Sophistemon
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Samuel gaped at the man, mouth open, eyes wide, and then forced himself to present a modicum of composure -- though as he was wearing a robe, unshaven and roused early from sleep, it was largely a lost cause. "I thought that I told you that I'd turned over a new leaf; I don't get involved in that sort of thing anymore. I'm a changed man, agent Warne: I've reformed." He didn't think it prudent to mention his recent decision to become a superhero, to use his significany magical powers for good. And this certainly wasn't the same thing. Superheroes stopped bank robberies and purse-snatchers; they didn't interrogate drug-addicted magicians. Did they? And then he thought about the money, and how he could use it to get out of this dump, maybe rent an apartment closer to the bookstore. It was an enticing offer, if it was true. He reached up and stroked his beard. "Supposing... that I did decide to help you. How much are we talking about? Like I said, I'm a changed man. If I'm going to go and involve myself in this sort of thing again, AEGIS is going to need to make it worth my while."
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Samuel paused -- not much, but definitely enough for an agent as trained as Warne to notice. Having realized that the jig was up, the former villain sighed, defeated, and took a step backwards into the apartment. "Come in," he groaned, and then plodded over to what passed for his kitchen table and took a seat. When the agent had followed him inside, Samuel began to speak. "I don't know how it works, if that's what you're wondering," he said. "I am not involved, in any way, with the creation of... whatever this is. I have know idea who's making it, how, or why." He took a breath, held it, and tried to calm himself down. This was all very frustrating. "But I've heard things, okay? You don't walk in the kinds of circles that I do -- did! -- without hearing things." He cleared his throat and continued. "There's somebody hiring people, established people, away from their old gangs. I don't know who -- he's either new, or doing new, you follow me? It's a new operation. The rumors are that it's someone big. Someone, you know, super. And the gangs that're losing people don't want to pick a fight with them over some goons, so it all just sort of gets swept under the rug so that nobody has to go to war over it." He shrugged. "That, and they're apparently marketing whatever it is to my kind of people -- you know, the magically-inclined?" He sighed. "And... that's it. There's a new player in town and he's hiring old people. The gangs are ticked about it, but not so ticked that they're willing to die for it. And that's all that I know."
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Knowledge: Arcane Lore: 1d20+11 12. Knowledge: Streetwise: 1d20+3 20. In a complete reversal of what I was expecting, the skill that I invested a significant number of ranks in has utterly failed me whereas the skill that I completely ignored has given me the answers that I need.
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Ah, there it was: the mockery. The demeaning, the insults. They wormed their way under Sam's skin and stuck there like ticks, growing fat on his loathing. His eyes narrowed. "I've downgraded, actually," he said. His voice was hollow -- in his head, he was trying to be a million miles away. "I've switched to caffeine. Turns out that it's better for you. Like I said, I've gone straight." Not strictly true. He'd simply gone another shade of crooked; his attempt so far at recreating himself as a superhero was still in its infancy. But there wasn't any way that this Warne guy could know about that; he'd only ever gone out with the girls from the bookstore so far and nobody else had seen him in costume but that bizarre DJ at Rusty's. "If you're here to shake me down, get me to admit to some wrongdoing, you're wasting your time. I haven't done anything for you to pin on me. And if you're just here to kick an ex-con around for laughs, you're going to find that I'm not very amusing. I don't have any patience for that stuff."
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Sam's breath caught in his throat as his eyes flicked down to the badge and then back up to the face of the suddenly terrifying Agent Warne. This couldn't be happening now, just after he'd finally gotten himself a job -- a job rifling through Al-Kazar's old belongings, at that -- and might finally start making enough money to move out of this dump and into somewhere decent. Not now! "Whatever you've heard," he told the agent. "It isn't true." He worked his tongue inside of his mouth, carefully considering what he'd say next. "I'll have you know that I'm gainfully employed -- you can speak to my parole officer about it; I've confirmed it with him. I've been on the straight and narrow since my release, and I'm happy to say that I don't miss criminality at all." Had he gotten rid of that wallet? He thought that he remembered dumping it in a trash-can fire that he's spotted in an alley, but he couldn't be sure. It wasn't still here, at least, was it? Sam began to speak with a practiced ease. "Do you have a warrant? I won't otherwise consent to your entry into my home." He glanced behind him at the apartment and its constituent mess. "Such as it is."
