Green Flame Rising (Exalted vs Dresden Files)

[DragonParadox]

Faith and the Inner Devil ​

9th of July 2006 A.D.

Gain 4 Essence

Clink, clink, clink, one by one you set the piercings aside until the face in the mirror isn't quite the one you remember, because that is how you are supposed to go to Church. As if God cared about any of that, Mrs Evens sure, she will whisper about it behind her hand all week smile to your face and 'tut tut' to your mother. She had even suggested one of those 'Christian Summer Camps For Troubled Youths' once. It had admittedly been pretty fun to hear mom tear into her all polite and even toned, but there are still a lot more of her than there are of you out there and nevermind who is really sinning, you have to play along.

You look at the dress you had laid out on the bed for a long time. Objectively there is nothing wrong with it, a sky-blue summer dress with a modest neckline and slightly puffy shoulders. It didn't make you look too young like some of the other stuff that would fit, but you still remember buying it and the saleslady telling you how you 'looked like a fairy' in it with your hair down. What had been awkward at the time was so much worse now. It's not going to do anything about the chill around you, of the shadows seemed to want to bend towards you. Why even bother?

"It will be useful for after we have when our time in the house of worship is done," the demon in your head pipes in.

"How?" you bite back a laugh. It would not be a pretty one.

"Surprise for none who walk in darkness would expect that to be the garb of one of the Princes of the Earth," he answers.

Huh... that does sound kind of funny, you think as you put on a pair of small silver earrings to match the crucifix you already have on. But there is something else there, something almost familiar about that last title in a way none of his other accolades had felt, but when you try to pin it down it's gone, like smoke between your fingers.

The mystery of it carries you out the door and into Old Faithful, the family station wagon. After that the jostling jawas make quick work of any lingering introspection you might have wished to partake in. Thankfully the territorial disputes are mild today, hardly enough to warrant a warning look from mom and then you are in front of the church.

Lingering in the car you are sure that... Yep, as soon as you come out the door you can practically feel the crowd starting to recoil like they had done at school. So you plaster a smile on your face and start and start looking for familiar faces. "Hi Alice, I saw you got a new cat, he's the cutest..."

Mom looks relieved she wouldn't have to smooth things over, she even squeezes your hand in thanks or maybe encouragement like she used to do when you were little. You don't pull away as fast as you might have done otherwise.

The sermon is about charity, you are not sure why you had expected something about going into battle, sheer ego maybe that God or His Angels would set down a wind of inspiration through Father Thomas to give to you personally. There are a lot of other people here and they have their own struggles no less important in the eyes of God than yours. The sight of the sandy-haired ruddy-cheeked priest peering at the congregation over thick square glasses does remind you cannot go to Confession here. You would scare the daylights out of the poor man.

Making a mental note to ask dad when Father Forthil would be available you settle back to listen as best you can and not let your mind wonder to what's going to happen after the service.

'Later' is not long in coming though from your mom's tone she might have wished otherwise. "You are going?" she asks dad. "Both of you?"

"Yes," there are a lot of feelings packed into that word, love and regret, resolve and faith, maybe even some you cannot now name. "I'll keep her safe," he promises.

Mom almost squeezes the breath out of your chest to the surprise of your siblings and the renewed whispers of the rest of the congregation. You hug her back gingerly, not wanting to make her anymore cold than she already is. "I'll be OK Mom," you promise and you are not sure what your voice sounds like. There is probably some resentment in there despite your best efforts to keep it out, but there is also the memory of her breaking down the doors of Mab's palace with a hammer that broke in her hands.

I am never going to need rescuing like that again, you vow, you'll never make her have to put herself in danger for you. You don't say it aloud.

***​

When dad had told you that you are heading to Navy Pier of all places you had been surprised, it was nowhere near as out of the way as the neighborhood you had met McCoy in, there were all sorts of restaurants and venues and a place selling some of the best Cotton Candy in the city. Not precisely what comes to mind when you think of 'mob deal'.

"That is part of the point," dad explains. "The monks know what kind of man Marcone is and they do not entirely trust him so they arranged for the hand-off in a public place where he would be constrained by all the eyes on him."

"But you have been called to watch over the deal..." you trail off, not needing to add the last part. Someone is not going to be constrained.

Thankfully perhaps the... creatively named Pedro's Pisces with its star sign advertising above a listed menu of fish and seafood is a little way back from Lake Michigan itself and the thickest of the Sunday traffic. though that also makes the trio of monks in their red and orange robes stand out more which Usum points out is not good for avoiding ambushes. "Sometimes a crowd is cover..."

The eldest of the monks looks to your father and smiles, then he spots you and the smile slides right off his face. Before you can open your mouth to offer some kind of reassurance he bows low. "Namaste," he says in his own tongue.

"Polite," Usum hisses appreciatively. "It is good to be recognized."

"What on earth do you mean recognized?" you snap, uncertain if you should try to copy the greeting or just go with English.

"It means I greet the god within you," the demon helpfully provides

What do you do?

[] Try for a formal reply (Charisma+Etiquette; may use Excellency)
-[] Write in stunt

[] Just go act normal (Charisma+Empathy; may use Excellency)
-[] Write in stunt

[] Write in

OOC: Funnily enough even if I had rolled just one die for the first impression that would have still been two successes since the first result was a 10.

 

[DragonParadox]

Dynamic Entry ​

9th of July 2006 A.D.

"Good fortune on your path, may you find good council in your fellow men and enlightenment in the world," you reply thinking back to the way you had greeted Mouse, though without the more gruesome parts. Seriously the diplomacy of Yomi Wan seems to be at least eight parts on ten intimidation.

"Fortune is for the future to judge and the present to wonder over," the elder monk replies, his English accented in a way that sounds almost British to your ear. "As to counsel that might yet be a perilous thing to take, even from those who sit right with bodhisattvas most honored."

