trollthumper

["We are." Cavalier managed to keep his stomach from getting to know his throat quite as intimately this time. He just had to deal with a different kind of unpleasantness. Diplomacy wasn't exactly his forte. Okay, that wasn't true; he knew how to hold his tongue, not drink too much of the local tequila equivalent, and swing from the chandelier at the state function. Mediation wasn't exactly his forte. Standing by and serving back as referee in the great wrestling match of wills - and making sure no one pulled out the folding chair - was something he was used to. Actually guiding the debate... especially in circumstances like this... well. Of course, you had to take your training wheels off sometime. "Let's start with your intentions. I take it you heard the 'request.' Hard to miss it. What is the will of the Council at this time?"

Cannonade's just too pissed to quit. Spend an HP to shake off Dazed, close with the nearest Omegadrone, PAWNCH, then use Improved Grab. The punch is Not Good, so I will spend another HP. 27. Much better. As for the Opposed Grapple, that's a 35.

"A sacrifice, yes." Baron Cimitiere leaned in at the table. "This is often what is necessary to stand before the tide. To maintain the balance of life and death --" Izanagi-no-Mikoto's talons began to peel the wood from the table. "I have had it up to here with 'borders' and 'balance,'" she said. "There is an order to these things. The skull man knows this. We are called. Things are offered. We do not have time to approach this with all the graces of a tea ceremony." She pointed a claw at Nick Cimitiere. "This one asks. He makes a world. What will he offer for it?" Nick Cimitiere folded his hands. The Master Mage was standing right next to him, and it felt like he was about to take a leak in the middle of church. Time to do the dumbest goddamn thing I've ever done. "I offer freedom from The Pact."

APPROVED

Yeah, the math looks good, but Rage is very much an artifact of 3.5 thinking and does not work for a game where you can (and, in our case, should) buy up to caps. When it comes to the backstory... how will you be portraying Thor? In the Freedomverse, when Thor has shown up, he's been a bit of a... well, a raging dick. If this is Thor effectively deciding to get the hell over himself, much like Thor was cast down to Earth in, well, Thor, then that might be understandable, but we may need to work through it so that the canon meshes.

The math needs a little clean up. There are 66 skill ranks, instead of 64 listed, and the Save math lists 5 + 1 + 8 when it's 5 + 1 + 6. Other than that, it looks good. EDIT: And the math has been corrected, so APPROVED

Arrowhawk got her answer quickly. Through Wadjet's thick cloud of smoke, a dark shape loomed - vague at first, but growing clearer with each thudding step. The black light that shone from the edge of its pike cut through the smoke, however; while it did not illuminate matters for its wielder, it was a clear beacon to observers, warning of doom. The Omegadrone charged through the clouds... --- Blackmore's face wrinkled slightly, the twitch of a woman who knew that showing perturbation in front of certain individuals was an invitation for attack or exploitation. Of course, Lady Horus came from a similar background, which was why she was able to recognize the twitch for what it was. "I accept your offer," she said. "As long as it means that my patients won't get more disturbed." She looked to her orderly. "Stand guard outside. Be ready to call the police the second things sound wrong. I'm sure I'll be fine, but... better safe than sorry." Lady Horus followed her into the office. Blackmore closed the door behind her, walked to the desk... and put both hands to the lip of the desk, as if gripping it for support. She shook slightly, as if trying to keep some pain within. Before it could leak out, she turned cold again, turning to Lady Horus. "You know about why this place is as screwed as it is. How much do you know about the Sisterhood?"

All right, we're in combat again at the house. Let's do another tens for each participant: 2, 19, 4, 11, 10, 2, 4, 16, 7, 18 The Omegadrone will use 2 for Initiative, putting it at 13. Its first three actions will be attack, attack, attack, unless things change in play thanks to Wadjet and Arrowhawk's actions.

Miss Grue loomed over the landscape, looking out to the very distance. Standing above the dark field of red flowers, she could see patches in the field, furrows that seemed to be cut out... and built up. It was as if the flowers had been plucked out from the ground, root to stem, in even circles. Well... some were even. Others seemed ragged, as if a toddler has started with a sandcastle, made one mistake, and decided it would be better as a pile. In each circle, even or ragged, lay a pile of the red flowers, slowly dying in the night air. Temperance could feel a shift in the air. Something was out there, something she couldn't quite feel but which pinged the edge of her senses. And Miss Grue could feel it now, too. Like hearing a voice in the radio static. A sense of wanting, desire, creation, understanding, dissection, reconstruction... and it was bearing down on them...

