<Snipped quote by Marrok>
Sometimes you gotta pinch it, like a turd.
Bite down and scream your outrage, like a turd.
...I think I need to eat more fibre.
Hound55 Member
Create-A-Hero RPG GM, Blue Bringer of BWAHAHA!
STATUS: A Perpetual Motion Engine of Anxiety and Self-Loathing 2 yrs ago
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Bio
So there I am, in Sri Lanka, formerly Ceylon, at about 3 o'clock in the morning, looking for one thousand brown M&Ms to fill a brandy glass, or Ozzy wouldn't go on stage that night. So, Jeff Beck pops his head 'round the door, and mentions there's a little sweets shop on the edge of town. So - we go. And - it's closed. So there's me, and Keith Moon, and David Crosby, breaking into that little sweets shop, eh. Well, instead of a guard dog, they've got this bloody great big Bengal tiger. I managed to take out the tiger with a can of mace, but the shopowner and his son... that's a different story altogether. I had to beat them to death with their own shoes. Nasty business, really. But, sure enough, I got the M&Ms, and Ozzy went on stage and did a great show.
Most Recent Posts
Bite down and scream your outrage, like a turd.
...I think I need to eat more fibre.
In
Create-A-Hero: A Superhero RPG Season 2- New Horizons (Closed)
→
6 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Roleplay
“Are you coming in clearly, Eaglet? Over”
“Yep, I’m hearing you fine, Grampa!”
Dennis swept and dove, the skies his playground, as he began to gain greater control over the Golden Rod on this test flight. He may have still been shaky with a lot of the other uses for the Golden Rod, but flight? Flight he enjoyed far too much. Was enchanted by the wonder that soaring and sweeping through the clouds and the world from above could bring.
“We discussed this, Eaglet. Over.”
“Apologies, Wise Old Owl, that’s Oscar-Mike-Foxtrot-Golf-Victor on the Instructions Roger-dodger Breaker-Breaker.”
“Eaglet… I know you’re treating this like a joke, but the callsigns and signals exist for a reason. Over.”
Dennis sighed, soared up to altitude and gently drifted with the rippling winds. Always such formality.
“Eagle-One, this is Eaglet. I’m receiving you fine. It’s 2019 and expensive high-tech radio technology works fine. Whoduthunkit? Praise the Lord and Guglielmo Marconi. Over.”
“Guglielmo Marconi? I’m surprised you even know that name. I saw your report cards, Eaglet. Over.”
Dennis chuckled at what he hoped was meant to be a good natured jibe at Dennis’ own limitations in his grandfather’s chosen fields of engineering and the sciences.
“English Lit and Communications, Old man. The inventor of the radio would come under the later. Over.”
“Enough fun for now--” Dennis considered breaking in to make a jibe about what counts as fun to his crusty old elder but thought better of it. “--visuals are coming in clear from the micro-camera on your flight goggles, as well. You’re approaching the shorefront. I want you to swoop down and use a construct to scoop up… let’s say 150 gallons or so of water, carry it a little way and then dump it back in the bay. Over.”
“Wait, this is water. It’s a liquid. Can the Rod even do that?”
“If you make a scoop rather than a colander it should be able to do it just fine. End your transmissions with “Over” in the future too. Over.”
Dennis shot out across the bay, and circled down to slow and consider the task at hand. There was no real answer given on how to go about doing this short of ‘don’t make a sieve’, so he was a little cautious about how to proceed. Feeling his uncle’s eyeballs on him, judging his every move he dove down, deciding he’d better get started.
He pitched down with speed, holding the Golden Rod out, as he came low he fired a construct out to catch as much water as he could.
Too much, too fast. His descent was too steep and he hadn’t considered the physics of what he was doing.
The force from the weight of far too much water suddenly became more than he could call upon the Golden Rod and his construct snapped, momentum whipping him back-first into the water at a sharp arc like a broken catapult. Instinct had him throw up a quick tight construct shield around himself, and he skimmed across the surface of the water like a stone, clinging to the Golden Rod for dear life. His construct held up for 3 or 4 unfocused bounces before it shattered and he splashed down, soaked in the water from the bay.
With a gasp, he surfaced, arm punching out of the water as he held the Golden Rod aloft.
“Eaglet… You know what you did wrong there, right? ...Over.”
Dennis spat out a mouthful of water from the bay.
