For those that still want to play, I'll be your DM voice for today.
The wall was wet, but the multi-armed motherf@#~er was able to pull himself up and over like some kinda jail bird. Let me tell you, the church's outer garden was trimmed up and pretty, if it wasn't pelted with rain all over. The church door was closed and there weren't any street-sweepers outside. It was just one man vs. the church, fool! The glass windows still showed some sort of light inside.
For those outside the church, sitting around all shady and shit, and getting rained on, there came a street-sweeper around the corner. His outfit marked him as one of them peace-keeping motherf$%$ers and he squinted, holding his hand up as he approached, "Ho' there. Church'll be open tomorrow. Best to get out of this rain..." He looked the others over when he got closer, "You wouldn't happen to be looking to get in there, would you?"
And then it came full circle back to me, motherf$*&ers. Me and the man and his tiger. The shady motherf##$er that knocked on the building was let in after he spoke quietly. The door closed behind him and I nod towards the door, "Better listen in. Unless you wanna bust in and bust their asses up." Tapping my scepter, I approached the door and stood near the door, trying to pick up words from those inside.
No problem yo. Alright Kit-Kats, if nobody wants to take it over by the 17th, I will. And y'all better prepare for some intrigue fast-ball if that happens. Win or lose, someone's gotta die.
Micarlin tromps after the man, keeping him in sight in the very least. This rain was a boon, as his bared back and chest didn't feel the cold anymore. As the man approached the door, Micarlin side-stepped into an alleyway and swore under his breath. He peeked his head out and was the quietest motherf+&*er around here.
Micarlin shook his head as he walked around. He rubbed at his temples and eyed the tavern looking place. But the laughter threw him off and he sat outside, miserable and wet. Someone was moving along the street though, and they weren't being sneaky about it, so Micarlin let his attention be caught up.
That shady mother f@&~er. Taking his coat off and tossing it over his shoulder, he held onto it and walked after the man, tailing him.
Micarlin shakes some water out of his sleeves, setting his hands in wet pockets, "Well I'm glad its not me." Looking between the others, "He's going to go scout and I will too." Wait for the heroic pause, "For a bar. I'm sure no street-sweeper will notice you all just standing around waiting for someone to come out and get killed. If he makes it back alive, let me know." Waving to the others as he walked off, Micarlin set off to find the nearest tavern.
Micarlin met the wave with his coat creating resistance for a few, brief moments. He closed his eyes and stopped mid-step. They grabbed my head and hit me with the bucket of water again. No matter how much I spitted blood, it was all a game to them.
Wiping his face, Micarlin only frowned. His body, even when wet, didn't shiver. Jerry and his friends killed them, said it was good. But if they knew what I would later do, they would know that torture would be too light a punishment.
Continuing to walk after the others, Micarlin eyes the temple and gives an unconcerned grunt, "I don't have that kinda power yet, but I'll get it in due time." Just gotta offer more souls..."But I'm light on my feet and packing heat. I just have to set my coat and cane down somewhere to dry."
Better prepare some orisons too, as I forgot they exist. We'll go with No Light, Detect Fiendish Presence, Slash Tongue, and Light.
Micarlin cracks a smile, getting a whiff of that fresh air, "Haha..yeah, I could get used to this." Twirling his scepter as he strode down the ship's gangplank, he stops it and sets the end on the road, "Don't you worry, Old Micarlin will be as quiet as a motherf~*#ing sheep; no peeps from me in this airy city."
Micarlin, however, didn't face Sena when he addressed her, and was rather busy looking around for taverns. Frowning heavily, "A temple? A temple to who.." Shrugging some, Micarlin looked to be less amused by the idea, "I'm not exactly welcomed in lots of these 5 to 9 temples." But he would follow along, probably until he could ask or learn who the temple belonged to.
Micarlin seems to be in a better mood from his little trip, smiling cruelly for a few seconds before he eyed the ship and became nonchalant. He scuttled pass the gate and boarded the ship after the others. Taking to leaning against the wall, he rolled his hand just above the gem of his scepter. A little pain, a little misery, and a splash of diet raspberry-lime cola
Time to change spells to more appropriate ones.
2nd level- Wither Limb x1, Wave of Grief x1
1st level- Heartache x2, Sorrow x1
Micarlin was busy the entire ride doing this chanting and wiggling of fingers.
Micarlin pats the man on the back, "Yeah, no no, I get it. You're a good guy, yeah. You help yourself out man. I'll close the door so it doesn't get too cold in there." This motherf!#*er. Chivalry is dead, it was never alive to begin with. Closing the door slowly, Micarlin was walking away, but his hands moved in the air and he re-locked the door. Taking the time to stop any guard on patrol, Micarlin held his hand up and walked over, "Sorry to bother you on your walkin', but I heard a ruckus at the old lady's bar, down the street over there. Guy was talking about deathsticks; I'm sure he's drunk, but that crackah probably has some on him. The door's locked too, but he's in there. Watched him go in and would take care of him myself, but I got things to do."