Cannonade Pro Patria 4:00 PM Joe Macayle stood at the end of the quarantine site, almost in a daze. He was not paralyzed; he was still doing what was directed, helping to guide the civilians nearby to freedom, breaking away when need be to go where he was needed. The sound of cries dragged him down Ellsworth Avenue. A family of four, likely stragglers from the celebrations, were being driven down a back alley by two Omegadrones, their power pikes bleeding darkness into the scarlet air. He didn’t even bother to draw their attention. He charged forth like a bullet, his fist driving into the small of one Omegadrone’s back. Metal crumbled like tin foil, and he didn’t hear - or care about - what may have happened to its bones. He simply stared at the family. He didn’t even have to say anything. They just ran. His victory was short-lived as he felt the fire spreading at his neck. The other Omegadrone had jabbed him with the pike, sending entropic agony shooting through his system. He tried to stay upright as the warrior moved in for another blow, trying to pierce his heart -- -- only for the pike to suddenly vanish from his hands. The confusion was short-lived, as the drone was slammed into the wall by a blue blur, blows landing on its head in a concentrated fury until it was unconscious. When all was still, Barrage - Joe’s brother Andy - stood over him, in his blue and white speed suit. “You owe me one,” said Barrage. “Good,” said Joe, half-heartedly. “You still owe me a dozen.” Joe got back to his feet, adjusting his helmet. “I ran as fast as I could,” said Barrage. “The chaos hasn’t spread to Boston yet, and the city’s still preparing for the storm. Freedom looked like it could use my help. Mom?” “She’s still with her family,” Joe said. “She’s fine.” “And Dad?” Joe looked past Andy. He just moved towards the mouth of the alley, trying to return to the chaos. He felt Andy’s hand on the shoulder, but broke free from it. The only thing that stopped him was Andy blinking in front of him, the rush of air running over him from the back. “Joe. Where’s Dad?” 10:55 AM Cannonade stood at attention, hands clasped in front of him. The VIP section was off in the distance - he’d just been a toddler when the Terminus Invasion happened, after all, and he hadn’t been there to face down its horrors directly. But as a hero, he knew he had to be here to pay tribute. And the city had decided that he should be there as well. Eight years, and it still felt a little weird. He’d just been a kid trying to do good by his scene and his class. He was a worker, a punk, a guy just pulling his weight like he was expected to and making sure that he didn’t getting buried under a bunch of false plaudits. And now here he was. A hero of Freedom. There were still people who called him a radical, a thug, a dangerous man given validation - but the city most definitely didn’t see him as a menace. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be here. “It was a hell of a time.” Cannonade turned to the man next to him, trying hard not to give too much away. He was far enough from the crowds that people wouldn’t necessarily suspect much if he was trading friendly words with Greg Macayle, a man who had managed to survive the Invasion back in the Nineties. And who happened to be his father. “Still don’t remember it.” “You were in diapers. You were expecting to remember it?” “I don’t know. Maybe something. All I’ve really seen is the footage…” “What, you thought it might dislodge something?” Cannonade didn’t really feel like answering that one. He was starting to realize how foolish it all sounded. “How’s Mom doing?” he said, a little softer. “She’s fine. Called me this morning. The funeral’s today, and she just wanted to talk. Get some support.” The funeral for Great-Aunt Mary. A woman who had been born around the same time as Greg Macayle. Before he’d realized just ran through his family tree, Joe had just accepted his parents’ relationship as “a little different,” but still something that worked. Even though his father looked like a man 20 years his junior, which - going by the old photo albums - must’ve started at around age 30 and progressed at an exponential rate. Looking at him, one wouldn’t think he’d have been born in the months right before WWII ended. It was likely some side effect of the treatment Joe’s grandfather had received. Even if his dad didn’t get the powers, he at least got the constitution of a man who could take on tank shells. He’d at least look relatively young and relatively fit into old age. Though the closer that time came, the more it felt… not strange, but on the outside of things. Like a displacement from the flow of the world. Then again, Cannonade had traveled to alternate dimensions, been flung back in time by horrible gods, and had his hear gear insulted by velociraptors, so who the hell was he to think that things felt out of place? “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it out,” said Cannonade. “If I could --” “It’s all right,” Greg said. “They understand. Mary was a bit distant from us; think you only saw her a handful of times.” “Yeah, but… I don’t know. Guess I’m feeling weird about the whole family thing…” “Does this have something to do with Asli?” “Dad --” “Look, I’ve told you --” “Dad, I really don’t think this is the time for --” The silence hit maybe a second before the shockwave. Cannonade could remember it well, because it hit with such speed, that it felt like the words themselves were caught on his tongue. Then the screaming began, and the sky bled. 11:03 AM They were everywhere. The idea of focusing on anywhere else seemed ludicrous, because to Cannonade, the Omegadrones were everywhere else. The ones in the air flew in such tight formation that leaping up at them like a cannonball seemed like trying to knock down a brick wall with a tomato. The ones in the ground were marching in full formation, power-pikes at the ready, tearing through the crowd with dreadful precision. Of course, the best way to deal with that was to just tear everything down. He rose, and he fell. He swung blindly, grabbed tight, tore through armor and shattered pikes in his hands. There was no time to breathe. There was just a path to clear. A way to get everyone out. The blows kept landing. Cutting through his costume, searing his nerves. At this point, he was surprised his helmet was still on. He didn’t care. He just had to break these bastards. The more he took down, the more space there would be for everyone else to get out of the park. Get to shelter. Finally, the ecstasy of fury became too much. Cannonade had to stop, had to breathe, had to assess the terrain. And that was when his heart broke. A group of civilians were penned in towards the south gate, surrounded on all sides by Omegadrones. At the head of the group was Greg, standing in the way of everyone else. Goddamnit, Dad… Cannonade ran across the green