Sevenspawn's page

Joaquin wearies of Stuthman's blubbering quickly, instead leaving him to weep alone and immersing himself with tales of his own bravery for the townsfolk. He drinks, he boasts, he gambles, he cheats. And although the night is a blur, he is somehow the first awake among the unlikely companions, seated on the back of the ex-Marshall's horse and with horses of his compadres already saddled and watered for them.

It seems like a somber, almost dignified moment as he hands the reigns over silently, giving each a nod. But for Joaquin Diego Rigoberto Santiago Ramirez, it ends as it begins the moment they ride out.

"OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH....!"

There is only the sound of groaning to accompany him.

"ON A TEN-DOLLAR HORSE AN' A FORTY-DOLLAR SADDLE! JOAQUIN MAKE HIS LIVING A-PUNCHING CATTLE! COME-A KAY-YI-YIPPIE-YIPPIE YAY...! Is good, eh Senorita..? Hehhehheh... COME-A KAY-YI-YIPPIE YIPPIE YAAAAAAAY, STUTHMAN! COME-A KAY-YI-YIPPIE YIPPIE YAAAAAAAY....!"

Spending a Benny to Soak.

Vigor: 1d6 ⇒ 2
Wild: 1d6 ⇒ 3

Joaquin feels the bite of the steel finally get him good, turning his teeth to the cultist.

That's a fail, so I'm Shaken and at -1. Making a Spirit roll to Unshake.

Spirit: 1d4 - 1 ⇒ (4) - 1 = 3
Ace: 1d4 ⇒ 3
Wild: 1d6 ⇒ 2

I'm Unshaken, but I believe I still have to spend a Benny to attack this round, which I'll do. I'm allllll outta Bennies now.

Il Brutto doesn't have time for the cultist, and just pushes him in the face as he looks back to the demon. In his mind, this is his destiny, his calling - his change to prove he isn't what the dream said he was. His hand drops one shotguns back into its holster, only to pull the loaded Colt of Marshall Bryce out his belt.

"EH, YOU MOTHERLESS DOG!", he roars at the abomination, raising the pistol at the thing trying to devour Stuthman's face. "EVEN IL BRUTTO, HE KNOWS TH' RULE... NO EATING IN CHURCH!"

Oh, that's awful and I love it. What a boor. Anyways, making attack roll on the demon as Joaquin shoots with the last slug in the shotgun and the first round of the pistol. Taking the -1 for the Wound Penalty.

Pistol: 1d10 - 1 ⇒ (6) - 1 = 5. Hit, no Raise.
Damage: 2d6 ⇒ (6, 6) = 12
Ace x2: 2d6 ⇒ (5, 4) = 9
Total: 21 DAM. Ouch!

Seeing the well-placed shot rip into the creature, he raises the shotgun at the cultist behind him, barely looking at the at the man as he pulls the trigger.

Shotgun: 1d10 - 1 ⇒ (9) - 1 = 8. Hit, one Raise.
Damage: 4d6 ⇒ (3, 2, 4, 4) = 13

"WHAT?", Il Brutto shouts at Stuthman, yanking him aside as Caroline fires her shotgun near them both. "WHAT IS IT YOU SAY? GET AWAY FROM THE DOOR, SENOR STUTHMAN, YOU GOAN GET SHOT!"

The big man smacks a sweaty palm against Stuthman's cheek twice in what passes for a friendly gesture from him. His voice lowers as the ringing stops in his ears. "Don't be so miserable, Stuthman! Now is the time we kill the dark padre and go to Heaven, eh? Ehh?"

Ever one for sudden mood swings, Joaquin breaks into sudden laughter, stepping away from the doorway and cupping his hands over his mouth. His voice raises to the windows above.

"HEY, PADRE CHEE-VAL! IL BRUTTO AND HIS GANG, WE COME FOR YOU! YOU MAKE YOUR PEACE WITH WITH THE DEVIL NOW, EH? IL BRUTTO, HE GOAN SHOOT YOU IN THE FACE!"

Joaquin is completely disoriented for a moment, not knowing where he is or who this man is. He looks about, notes the screaming of the townsfolk and the shooting of the man in his immediate vicinity, and comes to a quick decision. Lifting his shotgun, he clobbers the fellow from behind.

Fighting: 1d4 ⇒ 4
Wild: 1d6 ⇒ 5
Damage (STR+d4): 1d4 + 1d4 ⇒ (4) + (2) = 6
Ace!: 1d4 ⇒ 1

Total: 7 Dam. I'll assume that's enough. Note that I am opting for Non-Lethal Damage here.

Stepping over the man's fallen form, he looks around the office for this money he was on about.

Notice: 1d4 ⇒ 1
Wild: 1d6 ⇒ 5

Stuffing whatever he finds into his bag, Joaquin shoulders it and puts the man's weapon and ammunition into his coat. Lighting his stubby old cigar and lifting his voice as he pulls it out of his mouth, he yells out to the street - but not before firing once loudly out a window in an upwards direction.

"OKAY, S&&%TY PEOPLE FROM S&!%TY TOWN! IL BRUTTO IS IN HERE, AND HE IS COMING OUT! HE HAS A PREACHER TO KILL, SO HE GOAN SHOOT ANYBODY HE SEES!"

Reloading, Joaquin looks for a back door - and, failing that, kicks open the front.

Just for flavour and fun, and with apologies to Mr. Stuthman, because his line was great.