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Samuel, still asleep, groaned something inaudible and yet still decidedly filthy into his pillow as the pounding on the door invaded his slumber. Grumbling, he rolled himself out of bed, shrugged on a rather threadbare robe and, angrily combing the fingers of one hand through his tousled hair, stomped towards the source of his aggravation. After undoing the latch he threw it open and, before giving himself a chance to see who was on the other side, began to shout. "I told you yesterday that I'd have your rent ready just as soon as I got paid," he roared. "I can't give you money that I don't have so unless you're here to toss me out, kindly fff..." Groggy eyes finally began to see and the former supervillain caught himself mid-swear so that the half-uttered curse hung in the air like cobweb. "You," he said. "Are not my landlord." His eyes narrowed, suspicious. "What do you want?"
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Presto paused. "Corey Hart? The Canadian? Why would...? Oh! Right, right, 'sunglasses at night;' I get it." He tried to move like the Shrike does, down in a crouch, but found that it was too hard on his knees and soon abandoned it. He hoped that it was a result of lack of training instead of age, but couldn't be quite sure. "That's a good trick," he admitted, referring to Grimalkin's faerie heritage. "I've always had to rely a little too much on enchantments; it must be nice to be so... naturally blessed." He exhaled a little too loudly, in what might be taken as a frustrated sigh, before suddenly perking up. "Hey, I don't suppose that Al-Kazar left any of his old spellbooks or something behind? Notes, maybe? Do you think that, while we're cataloging everything, Lynn would let me go thr-" He was struck silent mid-sentence when the panther appeared, all lean muscle and rippling lines, like a chunk of the night had come to life and grown great saber-sharp teeth. After that, he moved on instinct, his right hand swinging up in concert with the Shrike's left, the tip of the wand tracing a silver line in the air as it moved. When Gretchen shouted the word 'three!' a gust of wind burst from the wand in a howling gale, twisting through the air like a miniature tornado.
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"Well," muttered Presto, as he reached into his pocket. "That's ominous." He withdrew a smart phone, now a few years out of date, and thumbed the 'flashlight' application. The screen glowed brightly, illuminating a small cone of the arena as he held it out in front of him. His other hand gripped the wand, and he was already preparing some sort of countermeasure. "She can't just shrink, can she? I've been to zoos; that was a big cat. Is it conjured, or can she change her shape?" He hoped, in this case, that it was the latter. It the beast was something that Lynn had summoned, that meant two things to deal with. But if the shopkeeper had simply turned herself into something else, that was only one thing -- a preferable outcome. "It's nights like this I wish that I could see in the dark..." He paused, thinking. "Maybe I could enchant a pair of sunglasses; would that be too pretentious?"
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Presto stared at the demolished car, his face blanched and his lips pressed to a thin line. "That could have killed me," he mused, and then looked up at Gretchen. "You blasted her into next week; I wouldn't bet on you getting your quarterly bonus." He floated towards her, preparing to follow in pursuit of the now diminutive Lynn. "I didn't know that she could shrink down like that," he said, and then second-guessed himself. "Not that I would know, having only just met the two of you today, but..." he shrugged, and the fine material of his suit shimmered along the contours of his shoulders. "It took me by surprise. Just how powerful is my new employer?"
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recruiting Incoming Magic-y, Mystical-ly Thread(s)
Sophistemon replied to TheAbsurdist's topic in Archives
Excellent! Thank you so much. -
recruiting Incoming Magic-y, Mystical-ly Thread(s)
Sophistemon replied to TheAbsurdist's topic in Archives
Magic? Check. Horror? Check. Faeries? Check. Presto is totally suited for this sort of thing, if you'd be interested in having me. -
Presto (9) One Night At Rusty's (9)
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Presto winced when Shrike flew backwards, propelled by the torrent of water, and bit his lip when she bounced off of the car. Amazingly, his first thought wasn't about going back to prison for putting a young woman in the hospital, but of whether or not his spells of levitation were precise enough to lift her safely and avoid aggravating any injury. Thankfully she proved to be resilient and was able to stand, if a bit shakily. "I didn't -- I'm sorry, I..." he babbled as she made his way towards him, and his eyes widened when he saw that her lip was already swelling from the impact. No water, he thought. Wind only! When she shushed him he lowered his eyes, but then raised them to follow her gesture. "Is that... Lynn?" he asked. Then, his eyes widened when he realized that the weight -- the impossible, cartoonish weight -- was falling towards him. "That's new!" he shouted, and whipped his wand up, realizing only too late that his spells weren't powerful enough to deflect something that massive. Shouting something inarticulate, Presto willed himself outside of the radius of the steadily-enlarging shadow of the falling weight and appeared a few meters away, towards the center of the arena.
