In Service: A Science Fantasy Quest

[I.F. Ister]

"Pisklę."

"Agnieszka."

You find Damien and Baba having a staredown as you exit the foyer, the front door closing behind you. Damien is sharp and focused while Baba has a relaxed, easy smile on her face.

They're watching, waiting for a moment to act. You can see that the driver side door of Damien's cruiser is open, the man himself has a hand on the shotgun attached to the ceiling. Baba is no different, grains of dust swirl around her in shifting patterns and whirling eddys.

Baba's car is a small, rounded thing that she putters around in. It is green and red, the colors of christmas, with twinkling lights hanging from the inside.

"Am I missing something here?" You poke the two senior citizens having a bit of a stand-off on the front lawn. At your voice they seem to relax a bit, Damien releasing the shotgun and the dust surrounding Baba retreats back into the pockets and creases of her dress and shawl.

Baba leans down and pinches your cheeks, the smile growing a pinch more genuine as she sees you. "Oh nothing, tygrysek, just two old fools catching up."

"It's been, what, seven years since I escaped that curse you laid upon me?" Damien adds as he strolls up behind Baba.

"You're going to have to be more specific than that, pisklę." Baba shoots back as you bat her hands away.

"The frog tongue."

"Ah, yes, that one."

"How'd you counter that Null Nail, by the way? I'm certain that I drilled you with it."

"Wouldn't you like to know, pisklę." From there the pair descend into squabbling and snide comments.

They've got history, that much is clear. Actually, now that you think about it, is there anyone that Damien doesn't know or have history with? Well, there's Claudia, but she's not exactly important magically nor is she old.

"You two know each other, huh?" You interrupt the twos' bickering with a question of your own.

"That's what I was going to say." They say in unison before shooting each other a glare.

"Damien's my mentor and Baba's teaching me magic." You answer as Damien mouths 'Baba'. He doesn't say anything about it, though, instead sharing a shrug with Baba. "But anyways, I didn't call you to chitchat." Damien nods as Baba leans in.

"You said something about a book being stolen, an important and dangerous book, right?" Damien inquires.

"Yeah, I don't really want to speak its name, but I will just so you get an understanding of what we're dealing with here." You take a deep breath before hesitantly speaking. "Its name is: Necronomicon Ex-Mortis." Your words ring out, causing the hairs on the back of your neck to stand shock-straight.

"Fuck me running." Damien swears, slumping over. "Your family had that book all this time? And didn't tell anybody!?"

"If we did tell somebody then word would get out that we had it." You shoot back as Damien runs a hand through his short, salt-and-pepper hair.

"And that sure worked out well for you, didn't it." He spits, unnecessarily cruel. He must've seen the hurt on your face as his expression softens. "I-I'm sorry, just, just a little overwhelmed right now."

Baba shakes her head and lays a hand on Damien's shoulder. "It's alright, tygrysek, he didn't mean anything by it. Now, did you have any ideas about what you wanted us to do?"

You nod, neatly sidestepping the emotional issue for the more important and pressing one.

~~~~~~~

With Baba contacting the minor spirits, the ones that inhabit the items and things that reside in the background of your day to day, it's up to you and Damien to find the missing Groundskeepers—wherever they may be.

(Investigation Roll DC 50: 64+10+15(Damien)=89, success)

Ignoring the slightly awkward tension between the two of you, you set to work scouring the Cemetery for any sign of the Groundskeepers.

"Damien!" You cup your hands to your mouth and call for him from your spot by a lone oak. Your voice echoes around the forest of standing gravestones.

The Senior Special Agent emerges from the shadow cast by a copse of trees, his figure makes long strides towards you as he passes by tombstone after gravestone.

"Find something?" He's short and unusually curt with you as he comes to a stop by your side.

"Yeah, look up." You reply, index finger pointing skyward, up into the tree you'd been standing by. His eyes widen, following the finger up into the boughs of the tree and catching sight of what you saw.

"That's a Groundskeeper, is it?" Your mentor offers as he lays eyes on the drifting thing.

"You're half right," you say as the wind shifts it around, "as it's half of one."

This specific Groundskeeper is a banshee, a female spirit that's often dressed in funeral attire. Veils, gowns, rags, you name it there's a banshee wearing it. They're known for their powerful screams, their wails letting everyone in about a dozen miles that something's gone horribly wrong. They can easily burst your eardrums if you're too close and they're even able to direct the force of their moans and concentrate them into an ear splitting and very physical cone of noise.

(Intuition Roll DC 40,75: 69+10+15(Damien)=90, double success)

"So, whatever killed this banshee had to have been able to A touch it and B kill it in a single blow so it didn't scream." Damien comments as you tap your chin, settling into the familiar groove of investigation.

Pulling out the bagging containing the piece of bloody debris from your pocket, you hold it up to the light. Turning it this way and that, you watch as it catches the light and shimmers purple.

"If I had to hazard a guess," you start, "I think that whatever was the source of this blood is also the thing that killed this Groundskeeper."

"Groundskeepers." Damien corrects, pointing past the banshee and further into the tree. Narrowing your eyes, you peer into the dark branches and shadow-casting leaves of the oak.

"Fuck me running." You breathe, staring up at the dismembered parts of all the Groundskeeper spirits hanging in the mighty oak tree. "I guess… I guess we know what happened to the Groundskeepers now."

"You got that right." Baba remarks as she comes up next to the two of you. "The minor spirits are all terrified out of their wits, rightly so if this is what they're scared of." The old witch jerks her chin up at the treeful of bodies.

"So," Damine begins, turning to you, "what do we do now?"


What do you do?
[ ] Examine the extra defenses, why didn't the minor wards and protections activate? (Investigation Roll and Knowledge (Magic) Rolls)
[ ] Fill your mother in on the details (Resolve Roll)

What does Baba do?
[ ] Assist you in whatever it is you do
[ ] Examine the dead Groundskeepers, perhaps she can find something out from their bodies?
[ ] Take the blood sample back to her house and conduct a tracing ritual (Baba will be unavailable for the rest of the day)

What does Damien do?
[ ] Assist you in whatever it is you do
[ ] Re-examine the Mausoleum, see if there's anything you missed
[ ] Put out feelers in the criminal underworld (Damien will be unavailable for the rest of the day)

~~~~~~~

GM's Note: I don't know what's goin' on with me right now, I just sorta feel a bit outta it. Should feel better once I eat something. Voting will be called tomorrow at 5 PM CST as always. Thanks everyone for reading!


Also, I was screwing around with Artbreeder a bit more and came up with this face, which is pretty dead on for how I imagined Damien. Though the hair's not quite right as seems to be a common trend with Artbreeder things.

Spoiler: Warning: Big Image

 

[I.F. Ister]

"Baba, can you, uh," you frown, searching for the right word, "do a spiritual autopsy on the Groundskeepers? If that's even a thing?"