“I’m pretty sure I know everything I’ve done wrong over the course of my whole life… since I just saw it all play out before my eyes again a few seconds ago. I think it started with being born… Over.”
“Eaglet, we’re not even close to being "Over". We’re gonna do it ‘til we do it right. Over.”
Dennis could hear it from the way he’d sent the last transmission. He was speaking through clenched teeth. The old man was smiling at his own joke!
“Having fun there, are you?”
He was met with silence. Too much silence. Wasn’t like his grampa to not come back with some kind of remark.
“Hey… you there?” Dennis reached for his earpiece, starting to worry about just how waterproof the device actually was.
“Yeah. Hold on. We might have to put a pin in it there…”
Dennis could hear background noise as his grandfather presumably was getting further information.
“...yep. Scanner has two metahumans causing a public disturbance near Chinatown. Over.”
“Two? Could it be Miz Demeanour and the one remaining Fel-Honey? Any further information? Anyone we know? Over.”
“Negative. Officer has it as a male aged between 18 and 22 years and a person of indeterminate sex..? Huh. I guess he’s not able to get close enough to tell. Over.” The old man awkwardly fumbling with modern jargon.
“I’m not-- I’m not sure that’s what it means, Eagle-One. Over.” Dennis said, not wanting to go through the complexities of non-binary genders over the radio.
He took two strokes through the water and then threw himself from the water with the help of the Golden Rod.
“Well, they’re on the near-side by Chinatown. From where you are - well, you’re really moving - you should be there in maybe ten or fifteen seconds. Maybe see them in five. Corner of Trenton and Commercial. Over.”
Dennis saw a cloud of dust rising above the building line from a few blocks ahead.
“Any idea at all what kind of situation I’m getting myself into? What powers? Over.”
“Doesn’t say. Officer sounded panicked. His warnings to other officers were just ‘Keep your distance’ and ‘Expect the unexpected’. Over.”
Dennis sighed. “Well that doesn’t help at all. It could be Rod Serling opening a doorway to the Twilight Zone for all we know. Over.”
The warning still wasn’t enough. Dennis shot around the corner and was stunned at what he saw.
“Oh no… This... This is much worse...”
He’d come face-to-face with Darth Vader and… God only knew what else. It looked like… Willy Wonka? Smiling with his head leaning on his hand as he seemed to wait for Dennis’ approach.
Darth Vader suddenly changed shape, taking the form of a young man. No older than 20. Suddenly Wonka took two other forms. A man and woman walking away together as the man turned and looked on at Dennis, as the woman looked back at the man in disgust.
“Ah, the new Aquilifer. We were waiting for someone like you to show up.”
Dennis landed in a way that might have been impressive if it weren’t for the audible “squelch” from his shoes and his sopping wet clothes.
“Would you believe I was in the shower..?”
“Late? Well… A man’s gotta know his limitations...”
Suddenly the young man changed shape again into the form of a young (well, younger…) Clint Eastwood, complete with massive oversized Magnum handgun.
“The world is about to meet Meme-or and the Quote King! And you, Aquilifer shall be the first to fall!”
The Quote King levelled the gun directly at the Aquilifer, cocking it.
“So go ahead… Make my day…”
In
Create-A-Hero: A Superhero RPG Season 2- New Horizons (Closed)
→
6 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Roleplay
Featuring - Oswald Croll @DearTrickster
Isaac had been experiencing something of a hectic triple-life of late.
In his hometown of Cooktown he had slowly been re-organizing to better prpeare himself for handling the crime situation back home. In his home world, he had infiltrated virtually every layer of local police, had swapped his own fingerprint and DNA samples for another to prevent identification from any blood left at scenes incidentally and had a computer at his own house that was generally within a month or two of having up-to-date police files.
But all of that had been the result of over a decade of hard work and accrued knowledge of his home town as a vigilante.
Now he’d come to a new world and this world’s version of himself was less bothered by the activities of the local authorities. The Isaac Fontaine of this world had a different enemy in mind beyond crime.
Now he had technological items that could help, the pre-existing know-how for how to go about achieving the goals he felt he would need to, and mind-blowingly, access to even more money as his family was even wealthier here than on his previous world. But none of that would mean that the hard work to re-organize himself would be any less necessary.
Beyond that, he also had to maintain a presence in Cooktown to ensure those with criminal intent wouldn’t forget him. That they couldn’t rest easy.
