WarpObscura
Sleepy Big Stick
- Location
- A dot at the edge of continental Asia.
Yeah, I meant the tourney. Sorry for any confusion.
TheOmnimercurial
Dragon Bard
- Location
- UK
[X] Look around for Donovan.
HymnOfRagnarok
Let's Rock
No one else is really voting? I thought at very least the pro-Lucy crowd would have showed back up.
Guess it's good that it looks like we're gonna try and lock down the tournament. If I end up having time I may try and stunt meeting up with Donovan. Still, I sympathize with Cav's disappointment with the voting and discussion.
Guess it's good that it looks like we're gonna try and lock down the tournament. If I end up having time I may try and stunt meeting up with Donovan. Still, I sympathize with Cav's disappointment with the voting and discussion.
[X] Stalk Lucie.
- Location
- Southern Virginia
DAY 3, AFTERNOON
They found Khunying at the checkpoint they had passed by earlier during the fight. She was pacing back and forth along a line of cowed-looking militia outside the hut, and alternating some nasty-sounding curses with graphic gestures. Their now bare-headed lieutenant spoke up to say something, but Khunying was on him almost before he opened his mouth. He slunk back into line chastened.
Pierre couldn't help but to smirk just a bit, but as they walked in closer to the group Khunying waved her hand in irritable dismissal. The line of ragged soldiers breathed a palpable sigh of relief as she stepped away to meet Pierre and Claude.
"Disgrace," she said, bringing her complaints to them. "Even professor here have more balls than they did," she continued, shaking her head after a brief glance at Claude.
"I didn't run away," he said, smiling wryly at the Thai woman. "A pity the interview with your grandfather was interrupted. Perhaps it would be best to reschedule a follow-up?"
"I'm busy, and he'll be busy. Call back in a couple of days. But much thanks for your help." She looked Pierre over, her eyes lingering as though she were sizing him up at a market. "Especially you. Most farang from Roanapur with that kind of skills are screwed up in the head. You don't seem like total psychopath, though."
Pierre shrugged. "I assume that is a compliment?"
"Yes, big one. Maybe you and I talk business in future." She waved them off in dismissal. "Not today. Recommend you go down and wait out our sweep for next hour or so. There's a restaurant by the piers. Only restaurant in village so it's easy to find."
Claude nodded and Khunying went back to haranguing her troops. Pierre's stomach rumbled and he looked abashed as Claude turned his head and chuckled. "Well, it should be a short walk. And the seafood will be extra fresh," he commented.
The sounds of fighting receded as completely and suddenly as they had broken out. People were starting to come back out of their huts, warily, as they made their way south toward the fishing docks. The salt-tang of the sea replaced the smell of cordite on the breeze. The village proper was on a slight crest that allowed a beautiful view of the bay below and the picturesque native boats out on the sapphire sea. A rough-hewn set of steps led off from the side of the road, which otherwise curled around the incline.
It was easy to find the restaurant at the bottom. A large, open-walled hut sticking out by the sandy beach stood out as the only permanent structure around save the piers. Natives were already sitting around inside at crude tables or simply sitting off the side of the building. They looked curiously at Pierre and Claude as they walked in.
They grabbed a table on the side of the hut, where the open "wall" looked out to sea. A barely adolescent waitress approached them hesitantly. Claude greeted her in softly-spoke Thai, which seemed to reassure her enough to let him put in an order.
Pierre glanced over to the "kitchen" which consisted of a bank of grills partitioned off from the rest of the restaurant by a small bench. There was just one chef who was vigorously handling a half-dozen woks. A fisherman walked up from behind with a cooler and slid it over, the chef taking just a minute to pop it open and examine the goods before giving the man a satisfied nod and returning to his dexterous cooking. Pierre was certainly reassured about the freshness of the meal.
"I'll go back and hunt down Donovan," Pierre said, turning back to face Claude and speaking in their shared Corsican dialect to avoid eavesdroppers. "Winning the tournament should still give us leads and resources. You're better suited to this kind of careful investigation anyway."
"Yes," Claude conceded. "I will ask some of my own contacts about this man, just in case. But I think I can trust you to look after yourself."
"So what is your next step?"
Claude shrugged. "I'll make contact with the PLO, one way or another. And I'll also spend some time examining the village elder's story. There is a bit that doesn't quite add up about what he had to say. And well; if there were Malays in Roanapur in the war, where are they now? I think the answer to where our manuscript is can be found in that question."
"Leaving me to follow the more obvious route," Pierre concluded.
"It is no coincidence that Roanapur is in chaos the moment this hoard of documents emerges," Claude replied. "That much I am certain of. And you're better placed to track the present while I journey into the past. Just be careful, and really, trust no one. If they are behind this they may go after you directly now. "
"I'll keep that in mind," Pierre promised.
Their food arrived before the conversation advanced much further. Claude had ordered for them both. Pierre was quite happy with a sextet of grilled, spiced prawns and cool rice flavored with coconut. Claude in turn had a grilled whole fish with chili sauce. Pierre was amused to see his companion still getting used to chopsticks; he had mastered them almost from the first. They ate in a companionable silence, both enjoying the fare and the illusionary tranquility of the surf coming and going.
After they finished, and the young waitress claimed their plates, they relaxed for a while longer with a pair of beers. They had turned their seats with the rest of the building behind them, and their view to the sea. After a lengthy period of stillness Claude finally broke the silence for the first time since ordering the beers.
"It's pleasant here," he said, suddenly seeming weary as he gazed off into a point on the horizon where the sky met the ocean. "So, why are you going on? Why continue the hunt? The Sicilians have made offers for your loyalty. So have the Russians. I even heard you had an invitation to New York. They spilled the blood of my sister and her children, but you Pierre, you could walk away if you really wanted to."
"They were blood of mine too," Pierre responded emphatically. "I swore an oath to the Family sealed in it. I should have been there to protect them. I was not, so there is only vengeance."
Claude nodded. "Of course. I expected that answer, to tell the truth. And what will you do afterward?"
"I don't know," Pierre said after a moment of thought. "I've taken freelance jobs to stay afloat. I suppose I will continue to do so. Perhaps become an assassin for hire like you."
