This game is mostly born out of Joosbawx' love of Film Noir, hard-boiled detective stories, and the genre films and novels like The Maltese Falcon exemplify. The rules are close to Classic Werewolf, but I've decided to put in a bit of a twist, so please familiarize yourself with the following and come back as often as you need for reference sake.The object of the game, beyond simple survival, is to obtain the Maltese Falcon for yourself or benefit of your faction. Therefore, there are multiple ways to win the game, depending upon which faction the player belongs.
Since the individual object of the game is to obtain the Maltese Falcon, this means that one Citizen cannot implicitly trust another Citizen as s/he may have an ulterior motive in targeting another individual with a lynching vote. At the beginning of the game the Maltese Falcon is randomly given to one player. If and when that player is killed, the Maltese Falcon moves to the individual or group responsible for that players death.
Example 1: 'Player A', a Citizen, has the Maltese Falcon. S/he is killed by the Shadow Agents or Templar Knights during the night. The Maltese Falcon is then randomly assigned to one of the members of the faction responsible for that death. There will usually be some evidence left behind that would indicate that the deceased was in possession of the Maltese Falcon at time of their demise.
Example 2: 'Player A', belonging to any faction, has the Maltese Falcon. S/he is voted against and lynched by 'popular vote'. At time of death, the Maltese Falcon will be obtained by the player that started the bandwagon against 'Player A'.
Day game play consists of finding out who was killed, the District Attorney protecting someone from lynching, and finger pointing by the general population for a 'lynching'.
Night game play consists of the District Attorney protecting someone from death, kills by both the Templar Knights and the Shadow Agents, scries or recruitment attempts by the Templar Knights and the Shadow Agents, the scry or kill by The Shadow, the Mole using their ability to hide the true role of one player, the Private "Eye" and the Patsy.
Anytime the person holding the Maltese Falcon is killed the Maltese Falcon is transferred to the person or group responsible for their death. Killing the player holding the Maltese Falcon is the only way to transfer ownership.
Recruitment - When one of the two factions with recruiting ability attempts to recruit a player, that player is sent a PM from the narrator and given the choice to join or refuse the organizations offer. If the player accepts the offer they join the Knights Templar or Shadow Agents as a 'Neonate/Recruit' for the remainder of the game. A player may only be recruited once per game. If a player refuses a recruitment offer by either faction they can still accept an offer made at a later date; however, the faction attempting the recruitment loses the ability to scry that night in lieu of their recruitment attempt, just as if they had recruited successfully.
Characters Exempt from Recruitment: The Shadow, The Fan Boy, any member of Templar Knights, any member of Shadow Agents, the Private "Eye", and The Patsy. If one of these characters is approached for recruitment the faction making the attempt will simply be informed the player refused, and the player will be informed they were approached with a recruitment offer.
The "Cult" returns, this time wearing the vestments of the Knights Templar. The Holy Order of Knights...or Un-Holy, depending on whom you believe...are not extinct. Their goal is to increase their numbers, and, most importantly, recover the gift they intended for the King of Spain before it disappears again...The Maltese Falcon. They are led and recruited bythe Templar Marshall who is identified (at death) by the signet ring s/he wears. Templar Knights carry nothing to betray their faction when killed. Templar Neonates, or those recruited during the course of the game by Templars, are not as indoctrinated as the older members and may reveal the name of one other Templar when threatened with death...so be careful whom you recruit. The Knights are aided in their quest by the Templar Oracle who has the ability (75% chance) to divine the role of anyone else; however, due to the extensive indoctrination rituals, the Oracle cannot scry on any night the Knights indoctrinate a Neonate.The tenets of the Order of the Knights Templar strictly prohibit anyone from intentionally revealing their membership upon penalty of death.
Winning the game: The Knight Templar win if they successfully eliminate the entire Shadow Agency and obtain the Maltese Falcon, or if their numbers equal the number of non-Templar Knights players.
Templar Oracle - "Mason Seer". Able to scry and discern role of anyone each night, except on night when Templar Knights recruit Neonate. Can see if target currently holds Maltese Falcon. Scries as: Oracle - Evil.
Templar Neonate - "Mason Recruit". May reveal name of one other Templar if put to death. Scries as: Templar - Evil.
This extensive network of Agents hold allegiance to no one but themselves and their leader, known only as The Fat Man. Each member of the Shadow Agents is hand-picked by The Fat Man, who has the ability to bring in Shadow Recruits; however, like the Templar Neonates, they are not as seasoned as their Agent counterparts and may fold under pressure if threatened with death. The Brain works hand-in-hand with The Fat Man and has the ability (75% chance) to perceive the role of anyone else; however, due to the extensive background checks that must be performed on any Recruit, The Brain cannot scry on any night the Shadow Agents recruit. All Shadow Agents are under strict orders to eliminate any member that intentionally reveals their true allegiance to anyone outside the organization, upon penalty of death.
