MisterShoebox

Hmmmmm....Okay, well, I think I should try to trip it up with a good blast of the old Scarves trick. Movement is, of course, the old Teleportation! Get in touch with his Inner Nightcrawler. So here goes! 1d20+10=15

1d20+3=18 = woohoo!

Henry Gibson Trent, AKA Phantasmo, THE UNLIVING, was not a complicated man, not really. He enjoyed the occasional beer, a cup of tea with whiskey in it, and entertaining hoboes with various feats of mysticism and occasionally listening to headbanger tunes on an old boombox a friend of his rigged up. So when he decided to go out and see the sights one day on the advice of another dear friend of his, the LAST thing he expected to see was an enormous dinosaur skeleton running out of a museum, chasing several screaming museum-goers. The zombie did his version of a blink - the lights in his empty sockets dimmed slightly then brightened again - and he rubbed his goatee in mild surprise at the scene. "Well. That's...that's new."

Phantasmo realized that birds weren't the way to go here. NO SIR. Not for Mrs. Trent's boy. Still, he did have his ace up his sleeve - hah, that was a good one - The zombie gave off a wild laugh and 'ported up to the roof of a small, two-story building so he could get a good shot at yon Big UGly Angelpants. "EEEEEYAAAAAHAHAHAHA! PICK A CARD, ANY CARD! THEY'RE ALL WILD, DUCKY!" Phantasmo gave a flourish of his hand and a large, razor-sharp playing card appeared. He gave a flick of his wrist and flung it at the Errant Metal Angel, but...*WHIFF*...missed entirely. "Doooooh, this just isn't my day." he muttered to himself as he leaned against a convientent chimney. "C'mon, Harry!- " he told himself - "Time to show this lot you're not ENTIRELY useless..." Suddenly, a thought occurred to him. He pulled his communication device from his pocket and addressed the others. "Ooh - 'scuse me, duckies! Do any of you manic members of this magical menagerie have a means of drawing power from outside sources? Because it occurs to me that this big angelic bastard - powerful and winged as he may be - is flying, making hapless villagers go *Poof*! and all sorts of fun tricks. As such, it requires energy, right? D'you think any of you could siphon the power from his batteries a bit?"

...I'm gonna miss you, brother. You helped me out with this game and tolerated my questions and queries with patience and understanding and for that I am truly grateful. Thanks for everything, man, from the bottom of my heart.

Hokay, time to roll. I'm really sorry for the hold-up. - Hmmmm....Oooh, idea! Movement - A 'port is a 'port, of course, of course. Action: Use that Pick a Card power to slice and dice - hopefully I can create a big enough hole for someone with a flashier beamy power to get into the inner workings and do real damage. Kind of like piercing a suit of armor to get to the meaty insides. 1d20+10=14 - D'OH! On another note: Going on what Troll said, this creature, or deity, or whatever, is technology, not magic - so there has to be an energy source giving it the juice to fly, talk, explode people, etc. Is there anyone here with energy absorption powers that may be able to drain the batteries a bit? Granted, it might be shielded against such attacks, but it may be worth a shot. I dunno.

Must save knightly companion from undead douchebag! Here goes everything.... 1d20+10=26...hmmm. Move is 'port to viking jerk. Standard move - but if it ain't broke, don't fix it

Phantasmo, being of the helpful sort - but also hammier than a pork pie - did what he always did in situations like this: He cleared his throat and 'ported up to the Angel, appearing in a standard theatrical pose and taking a deep bow. He rolled his top hat to the end of his sleeve and caught it in his hand before laughing in a...well, it was very different from his usual rasp. "EEEEEEEEEEHHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAHAHAHAHAAHA! THE CURTAIN RISES AS THE PERFORMERS TAKE THE STAGE! FOR THE FIRST FEAT OF AMAZEMENT - NOTHING UP MY SLEEVES!" The zombie gave a flourish of an immaculately tailored sleeve, revealing that there was, indeed, nothing...except a large, pecking and scratching flock of undead, zombified, skeletal doves that immediately set to work pecking and clawing at the Angel. "AHHHHAAAAHEHEHEHEHEHEEE! AND NOW THE REV- oh, dear." Although the doves were giving it their all, they were accomplishing nothing. "...Right, well, good try, lads - back to the aether with you or wherever you little flying sods spring forth from." As the birds vanished in little puffs of off-green smoke and small "squelching' sounds, Phantasmo coughed. "Um. A little assistance, duckies?" he called to the others. "I think I may have made him mad." He paused. "...Well, that's something. At least if I'm messily beheaded or some such unpleasant nonsense I can say I made him a trifle bit angrier." He made a little "Woo-hoo" gesture with his hands. "Yay me!" He suddenly took on a serious expression. "Seriously, though - a bit of help would be greatly appreciated before he tries to kill me. Again."

