondary alarm systems are disabled, meaning that somebody's breaking in.
A creaking floorboard alerts you to the presence of somebody in your room, about two steps away.
It's not Sean, he doesn't have the key nor is he aware of your alarm systems. And even if he was, he wouldn't know how to disarm both of them.
Which means that this is likely a hostile entity.
You can feel your gun and knife under the pillow, your right hand brushing up against them. You don't think that the intruder's realized that you're aware of their presence.
You don't have much time so you're going to have to act soon.
What do you do? (If you would like, you can write up a plan and receive bonuses for doing so)
[ ] Draw the gun (Likely to lethally wound the intruder)
[ ] Draw the knife (Less likely to lethally wound the intruder)
[ ] Subdue via CQC (Very unlikely to lethally wound the intruder)
~~~~~~~
GM's Note: I realized I might be playing it up a bit much with the feelings stuff so I have decided to to draw back on it a bit. Was it a bit much? Was it just right? Let me know
Voting will be called tomorrow at 5 PM CST, thanks for participating!
- Location
- Denton, Texas
edit: my b I've been running around all day XD
I.F. Ister
Fortifying The Thread
- Pronouns
- He/They
No biggie, but I have no idea what you're apologizing for lmao
- Location
- Denton, Texas
As for my opinion on the feelings things, Sean is a sexy man and our Itza is a growing woman. She's allowed to get cluster and hot under the collar when a guy comes up with a motorcycle from hell.
[X] Draw the knife (Less likely to lethally wound the intruder)
We've been learning under the Carrion. Time to put to pay our lessons
[X] Draw the knife (Less likely to lethally wound the intruder)
We've been learning under the Carrion. Time to put to pay our lessons
I.F. Ister
Fortifying The Thread
- Pronouns
- He/They
Alrighty, voting is now closed
Our winner:
[X] Draw the knife (Less likely to lethally wound the intruder)
Don't expect the next update to be especially long as I am VERY tired
Our winner:
[X] Draw the knife (Less likely to lethally wound the intruder)
Don't expect the next update to be especially long as I am VERY tired
The Quest for the Chainsaw 4
I.F. Ister
Fortifying The Thread
- Pronouns
- He/They
Your fingers curl around the knife hilt under your lumpy pillow. You can hear the breathing of the individual that has so rudely intruded into your rightfully rented room.
All you hope that happens, in the coming moments, is that you don't get blood all over your pajama bottoms. These duck-covered pants hold a rather soft spot for how new they are and you would rather them not be dirtied or ruined.
The intruder is close, far too close for comfort. You're going to have to create some distance here.
Your foot lashes out, catching the intruder in the stomach as the sheets flutter to the ground. You hear something glass-like clatter against the ground, but pay it little mind as you twist from the bed and land on your feet—-knife in hand and ready for violence.
The intruder reveals itself to be a large man dressed in dark clothing. He's holding a boxy device with a blinking red light as he stumbles into a wall lamp.
You lunge forwards, knife extended and taking full advantage of the opportunity—you are the daughter of a capitalist after all, you're anything if not opportunistic.
The honed, razor sharp edge of your Service Knife carve through skin and wrist tendons like a hot knife through butter. The man screams as his hand falls limp, the black box falling from numb fingers and crashing against the carpeted floor.
He falls backwards, holding his hands up over his head as you stand there with a knife slick with his blood. He cowers under your steely gaze, he won't be doing anything to threaten you now.
Keeping your eyes on him, you reach down and pluck the box and the glass from the floor—which turns out to be a syringe of some kind. The syringe is likely filled with a sedative, but you can't be sure until you can actually study it. The box is presumably a jammer of some sort, allowing the man to get past your primary and secondary defenses.
Now then, what do you do?
[ ] Check on Sean
-[ ] Bring the intruder with you (Won't give him a chance to escape, but if there's a fight he could spring back into action)
-[ ] Don't bring the intruder with you (Gives him a chance to escape)
[ ] Interrogate the intruder (Please write any questions you want to ask)
~~~~~~~
GM's Note: Sorry about the short chapter, but I am rather tired.
Voting will be called tomorrow at 5 PM CST, have a good sleep everyone.
All you hope that happens, in the coming moments, is that you don't get blood all over your pajama bottoms. These duck-covered pants hold a rather soft spot for how new they are and you would rather them not be dirtied or ruined.
The intruder is close, far too close for comfort. You're going to have to create some distance here.