Giving a friendly-ish smile, "And if there's a reward for him or something, you just send it to the Silver Eagles and say it's for Mirlin. I'll pick it up." Having to leave, he wave behind him and trot off to get on the ship.
Micarlin arrived back at the shipyard in time to see the backs of the others. He followed swiftly behind, hands in his pocket, grim look on his face. He mumbled under his breath, something about being dry.
Micarlin makes a disinterested shrug, "So? Just unlock the door. Here, I'll make a deal with you. I get us some booze and you can pay me in deathsticks, aight?" Pulling out his thieves tools, Micarlin strolls to the side and stands against the wall of the building's side, his hands working the tools from afar, his hands moving behind his back.
Micarlin shifts his head towards the others trying to convince this man to let them through. Slicking a hand through his short hair, Micarlin shakes his head, "I need a drink." With that he lifted his scepter to the gateman, "To you sir. My favorite person in this whole goddamn city." And he leaves the others to argue with the man, strolling into the tavern and slapping some coin down on the countertop, "Give me something strong. I need it to burn my insides; it's mother-f$~+ing cold out there."
He didn't even care if the old lady gave him the stink eye, he was going to get a drink and watch the ferry shenanigans from afar.
Micarlin closed his book and put it away, tapping his scepter into the ground in front of him. He waited with his hands on it, "So much for playing it cool."
Micarlin watches the others go up and start talking to the gateman. Quietly, to the others, "And we are civilians, just looking for passage. Suppose we wait out this storm in the tavern and get drunk enough for tomorrow. Otherwise, we just labeled ourselves as some stand-outish mother-f@&@ers." And then, "Professional bribers riders on the lightning boat gonna go stuff some goat." Shit, that was good.
Micarlin pulls out his poetry book and writes in it, flaming eyes of some hateful daemon invisible to others whispering, Why not arm yourself with my power. Feed their souls to me..
Micarlin lets the rain fall onto his head, soaking what little hair he had. Standing at the dock, he turned his head and glanced over his shoulder at Karolos, "Yeah, let's start there." This mother-f%&!er.
Micarlin let's Vincent lead the blind lady once he comes up. He watches the streets as they go down the gangplank, thinking of some better spells now that the boat fiasco is done with. Spells to handle multiple targets and single targets, hmm.. Rubbing at his mouth, he shakes his head. Maybe they'll have time for him to change up and get ready for some r-r-r-regicide!
Micarlin was checking his coat pocket for his flask that was marked with Bad Mother F$@!er. Unscrewing the top and lifting it to his lips, he sharpened his eyes towards Flinchy. Pointing his flask at him, "I do /not/ call you Suzy, and I will not be called Mica. It's Micarlin, son." As for his life, he drank heavily and wiped his mouth with a sleeve and doesn't say nothing!
Tucking his flask away, he spat upon the floor of the ship and clacked his scepter as we walked after Sena, looking to the others with a wide smile, "Hope you wrote a valediction, sons. Because we gonna go get some regicide on our hands. That shit ain't ever gonna come off." He walked after Sena up the stairs, "Girl, let's go ride us this sky ferry."
He mumbled something about swearing under his breath in vague words and shaking his head, letting his hand guide Sena by the lower back because she's really tall.
Micarlin's smile became a steady, brow-beating frown, "You saying this motherf~@@er is trying to pull something? Trying to ruin my reputation or frame me for killing some high-riding castle man?" Trying to frame his mother and then get power? What the hell was the angle then.
Sitting on the barrel and rubbing his upper lip in thought, he stared through the dwarf. It came to a moment where he shrugged, "I don't give, a single, mother-f&%@ing shit about the royal family. B*!~&-ass niggas can cut each other and they don't need some washed up, drunk-ass, street-nigga to do it for them." To the dwarf, he pointed his scepter at and the dwarf exploded, just kidding, he didn't explode, "Tell me straight. This prince do magic? Who the f~!! is that candle for? And how much is the Queen paying?"
Sure, the others may have looked at him oddly, but he shrugged, "I ain't got nothing better to do than drink my drunken ass to sleep in the dark days I f~$%ing put myself in, shit. I don't give a flying f*#$ if it's a trap as long as I can end some mother-f%!&ing lives."
Taking a seat on a barrel and eyeing that candle, Micarlin sucked in a breath, "Shit son! Some street niggas up and ended the old man? Haha, no wonder you drag my sorry ass out of drinking the day away."
Stepping off of the barrel and sparking some red energy from the scepter, Micarlin gives some nods to the room, "I'll put these dogs down if the money's fly enough. Make 'em into bread and get fed on the their raggedy, dead asses." Adjusting his coat and popping the collar, he picks up his scepter and gives it a classy twirl, "You better believe I'm gonna make 'em hurt. I'll steal their goddamn hearts, make wish they were dead. Then kill the motherf&$%ers and their mother-f&+*ing-friends." Slamming his boot into the ship, he walks around his section of the ship, obviously enthusiastic by this kind of job.