Claude chuckled. "I would not relish the competition." He raised his arm lazily and checked his watch. "Khunying should be finished clearing the road to Roanapur. We should head back before it gets much later. You might yet return before dark, assuming we don't hit any landmines."
The return to Roanapur was, Claude's jest aside, uneventful. Aside from a few corpses at the outskirts of the village there was no further sign of a guerrilla presence. The sun was hanging low overhead, and hazy-orange through smoke from the city, when they reached the hotel. Claude was off almost as soon as Pierre parked the Hilux, claiming he had more archive-diving ahead of him. Judging from his usual MO Pierre thought it just as likely he had a date with some mousy archivist, but he allowed his friend to go without a proper razzing.
He had other things on his mind, after all. Like finding a certain sketchy information broker. On a hunch he walked in to the hotel, expecting that perhaps Donovan would try to contact him that way. And, sure enough, the desk clerk motioned him over as he passed through the doors into the lobby.
"Mister Bocet," the liveried clerk called, Pierre wincing at the mangling of his name, "there is a letter here for you."
Pierre passed the kid a tip and took the envelope over to a plush chair to read. Perhaps unsurprisingly, it was neither handwritten nor typed. Instead he was greeted to the sort of cut and pasted composite message he himself had used once or twice for a ransom note. This was nothing of the sort; instead a short missive initialed WD in two clashing horrible font-faces asked him to meet at a café downtown in… well, a half-hour from now.
Pierre slipped the message into his trenchcoat pockets and left the hotel in a hurry. The drive ran into some rush hour traffic as he neared the commercial district. Roanapur was not that large so the delay was less massively frustrating than that time an acquaintance talked him into taking a rental car in Los Angeles. Unfortunately both natives and foreigners drove like maniacs, and as he narrowly avoided plowing into a Mercedes trying to squeeze by him into the passing lane from a space better fit for an old Beetle, he started cursing. By the time he actually reached the café he was grinding his teeth and a few minutes late.
It could be worse, he thought as he calmed himself down exiting the Hilux. They weren't all Italians, at least.
The café was in the corner of one of the office buildings, and proclaimed itself "London Authentic European Coffee" which Pierre took to mean more Nescafe. The interior was small, a row of booths running along the far well and six tables in front of the wooden bar where a Caucasian barista in an Edwardian morning suit was busy preparing drinks. Pierre noticed quite a few coffee machines behind him, a drip-brew, a milk-foaming machine, a French press; that was promising. On the other hand the waitresses were native Thais dressed in maid uniforms. Pierre sighed, especially as he noticed that half of the ten or so costumers were business-suited Japanese men.
"Yo, Pierre!" Donovan waved over to him from a poorly lit booth in the corner. He had on a different Hawaiian shirt, but he still looked unshaved with unkempt, almost wild hair. He was also wearing sunglasses indoors. "Luck of the draw ain't yours, buddy," he continued as Pierre slid over opposite him.
"For starters, you seem to have dragged me into a maid café," Pierre responded with only a mild hint of irritation in his voice.
Donovan grinned and waved one of the 'maids' over. "One caffe Americano, here. And a shot of espresso for my friend."
The waitress curtsied and stepped away to the bar to place the order. Pierre shook his head. "So what am I facing?"
"You saw that giant in the ring, didn't you? Oxcart Yang. Well, his name came up with yours," Donovan said. He pulled a yellow manila folder out from beside him and set it on the table. "Now we were uh… interrupted before we could conclude all our arrangements…"
"Yes." Pierre kept his face impassive. "I believe you were flaking out over a blonde and that ended our conversation short."
Donovan shuddered. "She's bad news. Stay away from her, is all I'll say. Anything more and she might come after me." After a moment he seemed to remember where he was, and flipped open the manila file. "Anyway, you can consider this a gift. And proof I can deliver the goods."
Pierre took the printout from inside the folder and looked it over while Donovan waited.
He had finished skimming when the waitress returned with their coffee. The smell drew his attention. He put the report down, and brought the small shotglass closer to his nose. The aroma was promising. So promising. Finally, after a moment of anticipation, he downed the espresso.
"This is where to find real coffee in this hell?" Pierre sat the empty glass on the table and shook his head in bemusement. "That is an actual espresso. I will grant you this diversion was worthwhile for that alone."
"Hey, the meidos are nice too." Donovan reached up to try to put his hair in order. "Anyway, what I want is… yeah, I need someone who can help me crack what's going on right open. Too many drugs, too many guns, and the Russians and Triads are being too passive about it. I've got some people and I know a lot more people, but no one with your particular skills. I can have people killed just fine, can do it myself if it comes down to it, but I need someone subtle from time to time. And other times I just need someone to go deal with something when I can't, you dig?"
Pierre nodded. "I understand." He picked up the dossier again and started reading through it more deliberately. "How closely are the sponsors looking at action between the tournament rounds?"
Donovan laughed openly. "Everyone expects people to start sabotaging their opponents. I mean if you throw a fight and it ain't on Hotel Moscow's orders that's going to go… nasty, but other than that? I mean they don't even disqualify you for using a weapon in the ring. They only search you beforehand. Going after someone before the match is firmly in the no fucks given sphere. Both the Tigers and Hawks have their people out in force on that, so uh, I'd watch your back if you wind up facing one of their people."
"Of course." Pierre turned to the dossier again. "This is useful, if accurate."
"Hey man, if I were going to backstab you I'd be pretty fucking stupid to do it right away," Donovan responded, his eyes peering in to Pierre like lasers. "Yeah I know you don't trust me right away and I wouldn't either, because betrayal is what you get in our world. But that's just what they want, too. Anyway what I'm asking you for is something that'll pay off for the both of us."
"I'll consider it after the fight tomorrow," Pierre said.
That seemed to satisfy Donovan, who went right back to sipping his Americano. Pierre reluctantly waved a maid over to order a latte, and he considered his next move tonight. If he ignored Yang tonight the Golden Tigers might very well deal with him, but that left a bitter taste in his mouth. Leaving that aside, he still needed money. And Claude had asked him to follow up on the issues Donovan had brought up; he had a lead, of sorts, or an in, with the Mafia there.