"He speaks now of those messengers with which your father has congress and whose request you accepted," Usum explains. "Those who deny themselves the joys of Harmony than they may raise others up to join them, spirits of... compassion I have heard them called." His tone is not angry or disdainful or even sorrowful like you had heard from Lasciel. He sounds bewildered like how someone who is not a cat person would describe a person who sunk his life's work and fortune into opening a cat shelter.

"So might even the sweetest fruit come to choke you if you take it from the hand on another and do not know its pit and its seed, is that not so master?" One of the younger monks says, the very youngest in fact, he could not be more than three or four years older than you.

"It is so, and it is true also that the fruit of wisdom is still better shared than it is merely admired," the elder replies and you wince at the rebuke. He hadn't done anything wrong.

"So friend Michael now we eat?" The old man, whom you find out is named Broither Divsimar says cheerfully. He does not seem to mind the tourist prices, even insisting on paying for both you and dad, though he does seem to think the star sign in the name is as funny as you do, maybe not for the same reason though.

Before you have the chance to ask about it dad suddenly goes quiet next to you, he does not say anything, just tips his head towards the street.

The five of you had settled to outside the restaurant at one of the larger trestle tables, as far from any of the other guests in case something unexpected were to happen. While the pair now heading towards you were not quite unexpected they are certainly dangerous, you do not need dad to tell you that.

They look to be in their late twenties or perhaps early thirties and made from the same mold, that mold being 'kicked around the football field one too many times and compensating for it'. They are compensating a lot to judge by the bulges in their suit jackets. Who wears suits in the middle of a steamy July evening if they don't have to? Is there a gangster uniform you are not aware of, or do they just not feel like they are doing it properly if they don't dress the part. The shorter of the pair is carrying a duffel bag that looks mostly empty though something clinks inside. At least it's not a suitcase.

That is also the one who gives you the longest look, though he does not say anything, just goes over you from head to toe like he is measuring a slab of meat and not in the usual gross way assholes sometimes do. Whole new vistas of gross had been opened by that gaze. Yay for new experiences.

Thankfully he does not speak to you and he does not seem to pay that much attention to dad either... which is kind of odd given that he is a man in a white cloak in the middle of Chicago in summer, that is even rarer than the rent-a-suit. Maybe not all the blessings he gets are of the sword-related variety.

"You got the cash?" he asks Broither Divsimar.

"I do," the monk replies pleasantly, not seeming the least troubled by the lack of a greeting.

"Here's how we are gonna do it..."

Sadly you never hear how that it, the words drowned out in the sound of screeching tires and a moment later screams. You turn just in time to see a black van come barreling onto the sidewalk sliding until its side smashes into the thankfully unoccupied table two over from yours. The back doors slam open with such force they almost seem to fly out.

A bestial roar ripped from an all too human throat rings out from the depths of the van as a pair of disheveled figures their faces contorted into rage beyond humanity come rushing out, hands twisting into dirty claws. Behind them in the darkness of the van you can see the barrels of two guns glinting in the hands of a pair of their fellows just as ragged though not given over to feral rage. Between them stands a fifth much older man, his face lined and liver-spotted, only a few whips of snow-white hair still clinging to his head, though his hand is still all too steady on the revolver. He is also wearing a suit and not a cheap one, some small irrelevant part of your mind notes.

"Rage-Singers," Usum hisses in y our mind and with those words understanding opens like a flower of steel. Like the warriors of old who attacked without shield, armor or care for their own lives are these, their rage will drive them to fight until they are dead or until they are broken.

What do you do?

[] Fight the two charging madmen in hand to hand (Dexterity+Melee/Straight attack; may use excellency)
-[] Write in stunt

[] Try to charge past them and attack the ones still in the van (Dexterity+Athletics; cannot use excellency)
-[] Write in stunt

[] Write in

OOC: So yeah having a demon in your head is good for winning initiative, who knew. Michael... Michael knows, but he has only been on the other side of that so far.

 

[DragonParadox]

Blind Fire ​

9th of July 2006 A.D.

The mark upon your brow shines in brazen challenge as you leap over the table sending plates and cutlery flying, landing in a crouch and then a lunge sword drawn from your soul in an instant. "Beserkers!" you shout as you charge the leading man only as the claw his hand had become slashes the air you drop under the blow and half-roll past him with noting worse than a torn dress out of it.

As you rush into the van you hear the old man cursing in... German you think, but you ignore him for the man with the left with the machine gun already aimed towards you. The first slash scrapes along it and into his fingers, you hope enough to make him put it down. You hope wrong as the man howls in rage more than pain and his face begins to contort into a dreadful grimace, showing teeth filed to a point. .

Lost 1 Essence

Fuck, more beserkers! you cut and cut and cut again, careful not to take off any limbs or his head but otherwise aiming for whatever part of the man was in reach of your sword at the moment. As he falls broken on an old crate the wood splintering under his weight Usum shouts a warming,, just in time for you to turn and slash his friend on the arm with your momentum... not the arm he's holding the gun in.

Getting shot by a machine gun point blank hurts... it really fucking hurts. Bullets are flying everywhere, metal sparks off your armor, metal sinks into your flesh and splinters bone. He doesn't take his finger off the trigger until the clip is spent.

You take 3 Wounds

"Rōknuhōs!" you hear somehow though the ringing in your ears, it sounds like Brother Divsimar and it feels like magic, though not like any magic you had ever witnessed. If Harry's magic is like a freight train barreling at you this is barely a ripple in a still pond... going faster than a speeding bullet.

One of the madmen stops as though he had been slapped by a giant's hand while the other comes up against a Knight of the Cross. "Surrender!" he shouts, though getting only snarl and the slash of claws in return. Claws as it turns out make for a bad match up against steel armor and a leather jacket for really poor armor against Amoracchius.

In the chaos of the fight and getting shot you had lost track of the old man until you hear him speak again and this time it is not german, though maybe something akin to it. "Reiði éta þig!"

You can hear the rage in it, clawing at the world like a maddened beast fit to gnaw off its own limb... but it isn't aimed at you. It rushes past, a soundless scream that roots in the minds of those ill prepared for it.