He may have even forgotten that Sena was in the room in his excitement, clapping his hands and rubbing together, hahaa!
Micarlin's spell focus is debuffing and save or wish for death. Instant death, slow death, jello-death, undeath, snake-death.
Micarlin stood near the edge of the stairs, eyeing those here. Placing his scepter in front of him and his hands on the red gem. He stood waiting and only looked away from the group as Sena descended the stairs. Micarlin adjusted his boots on the floor, "I talked too much over that heavy drinking then. /And/ I drank too much and I spoke too loud."I don't remember shit. Except that Ommin fellow. It took a moment of thought, but he rubbed at his temples with a hand, Did I try to pick up the blind b~~$%? It's all foggy.
With a grimace, "I hope they were good memories. Jerry needs to stop giving me free mead."
Micarlin has his coat open, bare chest to the cold air. He leaned on his scepter and watched the dwarf ascend and gave an off-hand shrug, "I got nothing to do down there and I got nothing to do up here, in equal measure." Walking after the dwarf, he eyed Sena's bandages and shook his head as he descended the stairs.
Micarlin swore under his breath when Ommin left for the bowels of the ship. That left him and Sena and he bobbed his head with his inner words And I sure ain't gonna say shit. Someone was coming up though and Micarlin squinted his eyes at the up and comer. It was either someone from the parties or maybe their patron in all this.
One way to find out is, "Who goes there, mother--" Micarlin looks over his shoulder at Sena and back to the gangplank, "Soothsayer, you better have something nice to tell me, I ain't in no mood for playing nice. I won't settle for corn and rice; I'll take the whole, bloodied steak and I'll scarf it down all by myself, make no mistake! Soothsayer."
Micarlin stuffed the journal away and looked to the blind lady who was coming up the stairs and then down at the water, quietly speaking to himself, "Now I just made myself a fool. Ain't ever gonna get no luck with no woman." Straight up truth! Since he can't take back what he said, he's just gonna go back to watching the waves roll against the ship.
Micarlin click-clacks, one finger having a metal claw attached to it and the railing offered some perfect beats. Nodding his head along to the rhythm, he may have been startled out of the musical trance, "You wise, ass, crackah. Shit man, spook a man out of his beats; what is wrong with you?"
Of course, this man Micarlin gets up and moves to look over Ommin, offering to bump his fist, "A friend of a friend, of a friend. Your ugly ass is hard to forget and you're making me look younger all the time. Respect." But Micarlin smiled as best he could and greeted Ommin with a warmer tone than usual.
On going downstairs, "Aye man, they're rolling the furniture over and under down there; some blind broad and this loud, shouting bard are down there and they're busy, you dig?" Holding up his hands, "I ain't gonna get in trouble with no large handed bard and his broad! They don't need me down there; I'll be right here, catching some free air." There was a brief moment of silence, where Micarlin whipped out a small journal and wrote in it, "Shit, that was some sick rhymes."
Micarlin wrapped his fingers on the railing of the ship, clearly in thought. The back of his coat was decorated in a pattern of skulls with swirly symbols around them. It looked to be a Pharasmian coat, but modified and tailored.
Grunting a response to the kasatha, he ran a hand along his short white hair, "I'm getting too jumpy. Drank too much of that hard, dark mead, all week." The blind lady went downstairs, then some guy went after her. Shaking his head, he only smiled into night, "Shit man, that's some smooth and fast moving."
Micarlin tapped his scepter along the ground and balanced his head on the glowing, red stone clutched there. His armored coat swayed as he walked into the party that his past friends were hosting. Several other interesting people were there, but left once they were given a small bag. Some man in uniform and all that. Preferring to sit in the middle of the room and tell the old friends his sorrows over a few pints of booze.
Then the uniform man came to him and he gave him that kinda face when someone interrupts your story, "Sit your b!##$-ass down and wait your goddamn turn." Anyway, wrapping up the story he let the man in uniform slide him some plats and invite him on a ship. This received a set of raised brows from Micarlin, and he told his table that he had to leave for business.
With the last of a mug that Micarlin tossed over his shoulder at the tavern, he wiped his mouth clean with his armored sleeve and tapped his scepter as he walked, casting eyes over his shoulders. Twirling his scepter up, he ascended the ship plank board and hefted the bag of coins in his hand, tucking it into his coat for safekeeping.
Once on the ship, he eyed those that came before them, "Well ain't this the damn'dest thing. All these mother--" Seeing the blind lady on the ship, Micarlin quiets and let's that statement go. Shaking his head, he moves to spend 15 minutes thinking things over, mulling over this information. Familiar people from the party, paid to go onto this ship...He stared out into the night sky, watching the city go about its business. He was near the gangplank, arms crossed on the ship, scepter at his side.
Micarlin fills in his level 2 slots with Ironskin and Hanspur's Flotsam Vessel. I'm pretty sure everyone can easily be friends of friends, as we were each invited to the party. And there's no one that's not noticeable in this group!