Or he could just go back to the hotel and rest in case the Tigers didn't do him an inadvertent favor.
[ ] Go scope out the Sicilians
[ ] Canvass the Yellow Flag Bar for work
[ ] The hell with it, rest up for tomorrow's fight
[ ] Write-in?
They found Khunying at the checkpoint they had passed by earlier during the fight. She was pacing back and forth along a line of cowed-looking militia outside the hut, and alternating some nasty-sounding curses with graphic gestures. Their now bare-headed lieutenant spoke up to say something, but Khunying was on him almost before he opened his mouth. He slunk back into line chastened.
Pierre couldn't help but to smirk just a bit, but as they walked in closer to the group Khunying waved her hand in irritable dismissal. The line of ragged soldiers breathed a palpable sigh of relief as she stepped away to meet Pierre and Claude.
"Disgrace," she said, bringing her complaints to them. "Even professor here have more balls than they did," she continued, shaking her head after a brief glance at Claude.
"I didn't run away," he said, smiling wryly at the Thai woman. "A pity the interview with your grandfather was interrupted. Perhaps it would be best to reschedule a follow-up?"
"I'm busy, and he'll be busy. Call back in a couple of days. But much thanks for your help." She looked Pierre over, her eyes lingering as though she were sizing him up at a market. "Especially you. Most farang from Roanapur with that kind of skills are screwed up in the head. You don't seem like total psychopath, though."
Pierre shrugged. "I assume that is a compliment?"
"Yes, big one. Maybe you and I talk business in future." She waved them off in dismissal. "Not today. Recommend you go down and wait out our sweep for next hour or so. There's a restaurant by the piers. Only restaurant in village so it's easy to find."
Claude nodded and Khunying went back to haranguing her troops. Pierre's stomach rumbled and he looked abashed as Claude turned his head and chuckled. "Well, it should be a short walk. And the seafood will be extra fresh," he commented.
The sounds of fighting receded as completely and suddenly as they had broken out. People were starting to come back out of their huts, warily, as they made their way south toward the fishing docks. The salt-tang of the sea replaced the smell of cordite on the breeze. The village proper was on a slight crest that allowed a beautiful view of the bay below and the picturesque native boats out on the sapphire sea. A rough-hewn set of steps led off from the side of the road, which otherwise curled around the incline.
It was easy to find the restaurant at the bottom. A large, open-walled hut sticking out by the sandy beach stood out as the only permanent structure around save the piers. Natives were already sitting around inside at crude tables or simply sitting off the side of the building. They looked curiously at Pierre and Claude as they walked in.
They grabbed a table on the side of the hut, where the open "wall" looked out to sea. A barely adolescent waitress approached them hesitantly. Claude greeted her in softly-spoke Thai, which seemed to reassure her enough to let him put in an order.
Pierre glanced over to the "kitchen" which consisted of a bank of grills partitioned off from the rest of the restaurant by a small bench. There was just one chef who was vigorously handling a half-dozen woks. A fisherman walked up from behind with a cooler and slid it over, the chef taking just a minute to pop it open and examine the goods before giving the man a satisfied nod and returning to his dexterous cooking. Pierre was certainly reassured about the freshness of the meal.
"I'll go back and hunt down Donovan," Pierre said, turning back to face Claude and speaking in their shared Corsican dialect to avoid eavesdroppers. "Winning the tournament should still give us leads and resources. You're better suited to this kind of careful investigation anyway."
"Yes," Claude conceded. "I will ask some of my own contacts about this man, just in case. But I think I can trust you to look after yourself."
"So what is your next step?"
Claude shrugged. "I'll make contact with the PLO, one way or another. And I'll also spend some time examining the village elder's story. There is a bit that doesn't quite add up about what he had to say. And well; if there were Malays in Roanapur in the war, where are they now? I think the answer to where our manuscript is can be found in that question."
"Leaving me to follow the more obvious route," Pierre concluded.
"It is no coincidence that Roanapur is in chaos the moment this hoard of documents emerges," Claude replied. "That much I am certain of. And you're better placed to track the present while I journey into the past. Just be careful, and really, trust no one. If they are behind this they may go after you directly now. "
"I'll keep that in mind," Pierre promised.
Their food arrived before the conversation advanced much further. Claude had ordered for them both. Pierre was quite happy with a sextet of grilled, spiced prawns and cool rice flavored with coconut. Claude in turn had a grilled whole fish with chili sauce. Pierre was amused to see his companion still getting used to chopsticks; he had mastered them almost from the first. They ate in a companionable silence, both enjoying the fare and the illusionary tranquility of the surf coming and going.
After they finished, and the young waitress claimed their plates, they relaxed for a while longer with a pair of beers. They had turned their seats with the rest of the building behind them, and their view to the sea. After a lengthy period of stillness Claude finally broke the silence for the first time since ordering the beers.
"It's pleasant here," he said, suddenly seeming weary as he gazed off into a point on the horizon where the sky met the ocean. "So, why are you going on? Why continue the hunt? The Sicilians have made offers for your loyalty. So have the Russians. I even heard you had an invitation to New York. They spilled the blood of my sister and her children, but you Pierre, you could walk away if you really wanted to."
"They were blood of mine too," Pierre responded emphatically. "I swore an oath to the Family sealed in it. I should have been there to protect them. I was not, so there is only vengeance."
Claude nodded. "Of course. I expected that answer, to tell the truth. And what will you do afterward?"
"I don't know," Pierre said after a moment of thought. "I've taken freelance jobs to stay afloat. I suppose I will continue to do so. Perhaps become an assassin for hire like you."
Claude chuckled. "I would not relish the competition." He raised his arm lazily and checked his watch. "Khunying should be finished clearing the road to Roanapur. We should head back before it gets much later. You might yet return before dark, assuming we don't hit any landmines."