Smarts: 1d8 ⇒ 2
Wild: 1d6 ⇒ 6
Ace!: 1d6 ⇒ 1

"It's 'lay on'," the form of Joaquin Ramirez replies quietly, in a confident and subtly southern American voice. The eyes - not Joaquin's eyes - snap a cool look at Stuthman as he moves past him. The seem more relaxed and somehow not as dark. "Not the same thing, pard."

Joaquin stumbles just a little bit, coughing once into his fist. When he looks back at Stuthman warily, his own eyes have returned.

"Ehh... let's go, Senor."

Joaquin has no idea what any of this means.

"Sorry, dead ghosts," he says, hands raised up defensively. "Joaquin, he... he already has a passenger."

Brutto cheers for the first time in a while. He grins his black teeth wide and opens his vest to reveal a shiny star.

"Joaquin, he killed the marshal!", he says proudly. "So Joaquin, he is the marshal now." Ramirez gives no opinion on whether or not he thinks this is actually how things work, and continues with false modesty. "There is no need to thank Il Brutto for this. The marshal, he was an a&%$~!&, so Joaquin, he shoot him in the face."

He turns away with a swagger, leering at the ladies as Caroline catches everyone up.

Playing Vow here... destroying the things of darkness is a Major Hindrance, so he's staying. ALSO... I sort of forgot before rolling here that Ranged attacks in Melee aren't a thing, so he'll step back - or around between zombies, maybe, that sounds better - and take a SW version of the AoO if required. If I can spend a Benny to avoid, I will.

"YOU WANT PICTURES, SENORITA?", the brute shouts back, his head still ringing from the fall and the roaring dragon inside. His adrenaline pumps right alongside his ego. "GET A SHOT OF IL BRUTTO, THE HERO!"

Joaquin points each gun at different zombies, not turning his head for the second shot. He's good enough - and fast enough - to aim the moment he draws.

Shooting: 1d10 ⇒ 9
Wild: 1d6 ⇒ 6
Ace: 1d6 ⇒ 4
Damage w/ Raise: 4d6 ⇒ (5, 4, 4, 4) = 17

Shooting: 1d10 ⇒ 6
Wild: 1d6 ⇒ 6
Ace: 1d6 ⇒ 3
Damage w/ Raise: 4d6 ⇒ (6, 6, 4, 4) = 20
Ace: 1d6 ⇒ 4
Ace: 1d6 ⇒ 1

There's a Raise on each even if Caroline's light isn't close enough, but if you could clarify that'd be great. Total damage is 17 and 25 for each gun.

Sevenspawn listens distantly to the talk as he casts the spell, indicating to the team that none is present. He looks to Donnell as the other two bicker playfully, nodding his head at Raven Six and Thod.

"They are the oddest pair together since... well, you and I." The priest scratches his head. "Regardless. Do you think that both Vencarlo and the Sensechal are alive?"

The priest, who has become accustomed to the very different contexts in which his companions speak, nods to Raven Six.

"I do." He bangs his hammer against his shield once more. "And I remain ready, my friend. It does seem like the most foolhardy thing we have willingly walked into, however. I almost wonder if we shouldn't..." The priest shakes his head. "Well, one does not just force a lord of Korvosa - the lord of lords, I should think - to show us the way at sword point, I know. The man also passes out magical items like candy to children. But there is more here he knows, and perhaps there is another way."

Sevenspawn shrugs. "But I am ready. The Everbloom continues to lend me ever-greater powers in this fight, and so our progress, however frustrating, is indeed righteous."

Joaquin immediately cracks his weapons open one at a time, moving each under his arm as he begins to reload with practiced expertise. His eyes remain on Bryce's body as he loads each barrel, and the wild happiness found within the sneer a moment ago slowly subsides. Despite his ringing ears and the black smoke in the air, he's already speaking to Caroline.

"What did Joaquin tell you?", he begins, loading the other weapons quickly. "Lawman's dead now, and it's Joaquin that did it, and it's Joaquin that they're gonna try to hang now. All for your stupid, f*%+ing picture."

Holstering the weapons, he kneels over the Marshal's body and begins rifling through his pockets, taking any money or valuables he can. "'Don't do it, Senorita,' Joaquin says to you, he tells you why, but do you listen? No. No, you don't wanna listen to Il Brutto, and so he has to do the dirty work... like mud-Joaquin in hell, not like angel-Caroline and angel-Stuthman floating up in Heaven." He tone is bitter as he tears the Marshal's badge off before pocketing it and rising.

"You take a good look at Bryce," he says, taking as many shotgun shells and bullets from around the place as he can, and trading the deputy's revolver for the best one he can find in the room. "He's dead because of you. You made that happen, Senorita Caldwell. Joaquin, he pull the trigger to help you, but you killed him, ehh? Ehh. Two men, in fact." He finishes up by spitting a large amount of tobacco juice on the body, and finally looks at Caroline to explain.

The Mexican huckster motions at the hooded man. "Can't have no witnesses."

Pulling the Marshals' revolver from his waistband, he checks it over in preparation for the deed.

BOOM!

Il Brutto boots the door open, his scowl turning into a twisted, happy sneer. He lets the natural meanness he carries abate only enough to sidestep into the doorway so that Stuthman can get in behind him, and so that Caroline is not in his line of fire.

"HOLA, MARSHAL A@!!$+!!" he bellows lamely as he raises his guns, not having a lick of charisma to speak of. "TIME TO DIE!"

Despite what must be done - and how much he looks forward to it, raising both weapons up at shoulder level - the nagging thought that he is about to kill a lawman is also still present. He mostly ignores it. It's killing time, after all.

