Blue Rose

Aid Another to Cerys' next attack. Result versus DC 10 of enough. She gets +2 on her next attack. 1d20+12=30

Sam reaches out to Tona when she just charges into the fray, but it's pointless. Looks like she's not getting her bow this fight. Instead, she readies herself for another trip into these jerks' heads, when Tona goes down in a blur of motion. That's it. She flexes her hand, summoning up a wispy blue ball of light. Her 'fox fire.' No one has ever figured out quite what the stuff is- at least, no one she'd care to meet- but it's certainly not flame. What she does know is that it hurts, well beyond what little damage it actually does. Not a trick she likes to use. Too direct. Too likely to end with a fist in her gut. While she'd like to just chuck the ball at speedy and hit him in the face, she still has the presence of mind to know better. Instead, she splays her fingers, ripping the ball into five smaller chunks, flicking them towards speedy one at a time, the balls curving and shifting around him, fading in and out of sight, difficult to avoid. The first one that gets anywhere near him explodes near his legs in a burst of ghostly sparks. Harmless, but not something he'll want to run into again while the other four work on corralling him towards Cerys' fist.

Sam shrugs, not particularly worried. "You mean one of the teachers who teach breaking and entering for justice? How to set an ambush? Infiltration?" She'd long found it hilarious that the school of heroes made it so easy for students to learn basics of The Trade. Apparently, there's plenty of overlap between the skills of a thief and the skills of a crime fighter. "And if it's a villain, anyone who can strike at the heart of Claremont has much better things to do than go after the likes of us." She takes a seat, looking thoroughly unconcerned as she begins her own ploy to find whoever's hiding out around here. Despite her words, she finds the arrangement plenty fishy. She starts doing her own scan for hiding places, though not so obviously as Tona's. She simply looks around, setting her eyes on places more plausible than a garbage can. Her first thought is the ceiling. The beams and girders could hold a person easily, and may be quiet enough. Her eyes drift about for a hole in the ceiling tiles someone may be spying through when a thought occurs to her. If this is a teacher, they must be watching. Teachers tend to be quite fond of keeping school property intact. So, she flexes her fingers, a wispy blue flickering ball of light. No one's entirely sure what it is, exactly. It's certainly not real fire, but it's definitely anathema to things that exist. It's not about to level a building. She offers Tona a gesture for patience before floating it up towards the ceiling along where a beam probably is. She could use it to cut along the ceiling, shed some light on it, see if anyone's there. More importantly, she looks like she's about to break something, which should send the faculty running. Or send a villain to do something panicky.

Six minutes later, Samantha Vance steps out of a nearby janitor's closet. She's scoped out perpetually shadowy corners of the campus to help her get around easily, just stepping through the shadows. It lets her show up on time when she sets out a minute before she's told to be somewhere, just like today. Her hair is cut shorter than when Tona last saw it, tamed at considerable effort and she wears a men's button-down shirt in white, which she had tailored to lower the back to her needs, plus a deep blue smoking vest and slacks to match, a very trim look on a very trim body, completed with a set of white gloves and pearl earings. She would have worn red, but with her hair plus her flushing skin once she gets worked up, she ended up looking like a tomato. She steps into the room right on time, her walking shoes- a compromise from the dress shoes the outfit demands, but the smallest one she could manage- making little noise as she slips in the open door. "Hey, Tona. Why are you digging through the trash?" she asks, strolling in.

Depending on which flavor of magic you're going for, Kit could be fun.

Fly, and carry the car?

Can the captain's cart be boat-shaped? Though in her case, she has kinda an unfair advantage in mazes...

1d20+10=29 Wow. Passed. For the record, do these things count as human for purposes of stabbing?

Nothing bad can come from smashing everything in the room! Slicing Gale. 50' burst Damage 10. DC20 Reflex for half. DC25 Toughness on a successful save, DC20 on failed. Preferably not hitting Voltage, but going for both baddies.

The good captain's armor eats the minion's cut, ending in little more than a gash in her cloak. Not a threat, but certainly annoying, and fast enough that in her shock, she lets Dr. Green get away, letting her spare attention enough to spare on these two. She does not lash out. She doesn't toss around some flashy light show. She barely even moves. Instead, she just glowers at the flickering creature, the intensity of her gaze seeming to bring with it a great pressure in the room. This has been a long, frustrating day, and she's about to let every bit of that frustration out. A breeze begins whipping at her hair. A breeze becomes a wind, becomes a storm that grows stronger and wider, smashing everything it touches by virtue of her mere presence. At the center of it all, she stands there calm and unphased, slowly drawing her sword, watching her foes and taking a fencing stance, as if from her place in the eye of this hurricane, the fight hasn't even begun.

Kit Paint the Town Stormbreaker The Inevitable, The Inexorable Medical Maladies

Clearly, he doesn't love his mom enough.

Silvia dropped in a dating sim. :P

DC17 Subtle emotion control. Going for the despair one (AFB at the moment).

