@noco
The mess is not in the store its in the back storage room where she keeps the extra inventory.The father would not have seen it unless he went back there.
Woops, my bad. Any chance he could see it through an open door?
Noco
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Woops, my bad. Any chance he could see it through an open door?
Father Coughlin
Giving an appreciative nod to Angela, Coughlin shuffled through some meaningless aisles, not wanting to seem so eager to get into the alcohol. Grabbing first a loaf of bread, then grabbing a few packages of assorted candies for the orphanage - a prized commodity among the children - Coughlin walked with a false sense of casual grace as he made his way over to the hard liquors. After a quick decision, he snatched up a bottle of vodka, hopefully non-descript enough to not warrant too much attention.
With his items in tow, he began to walk towards the counter, although he was stopped by the peculiar stares of the Sheriff. It was not every day you saw someone stare at a ceiling.
"There some sort of critter up there? Raccoons love to terrorize ME at least..."
At that point, Coughlin noticed the haphazard nature of the aisle and quieted down, a little less sure than he should be joking. Awkwardly, he shifted some of the items in his arms, suddenly aware that his precious vodka could be seen a little too prominently. He silently hoped that the good Sheriff and Angela were too busy to pay much heed.
@Wick@The Dow Dragon
Father Coughlin
Having gotten himself up and walked all the way to the General Store, Father Coughlin was in a poor mood, only compounded when he finally reached the front door to find it locked with his early-rising neighbor Sheriff Lodrick knocking on it. Again cursing under his breath, he lingered around the corner where he had been standing, rubbing his limping leg, before he finally decided to figure out what the deal was, and more importantly, when he could get in, grab his booze, and get out. With a casual stroll, he approached the Sheriff before speaking softly in greeting.
"Hello there neighbor, what seems to be the problem? Nothing too serious I hope, eh Sheriff?"
Nothing serious would mean he could get back home as soon as possible. And the thought of the Sheriff of all people seeing the good Father gathering up a stockpile of alcohol would not be the best outcome by any means. Not that Coughlin thought Lodrick was a gossip, but the less people knew about his habits, the better, much less the law of the land himself.
@Wick@The Dow Dragon
Father Coughlin
In total darkness, Coughlin abruptly woke, gasping in the quiet of his room. Another night terror had ushered him to the waking world. Rolling over in his bed, the clinking of beer bottles accompanied his movement, a few falling unto the floor, Coughlin reached out for his lamp, flicking it on. With the light came the pain, as he recoiled from the sudden brightness and the realization of his activities the night before, the evidence in the form of empty food wrappers, various glasses of liquor, and of course beer bottles.
Peeking over the edge of his bed, broken glass welcomed his bare feet and he felt relief that he had the foresight to looking first. He was not always so lucky. Cursing under his breath, he pushed himself up and gingerly stepped over the sharp shards, retreating to his bathroom for a trash bag to clean up his mess. After doing the customary tidying up, Coughlin took a quick shower and donned his traditional attire - simple black dress pants and his clerical shirt-collar combination. It was the quintessential Coughlin outfit. Its crisp and well-maintained appearance thoroughly contrasted with the man underneath.
By the time he left his house, it was well past the early morning; thank God it wasn't a Sunday. Of course, the Sheriff - Coughlin's neighbor - was gone, being the boy scout early-riser that he was. Coughlin admired the man and regarded him with all due respect, but he'd be damned to wake up that early. Turning away from his home, he set off on foot, his destination the general store. Restocking his supplies of alcohol was always a hassle, involving awkwardly spun lies to hide his rampant addiction. Usually he chose odd-hours to avoid the brunt of onlookers, potential members of his church that would have all sorts of nosy questions. But he was in dire need of a drink for the night to come, to calm him before Sunday service and for the nightmares to come in his sleep. They always seemed to flare up right before holy days. Hopefully that didn't mean anything.
His walk there was as usual, slow and full of chatter. Most everyone from church who saw him just had to give their two-cents about what his next sermon should be or who was going to hell or what verse would he share. Feeling particularly bad, the good Father made sure to impart the horrors of the Book of Revelation to those who deigned to waylay him. As he neared the general store, his bad leg began to act up from old injury, and by the time he was at the front door, he had to stop and take a quick rest, leaning on the wall while rubbing his leg. Silently, he ran through a myriad of curses and blasphemies in internal anger.
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This looks great, color me interested!
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Forum: Advanced Roleplay
Baby Steps
Milling about on the busy afternoon street, the teeming hordes of pedestrians moved in a seemingly mindless wave, the fast overtaking the slow, subsuming them in a mostly peaceful manner. In this grand display of the societal cogs in motion, one could almost miss the ramshackle van parked in front of the Hendleman Park Bank, its illegally-tinted windows hiding a certain cog very much out of sync with the machinery of normalcy.
"Seriously man, this won't end well."