And there's a shaman to show how wrong he is about Il Brutto.

Shooting: 1d10 ⇒ 5
Wild: 1d6 ⇒ 1
Damage: 3d6 ⇒ (6, 1, 6) = 13
Damage Ace 1: 1d6 ⇒ 4
Shooting Ace 2: 1d6 ⇒ 2

Attack= success, no raise; Damage= 19.

Shooting: 1d10 ⇒ 10
Ace: 1d10 ⇒ 4
Wild: 1d6 ⇒ 3
Damage (with Raise): 4d6 ⇒ (6, 2, 4, 5) = 17
Damage Ace: 1d6 ⇒ 3

Attack= success, two raises. Damage (with raise)= 20.

Can't say he rolls bad when it counts...

"Y'think Caroline went in there?"

Il Brutto nods once, saying nothing, and spits some more of his disgusting tobacco juice out onto the ground. He seems to be waiting for something, or carefully considering what to do.

Somewhere inside his head, the dragon hums lowly.

"I THOUGHT IT TOLD YA TO GIT OUTTA THIS TOWN, GIRL!"

The decision perhaps made for him, Joaquin steps forward and kicks the door in as his guns appear in his hands.

A few things. One, let me know if the door is locked; if it is, I'll shoot the mechanism open rather than try a strength check. Two, if I can attack this round, let me know and I'll roll: Joaquin will shoot anyone inside threatening Caroline.

"Hey," she stage-whispers while pointing at Thod. "He keeps saying he in't a pony or a mule, so… Is he washing off the smell to make me believe it? Like, rilly believe it? 'Cos I already thinked he's a weird pony or mule, 'cos he never walks on all fours, an' I don' see where he's hidin' da tail."

Sevenspawn tries to turn his head at the creature, realizing he has never spoken to it before. "I cannot tell if you are joking or not," he says after a moment. "I'm sorry for that. Assuming you're not, I can assure you that he is not a pack animal, but rather a dwarf. That said," he continues, "I think he appreciates the ribbing, and even if he doesn't you should continue to do it regardless."

The priest is startled at the dungeon comment, however, and awaits Glorio's answer after Thod asks exactly what was on Sevenspawn's mind.

Sevenspawn pinches the bridge of his nose with a gloved hand, but says nothing and looks back at Carnochan with as much seriousness as he can muster.

Sevenspawn's eyebrows lift with realization. "Ah."

He considers his words. "I suppose I was. I was alarmed that you considered the possibility that I might support the Dead Kings as tyrants over the city, and confused that you did not know they already sought to help the denizens already. It is, well... it is what they do." He opens his hands a little. "The Broken Crown has already cleared this up, though. There is no trouble."

He pauses, and then speaks again. "I am confused on another matter, though. You speak of 'sub-selves', which I take to mean the... alchemically-altered versions of you. Is this... a normal state? I do not understand it."

Sevenspawn takes the drink willingly, hearing the dwarf out.

"I am as convinced that I was right to oppose her," he answers, "as I am aware of how stubborn I was in doing so. I cannot fault you for pointing that stubbornness out to me. I am sure it is almost intolerable." Phaedran smiles. "My high opinion of you has never waned, Thod: you are a credit to your people and your profession, and I consider you my friend. Friends that are made on the battlefield are the best kind."

The priests toasts Thod, clinking his mug into the dwarf's.

Heartbeat.

The Mexican's fingers clasp the dirt. His eyes fall to them. He rises to his knees, wiping them off on his his filthy poncho. They fall slowly to his sides, where his guns rest in their oiled leather homes.

Heartbeat.

Those same fingers twitch ever-so-slightly.

Heartbeat.

The eyes raise again. The mouth opens and speaks.

"I failed," Joaquin Diego Rigoberto Santiago Ramírez croaks in a voice that does not want your pity. "Joaquin, he failed."

Joaquin forces himself to his feet, turning a stumble into a reeling motion. He crashes into Stuthman's horse, falling again, and growling off all attempts at aid as he forces himself up again. He leans hard against Caroline's horse and fumbles at his canteen, drowning his head in the water after a long pull. He shakes his stringy hair apart and screams, long, loud and full of anger.

In the aftermath, Joaquin looks at them each in turn. He points at them, as if to make one.

"Joaquin," he says in an odd combination of pure misery and absolute determination, "he will not fail again."

"Nurrrrrrgggghhhhhh...."

Il Brutto is miserable, sitting up and holding his head. At first it is the headache; as his companions speak, the greater pain becomes about that he has clearly failed where they succeeded. He tries to process their excited words to one another and finds that he can only take in that they are the champions... and he is not. Jealousy rages immediately in that ample stomach alongside pain, anger and despair. How many people have wondered if the mettle they hoped to have when the moment came someday would hold them fast? What did they do when it became clear they did not, when it counted, possess it?

The clarity of these thoughts are not so vivid to Joaquin Diego Rigoberto Santiago Ramírez, but the feeling that accompany them could not be sharper. He rolls to his hands and knees slowly, bleary eyes staring at the dirt beneath him and sweat rolling off his fat, broken nose. They are invigorated, joyous, happy; he is a loser, a lout, a good-for-nothing. He has always known this, and he has embraced it wholly as the only path that was open to him. In his nearly-broken mind, he imagines playing soccer as a child and watching the team celebrate without him after a great victory. That it never happened is of no consequence.

And so, how to play this now - or whether or not to play it at all - is what fills the part of his mind not consumed by fatigue. He hates them. Their victory is his failure. He tries to think. He tries very hard.

