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Freedom City Guidebook

Freedom City PBP: A How-To Guide



Everything posted by Ecalsneerg

  1. Osla felt a little uncomfortable with the praise, unfamiliar with the sensation. "Uh, well, I appreciate the flattery." She halting inclined her head towards what she greatly suspected was a dragon. But then, everything had to be about titles and allusions. Gods, superheroes, gangs... Why did no one ever just say 'Hi I'm Osla and I shoot things.'? "Well, I don't endeavour to aim for the skies. Not much flies in Bedlam, except perhaps," she inclined her head once more, this time towards Sekhmet. "The one who has the Ankh." She paused for a moment, unsure whether to give her views on combat. After all, why would she let others know what she was likely to do... but then, was it too much to be paranoid to make small talk. "I can't say I never resort to my fists, but is it really something one should be aspiring to? You can injure yourself; and it oft means disarmament or circumstance has deprived me of the ability to draw my bow, or my axe, or knives, or there is not a nearby chair, or one time I managed to retrieve my own axe from my shoulder and utilise that..." The Arrowhawk trailed off with a shrug.
  2. Osla drew herself up, taking the compliment with a smile. "Well as can be expected. He sends his regards to you and Set." She dipped her head a little, in a semi-formal bow. "And sending his regards to any being, well, it may be a first." Even as she smiled, her eyes darted to and fro, taking in the panoply of sights before her. It seemed every being of mythology was out here this night. Even a dragon. She caught her hand tensing, stopping it before it instinctively moved to her bow. She inclined her head again towards the dragon, and towards the other milling guests. "We haven't been introduced. I am..." Osla paused. This was really mixing and matching a few of her various workplaces. What was she even meant to introduce herself as? Of course, all her numerous titles were on her shoulders but she supposed very few people could read elven script. She couldn't. "I am the Arrowhawk. Osla," she hurriedly added, her smile stiff. Perhaps she'd spent too much time in that dank basement.
  3. Sorry for the late one, lads! Arrowhawk II Tailored Fit - 1PP (but I think maaaybe it merits the 2PP for length?)
  4. A little up the way, at the edge of the woodland; reality recoiled in on itself for a moment. And then it cracked, like someone had pushed the surface of a frozen pond, the jagged frozen edges giving way to flickering images of the world beyond. Through the window in the world could be seen an arid, dusty grove, the canopy closing over it like gnarled fingers hiding the land from the sky. Truly it was one of the darkest spots on Ljósálfheimr; even the underground halls of the elves were a-lit by wonders of elfcraft. And then she strode through, one hand on her hip where she'd again stashed her bow. The Arrowhawk took one step, and then she was no longer in the realm of the elves; she was in the realm of man, inhaling the air of Greece. The silver-blue of her cuirass shone, arms bare and muscles taut as she rolled into the vista; beyond her blue leather gloves, she'd made no effort to conceal her tapestry of scars; from knife to talon to exit wound. Her royal blue cape was enormous, throwing up the dust as she strode onto the trail, but not marring it. A white fur mantle lay on her shoulders, and at her hips she wore a fine bow, an elaborate quiver and a fairly serviceable looking axe. Those not in the know could momentarily confuse her for one of the Aesir. The air was silent for a moment as the hole in reality sealed itself once more, like the ice refreezing at darkest, coldest midnight. The Arrowhawk looked severe, make-up streaked across her eyes in a shade so deep and dark it was like staring into an eclipse, human eyes staring out in a shade just a little too blue. Tension drew across her jaw as she turned, scoping which other guests had arrived at this maybe-trap. Those eyes swept around, making a satyr retreat a little back beyond the path, into the woodland, where she wouldn't see him... would she? That burrowing gaze swept around, until it landed upon the lioness god; and she froze, head cocking slightly to one side before her expression softened and she smiled, even her gaze softening just a couple of shades. "Sekhmet? Is that you?" Osla asked, striding towards her undeterred by the other powerful figures in the area. "I'm surprised to see you without Set. I'd have thought it would have been rather his scene."