Your foot lashes out, catching the intruder in the stomach as the sheets flutter to the ground. You hear something glass-like clatter against the ground, but pay it little mind as you twist from the bed and land on your feet—-knife in hand and ready for violence.
The intruder reveals itself to be a large man dressed in dark clothing. He's holding a boxy device with a blinking red light as he stumbles into a wall lamp.
You lunge forwards, knife extended and taking full advantage of the opportunity—you are the daughter of a capitalist after all, you're anything if not opportunistic.
The honed, razor sharp edge of your Service Knife carve through skin and wrist tendons like a hot knife through butter. The man screams as his hand falls limp, the black box falling from numb fingers and crashing against the carpeted floor.
He falls backwards, holding his hands up over his head as you stand there with a knife slick with his blood. He cowers under your steely gaze, he won't be doing anything to threaten you now.
Keeping your eyes on him, you reach down and pluck the box and the glass from the floor—which turns out to be a syringe of some kind. The syringe is likely filled with a sedative, but you can't be sure until you can actually study it. The box is presumably a jammer of some sort, allowing the man to get past your primary and secondary defenses.
Now then, what do you do?
[ ] Check on Sean
-[ ] Bring the intruder with you (Won't give him a chance to escape, but if there's a fight he could spring back into action)
-[ ] Don't bring the intruder with you (Gives him a chance to escape)
[ ] Interrogate the intruder (Please write any questions you want to ask)
(Combat (Unarmed) Roll DC 35: 33+10=43, success)
(Damage: 7 Damage)
(Combat Contest:
You: 84+10=94
Intruder: 62-5(Distracted)=57
You Win)
(Damage: 11 Slashing Damage, Disarmed)
(Damage: 7 Damage)
(Combat Contest:
You: 84+10=94
Intruder: 62-5(Distracted)=57
You Win)
(Damage: 11 Slashing Damage, Disarmed)
~~~~~~~
GM's Note: Sorry about the short chapter, but I am rather tired.
Voting will be called tomorrow at 5 PM CST, have a good sleep everyone.
- Location
- Denton, Texas
No problem. Like the shortness and capability we showed. Probably used to chumps.
[X] Check on Sean
-[X] Bring the intruder with you (Won't give him a chance to escape, but if there's a fight he could spring back into action)
[X] Check on Sean
-[X] Bring the intruder with you (Won't give him a chance to escape, but if there's a fight he could spring back into action)
I.F. Ister
Fortifying The Thread
- Pronouns
- He/They
Alrighty, voting is now closed and all questions shall be asked
Our winner:
[X] Check on Sean
-[X] Bring the intruder with you (Won't give him a chance to escape, but if there's a fight he could spring back into action)
--[X] Interrogate the intruder (Please write any questions you want to ask)
Our winner:
[X] Check on Sean
-[X] Bring the intruder with you (Won't give him a chance to escape, but if there's a fight he could spring back into action)
--[X] Interrogate the intruder (Please write any questions you want to ask)
The Quest for the Chainsaw 5
I.F. Ister
Fortifying The Thread
- Pronouns
- He/They
Content Warning: Mentions of kidnapping and human trafficking
~~~~~~~
"Alright, dick." You say, hauling the large man to his feet by the scruff of his neck.
"I-I wasn't gonna do anythin'!" He whines, a surprisingly thin and reedy voice for such a large guy.
"Yeah, yeah, we'll see about that." You roll your eyes as he tries to spew whatever bullshit he can think of. Pressing the tip of your knife against his back shuts him up nicely and you lead him from your room and out into the cold, brisk air of the night.
After grabbing your gun, of course. Leaving that unattended would be a grievous display of irresponsibility.
Your breath mists in the air as you force him along. He half-heartedly squirms against your iron-clad grip, an ultimately futile token effort towards escape.
You frogmarch him to and up the metal plated and twisted rebar stairs under the light of fluorescent street lamps.
Your fist slams against the door to 206, rattling the thin metal door in its hinges. A quiet moment passes before silent shuffles approach from the other side of the door.
You hear the door unlatch as the flimsy metal swings open, revealing Sean's headless body in all its glory standing in the doorway.
His headless, half-naked body.
His headless, half-naked, and very sculpted body.
Which you studiously ignore.
The body of the Dullahan waves at you and jerks a thumb towards the bed. Leaning around the large body, you spot Sean's head sitting on the pillow, squinting at you with bags under his eyes.