The dragon inside is deathly quiet about the matter.

From his place on his hands and knees, Joaquin's dark, ruddy eyes - or perhaps Il Brutto's eyes - look up from under the brim of his sombrero at Caroline Caldwell and Mr. Stuthman.

And a decision is made.

Joaquin considers this for the briefest of moments.. or at least appears to. From the way his head is tilted up as if profiling his face against an unseen sun majestically, he's already made up his mind. Champion against a great evil? Of course he is.

His hands slap his knees firmly. "Okay," he responds simply. "Il Brutto, he take your test. We get started, eh? My amigos first... right after me."

He rises to his feet and looks at Alo expectantly.

Sevenspawn's face goes grim at the site of the priestess. He stands behind Raven Six, a little off her left shoulder, as he does when he is backing up Donnell.

There is nothing to be said. His position when dealing with this person remains unmoved.

The priest returns Donnell’s glance, offering a silent shrug as if to suggest his comment may be a fair cop. Spending a moment to give his standard inspection of everyone’s wellbeing, he stops in front of Raven Six.

”You make an excellent Blackjack,” he offers. ”The pageantry was impressive. I wonder if you might channel it again in support of the Dead Kings? Our numbers are low, and there are many about this bunch here in Old Korvosa that might be swayed to join the cause against tyrannies such as this one. Ysania, my brothers and my sisters are good allies to us, and we may yet need to call upon them again.”

Sevenspawn raises his light-filled standard as he turns in a circle, the bloody rose of Milani shining for all to see. Barking out his arcane words, he concludes his powerful spell.

The priest casts Blessing of Fervor, inspiring his allies in Milani's name to take the field.

With this blessing, you call your allies to move forth and empower them to conquer and become victorious. Each round for the duration of this spell, each of your allies can choose one of the following bonuses for that round at the beginning of its turn (their choice).

- Increase its speed by 30 feet.
- Stand up as a swift action without provoking an attack of opportunity.
- Make one extra attack as part of a full attack action, using its highest base attack bonus.
- Gain a +2 bonus on attack rolls and a +2 dodge bonus to AC and Reflex saves.
- Cast a single spell of 2nd level or lower as if it were an enlarged, extended, silent, or still spell.

These effects are not cumulative with similar effects, such as those provided by haste or a speed weapon, nor do they actually grant an extra action, so you can’t use it to cast a second spell or otherwise take an extra action in the round. Blessing of fervor does not stack with haste.

Fort Smith, Arkansas. Not that long ago.

"YOU DOG! YOU PUTA! YOUR MOTHER WAS A WHORE AND YOUR FATHER THE VILLAGE DRUNK! BASTARD! BASTAAAAAARRRRRD!"

The insults the Mexican spat forth did no good, but made him feel a little better. Judge Isaac Parker had pronounced him guilty of horse thievery and banditry and, like Judge Parker notoriously did, had set the sentence at death by hanging. And so he kicked and screamed and spat venom as he was dragged away, making a show of it in his fury. The bailiffs had to bash the sides of his knees with fists when he lifted them on either side of the doorway exit in a futile effort to stop their progress.

Joaquin Diego Rigoberto Santiago Ramírez was guilty of the crimes he'd been charged with and several others that he had not. The lumpy, brutish, almost disfigured man they called Il Brutto was now notorious in the region, much to his pleasure; it gave him a sense of pride of accomplishment that only the truly base among us can appreciate. That he could add to that notoriety by roaring at the judge and spitting at the bystanders in the street outside only made him feel bigger. He had killed, robbed, cheated, burned and assaulted, and the infamy he had now for it was better than where he had come from, even though it had meant his neck.Il Brutto was infamous.

And then, he wasn't.

What happened in the jail cell following the conviction is a story unto itself. For now it is enough to know that it involved a jailhouse blade, a preacher, a deck of cards and a demon, and that the result was Il Brutto was suddenly free... and instantly forgotten. The cost of infamy had been his doom, and the price for his freedom was his infamy. This would seem oddly fair a greater man, but Joaquin Ramírez was not a greater man. What he was at that moment was a scared man, and one sent stumbling from that cell back to freedom like a newborn calf trying to get its bearings. He went only with his clothes, a gun, four bullets and Hoyle's bible of the unspoken.

And a dragon crawling in the back of his head.

***

Coffin Rock. Present day.

"OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH....!"

Il Brutto is relieving himself on the town sign, and he is singing.

"ON A TEN-DOLLAR HORSE AN' A FORTY-DOLLAR SADDLE! I MAKE MY LIVING BY A-PUNCHING CATTLE! COME-A KAY-YI-YIPPIE-YIPPIE YAY...! You like that, eh, Stuthman..? Hehhehheh... COME-A KAY-YI-YIPPIE YIPPIE YAAAAAAAY....!"

Il Brutto waggled his member in Stuthman's direction as he pissed on the sign, irritating and brutish as ever. He sang loudly because it amused him to irritate them on their long, boring journey. Joaquin didn't have a horse and had to walk or ride with one of his companions, and getting under their skin with his terrible voice passed the time.

As his boorish chuckles died off alone, Joaquin finished up. The sun and the heat did not bother him - el dragón saw to that - but he was glad to be done with the boredom. Whatever had to happen here, at least it wouldn't be boring.

The Mexican brushed some dust off his poncho and sauntered back to the horses, his dark eyes peering out under his wide sombrero and the twin shortened shotguns crossed at his waist clacking slightly as he walked. Leaning easily against it, he peered out over the town and spoke after shoving some tobacco into his ugly maw.