Both of Marcone's goons and the young monk who had been reprimanded howl in rage and and knock over the table as the rush your rad and Brother Divsimar punching and kicking and screaming.

As though summoned by the violence a black bird, like a raven, but much too large dives into the midst of the carnage and grabs the duffel bag that had fallen in the scuffle with a mocking caw... only to get a plate smashed into its head from the last monk sending it reeling, beak over claws.

What do you do?

[] Kill the gunman, his weapon might be empty, mostly in you, but he is still likely more dangerous in hand to hand than the sorcerer
-[] Write in stunt

[] The sorcerer is the more dangerous one and clearly the leader
-[] Write in stunt

[] Write in

OOC: You could also try to rush out of the van and say deal with the dazed raven thing, but you would have to risk getting hit by the lycanthrope you are in close combat with and you are quite wounded.

 

[DragonParadox]

Righteous Backstabbing ​

9th of July 2006 A.D.

Between the two enemies in front of you only one has bullets in his gun and only one of them has magic, but that doesn't mean the other guy can't be... Ignoring the pain in your chest you wrench the beserker by the wounded arm, leveraging him towards his boss by main strength while still keeping your sword-arm free... Useful.

That kick in the leg probably won't even bruise, you think as you twist the sword around to try to bash the old man about the head and shoulders with the pummel. Just because he's evil doesn't mean you want to kill him.

It's about on the fifth blow to his ribs that you realize you might have misjudged him. In your defense you have been battering him around the van like a puppet with cut strings, following his gaze less from any fear of the magic that might lie there and more from concern that you might snap his neck.

Then he starts chortling, like he had just been told the best joke yet and he uneasy knot in your stomach warns that you might be the punchline. You flip your weapon holding it properly again, though it might be too late... The revolver's muzzle flashes painfully bright and in a moment of instinct that common sense had not quite caught up with you raise you sword to parry.

Clink... no different from the piercings going onto the counter metal on metal connecting you feel your sword vibrating a ever so slightly and impossibly cutting the bullet in half.

"Vat are you?" he speaks English for the first time, shock and loathing heavy in his words and only then do you notice that he is not fine as you had thought, his left leg is twisted at an unnatural angle and one of his bloody ribs is poking out of his side, but even as you watch flesh and bone start to writhe and twist back into place.

He's like them, you realize, like the beserkers, but stronger because he does not feel the rage, he discards the curse and keeps the boon. Somewhere in the depths of your mind Usum hums in wordless appreciation.

"Rísa Skuggar!" he shouts, blood and spittle flying from his mouth as they infect the shadows all around and fill them with his will. The darkness comes boiling to embrace him. In the moment of darkness that follows the last beserker slashes at you wit claws and inhuman strength. You can hear his own bones breaking even as he slashes your cheek open.

You take 1 Wound (-1 to all rolls)

When the world returns the sorcerer is gone, carried off on wings of shadow. It's almost hard to remember he had been here at all. Wait... you do not need Usum to tell you, he's messing with your head. Essence flares in utter denial of that which would impinge on the sanctity of your own mind and the shadows become just shadows again. There, you see the old man getting out of the van still in his bloodied suit, but not even hurrying, so sure that his dirty trick had worked.

Lost 1 Essence

But he isn't the only one who had extricated himself from the fight. Your dad had waded out of the tangle of fists and feet as only a knight in armor could and he is already rushing to help... and you do need that help but not for the reason he thinks. You grab the last thug, by the same wounded arm again, because you are a bitch like that when people who shoot you up and try to claw off your face and throw him at your dad.

"Catch!" you shout as you jump over the guy who had never gotten to even fire his gun as you rush out among the upturned tables and the screaming people and you stab the sorcerer none of them can see right in the back. He'll heal.

That is when they start to be able to see him again and the screaming gets worse, though that might just be the generalized brawl. Looking wildly around you notice that the bird-thing was now a pile of feathers and gristle not far from where Brother Divsimar was leaning heavily on the shoulder of one of his students.

The other one was being restrained by a passerby still in the grip of conjured rage. You are already halfway to him before you realize that all the blood on you is probably not doing much good calming spirits, but on the plus side at least you are hard to recognize.

Though you doubt the poor monk would thank you for smashing a jug full of lemonade over his head it does the trick and you carry him back to the others in a fireman's hold. Thankfully by the time you get back Brother Divsimar and his companion had also been able to extricate Marcone's goons from the growing riot... not that it looks to be slowing down in the least. At least it will be some kind of cover, you think as you dodge under a beer bottle.

"Don't move!" You hear coming down near the van again. You have never heard that tone from your dad before, utterly level cold enough to freeze the blood in your veins. He is holding Amoracchius to the sorcerer's throat as he stirs.

"Ve had all better move yes, before the police comes," he manages through bloodied lips.

Dad's answer is to reverse the grip and hit him in the face with the pummel. He turns to look at the van, it's front door open, the driver already long gone. "Can you drive?" he asks the monks. It turns out that they can't.

As for Marcone's men... well you are pretty sure they can drive fine maybe even drive getaway cars in particular, but the last time you saw someone look so out of it had been at a party where the host made a big bowl of every single mind altering pill they could get their hands on.

What do you do?

[] Offer to drive the getaway van while your dad keeps watch on t he sorcerer and the thugs in the back

[] Offer to be the guard, you are not that beat up and Brother Divsimar can help, he just looks a little out of breath is all

[] Wait for the cops, you are sure you can talk your way out of this... and if you can't well you still have Officer Murphy's number saved

[] Write in

OOC: Now that he is down I can explain the sorcerer's trick, he had Voice of Madness from dementation and Vanish from the Mind's Eye from Obfuscate as spells. You will note those are pretty high level and hard to resist, this guy is no joke and he would have gotten away with it too (or at least escaped) if it weren't for that meddling kid and her perfect mental defense.

 

[DragonParadox]

A Light on Dark Trails ​

9th of July 2006 A.D.

