Each of you has traveled for your own reasons, and each has ended up within the blasted wastes of Oklahoma. If it was not for the sudden downpour of black viscous rain none would currently find themselves in the little saloon currently run by a half rotted corpse named Nian, but beggars can not be choosers with, and the weather would have been your death if you had not found shelter when you had. The pounding lash of the rain against the structure is accompanied by a low sad howling wind.
Nian looks out upon the gathered strangers and speaks but a few words. "You buy or you get out. This not a shrine."
beanie pulled down and collar of his rain coat up Gavin moves forward.
"I have a can of, well to be honest I am not sure what it is. but the can is intact and not bulging, some RotGut and access to your well?"
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Lord Borak stalks into the two-star cantina as he owns the place. He does not deign to shake the water from his coat, as if the water is beneath his notice, or, he is wet because he chooses to be, and that makes it good.
Unhurriedly he walks to the bar. "Booze," is all he states and plops down a forty-five caliber round on the rough-hewn planks that form its top. "And a second one may be coming, although the quality of the beverage may affect its deliverance," he says, in a way that may or may not be a threat.
Most of the things he says are like that.
Flying Eagle waits to see how much booze (and what quality) the .45 bullet will get. He's got a variety of rounds, and doesn't want to over-spend.
The rotted man gives the impression of a smile to Gavin and pulls a glass of a clear liquid, placing it at the edge of the counter. He then pulls out a crumpled plastic bottle filled with what looks to be slightly dirty water. "No well, you take bottle water, good filter."
At Borak placing the .45 round, a small cup is poured and pushed forward, the smell of which brings to mind a harsh toxic swamp. "You take Baijiu, no lip now. Only drink many miles, you understand now."
The bartender then eyes eagle. "What you want?"
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Borak takes a controlled sigh and decides that killing this man would create more problems than it would solve. Barely.
He takes the profered cup and sips slightly. As one so used to pollution as he, the smell is not bothersome, and the burning down the throat is, at least, expected.
Turning he nods at others in the bar. "Good even' to you. I am Lord Borak. As it seems we may be here until this deluge retreats, by what are you called?" he drowls out, sounding like a cross between a landlord and a mortician.
Eagle puts a .22 bullet on the bar and waves his hand at the bartender to give him a shot.
"I am called Flying Eagle. I hunt the mutants that destroyed my village. I live for vengeance."
Gavin pockets the bottle with a nod, then picks up the drink. "I am Gavin, if we are stuck here anyone want a friendly game of cards?"
The barman pours out a smaller amount of the clear liquid for Flying Eagle. Passing it he then goes and leans against the wall, waiting for new customers or renewed orders.
"I'll have whatever he's having," Thresu intones in a monotone voice pointing at Gavin and placing a small-caliber bullet on the bar. He pulls off a well-weathered backpack and places it at his feet.
He appears as a human male approaching middle age wearing a tricorn hat and a long leather overcoat. Judging from the bulges of his coat, you guess that he's packing some heat in two hip holsters, although not a particularly large caliber. His left leg is missing from the knee down and has been replaced with a scarred and pockmarked mechanical prosthesis.
"Thresu is the name. Just passing through. Don't want no trouble."
"Ai shei shei. You buy so no trouble." Nian pulls out another bottle of water, though this one is only half as full as the one he pulled for Gavin.
Flying Eagle throws back the foul liquid, puts the shotglass carefully back on the bar, and answers Gavin "I don't gamble. At least, not with my money."
Thresu looks over to Gavin and his deck of cards.
"Friendly game? Like Go Fish?"
It is rather unclear whether Thresu is making fun of Gavin or completely sincere.
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"I do not believe in games of chance," Borak states, as though it is the definitive opinion on the topic. "I do not think that fate is random, or somehow in the hands of forces beyond our own ken.
I believe in doing good business, with all factors known aforehand by all parties. Everybody makes money."
He takes another tasting-sip of the beverage, purposefully not weighing in on his opinion of getting into trouble.
"No need for a game of chance or wager, jut looking to pass the time." he raises his hands defensively.
He sips his drink and nods before slowly removing the set of plastic playing cards.
Thresu shrugs and grabs his drink to sidle over next to Gavin, pushing along his backpack with his feet to keep it with him.
"So what are we playing?"
"If there is no money involved, I'm willing to join." But he stays where he is, as if waiting for an invitation.
"If we get a 4th I'll teach you a game we use to play in the Faraway , we called it the Rickety Kate, but I have heard a number of names. I like it because it has stakes even with nothing on the line.
Thresu looks to Flying Eagle. "Nope, the dealer said this was a friendly game, so no betting. Just something to pass the time until whatever is God-forsaken thing that is falling from the sky abates."
The slender man then turns back to Gavin. "Never heard of Rickety Kate, but I'm willing to try if you're willing to teach."