The well-muscled grandma bobs her shawl-enshrouded head. "Of course, tygrysek. Though," she begins, aiming a contemplative glance up at the tree, "I'm not sure if there's much to gain from this lot." A shish of the hand and a swirl of dust drags the bisected banshee down from the branches. "Spirits are delicate beings, doubly so when they're dead. Or re-dead in some cases." Baba explains as she points a wrinkled finger at the frayed Irish spirit. "This one's already unraveling, even." Indeed it is, you can see slowly growing holes in the 'skin' of the banshee as it comes loose.

"But, do you think we'll get anything from them?" You press. Damien places a fresh cigarette in his mouth, a blur of movement lights it for him—looks like Zerada's up and at 'em.

"We'll certainly get some things from them: Ghost Flesh, Ectoplasm, Grave Dust, lots of things." Baba lists off as she begins peeling apart the banshee's body. Layer after layer of the spirit's 'skin' comes apart as she works her magic, unraveling like an onion—her hands are coated in a layer of dust, looking somewhat like mittens. "Anything useful to the situation?" She shrugs, spinning the banshee's hair into spools with dust fingers. "We'll have to find that one out, tygrysek."

You nod and turn to Damien, who's observing the spirit autopsy with an interested look on his face. "Well, while Baba's doing that can you look over the crime scene?" You raise an arm and direct his gaze to the Mausoleum looming on the hill. "I looked it over and found this," you shake the baggie holding the blood sample, "but I feel like I might've missed something, can you check my work?"

"Got it." He nods, already pivoting on his heel before pausing and looking back. "What're you gonna be doing? Not sitting on your hands, I hope." He adds with a joking, awkward smile.

You look towards the wrought-iron fence, the pointed, black-iron poles gleaming in the sunlight. "I'm gonna check the defenses, the minor wards layered into the fence."

"Got it." Your mentor repeats, spinning around and shuffling off at a self-consciously brisk pace. Well, he's certainly not your mentor for dealing with people, that's for sure. Dealing with people shooting at you, maybe, but definitely not for talking to people.

You shake your head and follow the Senior Special Agent's lead, heading off to the black-iron fence posts.

~~~~~~~

You step cautiously as you near the edge of the Cemetery, this length of the wall is a bit swampy. Mud clings to your boots, making rather gross sounds as you push through the wet, marshy terrain.

You scowl at the ground, at the black mud sticking to your boots and greatcoat ends. Why your ancestors never got around to clearing this out you'll never know nor will you understand.

Shaking your head, you sigh and trudge onwards, eventually reaching the fence posts. Curling a hand around a black-iron pole, you place your Infragoggles on over your eyes and flick them on.

(Investigation Roll DC 70: 99+10=109, success, oh boy
25+9=34, no dice there
Second roll (Infragoggles (which I just remembered did stuff besides let you see into spectrums lmao)):
100+10=110, success, no fucking way what
1+10=11, no dice, what are your rolls today what the heck???)

Your sight flickers through dozens of different spectrums as you turn your head back and forth along the wall—each spectrum change tints your vision a different color. Your search for any trace of the wards that should be layered into the fence isn't turning up much fruit.

Nope, no, nothing, nada, nuthin', not a damn th- wait, what is that?

You squint, the Infragoggles zooming in on a drifting piece of strange, ghostly material. It's semi-translucent, shimmering blue swirls coat the material as it dances in the beams of sunlight. It's curved, like an elbow in PVC piping, but much thinner, squarer, and longer.

(Knowledge (Magic) DC 65: 41, failure, how unfortunate)

You scowl, slipping on a pair of gloves and catching the floating piece of magic in an evidence baggie.

Damn your lack of magical knowledge! Damn it to the Hellpits and back if needs be!

Even if you have no idea what this is you have a sneaking suspicion that it has something to do with the missing wards. Perhaps it's a piece of one of them?

Well, better head back to the others. With any luck one of them'll have had more luck than you.

~~~~~~~

(Damien's Investigation Roll DC 80: 95+65=160, success, okay Damien
16+60=76, double success but man the dice today)
(Baba's Investigation Roll DC 55: 8+35=43, failure)

You catch Damien and Baba reclining in the wooden gazebo. Damien with a cigarette hanging from his mouth and Baba taking puffs from a rather long yellow-painted wood pipe.

Damien swats Zerada-Kil, who had been carving her name into the gazebo's floor with a familiar looking knife.

"No defacing the property of people we like." He admonishes her as Baba cackles.

Zerada rolls her eyes, the knife disappearing with a swish of her hand. "Fine." She retorts in a huff, pointedly looking away from Damien as she folds her arms.

"So, tygrysek," Baba calls to you as you climb the steps leading to the gazebo, gesturing to you with the stem of the, "did you find anything good?"

"Not sure," you reply, leaning against a support as you dig the invisible piece of magic-containing baggie from your pocket, "and I was gonna ask you that."

"Ooo, whatchu got there?" Zerada grins, floating up from her spot on the floor. "Magic drugs?"

"Not sure," you repeat, shaking it slightly as Baba's eyes glow, "but I found it near the fences. I think that it's a part of a broken ward."

"So it's not magic drugs?" Zerada petulantly prods.

"Kid," you fix her with a stare borne of many years of experimentation, "I'm a chemical super-scientist. I'd think that I'd know drugs when I see one."

"But these are magical drugs." She whines. "They could look like anything!"

"While Zerada's right, magical drugs can look like any number of things, what you've got there isn't one of them." Old Baba declares, blowing a ring of smoke from her mouth. "That is a remnant of a ward, a shield ward if I'm not mistaken. Specifically, it's a piece of the shield itself."

"Unlike these two," Damien says, flicking a finger at the Witch and the Arming Devil, "I have no magic sight so I can't weigh in. But I do have experience with Zerada and I know when she's screwing around." He shoots a glare at the smiling Devil.

"Well, what could have done this? I refuse to believe that my ancestors would lay weak wards on the place, so it had to have been something strong, right?" You ponder as a gust of dust plucks the baggie from your fingers, bringing the plastic container to Baba.

"It is indeed above average, though not the best I've ever seen." She remarks around the stem of the pipe in her mouth. "I'll have to study this at my lab to know more."
With that, you think that you've exhausted all that you can do here, at the moment anyways. Except, of course, talking to your… 'mother'.

…

…Yeah you're not really wanting to do that. But hey, maybe you can work up the nerve?

Regardless, you've got some options here. Damien's offering to tap into the criminal underworld, see if the book shows up on any black markets. Baba's offering to study the sample of the broken shield ward at her lab and to trace the blood sample back to its source. However, she reckons she can only do one of them.

Have Damien tap the underworld? (He won't be available for training or conversation)
[ ] Yes
[ ] No

Have Baba study the shield ward or trace the blood sample? (She won't be available for training or conversation)
[ ] Have Baba trace the blood samples
[ ] Have Baba study the shield ward
[ ] Neither

No matter what you decide to have both of your mentors do, you still need to choose what you're going to do while they're doing their thing.