"I can still fight!" You try not to make any sudden movements with the declaration, not because the pain is that bad but because all the frozen blood matted to the front of your chest suddenly flaking off would probably undermine the point. From the odd stab of pain you are pretty sure there are bullets in there as well, but you should be fine as long as you don't take anymore hits. "I know you trust my driving dad, but I don't think I've graduated to getaway cars just yet."

In another first for the day you actually see your dad glare at one of the punch drunk thugs, presumably for being useless twice over, or maybe for putting you in danger by proxy, you are not sure and you are not about to ask.

The more lucid of the pair does end up in the passenger seat while the other is pushed into the back of the van alongside the monks and your prisoners as you race down the pier shouts and horns honks echoing in your wake. I really hope no one snaps a picture of the plates, you think as you draw your sword over your knees.

Thankfully the younger monks prove startlingly adept in using the zip-ties they find in there to tie up their former owners though Brother Divsimar looks wan and shaky, though you cannot see a mark on him.

Noticing your worried look he explains: "One only holds so much chi and it is not given to mortals to respire it from the world as the Wan Xian once did, given their fate it is perhaps for the best that we should be do limited."

The name rings a bell not faint, but loud and clear in your mind. The Ten Thousand Immortals gifted by Heaven with the power to respire chi, the lifeblood of the world that is matter energy and spirit that they might set right the paths of unsanctioned devils that plagued the world, grown arrogant in their dominion and rapacious in their power they began to take chi from life, most of all from the people they aught to have been guarding. Sweet on the lips and a black stain on the heart and how the devils laughed until the Ten Thousand became addicted to rapaciousness and from no other place could they take chi, immortal they were still but their flesh was cold and dead and their souls from Yomi Wan flew now back into the corpses, a scream on the night wind, a groaning in the earth. The Ten Thousand Demons.

"They became the Wuan Kuei, the demon people..." you trail off. Something about that story, that flash of insight, sends your stomach roiling unpleasantly and makes your throat choke up as if you are about to cry, but have no tears.

"Is that...?" the monk who had hit the raven thing with a plate starts to ask, but his master raises a hand for quiet. Given what you suspect he might have asked you are glad for it.

The van turns sharply sending some of your prisoners groaning in pain as they jostle against one another.

"Try to hold them still," you call, ignoring the wordless scoff from Usum. Just because they'll heal doesn't mean you want them to be in pain. Your eyes follow the duffel bag as Brother Divsimar draws it closer even with every sharp turn.

Maybe it's impolite to ask, but you figure all the blood you're wearing is worth at least one faux pas. "If you don't mind me asking what is that?"

"It is rare," the elder monk says, "For both that which was stolen and some of the thieves to return to us at the same time." He is quiet for a moment and you are afraid that might be all the answer you'll get. "These are the remains of some of our wisest and most revered, put to ill use by the wicked. When I was yet a young boy men came to our monastery from far off lands under a sign that was like onto the the auspicious footprints of the Buddha. Some would later say that we should have known them to be evil for they bore weapons of war too lightly and others would say their mark was red as blood and black as night, but this is all the false wisdom of hindsight. An honorable man might bear a weapon in a foreign land for his own protection and as for the color red..." he motions to his own sleeve. "These men said they were on the trail of their ancestors and they were much concerned with the color of eyes and hair, with the measuring of skulls..."

This time it isn't some obscure lore from who knows how long ago that flashes in your mind, but a snippet from a documentary you saw just a few years ago. "The Ahnenerbe... Nazis, those were Nazis and they stole bones from your tombs."

You look down at the old man and the goons and the words just pop unbidden on your lips. "I hate Illinois Nazis." You don't quite manage to bite back the giggle either. "Sorry, sorry, movie reference."

Apparently wise old monks or not the look older people give when they don't get a reference is truly universal.

"So.. uh... you got everything right?" you ask awkwardly.

"All that Marcone claimed to have come into the possession of is here, but much has been scattered," Brother Divsimar replies gravely. "Much has been lost and much has been scattered."

"Ah... listen I'm sorry for..."

The monk raises a hand again. "You are young, unless I am much mistaken a warrior new to battle and new to the rush of victory either. Your cause was just and your victory honorable, do not feel that the sorrows of the world mean you cannot enjoy them. There are enough of those abroad in the world without reaching to grasp them close."

Before you can reply the van screeches to a sudden stop next to the most unlikely of vehicles... an ice cream truck on an otherwise deserted street still on the north side.

The driver seems to know your dad. "I came as soon as you called, but it was crazy, no traffic all the way I was just gunning it and I got here just in time..."

Not so crazy, you think as you glance up at the sky with a quick prayer. 'Mysterious ways' apparently does not have to mean subtle. You change cars three more times as you zigzag across the city and between the last pair, a hearse and a moving van you find some water and one of those little hotel soaps to clean up a little. Now you just look beaten up rather than like Jason Voorhees's latest victim.

The bullets are now clinking at the bottom of your purse. Maybe you'll make something out of them, you think as the moving van drives up to an old warehouse.

"We should go see the boss," Jerry the goon had apparently recovered enough to start making something vaguely like demands. "You ain't paid for the package."

For the first time since t he fight started dad looks uncertain, almost pained. On the one hand he had agreed to see though the hand off of goods and money on the other he's not big on making people pay criminals for the bones of their fellows.

"Worry not friend Michael we will be true to our word..." Brother Divsimar looks the man up and down. "Wired, I do not think it would be safe for you to handle so physical currency when there are enemies abroad."

"That wasn't the deal," the man thrusts out his jaw belligerently, just asking for a punch in your opinion.

"I am altering the deal," the elder monk says serenely and you cannot help but add mentally this time. 'Pray I do not alter it further.' But... this is kind of serious, you realize.

Gangsters probably do not want their money to come with a paper trail and you do not think God will be inclined to facilitate the journey across town as smoothly as the last one had gone just to get John Marcone his preferred form of payment. You would offer to go yourself but you are... kind of wounded and if you just called Marcone's people here well it would compromise whatever this place is as a safehouse and it would give Marcone access to your prisoners. You van imagine how that would go...