  5. Arrowhawk II Late afternoon, 21st June, The Glade of the Armourers, Ljósálfheimr Osla felt a little discomfited by how light the cuirass was. The armour she'd worn in Valhalla had been not of the finest cast. It had chafed, been heavy on the shoulders; especially given she was young, and neither an Asgardian nor an Einherjar. The suit she wore as the Arrowhawk... well, Midgard did some wondrous things with materials, but featherlight it was not. Fenrir's gauntlets would make it feel like paper. A mesh of fine, silver mail encircled her neck up until just below her jaw. Moving subtly against the skin, it swept down to an elaborate cuirass of layered blue-silver metal, the neckline swept back with avian grace to finely engraved spaulders. The engraved elven script upon those spaulders, she couldn't read; for it was twisting and elegant and intricate, every word a work of art. She was told it read out many of her honorifics, which seemed apropos for where she was going. 'Osla born Kriger, daughter of John of Clan Fraser, Arrowhawk Incumbent, Valkyrie of the Allfather, Alive Born Dead, Guardian of The Darkest City', it continued in a similar tiresome vein. She wore trousers of a fine royal blue leather, sturdy but light. It didn't looked as if it had been touched by dye, but what matter of bizarre elven beast would have blue hide? She wore a midnight blue sash around the waist, concealing the seam between cuirass and fabric. Boots and greaves of the same blue-silver metal encased her lower legs. The armour only covered the torso and shoulders, her muscular arms exposed. Despite having otherwise conceded to the custom of make-up, she'd refused concealer. Every scar and abrasion was still visible. They'd faded, her constitution... ambiguously human. But on one forearm, tooth marks from some fell beast, a vicious scar on one elbow from where a giant had nearly ripped the bone from her forearm. Minor, recent scars still showed. Bullets and knives. One of the ljósálf stood behind her, the mythically beautiful elves of light. He looked at once ancient and youthful, it was disorientating to look directly at such a being. He coughed politely before haltingly speaking in Norse, the syllables flowing like wine. "Orheidr, not to gainsay your decision, but I do not believe these are the fashions of Midgardian events." "I don't believe this strictly hews to that," she grimaced, looking at herself in the mirror. The mirror itself was disorientating, it was liquid, like a still pond suspended at right angles in a frame of two still-living trees. "The Unseen and his bride host this gala... And I abhor heels." Osla had considered not going. She couldn't see the value. A bunch of superheroes, none of whom she had a meaningful bond to. A high risk of dangerous enemies. It reeked of a trap. 01.34am, 10th June, Bedlam City, Midgard Her father looked old. John Fraser, the Arrowhawk, sat on the edge of a rooftop, his cape sweeping down past the side. His bow and quiver lay atop a nearby metal heating duct. His hood and mask were off. After long years, his hair was almost totally greyed, wrinkles around his eyes. They were no less sharp than they ever were. He was no less sharp. "Yeah, they like to do those whole shebangs every so often. Think it's to blow off steam. I wouldn't walk into it, though. Hades? You know, I don't do your world, but... well, we all know what he did." Osla's hood was down too, her hair almost ethereal against the night sky. The light pollution shimmered across each lock as it blew in the breeze. "Father, when we spoke on the phone, you told me to attend." Annoyed lines twitched around her mouth. John chuckled to himself, looked down for a moment, before gazing at his daughter. "I said I wouldn't. And I said I wouldn't just... walk into it. But..." He exhaled slowly, glancing to the side. "These things can be viper's nests. But he wants to be seen to be reformed, so I suspect your real danger will be politics. Never was my strong suit. And it will give you the measure of the current crowd. Supers come and go." Osla rolled her eyes. "And we'll all know each other for shirking the actual duty, and partying. That's all they do on Asgard. Fritter away the eons with parties and brawls. I'd have stayed home if I were to do that, Father." She folded her arms across her chest, for a flickering instant the image of a teenage girl complaining to her father about some chore. And then it was two seasoned warriors chatting once more. "And I thought you'd take more after your