Spoiler: Downtime Options

You may pick up to 7 options and you may pick the same thing multiple times.

[ ] Suck it up and go talk to your 'mother' (Resolve Roll)
[ ] Perhaps you can find reports of similar break ins? (Investigation Roll)
[ ] Call the Winchesters, perhaps you can convince them to tell you if they have it or not (Persuasion Roll)
[ ] Meet Pen at the Bastard's Father bar (Gives you a new contact)
[ ] Move into your new apartment (Gives you a new contact)
[ ] Perform Super Science
-[ ] Research Something
--[ ] Gremlish Summoning Ritual
--[ ] Dullahan
--[ ] Write in
-[ ] Brainstorm New Ideas (Come up with new ideas that you can then start designing)
-[ ] Design a Creation (Create an actual design from an idea)
--[ ] Troll-Muscle Fiber
--[ ] Enhancing Serum
-[ ] Test a Design
--[ ] Zoom Powder
--[ ] RegenerThread
--[ ] Re-Cuffs
--[ ] Bloodthirst Pill
-[ ] Optimize Creations. Which? (Have a chance to improve on a design in some way)
--[ ] Burninator
--[ ] Infragoggles
--[ ] Anti-Plant Spray
--[ ] MSB 10
--[ ] Cutter Rounds
-[ ] Combine Ideas and Designs together (Pretty self explanatory, the more ideas you want to combine the harder it gets)
--[ ] Write in (Include the desired outcome, if you would)
[ ] Visit a Facility
-[ ] Study at the Archives (Increases Mental Health) (Has a chance for you to come across some interesting bit of knowledge) (You may specify what you want to study)
-[ ] Meditate in the Chapels (Has a chance to increase Spiritual Health)
-[ ] Workout in the Gym (Increases Physical Health)
[ ] Train something/with someone
-[ ] Damien Rhodes (Blades of the Crow) (11 More Successes Needed)
-[ ] Damien Rhodes (Dance of the Crow)
-[ ] Damien Rhodes (Knowledge (Write in))
-[ ] Sean McCullen (Unarmed Combat)
-[ ] Old Baba (Magic)
[ ] Visit someone
-[ ] Damien Rhodes
-[ ] Old Baba
-[ ] Sean McCullen
-[ ] Someone else (Write in)
[ ] Take a Personal Action
-[ ] Go for a walk
-[ ] Write in

~~~~~~~

GM's Note: This isn't the end of the investigation, you've just exhausted all you can do here. Voting will be called tomorrow at 5 PM CST, thanks for voting!

 

[I.F. Ister]

(This is the scene where you got your haircut, by the way)

Baba hummed as she clipped a cape around your neck and sat you down in a spinny chair she hurriedly cleared of books. She clapped her hands together in two sharp clicks and the lights flicker on as she spins, revealing a mirror outlined with lightbulbs and a counter covered in all manner of bottles and knick-knacks.

"That's not magic, by the way." The old witch gleefully exclaims as she points at the bulbs. "I found this delightful little urządzenie that turns lights on and off with claps! Technology these days is just incredible."

You don't have the heart to tell her that tech like that's been around for over a hundred years so you just settle in for your haircut, relaxing in the faded leather chair. Baba plucks a crystal decanter from the counter and uncorks the highly saturated pink liquid inside. You can see glimmers of golden magic dance as she pours the contents over a comb.

You raise an eyebrow and go to ask what it is but she just shushes you with a wink as she starts running the comb through your hair—smoothing down any stray hairs for cutting and styling.

"Now, what're you looking for today, tygrysek? Would you like me to make you look like the prettiest princess at the ball? An enthralling beauty admired far and wide?" Baba clearly wants to push you in a certain direction, but that's nothing new now is it? "Either way, I have three options for you today." A tray bearing three crystal decanters filled with colorful liquid appears to your left.

"And what're these for?" You ask, fishing your hand from the cape to poke one with a fingernail.


"Shampoos I made from potions, each with a different effect." She taps the first, filled with a fluffy pink liquid. "This one is made from the wings of a Cupid, giving it a 'love at first sight' style effect. Unfortunately, it doesn't work on people you've already met, only on first impressions. It also isn't actually love, more just a general fondness for you. Once it's used it will require you to come back to me for more."

Her thick finger dances to the next item on the silver tray held aloft by arms of grainy dust, this one filled with a gleaming blue cream. "This one I brewed using the voice of a siren! It will lightly augment your charm, giving you that persuasive edge. The effect should last about a month, unless something happens to your hair in that time of course."

And finally, she arrives at the third container you're to select from. This one is filled with an energetic green fluid that seems to swirl at the bottom of the bottle in a whirlpool. "And this little thing is something I whipped up from a little something something. I would be careful if you pick this one if I were you as it attracts attention like a crow to corn. It will last an hour once you activate it, so use it wisely."

"Now then, lost child, which do you choose?"
[ ] The first (When meeting people for the first time they'll just be more inclined to help you, reducing DCs and the like, one time use)
[ ] The second (gives you a flat +5 bonus to all rolls that require talking to someone,.but at the cost of you occasionally accidentally flirting with people (It will last for a month, so around a case or 2-3 assignments)
[ ] The third (If you need something or someone to pay attention to you, then this will do it. However, it may have unintended side effects so be careful)

~~~~~~~

Stepping into the Archives, you beeline it straight to Helen's desk at the front of the room. The lady herself is reclining in her office chair, sipping a mug of coffee as she reads from a book.

"Good afternoon, Itzabella. Can I call you Itzabella?" Helen greets you as she flips to the page in her hefty book. "What can I help you with?"

"Go ahead, I don't mind." You shrug as you lean on the desk. "And don't you know already, being a seer and all that?"

The older woman sighs as she rolls her eyes. "Yes, but where's the fun in that? Besides, the specific thing you're looking for isn't here, though I did get out a pile of reports on burial rites and rituals so perhaps that'll help you."

You frown, brows furrowing. "Wouldn't you know already if they do? Wait, couldn't you just tell me now?"

She doesn't reply, instead sipping her coffee loudly.

"Right, right," you sigh, it's never that easy, "doesn't work that way."

"Close enough, yes." She shrugs and turns the page. "Have you ever thought it odd?"

"What do you mean? You're gonna have to elaborate a little, not everyone can see the future." You interject.

"I was getting there," she replies, sarcasm oozing from every word, "but you ever thought it odd that most of the people you're friends with, or at least on friendly relations with, are old people?"

You blink, not expecting that curve ball at all. "No… not until you mentioned it at least."

"There's Damien, that Witch whose teaching you magic, and, to an extent, me." She lists off on her fingers. "Looks to me that you need to find yourself some friends more your age."

"Is that a Seer thing or just a gut feeling?"

