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About trollthumper

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  1. Lady Horus's grand and terrible fury landed directly on a woman in her mid-40s, wearing a simple red sweater, black slacks, and some chunky jewelry. She knelt down, as if she had never been in a position like this and just assumed that this was just what people did in hostage situations. "Oh, God!" she yelled. "You're that Horus lady, aren't you? I... I don't know what you want! Power? There's nobody with power here. I swear, I just... I got called in because nobody wants to go out today! The world's ending, and I get stuck with watching the till and psychos with powers!" While Lady Horus menaced the middle-aged threat, Arrowhawk II's eyes carried over the exhibits, some of which just seemed like photos thrown together in a rough assembly. One caught her eye, however. It showed row upon row of dour young women in something that approached "prim and proper" but reached "I will cut you." They stood under an arch that read BEDLAM LADIES' ACADEMY.
  2. There was so much Eliza wanted to say. So much that she kept locked away behind that image of the lady of ice. She wanted to know that she could call home, that her mother and father would be there to answer. She wanted to know that they were safe, and not hauled away to be grist for the mill of the great cosmic engines of oblivion. She wanted to know that the spirit world in which she had one foot was still there, and not harrowed or sundered by the great ephemeral backlash of the Terminus intruding upon reality. Most of all, she had so much she wanted to say to Tarva. More than just say - do. She wanted to ask her what right she had. She wanted to ask her why she thought it was her choice to decide whether they would die fighting with their families, or perhaps, die all the same somewhere on the distant end of the multiverse. She wanted to ask her if she ever wanted to find out what it was like to slowly melt while still alive. But in the end, she shut it all down, locked it away in an ice cube and sent it adrift on the greater seas of her psyche. Kimber was right. Knowing the turf was more important than fighting over who sent them down the wrong road. "All right," she said. "I can fly over the grounds on my sledge. Anyone else want to come orienteering?"
  3. "Pact's already been erected," said Nick. "First thing I did before we called all this down. Everyone here, sitting here in this manse, has been let into this world by somebody seeking their benediction. However." Nick pointed to the various walls of the house. "That benediction only applies to this manor. Not the grounds, not the airspace above it, not the tectonic plates beneath it. This house. Go out the doors, slide out the windows, decide to pull a Kool-Aid Man and bulldoze through the walls... the Pact kicks in. Any action outside of these bonds that applies to this plane of reality, and not the greater structures of the divine work, gets you booted back up to the great beyond." He took a seat at the table, pretending as if he was in control. "So. We have called entities of the spirit world, the greater powers that shape the multiverse, and the Deathlords who usher souls off into the beyond. You all know what's at stake if our world falls. You all know what happens to your domains if the Terminus grabs it. Because I've seen it, and it is not the good death. It is the great gnashing jaws of oblivion, the kind of thing that makes Ammut look like a yappy dog." "Do you really have to refer to her that way?" "Sorry, Osiris, trying to make a point here. What I am saying is... we have the power to move mountains, to turn back time, to stop death, in this very room tonight. We have all the powers of the divine of our behalf, when the mortals below you need them the most. "We are here to discuss terms for the continued survival of this world, and/or the souls that call it home."
  4. The "Bedlam Ladies' Association" took a fair bit of aerial Googling, but soon, it became apparent. The Association was a historical society in a small, one-story cottage downtown, a relic kept safe from the devouring maw of gentrification and urban renewal by some horrific, eldritch tangle of zoning laws and old money. The Association had a mixed rep. It was one of the "respectable" faces of Bedlam City and a regular target for field traps, likely on the grounds of "Where the hell else are we going to take the brats with our money"? But the Association had a long history of conflict, dating back to an occupation by campus feminists back in the Seventies, devoted to "unearthing the imagery of womanhood" in Bedlam - one that had resulted in members of the group actually getting seats on the board as a result of targeted attention. And, judging by the current reasons for dispute from campus feminists, it had a very fixed, rather biological sense of the "imagery of womanhood." The Association appeared closed for the day - but then, with its drawn drapes, it usually appeared that way. There was no sign of a disturbance, even as sirens rang through the city below.
  5. @EcalsneergOh yeah, this looks like a classical death geas. Not full of the potency that she is insta-dead if she moves towards breaking it, but you're not sure if that's part of the design. It could be a torturous death is part of the package, or just sloppy craftsmanship.