The return to Roanapur was, Claude's jest aside, uneventful. Aside from a few corpses at the outskirts of the village there was no further sign of a guerrilla presence. The sun was hanging low overhead, and hazy-orange through smoke from the city, when they reached the hotel. Claude was off almost as soon as Pierre parked the Hilux, claiming he had more archive-diving ahead of him. Judging from his usual MO Pierre thought it just as likely he had a date with some mousy archivist, but he allowed his friend to go without a proper razzing.
He had other things on his mind, after all. Like finding a certain sketchy information broker. On a hunch he walked in to the hotel, expecting that perhaps Donovan would try to contact him that way. And, sure enough, the desk clerk motioned him over as he passed through the doors into the lobby.
"Mister Bocet," the liveried clerk called, Pierre wincing at the mangling of his name, "there is a letter here for you."
Pierre passed the kid a tip and took the envelope over to a plush chair to read. Perhaps unsurprisingly, it was neither handwritten nor typed. Instead he was greeted to the sort of cut and pasted composite message he himself had used once or twice for a ransom note. This was nothing of the sort; instead a short missive initialed WD in two clashing horrible font-faces asked him to meet at a café downtown in… well, a half-hour from now.
Pierre slipped the message into his trenchcoat pockets and left the hotel in a hurry. The drive ran into some rush hour traffic as he neared the commercial district. Roanapur was not that large so the delay was less massively frustrating than that time an acquaintance talked him into taking a rental car in Los Angeles. Unfortunately both natives and foreigners drove like maniacs, and as he narrowly avoided plowing into a Mercedes trying to squeeze by him into the passing lane from a space better fit for an old Beetle, he started cursing. By the time he actually reached the café he was grinding his teeth and a few minutes late.
It could be worse, he thought as he calmed himself down exiting the Hilux. They weren't all Italians, at least.
The café was in the corner of one of the office buildings, and proclaimed itself "London Authentic European Coffee" which Pierre took to mean more Nescafe. The interior was small, a row of booths running along the far well and six tables in front of the wooden bar where a Caucasian barista in an Edwardian morning suit was busy preparing drinks. Pierre noticed quite a few coffee machines behind him, a drip-brew, a milk-foaming machine, a French press; that was promising. On the other hand the waitresses were native Thais dressed in maid uniforms. Pierre sighed, especially as he noticed that half of the ten or so costumers were business-suited Japanese men.
"Yo, Pierre!" Donovan waved over to him from a poorly lit booth in the corner. He had on a different Hawaiian shirt, but he still looked unshaved with unkempt, almost wild hair. He was also wearing sunglasses indoors. "Luck of the draw ain't yours, buddy," he continued as Pierre slid over opposite him.
"For starters, you seem to have dragged me into a maid café," Pierre responded with only a mild hint of irritation in his voice.
Donovan grinned and waved one of the 'maids' over. "One caffe Americano, here. And a shot of espresso for my friend."
The waitress curtsied and stepped away to the bar to place the order. Pierre shook his head. "So what am I facing?"
"You saw that giant in the ring, didn't you? Oxcart Yang. Well, his name came up with yours," Donovan said. He pulled a yellow manila folder out from beside him and set it on the table. "Now we were uh… interrupted before we could conclude all our arrangements…"
"Yes." Pierre kept his face impassive. "I believe you were flaking out over a blonde and that ended our conversation short."
Donovan shuddered. "She's bad news. Stay away from her, is all I'll say. Anything more and she might come after me." After a moment he seemed to remember where he was, and flipped open the manila file. "Anyway, you can consider this a gift. And proof I can deliver the goods."
Pierre took the printout from inside the folder and looked it over while Donovan waited.
Oxcart Yang
A peasant from the nearby fishing village of Chana, Oxcart Yang is a towering mass of muscle and fat nicknamed for an incident in which he towed an entire cart full of melons twenty kilometers to a village market. Though untutored in any formal style he has ridiculous stamina and reach to exploit his freakish strength. Being big and unsophisticated does not mean he is slow in either mind or body, though. He is participating in the tournament to pay off Pramoj Sataheep, an associate of the Golden Tigers who has loaned him $30,000 for medical treatment for his ailing mother in Bangkok. The debt is a scam to force Yang into serving Suparaman Khost as yet another enforcer, and as such the Tigers can probably be expected to sabotage Yang's chances.
Oxcart Yang Specials
*Like a Freight Train: Any successful strike forces a roll for Knockback/Knockdown.
**Crowd Fighter: Gains one Attack dice for each opponent he is outnumbered at the start of combat.
***Windmilling: A Punch attack applied against the DV of all opponents in arm's reach.
Notable Traits
Legendary Strength
Legendary Stamina
Form Weapons (of a sort)
*Clubs
*Polearms
*Staff
Oxcart Yang lacks a formal style as such. But his ability to leverage his size advantage to dominate groups of attackers. Yang's reach allows him to strike multiple attackers at once and his lengthy career as a pit fighter has made him an expert at fighting groups. His plodding movement makes it easy to hit Yang but he is rarely ever staggered. He can allow nimbler opponents to simply exhaust themselves in a flurry of ineffectual attacks before delivering a knockout blow. He has been known to grab a sturdy tree limb to enhance the reach and strength of his blows.
A peasant from the nearby fishing village of Chana, Oxcart Yang is a towering mass of muscle and fat nicknamed for an incident in which he towed an entire cart full of melons twenty kilometers to a village market. Though untutored in any formal style he has ridiculous stamina and reach to exploit his freakish strength. Being big and unsophisticated does not mean he is slow in either mind or body, though. He is participating in the tournament to pay off Pramoj Sataheep, an associate of the Golden Tigers who has loaned him $30,000 for medical treatment for his ailing mother in Bangkok. The debt is a scam to force Yang into serving Suparaman Khost as yet another enforcer, and as such the Tigers can probably be expected to sabotage Yang's chances.
Oxcart Yang Specials
*Like a Freight Train: Any successful strike forces a roll for Knockback/Knockdown.