"Take of that what you will." Helen responds as she closes the book shut. "But I do recommend you get yourself some more friends, perhaps you should see what your fellow ex-trainees are up to? I'm sure you could spend a day or two chatting with them. You should also talk to your mother sooner or later, even if its just to fill her in. After all, when a super-scientist is curious and frustrated is when a super-scientist is at their most dangerous…"

With that ominous statement she stands up and wanders off, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

"Well, she's got a point on that last one." You admit, resolving to talk to your 'mother' later that day. But first, you turn towards the stack of documents Helen had left for you, you've got some research to do.

(Learning Roll DC 30,50,70,90: 53+10=63, double success)

There's a lot of burial rites that involve burying heroes. Oftentimes they mention said heroes coming back when they're needed or when certain variables are met…

Your mind flashes back to the scratches on the inside of the sarcophagus, scratches that resemble human fingernail scratch marks…

"Oh shit."

You shoot to your feet, your phone already in your hands as you dial your 'mother's' number. If Ash Williams is back and currently wandering around Chicago somewhere, you should probably let your father know.

Unfortunately, you don't have his number so your 'mother' will have to do.

Plugging the final number in, you stare at the screen with your finger hovering over the 'call' button. Your breath catches in your throat as you think back to all those times she… it's… there's just too much to think about when it comes to her.

(Resolve Roll DC 70 (DC reduced thanks to the situation at hand): 36+30=63, failure)

God fucking dammit!

Your phone hits the ground as you clutch your hair between your hands, your fingers digging into your scalp. Your teeth grind together as you struggle to stifle a scream. Your back arches, muscles spasming out of control as you strive to contain yourself.

Fucking. Hell. Why can't you do it? What's wrong with you!?

Not even now, when things are this urgent, can you talk to your fucking Mother!

Your shoulders slump, arms going limp as you fall forwards on the table—your body bereft of any strength as the moment passes.

"God," you breathe, tears watering in your eyes as you press your cheek against the report you'd been reading when it clicked, "dammit."

With numb hands you collect your phone from the floor—thankfully it both survived the fall and turned off. You're not sure what you'd do if you saw her number right now—nothing good, you imagine.

A thought occurs to you as your stumbling legs carry you from the Archives: you still haven't finished moving into your new apartment yet.

"Goddammit." You swear for a final time. Guess you've got something to do while you put yourself back together. And hey, maybe that guy, Pen, will be able to help you track down your wayward ancestor—if you're right about the burial rites that is.

~~~~~~~

GM's Note: Good lord this was a doozy to write. Did not expect this to happen.

The rest of the Interval will happen tomorrow. I just didn't feel that it would be good pacing to have it all at once.

Voting will be called tomorrow at 5 PM CST, thanks for watching.

 

[I.F. Ister]

Running a hand through your freshly cut hair, you flip the page in the book you'd been reading while waiting for the time allotted for your Bloodthirst Pill tests to begin.

It's a rather interesting read with an intriguing subject matter. It's about Europe, which had been rocked heavily when the seals broke. Specifically, it's about the alliance between Aquitaine, Switzerland, Austria, and Slovenia to combat the threat of Ghost-Rome and the Ghost-Roman Legions.

Which is a thing, apparently. Ghost-Rome came back about three decades ago and the Ghost-Romans would really like to rebuild their empire, so they went to war with Europe, which was already in a rather precarious position even before the Ghost-Romans returned.

The book delves a bit into the histories of each country in the alliance. Aquitaine used to be a part of a country called 'France' which splintered a while back into three separate states. Aquitaine controls the south, Brittany the north, and the center-east is owned by Paris.

Switzerland, in the face of the threat of the Ghost-Roman Legions and their immunity to most conventional weapons, broke its vow of neutrality and joined forces with the previously mentioned countries to drive back the Ghost-Romans.

It's all very interesting, especially when the book dips deep into the race to find weapons that worked, but it's little more than a distraction for you. A distraction that's easily put aside once the time comes for your tests.

Like now.

A light dings on, glowing red over the door to the testing studio. A voice comes on over the speakers, informing you that your time is now available. A baby-faced and teary-eyed man comes hurtling through the door, his papers flying off in a trail behind him.

Well, that's certainly not a good sign for what's to come.

Steeling yourself, you step through the doors and find yourself in a dark room. The sole source of light in the room, a hanging lamp, illuminates a panel of judges all surrounding you with pen and paper at the ready.

Turns out, testing medical supplies is a much more stringent process than most other things. And, if that guy is anything to go by, it's rather arduous.

Yippee.

"Special Agent Williams." The lab-coat wearing and bald-spot bearing man at the head of the panel reads your name from a slip of paper, a set of small-framed glasses perches on the end of his hawkish nose. "With the product of the 'Bloodthirst Pill'. This is you, correct?"

You nod, confirming your identity as the light shined in your face.

"Well then," he continued, giving you a stern look as he pushed his glasses up his nose, "tell us about your pill."

With that, you launch into your explanation. "The Bloodthirst Pill is theorized to be able to serve as a way for proto-vampires to satiate their thirst while still retaining their sanity and higher level thought."

(Bloodthirst Pill Testing Roll DC 40,90: 86+15=101, double success! Oh boy!
99+1=100, triple success, …really? That's just dumb, lmao
57+0=57, quadruple success)

"And what about the Kyrosteinus Theory?" The lead judge leans in as you wrap up your explanation. "What you have here… It shouldn't be possible according to it."

"While the Kyrosteinus Theory does say that substituting a magical ingredient for something that doesn't hold the same metaphysical weight is impossible," you answer his question with a prepared response, "what's the point of super-science if not to break preconceived notions?" The judges all nod in agreement, light murmurs reaching your ears. "Who says that I can't make something that serves as a replacement? Come on out, I'll kick your ass six ways to sunday!" You shoot a glare at the head judge, daring him to come down here himself.

"It's clear that your confidence remains unshaken." He nods to himself. "When breaking the laws of reality, one must have resolute confidence. For if you don't believe you can do it, then why should anyone else?" The judge straightens in his chair. "Very well then, the Bloodthirst Pill shall begin human trials." He scowls, muttering to himself. "...damn normals, don't understand that all one needs is confidence in one's creations, bah, 'testing', what an absurd concept…"

(Bloodthirst Pill now available for field use!)

~~~~~~~

You stand before the entranceway to the Bastard's Father, the bar you are supposed to be meeting someone by the name of 'Pen' in.

It's a rustic looking, hole-in-the-wall type kind of place. Lots of wood, stylized in a medieval sort of way.

A bell dings as you step through the door and you're greeted by a veritable wall of alcoholism, smoke, and drowning sorrows. Red leather booths line the right wall, leading down to a set of bathrooms on the far end. The walls are covered in all sorts of medieval memorabilia. Swords, shields, helmets, you name it it's here.

On the left of the doorway is the bar itself, lined with barstools and manned by a tired looking bald man with a walrus mustache and a hefty belly covered by a slightly grimy white shirt.

He seems to be the only person in here, but that doesn't stop him from wiping down a mug with a raggedy cloth.

