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CHANGELING / Re: A cracked, leather-bound journal
« Last post by BioSpark on April 20, 2018, 12:23:16 PM »
Erasmus has been working hard.  I stepped out of my room this morning and was met with what can only be described as an industrial nightmare.  He hasn't modified the pub, no, he has infected it.  I respect him, I truly do, he has a very well developed work ethic and a decently logical approach to life but good lord, he loves his toys.  I am quite afraid to approach once he's truly engrossed in a task.  This one I do not approve of, however.  He could have asked prior to installing the beating heart of a fully automated delivery system right outside of where I sleep.  Thankfully whatever magic has created my tiny piece of heaven also would appear to suppress the worst of the noise.

I suppose I did threaten to practice my craft upon his wife in the same way that he's practiced his here.  A fair trade, maybe.

More chat.  We had a meeting lined up with a representative of the Isaacs.  Can't say as I trust them particularly but then neither do the others.  I cannot tell if they are becoming better judges of character or are slipping further into their fey selves and naturally mistrusting humans.  I am sure that if it's the latter, it will only serve to further drive the wedge that separates us socially.  I went to the appointed meeting place with Al to "case the joint" as it were.  Quite how Al can discern any details about an environment through his near-constant inebriation is a question that would thwart the finest minds of a generation.  I would surely love to see how even a few days of sobriety would affect him.

The park was pleasant enough.  The meeting was to be in a public place, probably as safe as could be hoped for, so Al took his position and I mine in the guise of a failing artist.  Thinking on it, actually trying to look deliberately like a failure, like a social leech who believes in the strength of words and expects society to compensate him for his meaningless craft, maybe such things would better single me out as a fey.  Very little happened, nothing suspicious was witness although I do believe that the park is home to some nature spirits.  Childlike, innocent things.  Rather like those abominable poppets we saw a while back.  Explains where they're being harvested from, I suppose.  It might do to alert the fey authorities (ha!  Authority...) and tell them of our findings, arrange some protection but I rather prefer the idea of letting them roam free and possibly following their trail should they get kidnapped again.

We got a call from Erasmus.  He'd found Xander and brought him, broken and bloody, to his lab.  He needed medical attention quickly, attention only I and Al could provide.  But no, dear friend, trouble yourself not with this trifling matter.  I shall attend to his needs with all haste as, after all, I have spent a short time at this lab and remember its secret location.  Whilst not formally qualified, I am profoundly learned in the ways of medicine.  He will be in the surest of hands, receive the best of care.

The leprechaun still trusts me.  Bless.  He's a shocking judge of character.

As I stepped through the door, the poor lad was quite the sight.  A man-sized squirrel, barely breathing and lashed to a chair.  I would have to hope that pooka biology in animal form resembled the familiar layout of a human's.  But what of an alternative?  After all, first aid can be a tricky business at the best of times and these were hardly ideal conditions.  A malfunctioning device span on the floor, emitted steam, made a whistling noise rising slowly in pitch.  Who could say if it was stable?  Why, it would be terrible, surely, if the nosy little rodent were to perish here and now.  "I did everything I could", I would cry, "I feared that one of the machines would certainly combust and was unable to move him in time!".  Plausible.  ABSOLUTELY plausible.  And yet, as I drew the blade and prepared to relieve myself of one more inconsequential burden, something stayed my hand.  Ah.  That blasted oath.  I KNEW it folly to commit in such a way!  This contract was necessary, unfortunately, if I wished to retain my newfound abilities.  And surely, had I let him die, the others would know.  They would suspect, without evidence of course, and things would be... difficult.  No, now is not the time.  He will make further mistakes, of that I am sure, and like so many of life's little problems, this one may well resolve itself if left alone.

He will live.  I have seen to it.  But know this, my sweet patient: you'll have a much harder time trying to work out what I'm up to from now on.  We'll see how you react once you realise, shall we?

I waited a short while in the hopes that the device would do the job for me then contacted Erasmus.  Informed him of the state of the device but bumbled over the details to feign confusion and worry.  That would provide an alibi but it wasn't necessary, the machine held.  As the others came back, I learned that Xander had been poking around where he didn't belong (the revelation of the century), and had found a store of demon traps.  Presumably trying to take one, he'd set it off and nearly cooked himself.  They say he wasn't acting of his own will, that he was being coerced.  I believe none of this.