They are Nazis though, another part of your brain argues. If anyone deserves cement shoes or whatever Marcone does to his enemies it's probably them.

What do you argue for?
(Charisma+Empathy all unless you lie in which case it is Manipulation+Subterfuge)

[] Send Jerry off with the cash, if he gets jumped that is on him

[] You can go with Marcone's people, you have probably lost all pursuit and there is no sense making an enemy if you don't have to

[] Call Marcone to pick up his money, you'll deal with him when he gets here

[] Write in

OOC: Normally there would be a stay silent option, but Molly's an Exalt, deferring to the opinions of others does not come naturally.

 

[DragonParadox]

Making the Call ​

9th of July 2006 A.D.

"Uh..." you looks between your dad and the elder monk, a phantom twitch in your palm impelling you to raise it like this is school. "Not that I really care about Marcone getting his money or how he gets it, but should we really make the call on what to do next without giving him the chance to know there's someone new poking their nose into the deal, or someone really old as the case might be? Friz and the Werewolves were willing to shoot up a restaurant in the middle of the day, what else would they be willing to do?"

Unsurprisingly Dad winces a little at your flippant description. He'll just have to deal with that one, you got shot by them so as far as you are concerned you have every right to make them sound like a shitty alt rock band. Despite any misgivings he does look thoughtful though. "Marcone would not take any interference with his business... in an even-tempered way."

Now it's your turn to wince and for more serious a reason. "I don't want to see..." you motion to the men lying in the floor among the cardboard boxes, a little away from the improvised shelter than marks a place where someone homeless had found some semblance of a home only to abandon it, you hope for better things. "I don't want to see them all get shot in the head or however that goes, but we can still offer to wire the money, or send someone with the cash or even arranging another meeting."

Dad shakes his head. "He will ask to know what happened and once he finds out he will want to deal with it, for a man like Marcone his power, his authority is far more valuable than money. It is harder to come by once it is spent. If he had been born into another century perhaps he would have made a good king, certainly a strong one."

"Maybe we can get him involved in the Society..." you start to joke, but just then one of the beserkers starts to stir and he is berserk no more, but groaning in pain and muttering.

"You're with the Society? Then why... are you with that bastard Lictor?"

Somehow you don't think he means the Society for Creative Anachronism like you do. Both your mom and dad are members and technically so are you and Daniel, you have the papers for it somewhere, but you haven't been to any of the events since... since you moved to Chicago now that you think about it.

Sadly the man wakes up all the way, and clams up just as fast.

"I think you make a fair point," Brother Divsimar says finally. "While the judgement of the man John Marcone might be a peril so too might his ignorance. One can see to set right poor judgement with counsel, only truth can set right ignorance."

"You callin' the boss dumb?" Jerry asks belligerently.

You are this close to saying 'yeah only a idiot would choose to make his life's work hurting everyone around him,' but don't out of consideration for your dad's nerves.

He walks Jerry out to make his the call on his phone leaving you and the monk in the company of one weak but conscious Nazi werewolf and four more including their boss out cold.

How do you question the prisoners

[] A light touch (Charisma+Empathy)
-[] Write in stunt

[] Threaten them (Charisma+Intimidation or Strength+Intimidation)
-[] Write in stunt

[] Like through your teeth, maybe you can convince them that you are somehow on their side (Manipulation+Subterfuge; very hard roll)
-[] Write in stunt

[] Write in

OOC: I intentionally had Michael echo what Nicodemus would have said later in the series about Marcone because for all their irreconcilable differences of morals their sense of people is very similar, witness how both of them respect Dresden in spite of him coming off as flippant and flaky. Granted in Nic's case that manifests as one serious offer of a coin and then a plan to see him dead, but that is just him. SCA meanwhile is how Charity learned to fix and make armor in this quest, that is not what you would call a common skill and using the Society allows for more fun plot hooks in the future.

 

[DragonParadox]

Through Poisoned Eyes ​

9th of July 2006 A.D.

You stretch as you begin to rise, and that proves too much for the seams of your abused dress, which split, falling around your belted waist and exposing the gleam of mail underneath. Shrugging mentally you move your chair towards the waking lycanthrope and sit down. "You know, my mother is going to be really unhappy that you ruined my dress. Which makes me unhappy." With a flick of your wrist you flick your chair backwards

The man, shaven-headed of course, though with as much stubble on his head as on his chin and the less said about the state of his teeth the better, sneers. "Fuck off bitch, I ain't squealin'..." Whatever he was going to say next is lost as you start to carve patterns into the headrest of the chair... barehanded. A skull may be a bit too on the nose so you go with a snowflake.

As if you hadn't heard the insult you continue with a pleasant tone and your second best smile. "I have questions about that. You really, really want to make me happy by answering them."

"I... I'm ready to die for the cause, for my people..." he manages to a get out, but you can see the way he strains against the bonds like he is about to try to dive off his chair and crawl off.

Rather than speak you just continue to doodle on the chair and let the waves of cold radiating off him hit him properly. There are words in what he says next, but you are not sure you would call them sentences, more like hate and fear and rage like a scattering of poison barbs,. The pauses get longer and longer, filled with the sound of your nails scraping wood as your eyes never leave his face.

"I have a family... please... please I can't tell you... they'll kill them then the'll kill me."

Part of you wonders if he is telling the truth, feeling some pity for him, after all even Nazis have families while another part of you notes that kind of desperation could make for a devoted servant.. That's... you won't touching how right the thought of having minions feels with a ten foot pole right now.

Instead you split the difference, stopping the carving of the rather nice snowflake if you do so yourself and note: "It does not sound like those people are not very worthy of your loyalty, in fact it does not sound like they would react very well to you returning empty handed at all. Maybe we can help. It can hardly get any worse for you," you slide adroitly between offering some hope and leaning on the threat.

"I... alright." The fear flows out of him like water from a broken glass, all that's left is resignation.