**Crowd Fighter: Gains one Attack dice for each opponent he is outnumbered at the start of combat.
***Windmilling: A Punch attack applied against the DV of all opponents in arm's reach.
Notable Traits
Legendary Strength
Legendary Stamina
Form Weapons (of a sort)
*Clubs
*Polearms
*Staff
Oxcart Yang lacks a formal style as such. But his ability to leverage his size advantage to dominate groups of attackers. Yang's reach allows him to strike multiple attackers at once and his lengthy career as a pit fighter has made him an expert at fighting groups. His plodding movement makes it easy to hit Yang but he is rarely ever staggered. He can allow nimbler opponents to simply exhaust themselves in a flurry of ineffectual attacks before delivering a knockout blow. He has been known to grab a sturdy tree limb to enhance the reach and strength of his blows.
He had finished skimming when the waitress returned with their coffee. The smell drew his attention. He put the report down, and brought the small shotglass closer to his nose. The aroma was promising. So promising. Finally, after a moment of anticipation, he downed the espresso.
"This is where to find real coffee in this hell?" Pierre sat the empty glass on the table and shook his head in bemusement. "That is an actual espresso. I will grant you this diversion was worthwhile for that alone."
"Hey, the meidos are nice too." Donovan reached up to try to put his hair in order. "Anyway, what I want is… yeah, I need someone who can help me crack what's going on right open. Too many drugs, too many guns, and the Russians and Triads are being too passive about it. I've got some people and I know a lot more people, but no one with your particular skills. I can have people killed just fine, can do it myself if it comes down to it, but I need someone subtle from time to time. And other times I just need someone to go deal with something when I can't, you dig?"
Pierre nodded. "I understand." He picked up the dossier again and started reading through it more deliberately. "How closely are the sponsors looking at action between the tournament rounds?"
Donovan laughed openly. "Everyone expects people to start sabotaging their opponents. I mean if you throw a fight and it ain't on Hotel Moscow's orders that's going to go… nasty, but other than that? I mean they don't even disqualify you for using a weapon in the ring. They only search you beforehand. Going after someone before the match is firmly in the no fucks given sphere. Both the Tigers and Hawks have their people out in force on that, so uh, I'd watch your back if you wind up facing one of their people."
"Of course." Pierre turned to the dossier again. "This is useful, if accurate."
"Hey man, if I were going to backstab you I'd be pretty fucking stupid to do it right away," Donovan responded, his eyes peering in to Pierre like lasers. "Yeah I know you don't trust me right away and I wouldn't either, because betrayal is what you get in our world. But that's just what they want, too. Anyway what I'm asking you for is something that'll pay off for the both of us."
"I'll consider it after the fight tomorrow," Pierre said.
That seemed to satisfy Donovan, who went right back to sipping his Americano. Pierre reluctantly waved a maid over to order a latte, and he considered his next move tonight. If he ignored Yang tonight the Golden Tigers might very well deal with him, but that left a bitter taste in his mouth. Leaving that aside, he still needed money. And Claude had asked him to follow up on the issues Donovan had brought up; he had a lead, of sorts, or an in, with the Mafia there.
Or he could just go back to the hotel and rest in case the Tigers didn't do him an inadvertent favor.
[ ] Go scope out the Sicilians
[ ] Canvass the Yellow Flag Bar for work
[ ] The hell with it, rest up for tomorrow's fight
[ ] Write-in?
WarpObscura
Sleepy Big Stick
- Location
- A dot at the edge of continental Asia.
[x] The hell with it, rest up for tomorrow's fight
Let's not juggle too many things at once, yes?
Let's not juggle too many things at once, yes?
HymnOfRagnarok
Let's Rock
That was pretty profitable. Assuming Donovan was honest, which I think he has reason to be.
Tough luck to this guy though. Honestly, assuming this intel is accurate? This guy's background may be exploitable. He seems like he may be recruitable.
We may not even have to pay him. We's already got the money, right? So we just need to prove it's a scam. And, admittedly, keep his mother safe from reprisal.
....So pretty much just take out the Golden Tigers. Well, it was probably on our to-do list anyway.
Tough luck to this guy though. Honestly, assuming this intel is accurate? This guy's background may be exploitable. He seems like he may be recruitable.
We may not even have to pay him. We's already got the money, right? So we just need to prove it's a scam. And, admittedly, keep his mother safe from reprisal.
....So pretty much just take out the Golden Tigers. Well, it was probably on our to-do list anyway.
WarpObscura
Sleepy Big Stick
- Location
- A dot at the edge of continental Asia.
How can we prove it, though?
I'm a bit leery of owing Donovan too much before we know what he wants from us.
Cavalier, are we likely to get more crits or other special effects if we go for Called Shots?
I'm a bit leery of owing Donovan too much before we know what he wants from us.
Cavalier, are we likely to get more crits or other special effects if we go for Called Shots?
TheOmnimercurial
Dragon Bard
- Location
- UK
I too feel a recruitment opportunity here.
Cataphract
Denizen of Qliphoth
- Location
- UTC +8:00
- Pronouns
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[x] The hell with it, rest up for tomorrow's fight
HymnOfRagnarok
Let's Rock
Also, I was immensely amused by the gimmick maid cafe being the only decent coffee shop in town, or close to. How these people have the capital to afford and protect not-knockoff equipment and product, while ponying up for the maid gimmicks, I do not know. But I'm currently imagining the maids packing heat under those skirts and raiding the ill-considered Starbucks someone tried to stick in Roanapur.
Anyway:
[X] Go scope out the Sicilians
I'm really not sure this is a good idea, but I just don't feel good about persistently dragging our heels in this town. I think we need to get in more proactive habits and keep ticking items off of our to-do list.
That said, I won't shed tears if we don't. Legendary Strength and Stamina? I may have a stunt for that if I find the time and energy, but goddamn dude. I thought it would take us a while to find one person with a Legendary attribute, never mind a person with two. Sounds like he's a pain in the ass with attacks of opportunity too.
Although weren't we supposed to meet up with that fusion cook sometime? Has that come up yet?
Anyway:
[X] Go scope out the Sicilians
I'm really not sure this is a good idea, but I just don't feel good about persistently dragging our heels in this town. I think we need to get in more proactive habits and keep ticking items off of our to-do list.
That said, I won't shed tears if we don't. Legendary Strength and Stamina? I may have a stunt for that if I find the time and energy, but goddamn dude. I thought it would take us a while to find one person with a Legendary attribute, never mind a person with two. Sounds like he's a pain in the ass with attacks of opportunity too.
