SpicyWaffle

Dagnabbit, you're right. Even with Attractive 1 he would have been over caps. Shaved some skills down, dropped Attractive to 1, and dumped the two extra PP into just boosting CHA by +2 to keep as close to caps as possible. Should be kosher now!

Black Rabbit Power Level: 10 (150/150) Unspent Power Points: 0 Trade-Offs: +5 Attack/-5 Damage In Brief: Ex-New Freedomite Teen Endowed with Ancestral Rabbit Totem Alternate Identity: Tom Rhodes (Secret) Birthplace: “Pella, Iowa.” (New Freedom, Antarctica) Residence: Claremont Academy, Freedom City Base of Operations: Claremont Academy Occupation: Claremont Student, Superhero-in-Training Affiliations: Claremont Academy, AEGIS Family: “Totally still alive back home in Iowa.” (Rebekkah Carter (Mother), Silver-Stag (Father), both presumed deceased.) Description: Age: 16 (DoB: April 17th, 2002) Apparent Age: Mid-Teens Gender: Male Ethnicity: Mixed New Freedomite/Native American Height: 5’8” Weight: 160 Lbs. Eyes: Brown Hair: Black Appearance: With warm, perpetually sun-kissed skin, dark wavy hair, cool brown eyes, an athletic build and natural boyish charm, Tom Rhodes is clearly blessed with both good genes and his parents’ borderline preternatural good looks. In another life, he might have made a fine model later in life, were it not for the multitude of scars dotting his body - each of which he’s devised a clever lie to conceal the truth behind. Old lacerations and pock marks are most common on his arms, back, and chest from training, while the tell-tale signs of a poorly healed burn is sorely present on his right shoulder. An extremely faint, short, almost wholly vertical scar lines his left cheek, while another has left a noticeable gap in his left brow. Aside from his physical looks, the way he carries himself is also noticeable under any kind of scrutiny. He moves with rhythmic purpose, a sort of precision and order that really starts to stand out the more kids you put him side-by-side with. Poor funding aside for such niceties, avoiding the fashion faux pas of Freedom City has been a challenge for Tom, and it clearly shows as his transition from an entire wardrobe consisting of militant greys to one that permits color (and other fabrics, even!) continues to ruin any chance of appearing cool, suave or even just well-dressed without the assistance of others. Typically, when left to his own devices, he prefers thrift store clothes in solid dark colors and practical denim with last years least fashionable tennis shoes. This is just a polite way of saying he dresses slightly better than some hobos - but only some. Generally speaking, Tom prefers to simply wear the Claremont uniform whenever possible. Though he’s not especially fond of the bright colors that it takes up, he does appreciate the sense of camaraderie and unity it instills; arguably the last remnant of respect he might have for his initial upbringing. He hasn’t made any personal amendments to it, aside from adopting a yellow-and-blue hood and domino mask to go along with it when he’s out and about fighting for his new home in Freedom City. History: Growing up in New Freedom under the regime of President Harper, Three-Winds was the latest in a long line of totemic champions, destined to follow in the footsteps of his grandparents and parents as peacekeepers against the enemies that took up residence both inside and outside of its walls. It was a childhood of conflicting educations: of both the Old Guard of Othello, the Old Ways of his people and the spirits they revered, but also of the brutal indoctrination initiated by Jade Harper and New Freedom’s newly-minted (and quickly escalating) cruel way of life. Striking a delicate balance between spiritualism and fascist militarism, Three-Winds was groomed by his parents for obedience and to further the cause Othello had started, bearing all the strengths and talents to make it within the swiftly changing regime. Even as a child he was a quick-witted, resourceful, and loyal follower of the New Freedomite way of life, and while his parents’ powers lead them towards careers of brutal pugilism and enforcement, the blessings of Rabbit that Three-Winds inherited from his totemic lineage lead him towards a more insidious path - that of the agent provocateur and infiltrator, ferreting out dissenters and would-be terrorists within New Freedom in the name of their Glorious Leader. Though a promising prodigy, his career took a drastic turn when Jade Harper was removed from power and her daughter, Leah Harper, assumed the presidency. Her transition wasn’t smooth, and as the years wore on, the first cracks in the foundations of loyalty instilled by her predecessors were beginning to form; cracks, unfortunately, the new President Harper detected. Among those questioning her conduct were Three-Winds’ parents; too close to the top, they were a liability she couldn’t afford to leave unchecked. And so, quietly, she arranged for a mishap to transpire overseas as she sent them on a mercenary operation to Central Africa. As predicted, they never returned. There was no eulogy for his parents; only a government statement given that the operation was a wash and they had been killed in action. But Three-Winds had grown suspicious. Though barely older than fourteen himself, he’d been trained to see through such facades; that, coupled with his growing angst and grief at the loss of his parents was enough to finally loosen the hold of New Freedom’s indoctrination form his mind. He set out on a dangerous mission to uncover the