Kit's gaze darts from the fight to Tona and back. Tona is definitely breathing, at least. A little longer and Cerys and Mali might not be. In the back of her head, she's already guessing what that patch she saw on the big guy was. If she's right, the rest of them have it, too. If so, they may not be skilled enough to hold back. She sets her sights on the blurry guy fighting Mali. She may see a flurry of bodies, but he still has only one mind. So, she digs in there, going deep, trying to reduce him to a wallowing mess. Memories of his mother and what she'd think are a prime target, about him going up to some woman just trying to have a fun night out on the town and thrashing her, ruining a nice new dress, freaking out a building full of people, and generally being a jerk. Not a dignified way for a guy to go down, but certainly less messy than her friends' methods.

Well, my suitemate didn't pay our internet bill before going on leave, which means net time is very limited until she gets back and sorts that out. *Facepalm.*

"That would be lovely," the captain replies, not entirely sure what a 'fritter' is. But with her guests seated, she can begin her meal, starting with a quick and entirely satisfactory bite of crab, then a sip of wine. "Unwise," she says simply to Young Britannia's plan. "You have seen how he moves. He can do legwork far faster than we can. Were you to join him, either you would slow him down tremendously in the most literal sense, or he would continue at his own pace and it would defeat the purpose of going with him. Once we find something, we shall gather again, hopefully." With that said, she tries a nice, juicy bite of steak, nodding approvingly while she keeps an ear peeled for her guests in the brig. No need to tell the immediate company that she had already brought business to the meal until there is something to report.

1d20+10=16 Crap. Reroll. 1d20+10=16 And +10 makes 26. Pass.

"You are quite welcome," the good captain replies graciously, taking her seat but not starting her meal proper until all guests are seated, instead busying herself with the little niceties like straightening her napkin in her lap. There are rules and procedures for these situations, after all. "We did, yes," she begins answering the question, placing a subtle emphasis on the past tense. "Farmland stretching from pole to pole, across the entire planet. But that was long ago." Her voice trails off, and she feels odd speaking of her lost planet as home. In her original form, she never could appreciate such things, and yet, what was it if not home? She's certainly not going to have a religion built around her anywhere else.

Initiative of... 1d20+1=5 Crap.

And so, Mister Vetto is escorted aboard, and all who are hungry- Jubatus aside- are lead to the captain's personal dining hall. It's far cozier than the main chow hall, enough for maybe a dozen people if they expanded the table fully. Half that, at the moment. It's a room of polished wood and earth-toned tapestries, and furniture with deep green upholstery. The place are sterling, and there's fresh fruit on the table. "Please, be seated. We may not have time to savor our meal, but that does not mean we can't enjoy it." Nearly as soon as everyone is in the room, the meal comes all at once. Rolls, salads, and the main course; steak and crab on a bed of rice, already shelled and cut into bite-sized pieces. A courtesy for the one-armed captain, done for everyone so as not to single her out. Everyone gets a glass of water, and a young man makes the rounds offering white wine, which Silvia accepts. Meanwhile, Vetto and MacBride receive their own meals, the same as is served above save that there is no water, only wine, and their guard is conspicuously relieved for chow without relief, leaving the pair completely alone. And well within earshot of the ship's captain.

This time, Sam sees the blow coming just fine. She's not about to dodge it, that's for sure, but she can roll with it. In fact, she can roll with it clear off the floor, leaping several feet away, and diving into the crowd of onlookers, where she vanishes from sight, falling straight through their collective shadows and emerging backstage, nursing a Hell of a mark across her cheek, but she can deal with that later. "Tona?" she calls out to the drums, staggering a bit as she stands up. "You okay, Tona?" she asks, beckoning her to come closer, gaze shifting to their table, their bags. Tona's gear. Gotta get her over there. Kit lets out a sigh, wishing she weren't back on the clock. She undoes the loose knot on her scarf, letting it fall to the floor and exposing the black brand on her back. With that last burst of power, she could already start to smell the thing from that accursed mark heating up. Any longer and it could have gotten embarrassing.

Hoo boy. Toughness: 1d20+5=9 Crap. Reroll. 1d20+5=12 +10 makes 22. Bruised. Move action to get to the shadows, standard action to teleport over to Tona.

Stormbreaker steps through the blasted-down door, ready to come swinging, but then she sees the tiny mouse of a man sitting at a desk. One glance makes it clear; there is no glory here. Just spineless minions and tricks. "Let me guess. This was all a ploy to gather data, which is why everything was tailored to make our coming here easier, and now you have no further use for us, and you have some trick up your sleeve to keep me from ending this in a single blast right now." She raises her hand and gathers a swirling ball of air the size of a marble, so dense it's just barely visible, and fires it like a bullet at the mad doctor's monitor, half expecting it to hit some sort of energy shield. Though that may be wishful thinking; she could sell a quality energy shield.

+1 edit.