"Piece of s!*% town, Senor Stuthman." Some of the black fluid dripped down his chin. "Piece of s!&& town, piece of s!+% state. Pro'lly piece of s%$@ people, eh? Hehhehheh..."

WON'T BE A BORING PIECE OF S&#!, HOSS, drawled the thing crawling in the back of his skull. I'LL BET YOU THE RANCH ON THAT...

For the first time in a long while, Il Brutto fell silent.

Knowledge: Religion: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (10) + 8 = 18

Sevenspawn's eyes are wide with surprise and anger.

"I RESCIND MY OBJECTIONS!" he shouts, more or less at Donnell. "PUT THAT DAGGER IN HER NECK!"

The priest throws out his left hand, sending a wave of The Everbloom's might into Thod Six-Picks.

Sevenspawn casts Bull's Strength on Thod. The subject becomes stronger. The spell grants a +4 enhancement bonus to Strength, adding the usual benefits to melee attack rolls, melee damage rolls, and other uses of the Strength modifier.

Joaquin Diego Santiago Rigoberto Ramírez, also known as “Il Brutto” (or “The Ugly”, a name he wears with pride for unknown reasons) is a no-good piece of s#$@. Once a highwayman and still a cheating gambler, Joaquin is as unpleasant to deal with as he is to look at. He can be loud, arrogant, quick to anger and prone to vicious outbursts; he is also prideful, boastful, rude and untruthful, and is the last person people want to be around.

Il Brutto does have one redeeming quality, however: he’s surprisingly loyal to the cause. Something as of yet unexplained happened to Joaquin within the last year that saw him turn somewhat from a being of pure selfishness to one that... well, he's not good, but he can see good from here, and frankly finds it unsettling that it seems to be something he wants to be. Whatever it might be, it's allowed him to channel his general hatred towards others and total self-loathing towards hatred and loathing towards the creates of the night. Joaquin developed a fondness for the work and respect for the people who do it, and is as surprised by anyone to find that he would probably step in front of a bullet for his colleagues. Though still massively unpleasant to others, he holds them in high regard simply because they do the same type of work. Though he would never admit it, he sees an opportunity to be a better man than he ever expected to be and is a man on a journey of redemption that he does not understand. He's a piece of s+%*, yes. But he's your piece of s*+#.

Ramírez has told a number of wild stories about his past, but the true and untold tale is almost cliche: he was born a bastard, abandoned as a child, unwanted and mistreated as a youth, wild and constantly in trouble with the law as a teen, and on his own before his fourteenth birthday. He developed a skill at cards - one that he has honed to near perfection now - but the toughest of situations found him in touch with something from beyond that both frightens and excites him. While he has not spoken of it, the powers he draws from his cards and his treatment of his collected writings of Edmond Hoyle as saintly relics suggests there is something else present.

Ramírez is tall, wide, overweight and unwashed. His hair is long and unkempt, his teeth broken, black and yellow, and his nose has squashed across his face from being broken many times. He smells of sweat and chewing tobacco, a habit he enjoys constantly, and his eyes shift from mischievous to wild. His thick, bushy moustache is the only thing he keeps clean, and shaves his face roughly and infrequently. There is a permanent scar under the width of his throat that appears to be done by a rope, and which might be the most noted thing about him were it not for his unpleasant face.

That's my rough outline; the move has prevented my from completing the character. Hope to have it out soon, but I can tell you he has ended up surprisingly ranged combat-centric.

It was fun, Dave! Thanks you for introducing me to SW - I run a weekly game of my own now, tabletop-style, because of this.

Anything without Tracy is not as good as anything with Tracy, but I want that lady happy and healthy. You've never picked a player in any game I've been in who wasn't top-notch, so I'm for anyone you want to add or to continue with these fine players here. Simon's player and I seem to connect really well through the characters, and Eileen is phenomenal.

If I can throw a couple of systems out there, I'd love to try Deadlands or Monster of the Week - neither of which I have played before.

Fighting: 1d8 + 2 + 1 ⇒ (8) + 2 + 1 = 11

Wild: 1d6 + 2 + 1 ⇒ (4) + 2 + 1 = 7
Ace!: 1d8 + 11 ⇒ (6) + 11 = 17

damage: 2d6 + 1d4 + 3 ⇒ (5, 1) + (4) + 3 = 13
Ace!: 1

(Best "Holy Grail" voice) JESUS CHRIST!

Pembleton has a little fun with Eileen's healing vest, pulling down his goggles and shouting "STAND CLEAR FOR INCOMING DEATH BEAM!" as he pushes down on a plunger and ducks behind a chair. He chortles afterwards, apologizing through it as the healing effect tingles deeply and repairs her shoulder. Whether it's funny or not, he clearly thinks it is.

After she departs, the old man adjusts his somewhat-ruffled look to a more proper appearance and begins waddling around the ship aimlessly, looking at anything of interest.

Notice: 1d4 ⇒ 1
Wild: 1d6 ⇒ 3

Ha ha, I love rolls like these for this doddering old guy.

Pembleton takes about twenty minutes of his next hour taking apart a steam-powered bottle opener on the open deck, neither aware nor concerned if he is watched doing so. Working relatively easily, he takes the steam power intake valve from the bottle opener, adds some basic telescopic equipment and a mount from a water closet mist dispenser, and ties it into the rail at the bow. Mixing all the devices up in a complicated pattern of gears, cogs and electrical lines, Pembleton does his thing with little effort. The result is a surprisingly elegant-looking, deck-mounted set of binoculars...