truth, finally deducing his suspicions were well-founded: Leah Harper had set the whole thing up as part of her reformation project to hand-pick her newest sets of agents and remove those already in place - including Three-Winds himself. Barely managing to escape New Freedom in the dead of night and under cover of a snowstorm, it was sheer luck that he was picked up by an AEGIS reconnaissance squad before the frigid clime of the Antarctic could claim him. Quietly extradited to the United States, he spilled his guts regarding everything he knew about New Freedom. In exchange, he was offered amnesty, and the chance to have a real life; one outside of the tyrannical grip of Supreme Glorious Leader Harper and her corrupt Inner Council. After a few years isolated in an AEGIS safe-house and subjected to mental rehabilitation and re-education, Three-Winds - now under the WITPRO alias of Tom Rhodes - was deemed fit for reintegration into American society, with special arrangements made to further his education given his unique talents. Highly-trained and harboring a magical spirit that granted him superhuman powers, there was really only one place suited for someone like Tom: Claremont Academy in Freedom City, where he would, with a little luck and a lot of determination, finally have the chance at a fresh start. Personality & Motivation: Cool and detached, but otherwise seemingly well-adjusted, Tom lacks the overt angst common among the standard breed of teenager, a trait alone which might raise suspicion as to his true origins. On the surface and within a community full of superheroes, this might be perfectly normal; until it falls under extensive scrutiny, anyway. There’s a palpable aloofness to him, an air of foreignness when compared to your typical American teenager that reeks of methodical training, complete with an eerie ability to remain organized and clean. Sure, he laughs at everyone’s bad jokes and makes quick, charmingly dry remarks from time to time in an attempt to fit in, but he’s never really there, and the harder one looks, the more obvious it starts to become that he's anything but garden variety, the occasional sign of militant training or coldly pragmatic rationale slipping through the cracks. If nothing else, the accent’s a dead giveaway for anyone even remotely familiar with the residents of New Freedom (which, Tom hopes, isn’t many at Claremont Academy!); there’s just something about it, a peculiar richness in the inflection that’s just off that screams “actually not from here,” despite his best endeavors to mask it and fit in with a society he’s only just started to experience first-hand. But Tom is trying. This is really the best thing that can be said about him. He really is doing the best he can to adapt to his new life in Freedom City and turn his training as an agent for a vile dictator into those of a genuine bonafide superhero, make friends, and generally be a normal teenager (albeit with superpowers). But it’s like walking on eggshells, constantly straddling what he'd been taught while trying his best to do what's right. It doesn't help that he’d known only what his extremely limited education about life outside of his homeland he was permitted, making things more than a little awkward at times as he tries to put his dangerous past behind him… well, mostly, anyway. It’s true that he yearns for a fresh start, but the pangs of vengeance still fester; a need to avenge the deaths of his parents a violent spark that at any moment could ignite the fuel that is his anger. He’s tried to make peace with their passing but has had only marginal luck, even with the assistance of Rabbit’s spirit trying to soothe and guide him emotionally. All in all, he wants to do the right thing, inspired by the patriotism of the American way of life and Freedom City’s unflappable pursuit to do good. But it’s going to take time to make the full transition - maybe a lot of time - and to put those demons to rest once and for all. Powers & Tactics: As a former agent-in-training for New Freedom’s vicious totalitarianistic government, Black Rabbit is surprisingly well-trained, capable of employing military-level martial arts and covert operations training alongside his bizarrely potent totemic rabbit powers to undermine criminals and villains with astounding efficacy. Though his powers are subtle and indirect in nature, Black Rabbit isn’t afraid to use them; quite the contrary, really, given that in New Freedom people with superpowers are the norm. Once subterfuge fails, he moves in with precision, focused on ending a fight as quickly and efficiently as possible. Black Rabbit prefers to utilize his astounding speed and agility to close the gap and get into close-quarters combat, wherein he can unleash debilitating holds, quick feints, and potent strikes to render foes unconscious. When push comes to shove and the dice fall out of favor, Black Rabbit relies on the his totem spirit and its ability to manipulate luck - for himself, for his team, and against his foes - in-order to skew victory in his favor, trusting in the spirit of Rabbit and the magical blessings it confers to protect him from harm. Power Descriptions: (All Powers Have the "Magic" Descriptor.) As the Black Rabbit, many of his powers lack the flair and flashiness of his superheroic counterparts. Despite being able to run and hop astounding distances, being endowed with super-hearing, armed with razor-sharp claws and teeth, a strange talent for manipulating luck, and the ability to kick bricks to