Movement is 'port up to Mister AngelJerkwad. Standard Action is the good old DOVES TO THE FACE - (Alternate Power: Flock of Doves...from my sleeves! (Stun 7, Descriptors; A flock of pecking, disorienting doves emerges from the sleeves Extras: Area: Cone (30 ft) Flaws: Dazed,) {14/14pp}) Here goes.... If this works, it should slow down Mister Big Nano-bot Shooting Angel-pants down long enough for the Heavier Hitters to throw fire or potted plants or grilled cheese sandwiches or whatever they have in their arsenal. If all else fails we can feed Haley to it. Give it a nice Raccoon Fricassee.

"GAAAAH! HOld on then, DUckie!" Phantasmo shouted as Anya leaped. He snapped his fingers and a long chain of scarves flew from his sleeves, and then lassoed Anya before she could fully pull the youthful Black Knight off the cliff. "Jumping the bones is usually left for the third date!" She was very strong, indeed, but he was no slouch in the super-strength dept himself...still, hopefully the SCARVES would hold. "HOld up then, Anya-dearie! Old Phantasmo doesn't want to have to knock some sense into you! That'd be uncalled for!" He gripped the scarves with both hands, clearly attempting to keep Anya restrained, yet prevent her from hurting him. "ANYTIME YOU'RE READY, BK!"

GAaaah! Possessed icelandic lady! Must use SCARVES! The power of the SCARVES! Restrained, but not hurt!...If this works. I hope it does. 1d20+10=20 ...Dooooh, Sh*t!...

Bluff: 1d20+10=13...Doooh, tittybiscuits! Oh, well. Move is 'port up to the Angel.

Hmmmm....Let's see. I assume if need be Phantasmo could distract the Angel with a bit of a song and dance - well, not literally, but generally do a bit of a show - to distract the Angel while those of you with more USEFUL powers de-nano-goo and remove 'em so they can safely be out of danger while we do our - as Nick put it - "Creative Blasphemy." Perhaps a bit of conjuration? A bit of a stage show? Somethign involving - to quote Photo Finish - ze magics? He's good at making distractions. Thoughts?

Huzzah for insight!

Phantasmo hadn't survived...well, not survived...the meaning is clear - this long for nothing. The instant he noticed that Mr. Ancient Freezy Jerk was attempting freeze him, he 'ported to safety, doing a little bow as he did so. "WAIT 'TILL THE CURTAIN FALLS TO ASK FOR AUTOGRAPHS, PLEASE! THE SHOW HAS JUST BEGUN! BUT HAVE A CARD! EHEEEEEEHHHHHAAAAAHAHAHAHA!" As he 'ported, the zombie also tossed a hastily-conjured playing card at the ancient warrior - it hit him in the ribs! ...w00t! "EHEEEEEHHEEHEHAAAHAAHAHAAAA!" He was interrupted mid-evil laugh by Tanya's...commotion. He looked over at her, a bit worried. "...Uh...Tanya, you're..oh, dear. Are you going all exorcist, duckie? ...Dooooh, this can't bode well." He paused. "...But, since I don't know exactly what is going on, and can't do anything about it right now because of this prat - " he jerked his thumb at the Ancient Viking Warrior Zombie. "...I'll file that under "Bloody Weird Goings-On." He 'ported over to Black Knight. "Tell you what, BK-me-lad - Howzabout you ask that magic pig-sticker of yours? After we send this poor sod to Valhalla, of course."

Reflex save...1d20+7=19! Suck it, ancient freezy zombie thing! Toss cards! LIKE A BOSS!...Hopefully...1d20+12=22 Sense motive: 1d20+10=13...Hmmm... Well, anyhoozle - hmmm...

Phantasmo: >Icy Dead People >Incursion: Uploaded to the Cloud

I suppose if need be, Phantasmo could poof the civilians out of harm's way when Wraith and Ghost Girl do their things. Assuming this roll works... Inits: 1d20+3=4 ...D'oh!

This is so awesome! Very cool pics!