... that work better than, well, all binoculars ever. The passengers will be able to see the ground with incredible detail. Pembleton makes sure that it is locked with an encoded combination he will only be able to figure out; the rail would have to be smashed to have it removed.

I've spent 3 PP on Farsight... and I've just now read that it's Seasoned, not Novice. Well TOO BAD, I'M SUPPOSED TO BE WORKING ANYWAY AND I'VE ALREADY SPENT TOO LONG ON THIS. I doubt it matters, it's just deck binoculars that you can read the writing on a golf ball with from up here. I think all he's trying to do is show Parkes up by making something better than everything here in twenty minutes flat.

Pembleton wipes his hands clean, puts away his spare parts, takes a test look through them at the ground below, and playfully spins them around as he looks to depart, tipping his hat to anyone who might be watching. He waddles away down the deck, looking to see if Parkes is about to answer a few questions.

"There now Edmund, that's enough for you. Save some for Beatrice and Reginald. Where's Stewart gotten to, now...? Ah, there you are, Stewart, get in here now, lad, and - no, Edmund, that's enough, don't be greedy..."

The old man toed at one of the pigeons gently, smiling with his eyes past his aged face. They'd come every day since she passed into the garden, and although his heart wanted to believe that meant something his brain was far too scientific in makeup to allow those thoughts to ever take hold. From dust we come, the preacher had said over her grave, and to dust we shall return. Or something to that effect. Religion held no real sway in that mind either, though appearances ofttimes had to be kept up. The Bible was never quite the Bard.

He leaned back on the bench, looking away from the birds and the tall flowers in the now-overgrown garden and up into the bright, clear sky. Removing his hat, Sir Ian Pembleton placed it on the bench for two beside him and stroked absently at his beard and moustache as he thought of her. His hand went under his overcoat and into the crisp vest of his suit, bringing out the silver timepiece she had given him on their twenty-fifth anniversary so long ago. His thumb cracked it open before he dropped his head to look at it. Her picture lay inside, opposite the spinning clockface.

"It is a beautiful day, Elisabeth," he said to it with a smile. He had allowed himself this one unscientific trait, speaking with her; he had no children, no grandchildren, and he reckoned that even if the people he occasionally stopped and bored during his constitutionals knew he spoke with her, they'd find it more charming than crazy. "The kind of day that would see you out here, I think, tending to your forget-me-nots, your sunflowers, your..."

He peered around the garden and shrugged, noting his clockwork hound investigating the tree across the cobblestones from him. "... well. Whatever else is here. Never been much for the names and genus of flowers, I'm afraid. That was always your forte. Hmmph." He smiled at a memory, but it faded from his face a moment later. "I do fear that I've quite let it go, though, my dear. I shall have to hire a gardener, I quite think."

His eyes went down to the pigeons at his feet, but he hardly noticed them. Too old to re-up, he mused. No one had told him that precisely, but at seventy, Her Majesty's Corps of Engineers had gently found ways to coo-coo him into his presumed life of retirement and leisure.Yes. Coo-cooed. Like a pigeon. His eyes focused on the friendly flock again and he threw down some seeds once more, absently noting a new bird arriving.

"I suppose it is foolish," he said to her picture again, "to think that they'd call me up, these people from the government." His voice held a resigned tone. "Perhaps they simply wanted me to feel wanted. Kind of them, I suppose. It was a foolish thought anyway. I laboured too long for the Crown, and to want to waste the rest of my days labouring further, simply because you are not here? Nonsense. Don't know what I was thinking. Poppycock". He paused, sighed, and tried not to deflate.

Sir Ian noted the small whirring only as he closed his pocket watch. His eyes flicked to the clockwork dog, but noted instantly it had not moved. It was coming from his feet. Craning his old body downwards over his knees, he saw the cause of the whirring noise.

It was a clockwork pigeon, and it appeared brass. The other birds paid it no mind as it strutted about, stepping towards the Englishman and opening it's beak to present what he would soon learn were his orders.

Two minutes later, he swallowed them and rose instantly. His gait was quick and strong, sending the other birds scattering. He spoke once to the dog, signalling his invention to join him.

"To arms, Palamedes," he told it, his heart soaring in his chest. "England calls." He could not hide another smile. She CALLS!

Forgetting his garden, birds, and departed love, the stodgy old man called Pembleton went back inside his little house and retrieved a rail gun that could shoot through the Great Wall.

SB, here's something I wrote up for backstory.

**

“A Sir Ian, you say...? Ah, you mean Pembleton. That’s how he was known, you see, to us old sappers. Pembleton. Not flippantly, mind you - the name meant something, you see. ‘Five insurgents dead in the old African kingdom, single long shot to the brow of each? Ah. Pembleton. Good man, that Pembleton.’ That type of thing. A funny name, eh? Sounds... rounded at the edges, in a way. Harmless somehow. Well. He bloody wasn’t. Here’s a tip for you, young man: always respect a man who goes by only one name. He’s likely earned it.

“Anyway, the man himself. Pleasant. Proper. A true Queen’s man. His life seemed book-ended by... mathematics, perhaps is the best term? I’ll tell you what I mean. He joined the Royal Army when he was eighteen, I believe, and married his Elisabeth that same day. Twenty-five years a sniper with one of those specialty corps, shipping here, shipping there... those types never advance up the ranks much, you know. The occupation hurts them that way, and he was a savant regardless. Won’t bore you with how good a shot he was; you’ve heard the stories I’m sure. They’re all true. He was mastered. Won him an Order of the Garter commission. One of the most decorated shooters in English history.