smithereens, nothing outwardly obvious seems amiss about the current heir to the spirit of Rabbit. Under closer magical examination, however, things are a little more obvious. A warm, off-white aura surrounds the Black Rabbit; an extension of both his spiritual attunement and the envelopment of the spirit itself shrouding him in its protective nature in the shape of a rabbit upon more focused inspection. It serves as much as a metaphysical shield as it does an extension of Tom’s own will, its energies ebbing and flowing alongside the young totem’s emotions. While Rabbit’s spirit confers a number of physical boons, it’s the spirit’s unique ability to protect its inherited champion by twisting fortunes in their favor through subtle, normally unexplainable manipulations - chiefly by manipulating the physical world through the spiritual plane, such as invisibly nudging bullets off-course, reflexively fortifying Tom’s physique or talents to avoid danger, or causing well-timed mishaps that otherwise wouldn’t have happened at all. Channeled equally through sheer willpower and instinct, the aura grows brighter and more intense with each use until Rabbit’s luck-altering powers inevitably wane, leaving his aura dim and virtually colorless as it recedes back into Black Rabbit himself to recuperate. Complications: A Hive of Scum & Villainy (Prejudice): There’s a reason nobody talks about New Freedom, as it’s a blight on everything that the real Freedom City and the United States stand for. Some people might not take too kindly were they to learn that Tom is, in fact, from that horrible, despicable, not-very-good place. A Wolf in Kid’s Clothing (Age): Despite his maturity growing up under the brutal regime of Glorious Supreme President Leah Harper, he’s still by way of the United States legislature a minor. No booze, no admittance to certain places, and definitely subject to a curfew officers of the law will enforce when he’s not in-costume. Don’t Talk About My Parents (Temper): Under normal circumstances, Black Rabbit is an unflinching vanguard of immutable calm… riiiiight up until you talk about his parents. All bets are off after that. From New Freedom, With Love (Enemy): Black Rabbit is playing a very dangerous game as a defector, especially given the knowledge he took with him. Leah Harper and the rest of the New Freedom Council don’t take kindly to deserters, and should his presence be discovered, their retribution will undeniably be swift and ruthless. It’s a Secret to Everyone (Identity): As if keeping an alter-ego as the Black Rabbit wasn’t hard enough, Tom Rhodes is also under the WITPRO program and a defector from the dictatorship of New Freedom. Revealing this little factoid not only puts himself at risk, but also anyone who knows the truth should a New Freedom black ops hit squad come calling. Only AEGIS and a few key, highly-selective individuals know, and it’s best to keep it that way. Report to the Principal's Office Immediately (Responsibility): Part of Tom’s rehabilitation into normal society means going to school. While AEGIS was nice enough to foot the bill to get him in the door of Claremont Academy, it’s up to him to maintain that academic level of excellence and not just skip school to beat up bad guys on the regs (and on their dime!). Speak to Me, O Spirits! (Obsession): Until recently, there was only so much about his heritage and his spiritual connection that Tom was permitted to know. Now that he’s finally free from the grasp of New Freedom and its vile indoctrination tactics, he finally has the opportunity to reconnect with his Native American ancestry and uncover the mystical secrets of his birthright. Abilities: 10 + 14 + 12 + 0 + 4 + 6 = 46PP Strength: 20 (+5) Dexterity: 24 (+7) Constitution: 22 (+6) Intelligence: 10 (+0) Wisdom: 14 (+2) Charisma: 16 (+2) Combat: 10 + 10 = 20PP Initiative: +7 (+7 Dex) Attack: +5 Base, +15 Melee Defense: +10 (+5 Base, +5 Dodge Focus), +2 Flat-Footed Grapple: +20 Knockback: -5/-2 (w/o Defensive Roll 2) Saving Throws: 2 + 5 + 6 = 13PP Toughness: +10/+6 [w/o Defensive Roll 2] (+6 Con, +4 Defensive Roll 2) Fortitude: +8 (+6 Con, +2) Reflex: +12 (+7 Dex, +5) Will: +8 (+2 Wis, +6) Skills: 64R = 16PP Acrobatics 3 (+10) Bluff 8 (+11/+15 Attractive) Skill Mastery Diplomacy 7 (+10/+14 Attractive) Disguise 7 (+10) Escape Artist 3 (+10) Gather Information 7 (+10) Intimidate 7 (+10) Notice 8 (+10) Skill Mastery Sense Motive 8 (+10) Skill Mastery Sleight of Hand 3 (+10) Stealth 3 (+10) Skill Mastery Feats: 30PP Attack Focus [Melee] 10 Attractive 1 Beginner’s Luck Chokehold Defensive Roll 2 Dodge Focus 5 Evasion Fast Challenge (Feint) Fearless Grappling Finesse Improved Grab Improved Grapple Improved Pin Power Attack Skill Mastery 1 [Bluff, Notice, Sense Motive, Stealth] Uncanny Dodge [Auditory] Powers: 4 + 4 + 11 + 6 = 25PP Enhanced Feats 4 (Ultimate Save [Fortitude, Reflex, Toughness, Will]) [4PP] - Mystical Resilience BE: Leaping 3 (Running Long Jump 150’, Standing Long Jump 75’, Vertical Jump 30’, Feats: Alternate Power 1) [4PP] - Bunny Hops AP: Speed 3 (50 MPH/500’) - Blistering Rabbit Speed Luck Control 2 (Affects Others, Force Reroll; Feats: Enhanced Luck 5) [11PP] - Rabbit's Luck Super-Senses 6 (Accurate Hearing, Danger Sense, Extended Hearing 2 [100’], Radius Hearing) [6PP] - Uncannily Acute Ears of the Rabbit DC Block ATTACK RANGE SAVE EFFECT Unarmed +15 Touch DC 20 Toughness Damage Totals: Abilities (46) + Combat (20) + Saving Throws (13) + Skills (16) + Feats (30) + Powers (25) - Drawbacks (0) = 150/150 Power Points