Winning the Game: The Shadow Agents win if they successfully eliminate the entire Order of the Knights Templar and obtain the Maltese Falcon, or if their numbers equal the number of non-Shadow Agent players.
The Fat Man - "Mafia Don/Alpha". Gives Shadow Agents ability to obtain new Recruits. Scries as: Agent - Evil.
The Brain - "Mafia Seer". Able to scry and discern role of anyone each night, except on night when Agents recruit. Can see if target currently holds the Maltese Falcon. Scries as: The Brain - Evil.
Shadow Agent - "Mafia". Scries as: Agent - Evil.
Shadow Recruit - "Mafia Recruit". May reveal name of one other Agent if put to death. Scries as: Agent - Evil.
These are the everyday members of society. They usually play by the rules and follow the law; however, that isn't to say that when an opportunity comes along to get a leg up they wouldn't take advantage. The goal of the Citizenry is to get rid of the Shadow Agents and Knights Templar...if, you know, you actually believe in that sort of myth and legend. The Citizens are the pool of potential members the Shadow Agents and Knights Templar may recruit...unless, of course, the Templars or Agents accidentally try to recruit each other. The citizens are really in the game for themselves to survive, and score the Maltese Falcon for themselves if possible, or align themselves with an underground faction if they are approached and choose to join.
Winning the Game: The Citizens win if they successfully eliminate both the Knights Templar and the Shadow Agency. Additionally, a citizen can score a personal win (and a cool signature award!!!) if survive holding the Maltese Falcon at the end of the game.
The Private "Eye" - "Seer". Has completely accurate ability to discern the role of anyone in the game. Scries as: Private "Eye" - Good. Cannot be recruited.
The Patsy - "Fool". Has 25% chance of accurately discerning the role of anyone in the game. Scries as: Private "Eye" - Good. Cannot be recruited.
District Attorney - "Baner". Has ability to us her/his influence to protect any player each day and night from lynching or attack. This role has to send in a PM for Joosbawx for each game day and game night. This role can be recruited by the Templars or Agents. Scries as: District Attorney - Good/Evil (if recruited successfully).
The Mole - "Illusionist/Witch". Has the ability to alter the perceived role of any player when investigated by the Oracle, The Brian, The Patsy, or the Private "Eye". If target is scried, the role defined by The Mole will be the role perceived. Scries as: The Mole - Good/Evil (if recruited successfully).
Citizen - "Villager". Scries as: Citizen - Good.
Sam Spade & Effie - "The Lovers". The Lovers play together and win if they survive the game. If either lover is lynched or attacked, the other Lover is killed also, regardless of faction membership. Lovers are recruited independently, but still remain Lovers. Scries as: Lover - Good.
Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? The Shadow knows. This role is special, and stands for Truth, Justice, and the Citizen Way. In this character's eyes anyone can be corrupted...except The Shadow. Therefore, nobody is to be trusted...except The Shadow. Nobody can bring the wrongdoers to justice...except The Shadow. This character acts outside the law in order to destroy all Evil. As a result, he is wanted by both sides of the law and cannot reveal his identity under pain of death to anyone. This character cannot be recruited. The Shadow has three special abilities, and may choose to use either one on any night s/he chooses.
Six times during the game The Shadow may use her/his super-sleuth ability with 100% accuracy to determine any player's alignment...Good or Evil. Secondly, The Shadow has six bullets with which to dispense Justice to those s/he deems as Evil. Thirdly, The Shadow has the ability to protect someone from from attack during the night...much the same as the District Attorney. The Shadow may choose to investigate, kill, protect, or do nothing, and must send PM to Joosbawx each game night.
Alternatively, The Fan Boy believe s/he is The Shadow and has all the same abilities, but simply isn't and doesn't. The Fan Boy acts as though s/he is The Shadow, but, due to the lack of super-sleuth ability and training of any (real) kind, The Fan Boy has only a nominal chance of doing any real good at all...except for helping to hide the real Shadow, perhaps. Due to the obsessive nature of this character, s/he, when scried, shows as The Shadow, also.
Winning the Game: The Shadow wins if s/he survives the game and both the Templar Knights and Shadow Agency are eliminated.
The Shadow - "?????". Scries as: The Shadow.
FanBoy - "anti-?????". Scries as: The Shadow.
Current List of Players (32) - Updated: Tuesday, August 26th -
Atreyu, the Masked Llama
Space is Curved
The pressing flesh of the masses on the stain station platform were suffocating and infuriating...but you can't blame them for not understanding. I gathered quite a few dirty looks as I lowered my shoulder and made like Knute Rockne through the tangle of hellos and goodbyes, uttering half-hearted sorries along the way, until I'd made it to the stairs. Moving down them, I hoped the height advantage would allow me to spot my prey again...pick up the trail I could almost smell.