The others have set off in search of this premises.  They are welcome to it.  I, for one, am unwilling to leave Xander alone.  If he dies due to poor treatment then as the most qualified medical practitioner present, the responsibility may be seen as mine.  I have ensured his safe return to the Carp's Tongue and am providing further care.  Jake believes that the "magic pub" will heal him because it hastens the progress of recovery through a hangover.  He is unconscious, he is bleeding, he may have a concussion.  I am not going to rely on fey magic, unpredictable and treacherous at best, to heal this.  I find Jake's attitude quite disgusting, to be frank.  He even suggested that the ravens would be able to inform us of any developments.  The ravens!  If they were able to diagnose a severed arm, let alone any degradation in a potentially complex cranial injury is laughable in itself but even then, the wretched things would only get distracted by seeing their own reflection somewhere and forget what they were doing.

I feel that for the most part, I am in the company of dependant children.  Their attitude will be their undoing and not, this is certain, by my hand.
General Wargaming / Re: A Tilean Campaign (Warhammer Fantasy Battle)
« Last post by padre on April 16, 2018, 09:13:01 PM »
On the games' front ... tell me about it. I'm painting like crazy, so excited at the prospect of battles. I'm attempting to paint virtually everything NPC that might be needed. I want to see halflings in action, and zombie cultists, and an entire flagellant army, and new Bretonnians, and more.

I now have all but one set of orders in (and the missing ones have been discussed so the player just has to make a couple of choices) and things do seem to be going in the right direction for battles.

That shop in Pontefract is great for big games, but there's the game shop in Hudds as well, and my cellar for the mid to small ones.
General Wargaming / Re: A Tilean Campaign (Warhammer Fantasy Battle)
« Last post by damo_b on April 16, 2018, 11:42:19 AM »
impressive as always Padre, just looking forward to some actual campaign games this year.
just been informed that my new troops are on the way.
just got to paint them  ;D
General Wargaming / Re: A Tilean Campaign (Warhammer Fantasy Battle)
« Last post by padre on April 12, 2018, 09:15:01 PM »
The End of Spring, IC2403

7. Mangled Facts

“They didn’t slurp it all then?” said Frokkit, peering into the topless barrel whilst clutching his vicious billhook as a support. His spiked helmet threatened to topple in, but he lifted his head back up just before it did.

“No, they didn’t,” said Pooshin. “Didn’t even touch these.” He nodded towards the two on the ground and the one still on the wagon. “Too busy draining them big ‘uns we got from the last place. But they’ll get around to these soon enough, so best not get any ideas.”

Whichever ogre had drunk from the open barrel the previous night hadn’t troubled himself to broach it in the normal manner, instead smashing the head in to leave wooden splinters floating on the unfinished ale inside. Frokkit dipped a finger in, then sucked the sticky beer off, making that particular digit fractionally less grimy than the rest.

“Tasty,” he announced. “You know, I reckon they won’t want this one, not now it’s already opened. An’ if we put it on the cart it’ll just slosh and spill all o’er the place.”

Cornyclipper nodded, an action made all the more noticeable by his heavy nose, and flapping ears.

“You gotta point there, Frokkit. Better to drink it up ourselves than let it go to waste.”

“Puddles in our bellies instead o’ puddles on the road,” said his friend Furnip from beneath the huge ogre’s club he carried upon his bent back.

Silence descended as they all pondered the proposition. They knew not to rush into any act of thievery without proper consideration. Carelessly light-fingered gnoblars did not tend to last long in the company of ogres. It was Frokit who eventually broke the silence.

“No-one’s lookin’,” he said. “They’re already on the move, leaving us gnobs to catch up as best we can. They’ve taken the big barrels. These little ‘uns are nought but tipply sips to them.”

“Aye,” said Furnip. “Nipper’s tipples.”

“We deserves our share,” said Cornyclipper. “We done Mangler good service, an’ Razger good service an’ all. The bosses had a right feasty reward last night, ’s only fair we have a drop or two too.”

“Aye,” said Furnip, his red eyes fixed in their peculiarly staring manner, but his voice getting louder. “A drop o’ tootoo.”