His body moves out of the way as you enter, dragging the mysterious man in your wake. Sean's eyes widen as his gaze flicks from you to the man, his eyebrows rising in slight surprise.
"What the hell…?" He trails off as his body plucks his head from the pillow and plants it on the empty stump.
"Broke into my room." You say as you shove the intruder down onto one of the chairs. "And dropped these." You show off the syringe and black box, handing them to Sean to examine while the man fearfully looks between you and the Dullahan—clutching his crippled hand to his chest.
(Does Sean recognize either of these? 93+5=98, yes, one of them)
"I… don't recognize this one." Sean mutters as he turns the box over in his hands, mouth twisting into a deep frown as he lays eyes on the green-fluid-filled syringe. "And he had these on him when he broke into your room, right?"
"Correct, I believe the needle contains a sedative of some kind." You respond, glaring at the large man cowering on the hard, wooden chair that can't be comfortable to sit on.
"It's a bit more than that, used to be quite common in Ireland about thirty or so years back." Sean shoots a scalding glare of his own at the man on the chair. "Not just a muscle relaxant, but a mental blocker too. An addictive one at that. Used a lot in human trafficking but fell off when the Irish broke a massive ring of slavers."
You feel a bit sick to the stomach when you hear those words. That feeling of disgust quickly gives way to a spark of anger that grows larger and larger. Your fingers twitch around the knife handle, wanting nothing more than to plunge the blood-slick blade into the living sack of shit sitting before you.
But you restrain yourself, killing him won't do anything to help anyone.
"Alright." You declare, pulling the other chair out and spinning it around to rest your folded arms on the backrest. You were right, this is uncomfortable. "We're gonna ask you some questions, you're gonna answer them. Capiche?"
His head bobs up and down rapidly. "Y-yeah. Whatever you want to know."
"Lets start with something simple." You begin as Sean pulls out a notepad and pencil. "Who are you? Name, age, things like that"
"Uh, w-well my name's Dillon Sandor. I'll be twenty-two in a month and I weigh two-fifteen."
"Good job, Dillon." You say as Sean scribbles those down. "Now, let's try something harder. What were you gonna do to me, Dillon? You ever done anything like that before, Dillon?" You might be putting a bit too much pressure on his name there, but you don't care all that much right now.
He swallows a couple times, trying to work up some wetness in his mouth as he clutches his limo wrist. "I-I was g-gonna s-stick you with the needle, ma'am. And no, ma'am."
"If you've never done this before, then what gave you the idea? Are you working alone, Dillon? A group? A ring? You from around here, Dillon?"
He blinks, surprised by the seemingly offbeat question. "I don't know!" He cries out.
"What don't you know, Dillon? How could you not know if you're working alone or not. Where did you get the idea, huh? Answer me, Dillon!" You demand as Dillon shuffles around silently, eyes wide as they flick around the room. You slam your knife into the table, his eyes zeroing in on the blade as it sticks through the wood.
"There's three of us!" He shouts, breathing heavily. "I only joined recently! This was my first solo, I swear!"
"First solo? So you've done this before?"
"Yes! No! I haven't done this before but I've been looking out for the others!"
"Look out? You got some friends coming to get you that we should know about?"
"N-no!" He quickly denies it, shaking his head and arms—the limp wrist wobbling limply. "We get a lot of money per each girl we bring in and I-I figured I could get more if I did it solo!"
"Each girl you bring in, huh, Dillon? Who's buying these poor girls?"
"I don't know! Honest!" He pleads as you let the knife drift a little closer. "We just bring them to a point and leave, an hour later the girl's gone and there's a sack of cash for us to split."
"So, you were gonna sell me?" You can't help but get heated at that, a growl entering your voice. You were at the Fall of Troy, you saw some of the most horrific acts imaginable with your own two eyes. That might have left a mark or two on you.
"No!" You glare at the obvious lie as he hurriedly corrects himself. "I-I mean, yes!"
"Why me specifically?"
"You were alone and from out of town, a perfect target!" He cringes away from the heavy stare you send his way. A motel on the outskirts of town is a perfect target for somebody to watch for marks.
Sean chimes in here with a laugh. "Even if you had succeeded, you'd have called down the wrath of God on your poor, fool heads by abducting an agent of the Service."
Dillon pales even more as he starts shivering in fear. "P-please d-don't k-k-kill me!"
Sean only laughs at that.