THERE! Just heading out the turnstiles! Excited, I charged through the crowd, forgoing the usual obligatory, if insincere, apologies. No time...too close...eyes on the prize. Hefting the attache slung over my shoulder, I reassured myself the cargo was safe and headed for the exits intent on catching up before I couldn't tell which way he went once he hit the street. Tunnel vision...so close now. All I had eyes for was the straw-colored fedora and overcoat with a hint of the burgundy cravat peeking at the back of his collar. Closing the distance, I tried my best to be subtle, focusing on the target, not letting my attention waver. To lose him here and now would be unbearable.
Caught at the corner, the straw fedora waited for traffic and I made up several yards. When he darted out into a break in the lighter night traffic, I was able to use the same gap between the impatient taxis and bulbous sedans to cross East 42nd with him toward another knot of commuters and tourists...and I thought I should have been able to catch up to him at the next street corner easily. Maybe even without being seen. The crowd crashed into us, and I felt like I was swimming upstream. Seemed we were the only two heading against the flow, which made it easier to follow him, too. I smiled to myself as I continued to close the gap..soon..closer...just about there.
I smelled it before I realized what I'd heard. Acrid, sharp, and pungent...and I slowed down glancing around me to see where it was coming from. But it was just a whiff of sulfur and smoke that I would have disregarded if it wasn't for that sound I had to replay in my head to convince myself I'd actually heard it...the thick, dull spwat of a silenced small caliber gunshot. Blinking, I turned a full circle, noting that my quarry had stopped and turned to face me. The self-satisfied smile on his face was the last thing I saw clearly as a spreading warmth-quickly-turning-to-fire spread from the left side of my trunk. The crowd was thinning and a little puff of smoke curled from a fresh hole of the pocket of that straw overcoat I'd been following and I hit the pavement hard, the attache thunk-ing heavily on the sidewalk beside me. I clutched my chest with one hand and tried in vain to grasp at the leather bag with the other as a vaguely familiar shape loomed over me with a leering grin...wait...there was something I was supposed to be doing...something important...I don't have time for this right now. I reached out a hand toward a shape, hoping ti'd help me back onto my feet, but the fire in my chest flared and I opened my mouth to cry out against the pain...but it was muffled my a strong hand as the strap to my bag was cut with a sharp jerk against my shoulder, sending a new wave of fire through my chest...though, as tired as I'd suddenly become, it was difficult to concentrate on anything. Whatever it was I was supposed to be doing could wait. I'd just close my eyes for a few minutes and get out at the next stop to get some air.
Pressing my cheek against the cool dampness I closed my eyes and took a deep breath that caught in my chest until I coughed, a copper taste filling my mouth and nostrils. Shouts and the sounds of a scuffle interrupted my thoughts for just a moment before I realized I was too tired to care. I'd just close my eyes for a minute and get back to whatever it was I was doing in a minute. Just close myself for a minute...that's all...
Day One Begins
Day One Ends: Friday, August 24 @ 9pm Central (US)
Please remember to post your votes in RED, thanks.
Korias is already awake as you see him. Popping a couple dozen mango Altoids into his mouth, which is accompanied by a silent grimace, He exits the small grungy apartment and heads to the streets. Wearing a grey hoodie and keeping to the shadows, you can no longer tell whether the grimace on his face is from a dozen or so half eaten Altoids or his face has frozen like that. He steps out of reality for a moment, before walking up towards the 4th wall. I realized that my informant had never come by the time I got there. I could tell. No man that smoked that many cigarettes was going to walk away without leaving a few of the damn things half smouldering in the ground. Bending down to the ground, examining it. Nothing at all. Not a single trace that he might have been here. He sighed. This was going to be too long. Opening up a new can of Altoids, he throws one to a passing pigeon, before walking away.
The Falcon. What was it? What could it be? Walking back to the main streets, he pondered the object. And what the hell does Maltese mean, anyway?
It was a steaming miserable excuse of an afternoon. The sun beat down on everything below, marking the desperate and the guilty with red hot fingernails, scratching faces, arms and necks with its toxic jezebel red. The heat slid around your body like a cocoon, layer on layer of misery that squeezed out watery sweat and the vapours of the prior night's boozing. I'd need to change shirts before I headed out for the evening. Maybe two fingers of scotch too, for fortification in the face of adversity.
As I walked down the street, I noticed the blueshirts had cordoned off a street corner and were making busy shooing away the gawkers. Now I'm what you might call an imposing gentleman - or as the less witty have had occasion to remark, a knuckle-dragging ham on legs. This has certain advantages in a city like this; it doesn't make me bulletproof, but it does tend to discourage ... less focused opportunists. I use this size to lumber over toward the disturbance, see who's running the show. Couple of beat officers, with the look that says they've seen it all before - perhaps a few too many times. A rookie; he's keeping it under control, but I can see it in his eyes - that rooted need for justice that only the newest members of the force keep for long. And Sergeant O'Larahmagh. Me and the Sergeant go way back, old drinking buddies, but I've been out of town for a couple of years now. He's the first one to pick me out, of course - you don't put twelve years into the force in this town and not know how to pick out the real trouble from the poseurs and riff-raff. We talk for a bit, he gives me a little, but not a lot - it seems the brass are keen on keeping this one under wraps for a bit, though they won't say why. I promise to take him out for drinks soon. He asks - cautiously - about the dame, and I can't help but stiffen a little. I just shake my head and look at the corpse a moment. O'Larahmagh understands - or at least he's good enough not to ask any more questions about it.