“I wish they hadn’t gobbled up the oxen, though,” said Cornyclipper. “Luggin this lump of a wagon ain’t gonna be easy.”

“Ah, won’t be as bad if we’ve a little ale inside us,” said Frokkit.

“Reckon so,” agreed Pooshin. “But we’ll drink after we’ve loaded the rest. That way the bosses’ll be even further ahead an’ a lot less likely to ogle us at it. Let’s not rush to load up neither. Best wait a while, just to be extra sure.”

As well as his memorably bulbous chin (which has been punched so often, whether deliberately or not, that he had long since lost all his front teeth) Pooshin had always been known for his cunning. All those present were happy to take his advice, so they all fell silent and stared at the barrel.

Some of them had belonged to Mangler’s band, some to Razger’s army, but now Razger ruled everyone, and although the ogres still marched in their old companies under their old banners, despite the change at the top, the gnoblars had become all mixed up together. The ogres could not care less whether their goblinoid servants formed companies, or even if they took part in the battles. The gnoblars, however, knew they needed strength in numbers if they were going to avoid their masters’ full cruelties. Not that they ever put up any sort of argument or fighting resistance, rather that they could lose themselves in the crowd making it impossible for the ogres to work out which of them was to blame for what. And in crowds they could usually rely on some other gnoblar to distract an angry ogre whenever they did became the focus of attention, hoping their masters’ attention would wane and they would go off to do something else. It usually did.

Frokkit, in an attempt to make the waiting a little more bearable, broke the silence.

“D’you see butcher Slabdul lording it up last night?” he said. “You’d think it was him who beat Krav in the duel, not Razger.”

“Maybe he did?” said Pooshin.

“Whatya mean?” scoffed Cornyclipper. “Razger almost cleaved Krav’s head clean off his shoulders, just a flappy bit of flesh left between. I was right up at the front, an’ I saw it plain as pain. Slabdul just stood and watched like me and the rest.”

“Maybe Slabdul put a curse on Krav?” suggested Pooshin.

“Nah!” said Cornyclipper. “I’ve seen him conjurating, an’ it’s a right old song and dance I tell ya, cutting up his own flesh an’ all. There was none of that last night. He just watched with a big grin on his face.”

“Puh!” snorted Pooshin. “O‘course he was grinning. He wanted Razger to win, an’ he knew that’s exactly what Razger was gonna do.”

Frokkit shook his head. “Not so sure about that. Krav had a chance. A good half of Mangler’s boys thought he could do it.”

“But did he ‘ave a chance, eh? Did he really?” asked Pooshin. “Maybe Slabdul put a curse on him before the fight? Maybe he slipped some foul nastiness into his meat or drink?”

“Magic grediants and wicked wot nots,” suggested Furnip, looking even more wild eyed than usual.

“You reckon?” said Cornyclipper, his brow furrowed.

“Think about it,” demanded Pooshin. “He got given a big chunky share of the army’s loot after the duel. What was that for?”

“To stop him complaining like Krav did?” said Frokkit.

“No, it was a reward.”

“It was a reward,” said Murdle, who had until now held his tongue. “But not for cursing Krav. And not for poisonin’ him neither.”

“What for then?” Pooshin inquired. He knew Murdle of old, and had long since realised that Murdle had a grip on the ways of their masters that most gnoblars failed - often fatally - to attain.

“Think about it,” Murdle explained. “Krav was angry ‘cos when Mangler died Razger made Slabdul his second, not him.”

“Was a bit funny that,” agreed Pooshin.

“Not funny to Krav. He was next in line to Mangler. He should have become second when Mangler died.”

“We know,” said Frokkit in exasperation. “That’s what the fight was about.”

“Aye, the fight,” said Murdle. “But you’ve got things back to front in yer addled ‘ed. The fight was about butcher Slabdul being given command instead of Krav. The reward was already given.”

“No it wasn’t,” argued Pooshin. “Butcher Slabdul got his loot after Krav died.”

“The loot, aye, but he got the command before the fight. That was the reward. The loot was just some crackling fat to make the reward tastier.”

“You’re sayin’ Slabdul was rewarded for summat else?”