Meanwhile, back in Lost Haven, the student Isaac Fontaine had a number of trials and tribulations of his own. Whilst regular attendance was not really necessary, he still had to check in on his courses. Due to the attack on LHU, the University had offered no-cost deferrment to students who requested it, but also offered other services and support networks to students who felt they could continue. Isaac chose to take the free time and used what he knew of hs courses via the online gateway to get ahead, where he’d be able to periodically throw out an assignment whenever asked since his busy life often didn’t allow him to keep a schedule on such things.
The other thing he was confronted by was a new Dean. The previous Dean who asked him to coach an LHU rugby team was viciously murdered in the Hounds attack and was replaced by a new one. One who had not been debriefed and constantly pumped by a certain rugby-loving economics student about the low-cost, high-visibility gains that having a successful rugby team could have with foreign students - foreign students from countries that also made up a large proportion of the nationalities which visited as “meta-tourists”; people who would put Lost Haven on their itinerary with the express hope of catching a glimpse of an Icon, Iron Knight, Blacklight, or even perhaps the newest Aquilifer.
As such, not only could he understand why Isaac had been asked to coach a rugby team at all. Let alone now, when the school didn’t even have a football team anymore after the events caused by the Nightmare attack. Isaac wasn’t particularly bothered - all things being equal, he’d rather not have the time-sink and added responsibility - perhaps a greater sign that the universe was done with Isaac in this regard. But the Dean viewed him as someone who had taken advantage of the previous Dean’s naivete, and clearly didn’t care for him. Their relationship really not being helped by the fact that when called into his office, Isaac had a six pack of beer in tow and proceeded to drink them successively whilst the Dean told him in full detail just how unnecessary he felt the whole thing to be.
Not wanting to breach any open-beverage rules that may exist on campus, Isaac finished the entire six pack in his office, only downing the last one after offering it to a mid-rant Dean.
“Look, at the end of the day, I think it’s entirely up to you… But I think you might be making some hard-working kids very disappointed... Cheers!”
As for the Vigilante’s activities within Lost Haven, he’d been busying himself with loose threads not only from the Hounds attack and the fall of S.T.R.I.K.E, but also nagging threads of the Pax Metahumana, and Demon Invasions in Lost Haven. He had invested in teacher’s boards that could take full scans to make note-taking easier for students back in his Cooktown home. One he was working on now featured all the “players” in Lost Haven’s circuit, with the board split between “O” for Old people he was familiar with and “N” for those New people he was only aware of existing in this world. Straddling the line was this world’s Blacklight. He pulled a recently developed photograph down from a piece of string where it had been drip-dried and placed it on the board, writing “Alchemists x 2” with a big circle around it. “Red Witch” was written close by with a string connecting the two.
Time: Late Evening, Night of the Attack on the Hounds’ Base
Location: HoH HQ - Docks, Lost Haven
Frustratingly patting at the wet handprints on his jacket the elderly man’s brow was furrowed with confusion, even with his alchemical applications to remove it. It stayed regardless. He fluttered his jacket of the bits of dust from the Hounds operative he had taken care of, the dust motes swirled in his hand adding the collective chaos of carbon that surrounded his staff.
He barely registered what the masked fighter had said.
"Great... Here I was thinking I'm protecting a decrepit monkey skeleton in a cloak from a bunch of bigoted pricks with guns. Now I'm protecting a bunch of bigoted pricks with guns from a decrepit monkey skeleton…”
In a heavily germanic accent Oswald Croll asked, “I beg your pardon young man? I am neither skeletal or a monkey.”
Oswald peeked past Vigilante, no sight of his kin nor her friend. He may have followed exactly the wrong person to this base. “I thought I had bet on the correct horse but it seems my kin is nowhere in sight. Very sorry to trouble you, please be careful of those bombs.” He said, sticking out his hand to shake. “I am not here to fight these men and I must excuse myself.”
The Vigilante stood with his hands out soaking water onto the spillway’s cement.
“Right.” He said, taking in the magic man in all of his ridiculity. “I have lost entirely too much blood to be dealing with this kind of bullshit right now.”
Staff. Long clothes. Magic. Kin. Isaac connected the dots quickly enough.