"What can I do you for, little miss?" The bartender drawls out, his lips covered by his thick mustache as he sets the glass down and leans on the countertop.

You decide to cut to the chase, no time to dilly dally around right now. "I'm here for a meeting, Pen sent me."

His eyebrowless brows rise as his eyes widen. "Are you now? Well, he'll be ready for you soon." He jerks his thumb to the door to the right of the bar—unlike all the rest of the doors in this place, this one doesn't have a window. "Just go on through here and up the stairs, you'll know the door when you see it."

Thanking the man, you pass through the door and follow his directions, finding yourself at the top of the stairwell and looking down a lengthy hallway. A lengthy hallway with only one door at the very end, painted black with a noble dragon's head engraved on the surface.

The door doesn't have a knob, but that doesn't stop you from entering as it swings open on your approach. As it opens it reveals an immaculately clean office with a large, round desk placed in the center of the room.

Handsome, in a thuggish way. That's what comes to mind as you lay eyes on the mysterious 'Pen'. He's a very large man, broad in shoulder and thick in limb. This is a man who's clearly used to hard work, and lots of it.

"Please, take a seat." Pen's voice is a deep, gravelly thing that wraps you in a blanket of authority, forcing your attention on the speaker. You sit down across from him in the indicated seat and he mirrors your actions.

Fixing you with a steely gray eye he begins speaking once more. "Itzabella Ashley Power Williams." How the hell did he find out your full name? "Firstborn daughter of Power Nathan Barnabus Williams and Bella Casloane Williams née Liliac. Chemical super-scientist with a smattering of sensory super-science as well as Special Agent in the Service of Supernatural Solutions."

"Cool, you know who I am." You shrug, crossing your arms as you lean back in your surprisingly comfortable chair. "Is that supposed to intimidate me or something?"

"Not at all." He laughs, a deep, rumbly thing as he waves his hand—as if he were dashing aside your words. "It is simply a way for you to understand that I know who you are."

"And I don't know who you are, care to change that?"

"No." He replies flatly. "No I don't believe that I will. Perhaps I will tell you one day, but for now I would prefer to keep things the way they are." He raises a golden chalice, from where he got it you have no idea. "Now then," he sips the rich liquid inside, "what can I do for the apprentice of both the Witch of Beginnings and Endings and the Carrionbird?" The handsome man grins. "Quite the venerable and esteemed pedigree, don't you think?"

You file that first name away, perhaps you'll talk to Baba about it later, but for now you've got work to do. "I need a way to get my hands on things."

"Things? What sort of things?" He swishes the drink around in his cup. "There are quite a lot of things out there, you'll have to be more specific."

"Changes depending on what I need. At the moment I'm in the market for Fallen Angel Feathers."

"That is indeed a thing." He nods, sipping from his gem-encrusted chalice.

"Can you do it?" You press, you didn't come here for nothing.

"It's not a matter of can I, it's an issue of will I?"

"And will you?"

"What's in it for me? Nothing is free, surely you know that much." He smiles at you, mouth full of gleaming teeth.

"I'm assuming a favor isn't enough?" He shakes his head with a laugh. "Eh, worth a shot." You say as you reach into your pocket and plant a pill bottle on the table. "Well, this should do the trick." You toss the bottle over and he snatches it out of the air.

The mysterious Pen examines it, turning it this way and that as he watches the small, round, and cherry red pills tumble about. "And what have we here?" He mutters as he reads the label aloud. "Bloodthirst Pills?"

"Quenches the thirst of proto-vampires, allowing them to function in their day-to-day life without the urge to feed. I'm certain that you can find a purpose for that."

"I can think of an idea or two." He confirms, pocketing the bottle. "You will find a trio of feathers in your mailbox come thursday. Pleasure doing business with you."

With that, you take your leave. As you exit the bar, you find a slip of paper in your pocket. A note, from Pen and written in a looping, scrawling handwriting.

It's his number, for the next time you wish to do business it seems.

Now how the hell did he slip that in your pocket? You never even got close to each other!

(Contact gained: Pen, sourcer of materials and knower of more than he lets on)

~~~~~~~

So, this is to be your new home for the foreseeable future? Well, at least it looks better on the inside.

The townhouse that contains your apartment is a rather ramshackle looking thing. It's in the midst of repairs and renovation, empty scaffolding covering the left side of the house. It's painted white with black shingles on the roof.

Climbing the steps leading to the front porch, you knock on the door—ringing the doorbell when that doesn't work. Rushed footsteps approach the door, which gets flung open to reveal a middle-aged woman with her hair tied back in a ponytail by a red ribbon. She looks like she was gardening recently.

She shoves out her glove-adorned hand, covered in dirt and offers it to you to shake. You take it, shaking it firmly.

"Hello!" She sounds slightly out of breath. "I'm Sandy, Sandy Acres, and you're the new tenant, Itzabella, right?"

"That's me." You say, your suitcase sitting next to you on the front step. "But please, call me Itza."

"Itza." Sandy tries it out immediately, nodding along as she does so. It seems she finds it acceptable. "That's a good nickname."

"Is Sandy short for anything?"

"Nope!"

"Alright then."

(Contact gained: Sandy Acres, food super-scientist and your land-lady)

~~~~~~~

It's as you've dragged your suitcase up to the second floor, where your apartment is, that you get a series of notifications on your phone.

One from Baba and one from Damien. Both of them are requesting your presence whenever you can make it, as they've both got some information for you.

Rather fortunate that they sent those notifications to you at the same time, isn't it?

Baba says she has some good news and some bad news while Damien says that while he hasn't seen the book on any auctions, he did find job postings for some rather suspicious activity.