“I am saying that, ‘cos I knows it’s true. After the battle on the road, Mangler was mangled bad and badder, but I’ve seen ogres live through a lot worse ‘n that. I’ve seen gnobs get better from worse.”


“It was Butcher Slabdul tended his wounds, see?”

Pooshin scratched at his chin. “He wouldn’t get a reward for being bad at healing. Makes no sense.”

Murdle simply looked at him and waited.

“Hang on …” said Pooshin as an idea squeeze its way into his thoughts. “You’re sayin’ he got a reward for making sure Mangler died.”

Murdle grinned, revealing his two longest teeth – both on the left . “Snitch here saw what happened,” he said as he turned to look at the smallest gnoblar present. “Didn’t ya Snitch? No ogres spot you Snitch, do they? Ye’r too small ain’t ya. But there’s eyes in that little head of yours. Tell ‘em, Snitch. Tell ‘em what you told me.”

Everyone looked at Snitch. Some were surprised to see him, having altogether failed to notice him until that moment.

“Old Mangler lay there sick and sore, big black bruises, skin all tore. But the butcher’s needle was a knife, an’ he stuck it in to end a life.” He had always had a sing-song way of talking.

“Sick, sore, skin all tore,” began Furnip.  “Needly knifey …”

“Stop yer gabblin’, Furnip!” ordered Pooshin, then fixed his eyes on Murdle. “You’re saying Slabdul killed Mangler?”

“If Mangler had a hundred cuts after the battle,” pronounced Murdle most sombrely, “he had a hundred and one after Slabdul’s attentions.”

Silence fell as they all thought about what they had learned. Until Pooshin piped up, that is.

“Makes no difference to us though, does it?” he said. “Don’t matter who’s boss, we still has to do what we’re told, and be snikkety quick about it.”

“You’re not wrong. Best drink up then and get a move on loadin’ the rest” said Frokkit.

He swung his billhook over to stick the steel head into the ground, then thrust both hands into the ale to lift out a big, dribbly scoop.
STRONTIUM DOGS / Re: The Roll of Honour and Infamy (Dramatis Personae)
« Last post by The Dan on April 07, 2018, 04:59:57 PM »
The High Rollers

Perda Vlasnik. 'Protein-Baron' of planet Fecundus V, petty despot and exporter of both vegetable and insect protein, filling colonist and soldier provision bars across the galaxy.

Midas Mezcal. Transhuman, part-floral gangster. One of the original Shankle's colonists, genetically engineered to survive via photosynthesis. Nowadays know as the Rum King.

Hi-Fat. Intergalactic butter merchant, gigacorporate executive and supplier of dairy products for the armies of the GCA.

Lady Hel. An eccentric, aesthete claiming to be the actual goddess of the underworld from Norse myth, daughter of Loki. A very new arrival on the galactic stage, she has allegedly gathered a horde of cryogenically frozen mercenaries to serve her whims.

Vordak the Annihilator, Flayer of Souls. An insane alien criminal of the telekine species, who utilises mental powers. A torturer for hire, it is rumoured.

"Mister Sparkles" Obscure alien made from living diamond, trader in conflict gemstones are other booty looted from a hundred wars. 

STRONTIUM DOGS / Re: The Bounty Hunters Guide to the Galaxy
« Last post by The Dan on April 07, 2018, 04:45:05 PM »
The Dark Nebula

Secretive home of the legendary 'Sorcerers of Lyra', the Dark Nebula is officially off-limits to all space traffic. This ban is enforced not by the Galactic Authorities or even the Sorcerers of Lyra themselves - it is a product of fear, superstition and the rumours of strange spatial and temporal anomalies that afflict Lyran space.
Whole parsecs no longer occupy normal space: Spells have caused the nature of space/time to completely collapse, leading to a merging of several dimensions into a single, chaotic region where no laws of conventional physics are possible and the powers or creation are unfettered. This area of space is known as the Entropy Collision.

On the fringes of the Dark Nebula, close to where Lyra borders with the rest of the galaxy, are the Tomb Libraries – whole worlds given over to the storage of the sorcerers’ grimoires and codices. Protected by a vast array of spells, these worlds support continent-sized libraries where entire orders of sorcerers spend their life researching and developing spells that are put to use by all practicing sorcerers in the Dark Nebula.