That is how you learn that the tragically misnamed Ace got into 'the cause' by falling in with a street gang in Philadelphia, the kind that sold 'protection' to what it deemed were the right people and vandalized the shops of everyone else. His career as a foot soldier in the latter day armies of a war lost sixty years ago was cut short when he 'heroically' drove into a wall trying to get away to get away from the cops after a botched kidnapping. The crash didn't kill him unlike the other two gang members in the car, but it did mangle his right arm and break his spine in three places. On the third night in the hospital he had a visitor, one who had apparently been impressed by Ace's 'courage' and 'conviction'

A weaver of plots looking for fodder to feed into them, Usum recognizes and you have no reason to doubt him.

The sorcerer Gorefel, had 'brought out his rage' and something about how he describes this part of the story, haltingly in places monosyllabic, makes you think he must have done something messed up even by whatever passes for his standards, but you do not have the time, nor honestly the wish to find out just what it is.

What matters to you is how he describes being recruited into 'The Real Fight' of the Thule Society and and how the Nazis supposedly never really lost the war, but just went underground under the command of 'the Kaiser' who is supposed to be the... like reincarnation of the True Emperor of the World who would rule in a Ten Thousand Year Reich.

You bite back the snarky question if he'd upgraded the number because Hitler said his Reich would last a thousand. It might stop him spilling the beans.

'Pontifex Gorfel' the magician is apparently one of the Old Guard, which is to say he fought in the war, a faction that makes up much though by no means all of the upper echelons of the... international magical Nazi underground. There's a bunch of words that manage to somehow be both very creepy and incredibility stupid.

Of course the higher ups could have lied to Ace about the scope of their organization, you realize. That would have been a good way to keep the goons in line and Ace admits that his was his first big mission alongside Gorfel. "Never knew what was in the bag, didn't need to know, I was there for my hands and my eyes not my brain. Only thing I knew was shoot for the man in white because he was a mutant soldier of the Masonic Order."

Somehow you manage to swallow a laugh at the last 'revelation' from the vicious, absurd, sad little man. "And what of Lictor, who's he?"

"He's one of the New Men, but close to the Kaiser, too close Pontifex Gorfel says, warmed us that he might have men in the city looking for the package, I thought you might be one of his with how... strong you are."

This time you don't bother holding back a snort at the compliment and its source as you turn to Gorfel, about to shake him awake when your dad walks back in. "Marcone's agreed to a drop off of the funds not far from here." He rubs his temples like he is fighting back a headache.

"And what of them?" Brother Divsimar asks, motioning as your prisoners, awake and not.

"I explained that we had been attacked and a rough description of by whom, but I reminded him that none of us here answer to him to keep prisoners in his name."

What do you say?

[] Argue that they might deserve whatever Marcone has planned for them (Manipulation+Empathy; may use Excellency)
-[] Write in stunt

[] You still have a bit more time to try your luck interrogating (Strength+Intimidation or Charisma+Intimidation; may use Excellency)
-[] Write in stunt

[] Write in

OOC: Infernal Exalt is scary, news at eleven. A pity Michael missed it, but someone had to take on Marcone.

 

[DragonParadox]

Black Carriage, Bloody Steps ​

9th of July 2006 A.D.

It would be nice to have some kind of knock out power right about now, you think looking about the dusty warehouse filled with the faint smell of mildew and the waking groans of waking goons. "I think Ace and the others are safe enough to let loose, the cops can deal with them..." or Marcone can, you think, but don't say aloud.

Unfortunately dad seems to hear it anyway and from his frown you guess that he doesn't agree. "Best case scenario he," you nod towards the talkative goon. "Was lied to and the old man is all there is to this 'Society' of theirs. But if it's not, if he's not alone than the... White Council needs to know about it." You had almost said Harry then and blown what cover he might have as the White Council's agent.

Ace takes the moment to regain enough of his courage to start raving about Masons again, but it's Brother Divsimar who cuts him off. "We do not seek vengeance on those who stole from us for we know too well how bitter a drink it is, but he might well know where more of the stolen bones can be found and I would very much wish to hear it."

"I am sorry for your loss," dad sighs. "But Molly is already hurt and I don't think..." Maybe he hadn't been frowning about you being callous after all. As easy as it is for you to ignore the pain you don't think it is as easy for him to ignore what you look like.

"Molly is here dad," you snipe, annoyed to hear him talk about you like you are a helpless little girl he has to get home by dinner. "She also does not want to share a city with a Nazi sorcerer who already shot her once."

He looks torn for a moment before coming to a decision. "Alright then, we get Marcone his money, then we see Harry together and we go at it from there, but... just be more careful alright, just because you don't feel the pain as hard doesn't mean you aren't hurt. A man with a gun, even a man with a rock can kill you if he is determined enough."

Privately you think that it would take a lot of rocks, but you nod since that's the only way dad is going to budge on this.

Where Brother Divsimar learned how to tie up someone just so they would be able to break out in ten minutes you're not sure, it might be a standard skill of his order for all you know, but you take the time he is arranging that you call forth tools from the dark beyond to clean up Gorfel enough that you won't draw attention carrying him around town. The only other alternative would have been to wrap him in dad's cloak and that felt vaguely blasphemous

Lost 1 Essence

You mentally add 'clean up kit' to the list of things you should bring on a mission alongside 'tweezers'. Getting bullets out of your sternum with your bare hands earlier had not been fun.

***​

Whether it is because Marcone has a sense of irony or sheer coincidence you do the hand-off of the money on a street-corner not twenty yards from the entrance of a small bank office. You had half expected to see the man himself waiting for you there, but instead the five of you are greeted by a woman, blond, blue eyed and attractive enough that they would probably put her on the cover of Vogue even in the suit she is wearing... maybe especially in that suit now that you think of it.

As she measures you up you return the favor. Between the sword callouses on her hands and the dagger-sharpness of her gaze you guess she is a lot more than what she seems. Her first words to you confirm it. "You walk outside fate Margret Katherine, beware where you step."

"You have the advantage of me my lady," you answer formally. Usun does not know for sure what she is, though he guesses that she must be older than she looks.