The only question is, who first?
[ ] Baba
[ ] Damien

~~~~~~~

GM's Note: Somehow, I got better at FtD over however long I spent not playing it. I don't know how I managed that.

Voting will be called tomorrow at 5 PM CST as always.


Also, fuck daylights saving time

 

[I.F. Ister]

Footsteps, your footsteps, trail behind you as your boots smack against the old cobblestones of this ancient backalley—the place that Damien said for you to meet him. Shadows lengthen as you pass through a threshold, darkness envelops you as you enter a forgotten space between worlds.

Gaslit lamps greet you, flickering in the dreary smog of 1930s Chicago, as you exit the other end of the alley.. Everything about this place absolutely bleeds saturation, everything's just more subdued here—faded and pale. Just standing here is getting you

Sorrow-faced men huddle in their heavy coats as gray snow spirals down from the heavy clouds blocking the sun. You pass by a newspaper boy standing on a milkcrate, cap on head and bundle of papers tied in twine in his hand.

He tips his hat to you as you flick him a quarter—five times the price of a paper. The boy hands you a newspaper while leaning in, whispering further directions in your ear. Directions to a speakeasy hidden away nearby.

This place isn't real, not really. You could pull out your pistol and gun down the kid where he stands and nothing would change. The next time you came through here he'd be right back where he is now, hollering at passerby from his crate while waving papers above his head.

This is a Corridor, a snapshot of multiple realities locked in an unchanging loop of a story—like a film that's replayed over and over and over again. The only things that change are the visitors, the travelers between worlds that stop by to trade. What do they trade?

Anything and everything. Secrets, items, people, you name it and you can probably find somebody in some Corridor willing to trade it. The only problem is actually finding the Corridor in question, they're not exactly common things, you see, but anywhere old enough has a couple.

Somebody's playing a piano as you enter the speakeasy. Hardworking dockworkers laugh as they share a flagon of some strong liquor over a game of cards. A stage in the corner has a scantily-clad—for the time, woman kicking her legs in a spotlight.

None of them pay any attention to you, nor to the more curious figures populating the room. Unless you initiate an encounter the inhabitants of a Corridor won't pay you any mind.

There's a Dragon using size-changing magic lounging on a pile of pillows, its servants feeding it peeled grapes as it regards the room with an arrogant glare.

A man shrouded in a cape of stars slouches at the bar, staring mournfully at the alcohol circling around his glass.

Damien stands in a corner talking in hushed tones with a spacesuit-clad figure. As you draw closer, you see a skull surrounded by dark smoke in the spacesuit's helmet. The skull's empty, hollowed out eye sockets stare at you as you come to a halt, their conversation ceasing.

"This is my student." Damien nods towards you as the skull looks you up and down. "And this is the Spaceman, an associate of mine."

"What do I call you, student of the Crow?" The words of the Spaceman ripple like a stone skipping across the waves.

The first rule of Corridors is to never give out your name under any circumstance. Places like this, in the dregs of Forged Existence, often have hidden ears listening in—beings you don't want to know anything about you.

"You can call me Chemist." You respond firmly as the Spaceman's skull nods.

"Well met, Chemist." He holds out his hand.

"You too, Spaceman." You shake it, it's only polite after all. You turn to Damien, or the Crow in this place. "So, you said you found something out? About the book?"

"Not the book, no, but about the people behind it." He taps the small table he'd been leaning on while observing the rest of the speakeasy from behind dark lensed glasses. He slides a slip of paper forwards, an advertisement for a job. "Corridors often have boards where you can leave job offers for the passerby to take. This one," he taps a knuckle against the paper, "was posted about a month ago, requesting somebody with magical immunity for a break in. I was talking to Spaceman here about who could've posted the offer and who could've taken it."

"And we're sure that this is related to the break-in?" You frown, that's not much to go on.

"It's what we've got to go on right now. Whoever they are that did this, they're keeping their heads down close to the ground."

"Forgive me for interrupting, but Crow and I were having a conversation." The Spaceman interjects. "A private one."

"Yeah, sure, sorry." You mutter, glancing around the alcohol-filled room at all the other patrons.

"If you want to have a look around you can go and talk to people, perhaps one of them will have seen something." Damien offers as he turns back to his conversation.

"Yeah, sure," you find yourself repeating to unlistening ears, "I'll get right on that."

You turn your gaze to the rest of the room, at the patrons going about their business over a glass of homemade liquor.

Who do you talk to first?
[ ] The arrogant dragon lounging on a throne of pillows
[ ] The mourning man clad in a cape of stars
[ ] The poker-playing mannequin
[ ] The armored man carving something into a table
[ ] The black marble obelisk standing next to the door

~~~~~~~

GM's Note: Bit short, I know, but that's just how it is sometimes. Well, you've found yourself in a rather strange place. Voting will be called tomorrow at 5 PM CST, thanks for reading!

edit: screwed up the Spaceman's text, it is fixed now

 

[I.F. Ister]

You're not entirely sure how stars can be woven into cloth, but the product of such a process is in front of you so it must be possible. Even if it hurts your mind to look at it directly. The man doesn't seem to be bothered by the mind-warping article of clothing, seemingly content to sit there staring into the alcoholic swill swirling around his glass.

"Excuse me, sir?" You ask as you approach him, laying a hand on the lacquered wood bar counter.

He turns towards you sluggishly, shifting his entire body to regard you with eyes of dull, mundane brown that perfectly compliment his dull, mundane face.

The brown-haired man opens his mouth and reality is sundered, your mind splintering as you brush up against something so far beyond you you can't even truly grasp the gravity of the situation.

He's so… so very sad.

If there are words in his speech, you can't make them out, too enveloped in the vastness of the being before you. You feel like a flea on the back of an elephant, watching as, for the first time in your life, you see just how small you really are.

He closes it as you stumble, your eyes wide and shaking, staring at the star-clad man as you support yourself on the bartop.

"My apologies." He whispers out, his words feeling stunted and constrained—limited by some unseen force. It feels as if someone forced an elephant through a mousehole. "I am not used to interfacing with low soul structures. Allow me to rehabilitate you." He speaks strangely, like each word is rapidly flickering through a multitude of different languages and, as a result, emerges in a somewhat jumbled mess.

That's not on your mind, however, as you stand there transfixed. The dull-eyed man reaches out with a slightly too long index finger, brushing aside the cloak to press the pad against your forehead—right between your eyes.

And then it's as if nothing happened. Reality didn't just break in two. Your mind didn't splinter into dozens of squabbling instances. Your memories of what just happened aren't really… there, like it was scrubbed over by a janitor.

"My fathomless apologies." The Mourner reiterates, drawing his hand back beneath his cape, how you know that that's his epithet you're not sure—and frankly, you think it might be healthier to just ignore it.

"What the hell was that?" You breathe, not trusting your voice beyond a whisper.

"A portion of identity. I thought myself reduced enough. I was incorrect. You suffered for it. I am sorry." Those dull eyes of his stare at you, unblinking and unchanging. You have very little idea of what he means, beyond him making a mistake of some kind.

"Mourner, huh? That's what you go by here?" You decide to change the subject from one you don't understand to one you have a bit better grasp of.

The Mourner bobs his head up and down, a bit like a bird. "Confirmed. Even I dare not tempt Those-Who-Listen in the spaces between the stars." Well that was a resounding failure. You swapped something you didn't understand for something else you don't understand. Good job, you.

"R-right, ignoring that. Were you here to see somebody post this?" You hold up the help wanted poster. "Or whoever took the job?"

He stares at you, the corners of his eyes watering with his unending sadness. "No."

Well he nixed that. But perhaps he's one of those people that can see into Corridors? He certainly is a being that holds incomprehensible amounts of power, maybe he has enough?

"You have some degree of power, yes?" He nods in that strange fashion of his. "Can you see the past?"

"Semi-Confirmed. I can see some things. Not all things."

"Can you see who did this?" You shake the paper again.

"No. The spaces between stars are unseeable. Not even the Solemn Observer," the Mourner points at the ominous obelisk in the corner, shadows seem to lengthen and darken as you glance over, "is able to gaze."

"W-well, uh, thanks. I guess."