at top speed, but he knew it wouldn’t be enough. The lead Omegadrone brought his power-pike down -- And Greg caught it. And Greg bent it. Cannonade kept coming, not letting the display give him pause. He arrived just in time for Greg to drive his fist right into the Omegadrone’s armor, denting it hard enough to nearly cave the thing’s chest in. Cannonade took advantage of the chaos to grab another Omegadrone and hurl it right into the other. “Run!” he said to the rest of the group. They seized the opportunity. Greg did not. He just seemed to stand there, stunned. “Dad…” Greg smiled. “Well, it’s about ****ing time.” Cannonade wrapped his arms around his dad. “How… I mean, damn, I thought…” “Must be the same thing as you and Andy. Near-death experience. Guess I just haven’t been dumb enough to throw myself into harm’s way.” “But the car crash…” Years ago, some asshole of a wannabe supervillain had seen Cannonade as a moral scourge on the city and decided to try breaking him. Greg had been hit by a car and sent into a coma. If this was enough to trigger his powers, then why hadn’t that? “Maybe I needed more of a jolt. I don’t think this is supposed to be consistent. They gave this stuff to my dad in, what, the Forties? What the hell did they know about genetics back then?” “Well, if they didn’t know crap, we wouldn’t be here.” Cannonade looked back on the burning park. There was still a lot to do. “What do you say? Macayle and son?” “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” 12:00 PM The sky was still on fire. Captain Thunder was trading blows with some mad god of metal and oblivion above, raining carnage down below. And there were still people unlucky enough to be caught, and monsters unlucky enough to be in the way. Cannonade was leading a group of people out of the forest, where they’d sought shelter when the invasion had started. Greg, his suit practically in tatters by now, was driving back a horde of Omegadrones single-handed, nearly beating them into the ground like tent pegs. By the time Cannonade got back from the gate entrance, they’d be routed. “Damn,” he said. “I didn’t know you could hit like that.” “You didn’t see me in my boxing days. Guess I’ve been… penting it up for a while…” He and Cannonade ran back into the field. “Not the right time, I know,” he said, “but we gotta come up with a name for ya. Cannonade, Barrage… it’s kinda become a thing. And if you’re gonna be wearing the atomweave with us…” “As long as it’s not Blitzkrieg, I think I’ll--” Greg started to slow, and Cannonade felt himself slowing to catch up. Greg was breathing hard, clutching his chest. “Dad?” “It’s okay. I think… I’m just catching up to it. Christ, when was the last time I went to the gym?” “I had my growing pains, too. Don’t worry. We’re gonna --” Something slammed into the earth like God’s fist. A terrible tower of black metal and red flame, folded within itself. It soon unfolded, turning into a strange tank poised on sinuous legs. It looked down on Cannonade and Greg, its jeweled eyes burning red. “RUN!” Cannonade and Greg ran in separate directions from where they’d been standing. Half a second later, the ground was… obliterated. Not in flames. Not exploded. Just… gone. “We can’t let those bastards stay upright,” Cannonade yelled from behind cover. “The rest of the League’s already fighting the big guys, and if this War of the Worlds ****er joins the party for long…” Cannonade paused. He realized, even in all the chaos, from several yards away, he could hear his father breathing. It sounded ragged, wheezing. Almost like a death rattle… “...Dad?” “Joe… I’m sorry. I don’t think I was… meant to have this. Not now…” “Dad… Dad, listen to me. You’re going to be okay. We’ll get you out of here, the AEGIS guys will look at you --” “Goddamnit, Joe, I’ve worked with guys who lived on beer and brats for years, you think I don’t know what a heart attack feels like?” Greg drew a ragged breath. "Joe... I've been feeling like this for the last thirty minutes. It's just... been getting real bad now... I just... I had to help you..." Silence hung between them, even as the world burned around them. “Tell your mother I love her, and I’m sorry…” “Dad…” Greg pulled himself out from cover, eyes bearing down on the tripod. “Tell Andy… he’s going to be a great man…” “Dad, please, don’t, come on, we can do this…” Greg locked eyes with Cannonade. “And Joe… you already are. I’m so ****ing proud of you.” Greg charged towards the tripod. The flames bore down to meet him. Soon, there was only the rending of metal and the burning of flesh. “DAD!” The earth boiled away under Cannonade’s feet. He tried to run towards the carnage, but the earth was sweeping him away, like the torrents of an erupting volcano. “DAD, PLEASE!” And then, for a time, there was darkness. 7:30 PM “Your father died a hero.” There was a break in the chaos. Liberty Park was closed, but Freedom had become Ground Zero for the Terminus’s latest dreadful campaign. There would be no peace, and there might be no tomorrow. But there was at least enough time for answers. Commander Grayston had met with Cannonade at a relief camp at Lonely Point, some time after the worst of the first wave. Enough time to recover from the onslaught at the park. Enough time to be pulled from the disturbed earth by Doctor Metropolis. Enough time to tell Andy the terrible news, and to listen to his mother break down from the other end of the line. “The lab geeks… had a theory like this. That the reason your father never underwent the change after a trigger was that his body would recognize the strain it entailed. Your grandfather your brother, you - you all underwent the change in your early 20s. A man of his age… such a radical process might have overclocked his metabolism.” “So? Why the **** did this happen?” “Perhaps…” Commander Grayston threw his hands in the air. “I don’t ****ing know. Maybe your father was bullheaded enough to override the inhibitors. Maybe he was so determined that he willed his body into kicking off the change. Same way a man can get angry enough, he has a stroke.” Cannonade felt like, if he was still in his right mind, he would have punched Grayston in the face for the comparison. All he could do was just stare ahead at the smoke rising over Freedom City. “This is what your father wanted, Mr. Macayle. I know it’s hard to accept, but…” Cannonade shook his head. “No. I get it. It’s… it’s how he’d want to go out. Same way I’d want to go out, I guess. Y’know, if my options were really ****ing limited.” “Well, I’d hate to say it, but… I think we’re all looking down that barrel right now.” Commander Grayston looked to him. “Joe… if you want to honor your father…” “Y’know, Commander… you don’t have to talk to me like you really knew him.” Cannonade got up and moved towards the door. “I know what I’m gonna do to honor him. “I’m gonna kill every last ****ing one of them.”