"Gard, Sigrun Gard," she answers after a moment, leaving you unsure of what to say next.

'Why does someone supernaturally old with fate powers work for Marcone?' is probably a bit too blunt and it is probably too soon to ask 'Do you do your own makeup?' even though it looks really amazing and you have practically the same complexion.

Thankfully Dad rescues you by asking if she can get you a car ride to Harry's place. She takes one look at the prisoner and her cool professional smile twists into a looks of revulsion. "Maðkar ganga erlendis og kalla sig úlfa," she mutters under her breath.

Grad flips open a silvery phone and gives a few curt commands. Not ten minutes later a big black sedan, you think it might be a Mercedes rolls on in and the doors pop over with a singular click. The inside smells of leather and cigarettes though not unpleasantly strong. You wonder how much money you would have to make to get something like this. Like yeah it's ostentatious and you would not have where to put it, but that's just details. Hm... maybe I could divine the winning lottery numbers, that's a lot of money isn't it?

The driver is thankfully more competent than Jerry and his ilk at least insofar as he stays quiet in spite of how strange you must all look, from the monks in red and orange robes, your dad in white and bearing the cross and you in your shimmering black armor and 'improvised' blue skirt and an old man in a suit with his hands still zip-tied together. Actually thinking about it maybe this isn't all that odd to him.

The car pulls up not far from Harry's building though not quite at his door so as not to be too suspicious about it and the five of you get out, the sixth carried between the younger monks. You don't make it that far...

Something bright and much too fast even for your speed flashes out of the corner of your eye... only to hit the pavement right in front of Gorfel. A bullet, you realize as the sound of the shot catches up with it. Your eyes snap to the roof of Harry's building to see a figure in grey and the glint of a long barrel, a sniper.

What do you do?

[] Run up the fire escape to deal with the sniper
-[] Write in stunt (optional)

[] Run for cover with the others, you did promise your dad not to take as many risks
-[] Write in stunt (optional)

[] Write in

OOC: Show's not quite over yet.

 

[DragonParadox]

A Brazen Shield ​

9th of July 2006 A.D.

This is your life now... "Sniper! Twelve o clock high" you shout, as with a eye-bending twist your sword returns from wherever it goes, cutting a second bullet out of the air. Car's already driving off and you wouldn't want to owe Marcone the save anyway. "Dad, we're running to the house. Go!" you continue, falling back to put yourself between the rear of the party and the distant marksman.

Lost 1 Essence

To his credit your dad does not stop to gawk at you cutting bullets out of the air but grabs one of the prisoner's arms... the left that puts him at most risk of getting shot in his place while the monk who had been holding it starts to run unencumbered

Like father like daughter, you guess with a giddy surge of fire in your veins. Once, twice, three times your sword moves during the short rush, deflecting riflefire before you can even hear the shot. A snatching motion of your offhand grabs the last bullet out of the air, the one that had almost gotten past your guard as it deflects off your sword. Souvenir!

The door ahead of you slams open and this time you are not the reason for Mouse's barking echoing down the halls and up the street as you are greeted to the sight of Harry in a bedraggled bathrobe, but with fire-rune focus already in hand.

"Sniper, human I think!" dad calls ahead as you get your prisoner inside and the heavy, warded door slams behind you.

"Is anyone..." Harry gets a good look at you. "Are you hurt?"

"Not this time, it's from before, got shot in the chest with an automatic of some kind." You wince a little and not with pain. "It was silly, I thought I could get take both guys out before either of them got a shot off. Though to be fair I did not know I could parry bullets before I tried it on him..." you motion at the unconscious Gorfel.

"Wait, slow down a bit who's he?" Harry asks and you realize you had been shooting off words like that asshole sniper was shooting off bullets.

"Ah..." you wipe the sweat from your brow. "Nazi sorcerer from the bad old days out to get some relics the Brother Divsimar..." you look around for the monk and find him talking to Mouse in his own tongue or trying to.

"I don't think he speaks anything but English, he's been with Harry since he was a pup," you explain.

The elder monk looks around the living room, tapestries and bookshelves vie for space with old movie posters and handmade Navajo rugs mingle with Elvis rugs. He is too polite to say 'In here?' but the look may as well have done it anyway.

Mouse gives a clearly affirmative "Woof!"

I wonder if there's some kind of spell or enchantment that would allow him to speak English as well as he understands? It's gotta be pretty annoying after a while to have to play charades when you want something.

"You are one of the Wise yes?" Brother Divsimar asks turning to Harry.

"I don't know if I would call myself wise, but that is what the White Council used to be called, maybe still is in some parts of the world." He glances towards the door. "Do you think they're going to try to come in?"

"It was only a single shooter, well hidden and too skilled for my liking, but they would not dare attack us in a place of strength," dad answers.

"He is truly wise to does not need to take on the title for it is given to him as a gift and adornment," the elder monk says, going on to explain what the package was himself.

The sound of laughter, cold and wheezing cuts him off. Gorfel, whom Dad had set down on the couch opens watery blue eyes. He had been awake for a while you realize, maybe even biding his time to escape until Grad and then the sniper had made it perhaps more safe to play dead.

"I may haf been vanquished I at least haf had my hands bound by my foes. Vhat do you call the mighty who tie up their own hands for the benefit of the veek? Certainly not 'wise'."

"Your captors," you reply with a a smile cold as midwinter. "Maybe keep that foremost in your head if you wish to keep it."

"I do not fear death," he scoffs, and in body he is still as a stone, but you can feel the tensing of his will like a shadow looming over barren hills, "I haf seen it, raw and red on the face of the world. I haf looked into his eyes black as pitch."

"His eyes?" Harry snaps suddenly looking at Gorfel with an intensity that is almost like... fear. "Kemmler? You were one of his?"

"Ah, you know that name, you fear it. Perhaps there is a viff of wisdom about you." Sneering is apparently also one of Gorfel's skills. "I had the honor to serve the Great Man."