Although weren't we supposed to meet up with that fusion cook sometime? Has that come up yet?
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- Location
- Southern Virginia
Thailand does not have much of a coffee culture, and Roanapur is not exactly a corporate-friendly destination unless your corporation is a front for/doing business with international organized crime. It's simply a matter of a lack of demand for much besides Nescafe (the Thais, Russians, and Chinese are all tea-drinkers) rather than any inherent problems with bringing coffee into the city. And anyone in one of those shiny corporate towers is paying protection money to someone important enough not to piss off.
As for Oxcart Yang and company, yes, Legendary Attributes are rare, but then you all were the ones who decided to enroll in a fighting tournament in a city renowned for its violence and highly disproportionate presence of skilled killers. There's a certain degree of self-selection going on here. That said Yang hits hard and can soak a lot of damage, but he's also lumbering and there's at least one strategy that can deal with him rather effectively. Working that out and putting in a decent stunt will help your chances considerably. Honestly I'm not even hiding it if you look for it.
As for the fusion restaurant chef, no, there's nothing at all pending with him. You had a brief exchange of words back at the start and that's been the limit of interaction there. At the moment it's nothing more than a cameo and you aren't going to miss anything if it remains that way. But if you want to interact with specific NPCs more, well, that's what write-ins are for. You picked up some real credit with Sal that way, who I had intended to be just a disposable fight, and you can totally help Yang out with his problem and pick him up as an Ally; if you want to. Or you can kick his ass and ignore him if you prefer. Same with everyone else in the tournament, or otherwise around Roanapur.
HymnOfRagnarok
Let's Rock
I'm not too worried about beating Yang myself. He screams all raw power and stubborness, explicitly no formal style.
In other words, this boy has probably never gotten drilled on his footwork, or possibly proper balance. He's probably pretty talented and learns fast but he'll have rough patches all over the place. He also focuses on his arms and his reach.
Our footwork? Is excellent. And probably unexpected.
Make like Jack and the Giant and kneecap the dude in the ring, if it comes to that. That's pretty much what I stunt I'm piecing together in my mind is centered around. Take out one of his supports, make him timber, and then start beating the shit out of him when he's grounded. For all that he may be tougher than a brick shithouse there's some things the human body just can't do or resist. It's just the way our bodies are set up. Score a hit in the back of Yang's knees, for instance, and he's going down. At the very least one of his supports gets knocked out from under him and he is badly off balance.
I do have one question though. When Yang rolls for Brawling, does he roll Dex+Brawl or Strength+Brawl? I know Pierre rolls Dex, and why wouldn't he, but if people can choose whether to roll off of Strength or Dex, Yang will throw roughly as many dice as us. And has autosuccesses.
In other words, this boy has probably never gotten drilled on his footwork, or possibly proper balance. He's probably pretty talented and learns fast but he'll have rough patches all over the place. He also focuses on his arms and his reach.
Our footwork? Is excellent. And probably unexpected.
Make like Jack and the Giant and kneecap the dude in the ring, if it comes to that. That's pretty much what I stunt I'm piecing together in my mind is centered around. Take out one of his supports, make him timber, and then start beating the shit out of him when he's grounded. For all that he may be tougher than a brick shithouse there's some things the human body just can't do or resist. It's just the way our bodies are set up. Score a hit in the back of Yang's knees, for instance, and he's going down. At the very least one of his supports gets knocked out from under him and he is badly off balance.
I do have one question though. When Yang rolls for Brawling, does he roll Dex+Brawl or Strength+Brawl? I know Pierre rolls Dex, and why wouldn't he, but if people can choose whether to roll off of Strength or Dex, Yang will throw roughly as many dice as us. And has autosuccesses.
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WarpObscura
Sleepy Big Stick
- Location
- A dot at the edge of continental Asia.
Huh, I didn't consider the autosuccess angle. That could be a PITA.
- Location
- Southern Virginia
Everyone rolls Dexterity for combat. It's a problematic atavism from the Exalted version of STS, but it still works better than full NWoD STS rules for the setting.
Called Shots allow you to target a specific part of the body. That can certainly produce disproportionate results, like Crippling effects on legs or arms, or Stun from concussions. Or instant death from shooting someone in the head.
Called Shots allow you to target a specific part of the body. That can certainly produce disproportionate results, like Crippling effects on legs or arms, or Stun from concussions. Or instant death from shooting someone in the head.
WarpObscura
Sleepy Big Stick
- Location
- A dot at the edge of continental Asia.
One and a half weeks... Kinda borderline, but we need more votes. @Erehwon @TheOtherSandman @drake_azathoth
[x] The hell with it, rest up for tomorrow's fight
SirLagginton
Shadow Cabal Caerbannog Bun-Bun
- Location
- Arrrghhh
[x] The hell with it, rest up for tomorrow's fight
- Location
- Southern Virginia
DAY 4, MORNING
After leaving the coffee shop Pierre went back to the hotel. The Bougainvillea Trading Company had left a message letting him know his match time was at 10AM tomorrow. He studied the dossier that Donovan had provided for a couple of hours in his room before the exertions of the day caught up with him. With a yawn he elected to turn off the desk light, set the papers aside, and prepare for bed. There was no last-minute burst of insight, and his mind kept its wandering to a minimum as he fell asleep.
If he had any dreams that night they were forgettable, and he woke up at a more reasonable 6AM feeling refreshed.
[-$120]
After showering and dressing he headed down to the breakfast buffet, with the dossier under his arm. Claude was gone for the day after borrowing the Hilux, leaving him alone to take a fresh look at Oxcart Yang. The man was a prodigy of sorts. Pierre knew far too well to fall for the stereotype that a big man must be ponderous and Yang had too much success in his fighting bouts to be that simple an opponent. His fights against large crowds of opponents were impressive in demonstrating his raw strength and stamina, and surely the result of one-on-one becoming too boring to be a draw for the street fighter crowd.