“I think I know where your… ugh… ‘kin’ might be.” Isaac said through his voice modulator, wincing at the sound of such an awkward worrd. “She’s likely ahead of us. It’s all the same one big complex, and we’re taking care of the exits as we go and meeting up in the middle. I’ll take you there, but I have two rules. One: Stop killing other people, these lunatics have been fighting a public war saying that people like you are dangerous because of the exact god damn thing you just did. I’d rather we make a clean sweep on this and beat them both physically and on message… especially when we’re this close and risked this much. And Rule two: Try not to get yourself killed. Rule two is optional.”
It was the strange hooded man in the cloak from the night when they took down the Hounds’ base. His Omni-tool could snap up to six photographs on regular old film stored within the incredibly useful device. He had no images of the “kin” of which he’d spoken about, but Isaac felt the need to snap a quick one of this more mysterious one.
The pair cut a brief swathe through a few waves of fleeing Hounds until the Vigilante had realised he was alone. The old man had displaced the atoms in a wall and reformed the wall seamlessly again behind him, presumably in search of his kin.
Magic and Metahumans. Wizards and Wonders.
And Isaac Fontaine was once again in the middle of it all.
“Not the only human in the middle of it all though.” He thought to himself as he tapped an arrow with an orange nock and fletchings he had hanging on the “N” side of the board.
The Archer. Last he saw she was banged up. Likely not just new to him, but new to the life itself. He pulled the arrow down and turned it over in his hands whilst pondering the big question. How much should he get involved? He remembered himself when he was just starting out over a decade ago. A stupid kid bouncing around relying far too much on dumb luck as he started out, how easily he could have wound up dead or in jail.
“Ah shit…” He said audibly to himself, as he hung the arrow back up. He had his answer.
He pulled the board away, along with the board for Hounds/S.T.R.I.K.E connections and left open the Pax Metahumana board. The singular image that had become his obsession had been blown up to half the size of the board so he could see it clearly. He knew the man in the photo, he’d seen him before and he just couldn’t place him. It was driving him barmy. He was starting to worry he might have to out-source and start questioning people with the photo. Isaac pulled out a pen and started on a list of people to question. People who first and foremost he knew could be trusted. He couldn’t have ripples leading back to this man, he couldn’t have people looking to take matters into their own hands, and people he felt would trust Isaac to handle the situation without asking further questions themselves.
It was a short list. A name with a circle around it and one with questionmarks after it.
1. Icon
2. Gunny ???
2. Gunny ???
All the capes, cowls and cunning conjurors he knew and this list spoke volumes. Two people. And even then he was reaching, because these weren’t his own world’s versions of these people.
He ran his hand through his hair in frustration.
He added a weird item to his shopping list. Something cheap he had back home, but hadn’t yet picked up here, and went to the closet to prepare for the night.
In
Create-A-Hero: A Superhero RPG Season 2- New Horizons (Closed)
→
6 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Roleplay
In
Create-A-Hero: A Superhero RPG Season 2- New Horizons (Closed)
→
6 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Roleplay
Alan Coghlan pulled an aged album from its sleeve. Within a stack of albums that were covered in dust, this one was spotless from frequent use. He flipped the album longwise, inspecting it, as he approached the small turntable mounted on the soundsystem. He lifted the needle and the platform rotated at speed automatically as he placed the album. With a gentle, precise drop of the needle the orchestra, conducted by Gordon Jenkins, broke in. A few seconds later the familiar jazz croonings of the girl Lester Young called Lady Day, the woman born as Eleanora Fagan, the legend the world would know as Billie Holliday began to rasp intimately over the tune.
“You’re my thrill,
You do something to me…
You send chills right through me
When I look at you ‘cause you’re my thrill…”
You do something to me…
You send chills right through me
When I look at you ‘cause you’re my thrill…”
Amazing what music could do to a man’s soul. He remembered dancing to this song with Margaret years after Billie Holiday sang it, when she’d first introduced him to it. It was a gem unearthed in his lost years, but Margie had known him well enough to know that he would have liked it. A song performed almost twenty years before he’d ever been able to hear it, became “their song”. There was a sense of mystical timelessness that appealed to him. Over three decades after Jay Gorney wrote it with Sidney Clare. A decade after Lena Horne had sung it. A year after Doris Day had sung it. Countless others had sung it since, but none were able to truly make it their own like Billie Holliday.
He remembered the pair of them in a jazz hall downtown, sweeping across the dance floor. He remembered the look in the older woman’s eyes, the sparkle and glow as she looked back at him adoringly. Loving him and the second chances they both had together. He remembered and he could have sworn it was the only time he’d ever flown without the power of the Golden Rod. There was another power between them that night.