Beyond the Tomb Libraries lays a deeper blackness, the Womb of Night. A black hole spiralled by shattered planets and captured comets, by the wrecks of broken cathedral ships and gothic spires of orbital spell-stations. Space debris from across the nebula is thrown towards the Womb's event horizon, sacrifices to the infinite destructive power.

Some rumours say it is a gateway to other dimensions, to ruptured timelines and parrallel worlds that should never have existed. Only one things for sure - no one comes back.
CHANGELING / Re: A cracked, leather-bound journal
« Last post by BioSpark on March 28, 2018, 04:14:45 PM »
Back on the streets amidst the soothing indifference of London and its morning commute.  I found myself drawn, as I often am, to dear old Coffee Shack.  It's part of a soulless franchise, the beans are burned, the sandwiches are stale and it has never once, in its entire history, sold a product for a fair price.  Their continued operation is a monument dedicated to the poor decision making skills of hundreds of otherwise intelligent people.  I have my reasons for coming here, though.  For one, if I order a black coffee they never ask "are you sure you wouldn't prefer juice?  That's a very strong drink".  For another, I don't recall ever having actually paid for a beverage.  I know for a fact that of the 3 baristas I am known to, Rosa believes I come from a broken home, Tanya believes my mother to be a personal friend of the owner and Roland simply finds the idea of feeding espresso to a ten year old to be amusing.

Any attempt to pay for my breakfast was intercepted.  One of the river spirits, a little on the aloof side but certainly easy to talk to, wished for a meeting and picked up the bill.  Quite polite.  She expressed concern, seems she has ties to our resident tree rat and was worried that he hadn't checked in with her as regularly as he should have.  I had to bite my tongue and refrain from saying that he'd no doubt brought any dire fate to which he now succumbed upon himself through his underhanded dealings.  Not the right target audience, goodness no, I do not lack quite so much tact as all that.  I told her I would pass on any information that I had should I learn anything and after she left, returned to the Carp's Tongue.

The group were sober.  It seems to be some magic of the freehold.  A pity, I had been mildly hopeful for the onset of delirium tremens; it could have made for quite the afternoon's viewing pleasure.  Nobody had seen Xander recently, those filthy birds were dispatched and returned soon after with nothing to show.  Yanni keeps feeding them with bar snacks.  If he doesn't stop, we may become infamous for discovering the world's first case of avian gout.

Time for a plan.  Xander's disappearance was seen as the priority and probably with good reason.  Despite my distrust of him, he does possess certain useful skills that we now lack.  He'd last been known to be seeking a meeting with Reynard, a fox pooka, so away we went to one of his haunts.  It was a simple plan.  Send me in disguised as an unassuming elder, a little recon, corner him, ask a few polite questions.  He was easy to spot.  His voice rang through the crowded bar before I confirmed a sighting, a nasal foppish whine.  This encounter would be satisfying.  I summoned the others as he was distracted by trying to force himself upon a young slip of a thing, surely less than half his age.  He saw the other approach and bolted but some stern words from Yanni and, wonderful old sidhe compulsion in full force, the hound slunk to heel like the dog whose guise he adopted.

We went outside.  He bolted again.  Not a terribly bright lad.  Patch did his work admirably, discretely removing a fraction of a paving slab underfoot and then replacing it as an unwary paw landed in the cavity.  Now anchored to the ground, he wasn't to move much further.  We dragged him to an alley, forced him into his human form and the interrogation began.

I think I may have discovered part of the root of my inability to tolerate Xander.  Even were I to disregard his constant, unwanted interest in Patch it would appear that every damned member of his kith are compulsive liars.  Or if not liars, utterly incapable of telling the full truth.  To think, even among the fae, there would be some considered notably deceitful and unworthy of trust!  'tis truly like unto the proverbial pot passing judgement upon the dim hue of the kettle.