EP: JETTE manages to find, among the shards of the coffin, a scrap of paper with CRAW on it. Looks like formal paperwork - at least, the bit you find.

To JETTE's immense relief, the graves looked like all the digging had come from outside. The clean and careful cuts one might associate with shovels, coupled with the damage to the coffins one might associate with a sledgehammer. And the shards of wood were mostly inside the coffin, which suggested this was a break-in, rather than a break-out. That just left a number of other uncomfortable questions... but they were better than the first ones. --- "There's no need to shout." The voice came with that specific air that Lady Horus knew so well - aiming for compassionate communication, but fraught with the icy rime of "I have better things to handle than you." "I'm here." The woman emerged, with that tight black bob associated with the most hidebound professionals and skin that suggested either La Mer or the blood of virgins. But the eyes... Anna knew those eyes, and the age behind them. Every girl has a secret... "I'm Dr. Blackmore. And I would greatly prefer if you keep your voice down - there are patients here trying to get help." She did not seem at all shaken by the presence of a screaming Egyptian goddess. "Now. How can I help?" --- The inside of the house looked like it had recently hosed amateur demolition night. Scorch marks on the walls, shattered counters, and a faint smell of ichor. As Arrowhawk and Wadjet crept over the broken glass, there was a slight creak. A cabinet under the kitchen island opened, revealing a young woman in her late teens. "The... thing," she whispered. "The demon. It's here. It's come. It, my mother, she... we're all going to die, aren't we?" From the living room came the whirr of servos and the impact of armor-clad feet...