mother in that regard. Not like me." The first Arrowhawk's lips curled for a moment. "But maybe there's some of Him." She knew what he meant. Osla immediately opened her mouth to protest. In what way were her Father and the All-Father remotely alike? "You know, when you find out you have a kid and she's up there in Viking heaven, you get to reading. Seems to me there's stories of times that Odin and his lot were, in their own way, heroes. And from what you tell me, and from what happened to your poor goddamn mother... They became too apart. They became too detached." John laughed wearily. "You know who wasn't? Julia Dawson. She could sesh, that girl. Her sister used to come up from Manchester, and you'd wake up, and... they'd have stuck a traffic cone on every floor of that damn halls..." His eyes burrowed into Osla's, with all the intensity of the hawk he'd become. "I'm honoured you have taken up your old man's gig and I love you for it, kid. I truly do. But I do this, I chose this life, this horrible lonely life for the Julia Dawsons. I do this for you. Now you do it your way, I know you always do. But have some fun, kid. Go give the Heliopolitan my best." Late afternoon, 21st June, The Glade of the Armourers, Ljósálfheimr The light elf helped Osla don the cape. It was enormous, closer to the heavy silhouette of her father's imposing mantle, than to her own streamlined design. Her father thought he had armoured himself in it; shut out the world in his quest to defend it. Osla thought he was wrong. The All-Father didn't treat his children like the Arrowhawk did. She knew her father laboured under the burden of a lifetime of desperation and mistakes. She knew he wasn't entirely the hero her mother had made him out to be. He was one man. And because of the way he'd become, he'd always been one man. He'd killed people. And it was heavy. She felt it in the cape. The regal blue swept down and behind her, fastening to the cuirass. A mantle of purest white fur was draped, dropping back over her shoulders. She thought it might be some kind of Nifelheim bear, a perverse and dire cousin to Midgard's Arctic bears. "Comfortable?" asked the attendant, waking her from her moment of reverie. "Quite." She turned in the mirror. It echoed Asgardian finery, substituting conventional court fashion for the practical, making up for the overt military use with the sheer force of craftsmanship. This was what they envisioned when they sang sagas. The cape swished behind her. She could still move very easily despite the weight and mass of it on her back. A small smile crossed her lips as she looked down at her chestplate, at the design embedded into the topmost plate. Small, white precious gems picked out the emblem of the Arrowhawk, a white bird shining subtly as the facets glimmered. She turned to look at herself once more in the mirror, and her jaw firmed. It would do. Her brilliant blue eyes were silhouetted by swooshes of eyeshadow, a midnight blue which glittered... but not like Midgard make-up shimmered, like the twinkle of the night sky. Her hair was one curled braid tight against her scalp, a golden swirl against her pale skin. A long time ago. Asgard. Tears streamed down Osla's face. Her rough grey garments were muddy and ripped in a couple of places, her young face red as she tried to fight them back. She couldn't look weak. The Asgardian guard had crudely tossed her into the mud. "Child, why would you think you could enter such an event? You're here on the All-Father's mercy alone. After your mother showed up here, and in her condition, you were granted a considerable amount of tolerance. Do not confuse that tolerance with welcome, child." She turned, looking over her shoulders, fury blazing on her face, quite uncharacteristic of a normal eight year old. "I just wanted to see! I heard the violi-" She wasn't able to finish as the guard spat a curse and cut in, pointing away to the city, to the hills. Their house was out there, away from where anyone else would be bothered by them being there. "I do not care why, and neither will any of the guests. Begone!" He turned on his armoured heel, quick marching back to the palace gates. Back to Asgard. In the distance, she could see the Rainbow Bridge, promising other places. Better places. Maybe Dad was out there. Why wasn't he looking for her? Didn't he know she existed? She sniffed loudly, a wet squelch of tears and snot, as she picked herself up and began to trudge. The Arrowhawk would have beat that guard so badly. He'd have made