I turn to go, and I hear the Rookie whispering something to the Sergeant. A very short argument in tones I can barely make out gets underway. It ends as these things inevitably do as O'Larahmagh pulls rank on the rookie. I continue on my way, heading towards the Island. There were only two reasons to go to the Island - one was for companionship, the sort of desperate thing that most folks on the lower rungs clung to because it gave them the illusion that somebody cared, someone felt they meant something, even if you had to chip in a sawbuck for it.
The other was Lucky's. Lucky's is the sort of place you find in every major city and no small number of littler ones. To call it a bar is a great misservice, though whether to Lucky's or the concept of a bar is debatable. Needless to say, it's a place where you can get a drink, a smoke, some anonymity, and just let life pass you by for a while while you crawl into a smaller world, just as dark and grimy, but with different pictures. But it was a familiar world, and in the insanity of a big city like this, a lot of people were willing to pay the small amount of money they had to spare for a little familiarity they didn't have to share.
The salt-sting of the ocean breeze lit the jezebel red streaks left behind by the lashing fingers of the uncaring sun. The breeze was cool at least, and for a moment even pleasant, until the reek of dead fish hit ... and then it was a more hurrid motion, down the three steps and through the thick salt-crushed wooden door. Inside, the smell of strong liquor, stale smoke and a more quiet desperation overtook the rot from without, and I knew that I'd found someplace, that although not home, would certainly do for the next several hours.
Navi Plaguelord courtesy of "Make yourself a Navi" website plus some ingenuity on my part...
Werewolf Awards: 'Best Narration: Helgraf' Rabbit says stuff that makes me blush.
I was sitting in the corner of one of those snug nooks in Lucky's, nursing a drink I could barely afford, the need to save money for food desperately battling the need for alcohol and gradually losing. The urge to simply drink the whole thing in one shot and order another was almost stronger than I could bear, driven by a need to forget the world, forget my miserable existance, and hopefully die of alcohol poisoning, allowing me to leave this life behind in the best way I knew how. What little hope I had left to me was solely focussed on the possibility of someone I knew coming in, someone I could blag a drink from. Preferably a big one. The smell of the alcohol evaporating from the glass in front of me was caving in my self control when I was mercifully distracted by the door opening.
I knew him, but not in the drink-blagging sense. I knew him more in the way the prey knows how to avoid the predator. A big man with big fists and not averse to using them. A man to avoid. A man to avoid unless you were out of cash and desperate for a drink and he was looking for information and was prepared to pay for it. I half hoped, and half dreaded, that he might see me, might make his way over. I started racking my brains for all the gossip I had heard or over-heard, anything at all that might interest him, anything that might earn me just one more drink.
I admit it. I was down and I was out. The city had been too quiet for too long. How can you make a living trading information, a bit of blackmail and suchlike, when there's nothing much going down. Or maybe I had just lost my touch. Maybe I had lost my access, sold other's trust too many times, not that I ever let them know it. I have my honour, but I also have a stomach that needs filling, and even greater than that, a need for alcohol to dull the pain of life's existance. I was never much good for much, so had made my way keeping my ears and mind open. I'd picked up a tit bit of information here, a bit there. People had found me to be the guy who knew, the guy who held everyone's secrets. And they had come to me for that information. Often with clubs and knives and fists, but always with money. Of course that had been a few years ago now. In my heydey when I had felt that the world was my oyster and everyone respected me. Now I knew better. They had never respected me, and now I didn't even have the information any more. People still came to me from time to time, but more out of habit than because they expected much. I needed a lead. I needed something to sell. I needed something to happen. I needed another drink.
(( Helgraf, the big guy just come in is supposed to be you, but if you don't want to, that's cool. ))
Originally Posted by Shadowcaller
Damn Jontom and his twisting logic that make sense.
Originally Posted by banjo1985
Nothing personal JX, I just know how completely devious and brilliant you are at these games when you have the time to devote to them.
Originally Posted by banjo1985
All I'll say is that Jontom is a master at these games ... the blue guy with the spiky teeth can be very persuasive.
I was standing at the corner of Main and 3rd, watching the passer-bys and wondering how I had ended up here. A crooked cop, the judge had called me, sentencing me to five years in the big house. And prison changes a man, and never for the better. I adjusted my hat as I kept my eyes focused on the black sedan, a gun kept inside my trench coat and a polaroid camera in the other.
If the senator would just raise his face, let me capture his misdeeds in a picture, his election hopes dwindle and so would my debts. So many people to pay back, but money is what it takes to survive, and I wasn't about to kicked to the curb by an unforgiving world.