  6. Temperance entered the conference room, a cold wind sweeping ahead of her. She had found the time to put on her face. She knew the odds were slim that anyone not affiliated with Eve and clued in to the nature of the superheroes dwelling in the DuTemps Building would be stomping around the conference room, but she still felt it helped to take precautions. Plus. It helped to reassure her against the sense that she was unmoored, on a world that was utterly alien to her. "She is here," she said. It was by deference to Kimber that Tarva was not hauled in to the conference room in a block of ice. She stayed close to the shadow witch, not taking a seat until she had. "Now. I believe we are all very interested in hearing your justification."
  7. It looks like the woman in the suit has suffered a stroke, but she's not dead yet. If left alone, her death may be long and torturous, and you're not sure if there's something arcane keeping the stroke going... but she's not dead yet.
  8. "Well, good for you," said the woman in the pantsuit - with something approaching scorn and shot through with a strange dash of admiration, but underlined with that fear reflex that seemed to cause so many things to come out of a terrified individual. She leaned back against the brick wall, trying quite hard to catch her breath. A grim determination seemed to settle over her features. "Very well, then. If someone like that is loose, we're all going to die. But perhaps my death can mean something..." She stepped forward. "I can't say too much. If I speak directly, I..." One eye began to droop, drifting downward as the other stared right ahead. "It's... starting. The bind, it's..." Her words choked for a second, as if her tongue turned to raw meat. "You musst know... find... Bedlam... Ladies'... Accckkk..." She slumped to the ground, one arm twitching. Her back fell against the wall, and she sat much like a marionette lying discarded on the stage, one hand still in convulsions.
  9. Nick retreated to his corner of the Parkhurst, where he'd set aside the materials he needed for this ritual. This would be tricky. He remembered something he'd heard from an occultist who'd managed to pull off one of these multi-party deals - you never want to do them close enough together that the first party going runs into the second party coming. Of course, he'd been dealing with the infernal, and eventually, the only thing found left of him was a large intestine left hanging from a lamppost on Bourbon Street. These were not demons, though some of them did like to front as such. It began with the invocation to Legba, the opening of the crossroads. Four paths that would open through the halls of Parkhurst, leading the gods to the central room. Now began the offerings. Camphor and grave dirt, fine wine and cigars, rotted fruit and maggot-ridden meat - and finally, two coins, one of iron, one of gold. From the west came a black man in coat tails and top hat. Unlike his more prominent brother, he carried himself with a regal air, the cigar in his fingers held with a gentleman's grace. "I, Baron Cimitiere, speak for the lwa." From the east came a woman in a gown that was likely once white; now, it was caked through with pus and ruin millennia old. Her face was ragged and maggot-eaten, her nails long and terrible, and her eyes possessed of hunger. "I, Inazami-no-Mikoto, speak for the kami." From the north came a man with green skin and a long, stylized beard, smelling of kohl. The flail in his hand looked like it could tear down buildings, but the smile on his face was far too affable. "I, Osiris, speak for Heliopolis." And from the south came tongues of flames - flames Nick found entirely unnecessary, but knew they would be part of the display. An olive-skinned man emerged, clad in armor of crimson and gold - armor that soon faded away into a suit the color of obsidian that looked like it cost several souls. "I am Hades. And I speak for my world."
  10. Cannonade Initiative: 17
  11. The old woman had a glint of steel in her eyes the second Arrowhawk spun her around - but between the explosion and the carnage in the room upstairs, there was clear reason for her resolve to snap. She turned away, trying not to meet anyone's eyes. "There are things I cannot say," she said, "for my tongue is bound and my soul may be forfeit. We all swore to follow from the examples of our mothers, who were bled for this city and decided to make it bleed in turn. In time, however, they decided we were more important. But there are those who still believe that death must be grasped with both hands... and whatever they extended a hand towards, it is horrible beyond the telling." Lady Horus, meanwhile, was closing on the Omegadrone. It was still staggered from the assault it had taken, and while it seemed to be righting itself, its flight pack was no match for the Ankh of Horus. He was 1000 feet out... 500... 200... And then there was a grand swirling tide of black in the air, north-north-west from the Omegadrone's current course. The Omegadrone banked hard, driving into the portal and vanishing into its inky folds. Lady Horus was no expert in magic, but the thing seemed to be collapsing fairly rapidly. She might have a few seconds to get through... but what would be on the other side?
  12. She's tough, but not that tough, so she's happy to talk.