“Then, on precisely the day of his twenty-fifth anniversary with the Royal Army, he became a sapper and spent exactly twenty-five years in the Royal Engineers. Brilliant at it, bloody brilliant. Could blow up a bridge with a dead cat and a bag of loose wires, I tell you. Never saw anything like him in all my time. Hmm. Anyhow, the day he retired, fifty years to the day he entered service... his Elisabeth passed. Sad, that. But this is what I mean when I say the maths seemed to box in his military life so precisely.

“Pembleton loved four things: his Queen, his country, his wife, and his inventions. Perhaps in that order. I cannot say. I recall thinking of him when he mustered out: no wife, no Corps, just a funny square man alone in his funny square house with his funny square garden, having given all he had humping six-stone packs all over God’s green Earth for the Crown. His reward for it, which should have been golden years for he and Mrs. Pembleton, was taken from him.

“Lost track of him after that. He turned fully into his work, I’m told by the other lads- clockwork inventions and Heaven knows what else. Stopped dining at the Barracks and coming here to the club. But a good man. Yes. A good man to the end. The enlisted men used to call him the 'Dodgy Codger' or 'Stodgy Codger' or some such thing, even when he was young, did I tell you that? My, he hated that.... but he was always a codger, even in his twenties. Too by-the-book for most. Almost stuffy... but exactly the type of fellow who’d want to give whatever he had left to his country, even in his final years.

“What a soldier he was. Genius inventor, mastered shooter. A brilliant if one-tracked mind that could have given even more than he already had.

"Too bad he didn’t have the chance. I imagine he’s passed on now...”

- overheard at The Quill and Quine Dinner Club, 1897

The hairs on the street cleric's arms rise a little, and he manages to suppress half his smile.

"No one should die here," he replies, his eyes falling to the vial as it moves back and forth in her hands. "We are not the authorities. But certainly..."

Sevenspawn pauses, his voice dropping as if he had stepped out of character in a play: it almost seems as though he lets down a weary ruse. He brings forth his hammer, spinning it once in his hand.

"... there ought t'be a beatin', ah? A mad beatin'. Reckon we look-n-see 'bout the place, jigg'rypoke our way in an' bust the inside up as much as we bust their insides up."

He looks to Thod and Donnell. "Fox? 'Ow bout you find us in so we c'n all watch Six-Picks an' Raven Six do summin' terrible."

"Therian... Sevenspawn tries the word. "Therianthrope. I have not heard this word before. I thank you." He mutters it a few more times, committing it to memory.

He clasps on his belt, adding his weapon to the side. "The city remains in crisis, with every moment seeming to matter. Are we moving swiftly enough? Perhaps we should check in with the Bank of Abadar to see if there was any merit to the gold acting as a type of transference device." He shrugs, the idea still ringing true inside his mind.

The street cleric looks to Donnell and Thod. "Have we access to silver weaponry? I have no such weapons. I seem to recall talk of an oil that can be poured on a weapon to make it react as such...?"

Raven Six doesn't look particularly monstrous. ^^ Just taller, more muscular, and with different colour hair and eyes. Think less Mr. Hide, more She-Hulk. :D

That's cool! . I like to play SS's reactions to other PCs as much as possible as my way to recognize everyone's character efforts. Raven Six is already odd-looking; I was going for a "she's more odd-looking than ever" kind-of-thing. Great character!

Sevenspawn sighs deeply, loudly, and slowly through his nose. He turns to the others - Raven Six, Thod, Donnell - and gives them each a long gaze in the eyes.

"I'm sorry for this," he says cryptically. "Truly."

Stepping towards the table, he places his gloved hand very firmly over the saucer, preventing Devargo from taking it. His face, hard now, looks to the King of Spiders, but he seems to speak to his companions.

"But there is no dealing with madness, is there." His tone suggests a statement, not a question. "We came here in good faith, just as we did the first time, and are met with accusations despite our peaceful efforts."

His voices raises, angry, and he speaks to Devargo. "What did you lose? A chair? A modicrum of pride? You killed members of my family for that, and were still offered a peace treaty. Now you are offered a cure for your illness, and you respond with venom and spite. No, sir. No."

Sevenspawn tosses the saucer aside, letting it crash into the floor. He raises a staying hand to Parni, indicating that he will do nothing more.

"I will not raise the first hand against you here, Devargo - better you die from the plague. But you'll get nothing more from us. You show no respect when it is given, and you are no more a king than I."

He steps back, glancing at Parni. "I am done being his lick-spittle. The business here is at an end."

Have fun bud!

(As an side, my little guy - he's 9 - keeps demanding updates about this game. When he heard about the characters, he collectively named the group "19 1/2". When he I asked him why, he counted off the following on his fingers: 7 spawn plus Raven 6 + Thod 6-Picks + 1 halfling equals 19 1/2.)

(Yes. I'm raising him right.)

Sevenspawn stands momentarily frozen, halted in his task of taking Thod up on his good idea. He simply stares for a scant number of seconds, and if one were to press him why in the days that followed, he would answer with one word: awe.

Still cowled, he suddenly bolts forward amidst the chaos to the front of the rampart. Understanding that they must not yet be seen as an enemy of this Queen, he thinks as quickly as he can. Beginning to chant lowly in the same arcane tones he would have used on his dwarven compatriot, Sevenspawn leaps to take a swipe at the foot of Trinia or Blackack - whoever is closer - and casts Sanctuary at the same time, making it look like he has failed to grab at them.