And there it was, the perfect opportunity. As I raised the camera to snap the picture a body stood right in my way. Dropping the camera to my side I glared at the man in front of me, my left arm making its way inside my jacket for the revolver.
The man stood there, a knowing smile on his face. I hesitated, not out of fear, but more of sensing an opportunity.
"I've got a job for you."
I relaxed myself, pressing my coat down to smooth the wrinkles.
"I'm already on a job, ya see?"
"This job will pay ten times what you'd make for being a photographer, and its coming straight from the top."
I admit it, he piqued my interest, in a way that a low cut dress would pique my interest. So I listened to him, and the plan sounded so crazy that it might just work. I tossed the polaroid camera into the trash and caught the closest taxi.
Seeing my destination I told the cabbie to pull it to a stop. I paid him and stepped out in front of some establishment. Looking up at the sign it read "Lucky's", and I knew I was at the right place. Now it was time to have a look around.
I walked down the grimy streets, rain soaking my red dress as I took in the smells. This mean old city meant everything to me. Life, love and death. A gun barked its staccato cry in the night. Someone over in New Town getting his tonight. Taking a long pull on my cigarette, I flipped a quarter to Marco, the doorman at Sal's Bar and walked on in. Surely someone'd buy me a drink.
"What's in this empty box ?"
"Youth and talent is no match for age and treachery."
Mechwarrior by Elder Tsofu
There is a drunk guy at Lucky's. He's just there, sitting on a lonely table at the corner, with a bottle which he has just half emptied. He silently watches all the people coming and going, as he has done since she left him. He dreams of the past, reliving old glories, on exotic countries. He sights and waits, sadly, for something to make him feel alive again, or for his life to end. The cigarette on the tray is almost entirely consumed, and yet he has barely touched it.
"Play it again, Sam" he says. If he's talking to Sam, the pianist, or he's just drunk and dreaming alive, that's something no one knows. He falls asleep on the table.
So I herd you liek Mudkipz by Mr. Saturn
Many thanks to both Mr Saturn and B-Man for their avatars!! Antiform Sora, Haloween Sora, Majora's Mask Link, Wolf Link & Midna, KH Sora and Christmas in July Sora
There are ducks in the pond again this year. They paddle serenely about in the early morning mist. There havenít been any ducks in the pond for a very long time, but this year they came back.
As delicate wispy tendrils of mist drift peacefully I remember how a handful of years ago the mist swirled and eddied in violent fits as dark shadows fought each other for dominance and retribution. A gang warfare.
Around the pond the grass is etched in crystalline shards of frost. Where I stand the grass has shed its glassy mantle revealing its true emerald heart and icy water soaks into my jeans and trainers.
There was a time; a turbulent time, when the emerald was exchanged for the ruby of blood, slick on the ground and smeared across the waters of the pond. Corrupting everything. The plants thrived on the decay.
I can still recall how the muffled howls of pain fear and pure bloodlust echoed off the shuttered windows as we stood frozen inside, waiting for the sun to rise and banish the fight until the next dawn.
A broken child wanders the streets of this dismal city always returning to this same area; day after day. Sometimes I think it'd be best to put this poor girl out of her misery but in her posture and eyes, always looking downwards strike a chord deep within me.
It seems like I'm looking deep into my own past, when a similar child paced the city in need. What for I cannot say, all I know is that my life changed because of a few coins and a helpful face. Perhaps, just perhaps, this chid could be saved. Grabbing her arm I say "Kid, come with me and I'll see you get a good meal and I'll help you." The child flinches and tries to run but I cannot, will not, let her go. A mere waif like her, she couldn't leave and she looks a few months away from death.
I take her into Luckys'. Sure I'm underage but this kind of place caters to the lonely and those who were forgotten by the machinations that control the city and keep the rich rich. I order two meals, sit the child down and push a bowl of stew towards her. "Eat kid." She wolfs it down so fast I swear she's going to eat the spoon too. I quietly tell her how she's it's going to be from now on. In return she whispers "A man was shot today near East 42nd. He was carrying something big."
I can only look at this poor girl, "What's your name kid?" is all I can say.
"Well Charlie, people round here know me as Curly. Now keep your lips shut and watch." She nods and looks around earnestly. Eyes too sharp and wary for a kid her age. I mourn her lost childhood, and think back on how mine was stolen from me.
*Watching from an alleyway, I crushed a cigarette beneath my hoof. Nasty habit it was, I'd probably enjoy it, but its so hard to light a cigarette without thumbs that its not worth the trouble. I stared out into the street pondering my past and my future. Who was I? Who was I going to be? We didn't have a llamatar contest for this one, my player was too busy, but it was okay. I could be anyone I wanted, I wasn't limited to one of four or five options. I didn't know who I wanted to be, but I did know who I wanted to point at.
I lowered a hoof from the alleyway and pointed it menacingly at Exachix. We had a history, Exachix and I, a history born of wolf fur and annoying fairies. I wasn't going to let the fact that he wasn't in this cty or this game allow him to escape my justice.