"Even if I had the potential to peek into the space between stars. I would reject it. Finding Those-Who-Listen is not a valued outcome." He's being strangely insistent here, but you get the impression that pushing him on this would be a bad idea.

Honestly, with how things have been going, talking to this guy at all might have been a bad idea. At least then your sense of scale would still be intact.

"Do you know anyone who might know something about this, then? It's rather important to me, you see."

He strokes his unassuming chin, his eyes never leaving yours as he thinks. "No. I refuse associating with most here." He eventually states.

Well, that's a good sign for the rest of this venture.

Do you have any more questions for him? Or do you just want to move on?
[ ] Yes, you have more questions
-[ ] Write in
[ ] No, just move on to someone else
-[ ] The arrogant dragon lounging on a throne of pillows (Resolve Roll)
-[ ] The poker-playing mannequin (Persuasion Roll)
-[ ] The armored man carving something into a table
-[ ] The Solemn Observer (Very Hard Persuasion Roll)
[ ] You're done here, return to Damien and leave (Damien is not yet done with talking to the Spaceman)

~~~~~~~

GM's Note: That was a weird one.

Voting will be called tomorrow at 6 PM CST, to account for daylights saving time

 

[I.F. Ister]

The marionette regards you dispassionately as you approach the poker table, the only one of the players to do so. Which makes sense, given that they're all Façades of the real thing save the marionette.

Where facial features should be is instead covered by smooth, rounded wood. A white-colored beech wood, if you're not mistaken. Ball joints and lengthy limbs make up most of the puppet's structure. Its body seems to be folded up as it sits at the table, if it were standing at its full height you reckon that it would be somewhere between eight and nine feet tall—quite the hefty thing.

Its limbs are far too long, each arm having two elbows and each leg two knees. Overall, it reminds you of one of those tools for helping to draw figures.

You're a big enough woman to admit when something unnerves you and this is one of those moments. Every movement it makes triggers your fight or flight, causing you to tense slightly—pulse quickening each and every time. It's too smooth, too precise to be natural, like every motion is calculated to use the exact amount of effort necessary to complete it.

Shoving the feeling of the uncanny valley back into your psyche, you take a deep breath and introduce yourself.

"Good afternoon." You begin, slowly finding your footing as the wooden puppet stares at you—you think. It's a bit difficult to tell where it's looking, what with it having no eyes and all. No eyes that you can see, that is. "You can call me Chemist, uh, what should I call you?"

The marionette raises a hand, the four-knuckled fingers clutching a notecard which it places into your hand.

"Good afternoon, Chemist." The clean black typeface reads, resplendent against the eggshell white of the cardstock paper. "I am Puppet. How can I help you?"

You're not entirely sure what to do with the card now that you've read it, so you just set it on the table. Puppet doesn't make any overt reaction, negative or otherwise, so you must have made a good decision.

"Well, I'm currently searching for someone who can tell me anything about the one who posted this," You gesture to the help wanted poster—you get the feeling you might be doing that a lot, "and the one who took the job. Do you know anything about that?"

Another card, this one just as clean as the last perfect rectangle, is issued from a slit in Puppet's wrist. "I was here when it was taken, but not for when it was posted."

"Well that's good news." You say, a smile gracing your face. "...But I'm assuming that you won't give it to me for free, will you?"

"How important is this information to you? Please be specific." Another card joins its brothers on the table.

"Well…" You begin, thinking back to all the stories you read about just what horrors the book can unleash if it were to be allowed to roam free. …But that's not the main reason you want it back, is it? No… no it's not. "It could be vital to the recovering of an artifact that was stolen from my family, a very important artifact that's been in my family for generations."

(Persuasion Roll DC 55: 51+5=56, success, that was a close one!)

The puppet remains silent for a long period of time as you watch with bated breath. Slowly, ever so slowly, it raises its fingers and places another card in your hands.

"Then I shall give this information to you for free. A gift freely given from the Puppet to the Chemist. I swear on my honor as a Regal Shellwalker that no price, hidden or otherwise, will be attached save for one single request." Even written, the words have a solemn weight to them, an oath that the Puppet won't—can't, break. "I am about to divulge information that cannot leave your lips, not in this place, not with the Listeners. The individual in question is very near and dear to my heart. I need you to swear it to me."

Do you?
[ ] Yes, swear that you won't say the name of the person here
[ ] No, you'll find out some other way from someone else
-[ ] The arrogant dragon lounging on a throne of pillows (Resolve Roll)
-[ ] Head back to the Mourner and ask him some more questions (please add the questions)
-[ ] The armored man carving something into a table
-[ ] The Solemn Observer (Very Hard Persuasion Roll)

~~~~~~~

GM's Note: I did not mean for this to be so short, but while I was writing it just sort of happened that way.

Voting will be called tomorrow at 6 PM CST. Happy St. Patrick's Day!

 

[I.F. Ister]

"I swear that the identity of the individual in question shall not leave my lips here, in this Corridor." You promise the Puppet before you, which regards you as impassionately as ever. You can feel the words take hold, invisible chains binding you tightly to them. Keeping your word is important, no matter the issue, but especially when dealing with magical things.

The wood-carved and too-long fingers deposit another stiff card in your hands. "Thank you. Please give me a moment to write his name down."

"No problem here." You respond as you stand there. The waitstaff flow around you as if you weren't there, a rock to the waves. They don't even react as you steal a chicken wing off the platter one was carrying. The taste of the chicken is as subdued as the rest of this place, a lesser copy of the real thing. Swallowing the barely flavored flesh, you turn back to the Puppet as it holds a card, ready for you to take.

"Arabesh-lel Kran-komar, Third Prince of the Once-Young." You pocket the card and thank the Puppet for its time. It nods its head, but raises another eggshell white cardstock rectangle and places it in your hands. "I beg you, when you do find him, please try not to kill him. He does not know the magnitude of what he has done for he is but a boy playing amongst men."

"I'll… see what I can do. I can't promise anything, but I don't think you were looking for that, were you?" The Puppet shakes its smooth, wooden head.

"If you'll excuse me, I need to attend to some business." You thank it for its time as it rises to its full staggering height and exits, leaving its winnings on the table.

Well, perhaps you'll find it elsewhere in your journeys. Though, you can't help but wonder about why it decided to leave so suddenly, or the fact it wanted you to swear an oath that you wouldn't say the name out loud here?

Eh, you shrug, you've got some information out of it., time to go back to Damien—who just finished his conversation as you approach.

You do manage to catch the end of his words with the Spaceman, but nothing too interesting. Just some talk about debts owed being paid. Nothing that major at all.

…you'd be lying to yourself if you had actually meant that. Of course you're interested, but that can wait for later. Now, now you've got an actual lead.

Yes, the lead is the name of somebody who has likely never stepped foot on Cornerstone Earth before, or any Earth for that matter, but it's still a name. And names have power. Not as much power as if you had heard it out loud, let alone from Arabesh-lel's own mouth, but power nonetheless.