"Where'd you get the needle and jammer? Those don't exactly grow on trees, Dillon." You interject, pulling it back on track.
"Dead drops! But the jammer was a recent addition, only came in today's!"
"Where are they, these dead drops?"
He gives you addresses and descriptions of locations, Sean writing them all down beside you.
The interrogation proceeds along similar lines. You find out the first names of Dillon's accomplices and various other pieces of information.
But, now you've come to an impasse. This situation isn't part of the Service's jurisdiction, this falls under the jurisdiction of the local authorities, with the FBI taking over if it turns out to be interstate in nature. The only way the Service gets involved beyond providing an agent for consultation is if it turns out that it's being masterminded by some supernatural force—in which case the Service will then take over the investigation.
However, the Service is going to be mad that this even almost happened and try to muscle their way into at least a joint investigation. Giving your bosses the information would speed that process along a lot.
But of course, that is a flouting of the rules you're supposed to follow.
What do you do? (Either way, we're not interrupting the Quest for the Chainsaw for this, as the Quest for the Chainsaw is already interrupting Grave Robbing and I don't want to get too off track here. After everything's done with those two, we might have something happen with this)
[ ] Call the local authorities
[ ] Send it to the Missouri Service Division
After making your decision, you and Sean get going. You don't exactly feel like staying at the motel any longer.
~~~~~~~
GM's Note: Voting will be called tomorrow at 5 PM CST, thanks for feedback!
~~~~~~~
"Alright, dick." You say, hauling the large man to his feet by the scruff of his neck.
"I-I wasn't gonna do anythin'!" He whines, a surprisingly thin and reedy voice for such a large guy.
"Yeah, yeah, we'll see about that." You roll your eyes as he tries to spew whatever bullshit he can think of. Pressing the tip of your knife against his back shuts him up nicely and you lead him from your room and out into the cold, brisk air of the night.
After grabbing your gun, of course. Leaving that unattended would be a grievous display of irresponsibility.
Your breath mists in the air as you force him along. He half-heartedly squirms against your iron-clad grip, an ultimately futile token effort towards escape.
You frogmarch him to and up the metal plated and twisted rebar stairs under the light of fluorescent street lamps.
Your fist slams against the door to 206, rattling the thin metal door in its hinges. A quiet moment passes before silent shuffles approach from the other side of the door.
You hear the door unlatch as the flimsy metal swings open, revealing Sean's headless body in all its glory standing in the doorway.
His headless, half-naked body.
His headless, half-naked, and very sculpted body.
Which you studiously ignore.
The body of the Dullahan waves at you and jerks a thumb towards the bed. Leaning around the large body, you spot Sean's head sitting on the pillow, squinting at you with bags under his eyes.
His body moves out of the way as you enter, dragging the mysterious man in your wake. Sean's eyes widen as his gaze flicks from you to the man, his eyebrows rising in slight surprise.
"What the hell…?" He trails off as his body plucks his head from the pillow and plants it on the empty stump.
"Broke into my room." You say as you shove the intruder down onto one of the chairs. "And dropped these." You show off the syringe and black box, handing them to Sean to examine while the man fearfully looks between you and the Dullahan—clutching his crippled hand to his chest.
(Does Sean recognize either of these? 93+5=98, yes, one of them)
"I… don't recognize this one." Sean mutters as he turns the box over in his hands, mouth twisting into a deep frown as he lays eyes on the green-fluid-filled syringe. "And he had these on him when he broke into your room, right?"
"Correct, I believe the needle contains a sedative of some kind." You respond, glaring at the large man cowering on the hard, wooden chair that can't be comfortable to sit on.
"It's a bit more than that, used to be quite common in Ireland about thirty or so years back." Sean shoots a scalding glare of his own at the man on the chair. "Not just a muscle relaxant, but a mental blocker too. An addictive one at that. Used a lot in human trafficking but fell off when the Irish broke a massive ring of slavers."
You feel a bit sick to the stomach when you hear those words. That feeling of disgust quickly gives way to a spark of anger that grows larger and larger. Your fingers twitch around the knife handle, wanting nothing more than to plunge the blood-slick blade into the living sack of shit sitting before you.
But you restrain yourself, killing him won't do anything to help anyone.
"Alright." You declare, pulling the other chair out and spinning it around to rest your folded arms on the backrest. You were right, this is uncomfortable. "We're gonna ask you some questions, you're gonna answer them. Capiche?"