"We'll be doing things, uh..." Baxter began, though honestly he was just trying to get a glimpse beyond Melissa and into her room where the source of the ruckus originated. How could someone so small make so much noise? It was, if nothing else, utterly baffling. He began to ask, going so far as to open his mouth and arch his brow, but almost instantly shushed the thought away. Some things, perhaps, were better kept a mystery. "I'd like to do things in as few trips if we can so we have time to settle in at FCU. Most of my stuff's all packed and ready to go, sleepyhead, so we really just need to get yours boxed up. Once we get everything in the car, we'll come back for the mattresses. Maybe we'll even steal the couch if nobody's watching," he jibbed, giving Mel a gentle, playful elbow. "Once our stuff's dropped off at the dorms, might be a good chance to take a real tour of the campus - y'know, the one the guides don't want you to see. Check out all the cool hotspots, find all the sweet places to party, maybe meet some of the freshmen settling in, that sort of stuff." He shrugged his shoulders, giving his niece a wry smile. "What? Moving doesn't have to suck. We could totally make it fun. You know, after the sucky parts are over."

GM Silently, the barkeep skewed his glance towards the comically dressed men in the corner, their eyes a baleful scourge against Cassie - and, to a lesser degree, Doctor Ritterton - as he surreptitiously scooted the money into his hands and below the bar. "Been here a few weeks," he explained as he began to pour Cassie's drink. "Showed up around the same time this other fellow did. Very scholarly, well-dressed in white. Asked a lot of questions about local legends," he continued, giving the bottle of gin an extra little tip to top the glass off. "This gentleman came in one day, then they showed up. Said they were friends. After the well-dressed man - Cate? Mate? Something like that - passed out, they were nice enough to take him home. Been coming by here ever since." The portly owner of the bar gave the archaeologist a sideways glance. "They never get more than one or two drinks, and they always chase it. Never take part in karaoke. Always sit at the same table, right where they can see the door. Thought about asking them to leave, but... well, you can guess why I didn't. They look like tourists, but I've seen enough tourists to know that's not how you have fun."

The Bee-Keeper hadn't expected to get stopped - honestly, the thought hadn't even crossed his mind! But the woman manning the construction was obviously gutsier than she looked, as her stare alone was enough to halt the armored apiary avenger dead in his tracks. He could have plead his case that he was on a super-important semi-secret mission, maybe, or even tried to smooth-talk his way through and down into the hole below. But she was just so intimidating! It wasn't every day an average citizen stood up to someone in a massive battlesuit with all the gumption of a Freedom Leaguer. Thankfully, the answer came waltzing in right behind him, saving Baxter from what might have otherwise been an extremely embarrassing situation. Suave, charismatic, and obviously a fan of alliteration for bonus points, August Zoss really did know how to make an entrance. Baxter was clearly at a disadvantage. "Thankzz for the zzave there, Mister Zozz. Azz tazzty azz a zzteak zzoundzz, I'm actually here on buzzinezz," affirmed the Bee-Keeper, meeting the man's handshake with equal vigor. "I'm here to track down the lazzt hive of the Bee-Keeper - the original Bee-Keeper, not me. There'zz zzomething wrong with it, and it'zz... uh..." Baxter stammered, trying to find the right words for the situation at hand. "... it'zz really important I figure out what'zz wrong with it. And I'll give you three guezzezz where it might be," he added, nodding slightly towards the hole in the middle of the casino-slash-restaraunt.

With a chuckle after accepting the imprisoned Sam-in-a-Can, Baxter waived the idea of a honey-powered battlesuit away with a measure of mechanical mirth. "I wizzh. That'd be zzo much more efficient if it were doable!" he quipped back before oggling the jar with the little metal monstrosity inside. "Izz it weird I think thizz thing izz grozz? It'zz weird, right? It'zz definitely weird. I mean, I like honey azz much azz the next guy, but thizz izz taking it a little too far," he said, turning his attention back to Facsimile and Pixie, giving the jar -- and Sam -- a gentle shake. "One down, two to go. Let'zz get Zzam back to Grumpenzztein before he blowzz a gazzket."

Not sure if you'd need an attack roll or anything, but if Bee-Kay Triple can, he'll try and trap Sam in a glob of honey before it gets too far and has a chance to hide again in Sarah's office

Things were really looking up now that Facsimile had uprooted the mysterious key-beast from its shape-shifted state. He'd hoped it would have just surrendered after being discovered. Really, with the weird day he'd been having so far, he should have known better as it tried to abscond from the scene of its latest crime spree. "Oh no you don't! You want zzome honey? I've got your honey right here!" quipped the Bee-Keeper, leveling the armor's literal honey hand-cannon towards the miniature key-creature as it endeavored to make its escape into Sarah's office. With a decidedly loud FWUMP!, the Bee-Keeper fired a concussive blast of artificial (but still tasty!) honey towards the slippery key-demon. One way or another, this thing was going back to Grumpy!

GM Making her way to the uncrowded bar was as easy as could be, the tourist crowds that traditionally ruined the native experience yet to slip in for the late afternoon and early evening festivities that often marked an otherwise successful island-bound adventure. Even as she did so, though, Cassie could feel the eyes of the locals on her. It wasn't scorn or malice as much as it was mistrust, that burning curiosity and murmured whispers under their breaths a dead giveaway for how they felt. "What can I get you, ma'am?" the native, portly fellow tending the bar inquired in surprisingly good (albeit heavily accented) English, his thick eyebrows arching slightly as his face took on the cheap facade of 'I'm here to serve but would rather not.' But someone was really watching. A well-timed glance and the source of that sensation soon became obvious to Miss Crow: off in the corner, dressed as tourists in brightly colored and festive shirts along with comfortable, casual slacks were two men, both Caucasian, their hair cut short and clean against their heads. They were well-built, and were it not for the fact one of them was wearing a shirt that plainly read "I Mongoli' on it they might have been an intimidating sight in comparison to the patrons already aligned at their respective tables. What was more alarming, however, was the it wasn't just that they were watching her - it's that they were watching and trying not to be caught. If their posture were anything to go on, they might be military or something close to it.