Estelle saunters in, eyeing the room and immediately tensing at the number of people already inside. Large numbers often meant trouble. She lets her soaked duster fall open, revealing her gun and holster, just so they were clear about everything. "Full house." She mutters, "Evenin' gents."
Walking up to the bar she tosses a couple shells down on the counter, narrowing her eyes at the barman. "How clean's the water?"
Flying Eagle walks over to the table with the other two men, and sits without a word.
Gavin speaks loud enough hoping to draw in another player. "If you are familiar with the concept of taking tricks then you will get this game pretty quick, the twist is that you want to avoid getting points..."
Nian smiles a nearly toothless grin as his pulls a 1L bottle of gritty liquid out from under his counter. "Water true good mam. Small grit never kill anyone. Ghost fire, now that killed." He laughs gently at his statement, a glint in his eye telling you he had seen it first hand.
As the rains wind down and your card game kicks off, you hear an odd howling sound replace the ever present rattle of water on rooftop. A howling, and a roar. The noise becomes deafening before cutting out, seconds later you hear the sounds of movement out side before a collection of men and women dressed in leathers and denim push their way in and crowd what space is left within. A single larger hulking brute dressed in the most outlandish black leather harness and steel mask walks toward Nian, the Chinese harrowed looks none to happy to see him.
"I tell you, you not welcome here warmonger. Bust up too many tables, no grow on trees."
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As Estelle walks in, Lord Borak gives her a respectful nod and raises his still mostly-full glass by way of salutation.
When the bully-boys enter, he remains non-plussed and his expression is un-changing. "Greetings...Warmonger," he begins, the words coming out like dying men in a procession. "I am Lord Borak, called by some The Despoiler. I am going to concur with the tap-master's assessment. This is the only shelter from the thrice-cursed weather, and We will appreciate a tolerable environ."
It's unclear why he's calling himself 'we'.
Flying Eagle looks over the bunch, to see if any are mutants, but says nothing.
The bulky man in leather turns, muscles bulging as he focuses upon Borak. "Are you talking to me brother? You must have lost your mind in the storm or you were a fool when you were born, but now you have stepped up to the real deal and your attitude must be brought to heel. You got something to prove brother?"
The rest of his posse begins to give the two of you a wide berth as they slowly form a circle around Lord Borak and the Warmonger.
Flying eagle spies no obvious mutants among the bunch, though many look a might more buff than you normally find in the wasted west.
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As the large human turns on Lord Borak the Despoiler, he makes a sound. It is the sigh a comet makes as it is caught in the gravitational pull of a newly formed star. Though an eternal thing made of cold iron and hard ice, it knows that the only thing that can return it to its normal path...
...is death.
"To begin, I am no brother of yours. I am certain of this as I knew my father and my mother was not a whore."
He puts his drink down.
"I see that since your posse of lackeys are giving us distance, you intend to engage in violence. You are going with this plan because your physique is greater than mine, and you intend to make a show of physical prowess to both cow and subdue any further resistance from the other attendants here, and to solidify your status as alpha male among thy compatriots."
His voice is unwavering, continuing in an eerily confident monotone. It's almost as if he has seen and done this before.
"Before we begin with your now inevitable and inescapable doom, I am going to state for all that I was not the initiator of turbulence. I have observed the proper forms of civilization, and made verbal requests, to which you responded with tumult."
He affixes his shield on his arm.
"So too," he gazes at the posse, "We are to be left alone, correct? When I am finished with your leader, I shall have time to deal with the rest of you."
That done, he at least looks at Warmonger.
"Your challenge is accepted. EGO CON PROVOCO!"
In the space between them the a noxious goo oooooozes up through the floorboards. Impossibly fast it grows from a few drops to a puddle to pool. It keeps building...upwards.
First legs then torso then arms then head appear. At first they have the amorphous visage of a melted candle, but slowly take shape into something roughly human-like.
The room is filled with the smell of moldy bread, wilted flowers, and cheese left too-long in the sun. It is as if all the things you threw out over your lifetime are now back and seeking vengeance.
When at last the green-muck-demon is formed, from its near-approximation of a mouth it utters words...
.
.
.