His head bobs up and down rapidly. "Y-yeah. Whatever you want to know."
"Lets start with something simple." You begin as Sean pulls out a notepad and pencil. "Who are you? Name, age, things like that"
"Uh, w-well my name's Dillon Sandor. I'll be twenty-two in a month and I weigh two-fifteen."
"Good job, Dillon." You say as Sean scribbles those down. "Now, let's try something harder. What were you gonna do to me, Dillon? You ever done anything like that before, Dillon?" You might be putting a bit too much pressure on his name there, but you don't care all that much right now.
He swallows a couple times, trying to work up some wetness in his mouth as he clutches his limo wrist. "I-I was g-gonna s-stick you with the needle, ma'am. And no, ma'am."
"If you've never done this before, then what gave you the idea? Are you working alone, Dillon? A group? A ring? You from around here, Dillon?"
He blinks, surprised by the seemingly offbeat question. "I don't know!" He cries out.
"What don't you know, Dillon? How could you not know if you're working alone or not. Where did you get the idea, huh? Answer me, Dillon!" You demand as Dillon shuffles around silently, eyes wide as they flick around the room. You slam your knife into the table, his eyes zeroing in on the blade as it sticks through the wood.
"There's three of us!" He shouts, breathing heavily. "I only joined recently! This was my first solo, I swear!"
"First solo? So you've done this before?"
"Yes! No! I haven't done this before but I've been looking out for the others!"
"Look out? You got some friends coming to get you that we should know about?"
"N-no!" He quickly denies it, shaking his head and arms—the limp wrist wobbling limply. "We get a lot of money per each girl we bring in and I-I figured I could get more if I did it solo!"
"Each girl you bring in, huh, Dillon? Who's buying these poor girls?"
"I don't know! Honest!" He pleads as you let the knife drift a little closer. "We just bring them to a point and leave, an hour later the girl's gone and there's a sack of cash for us to split."
"So, you were gonna sell me?" You can't help but get heated at that, a growl entering your voice. You were at the Fall of Troy, you saw some of the most horrific acts imaginable with your own two eyes. That might have left a mark or two on you.
"No!" You glare at the obvious lie as he hurriedly corrects himself. "I-I mean, yes!"
"Why me specifically?"
"You were alone and from out of town, a perfect target!" He cringes away from the heavy stare you send his way. A motel on the outskirts of town is a perfect target for somebody to watch for marks.
Sean chimes in here with a laugh. "Even if you had succeeded, you'd have called down the wrath of God on your poor, fool heads by abducting an agent of the Service."
Dillon pales even more as he starts shivering in fear. "P-please d-don't k-k-kill me!"
Sean only laughs at that.
"Where'd you get the needle and jammer? Those don't exactly grow on trees, Dillon." You interject, pulling it back on track.
"Dead drops! But the jammer was a recent addition, only came in today's!"
"Where are they, these dead drops?"
He gives you addresses and descriptions of locations, Sean writing them all down beside you.
The interrogation proceeds along similar lines. You find out the first names of Dillon's accomplices and various other pieces of information.
But, now you've come to an impasse. This situation isn't part of the Service's jurisdiction, this falls under the jurisdiction of the local authorities, with the FBI taking over if it turns out to be interstate in nature. The only way the Service gets involved beyond providing an agent for consultation is if it turns out that it's being masterminded by some supernatural force—in which case the Service will then take over the investigation.
However, the Service is going to be mad that this even almost happened and try to muscle their way into at least a joint investigation. Giving your bosses the information would speed that process along a lot.
But of course, that is a flouting of the rules you're supposed to follow.
What do you do? (Either way, we're not interrupting the Quest for the Chainsaw for this, as the Quest for the Chainsaw is already interrupting Grave Robbing and I don't want to get too off track here. After everything's done with those two, we might have something happen with this)
[ ] Call the local authorities
[ ] Send it to the Missouri Service Division
After making your decision, you and Sean get going. You don't exactly feel like staying at the motel any longer.
~~~~~~~
GM's Note: Voting will be called tomorrow at 5 PM CST, thanks for feedback!