To pass the time I sang a song my mother used to sing to me as a cria.
I Don't Know Which LLama I'll Be by the llama mama
How many choices do I have
And only one to choose
Very hard decision to make
Even though I cannot lose
There are one hundred llamatars
Here in my stable
Ever growing when Ceika is able
By now I've almost picked one
I'll decide tomorrow for sure
Right its down to three that are fun
Don't you wish I had a hamburgler.
__________________ inner circle Legionary of Resiliance
I love my Ceikatars!
I am the Terror that Bleats in the Night!
Last edited by Atreyu the Masked LLama : 08-23-2007 at 08:43 AM.
I'm still keeping one eye on the big guy who just entered, and the other anywhere except my drink, which is drawing my attention like an itch you can't scratch, when the door hinges open again, not even half as wide as before. Two shadows slip in, quiet and unobtrusive as only those who survive by not being noticed can do. I'd have bet the drink I was finding it so hard to resist that I was the only one who noticed them arrive. But then that's what I do. It's how I survive, by observing even those who survive by being unobtrusive and non-descript. One of them was a waif barely even there. I swear if she turned side on she'd disappear. They slid through the shadows and the crowd like eels in the sewage stream this city calls a river, and found by chance the booth behind me. I say by chance because after ordering, and receiving stew, I heard a bowl slide across the table and then one of them whisper something. Most people wouldn't have heard it over the noise and hubbub. But then that's what I do. It's how I survive, by hearing the secrets whispered in the quietest of voices in the most private of places.
My ears pricked up like those of a dog who's just scented the butcher's boy. Information. My trade. The stuff that keeps food on the table, a roof over my head, and most importantly, liquor in my mouth. It was the merest scrap of information, and nothing that special, but every little helps. The trick is to gather the scraps and put them together like the most god awful jigsaw ever invented. I felt my hopes rise. Something was happening. My world was starting to revolve again, like a bicycle wheel after a crash, and I was there when it started. See I wasn't all out of information. I already had a few scraps, just nothing I could use. For example I knew someone who might be carrying something. Something valuable, the kind of thing you might mention if you saw him carrying, even if it wasn't that big, but then the waif was small. Normal things look big to someone small. Could be the same guy, could be not, but I had a hunch that felt like a certainty, and I'd have bet the empty glass in front of me that it was the same guy and that now someone else was carrying that thing that guy had looked so long for and had, until he got shot near East 42nd, been carrying. Wait. Something was wrong. Empty glass?
Originally Posted by Shadowcaller
Damn Jontom and his twisting logic that make sense.
Originally Posted by banjo1985
Nothing personal JX, I just know how completely devious and brilliant you are at these games when you have the time to devote to them.
Originally Posted by banjo1985
All I'll say is that Jontom is a master at these games ... the blue guy with the spiky teeth can be very persuasive.
The air feel heavier than other days,though; not only the usual mix of the smoke coming from confty fireplaces, and those from the cigars of hopeless dreamers, that attempt to ease their drems with the company of a glass of Whisky; or, pity her, some desperate woman with a weak will.
I've stopped dreaming long ago, but my determination to keep afloat is still burning inside me. I'm not ready to quit the game. i think i'll never will.
That's why i'm still at that lousy night job at, all because of the accoursed money. These supposed "gentlemans" may find Charleston "exotic" and "alluring" or any other fancy word that comes to their minds, not caring if that said word doesn't even gets close to what these drugged and numb minds.
My legs are killing me from all these continual shows, this day is in honour of a fat-pig banker, that other day for the mayor...the Sergeant or another cop trying to be "convinced"...I'm done for, at least for this time. That scum Frank can surely keep the show going without me, i've never been the spotlight there, and i'm pretty sure he can get nicer faces at a cheaper cost tonight. i'm pretty sure this city isn't missing a couple for block.
Now, let's keep the coat and hat on, and keep the voice down. Lucky's seems to be the closer place, and i doubt i'll be able to keep this march longer without any rest. Hope the same bartender's there, he's always with some interesting tale of the whereabouts, and i need to take away some frustration.
Still, something tells me this is not going to be a quiet get-away from work...the air still feels heavy, cold...and grim. if there were magpies at this moment, i could even bet my worned-out shoes that they would be squaking nonstop, like some kind of eerie concerto.
Originally Posted by radikalskippy
But I must say the Izzet bunch are as crazy as a rabid goat with a rat biting its tail.
Originally Posted by Moon_Called
*ahem* *picks up megaphone*
Attention everyone! Mal absolutly rocks!
Mal, I name you Fangirlfreind. Whenever you are in aid, call and we shall answer.
Last edited by Malmagor Andrigal : 08-23-2007 at 10:08 AM.
The piano man in Luckys' makes a deep drought on his cigarette, sips his Whiskey and starts to play a tune.