Pierre bit into a juicy strip of fresh mango as he turned over options in his head. That the Golden Tigers were manipulating him a loan-trap to serve them was an obvious angle of attack. The sum owed was a bit too much even for him to come up with, but exposing the loan sharking for what it was might be useful. And of course, there were more ways to resolve a debt than simply paying it off. Yang probably wasn't stupid but he was clearly naïve and be useful to be able to call on.
But that too was something to deal with later. He needed to win the fight first. He could probably dance around Yang and wear him down over time, but the longer the contest went on the greater the chance that the behemoth would get in some solid hits. A decisive strike would be possible; everyone was weak at their joints, but people born with gigantism were more vulnerable there than most. Smashing the man's kneecaps was probably within his capabilities, especially if he smuggled in or improvised a weapon. On the other hand it would make dealing with Yang afterward difficult.
There was one other option, though Pierre hesitated to risk it. Getting into close range with Yang would be a gamble but if the man had become too accustomed to fighting a number of swarming opponents it might pay off. And he could bypass the sheer toughness of the mountain of muscle with a chokehold. Even a giant had to breathe. It was a less brutal and less permanent method of taking his opponent than smashing his kneecaps, from which it might not be possible to recover. But if he lost control of the grapple Yang's greater strength could very well crush him in an instant.
Pierre set aside his ruminations to finish off breakfast and down the rest of his terrible instant coffee. He checked his watch: 8AM. Leaving the table to the wait staff to clean, he decided to head off to the ring. Getting there early might afford him some advantages, and in any case he had no real opportunity to get anything else done beforehand.
The streets were filled with cars and buses at the hour, few with any regard for pedestrians. It made his walk leisurely and provided a few moments of excitement. His reflexes saved him as he dodged out of the way of a rust-red '60s BMW van slamming up and over the curb and onto the sidewalk, plowing heedlessly through a nearby bus stop while pursued by a pair of leather-clad motorbike riders. He dusted off his coat and shook his head after standing back up from the flowerbed he'd rolled into. To judge by the way other onlookers were ignoring the three people the van had hit, this was normal.
The downtown core was better behaved but with more masses of pedestrians. Small shopkeepers were out opening up their stalls and little stores between the steel-and-glass towers. Foreigners were well in evidence rushing inside the towers from the small restaurants and food stands tucked away in the area. He wasn't quite anonymous in the crowds, but he didn't stand out. The density of foot traffic still made it slow going, but it was lot more comfortable. There was little chance of a threat with so many mobsters around, after all.
Roanapur's seafront was an entirely different matter. The salt-tang of the ocean accentuated the sense of decay he felt around the rows of warehouses. Already there were prostitutes out and about, gangs of unruly seamen and dock workers roving about, and street urchins running around underfoot. The children were poor, badly clothed, and seemed oblivious to danger as they ran around precariously stacked pallets and underneath industrial equipment. It was what happened when an organization, a city, a people were completely obsessed with money and had no sense of purpose. There was no one around Roanapur willing to keep the sins of the city in balance.
His early-morning musing was interrupted by a panicked shout for help from behind. Pierre turned around, flowing right into a prepared stance as he evaluated the situation.
The street-children were scattering from a flock that had formed around a crane at a loading dock. Three toughs in basketball jerseys and wielding baseball bats were chasing after the ragged juveniles. They too were shouting, something blood-curdling and obscene. Pierre's steadily improving command of the rough Thai of the Roanapur streets let him pick up the gist, a threat to castrate the boys in retaliation for thievery and to retaliate for some insult from their relatives. The longshoremen and other workers along the quayside seemed content to ignore the whole situation.
Pierre sighed. This really was none of his concern.
So as the chase drew closer to him, he dropped into a more relaxed posture and stepped away to the side. The flock of children ran by him without noticing or slowing down, evidently seeking the shelter of the maze of back-streets and delivery roads behind the warehouses lining the dock. A gang of a dozen or so, Pierre observed, maybe a couple of fifteen year olds, most twelve years or younger he estimated; and three of four girls. Typical pack of Third World street orphans.
Two of the thugs flying by him were scarcely that older, maybe eighteen or as old as twenty. Their leader, and the fastest one, looked in his early twenties. He stood out for having gold chains, new sneakers, and a basketball cap. Pierre recognized their armbands as the colors of the Golden Tigers. Had the children fallen afoul of that gang's efforts to control the docks?
As the leader of the little knot approached arm's length, Pierre had a choice.
[ ] Not his problem. Ignore the situation, proceed to the fight.
[ ] Make it his problem. Warm up on some punks, save the children.
[ ] Write-in?
OOC: Not going to lie. I'm starting to go through the motions here. It's pretty clear my original plan, which involved improvising based on the plans posters created and feedback about which characters and situations were most interesting or drawing the most speculation, has completely failed. So I'm re-working a lot of my background structure to fit into something a bit more like a Visual Novels, with routes and event-chains instead. Or I will when I can sit down and focus, which hasn't been at work.
After leaving the coffee shop Pierre went back to the hotel. The Bougainvillea Trading Company had left a message letting him know his match time was at 10AM tomorrow. He studied the dossier that Donovan had provided for a couple of hours in his room before the exertions of the day caught up with him. With a yawn he elected to turn off the desk light, set the papers aside, and prepare for bed. There was no last-minute burst of insight, and his mind kept its wandering to a minimum as he fell asleep.
If he had any dreams that night they were forgettable, and he woke up at a more reasonable 6AM feeling refreshed.
[-$120]
After showering and dressing he headed down to the breakfast buffet, with the dossier under his arm. Claude was gone for the day after borrowing the Hilux, leaving him alone to take a fresh look at Oxcart Yang. The man was a prodigy of sorts. Pierre knew far too well to fall for the stereotype that a big man must be ponderous and Yang had too much success in his fighting bouts to be that simple an opponent. His fights against large crowds of opponents were impressive in demonstrating his raw strength and stamina, and surely the result of one-on-one becoming too boring to be a draw for the street fighter crowd.