- Location
- Denton, Texas
[X] Send it to the Missouri Service Division
Fuckit. This kid thought he could be hard and get some scratch doing an OBJECTIVELY bad thing. Let's bury him under the weight of the supernatural and go about our day
Fuckit. This kid thought he could be hard and get some scratch doing an OBJECTIVELY bad thing. Let's bury him under the weight of the supernatural and go about our day
I.F. Ister
Fortifying The Thread
- Pronouns
- He/They
Alrighty, voting is now closed
Our winner:
[X] Send it to the Missouri Service Division
-[X] Normally you would contact the local authorities, but given the use of a jammer immediately after your own arrival, the odds of this being a targeted strike using dumb local talent are much higher. (This seems suitably in character for Itza, so I'm sticking it in as the reasoning behind her actions)
Our winner:
[X] Send it to the Missouri Service Division
-[X] Normally you would contact the local authorities, but given the use of a jammer immediately after your own arrival, the odds of this being a targeted strike using dumb local talent are much higher. (This seems suitably in character for Itza, so I'm sticking it in as the reasoning behind her actions)
The Quest for the Chainsaw 6
I.F. Ister
Fortifying The Thread
- Pronouns
- He/They
You've arrived in Lawrence, Kansas without much issue beyond a little bit of a rendezvous with the Missouri Service Division to hand over Dillon and the intel.
The pair of female agents you handed Dillon over to had a particularly scatching look in their eye as they glared at the man. It seems that the Service's reputation for 'controversially legal' acts might hold a bit more water here in Missouri than it does in Chicago, but that's not your problem anymore.
You suspect that Dillon will give a confession before either committing 'suicide' or is euthanized for being corrupted by some spreadable influence—which might even be true depending on what happens to him while in their custody and what the Missouri Division have in their deep containment.
Some Bushwhackers, the Missourian equivalent of the Jayhawkers in Kansas—with which they skirmish occasionally in guerilla campaigns, followed you from a distance. They didn't interact with you at all, just riding nearby until you got to the DMZ between Kansas and Missouri—the stretch of land where Kansas City, Kansas used to sit. Once you reached that place, they peeled off and left you alone.
Getting through the border was easier said than done, any travel from Missouri is heavily scrutinized by the Kansas border guards and vice-versa for the other side of the border. But flashing your Chicago Division badges was enough to get through most of it without any hassle, your accents handling the rest.
So, after another hour of traveling, you find yourself in Lawrence—which is a surprisingly haunted town. While the articles you read mentioned the presence of ghosts in Lawrence was higher than average, they really didn't emphasize enough on how haunted this place is.
You suppose that being sacked multiple times and having its people butchered would do that to just about any place.
But regardless of the reason, ghosts are relatively common here. Well, as far as ghosts go, at least.
Even just walking down the street will result in you seeing one or two ghosts just going about their business. Remarkably cognizant ghosts as well, presumably a result of there being a decent amount of powerful specters around and about.
All of that is in the back of your mind as you find yourself standing in front of Winchester Manor, or rather, the estate walls.
Thick stone walls topped with barbed wire, presumably with a solid iron core, line the property. A strong defense, but nothing that'll keep something especially determined out.
"Itzabella Williams?" An intercom speaker buzzes.
"That'll be me." You respond, showing off your badge and ID to the camera.
"Come on in, then." A beep and the gate swings open. Sharing a glance with Sean, who shrugs, you step through the now open gate.
Passing across the threshold, even you with your meager magical senses can detect the light film that breaks against your skin. And if you can feel it… then just how strong are these defenses?
You suppose that that's what happens when people that actually care about something take care of it.
The inside of the Winchester Estate is, in a word, green. Green, verdant grass rolls across the property in grand, sweeping hills topped with trees bearing green, leafy boughs.
A trail leads up the manor atop the largest of all the hills. It's a three story affair built in a Victorian-era style. Dark wood roofs and stone brick foundations.
Following the trail, you get the impression that you're being watched. An impression that turns out to be true as, from a copse of apple trees near the path, a young man emerges with a half-eaten apple in hand.
He's tall, which seems to be a pattern with people you meet. His hair is dark and short and he's dressed in sensible pants well suited for outdoor activities. The golden buttons of his jacket shine and sparkle in the morning light.
He's also rather handsome, a small part of your brain notes as he bites off a large piece of apple flesh with a satisfying-sounding crunch.
"Good morning!" He greets with a wave of his hand and a smile on his cheery face.
"Good morning." You respond with a small wave of your own. His smile grows wider at that.
"I was hoping you weren't going to be a serious old stuff-bag like my father and it turns out that I'm right!" He jovially takes another bite of his apple. "You are Miss Williams, yes?"
"That'll be me." You nod at that and notice Sean having taken a couple steps back, a queasy look on his face as he looks anywhere but the young man before you. "You okay?"