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The swirling winds dispersed with an almost comical 'poof' when Grimalkin teleported out of her bonds. Presto grinned to himself when it happened -- had he really thought that it would be that easy, with him as out of practice as he was? -- and turned to face the Shrike just as she launched nearly five-hundred pounds of industrial steel through the air at him. His face blanched and he swung up his arm, the wand tracing a silver line in the air that rapidly expanded into a sturdy wall of opalescent bricks. The engine block smashed into the wall with a thunderous crash -- but it held steady, though shaken by the impact. Presto smirked at the young sorceress and opened his arms wide. "You aren't the first to throw a car at me," he crowed. "And, God willing, you won't be the last!" An arm thrust out towards her, the silver tip of the wand shining in the light like a miniature star, and a jet of water exploded through the air with enough pressure to strip paint from a wall. Wind and water, he thought to himself. Wind and water only. I don't want to hurt them.
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This was not what he'd expected when they'd invited him to come out and junk cars! Presto jumped backwards and the magic sewn into the lining of his clothing carried him up into the air so that Grimalkin's shining claws only just barely missed the polished toes of his shoes. One of his hands darted into his waistcoat with practiced ease and withdrew the wand from an inner pocket. The stadium lighting reflected enough off off the silver tip that it seemed to glow. He leveled the wand at Grimalkin as she landed, but paused. Concern flashed across his face when he realized that he didn't know anything about her powers -- he had told her that his own suit was enchanted to be bulletproof, he recalled that much -- but he couldn't remember if she'd mentioned anything relating to her own durability. Best to play it safe, then. "Showtime!" he shouted, and a gust of wind erupted from the tip of his wand and wound itself around the super-heroine in an attempt to pin her arms to her sides.
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Presto nodded. "I'll never understand the fixation on spandex and leather," he stated. "Granted, it took me months to find the right tailor, and another week or so to decide on the right shade of burgundy for the vest, but there's just something so perfect about a suit..." He stopped and had to listen to the music for a moment or two before realization dawned on him. "Ah, 'The Trial'," he said. "Not my favorite song on the album, for what should be obvious reasons..." At Lynn's urging, the ex-con made his way inside and stood in shocked amazement at what he saw within. "This is amazing," he murmured. "Absolutely incredible. Who put all of this together?"
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Samuel nodded at the conclusion of Gretchen's speech, but didn't have a chance to reply before Lynn tore open a hole in her extra-dimensional pocket and announced their arrival. The former villain grinned at his hostess and flashed a thumb's up. "We're peachy," he said, and followed Gretchen -- now the Shrike -- out through the portal and into the woods. Samuel adjusted his coat around himself and rubbed his hands together to warm them before he reached into his pocket to retrieve a pair of thin white gloves. He slipped them on over his hands and then snapped his fingers. A simple black domino mask appeared in his grip, and he applied it to his face. He turned towards the others and smiled. "What do you think?" he asked. "Can I still rock the old look?"
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Samuel's smile dropped away from his face and, without it, he looked much less at ease with himself. A mixture of hurt and embarrassment bloomed behind his eyes as Gretchen stared into them and said her piece. When she'd finished the smile returned as though it had never left, brought back by force of will, but his eyes remained unsure. The man scooted backwards and raised his hands, palms out, towards the girl. "Whoa there," he said, all friendliness and joviality. "I think that we've misunderstood each-other." He lowered his hands and then pointed one finger towards her ring. "I didn't have anyone to teach me what I do, Gretchen. I had to seek it out and put it all together on my own. I'm self-taught, what they used to call a hedge-wizard in the old stories." He shook his head. "I'm not after your ring, Gretchen. And I certainly don't want to hurt either of you. You've both been too good to me so far for that. Really, I'm just naturally curious about other peoples' magic. Every new piece of knowledge is a priceless treasure, you know." His eyes dropped. "I can... understand if you don't trust me yet. Believe me, I don't know if I'd trust me either. But here's the thing: I've spent the last five years locked in a concrete box, stripped of the only things that make me special, and forced to live near people who could -- and would often threaten -- to twist my head right off." He looked up, met her eyes, and continued. "I've served my time, Gretchen. I'm rehabilitated. I've made mistakes, granted, but don't you think I deserve a chance to prove myself before you accuse me of plotting against you?"