Al punched him repeatedly, rather more than was necessary.  He does not seem to understand that in interrogation, the threat of physical violence can carry far more weight than actual delivery.  It is all about fear and control.  You hurt the victim, they know what you are capable of, your hand is shown.  You promise pain, they are left in doubt about how far you are truly willing to go.  You never surrender that knowledge.  Still, I did quite enjoy watching the creature plead and cry, blood dripping from his nose.  As I slowly withdrew Patch from the recesses of my coat, I pressed our new friend on the events of last night.  He claimed, repeatedly, that he had conversed with Xander but left shortly afterward.  An omission there; I had watched the events of the evening closely all night, disinterested as I was with drinking, and remember clearly that our man had spoken with at least two fox pooka that night.  Reynard was only one.  I related a physical description of the other as I gently reminded him that whilst our violent friend might, if sufficiently intoxicated, forget his own strength and deliver a dangerous blow, I was more than capable of making him wish most sincerely that he had never had the misfortune to set foot upon God's wonderful Earth.  It doesn't take a malevolent grin or other such amateur dramatics, just a calm and level tone.  They must know that it is a promise, not a threat.  We have a name and shall follow up on it shortly.  Hopefully Reynard has learned his place and will be more compliant in future.  And there will be a future in which he features, I am sure.  It wouldn't do to lose contact with such a helpful individual.

Back to the Carp's Tongue for some well earned R&R.  I made some new friends.  We had a smashing time.

In the morning, one of Xander's odd little friends arrived with an armful of hardware.  Modern technology isn't completely incomprehensible to me but I fail to understand what he does with all this cutting edge equipment.  We had a short chat, took the parcel and saw him out.  It was only then that Yanni pointed out that his entrance was particularly strange, seeing as the door was locked and barred.  For an acquaintance of Xander's, I don't find this of particular note, I just hope I am not missing any personal possessions of worth...
CHANGELING / Re: The Striped Pavilion
« Last post by BioSpark on March 28, 2018, 11:21:33 AM »
Indulge me, I'd like to get things quite straight in my mind.  I feel like we're pursuing many threads at this moment and almost every person we meet is delighting in weaving them into a web of misdirection.

As I understand it (and please correct me if I am wrong), our current goals are:

Meet the Isaacs - to find out about their involvement with the fae, learn about mages still in their employ etc
Meet the faceless man - find out about and possibly put a stop to his actions.  See what he knows about crafting devil traps.
Find Ganesh's tooth - believed to be in the possession of musicians.  The unseelie queen might have some ideas.  Habibi has a personal interest.
Find Xander - or at least confirm that he still lives...
Find the Russian witch - see what her involvement was with that unnatural child
Find the source of the power which causes us to relive our memories
Find out why we have been dormant for so long and what we mean to the world

Have we a priority objective, outside of finding Xander?

Also, to be completely blunt, if the rest of you would be in favour of teaching a longer lasting lesson to Reynard, I would be most interested.  What a nasty, deceitful little beast he is.
CHANGELING / Re: A cracked, leather-bound journal
« Last post by BioSpark on March 27, 2018, 04:19:11 PM »
The party was underway.  That'd be the others occupied for the rest of the night, then.  I could hardly complain, it keeps them out of trouble.

Jake was being his usual self, putting on an act for the ladies.  Spectre was, for reasons unknown, in the rafters.  Erasmus, Yanni and Harun appeared engrossed in civilised conversation (it was almost as if we we at a high-profile function...).  Al, though.  No, Al wasn't his normal self.  Drinking, certainly, but in a reserved way.  Suspicious, that.  I have never seen him with a demeanour that I could describe as anything less than aggressively sociable unless he was deprived of his usual liquid companion.  He was drinking, though.  I wonder what his silence is meant to mean?  Surely he's not trying to come across as a reserved intellectual to these people, he doesn't seem the type to want to prove himself to strangers.


I saw the unseelie in the wild.  For all that the seelie are foppish children, the unseelie appear to be two faced, snide and passively aggressive deviants.  They gathered in cliques making fun of the rivers and their misfortune, they discussed our presence at their special little gathering, they pointed and laughed at all out of earshot.  For Christ's sake, this world operates on the laws of the playground.  It's a wonder that the trolls are running this world by simple virtue of being "bigger boys".  I watched them for a time.  I amused myself by maintaining eye contact with the worst offenders until I felt my point proven.  Eventually I moved on, their childish banter grew tiresome and showed no signs of abating.

Two sluagh were in attendance.  A wee slip of a thing seated in a little pocket of shadow near the fire.  Ever so tragic, that, and no doubt an affectation that she prayed somebody would comment on so she could swoon and weep at them.  Another caught my eye.  Every inch the classic child catcher, long of limb and with dark eyes.  Ha, yes, this could be quite the lark.