Successful or otherwise, he looks up at the masked figure. His face, sometimes scowling and always with a furrowed brow, relays an almost completely foreign expression from under his hood.

Sevenspawn is smiling.

Sevenspawn dreams.

"WHY THE THE RAT?"

"You know why."

"PERHAPS. TELL ME, PHAEDRAN."

He nods once, happy, perhaps, to submit. "I understand the rat." Sevenspawn looks down as one skitters out of a doll house he has never seen, offering it a small piece of beef from his dirty fingers. He feigns pontification a moment with a tight smile. "Born in squalor, he must fend for himself at a young age. He climbs over his brothers and sisters for food, for space; when there is too little of either, he sets himself apart with his strength. His cunning."The priest points a finger at someone, oddly comfortable. "His teeth, too."

"He hides in shadows, avoiding the giants around him. He scavenges and forages, and considers little else but his next meal. He is wary, nimble... suspicious." Sevenspawn draws his hand back sharply, making a small hissing sound as he looks back down at the oily rodent. "Ach! You see? I offer him food and he bites. He is suspicious, as he should be."He pauses a moment. "As I am. As all people of Korvosa should be. He is only a symbol, I know. But we rats need protection from giants, and comfort when they stomp us under their sandals."

"AND THEIR STATIONS IMPROVED?"

He shakes his head. "No. Not in the way you imply. He will never be more than what he is. Even if he becomes the largest of rats, he will still be a denizen of dark corners. And he cares nothing for the giants' stations in life. He is content to be the rat, and to him no man's table is better to forage upon than the next. All he wants is to be left to live and make his way."

"IT IS TIME TO AWAKEN, PHAEDRAN."

"Awaken, mistress...? Am I asl--

***

Sevenspawn's eyes fly open. He lifts his head, tasting dirt, and focus on the floating derro.

"Right," he says aloud to no one in particular as he draws his axe. "Let's get a little bloody."

Sevenspawn, talking in an almost inaudible grumbling tone...

"... and lo', the ground did open its mouth and split apart beneath them..."

... now begins to raise his voice as he raises his goddess's standard into the air.

"... and the Everbloom did look down from above as they went into the soil early, and She saw the ground close and become their graves, and cast down the bloody rose in Her hand in their wake..."

The cleric slams the butt end of the standard into the ground sharply.

Channel Energy (Damage to Undead): 2d6 ⇒ (6, 4) = 10

"And there did it take root and grow and weep, lansing the evil of the unrighteous..."

Standing taller than normal, he steps forwards further into the room.

"...and all that it touched was pure once again."

If there is no objection from the group - and for the purposes of pushing the scene - Sevenspawn waits for the runner he set up some time ago to come to Zellara's daily. He relays a message to the Broken Crown (a title I invented for the head of the Dead Kings he answers to) that he is coming with his companions and requires a hideout that is small, clean and defensible for one of them to hold up in indefinitely. He gives no other details, waits an hour, has Trinia dress in some of Zellara's clothes and leads the way there. Should it be successful, he suggests the group return to Zellara's to plot their next move.

Putting away his holy symbol, Sevenspawn sighs through his nose and walks as if preparing himself for an unpleasant party he does not wish to attend.

The moment his boot steps on a plank, he seemingly becomes a different person altogether.

"Rounds fer everyone!" he states loudly, producing his purse. "An' th' best in th' Sail fer my crew, or they're not th' stoutest bunch in th' city, an' they are. Raise a mug to 'em, drink up on me; only two t'ings t' be done 'bout it, an' that's nothing and to like it."

Nodding and greeting other guests as he goes, Sevenspawn falls quieter but remains speaking in a sort of backwater lingo heard only in places like the Shingles and Bridgefront - all in Common, but full of phrasing that slings back and forth between charming and humorously offensive. He tips the servants very well, talking respectfully to them, presses gold coins into the hands of prostitutes - "Narry a prettier face I've seen, lass, jes' fer you, you be well an' good, now" - and keeps his spending below obscene but within the realm of high-rollers. His goal, as would be clear to his companions, is to quickly well-liked by the management.

After a few moments he heads towards the stern and speaks to the guards, tipping them customarily.

"Pinchers around an' pinches abound, boys, all look-n-see 'bout this Sail presently. Narry a true-spend to be spied, Fronters an' Empties, all." He jingles his personal bag of gold in his hand, heavy with clinking coins. "Thinkin' much yellers an' cloudies are preffed, in these days of fires, Paralictors an' red-thirsty Armigens. Crimson Seat 'as no hand on the sceptre, ah? Slow's down the festival 'ere, thinkin'. But we've yellers to spread, boys, an' cloudies to spread it on, nuff fer Devayne, too. Look-n-see an' parlay, an' it please you."

The cleric switches immediately to a language incomprehensible to most, summing up quickly, though the words Sevenspawn, Dead Kings, and King of Spiders are noticeably in Common.

Sevenspawn nods, considering the depth in Donnell's words.

"I have lived," he replies quietly, in a voice devoid of a detectable tone, "almost exactly that life. We... understand each other's perspectives well, I think."

He falls quiet a moment also, spitting on the street as they go.

"I've found no use for gold, myself. I give a quarter of my share we find to the small shrine of Milani I attend, and another quarter to the Dead Kings. I have no vow of poverty, but I never felt the need to improve my station - and there always seems to be someone or some cause it can serve better. Give me enough for a hot meal, a hard drink and an occasional bed, and I am content.

"In Korvosa,"he concludes, "anything other than that is absolute gravy."