him apologise to her. Late afternoon, 21st June, The Glade of the Armourers, Ljósálfheimr "I do hope you enjoy your evening, Orheidr. And I trust this settles our debts?" The elf was helpful as Osla outfitted herself with her weapons. The bow which bore the name of her formal title hung at her waist from the sash, resting atop a thigh-strapped quiver, carved by hand out of a single slender branch of one of this realm's majestic willow trees. Arrowhawk tucked an axe into her sash on the opposite side. After all, she was meant to look at her best, and at her best meant a regalia she would not only be proud to be seen in, but still as capable as she would always be. She'd worked for this for a long time. She managed a genuine smile, for a moment as beautiful as her mother had been on her best day. The elf transparently wanted the debt settled, but still... There were even gloves of the same leather as her trousers, albeit thinner, softer, more pliable. They slid up to mid-forearm, fine stitching of golden thread tracing a willow tree design on the back of her hands. "We're even, Simekr. I feel adequately compensated. There was offer of payment from Hades, but well..." Osla arced her neck. "I've only once asked a favour of gods, and once was more than enough for one lifetime." She began to stride out of the glade. Despite her height and strident pace, the elf attendant kept up well, graceful strides allowing him to walk at what was at once a languid amble and a swift advance. "I'll leave from where I arrived. Your home is beautiful; I don't want to mar it with Bifrostburn." "Quite so, Orheidr," Simerkr's delicate expression twisted with disgust at the idea of despoiling the paradisacal realm of the light elves with the clumsy tools of the Aesir. In no time at all, they were in a secluded glade. The canopy was so dense here, it was like walking into a Bedlam alley, even the grass did not quite grow here, the ground dry and dusty, the stone of Ljósálfheimr poking through the verdant soil in places. Without breaking stride, she drew and fired a Bifrost arrow, the coalesced shard of the rainbow bridge shattering as a shimmering hole in reality opened up. Before stepping through, Osla turned, looking over the shoulder to give the elf a final nod. "You look radiant, good lady." The Arrowhawk beamed. "Well, if it's just for the one night... well, why not?" She let it linger for a moment, as she turned, and walked unflinchingly into the rainbow paths.
  6. Geckoman shrugged, looking thoughtful for a moment. "Well, you know, generally at that point I'm just internally going ohno-ohno-ohno-ohno-ohno." He looked wistfully into the distance, before letting out a laugh. "Listen, kids. I still do not know what I'm doing. No one's gonna be able to just tell you what to do if you wake up in an alternate dimension, or if a supervillain poisons all the beverages at a baseball game, or if your girlfriend drives into you so fast it cracks your ribs and the momentum carries you off a skyscraper. Hell; I've done all of those and I can only say I'm confident in what I did after one of them. Y'know what the important bit is? I did it." He turned to Heroditus and looked the young man up and down. "Like, if you want, I'm sure the big guy here and I can figure out some sort of drill for you, but that doesn't have to be the be-all and end-all. Like, practice is good, you want to have tried dodging a bullet before the first time a bad guy shoots at you. But that's not really the hard bit."
  7. Geckoman walked out of the gardens, unexpectedly not flying in or driving in. His suit was a neon green, with boots and gauntlets of an emerald hue. A belt of seemingly endless pockets and pouches hung at his waist, the same banana yellow as the prominent G stretched over a muscular chest. His belt was buckled with an old, tarnished silver pin, emblazoned with an overlapping Y and F. It wasn't the only part of his outfit showing his age, his goggles were much less high tech than the rest of his costume, the leather straps worn and frayed, the edges of the orange circular glass a little chipped and tarnished. He paused, looking from the teenager kneeling on the floor, and up to his former teammate, and then back to the teenager kneeling on the floor. Finally he turned to the other child they were mentoring, an incredulous expression on his face. "Did I... miss something here? Am I kneeling too? Because y'know, I'm more of a..." Geckoman pointed to the pavilion's rafters. "Hanging upside down kind of guy."