Interesting fellow, that.  Like so many others, he claimed to know me.  It is no longer surprising.  He did not offer me the forced courtesy of kneeling to speak and you know, I rather appreciated that.  Just two gentlemen having a discussion with no implications of social standing or lack thereof.  I asked if these people ever stopped, ever stopped frolicking and cavorting, drinking and smoking, loving and hating each other.  He said that many of them were young and for them, many things were like unto toys, a whole world of sensory experiences to play with.  And, like many children, they would come to break their toys or grow tired of them.  I could quite understand that, certainly Al and Jake cannot keep up their current pace for much longer without cracks beginning to show.  We settled into steady conversation and he told me of his profession, a broker of information.  I asked if he would be interested in trade, he said yes but due to our "history" (of course), he would be willing to offer his wares for free.  I enquired if free meant without obligation which appeared to strike a nerve.  I knew I could not trust anybody here but seemingly a little deflated, he acquiesced, saying that he owed me a prior favour anyway.  Trying to save face, I rather fancied.  So, the million dollar question, then.

Why are we here?  Why does everybody in this community know us and know what we have done?  Why do we appear to be important despite being newly awoken?

He seemed a little taken aback by the direct query but his answer was plain.  We have always, it would appear, been together.  We have been presented through much of history, are older than countries, are older than some races but have recently chosen to spend a time in the guise of mortals prior to our recent awakening.  The community at large are interested in what we are beginning to remember about ourselves because they are learning something new and that is a clear indication that, despite their knowing us, there are things about us that they do not know.  Gaps in knowledge, in memory.  That we are learning means that there are secrets withheld from them.

Also, one item of note.  I asked if, since we have always been together, I chose to become a mortal child.  If I CHOSE to torture myself for these past 80 years for some reason.  He simply said that I may have come to consciousness earlier than the others.  Was my birth a mistake?  Who can say?

I thanked him for his time and after our conversation ended, left the party shortly after.

The following morning, I awoke at the Carp's Tongue.  Standard procedure.  Jake staggered in, coming down from some narcotic or other, all hair matted to his greasy skin.  Disgusting.  Al was soon to follow, drunk to almost the point of being unable to communicate but still hungering for more.  Ha, he had been holding back!  It was all a front for the unseelie court, it must have been!  Well, he will surely get what he deserves soon enough.  I could hear the vomiting as he ran to the restrooms.  Quite the morning's entertainment.

I left soon after.  Erasmus had, somehow, harnessed a spirit but has lost control of it.  I had little interest in remaining indoors when a white-hot spirit of electricity was flitting around and about the wooden bar and upholstery.  No, I think we can safely file that one under "somebody else's problem".

-Frederick's room-
Behind a cluster of heating pipes lies a small room in the freehold.  The interior is not decorated, the walls bare plaster, slightly greyed as if bearing the weight of many years.  The floor is made of bare wooden planks.  The door is made of thin wood and locks by means of a hook and a metal loop from the inside.  A single candle in an iron candlestick provides the only source of light, lit only when it needs to be which is rarely.
The room lacks windows.  The air inside is dry and stale, it has a second-hand kind of feel to it.  It smells of dust and damp, it smells of paperback books stored without care, it smells of a room occupied by somebody who no longer cares to see the outside world.
The furniture is a single mattress upon a wooden bed frame and a small writing desk with attached dresser drawers.  The bed has no covers, no pillows, no sheets.  The frame is clearly intended for a child and has "FREDDY CONNOR" carved into it by an obviously immature hand.  Though he would never admit it to anybody, the frame perfectly matches that which Freddy slept in when he still lived with a loving family.
STRONTIUM DOGS / Re: The Roll of Honour and Infamy (Dramatis Personae)
« Last post by The Dan on March 20, 2018, 06:10:19 PM »
Tequila City Rent-a-Cops

Corporate security forces in Tequila City focus on keeping the city-continent's supply of booze flowing for their corporate masters - with a healthy dose of corruption on the side. Nevertheless, there are a few good eggs... are these two some of them?

Detective Shandy Michelada and Copbot DN-0

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