"The Deathlords are just as concerned about survival as the rest of us," said Nick. "From what we understand, the Terminus is oblivion. There have been reports of worlds and their pantheons being consumed by its hunger --" "Reports." Izanami-no-Mikoto's nails, ivory done up in dried gore, rapped on the table, leaving narrow gouges. "Rumor. Whisper. You have dragged us down here to discuss hollow fears? Why should we not leave now?" "Because, for all that some of you like to treat the daily death toll like it's a sports match, I know you have a reason you care for souls. It may be some sort of benevolence. It may be a cosmic game of 'mine's bigger.' But I also know you're likely not fans of what might happens if someone comes along and sets your scoreboard on fire. If they don't catch you in the inferno as well." Nick took a quick breath. "We are here to discuss alternatives. Possibilities, for if this fight doesn't go horribly wrong. Others here are better suited to discuss the creation of new realms for the living. I myself am best suited to discuss the creation of new realms for the dead." "I'm sorry." Hades leaned in over the table. "Here you are talking about us like we're a bunch of capering egotists, and now you want to talk to us about holding hands and getting along as an escape mechanism in the face of oblivion? Let us say that your fears are true. Let us say that we can create a little 'escape hatch' in the back corners of divinity. Who would rule over it?" A terrible smile flickered across his face. "Mr. Cimitiere, are you actually trying to appeal for divinity?" Nick grinned. "I would make the worst god," he said, "and I've seen some truly terrible ones. No, what I'm proposing is... actually, I think I've hogged my space at the table long enough." He looked to Rene, Phantom, and Miss Britannia. "Time to hear from the other parties."

Indira can definitely hear something underneath the earth - not sinister, but little things like voles, moles, earthworms, etc. All gnawing away at the earth. Off in the distance, she can hear night birds - not anything like owls, but maybe something vaguely like that. There's also something like whispering, all around them, but that may just be the wind. I mean, it sounds nothing like language...

For JETTE, finding Alexia Hargrove and Margaret Sangford was relatively easy. Both were buried in the Belmont Cemetery, not that far off from what had once been Scarlet Hill. Even with the general economic downturn (and the downturn in general), the area was still somewhat well-maintained, which made the graves a little easier to find. The first thing she noticed was the very obvious fact that the graves had been unearthed. There was security tape all around the open graves, but no groundskeeper to be seen - possibly off dealing with some other crisis. The second thing she noticed was that, although both graves were in family plots, the graves themselves stood out - slightly darker than the other graves and somewhat more pointed, almost like ritual daggers. Both even shared a carved saying: "MAY THE BURDENS OF OUR PAST BE SHARED" --- Lady Horus found herself in the middle of the admissions building at Crawley, where there were swiftly many orderlies and security guards surrounding her, all with tasers drawn. It appeared that they were all on edge - not that she could blame them, given the state of affairs outside. "You're that lady who thinks she's a god, huh?" cracked one of the orderlies, who seemed to have the bravado of the truly clueless. "Finally decided it was time for an assessment?" --- To Wadjet, Stone Hill seemed all too familiar. The tall walls with the broken coke bottle defenses, the pristine and well-manicured order - it was definitely the kind of grandeur cultivated by people who feared poverty and classlessness could spread by touch and needed a strong quarantine. A search in transit had given them the address of Abigail Morley, and they had managed to hop the broken glass in order to sneak past the walls that kept Stone Hill isolated. Better that than drive through the gates in masks, of course. The Morley house was a kind of elegant abomination, as if an old Tudor house had developed grand and shapely tumors. It was somewhere between styles, resembling the efforts of a draftsman who had heard of Gaudi and idly wondered about the possibilities. Right now, the lights seemed dim, as if nobody was home. But as Arrowhawk and Wadjet came around the side, they found the shattered patio windows - as if something the size of a large man had just charged through the plate glass...