The drink always stays on the same place of the piano, when he lifts the glass you can see a big, round stain. And it's never empty. It seems that as soon as it is going to be empty accidentally a waitress comes by or even a guest stands up and refills it. He is not the best singer in town, no he's just quite up above
the average, but the guests don't bother. They know that if he played better, he would play somwhere else.
But there is an other reason why they like him being there: It's his reliability.
In fact he's a living post box. Sometimes somones comes to him, tips him and give him a letter with a written song wish. He takes the money and the letter and plays the song about two hours later. Then another man stands up, tips him or refills his glass and get the letter from the piano man.
He never asks why. He never asks who.
But his customers know that he would find them if they won't pay enough.
Avatar by the great Lord Herman. Many, many thanks!
Empress Catherine by Dr. Bath!
Castaras made the PiratZarrrrr. Thank you very much!
The two children, almost non-entities in this dismal bar, stop talking when the piano man begins to play. Almost unnoticed Charlie hums along, for a few minutes as animated and happy as a child should be. And Curly, ever more disillusioned by what occurs in the underbelly of life somehow manages to dredge up a few of happier times too, a soft light in her eyes.
But thiis gentle recollection of happier times stops abruptly when the song comes to a stop. Sinking back into the endless drudge and struggle that only the forgotten ones and the outcasts know they resume their whispers, barely noticeable even in this deathly quiet place.
"Kid, how old are you?"
"Seven." is the reply, but in her eyes I can see someone aged far far beyond her years; and scarred by the events of her painful life. "How old are are you?" Her voice is so quiet, that even in this solitude her whispery husk of a voice is hard to make out.
"Well, Charlie, I'm not entirely sure any more. I thiink that I'm sixteen." Even to me the reply sounds vacant, yet somehow dreadful, although I don't exactly know why. "Let's get you some more food and a drink. I think I have enough money."
Desparate to get her another meal and a drink, not noticing my gnawing hunger I feverishing paw through my pockets hoping for enough change. There's enough; barely. We'd have to go without food tomorrow unless I found some more cash.
Noticing the man in the booth next to them (Jontom) she idly thinks to herself "That man seems to be listening to us. He can't want to rob us, we don't have any money, and from the loks of him he has enough."
It's 5 o'clock some where... says Korias as he walks into Sal's Bar. Sitting down at the seat farthest away from the door, he orders the usual. A bottle of aged scotch that never seems to end. Good thing the Barkeep knows him. So whats the big deal with this falcon? What could it be? sipping the scotch, he looks around the room. It makes no sense. Whats the point of the buzz? Holding the glass to his head to quell a formidable buzz, he sighs. His informant never came, so what could his motive be? Was he dead? Did he get caught? Or was he selling secrets to a higher bidder?
Spying the rainsoaked woman in the red dress (Timberwolf), he calls over the barkeep, handing him a wad of cash. Soon after, the womans drink is being refilled by the barkeep. Its all leading to dead ends... every single one.
Reaching towards my hip, I pull out my best friend, given to me by my wife many years ago. The good times that it represented, the happiness, the joy. Following that comes the despair, the sadness, the impact and bright light, and her body, twisted and broken within the car. Twisting the top, I take a slow drink from the engraved silver hip flask, drinking the aged whiskey, before putting the top back on and placing it back into its holster.
It has been seven long years since the day a drunk driver plowed into our car, and killed her. Seven years I have been unable to find the drunk bastard who did the deed. Seven years since I last knew happiness, when my head was clear, when closing my eyes didnít show me the crushed and mangled body of my wife. Seven years since the cops gave up, not taking note of my report, of my memory, of a gunshot before the accident, and the loss of control. Seven years since I lost faith in my comrades on the force, and left off on a sad lonely tale of revenge.
Removing my black fedora, I run a hand through the thinning hair. Once I would have despaired over the lost hair, yet now I barely care. I have been following clue, been tracing things, trying to find out who wanted to shoot my car, who wanted the death of me and my wife, who ruined my life.
Walking through the streets, I watch those walking about, living their lives, the happiness, the joys, the sorrows. Yet my sorrow overwhelms me, and I shoves my hands into the pockets of my black trenchcoat, feeling the shape of my second best friend on my hip, my restored Colt .45, fully licensed and legal, and loaded. This was another gift from my wife, for when I was a detective, for when I was happy and had such things such as hobbies. Yet now I carry it, with a bullet within destined for the killer of my wife.
As I wander, I see a man, acting strangely, pointing at yet another, yet not saying why. Perhaps he is a madman, corrupted by the uncaring society that tries to make you feel sympathy for others you know nothing about, yet just turns you even more jaded. Perhaps he is involved in something else that I really donít care about. Maybe he is lost within his own world, where he is at the very bottom of everything. Whatever it is, I shrug and pull my gaze away from him, before continuing my lonely journey.
((Points at Whitehelm))
__________________ My DM Reputation
Originally Posted by Inspectre
I'm good at making you fear the unknown. Pwenet is good at making you fear the known, which had been the unknown five minutes before he pushed you off screaming into the abyss.