"I̤͔̦̗̮̫̤̞̻̎ͮ͑ͧ͐͌̚ ̫̤̤̫̦̹̝̪̉͋̓ͥ̔̑̂ͧͫH̟͇̦̎̄͛͗ͯ͌̔Å̫̤̬͍͈͔̥͔̀̂̌̋̈ͦV͎̥͈͎̰̉̀͂̅͗͂̎E̅͋̈́̑ͨ͒ͅ ͔̜͒ͪ̑C̞̣͕̬̠͛̚O̙̤͍̼̜̞͛̍ͮ̋ͨ̾̑M̪̼͈̥̬̹͉͉̯͌̿ͥ͂E̪̬̠̲̽͐ ̯̳̥̹̞̩̓͑̔ͩͮͅT͙̗͇͕͙̮̫͚͛̏̓͗̄O̯̪̠̻̽̅̈́̈́͂ ̻̬̮̬̹̩̩͛ͬ̍̊̚ͅD̲̤̊̂͌Ě͎͛S̼͑̀̎ͭͤ̎ͩT͗̉ͧ̍ͦ̎R͇͚̭̣͖ͣO̬̞͉̮̍ͬ̌̌Y̻̼̭̦̪̟̞͎̎͌̈́ ͍̲̩̯͖͉͉̣̊ͤͫͬ̓̉̉ͩͅŸ͍̜͆̄̃̌ͦ͛͂Ő͐̊̈́ͥU̘̣̺̘̼̳͗ͤ͗̆͒͊ͧͣ.̬͙̩̓ͧͫͧ͑͋̒"
Flying Eagle watches the upcoming altercation with minor amusement, but keeps a sharp eye on Warmonger's allies, ready to attack them if they make a move to attack Borak.
= 17
As the posturing begins Gavin slowly reaches behind him and pulls out his ancient Colt 1911 and sets it on the table before him.
9-Diamonds
6-Hearts
King-Clubs
Deuce-Hearts
10-Spades
9-Spades
Gavin and Estelle are up, everyone else after the Warmonger.
Gavin grabs his pistol and stumbles back from the table as the deamon forms , carefully watching where the other players place the cards then still had in their hands.
Moving quickly, Estelle jumps from her spot at the bar to behind it. Positioning herself where she can get some cover, and see all the threats at once, she crouches low next to Nian. "You got a gun?" She asks, without taking her eyes away from the scene playing out before her.
She draws her own colt, keeping it out of sight for the moment. "Reckon' it's about to get messy." Looking at the daemon again, formed entirely from green muck, and leaving a trail of slime as it moves across the floor, she amends her previous statement. "Er, messier."
Nian stands and watches the mayhem unfold before him. He does notice Estelle and her question. "No need gun, death make me stronger than gun."
The warmonger laughs as he looks at the new challenge with a gleeful grin. "Brother, I am going to shove that creature up your back end. Then, I am going to take you and shove your head up that corpse's hind end for the trouble." He seems to ready himself and takes up a ridiculously flashy wrestling stance.
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"Hmm. The taunts and over-the-top threats of physically impossible violent acts. Very creative. And unique. Next I assume you will shout loudly and beat your chest while yelling something about 'ripping' and 'tearing' things.
Amusing and witty as those are, We must look past their verbal labyrinth to the truth that you intend us harm.
That is something We take seriously.
I will demonstrate that maintaining a Bodyguard does not require strenuous concentration on my part."
He languorously draws his own colt.
Flying Eagle remains sitting, but unobtrusively draws his own gun, and holds it under the table.
Thresu continues sitting at his table with Flying Eagle, but casually unbuckles the straps on his holsters as he watches what is going on. He has not particular allegiance to anyone in this bar, but at the same time hates the sight of blood being spilled ... by morons.
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"It is my belief that armed conflict is a forgone conclusion. I believe that you have not attacked for one of two reasons. The first is that you are afraid. You are used to people being cowed by your reputation, or your numbers, or your obviously off-putting demeanor.
That you have met someone unconditionally unimpressed with your posturing is, to you, disconcerting.
Either that, or you are setting up some maneuver of skuldugery. I think that the most likely option.
Given these obvious conclusion, am I going to allow you exactly six seconds to egress from these premises and bother us no more. Your retreat will no doubt be of less inconvenience then cleaning up your corpse.
Of course, the clean up won't be that bad--my Bodyguard will simply eat you.
Leave now or be shot, and then consumed."
One....two...."
He cocks his gun, and the toxic beast maintains its unblinking stare.
= 8.
The warmonger startles and steps back a bit from the creature and Borak, visibly shaken by the spirit and his summoner. The rest of his posse begin to look around at the room nervously. Nian softly clucks at the stupidity of it all and watches the coming storm, possibly adding up the total property loss this little conflict may end up costing him.
Flying Eagle waits to see what the rest of the gang does when their leader is shot.
Gavin startles at the report from the gun, and he funnels that brief moment of fear into the gathered thugs.
Modifiers
AREA OF EFFECT (+2/+3): For +2 points the power affects everyone in a Medium Blast Template.
Thresu moves his hands close to his guns but also waits for the thugs' reactions.
As the war leader topples from the bullet lodged firmly in his guts, his pack of wasteland warriors begin to scatter like cockroaches. Fear grips their bowels and most void themselves in panic as their terrified minds search for escape.
Nian looks on, annoyed that he will now have to clean his floors. He sighs and asks "You want job? I pay good you take care of problem way you deal with that one."