* * * * *
Dennis walked through the cemetery with a plastic shopping bag. He trod the familiar path down towards a familial plot. He reached into the bag and pulled out a bundle of white lillies and placed them in a vase set into the marble of the tombstone, removing a bunch of dead stems and throwing them in a bin that was under a tree several plots down. The stems that were left from his own last trip. People were starting to visit less frequently now. In the early days there were letterman jackets from old LHU friends, pennant flags left by cheerleaders, photographs and mail. The most recent thing he’d seen that he hadn’t left himself was an orange crayon - presumably some grade school kid had come along on an excursion and made an etching of the tombstone. These days it was generally all his dead white lillies.
The death of innocence. Again.
He’d asked the florist about what would be the most suitable and she had told him that lillies represented innocence, peace and purity. That sounded as suitable as anything else in regards to Sean, so that’s what he went with. Now everytime he came here it was like he was collecting the dregs of what happens when peace, purity and innocence die. If he hadn’t gotten the phone number off the florist on that day and a cheap one-night stand entailed afterwards he probably wouldn’t feel the need to justify his decision by persisting with the white lillies. But he did, and here he was. Another shame spiral, where Dennis felt guilty so he persisted with another thankless burden from his brother. If he kept buying them it meant he didn’t ask the florist just because he was trying to get in her pants.
“Hey Sean, it’s me again. Just me, I mean. No Grampa. No Mum. No-- well, you get the point.”
“Grampa’s getting another year older, another year crankier. Well, I mean I guess you always got on fine with him, so that probably doesn’t mean a whole lot. Mom’s still back in Seattle with Dad. She says they’re doing fine. I think Dad’s up for some kind of promotion thing over there, according to Mom. I don’t know exactly know what it entails, but that was news, I guess.”
“I’m-- well, I’m Ok, I guess. I mean I’m not dead, so I guess I can’t really complain...”
A gentle breeze blew through the cemetery, holding his awkward words in stark bare relief.
“It’s… exhausting. Sean, honestly. It’s exhausting trying to live up to being just a fraction of you. I know I didn’t really say it enough when you were around, and you probably wouldn’t want to hear it now… but I miss you. I miss you and I don’t know if I really can. I think it’ll kill me faster than anyone else can.”
He held an awkward pause. Dragging out the time. He always felt he should stay longer than felt comfortable. Always felt he owed him more.
“I guess I’ll see you next month. Same time, same place. Heh.” Dennis let out a deep sigh, and after another three beats left the gravesite.
On the way out he passed by the Wall. The Wall contained a number of cemented in metal drawer “urns” that held the cremated remains of the deceased. Once a drawer was used, it would then be cemented closed and a plaque would adorn the urn instead of an ugly drawer-handle.
Dennis reached into his plastic bag and removed a small bouquet of yellow daffodils and tulips, there was no room for vases on the Wall so Dennis leaned a plaque forward and wedged the stems in behind to hold them in place. The remains of the last bouquet had long dried up, fallen and been cleared away by caretakers.
The plaque belonged to the sole resident on this wall whose remains were never cremated. The plaque bore the man’s name, years of birth and death, the emblem of the LHPD and the message “Thank you for your years of unflinching service”, which if anybody bothered to chase down hard enough they would find it had been paid for by a private citizen and not by the Lost Haven Police Department.
They might also find that the small eagle symbol that was next to the LHPD emblem was not affiliated with any branch or unit within the city’s police department.
No words were exchanged. There was nothing to say. Dennis had only ever known the man from stories passed down by his grandfather. Truth be told he couldn’t recall ever so much as meeting the man. But nobody else ever visited this urn so Dennis figured he should.
The florist had said that yellow tulips and daffodils symbolized renewal.
It sounded as suitable as anything else.
Finally going to have some time over the coming days...
Art Institute of Chicago, Grant Park - Chicago, IL
A black tie event on a full moon evening. Steven Grant and his plus-one, Marlene Alraune adorned in a knockout evening dress picked specifically for this Gala event schmooze, intermingle with the high society movers and shakers at ARTIC’s biggest calendar event. Marlene hunched over admiring the fine details of a Grecian amphora, immaculately preserved over the years.
“Exquisite isn’t it?”