Originally Posted by Kalirren
I'm feeling this real hard now.
Curse you, Pwenet. Curse you.... You had my hopes up there...
A blind rugged man sits at the bar in Lucky's. In his right hand he holds a cane and in his left a bottle of scotch. On his face he wears a pair of dark black shades to disguise his eyes. He sits there staring into thin air lost in though.
Suddenly Radikalskippy's shout shocks him and he jumps. Alright lad, take it easy. I'll buy you a drink, just one mind, you look a little drunk. Hey, Barkeep. Pour that man a drink. He points in the direction of radikalskippy. And make it snappy too!
The sun, that thrice-cursed sun, always there, always looming. Couldn't someone just turn it off, for this once, today? I could use the relief. Ahh, the rain, so refreshing, yet so counterproductive to my needs. And today, vision was more important than stealth. I ran along the rooftops, the rain hitting my face like a thousand tiny bullets, but I didn't care. All that mattered was that I find out what was going on in this city. In my city. A man was supposed to be arriving by train, or so I had been told. In his possession was the most precious of treasures, glittering like volcanic glass, set with priceless gems. The falcon. With its arrival, there was now a new threat in my city. Two of them. Those low-down good for nothin' Templars, hiding behind their precepts of faith and nobility, really nothing more than a gang of muderers. Very well, murder all they want, nobody takes over my city unless I let them. And then there's the Shadow Agents. They run deep in my city, too deep for me to root out short of anything but all-out war. Their stink has.. but enough musing for now, I'm almost there.
Just over the edge of the rooftop, I'm sure some astute observer would notice the faint glow of my cigarette, but again, this wasn't about stealth. I needed to see him, see if this was the man about whom I had received the information. There, just then, was that an attache? And it's just big enough to hold it, too. The police are doing a good job of obstructing the view from the street, but I know my city better than they do. Dropping the still-glowing butt, I ground it beneath my heel and hurried along the rooftops. I have to get to Lucky's. I have to talk to him. I just hope the bastard hasn't skipped town yet, with all the coming troubles.
Ahh, Lucky's. That safe-haven for criminal and law-abiding citizen alike. The place smelled foul, but it was necessary. Thankfully, the big man showed it to me once, if indirectly. There wasn't a better spot in my city to come for information, and that's one thing that's always in high demand and short supply. Stopping just short of the door, a thought strikes me. What if the big man is here? Surely after the last scrape he wouldn't be too welcoming. Screw it, I need the information, and he's the only one around who would know. Stepping into the bar, I see him instantly. He always liked the out-of-the-way booths, but then, they did make him harder for the less astute to spot. I give a nod to the bartender, and almost make my way to his table when I finally notice what seemed odd. He's not looking at me, but the big guy at the bar. Finding discretion the better part of not getting my arm broken, I walk past his booth and pause when I see the two kids. Damn it, this shouldn't be happening in my city. "Here," I whisper, surreptitiously dropping a small stack of money in the older one's lap. Taking a seat, I wave for a waitress to bring me some whiskey. Something strong, to help me pour over the pieces, and then settle back to wait.
A man in a purple trenchcoat stands leaning against the lamp on the corner. In his hands, the tarnished metal of a sax glints every so often catching the light amidst the fog and cloudy sky. In front of the man, a crumpled fedora is upon the ground, some change loosely scattered about it's interior. It was a slow day.
As he places the instrument to his lips, you catch a glimpse of the chilly air escape before vanishing amongst the fog. The music begins softly, a slow relaxing tune that reminds you of a smoother time, a more peaceful time. As the sound progresses through the air, the tune changes to more turblent rhythm. You feel your stress level rise, as the tone become both connecting and dischorded. It seems to capture the very essence of the happenings of the night, rising to a brutal squeek before gently coming back down to the softer more peaceful feeling of prior. As the tune appears to be coming to a close, a crackle of lightning erupts in the sky, and raindrops begin to gently fall.
The man picks up the fedora, taking the change out of it before setting it back upon his dishevled head. He let's the sax swing into the darkness of his coat, and walks away from the street light to find shelter from the oncoming storm.
As the rain really begins to pour, he spots Lucky's. The place seemed to be popping enough, and he was pretty certain he could afford a cup of joe with the change he made today. As he heads inside, he feels the tension of glares as patrons eye each other suspicously. He head over the the counter, and placing the saxaphone at his feet, captures the attention of a waitress and order his java. She flips a mug over and quickly fills it with the confidence of a person whose done it a million times before.
It warms as it goes down. Supagoof smiles and glances around at the other patrons again.
Legionary of Protection
Originally Posted by Lex-kat
It wasn't that easy. Supagoof's just that good.
Originally Posted by Shadow
This is LLD, which, I shouldn't have to tell you, will not bow to your math because it was DESIGNED to ruin it!
Originally Posted by Murska
Summary: Supagoof has won the game and withdrawn. He was Epic