Outside of dreamland and back in the waking world, Baxter was busy being a responsible, well-meaning adult. It was a horrible sensation, but that didn't make it any less of a necessity. He'd been up early, squirreling away all of his own belongings for the coming school year. Melissa was *supposed* to be helping; instead, she'd been burning the midnight oil! He couldn't hold it against her - heck, he'd been in the same spot a few years back - but it was getting late. If they were going to get all this stuff done today, it meant poor Mel was going to have to miss out on the rest of that beauty sleep. "Hey, Mel!" Baxter yelled from outside the bedroom door, giving it a few solid, resounding whomps to rouse her to attention. "C'mon! It's time to get up!"

"It'zz a pleazzure, Mizz Zzting. And that'zz, uh, really cool of you to zzay that about me. Honezzt. I'm totally flattered," chirped the Bee-Keeper in response as he shook Sarah's hand gently. Now he really was geeking out a little. But the time for praise and celebratory congratulations wasn't now. Facsimilie, Pixie, and he had a job to do; preferably before Grumpy got impatient and started living up to his namesake. "Not to zzound like we're in a hurry, but we've kind of got a teeny-tiny problem. Like my friend here wazz zzaying, I'm zzure you've notizzed zzome of your honey running unuzzually low," continued Baxter, trying his best to sound both gentle and authoritative as he struggled to find the right words. "I know how weird this is going to zzound, but there'zz thizz weird magical zzhapezzhifting key with a zzweet tooth that your beezz think turned into a zzpoon and izz hiding out in your pocket," he began, still as bamboozled by how bizarre the series of words sounded, their oddity still as rich the second time he'd said it. "And there'zz thizz kinda-cool-but-maybee-dangerouzz giant outzzide that, if he doezzn't get hizz key back, might zztart tearing this plazze apart if we can't zznag it firzzt."

Cassie's free to grab some drinks while you guys wait for Dr. Tate to show up, or even try her hand at mingling. I'm sure someone there is fluent in English. As an aside, lemme get a Notice check

Saturday, September 15th, 2018 Mongoli, Indonesia Mid Morning GM The arrival into the tiny airport of Mongoli was a humdrum event at best. Here, in the heart of the urban environment of the island, the English language was plentiful and well-spoken, accents notwithstanding. Despite its meager size, it was a bustling, busy locale, tourists, businessmen, and locals alike milling through the airport on phones or with definite purpose. Outside of the airport, however, is a different story. "Stay close, Miss Crow," insisted Doctor Ritterton as he adjusted his sunhat. As the pair stepped out from the confined, air conditioned terminal, the sun blasted down with all the anger and fury it could muster. Raw humidity met in equal measure, and no sooner had Ritterton and Snakebite made their way out were they beset by a throng of locals. "Hello! Welcome to Mongoli!" a middle-aged woman chimed in coarse English, a fistful of handmade beaded necklaces clenched in her fist. "Care to buy? One of a kind just for a pretty lady like you!" Right behind her came another suitor, this one a gentleman in a half-buttoned shirt "See the sights! Maps only ten rupiah!" while another promised "Real Mongoli seashells! Take one home to your kids!" and so on and so forth. It was like wading through knee-high water, except they were pushy people trying to make a quick buck. Ritterton, thankfully, knew the way as he pushed through the throng, leading Cassie down the narrow roads and into the town proper. "My word. It wasn't this crowded last I was here," the good doctor stated with apt surprise, violently dabbing at his face with his kerchief as sweat poured from him like water from a stream. "Once we rendezvous with Doctor Tate, we'll see about getting ourselves a place for the night and start fresh. I can't speak for you, but sixteen hours of flight time has left this old bulldog more than a tad lagged!" As the two walked into the township, it was clear the architecture was well-maintained and stunningly painted, the blending of the tropical sun and naturally shading flora a lovely compliment. Here, Cassie got a good glimpse of the residents' daily lives. In the distance she could spy a woman carrying a jar atop her head, her loose clothing and breezy wrap around her head looking oddly cool and refreshing in comparison to the scorching clime. Closer, two boys were playing with a makeshift basket and ball. The scent of sizzling fish from one of the multitude of open windows filled the streets with a pleasant aroma spices and home-cooked cuisine. Ritterton whistled and waved frantically, flagging down a young man with what looked to be a rickshaw. The two briefly conversed, the language flowing fast and smoothly from both men's tongues before Ritterton turned back to face his younger counterpart. "This gentleman has agreed to carry us down to the port," he explained. "We'll be there in a jiffy!" With all due haste, Cassie and Doctor Ritterton were whisked beyond the borders of the town. In no time at all the dynamic expeditionary duo were dropped off along the southern shore, small boats visible in the distance against the ocean's crystal blue waters. For all the splendor and beauty of the natural environment before them, the buildings were decidedly less so. Weathered and beaten by storms, they looked ramshackle at best, the scent of slightly molded wood and sea salt mixing to form a palpable taste in the air. "Here we are," Ritterton pressed, pointing a finger towards a wiggly, loose sign over what looked to be some sort of dive bar, as grimy on the outside as it likely was within. "The good doctor has agreed to meet us here. Come along, Miss Crow. Let's not keep our esteemed colleague waiting." Inside the establishment, the odor of spilled liquor and sweat permeated the makeshift port-side bar. Though it was early in the day, even now there were men and women, all of various dispositions, frittering away their hard earned money on booze and cheap laughs. At the main bar, a portly, dark-skinned man with arms as thick as pythons was tending drinks, his shirt immaculately pressed but also visibly stained. Ritterton gauged the bar like a trained surveyor, his lips curling into an upset look. "It doesn't appear our friend has arrived," he murmured in a whisper to Snakebite, giving his chin a thoughtful stroke. "I suppose our only recourse is to wait. Since I've the tongue for it, I'll see if I can drum up some information on the local goings-on. How about you fetch us a few drinks, hmm? I'm quite parched." Rifling into his suit, Thomas passed a handful of colorful bills into Snakebite's hand. "Have no fear. The language of refreshments is universal. Haha!"