Marlene turned and caught herself staring at the chest of a large, well dressed man. He stood around six feet, five inches and sculpted musculature was barely veiled by a tightly cut-to-fit tuxedo. He was easily recognizable, every other day he was on local news with his upcoming mayoral campaign. Deputy Mayor Carson Knowles.
“Quite.” She replied, returning to her focus on the vessel.
“Amazing to think that it dates back to 1,000 years before Christ…”
“500 or so, I think.” Marlene gently corrected.
“I’m fairly certain it was 1,000. Those Cretians really knew their craft...” Knowles persisted.
“They did, but I’m fairly certain that this was from no earlier than 530 BCE, and was done by an Athenian in the Corinth style…”
“I’m sorry, I thought I knew all of the benefactors of the Institute. What did you say your name was, Miss..?”
“Marlene. Marlene Alraune.”
“Alraune? As in… Professor Alraune of the University of Chicago?”
“My father.”
“So that would mean…” Marlene could see the cogs working in the Deputy Mayor’s mind. She looked back on the amphora to save Knowles the embarrassment.
“Well… 1000 year, 500 years… ‘When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou sayst, “Beauty is truth, truth beauty,” - that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.’”
“Keats. Nice save, Casanova.”
“Thank you, I was proud of it.” His smile held a humour that likely held him in good stead with the electorate.
“...but out of interest, the Sosibios Vase that inspired Keats ‘Ode to a Grecian Urn’ was dated even later still. Around 50 BCE.”
“Ouch. You just couldn’t let me have it.”
“Nope.” She said with a cheeky grin, and walked past the amphora to the next exhibit.
Knowles followed her. “It surprises me that you’re here. I know we often extended offers to your father to become a benefactor for the institute, to my knowledge I wasn’t aware he finally accepted…”
“He hadn’t. Whilst my father was certainly a believer in the importance of the arts and the preservation of much of the work you do. He couldn’t justify the $50,000 fee for what he saw as the wrong sort of people who had questionable taste using it to validate their own sense of self importance over the rest of the city at events like these.”
“If that’s the case, then how did you get in--?”
“Knowles! A pleasure to meet you! Steven Grant. I see you’ve already met Marlene.” He extended a hand to the Deputy Mayor.
For a fraction of a second, Grant saw fear in Knowles’ eyes, fear and discomfort from being knocked off balance by his sudden appearance. Or as if he’d just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, before the handshake quickly put him back on auto-pilot campaign mode.
“I trust I can count on your vote, Grant?” Knowles straightened his back, showing off his full height as he shook Steven’s hand. A full height that had him standing a few inches over the other man, a rare thing for him since he stood at six feet, three inches himself.
“Well, I’d still like to bend your ear and confirm what I’ve heard on policy, should I get the oportunity at some point, but if what I hear is true, I would say so.”
“Name the time and place, Steven!” He offered a warm smile, this time more rehearsed, somewhat more saccharine, compared with what he previously gave Marlene.
“Well it will have to be later, Carson,” Grant offered, his eyes raised on a familiar face in the distance. “Because I’ve just seen a friend I haven’t seen in a while…”
Grant wandered away as suddenly as he’d appeared, he swapped his empty champagne flute for a full one on a waiter’s tray as he crossed the floor.
He slowed as he got closer as he realised the company he was keeping was an on-duty police detective.
------------
Flint stood with a smouldering cigarette in his mouth and a notebook in his hands.
The smaller man coughed in an exaggerated passive aggressive style, whilst Flint posed questions.
“So, what’d you say your name was again?”
“Anton Mogart.” He coughed once more. This time with his eyes open and nodding, gesturing towards the cigarette.
“Mogart… and you said you’re some kind of an art dealer.”
“I’m an art buyer’s agent.” He quickly drew a business card from a stainless steel box within an inner suit pocket and in a rehearsed manner he flipped it to Flint’s partner Gwenn.
“I represent clients who have fine interests and tastes, and act on their behalf, looking to secure items desirable to their palette and ensuring the authenticity and valuation of items my clients may stumble upon themselves.”
“So you’re an art collector?”
Mogart, squirmed in displeasure at the inaccurate oversimplification of his job.
“No. Well, yes… as a hobbyist as well, I suppose you could say I am, but that’s not my job. I’m a buyer’s agent.”
“And Mister and Missus Stepson in North Center? Were they clients?”
“The nature of the service I provide means I know all of my clients intimately. I had a great many clients in and around North Center, but I can safely say, no. They were not.”