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Samuel blinked, surprised, before a small smile spread across his lips. "You know," he told the young woman. "It kind of does." So, it wasn't that she found him untrustworthy -- this was just her Secret, with a capital S, as dear to her as was his own dependence on the Wand. He reached into his pants pocket and withdrew his own phone. If Gretchen had been paying attention, she would have noticed that it was extremely out of date. It was, in fact, the same phone that he had been using before his incarceration; he'd had neither enough time nor enough spare money to have it updated. Rather than switching the the device to airplane mode, he opted to turn it off entirely. With that done, he turned to Gretchen. "So," he said. "You don't look old enough to have been active back when I was; when did you get wrangled up into the whole 'costume' business?" His eyes dipped down to the ring that she wore on one slender finger and he felt jealousy, like bile, rising up in his chest before his gaze found her face again.
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Samuel nodded as Lynn dismissed the chairs with a wave of her hand -- so simple for her, so effortless -- and disclosed that he wasn't yet trustworthy enough to be told the location of their destination. That irked, slightly, but his smile never wavered. "Of course," he agreed. "I wouldn't expect you to trust me completely right out of the gate. Playing it safe just makes sense." When the portal opened, he peered inside at the warren beyond, and issued a low whistle. "Well, that's something that you don't see every day," he murmured, before he stepped inside and took a seat beside Gretchen on the surprisingly comfortable ground. "This is... much more cozy than I was thinking it would be."
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Samuel Steiner became visible as he turned a corner. He was clad, once again, in his slightly-ratty coat, but it looked to have been sent through the washing machine since the last time the two women had set eyes on it. Judging by his pants, he was still wearing his suit underneath for the same reason that he had offered earlier: it was bulletproof. Samuel smiled when he saw the two outside, waiting for him, and accelerated his pace. "You didn't have to wait outside," he told them when he was close enough to hear. "You could have stayed inside and kept warm; I know how to knock."
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Presto the Preposterous Nothing Up My Sleeve
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Samuel paused, took the smaller of the two bags in one hand, and opened it. He dipped his head down and inhaled, only to be immediately sent back in time to his grandmother's kitchen, where she used to make shockingly similar pastries on a regular basis. He smiled, lost in the memory, before looking back up and taking the second, larger bag. "You know," he told the cashier. "I'm beginning to think that there might be a little magic left in this place after all." He grinned in a way that might have looked just a smidgen deranged and then took his bags one in each hand and made for the exit. It wasn't until he'd walked three or four blocks in the direction of his apartment that he realized that he was still wearing his top-hot, which garnered him a few strange looks. He sighed, set his bags down on a bench, and returned his hat to its small compartment inside of his tailcoat. He took up his packages and began to whistle something tuneless, already thinking ahead of demolishing abandoned vehicles.
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Samuel stood there, in that empty room, holding his coat for what felt like a long time. He set his wand, that length of jet-black, petrified oak, on the table and stared down at it. "Just what do you think you're doing?" he asked. He wasn't speaking to the wand, or even really to himself. His voice was so low that his query didn't carry far beyond his lips. And then, more loudly. "Coincidence? Me, this store, the two of them -- one a fey?" He reached down and reclaimed the wand, holding it before his eyes for a moment before he slid it back into its special pocket in his tailcoat. He patted it there, consolingly, lovingly, before he donned his jacket, took up his books, and left the room to the brightness of the business proper. He approached a sales counter, a smile wide on his features, and set his purchases down. "Just these," he told the cashier. "How are you today?"
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Samuel grinned at the compliment. "Thank you," he said, before turning to Gretchen. "Twelve inches, actually; I went for a solid foot. And it's oak, not holly." His voice sunk to a conspiratorial whisper. "I loved those books, too," he admitted, and gave her a wink. He then listened to their suggestion for an after-work activity, and the grin widened. "Ladies," he said. "It's been years since I've blown something up. It's the little things that you miss in prison, but really cutting loose was near the top of my list. I'm game, if you're serious about wanting to go."