"...Well, that's just..." Phantasmo paused,, and looked a bit taken aback. "...Plenty of time to sort out later, I suppose - " He cleared his throat and gave out an awesome bellow. "FOR THE FIRST ACT, AN ACT OF DISAPPEARANCE! ABRACADABRA!" The zombie 'ported up to the Viking Warrior Ghost...thing...and gave a punch that could have broken the skull of a charging bull!...Or tried to, anyway. "OH DAMN!" Having not accounted for the icy ground, Phantasmo accidently slipped, slid...and ran into the wall, spread-eagle. "...Ow." Right, well, that was embarrassing.

Righty-o! For movement - teleporation to yon nasty. For attack - A good old left hook right in the snoot! Take that, you icy bastard!...If this works! I mean - getting punched in the face by a super-strong zombie can't be fun, can it? 1d20+8=17 (D'oh!)

Right, here we go! 1d20+3=8

Phantasmo began to chuckle incredulously. "Oh, F*** off." He saw her expression. "Wait, really?...Well, that's just awesome. I'm in the presence of Viking Royalty! Ooh! That's...wow. Arrrrna - " again with the rolling Rs - "Remind me to buy you a great big crown when we get back, right? Something nice and impressive - wait, back up." The magician looked at the disgruntled dead man. "...You serious, man? You're making skeletal lads and tearing property up because you're mad that Erik the Red took your land?...Not to sound unsympathetic, duckie, but it sounds to me like you just got your arse handed to you. Nothing to feel ashamed about. Happens all the time in history. People die, get their land stolen, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. You want old Phantasmo's advice - you should listen to BK here - that's him, in the armor - and rest in peace. You've fought the good fight. Time to head off to Valhalla or wherever." He sighed, then continued. "But, considering your culture - you're not going to go about quietly, we're going to have to get in a bit of a scrape...You're like old Jenny Jackson in that respect. I can respect that, but enough dilly-dally! Right, then, Arna - Tanya - do stay back, please?" Phantasmo 'ported to the side of his Armored Companion. "LET THE SHOW BEGIN! EEEEEEYYYAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"

Phantasmo, was less than subtle in expressing his feelings. "HOLY SH*T ON A CHEESE SANDWICH!" He turned to his fellow mystic-based heroes. "That poor woman exploded! Did you see that? That great flying bastard - or bitch, androgyny - blew her up!" He 'ported next to Ghost Girl. "Is she a ghost, then? Like you? Of the poltergiestish persuasion?...I doubt it, I think once you explode like that there's less chance of you being a proper spook like you. Hah, proper spook - is there such a thing as an IMPROPER spook, I ask you..." The zombie turned to the other assorted mystic heroes. "Right, duckies! That great big...bitch-bastard, let's call it - nooo, has to be a better term...oh, well, put a pin in that - Anyway, that thing is exploding people and making them think "ooh, tah, we're going to heaven! Let's line up to get blown the f*ck up, and not in a good way!" Phantasmo paused. "...D'you know, as schemes work, I think I've seen worse. 'Father' Tully back home managed to swindle half the town out of it's pocket money before my dad and the lads caught up to him and beat seven kinds of hell out of him. Hah, that was a good day. Anyway!" He clapped his hands suddenly. "Who wants to emulate my old dad and the lads, and give the great bloody not-angel up there a sound arse-kicking, eh?"

Phantasmo blinked. Well, the lights in his eyes went out for a second then lit up again. His version of a blink. He coughed a bit, feeling a bit awkward. "...Sorry, my fellow member of the undead community, I have no idea what the bloody hell you're going on about. Could you hold on for just a tic? Thanks." The zombie 'ported over to sit next to Arna. "D'you speak his lingo, love? D'you think you could provide a bit of translation? I mean - if he's the chap who summoned those dead buggers, tell him - in a very polite manner, no need for us to be rude - but indicate that we're going to kick his arse up and down the mountain 'till the great Odin widens the eye he doesn't have. Well, by "We" I mean the armored lad and myself. Don't get me wrong," He patted her hand gently - his hand felt like slightly rotten shoe leather wrapped in a silk glove - "I'm sure you can prod buttock in your own way, but BK and I are old hands at it. Age before beauty, duckie, age before beauty." He leaned casually against a nearby rock formation and gave a cheery wave to the disgruntled viking zombie-summoning chap. "Be with you in a minute, old man! The show's about to start!"