"What's a Kemler?" you ask. It really does suck that for all you know about the supernatural it is literal ages out of date. You wave off an 'apologies for my shortcomings mistress' with a wince of guilt. It's not his fault he was bound in hell and you don't want to remind him of that even if he is a demon.

"Heinrich Kemler was an insane warlock, a necromancer and all around dangerous lunatic the White Council killed for the last time in the sixties." Though the words may be recited like history the feelings behind his eyes feel worryingly personal, like a man more than forty years dead had managed to get into his head somehow. "Anyone who calls him great is as much of a loon though thankfully not as dangerous."

You don't have to be good to be great, you think, the words you had spoken to your mother echoing back at you, but you don't say anything.

"Vell then you do not haf need to the ravings of a loon yes?" Gorfel asks, leaning back into his seat with what you can only describe as a shit-eating grin. He must have had plenty of practice after all.

"I am sure they will have a lot of questions for you in Edinburgh, maybe you will even meet some old acquaintances," Harry threatens., but the old man is unmoved.

"Death is all you can promise and death is all you can threaten, here or elsewhere, try to take me to England and perhaps I shall escape along the Ways. A faint hope but more than you can give me."

What do you do?

[] Try to threaten (Charisma+Intimidation)
-[] Write in how

[] Try to bargain (Charisma+Empathy)
-[] Write in how

[] Write in

OOC: The gunman was only human and you were rolling 19 dice after the two dice stunt and the -1 dice from multiple actions I did forget your injury DC penalty rolls, but even accounting for DC 8 and not 7 as I rolled it, nothing got through, because again you ignore 1 for Key abilities.

 

[DragonParadox]

An Ill Timed Call​

9th of July 2006 A.D.

"How little, he knows, how foolish his courage to think that death is the worst fate that might be visited upon him, In the Night Realm where the bed of all is stone, where fire is false hope that burns without warmth, where the springs of the earth are a lie, where dawn newer comes. Oh such are the horrors that would make him beg for eternity as the puppet of his deathlord," Usum's voice weaves its way though your thoughts with visions of icy hell. Cold is the certainty that the threat would not be hollow forever, that come day you might find the black key to that realm and dispose of the souls of whoever you wish into that realm with a touch or a kiss. There is no god but God and only his judgement may decide the fate of souls, you hang on to that truth, but it feels thin, like a child hiding under a table with her eyes closed. I shouldn't be able to spy on angels either and yet I was asked not to.

Lost 1 Essence

Just because I can do something doesn't mean I should... and just because I can say something does not mean I should speak either. What would your dad think if you gave a loving description of the horrors of hell and how Gorfel belonged there? What would Harry? More seriously if he does end up being interrogated by others on the Council do you want them to know how intimate your understanding of Yomi Wan is?

Though the bit about puppets does give you an idea. "This Kemmler must have been really impressive, I mean he still has you by the leash forty years after his final death. What did he do, tell you how special you were when you were a good boy, or was the prospect of him maybe throwing scraps of power your way enough to keep you begging?"

"We are not his slaves," the old man answers, needled. "We served willingly, knowingly a man whom even death bowed to, we walked the Whispering Way."

"You provided a great store of... somewhat talented corpses and specters for Kammler to devour at his leisure," you reply with your best condescending smile. "I do hope you didn't just move on to some new leader. I would say dogging his steps, but that might be insulting to Mouse over there."

For his part Mouse tips his head quizzically as if not sure what to make of your antics, Harry looks a little more perturbed while your dad keeps his eyes firmly on Gorfel himself in case he tries something. The monks oddly enough do not look the least surprised.

"Kaiser was it?" you push a little more. "Your new lord and master who will rule ten thousand years."

"Bah," the sorcerer sneers. "Is that what you think we are girl? A worm's eye view, fit for brutes and blunt instruments. Do you really think I would share true nature and purpose of our brotherhood with their like. We dwell wherever there is darkness and in darkness we find our friends, we rebel against the clay-footed tyranny of powers which cling to the status quo of a crumbling world. Do you not see it with those frost-touched eyes. Everywhere talents arise from the churning tides of humanity, too many to bind, too many to contain. The dam is brreaking and the White Council has no other plan but to try to plug the holes with their hands." Eyes narrowed with malice he looks to Harry. "The Red Court makes for an excellent hammer, but it is only the most obvious... the most distracting."

"And then you assholes will rise up and inherit the earth." The sarcasm practically drips off Harry's words. "You know generally the Nazis build a giant space laser before they go on about that. They aren't usually the ones tied up during the monologue either."

"It is only my hands that are tied fool!" the sorcerer snaps. "Your very power is bound by those who would use the might denied you for their own ends!"

You could cut the silence with a knife. The implication that people in charge of the White Council, the Senior Council were using Black Magic is clear as it is horrifying and from the expression on Gorfel's face it is not one he had wanted to reveal. You can feel the weight of the secret coiling in your soul like the light of the rising sun revealing the world.

Gain 2 Essence

Before Harry can say another word a knock rings on the door, then another. "Chicago Police Department, open up Dresden or we're coming in!" With a lurch in your stomach you recognize Detective Greene.

That is when Gorfel sees his chance, his power a sudden pal on the air, while all of you are distracted... or almost all of you.

Whatever he had meant to do is put to a swift end as the flat of Amoracchius's blade strikes his cheek. If he had been purely mortal the blow might have done enough damage to need an ambulance or worse, but as is it simply puts out his lights again before the dark spirit bound within him can mend his wounds.

"Go, into the bedroom I'll keep them busy!" Harry whispers urgently.

The monks are already moving and your dad has the sorcerer, but you are not so sure. "What if he has a search warrant?"

"I'll hold him off somehow, go," he insists.

You hesitate between taking his word for it and recalling Lasciel's accounting about how he sacrifices himself for others. Could you get Greene to back off? You could probably scare the daylights out of him, but that would come back to haunt you.

What do you do?

[] Follow the others into the bedroom

[] Stay and help Harry
-[] Write in stunt, optional

[] Write in

OOC: Turns out that gun was loud enough... and maybe something more.