  8. Mentors I'll just volunteer Geckoman for it as a former Claremont student.
  9. Osla's lip curled, showing white teeth as another man pointed a gun at her. Normally, her armour of the modern era made her nigh-unkillable by bullets. She wasn't armoured right now. But by Hel's blackened side she wasn't going to just let this man walk all over her, especially not with that accursed amateur randomly firing. She took a step towards the gunman, who kept his eyes dispassionately on her. "Put the gun down." His lips curled up in a brief smile. "No," he said simply, clearly not as verbose as his companions. Osla sighed, rolling her eyes, but before the man had very much time to react, she surged forward, tilting to one side to minimise herself as a target. It didn't quite work. With a cry of pain, she momentarily staggered, dropping to her knees and clutching at her shoulder. A splatter of blood splashed onto the floorboards, a dark maroon stain, which her boot stomped on a moment later as knees shaking she tried to draw herself back up to her feet, glaring at the gunman defiantly.
  10. OK so Osla is gonna use her move action to close the range between her and the Professional. So his reaction goes off. 1d20+6 = 24 Ouch. The heavy pistol is DC19 Toughness, so she rolls 1d20+4 = 8, failing by 11. She's gonna re-roll that. She rolls a 1. So with +4 and +10 that's a 15, failing by 9, so she's Bruised+Injured+Dazed. @Tiffany Korta Liam is up! Remember, if he does anything like move or attack, he'll get shot (but has way higher Toughness), but interaction skills, probably not. Unless you roll horrifically and anger the gunman. TURN ORDER Leader becomes un-Dazed Anna - 37 - 3 HP - Uninjured Junior - 22- NPC - Uninjured Napoleon - 20 - NPC - Uninjured Osla becomes un-Dazed Professional - 15 - NPC - Uninjured Osla - 10 - 3 HP - Bruised, Injured, Dazed Liam - 6 - 1 HP - Uninjured Leader - 6 - NPC - Bruised, Dazed
  11. GM post The words spat out by the group's leader were slurred but unprintable as the bottle collided with his head, leaving him stumbling forward. Fortunately, the man at least had trigger discipline and hadn't been holding the trigger, so his jolt as he stumbled forwards at least didn't lead to an accidental weapon discharge. "What was that?!" squeaked the youngest of the group, turning wildly, pulling his revolver out of the waistband of his pants, pointing it hither and thither. Where had that blur came from? Was there a super in the room? All he knew is that girl in the doorway, she'd been threatening them, it must be related to her. "We told everyone to stand down!" he shouted, and then the small space was full of a deafening sound. Glass exploded behind where the woman had been stood a moment ago as one of the panes in the door was blown apart. The short one laughed nastily, wheeling to Liam, drawing his gun in one fluid motion, holding it trained on the PI with two hands, glowering. "Right, nobody move. We're getting out of here, with the money, and none of that super crap, right?" The man in the long coat also produced a gun, having it in hand, and lifting it one-handed, lowering it to train on the blonde woman where she stood, just off from the door now, brushing some glass off the sleeve of her coat.
  12. Ugh so much rolling to do. Junior panics and tries to shoot Osla! 1d20+4 = 16 is a miss, as she's got Uncanny Dodge Napoleon flies off the handle, and turns to hold his gun on Liam, i.e. he makes a Ready action, so if Liam tries to move/attack, blam. The Professional does the same, except to Osla. And y'know. In a chiller way. TURN ORDER Leader becomes un-Dazed Anna - 37 - 3 HP - Uninjured Junior - 22- NPC - Uninjured Napoleon - 20 - NPC - Uninjured Professional - 15 - NPC - Uninjured Osla - 10 - 3 HP - Uninjured Liam - 6 - 1 HP - Uninjured Leader - 6 - NPC - Bruised, Dazed Osla is up (I'm doing this as a GM post and an IC post so I'll split the OOC)
  13. I'm gonna ignore the reroll because he's a flat-footed man with a shotgun, not a speedster, so he can't dodge that. You get your full +3 to Autofire, making it DC 24. OK so he rolls a 15, failing his save by 9. I'm gonna Fiat so you don't one-shot the boss on round 1 [url=https://orokos.com/roll/918389]Man got punched[/url]: [u]1d20+4[/u] [b]7[/b] + 10 = 17, so not much better, he fails by 7 and is Bruised & Dazed. Anna - 37 - 3 HP - Uninjured Junior - 22- NPC - Uninjured Napoleon - 20 - NPC - Uninjured Professional - 15 - NPC - Uninjured Osla - 10 - 3 HP - Uninjured Liam - 6 - 1 HP - Uninjured Leader - 6 - NPC - Bruised, Dazed
  14. [url=https://orokos.com/roll/918355]Initiative[/url]: [u]1d20+4[/u] [b]6[/b] [u]1d20+3[/u] [b]20[/b] [u]1d20+3[/u] [b]15[/b] [u]1d20+2[/u] [b]22[/b] [url=https://orokos.com/roll/918356]Initiative for Arrowhawk[/url]: [u]1d20+8[/u] [b]10[/b] OK, so! I'm also gonna give Anna a bonus HP for the Secret Identity, but not for the civilians in danger until y'know... they actually point guns at someone not a PC. Also for reference, these guys aren't staggeringly high PL, but they're not Minions. Anna - 37 - 2 HP - Uninjured Junior - 22- NPC - Uninjured Napoleon - 20 - NPC - Uninjured Professional - 15 - NPC - Uninjured Osla - 10 - 3 HP - Uninjured Liam - 6 - 1 HP - Uninjured Leader - 6 - NPC - Uninjured @Avenger Assembled, shocking no one, the speedster is up first.