GM "God, no," waived Ritterton, his complexion slowly returning to a warmer shade reminiscent of a slightly less portly Santa Claus. "Quite the contrary. I've long learned to appreciate the value of silver after that little dust-up back in the eighties with those werewolves," the doctor mentioned offhandedly, as if this was just a perfectly normal thing to talk about. "Listen, once we arrive in Mangoli, we're to head for the port to meet Doctor Tate. He's a fellow scholar - an anthropologist - who's been studying the history of the indigenous peoples of Indonesia, and the brave fellow who'd sent us our new lead. I haven't been back in years, but I suspect little has changed. When we arrive you'll get the full-on tourist experience," the doctor continued before growing deathly serious. "Once we get out of the airport, however, I must insist that you remain on your best behavior. The natives are slow to warm, and quick to... well, let's just say that many of the locals don't take kindly to folks like you and I, Miss Crow." Ritterton fished into his coat, pulling free a flask of indeterminate liquid and downed a swig in a swift, solid gulp. "Now, Tate assured me if anything new about our map and coin came to light he would he'd be glad to share, though he couldn't say much over the horn this morning when I dialed him. We've just got to make it there in one piece."

Friday, September 14th, 2018 Snakebite's Private Jet Midday GM The initial takeoff en-route to the island of Mangoli had been a bit rocky. Weather, as always seems to be the case when it comes time for an important flight, had begun to rear its ugly head. A little luck can go a long way though, as Doctor Ritterton had arrived at the airport just in-time to board Cassie's own personal airline before the old grey clouds creeping through the sky could put a damper on their plans. Now safely above the storm, the things were looking much more promising. With luck, perhaps the fifteen-hour flight cut even be cut down! "You'll have to forgive me. Flying has always made me a tad nervous," joked the good doctor, skin paling as he stared out into the wild blue as he dabbed at the sweat forming on his brow with his handkerchief. Just as before he was impeccably well-dressed, this time in a surprisingly flattering shade of muted plaid. Admittedly, he'd also brought far too much luggage than was likely necessary; two suitcases, each filled to the point of bursting with clothing and accessories, and another, larger one slammed to the brim with old books, to say nothing of the laptop satchel sitting in the chair beside him. "Bad experiences and all that." Pulling the curtain down over the window, the graying archaeologist shifted his gaze back to the young aficionado, lacing his fingers together if only to prevent himself from twiddling his own thumbs. "So! What's the good word, Miss Crow? Any good fortune in uncovering the origins of our mysterious man-map?"

GM Like a bloodhound on the scent, Cassie Crow had once again proven her expertise in finding even the most obscure, obtuse, and seemingly unrelated history. Seemingly being the keyword there. It took time, but with dogged determination, the pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place. Right on the money, there were other islands in Indonesia once upon a time ago. Many more, in fact. But there was one in particular that kept cropping up, albeit with only a passing mention here or a cursory murmur there: Carrawessi, and its ruler At'tay. Reports placed the island all over the Indonesian waters; sometimes it was due northeast in a few rare entries, others listed it as south of Borneo. But one finding in particular managed to shed at least a modicum of light on it. There was a story repeated here and there, but the details were vague at best. The important bits weren't so much where it was as much as what it was: an island with silver trees, golden shores, and a temple emblazoned with gems in every color. But At'tay - or so the story goes - was less than benevolent, for he was once a dukun before his corruption by unknown means. He took with him slaves and servants, and through their suffering learned the secret to transform the unremarkable into the remarkable; lead into gold, so to speak. But it came with a terrible price, and the curse upon the island saw the ruin of At'tay before it vanished, never to be seen again. Digging further into musty old tomes of myth and lore, Cassie came across another interesting tidbit: an 18th century book entitled "Legends Beyond the Setting Sun," by one Doctor Arthur P. Kilpatrick. Inside, a tragic tale spoke of a young priest - a dukun on the island of Carrawessi - beset by an unbearable choice. Though he was young and powerful in the ways of the spirits and the people of the island were counting on him, he was also in love, and his wife and children had become sick beyond even the means of his powers to cure. It was here that a malevolent spirit spoke to the young priest, promising that his family would not fall to the sickness if he but sacrificed his dearest and closest friend. Heavy with grief, the young priest finally agreed as the final stages of sickness began to set in, and in so doing slew his friend. The demon, ever clever, held its end of the bargain and informed the priest to touch his wife and children. He did so, and spared them from the withering disease by turning them to silver. Heartbroken, the priest went mad. Unable to take his frustrations out upon the demon itself, he sought out his kin and friends, repeating the acts of murder and transmutation in the vain and impossible hope of a different outcome until the island, bloated and heavy, sank to the bottom of the ocean, taking the poor priest with it. Beyond dusty books and weathered scrolls, other avenues revealed some truth to these stories. Though the microfiche down in the restricted section of the basement of the British Museum was worn and damaged by the time it had been added to the collection, remnants of an old Spanish sailor's diary from the mid-17th century told the story of landing on a surprisingly similar island in sparse bits, much of it illegible. Some, however, had survived the trials of time, the most pertinent of which painted a blood-chilling epilogue of their final days: "... lost upon the coast. Strange things stalk us in the day, and their screams haunt our dreams. There is no respite. From twelve we are now four. Wealth lies at our fingertips, but I fear we will not live to spend it. Ricardo believes if we can make it within the temple, we can bar the inside, perhaps long enough to form a raft to sail back to civilization upon. No rescue is coming. We should have known better than to follow the face of the coins we'd found. I pray to God that within this temple lies salvation, and not a gilded tomb. I wish only to see Safina's face one more time..." The rest of the journal is unfortunately pocked with water damaged and various splotches of unknown origin.

