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. 