  15. Yeah that'd be time to roll initiative. @Avenger Assembled @Tiffany Korta
  16. GM post The leader laughed mockingly. "Not sure that's how it works. An old lady name drops some of the local toughs, and we scarper off, is that how this works?" The young one didn't look too convinced. "Uh... maybe this isn't such the best idea..." The short one elbowed him roughly in the ribs, pulling his gun out of his holster with a sneer on his yellowing teeth, staring at these two interlopers. "Please, an old lady tries to scare you and you just fall for it? C'mon, man." Sanchez stood behind the desk, pulling open the cash drawer, pulling out some of the notes. "Please, please, just... we'll give them the money, and then you'll go, won't you, fellas?" He didn't sound especially scared, businessmen in Bedlam got held up all of the time. It'd cut heavily into his profits, but at least he'd live. Suddenly, behind the group of toughs, between them and the door stood a youngish looking woman, her lips twisted into a sneer, eyes a brilliant blue, glaring ahead of her. She looked like she'd been in a fight already that day. She didn't look like a second in any way perturbed her. She spoke with a strange accent, somewhat Scandinavian, but somehow just a little off. "Or they can turn around and walk out of here and no one has to get hurt," she stated, as if it was a constant and this wasn't still up for negotiation. The short angry one wheeled on her, brandishing his gun, even as the leader calmly pulled out a sawn-off shotgun, levelling it at the elderly woman who'd stood up to him. "Can we waste her? I don't like the look of this one," Shorty sneered, as the leader shook his head, an icy expression staring down Anna. "No. They're just going to give us the money, and no one gets hurt. Shoot the girl if she disagrees with that."
  17. OK, so both of you: All of these men are armed; the leader with a shotgun, the other three with revolvers. They've made some effort to conceal them, but not much of an effort - clearly they're keeping the option for intimidation or worse. They're lying about this being a protection racket, this is a straight-up hold-up. The tall, skinny one, this is probably his first major criminal incident, he's jumpy and nervous. Probably the easiest to talk down but also the most likely to accidentally get something killed. The one at the back and the leader are fairly professional, possibly former military or long-term career criminals, they're not especially worried or on edge. The short bald one is also likely a career criminal, but aggressive. He's not the most likely to accidentally get someone killed, but probably most likely to deliberately injure someone. Liam only: I'd really prefer that she didn't until after this situation is resolved one way or another.