Pierre bit into a juicy strip of fresh mango as he turned over options in his head. That the Golden Tigers were manipulating him a loan-trap to serve them was an obvious angle of attack. The sum owed was a bit too much even for him to come up with, but exposing the loan sharking for what it was might be useful. And of course, there were more ways to resolve a debt than simply paying it off. Yang probably wasn't stupid but he was clearly naïve and be useful to be able to call on.
But that too was something to deal with later. He needed to win the fight first. He could probably dance around Yang and wear him down over time, but the longer the contest went on the greater the chance that the behemoth would get in some solid hits. A decisive strike would be possible; everyone was weak at their joints, but people born with gigantism were more vulnerable there than most. Smashing the man's kneecaps was probably within his capabilities, especially if he smuggled in or improvised a weapon. On the other hand it would make dealing with Yang afterward difficult.
There was one other option, though Pierre hesitated to risk it. Getting into close range with Yang would be a gamble but if the man had become too accustomed to fighting a number of swarming opponents it might pay off. And he could bypass the sheer toughness of the mountain of muscle with a chokehold. Even a giant had to breathe. It was a less brutal and less permanent method of taking his opponent than smashing his kneecaps, from which it might not be possible to recover. But if he lost control of the grapple Yang's greater strength could very well crush him in an instant.
Pierre set aside his ruminations to finish off breakfast and down the rest of his terrible instant coffee. He checked his watch: 8AM. Leaving the table to the wait staff to clean, he decided to head off to the ring. Getting there early might afford him some advantages, and in any case he had no real opportunity to get anything else done beforehand.
The streets were filled with cars and buses at the hour, few with any regard for pedestrians. It made his walk leisurely and provided a few moments of excitement. His reflexes saved him as he dodged out of the way of a rust-red '60s BMW van slamming up and over the curb and onto the sidewalk, plowing heedlessly through a nearby bus stop while pursued by a pair of leather-clad motorbike riders. He dusted off his coat and shook his head after standing back up from the flowerbed he'd rolled into. To judge by the way other onlookers were ignoring the three people the van had hit, this was normal.
The downtown core was better behaved but with more masses of pedestrians. Small shopkeepers were out opening up their stalls and little stores between the steel-and-glass towers. Foreigners were well in evidence rushing inside the towers from the small restaurants and food stands tucked away in the area. He wasn't quite anonymous in the crowds, but he didn't stand out. The density of foot traffic still made it slow going, but it was lot more comfortable. There was little chance of a threat with so many mobsters around, after all.
Roanapur's seafront was an entirely different matter. The salt-tang of the ocean accentuated the sense of decay he felt around the rows of warehouses. Already there were prostitutes out and about, gangs of unruly seamen and dock workers roving about, and street urchins running around underfoot. The children were poor, badly clothed, and seemed oblivious to danger as they ran around precariously stacked pallets and underneath industrial equipment. It was what happened when an organization, a city, a people were completely obsessed with money and had no sense of purpose. There was no one around Roanapur willing to keep the sins of the city in balance.
His early-morning musing was interrupted by a panicked shout for help from behind. Pierre turned around, flowing right into a prepared stance as he evaluated the situation.
The street-children were scattering from a flock that had formed around a crane at a loading dock. Three toughs in basketball jerseys and wielding baseball bats were chasing after the ragged juveniles. They too were shouting, something blood-curdling and obscene. Pierre's steadily improving command of the rough Thai of the Roanapur streets let him pick up the gist, a threat to castrate the boys in retaliation for thievery and to retaliate for some insult from their relatives. The longshoremen and other workers along the quayside seemed content to ignore the whole situation.
Pierre sighed. This really was none of his concern.
So as the chase drew closer to him, he dropped into a more relaxed posture and stepped away to the side. The flock of children ran by him without noticing or slowing down, evidently seeking the shelter of the maze of back-streets and delivery roads behind the warehouses lining the dock. A gang of a dozen or so, Pierre observed, maybe a couple of fifteen year olds, most twelve years or younger he estimated; and three of four girls. Typical pack of Third World street orphans.
Two of the thugs flying by him were scarcely that older, maybe eighteen or as old as twenty. Their leader, and the fastest one, looked in his early twenties. He stood out for having gold chains, new sneakers, and a basketball cap. Pierre recognized their armbands as the colors of the Golden Tigers. Had the children fallen afoul of that gang's efforts to control the docks?
As the leader of the little knot approached arm's length, Pierre had a choice.
[ ] Not his problem. Ignore the situation, proceed to the fight.
[ ] Make it his problem. Warm up on some punks, save the children.
[ ] Write-in?
OOC: Not going to lie. I'm starting to go through the motions here. It's pretty clear my original plan, which involved improvising based on the plans posters created and feedback about which characters and situations were most interesting or drawing the most speculation, has completely failed. So I'm re-working a lot of my background structure to fit into something a bit more like a Visual Novels, with routes and event-chains instead. Or I will when I can sit down and focus, which hasn't been at work.
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WarpObscura
Sleepy Big Stick
- Location
- A dot at the edge of continental Asia.
[X] write in
-[x] save the children... But only if there's any way of doing so that won't give us away to the Golden Tigers
Much as I want to be the knight, we gotta think practical. We don't need the extra heat on our heads yet that openly confronting them will bring.
For what it's worth, I think you just got unlucky. the convergence of factors that the most creative sorts like EarthScorpion aren't the ones who are also interested in Black Lagoon. And since we're focusing on the tournament, there isn't a lot of wiggle room within that for improvising situations.
-[x] save the children... But only if there's any way of doing so that won't give us away to the Golden Tigers
Much as I want to be the knight, we gotta think practical. We don't need the extra heat on our heads yet that openly confronting them will bring.
For what it's worth, I think you just got unlucky. the convergence of factors that the most creative sorts like EarthScorpion aren't the ones who are also interested in Black Lagoon. And since we're focusing on the tournament, there isn't a lot of wiggle room within that for improvising situations.
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TheOmnimercurial
Dragon Bard
- Location
- UK
[x] Make it his problem. Warm up on some punks, save the children.
Might be interesting to learn a little more about the Goldies with some "persuasive discussion".
The looting appeals too.
Might be interesting to learn a little more about the Goldies with some "persuasive discussion".
The looting appeals too.