You can probably trace it, though that's likely the limits of what you can do with a mere written name, but it's something at least.

"Da-Crow, Spaceman." You greet, nearly calling Damien by the wrong name but correcting yourself just in time. You can't see his eyes behind the sunglasses, but you can see the tensing of his jaw and the flexing of his fingers. If you could hear it, you reckon that his pulse would be hammering away right now. "Sorry." You mouth in a whisper.

"Got the information?" He brushes aside the almost freudian slip and focuses on the mission at hand.

You nod, holding up the card—keeping the written side facing away from the Spaceman. Something about him rubs you the wrong way and you're not sure what it is.

"Good job. Want to talk to any of the other people here or just leave now?"

What is your decision?
[ ] Talk to one of the people here
-[ ] The arrogant dragon lounging on a throne of pillows (Resolve Roll)
-[ ] Head back to the Mourner and ask him some more questions (please add the questions)
-[ ] The armored man carving something into a table
-[ ] The Solemn Observer (Very Hard Persuasion Roll)
[ ] Head back to Cornerstone Earth and on over to Baba's

~~~~~~~

GM's Note: I am feeling better now, but I might have to take more time off depending on how things go. Once school starts again I should be a-okay. Voting will be called tomorrow at 5 PM CST, thanks for watching!

 

[I.F. Ister]

"I'm gonna talk to the dragon first. Surely a dragon knows something, right?"

Damien nods as the Spaceman takes his leave. "Dragons do tend to be knowledgeable, but…" He trails off while looking over your shoulder. "Be careful. Even if the Observers keep the peace, that won't stop a dragon from killing you if you piss it off enough."

"I'll keep that in mind." You respond, readying yourself to go talk to that dragon. You'd felt their eyes on you the whole time you'd been here, following you as you moved about the smoky room.

As you approach the lounging dragon, you quickly review what you know of dragons. That is, dragons with a lowercase 'd', not a capital one. Dragons, capital 'D', are the kinds of beings that break things, inadvertently or otherwise. So big that they can't land on planets and, as such, spend most of their time in the Upper or Lower Realm—neither of those places have planets as we'd understand them, instead being really, really big planes.

One could, feasibly, walk from the City of Heaven to the Pyrrhic Forge. It would take a really, really long time, decades worth of walking, but you could definitely do it. That is, if you weren't killed by the locals of the lands you pass through on the way there.

But back to dragons. Dragons, even lowercase ones like the one before you, are still powerful creatures. Which makes sense, given that they are apparently supposed to serve as 'reality anchors', sort of like what Cornerstone Earth does for the rest of Forged Existence just on a more local scale. Each dragon is a bit different in how they operate, but they all share extensive reserves of power.

This dragon regards you through half-lidded eyes as their servants—clad in ancient Egyptian garments, fan them as they feed their master from a platter of succulent-looking fruit. Each of the slaves is bare chested, showing off their sculpted musculature.

The dragon itself is a red-scaled beastie, about the size of a big cat—a tiger perhaps. This particular one has a veritable forest of black horns sprouting up and down its spine, from tip to tail—you don't think that this is one of those rideable ones you hear about in rumors and stories. Underneath its scaly hide you can spot rippling and tightly honed muscles—more great slabs of meat than any defined muscle.

You come to a stop about a yard and a half away, careful to avoid the gaze of the dragon. After all, looking into the eyes of a dragon is a surefire way to be enthralled, just like the servants before you with eyes so full of adoration as they look upon their master.

It's silent between the two of you. The tension on your end is met by the minty coolness of the dragon.

(Resolve Roll DC 60: 31+30=61, success!)

It's as you go to open your mouth that you realize that this is a contest of sorts, he who speaks first loses. The dragon noticed this as well, if the smoke-filled snort is anything to go by.

"I will concede this one to you, Human-that-has-good-sense." The dragon chortles as it continues, voice full of mirth. "After all, we do need to talk eventually and we can't do that if neither of us are speaking!"

"I suppose we can't." You can't quite help a small smile from forming on your lips.

After a few moments, the dragon trails off its laughter as it repositions on its throne of pillows. "Now then, Human-that-has-approached-me, you've been looking for some information relating to something of value to you." It's not a question, just a statement of fact that you both know is true. "What if my gloriously illustrious self told your ever-so-small self that I had the information you so seek?"

"I'd ask you politely for it." You respond, smushing down the smarmy reply that had been burbling up. This isn't the time for smart-assery, not when you're just outside arms reach of the fire-breathing lizard.

"Politely, she says!" The dragon giggles in a most undignified manner as it pantomimes wiping a tear from its eye with a claw. Dragons, of course, can't actually cry—they don't have tear ducts. "I'm sure you would, Human-that-is-extremely-squishable, I'm sure you would indeed."

"Never hurts to be polite."

"Indeed." The dragon purrs, crossing its forelimbs as it leans forward. You feel rather uncomfortable with the look its sending your way.

"But, back to what you were saying." You begin, pulling the conversation back on track. "Do you have the information? The identity or even the pseudonym of the person who put the ad up?"

"I'll do you one better, Human-that-is-curious. I will give you one piece of free information and one with a price tag attached to it." You can feel the dragon smiling at you. "Once I tell you the free piece, you may decide what you are willing to pay for the second. Are you ready, Human-that-is-desirable?"

"Just give it to me already." You sigh, running through what you have that a dragon could want.

"You are asking the wrong question, Human-that-doesn't-know-better." The dragon raises a clawed finger as you frown. "The correct question is 'who are the people that put that ad up'."

Well, shit. That does change things, now doesn't it? Finding a group of people will be both easier and harder than a single person. While a single person will find it easier to hide away, they just don't have the same amount of resources as a bunch of people all working together and vice versa.

"And the second piece of information?" The clawed finger wiggles as the dragon laughs.

"Ah, ah, ah," the dragon tsks, "there will be none of that, Human-that-is-jumping-the-shark. You still have to make me an offer for it. Unless you feel that this is enough to make your case… but, are you sure about that?"

[ ] Yes, you are sure (Thank the dragon for its time and head back to Cornerstone Earth)
[ ] No, you're not (Difficult Persuasion Roll with a bonus depending on how good the offer is)
-[ ] Write in an offer (While material things hold some semblance of value, the dragon's after more intangible things, like knowledge or similar things)

~~~~~~~

GM's Note: I pounded this one out quick, holy cow. Voting will be called tomorrow at 5 PM CST, thanks for reading!

 

[I.F. Ister]

"No thanks, I'm good." You say as you pivot, your greatcoat flaring out behind you as you stride from the speakeasy. The dragon had a rather perplexed look on its face as you left, like it didn't expect you to do that at all.

Now what?
[ ] Go to Baba
[ ] Go home, take a nap, and plan your next move

~~~~~~~

GM's Note: …Is everything alright?

Voting will be called tomorrow at 5 PM CST.