  18. If either of you want; you can roll any of the below checks: Knowledge (Streetwise), Notice, Sense Motive
  19. GM post Osla would have rolled her eyes hard if she'd cared enough. She gritted her teeth a little, stuffing her hands into her pockets, but kept staring blankly ahead. She didn't need banter at this time of morning. She needed coffee, two stitches and to lie down and close her eyes for six to seven hours. Even through the increasing din in the busy shop, the sound of the van rolling up could be heard. It was a strange grey-green, and unconcerned with the no parking zone in front of the store. The engine roared, the exhaust pluming out dark smoke; this van was not in particularly great shape, and as it sat idling in front of the shop, the noise of the clattering engine didn't seem to abate much. Four men barrelled out of it, one coming out of the passenger side door, the other three clambering out of the back. They formed a loose square formation as they crashed through the front door, sending the bell a-clacking, one of the men elbowing a gentleman near the door as they uncaringly tromped forward. The leader was a middle-aged Caucasian man, built like a linebacker, in a grey pullover and battered brown leather jacket, walking with his arms spread, his coat bulging in odd places. His blue eyes fixed Sanchez with a sneer as his men fanned around him. The one to his left was young, barely out of his teens, but tall and gangly, arms streaked in track marks, his blonde hair long, lank and greasy. One hand was plunged into the deep pockets of his baggy green cargo trousers, a look of twitchy nervousness barely concealed on a face trying to look dispassive and unintimidated. To the right of the leader stood a short man, perhaps 5'4'', 5'5''? His head was shaved bald and marked with pock marks and scars, his leather jacket open to show a wife beater and a pelt of dark chest hair. Unlike his compatriots, this guy didn't even bother to hide his revolver, holstering it on his hip, one hand idly playing with the handle, eyes dreaming of violence. Behind the group, the calmest and least concerned, stood a man in a knee-length beige trenchcoat, like the ones PIs wore in old 40s flicks. He looked to be in his thirties, and was very non-descript, his eyes an indescribable brown, his hair cut short and a medium brown hue. Hell, even the way he stood didn't jump to the eye, dragging the viewer's attention to his three compatriots. A sneer crossed the leader's lips. "Sanchez, you've not paid your dues this month," he rumbled in a voice of gravel and razor blades. Sanchez looked shocked, taking a step back, bumping against the wall. "I... I... I paid last week!" he said, dumbfounded. Such incidents like this weren't unheard of in this city, not at all, but during the breakfast rush? "That weren't to us," snickered the short, short man, voice nasal and mocking. "So we'll be taking your register, and if it's not enough, I'm sure your patrons will chip in?" He pulled his jacket back further, as if anyone hadn't seen his gun yet.
  20. OOC thread for https://www.freedomplaybypost.com/topic/13399-the-finest-organic-suspension-ic/ As I said, while there will inevitably be combat, the criminals are inevitably going to be low PL so any actual threat will be to civilians and secret identities.
  21. 11th October 2021 7.13am Sanchez's had been in Hardwick for around ten years now, a little café just off Pelecamos Street. Despite the sky-high rent; the business had trundled along by sheer popularity: the food wasn't complicated, but it was good; one of those places where the menu was an inch thick but the chef seemed up to the task. The windows were dusty and grimy, never quite able to get clean, the green paint around the frames flaking and worn to the decaying wood. The interior wasn't especially well lit, the walls painted in a splash of terracotta red, rows of small tables lined against either wall, leaving an alleyway leading to the creaking, worn wooden counter. "Eggs!" came a loud voice from behind the counter, a plate of the breakfast food being set on the ledge of the service hatch. Various commuters and early risers had already begun to filter in, some sitting down to their breakfast, some queuing for coffee, the two waitresses rushing and bustling to serve them with a smile. Osla stood in the line behind a couple of grumbling old gentlemen, sullenly looking to all as if she was ignoring the world. Her Converse were worn and tied loosely, her black jeans ripped at one knee. One hand was thrust into the pocket of a battered black leather jacket, the other hanging loose at her side, a white dressing on the palm, pink with blood in the very centre of it. Her impossibly blonde hair was pulled back in tight braids, pinned to the side of her head in looping coils. It didn't do much to hide the beginnings of blue and black bruise on her forehead. The shipment she'd stopped at the harbour last night had been more heavily guarded than she expected. One of the men clearly had combat experience, and she'd had no choice but to grab his knife. It could have been worse. At least she hadn't been the one being headbutted through a set of broken floorboards. The man at the head of the line filed back out of the store, the bell above the door ringing as he set off into the cool morning, cup of Joe clenched in his hand in a paper cup. Expression unchanging, she went to step forwards, pausing for a moment. One of the waitresses bustled past through the newly formed gap in the line, an apologetic smile on her face and a plate of pancakes in her hand. As soon as she passed, Osla took a step forward, moving along with the line.