"Huh. That'zz zzurprizzingly zzmart," quipped Baxter, turning back to face Facs, Pixie, and Grumpo the Grumptastic. "Guezz Zzam wazz one zztep ahead. It wazz here, and the beezz weren't too happy about it. Turned itzzelf into a zzpoon," he continued, pausing for a second as that statement processed. "Man that zzoundzz weird when you zzay it out loud. Anyway, lookzz like it'zz cruizzin' in the bee-keeper of the Yummietummy'zz pocket." Again, this was starting to sound more than a little insane. And yet, like honey, the plot was beginning to thicken. "Beezz are... uh... not great converzzationalizztzz," admitted Bee-Kay Triple with a shrug, trying his best to seem nonchalant about totally geeking out over Facsimile's praise while carrying on with the conversation even as he scoped out the apiary for any signs of bee-suit wearing weirdos other than himself. "But you're not wrong. They do have zzome weird zztuff to zzay zzometimezz. Like, did you know they beelieve they invented the high-five? That'zz pretty weird, and alzzo totally awezzome if it'zz true."

"A fan, huh?" Baxter repeated, mildly dumbfounded that anyone would actually be wowed by a guy in a bee-suit. It was flattering in a weird way, and if the Bee-Keeper armor's helmet was capable of emoting, Facsimile might have seen a smile. "Wow. That'zz really cool, actually. But you're right. Weird magical keyzz firzzt, zzhakezz after." Fluttering past El Grumpo the Not-so-Jolly Green Goofball and ignoring the palpable need to correct him about the fact that he's not a frickin' wasp, the Bee-Keeper lead the way to the largest of the Yummytummys man-made hives; not so much in a hurry, per se, just quick enough before Grumpy got any other bright ideas involving hammers and apiaries. Every model was different, of course, but he was confident in the one true standby that most of the models used for bee-keeping were modular in nature - if push came to shove, he'd just disassemble the structure and fish Sam out by force. But before he went in all gung-ho, performing the equivalent of kicking in their tiny bee-doors and demanding the metal-bee-shaped-key-thing's surrender, Baxter instead took a more eccentric approach. "*Hello, bee-bros and bee-ladies!*" bzzzd the Bee-Keeper as his voice imitated his very theme, the armor translating as best it was able into the bizarrely specific measure of buzzes needed to converse with the busy denizens inside. "*Any chance there's a weird not-bee in there? Maybe, I don't know, made of metal-y stuff and trying to eat your honey?*"

GM "Right-o! That's the spirit!" chirped Ritterton, his enthusiasm practically ebbing off of his only slightly doughy physique. "I've an interest in getting to the bottom of this mystery as well, Miss Crow, so I shall be accompanying you. You'll need an interpreter at any rate, and once we've arrived in Mangoli, I can put you in touch with a man I'm acquainted with whom, with luck, can lead us in the right direction. He was the first to uncover our mysterious map, and has been dedicating himself for the better half of a year to uncovering its origin." Fixing himself another drink and downing it swiftly, the good doctor's face had become flush with a youthful vim most unbecoming of his age; a hint of that old adventurous fortitude revealing itself, if only momentarily. "Fetch what you'll need for the trip, Miss Crow. I shall make all the necessary arrangements," sputtered the fifty-something historian as he turned to leave. Almost as an afterthought, he whirled back on the heel of his tailored shoes with a gentle screech and a clack. "Oh! And, if you would, I think you ought to hold tight to this," he added, passing the vaguely canopic canister that once held the skin-map to Cassie, as well as his own business card. "If you've time, familiarize yourself with it, please. I believe I've stared at it long enough that the damned thing's burned into my brain, and gleaned little else beyond its age and byproduct besides a general location and nightly headaches." "Ring me once you've finalized your procurements, Miss Crow. This time tomorrow we'll be air-bound for Mangoli Island!" And with that, Doctor Ritterton saw himself out, moving amazingly briskly given his limp out the door and down the noisy hallway of the British Museum, leaving Snakebite to her newest lead on the road to a rich, potentially ground-breaking discovery.

