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Hesori says out loud in a soothing tone. Hopeing to better cool the situation and get all the information before anyone else gets hurt. I know that in Pathfinder diplomacy checks typically take at least a minute, or ten rounds. Not that feasible in combat, I'm afraid. Weren't there more people who said they wanted to play than the three of us? Where'd they go?
"More than you, evidently," the dwarf retorts. "Coming in here and massacring yourselves by pissing me off, that can't possibly help you, from a public relations standpoint."
Cannon looks up at the kobolds, bewildered at their sudden assault.
"Hold up!" he shouts, "Let's not do anything we'll regret!" But at the continued laser fire the dwarf turns grim. "Damn it." He flips the table onto it's side, ducking behind it for the meager protection it provides. Moving quickly, he forces his helmet back on over his beard, locks his gauntlets into place
Cannon draws a tactical starknife. "Hey!" he shouts, trying to attract the kobolds' attention away from less heavily armored customers. "Life's a meritocracy, ya crazy lizards! If no one wants to buy your crap, it's 'cause your crap is crap!" He throws his starknife at the closest kobold.
He then recalls the enchanted weapon to his hand.
Cannon's curiosity is piqued. "Do things like what?" he asks Frak!
The dwarf swivels his head as Frak! speaks. "Woah. Is that a goblin in iridishell? There's a story there, sure as eggs is eggs. C'mon, Hesori, let's relocate." He stands up, awkwardly tucking his gauntlets under one arm and his helmet under the other, and makes his way over to Frak! "Heya!" he enunciates. "I'm Cannon. What's your name?"
The dwarf is happy to swap monikers. "Morgrymn Hafniumbeard, at your service, though my friends'd rather call me 'Cannon'." He runs a hand through his facial hair. "I haven't quite worked out whether it's a compliment or an insult, to be honest, but either way it lends itself to a great deal of puns." He stares into the middle distance, reminiscing, before he pulls himself back to reality. "Well, the armor's pretty useful when it's useful, and worse than useless when it isn't. Still, I'd rather have it on and not need it than need it and have left it at home. Seeing as titanium plating doesn't fold up to fit in a backpack, I've little choice but to wear the infernal plate." Cannon enjoys complaining to anyone who'll listen, and it's evident on his face; a wide smile lets you know not to take his grousing too seriously. "Besides! I'm a dwarf. Every species has something it excels at; lashunta get natural psionics, elves get a handy excuse not to go out for drinks, heh, and we bearded folk are good at carrying things." He leans in, hiding his mouth with a hand and dropping to a stage whisper. "At least, that's the common line. But my theory is everyone else just tells us dwarves as much so we'll carry their stuff when they don't want to."
Hesori hears a sound like a heavily armored dwarf seating himself heavily in a chair as a heavily armored dwarf seats himself heavily in a chair adjacent to her. The dwarf tries, momentarily, to place his short and stumpy legs on the bar, but thinks better of it before actually putting the human carpentry to the test. Instead he removes his hermetically sealed gauntlets; the ponderous gloves are useful for deflecting laser beams and surviving the void of space, but by the dwarven gods are they heavy. Placing a hand on either side of his Hidden Soldier helmet, he pulls the contraption off, lifting straight up in a manner that suggests he does not know the helmet can be loosened. He slams the helmet on the table, glad to be out of it, licks his hands, and uses his fingers to comb his close cropped helmet hair and neon blue-died beard. His lumpy, almost ugly cute, face breaks into a wide grin as he notices Hesori. "My apologies," he says in what he thinks is a suave and sophisticated tone, "I didn't see you there. No peripheral vision." He taps the side of his head, indicating what he can't see, even though he's taken the helmet with it's restrictive visor off and no longer has the problem. Noticing something, he leans closer, squinting under the lashunta's hood. "Hey! You're a lashunta, aren't you? Natural psionics, aren't you?" He looks excited and curious, like a boy who's found a stray cat and decided to pet it and is wondering if it's going to attack him or if it'll start purring and he can risk picking it up. "Are you reading my mind right now? What am I thinking?" Testing, testing, one two three.
I once heard it said that the first, the very first thing any normal person does, in any situation ... is nothing at all. A masked man walks down a dark street, strung bow on his back keeping his cloak in place. And it's true. The second thing that normal people do, that's to complain. Old and gnarled trees line the street, shade the time worn houses and small shops. The masked man absentmindedly kicks at the leaves littering the ground and thinks about how long the trees have stood here, how long the city has stood here, and how quickly it all went to the dogs. About how long he's stood here. He starts walking again. And that's useless. But is it really so wrong to sit and complain? If so nearly everyone does it. If so nearly everyone does it, can it be so wrong? It's not evil. I'm sure it's not evil. But it does evil. If you don't ... if you don't fight, if you stay neutral, than you've handed the victory to those with the power to take it! The masked man stops in his tracks, looks around at the city he grew up in. Looks at how old it is. Maybe neutrality is worse than evil. Maybe ... fear, or selfishness, or apathy, or whatever it is that keeps us normal people from doing anything at all, whatever it is that keeps us from sticking our necks out, maybe we're worse than evil. Because there's a lot more of us than there are good people or evil people, but we did nothing but whine about it while this city went to the dogs. The masked man stops at a street corner and waits. At length, he's joined by another. "So ... they said you want to join the Silver Ravens?" the other asks. The masked man replies, affirmative. I'm done being normal. --- Magnus Aferson is Zealot Vigilante of Abadar. (Probably. His build isn't finalized.) He's a ruthless if not particularly successful businessman in his early forties. Persistent as a cockroach and an opportunistic bastard, Aferson has always managed to keep his head above the water through good and bad times. Despite people often finding him initially charming, he isn't a well liked man, a copious drinker with a hair-trigger temper and a reputation for screwing you over if you give him the chance. He has few close friends. Magnus changes industries as often as he runs a promising start up into the ground with poor management, which is to say, frequently. He's currently living off savings while trying to find the motivation to pick himself up and give it another go, and wondering if there's even any point. He can usually be found in his house, drinking alone. Magnus fights with a longbow, he'll do decent ranged damage while being a general skill monkey. At least, that's the current plan, I haven't even decided his class for sure. |