  22. Arrowhawk tilted her head to one side, a slow smile appearing on her face. She took a slow deliberate step towards Thrude, creaking emanating from her bow where she gripped it hard enough to squeeze the wood. "Oh, I've no quarrel with coming to Midgard to fight monsters. The real quarrel was when your grandfather wouldn't treat with me and I ran out of the easy choices royalty are afforded. You see, a beast needed slain. And someone had to summon my father, who fulfilled his duty." She slowly cocked her head the other direction, like a raptor eyeing a particularly tasty mouse. "I am no child to assign chores to. Yes, I am in debt to the Liar. And I am heir to Mjolnir's last wielder, I am the inheritor of my father's vigil, and I damn sure will not tolerate any Midgardian suffering at the hands of anything crawling down the Ygdrassil into this realm. And I do it because it is my vigil. Not because your family abdicated theirs long ago. Issue commands and threats to your own servants, Princess. But don't ever make the mistake of confusing me for one of them." One pale finger rapped at the pale hawk upon her breast, rapping against the dense armour. "I am the Arrowhawk. Or one of them, at least. It must be pleasant for you, to always walk in light. But the Arrowhawk bears the darkness, stands fast in it. Until dawn breaks." She took one step closer, unnaturally blue eyes fixing on Thrude's remaining one. Her voice dropped to a murmur, almost a casual whisper between friends in the dark. Almost. "Threaten me again."
  23. Arrowhawk took a step forward, rolling her shoulders casually, ignoring those surrounding her. She didn't much care for forgotten gods and slumbering heroes and valkyries. The squirrel she did remember, though. "Don't needle me, poultry. If Odin yet does not understand why I'd be driven to Loki over him, perhaps I could rip out his other eye and hang him from another tree." She glared at the bird's beady black eyes, jaw clenched hard, looming over it. Bending a little to meet its gaze, she briefly resembled a great bird herself, great wing-like cape draped over her, eyes glaring out from her dark cowl. Upon the revelation of the serpent's activities, she backed away a couple of steps from looming over the avian, and turned to gesture at Thrude with one hand. "And why do you require us? The serpent? Surely this is a labour for her father!" A bitter laugh rang out from her. "Has Odin seen fit to return his hammer to him yet?"
  24. Doktor'd! Edits for Oslahawk Her armour is now illegal; substitute her Second Chance on Toughness saves vs piercing to Toughness save vs conventional blades, i.e. Device 1 (5PP Container, Flaws: Hard to Lose [-1]) [4PP] (Arrowhawk Costume) Protection 3 (Feats: Second Chance [Toughness save vs bullet damage], Second Chance [Toughness save vs conventional blades]) [5PP] (armour) Also of her 11 unspent pp, put 1pp into skills, allocated as follows: 4 ranks of Intimidate, increasing it to Intimidate 12 (+14)
  25. Down the slope from the assembled group, the air crackled for a moment and suddenly split asunder. The edges of the crack in the air were muted rainbow light, like a dimmed Bifrost. Broken splinters of wood and tufts of shredded feathers fluttered down for a second, before boots thudded down onto the slope and the hole closed with the sound of cracking ice. The woman walked up the slope, seemingly unconcerned about the assembly of oddballs and animals before her. She wore a strange mix of modern tactical gear and visibly Asgardian battle garb, carbide strike plates and clawed gauntlets, cloak of a synthetic blend and boots of doe leather and scalemail. An axe and quiver hung from her belt, and she held a bow in one hand. From beneath her hood and mask, two piercingly blue eyes glared up at the group. "And here I thought I was the only one foolish enough to answer the call of he who sits 'pon his throne toying with his spear," laughed Arrowhawk in English, before her eyes flicked over the two ravens. "<I see he has sent his pheasants. Ignorance. Amnesia,>" she greeted them in old Norse, not laughter in her words or eyes even as her lips still grinned.
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