Bee-Keeper III The Bee-All And End All (7 Posts) Like A Wagon Train Out of Hell (1 Post) Puzzle Box: Key of Three (3 Posts) GM The Weight of Wealth (3 Posts)

GM "Splendid, splendid!" exclaimed the elderly aficionado, draining the glass swiftly. "You'll be pleased to know this rumor could change the very nature of history, in fact. All it takes is one courageous soul to make the trip and uncover the truth." Setting the glass aside, Ritterton fished into his coat, pulling out two particular pieces: one, a modern day map of Indonesia and it's islands, while the other was an old capsule of indistinct origin, weather-stained ancient by even ancient standards. "What I hold here, Miss Crow, is an adventure of a lifetime." Delicately, precisely, Ritterton made room on the large oaken table in the office, unfurling the more modern map first as he pointed to it with astounding accuracy. "So, as you can see, Miss Crow, this is Indonesia as we know it today. Flores, Borneo, Sumbawa. You get the idea," Doctor Ritterton pointed out, before gently pulling the top of the capsule open and giving it a bit of a shake, revealing, perhaps unsurprisingly, another map. This one wasn't as tasteful as parchment, chiefly given the medium the inky but uncannily detailed map was penned on: flesh. "You'll forgive the morbidity of it all, I hope," begged the good doctor. "I'd scarcely believed it myself when it came into my possession, but you'll be pleased to know this particular map is one-of-a-kind, and more than eleven centuries old, preserved in no small part to whichever baffling way its creator's preserved the leather." Spreading the skin-map on the table beside the less-than-gross counterpart already present, Ritterton tapped his finger on a small speck not found on the modern version. "Right here, between Mangoli and Obi Island. What you're looking at is an island that doesn't exist - or rather, and island that did exist, and was stricken from the written records by the people of Malay. All that exists now are oral traditions; stories of an island ruled by a vile despot who'd unlocked the secret of turning lead to gold or some such by means which, frankly, vary from story to story. Details are, at best, sketchy." "But!" continued the doctor as he fished back into his coat, taking out a coin of unmistakably albeit stained solid gold, marked in strange writings and alien symbology, passed it into Cassie's hand. "It seems there's some truth to the myth. No other coinage in Indonesia has been minted as such. What you hold is one-of-a-kind, and a testament that there's a kernel of truth worth investigating. Something that, if it truly exists and can be uncovered, could very well be the greatest find since King Tut himself."

"Anything'zz pozzible. Can't get zzweeter than honey," chirped the Bee-Keeper in agreement, still getting over the fact the strange fellow who'd just a moment ago was perfectly normal-sized was now standing eye-to-eye with the giant with a key problem. Really, this whole situation reeked of weirdness to the tenth degree. The whole thing probably should have rattled Baxter more than he was really feeling it, and yet, he was fine with this. Well, as fine as one can be with magically poofing giants, naughty sugar-hungry keys that can open doors to the multiverse, and a dude who could touch dirt to become king-sized while scooping up girls in a single, earthy hand. Baxter had to admit he was a little jealous of that last part. It also warmed his heart that someone actually knew who he was! That was a nice surprise. It also put him at a weird disadvantage, because he wasn't totally sure who this guy or his friend were. All he knew for sure is the kid had both guts and a heart of gold. Wings extending with a quick, metallic sshnickt, the yellow-and-black striped hero fluttered up a few feet to hover closer to conversation level now that the giant had - more or less - been made docile, signs of a dust-up much less likely. "If I were a weird magical zzugar-zztarved key, I'd go where the honey'zz richezzt -- for the royal jelly. Betcha a milkzzhake we'll find atleazzt one of our myzztery key culpritzz in the biggezzt bee houzze." With a whisper, Baxter turned his attention to his new colleague. "Hey, nizze job there. Guezz you already know who am, and it'zz cool to zzee zzome new fazzezz in the hero bizzz," he added, extending a fist for bumpage in the spirit of camaraderie. "Zzo, what am I zzuppozzed to call you guyzz?"

For a moment - just a single, solitary moment - Baxter felt the urge the say something. Anything, really. The Bee-Keeper had given him a task, and yet, it felt like so much more than that as he watched Anna begin to sing. It was enough to send pangs through the young avenger's heart; hearing it was even more devastating. He'd never actually seen anything like this; this terrifying show of mortality. He needed to leave, just like Brian and Anna needed this - whatever this was. The last thing this somber meeting needed was another person getting all misty-eyed. Without a word, the Bee-Keeper took his leave, re-donning his helmet with conviction. And so out the door and into the sky he went, barreling through the sky towards the only clue he had as to Brian Nisbet's final hive: the High Steaks Casino.

"God, yes," the good doctor exclaimed at the proposal for a refreshment, sauntering his way to meet Cassie half-way. Limp aside, Doctor Ritterton was amazingly spry for his age! Perhaps given fifteen years off of his age, he might have been the archetypal explorer; even now his physique belied his experience, his eyes keen and focused as he watched his younger counterpart pour beverage. "Tell me, Miss Crow: how familiar are you with the isles of Indonesia?" he inquired, taking the glass delicately and nodding in respectful thanks for the refreshment. Behind a facade of politeness, even now he was studying her like a piece of machinery, trying to decipher its inner-mechanisms without outright disassembling it. "I've a lead on something potentially extraordinary, and rumor has it you're one of the best in the field when it comes to historical retrieval."

Blam! The OOC for WoW for Snakebite (and anyone else who joins, maybe!).