@Fox @Tiffany Korta Anything Indira and Daphne might be doing on patrol?

Bruised and Dazed, which I will accept because drama.

The woman didn't protest - at least, not yet. It was as if she knew that any objection, practical or otherwise, would end in terrible things. "It was hard to gather these records," she said, handing over the pile of papers. "Pieces seemed to fall between the cracks for years, and some of the documents from the last days of the Ladies' Academy were... indecipherable. To the point that many members of the Society thought they were forgeries, pieced together to spook anyone who went looking for urban legends --" She cleared her throat, as if realizing that now was not the right time to ramble. "This is the list of survivors. Hargrove, Morley, Sanford, Blackmore..." She peered at the list, with only the interest of somebody who regularly read the society papers could muster. "I know some of these. Abigail Morley is over in Stone Ridge, where many of the other influential families of Bedlam went after the incident on Scarlett Hill. And Ramona Blackmore... I believe she's on the board at Crawley..."

The outside was still dark when they emerged. Temperance's flashlight cut a narrow beam through the dark. There were higher powered flashlights within the DuTemps, but there was always the risk of predators here, and she didn't feel much like running the risk of getting eaten by something that a T. rex look like a gecko a thousand eternities from home. From what Bluebird had told them, the field went on for half a mile - which seemed large, to Temperance, but stranger things did indeed exist in their own world. She sniffed the air, tentatively. There was that strange scent coming from the flowers - like lilac, but not entirely there, with perhaps a bit of camphor - and she still couldn't place them. In fact... she couldn't see any spirits in the field. This was strange. In a concentration of plant life like this, she would have expected at least a minor functionary of the courts. But perhaps this world had no spirits, like Sharl's Tronik. Perhaps it was a magic-flat world that never sustained the kind of ecosystem that would allow objects to develop animistic personifications. If that's the case, I'm going to need to kick Tarva's ass three times over. To Miss Grue, there was a similar strangeness in the air. She could only place it after a few minutes - no emotions, no minds. She had seen enough of Earth to believe that night like this might be a time for rats, owls, foxes, and other things that hunted or foraged in the nights. There might even be, as unpleasant as it might feel, the brief snuff of one of those meeting something larger and hungrier. But there was no hint of primal thought or emotion across the field. And the further they went, the more than absence seemed to poke at the back of her mind.

"The school..." The woman looked confused, as if not expecting to have to answer this question in front of an Egyptian god. "1919. There was... something happened there, leading to its closure. Ten girls dead in one night. No explanation of the deaths was ever made clear. There have always been rumors in Bedlam, especially among ghost hunters. Some girls died of smoke inhalation, but there was no trace of fire in the building. One girl choked to death on blood despite having no external or internal injuries. The sort of stories we don't deal with here, but the kind everyone likes to bombard us with." She shook her head. "But everyone's talking about the end of the world. Maybe they were right. The school was closed after the tragedy, though the survivors stayed together in the form of a sorority among the higher echelons of Bedlam. The grounds were claimed by Dr. Hartwood Crawley two years later; the Crawley Aslyum stands there to this day."

Okay, been a while. My fault, too. Will let @Tiffany Korta or @alderwitch respond to the developments.

Cannonade saw the others tearing into the Omegadrones. There was nothing he wanted to do more than join them, to just set aside every restraint and just reduce these bastards to red paste. But he knew who he was. The fury, the rage... okay, that was him. Before, the restraints had been the idea of being a better citizen, of living up to a legacy... of not disappointing his father and his family. It all seemed so brittle now. But there was still that last restraint. That thin strand of steel that kept him for letting loose the inferno. The very fact of who he was. He knew that so well, it seemed strange that he had forgotten it. The fury seemed to bleed. But he knew where to throw himself. He landed among the hordes, trying to draw the attention of the Omegadrones that hadn't been engaged - namely, drawing them away from the civilians who they might take potshots at as they ran. He cracked his knuckles, speaking loud enough that it qualified as a shout. "Been a while for you guys, hasn't it?" He cracked his knuckles. "I've got no idea what your hellpit of a homeworld's like, but there are things that a lot worse. Let me show you f----ers how we do things in Freedom..."

Cannonade is going to jump into the horde of ungrappled Omegadrones in an attempt to draw fire while spending an HP and a standard action to Inspire (+5).

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.

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?"