"What's wrong with him?" The man asks, a frown on his face as he steps closer. That only makes it worse for Sean, who actually buckles at the knees.
"I-I don't kno-" You begin to say, only to catch a glimpse of the buttons on his suit jacket. Memories of a lesson learned flash across your mind—Dullahan are weak to gold. "Are those buttons gold, like, actual gold?"
He blinks. "Why, yes!"
"Sean's a Dullahan." You explain to the, presumably, Winchester. Sean at this point is on the verge of throwing up or falling down, or both at the same time. You're supporting him as best you can, helping him to not fall.
The unknown Winchester's eyes widen as he hurriedly takes the jacket off and wads it up. As soon as all the buttons are covered by cloth, Sean seems to recover.
He still looks a bit queasy, but nothing like his earlier sickness.
"Thanks." He wheezes out in a phlegm-filled cough. To who he's speaking you're not entirely sure, but you'll take it anyways.
"No problem!" The Winchester declares happily, smile wide and eyes bright.
You don't like the flicker in his eye. Why, you don't know, you can't place it. There's just something… not right about it. Not quite wrong, per se, but definitely not right.
"Oh, I just realized that I haven't introduced myself yet!" He takes a deep, sweeping bow full of stylish vigor. "I am Archibald Winchester, at your service." Archibald grins at the minor pun. "But you can call me Archie."
"Good to meet you, Archie." Sean says, taking his hand and shaking it—a process you repeat. The Dullahan is still sneaking green glances at the jacket crumpled up on the ground behind the three of you. "There's not going to be more gold, is there?" He asks weakly.
Archibald taps his well-formed chin and hmms. "I can't quite recall, it all blends into the background eventually." He shrugs. "It might just be best to simply have you stay outside while Itza meets with my father." There's something you don't like in how he says your nickname, the same feeling as his eyes. You don't comment on his use of your nickname, at this point you need to cultivate as much goodwill as possible.
"I'm sure I can tough it out." Sean states, pushing off from you to stand on his own.
"Why don't we ask Itza? She is the reason you're here after all." The young Winchester offers as a solution, to which Sean agrees.
What do you decide?
[ ] Have Sean come with you
[ ] Have Sean stay outside
~~~~~~~
GM's Note: I wasn't super happy with this one, so I rewrote it. It is better now, but not by a whole lot.
Voting will be called tomorrow at 5 PM CST, thanks for reading!
The pair of female agents you handed Dillon over to had a particularly scatching look in their eye as they glared at the man. It seems that the Service's reputation for 'controversially legal' acts might hold a bit more water here in Missouri than it does in Chicago, but that's not your problem anymore.
You suspect that Dillon will give a confession before either committing 'suicide' or is euthanized for being corrupted by some spreadable influence—which might even be true depending on what happens to him while in their custody and what the Missouri Division have in their deep containment.
Some Bushwhackers, the Missourian equivalent of the Jayhawkers in Kansas—with which they skirmish occasionally in guerilla campaigns, followed you from a distance. They didn't interact with you at all, just riding nearby until you got to the DMZ between Kansas and Missouri—the stretch of land where Kansas City, Kansas used to sit. Once you reached that place, they peeled off and left you alone.
Getting through the border was easier said than done, any travel from Missouri is heavily scrutinized by the Kansas border guards and vice-versa for the other side of the border. But flashing your Chicago Division badges was enough to get through most of it without any hassle, your accents handling the rest.
So, after another hour of traveling, you find yourself in Lawrence—which is a surprisingly haunted town. While the articles you read mentioned the presence of ghosts in Lawrence was higher than average, they really didn't emphasize enough on how haunted this place is.
You suppose that being sacked multiple times and having its people butchered would do that to just about any place.
But regardless of the reason, ghosts are relatively common here. Well, as far as ghosts go, at least.
Even just walking down the street will result in you seeing one or two ghosts just going about their business. Remarkably cognizant ghosts as well, presumably a result of there being a decent amount of powerful specters around and about.
All of that is in the back of your mind as you find yourself standing in front of Winchester Manor, or rather, the estate walls.
Thick stone walls topped with barbed wire, presumably with a solid iron core, line the property. A strong defense, but nothing that'll keep something especially determined out.
"Itzabella Williams?" An intercom speaker buzzes.
"That'll be me." You respond, showing off your badge and ID to the camera.