Flint lifted his eyes from the notebook and levelled them at the smaller man, Mogart. He took a beat or three before he returned to writing notes. The fishing expedition not turning up anything worth a follow up question.
“Arthur Stepson and his wife?” Grant interjected, approaching the three men. “I was wondering where they were. Not like them to ever skip a Gala. I believe he was more of a hobbyist, than a connisseur. They’ve had me around their house before, I think Anton would likely be horrified if anyone tried to lay claim that he had any input on their decor...”
“And where were you about a week ago, Grant?” Flint turned and levelled his gaze at the newcomer. “Since you knew the owners and are aware of the layout of their property?”
“Probably living one of four lives... with only one having any kind of reasonable alibi at any specific time...” Steven thought to himself silently.
“Care to narrow that down at all? A whole week is a pretty long time to have to account for every minute, Officer--”
“Flint. Detective Flint. This is Gwenn. Detective Sergeants in Central Precinct.”
“Are the Stepsons alright?” Grant asked with genuine concern.
Flint shot Grant the same thousand mile stare he’d used on Mogart earlier. Three beats later he cleared his concerns.
“Physically they’re both fine. However they returned home from a holiday in the South Pacific to find their home had been burglarized and quite a bit of property damage to antique items of significant sentimental value. Would anyone else here be familiar with the Stepsons?”
“Wow.” Steven said, taking a solid gulp of champagne as if to anesthitize the news. “Yes, I’d say they’d be known here.”
“By who?” Flint said, scribbling notes.
“Well… they’re long-time benefactors of the Institute, so…”
Steven grant waved his arm out, gesturing to the entire Gala floor.
“Hrmm…” Flint grumbled at the task ahead of him. Gwenn walked off to halve the job and start questioning those in attendance.
Last night shift tonigt. Should have some free time coming up.
All for it.
With the holiday season coming to a close I think a few of us just needed some time to get back in sync. Other expectations and whatnot....
With the holiday season coming to a close I think a few of us just needed some time to get back in sync. Other expectations and whatnot....
In
Create-A-Hero: A Superhero RPG Season 2- New Horizons (Closed)
→
6 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Roleplay
So I know I've been here before, and been super flaky. For that I apologize, but I do want to give my concept another try. Gonna try and do a slight retcon with my stuff, just to recenter myself and get a bit of a fresh start. I already PM'ed @Nitemare Shape and he said I had the go ahead.
Anyway...
I reconfigured my CS to show the changes I'm making, and to remind people what I was writing before I disappeared. I've changed the background for the villains, getting rid of some characters I didn't think worked.
NAMEMozart, aka "Art"
Clara
Ludwig, aka "Lud"
Bach
ALIGNMENTLawful Good
IDENTITYExistence is Secret
PERSONALITYMozart, as the oldest of his siblings, is the most patient and thoughtful of the group. He has a strong sense of honor, believing that without one’s honor they are nothing. He is a strong leader, though at times loses his sense of confidence, worrying that he is not fit to be the leader of the team. He loves human pop-culture. He loves his family more than anything in the world, and his devotion to them is paramount. His thoughtful and meditative approach allows him to tap into his chi, giving him an extra ability in battle.
APPEARANCE
ORIGIN
HERO TYPEAcrobat/Martial Arts
POWER LEVELStreet Level
POWERSThe frogs are a mutated, anthropomorphic frogs. The mutation that gave them their human-like forms and intelligence also enhanced their animal abilities. Art and his siblings can climb nearly any surface, jump incredible distances, have increased proportional strength, speed, agility, dexterity, and a slight healing factor. Their frog tongues can be used to both traverse the city and as a weapon unto itself. Mozart, being a Blue Poison Dart Frog, can also coat his strikes in a paralyzing poison, though using this too much will tire him out, making it a last resort.
During their youth and time at IDRG, the siblings were hard-wired and taught multiple forms of combat with the intent of making them living weapons. Mozart is a practitioner of the bo staff, his non-lethal weapon of choice after their bid for freedom.
ATTRIBUTES
Resources: Average
Weaknesses: The frogs, outside of Ludwig, have no real armor. Knives, bullets, and beatings hurt them as much as they hurt us.
SUPPORTING CHARACTERS/PLACES OF INTEREST
You're all good, Champ. Hasn't been that long between serves anyway.[/PatentlyFlakyModeratorWithEonsBetweenPosts]
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