Foxxie — Roleplayer Guild

Both are accepted and I actually really like them, so well done! 

Sorry for the delay. Laptop dropped to its death and I had some work to take care of, but now everything's on the fast track to get done.

Our first mission will be taking the group into Dyer Pharmaceutical's abandoned factory in the Industrial District. They've long since gotten a larger place closer to the center of the city, and this old building hasn't been anything but trouble since. Disappearances and strange noises have long since been reported, and local residents swear a gang or something has made their base there. However, the daughter of a wealthy security expert, Edgar Flint, was reported missing and Flint brought forward evidence from his own cameras that show his daughter Leighton entering the oft-explored Dyer-owned property and not returning. Adam has had police survey the area several times before, not returning any evidence to substantiate claims, but he hopes you might be able to find something. There's no denying that a handful of homeless people have been noted to be missing around that same area, but now that it's a daughter of privilege, the public eye refuses to turn away.

Weslé hadn't been sleeping all that well for a few nights now. He had been having dreams, the sort that start off feeling very far away and abstract and end as though they're right in your face, hideous, inescapable, and bizarrely enticing. Every time he jerked to consciousness, he did so with a sense of guilt. He couldn't place his finger on it, but he knew the dreams were trying to tell him something and that he was opening his eyes in fright before all had been revealed. This borderline poetic clarity usually didn't set in until long after it was too late to settle back into bed. Today was no different. Tossing his bare legs from the bed, he felt something brush against his foot once he'd made contact with the floor. With a disgusted curl of his lip, he smashed his heel down on the retreating arthropod, realizing fully after a couple of moments that he had just ended a cockroach's life and its stamp was clearly visible on his skin. It was New York, after all, and this wasn't an uncommon sight, but he still retched at the thought and hobbled to the bathroom, hesitant to place his foot down in case some vermin brethren would be attracted by the scent of their fallen comrade. 

As always, the shower ran too cold for him and he loosed several curses, which bounced gleefully in the tiled shower. Toweling himself off after his emergency sanitation, the voodoo practitioner noticed that his phone's light was blinking with the promise of a text message or two. When he finally checked, it turned out that there was a whole lot more than just a couple.

Two from women he'd fucked rather recently, which was usual. He'd actually really liked the third one who'd stayed over, and noticed with some dismay that she was the only one not to make contact. Eight texts from the lowlifes who insisted he owed them money. He smirked, knowing they'd be doing a lot more than sending caps-locked texts if they knew what he'd really made off with. The one that really stood out to him was from Madamme Jones. To call her a living legend of the arcane sounded much too much like a slight against her age rather than a compliment to her powers, but no other phrase came to mind. He'd met people, friends of friends and bed-partners of enemies, who had seen and even talked to the good Madamme, but he had never been quite so lucky. The text, however, set his whole arm ablaze with the feeling of magic. It was as though he was holding the old crone's hand in his. He wondered how she could have known how to contact him, despite knowing just how many copies of his number ran through the mazes of the city alleys, but a deep voice reminded him that there were many easier way for types like her to communicate.

"You're not going to ignore it, are you?" Ogun asked, sounding almost impatient. The loa didn't emote much, but Weslé had become attuned to the slight lilts in his voice.

"I get the feeling that I can't. She'd probably send a raven next, no?" His thumb hovered over the screen, tempted to respond, but he slipped the phone into his pocket and proceeded to find a shirt so he could get out of there. Station 7 wasn't too far away, and he'd been meaning to find a new place to drink after he'd learned the bartender at The Silver spoke Creole just as well as his mama back home. He subconsciously touched his lip to ensure it wouldn't be swollen when he went to meet the seer. 

He prepared to travel down the fire escape, knowing all too well that the front door to the complex would be once again crawling with goons after him or the other unscrupulous tenants he called neighbors. Various numbers and letters meant to mark the building's address had been notoriously stolen by people living there, and Weslé cast a loving glance at the large 7 that sat on his floor before shutting the window behind him. Whatever the Madamme wanted from him, he knew he'd have to be on his best behavior. This wasn't going to be a job for a con man. He jostled the pack that hung over his shoulder and listened with satisfaction as all of his equipment clanked and bumped around. 

"You haven't done anything but parlor tricks for weeks. I shudder to think what kind of ass you'll make of yourself in front of her," Ogun scoffed, right in the man's ear just as he always did. 

Weslé was irked enough as it was with his situation, being unable to get a real job or a moment to himself to practice, and he didn't need to be reminded of his continually rusting skills. He jerked his middle finger up quickly, knowing he couldn't exactly flip off a loa who had no physical presence but still enjoying the act, and muttered, "Dan bounda ou." 

"Ou ka repete souple?" came a voice, distinctly not divine this time, from beside him. He paled. He had shit luck, every fortune teller and Chinese restaurant had told him that. It really seemed unfair that everyone on this shithole block was apparently from the islands, and even more unfortunate that they'd all spent time in gangs while he was off honing his craft.

He could barely see out of his eye and it stung whenever he smiled, but you should see the other guy he kept thinking to himself. He'd swung his pack so hard that his assailant stumbled back, hit the bricks, and slumped right down. Death seemed unlikely, but Weslé silently prayed for memory loss or paralysis. He whistled as he continued, lifting a bottle of water from a kid and his cooler, pressing it to his bruised eye whenever he had a moment. 

He ditched the Dasani for a glass of DeKuyper and alternated between sipping and placing it innocuously to his wound, both helping to soothe the pain. He'd dawdled long enough, he decided, and downed the remaining liquid courage before sliding into the meeting room. He caught the tail end of an introduction, and pretending he'd been there the whole time, decided to also but his name forward.

"Please, call me Baron," he nodded in greeting and folded his arms over his chest, looking at the people in front of him. If he wasn't mistaken, he'd actually seen a couple of them before. Most of them, he thought, he remembered from bumping into them on the street in sections of the city where the Veil was known to be more than just a discount bridal outlet. It wasn't like he'd carried on conversations with them. "I'm glad to know I wasn't the only one summoned to be here today. A message from the Madame isn't exactly the most pleasant thing to wake up to," he smiled, "With all due respect, I was half convinced I'd be dead before I got here, but if you've called a group together then I feel a bit more at ease."

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