"Come on in, then." A beep and the gate swings open. Sharing a glance with Sean, who shrugs, you step through the now open gate.
Passing across the threshold, even you with your meager magical senses can detect the light film that breaks against your skin. And if you can feel it… then just how strong are these defenses?
You suppose that that's what happens when people that actually care about something take care of it.
The inside of the Winchester Estate is, in a word, green. Green, verdant grass rolls across the property in grand, sweeping hills topped with trees bearing green, leafy boughs.
A trail leads up the manor atop the largest of all the hills. It's a three story affair built in a Victorian-era style. Dark wood roofs and stone brick foundations.
Following the trail, you get the impression that you're being watched. An impression that turns out to be true as, from a copse of apple trees near the path, a young man emerges with a half-eaten apple in hand.
He's tall, which seems to be a pattern with people you meet. His hair is dark and short and he's dressed in sensible pants well suited for outdoor activities. The golden buttons of his jacket shine and sparkle in the morning light.
He's also rather handsome, a small part of your brain notes as he bites off a large piece of apple flesh with a satisfying-sounding crunch.
"Good morning!" He greets with a wave of his hand and a smile on his cheery face.
"Good morning." You respond with a small wave of your own. His smile grows wider at that.
"I was hoping you weren't going to be a serious old stuff-bag like my father and it turns out that I'm right!" He jovially takes another bite of his apple. "You are Miss Williams, yes?"
"That'll be me." You nod at that and notice Sean having taken a couple steps back, a queasy look on his face as he looks anywhere but the young man before you. "You okay?"
"What's wrong with him?" The man asks, a frown on his face as he steps closer. That only makes it worse for Sean, who actually buckles at the knees.
"I-I don't kno-" You begin to say, only to catch a glimpse of the buttons on his suit jacket. Memories of a lesson learned flash across your mind—Dullahan are weak to gold. "Are those buttons gold, like, actual gold?"
He blinks. "Why, yes!"
"Sean's a Dullahan." You explain to the, presumably, Winchester. Sean at this point is on the verge of throwing up or falling down, or both at the same time. You're supporting him as best you can, helping him to not fall.
The unknown Winchester's eyes widen as he hurriedly takes the jacket off and wads it up. As soon as all the buttons are covered by cloth, Sean seems to recover.
He still looks a bit queasy, but nothing like his earlier sickness.
"Thanks." He wheezes out in a phlegm-filled cough. To who he's speaking you're not entirely sure, but you'll take it anyways.
"No problem!" The Winchester declares happily, smile wide and eyes bright.
You don't like the flicker in his eye. Why, you don't know, you can't place it. There's just something… not right about it. Not quite wrong, per se, but definitely not right.
"Oh, I just realized that I haven't introduced myself yet!" He takes a deep, sweeping bow full of stylish vigor. "I am Archibald Winchester, at your service." Archibald grins at the minor pun. "But you can call me Archie."
"Good to meet you, Archie." Sean says, taking his hand and shaking it—a process you repeat. The Dullahan is still sneaking green glances at the jacket crumpled up on the ground behind the three of you. "There's not going to be more gold, is there?" He asks weakly.
Archibald taps his well-formed chin and hmms. "I can't quite recall, it all blends into the background eventually." He shrugs. "It might just be best to simply have you stay outside while Itza meets with my father." There's something you don't like in how he says your nickname, the same feeling as his eyes. You don't comment on his use of your nickname, at this point you need to cultivate as much goodwill as possible.
"I'm sure I can tough it out." Sean states, pushing off from you to stand on his own.
"Why don't we ask Itza? She is the reason you're here after all." The young Winchester offers as a solution, to which Sean agrees.
What do you decide?
[ ] Have Sean come with you
[ ] Have Sean stay outside
~~~~~~~
GM's Note: I wasn't super happy with this one, so I rewrote it. It is better now, but not by a whole lot.
Voting will be called tomorrow at 5 PM CST, thanks for reading!
[X] Have Sean come with you
Either it's a massive coincidence that the human traffickers got a superscience jammer the day we came into town or we were expected. I highly doubt that Sean is responsible, which leaves a Winchester, the secretary, or someone they told. Given the creep factor, I suspect it was Archie.
Either it's a massive coincidence that the human traffickers got a superscience jammer the day we came into town or we were expected. I highly doubt that Sean is responsible, which leaves a Winchester, the secretary, or someone they told. Given the creep factor, I suspect it was Archie.