Cheesy Peake held firm that his friend had gone bonkers, dressing up like a fool and planning schemes like a cartoon character. That didn't stop him from calling dibs on a share of the profits as a getaway driver of course.
"Hush, what's the time?"
Peake reported back, 3:45 sharp just as Dirk so meticulously planned. His 'astute research' guaranteed that it would be the optimal time, but of course we could seldom trust the scientific methods of a man who called himself Bonefist. Wordlessly, Dirk made a vague military signal with his hands that was interpreted to mean Peake should be on the look-out, and hopped out of the van, fully costumed and ready to go.
In an instant, odd glances were thrown his way and some even stopped in confusion, only to be jostled from behind by over-eager walkers. Slipping quietly into the entrance of the Hendleman Park Bank, Dirk powered on the SKELE Power-Fist. It was go time, and not a moment too soon.
"Are you out of your freakin' mind, you can't be dressed like that here!"
A security guard, as expected, had little patience for a masked man in such a premier financial institution as Hendleman. And while the near-child-like quality of handiwork afford to his costume disarmed the guard slightly - perhaps concerned that this man was less a threat and moreso a lost mental patient with the mind of a kindergarten artist - he hovered his hand over his right-side, above his holstered firearm.
With an audible grunt, Dirk swung his fist at the poor guard, colliding his Power-Fist into his stomach at nearly full-force. The impact threw him into a high arc and at its apex, he collided with the no-doubt priceless chanderlier suspended from the ceiling, bringing both crashing to the ground. As shards of glass sprinkled across the room, the entire bank floor collectively whipped around, some screaming, some cowed into silence. The security guard remained in a heap; he wouldn't be getting back up anything soon, or even at all.
"This a stick-up...and I am Bonefist!"
Not the most graceful statement, but it served its purpose, as people focused their attention on Dirk, some even dropping to the ground. Looks like they knew the drill. With bold strides, he began to march up to the teller windows, just as two additional security guards emerged from the backroom, no doubt slacking off. Dirk snatched the nearest civilian, an elderly gentleman who looked less scared than most, and held him firmly in his grasp.
"Another step and going senile will be the least of gramps' concerns, you understand me? Now drop your guns and slid them over - quick-like!"
Hesitating, the senior of the two guards relented and kicked over his firearm, his partner following suit. Releasing the old timer, Dirk pocketed one of the pistols and smashed the other, his Power-Fist reducing it to little bits. Seeing an opportunity while Dirk got a bit overzealous in checking out his newly acquired weapon, the two guards rushed him. Taking a shoulder to the gut, Dirk hit the ground hard, but unfortunately for his adversaries, he went down swinging. A single connection was all it took to render the junior guard out for the count, suffering a glancing strike to the side of his head. Likely not lethal, but boy that would leave a reminder.
The senior security officer remained, and in the scuffle had snatched back his gun from Dirk. A single shot was dispatched into Dirk's chest before his jab struck the man's hand, breaking it in the process. The crowd understandably took this moment to descend into anarchy, many storming outside as their last protectors were downed while Dirk had fallen to a knee, the wind firmly knocked out of his sails. Silently, he thanked whatever god was out there for the invention of bullet-proof vests.
Rubbing his chest where the bullet hit, he stood back up and made a quick beat towards the tellers once more, sans interruption this time hopefully. A raised fist was enough for them to produce the bank manager, who was more than happy to give Dirk a tour of their vault. Gathering what he could stuff inside the satchel he brought along, Dirk began to flee when the tell-tale sound of sirens filled the streets outside. Of course the police were called in, and of course Dirk forgot about that little detail.
Wisely, he figured that his vest wouldn't stop an entire police force from gunning him down, so in a strike of (relative) brilliance, he thought quick about an escape route. Again with a raised fist, Dirk found his hostages very compliant in giving suggestions, and so it was that he learned that the other side of the vault wall just so happened to be an alleyway, one that few would suspect to cover in a bank heist. Ever gracious, Dirk threw a $100 bill at the lucky hostage with great planning capabilities and ran back into the vault, delivering a flurry of blows against the wall, each hit warping the metal inward. At the cusp of breaking a sweat, the wall gave and a hole crumbled out.
As Dirk crawled out into the outside world, with enough cash to live very comfortable for a good while, he couldn't help but smile. Sure, he had to off a few guards, sure he got shot, and sure the police nearly turned him into swiss cheese. But hey, baby steps, right?
Like some of his other Jedi peers, Kyman ras Shevit sat, his mind at ease under the seeming shimmer of meditation. Probing outwards, he felt the unease that drifted in the room, as uncertainty and fear plagued the minds of certain allies. Such feelings he had felt multiple times, first when he learned of the Order's passive attitude towards the ravages of the Mandalorians, and then ironically when he learned he was among those chosen to be a part of the IRSOG 37. He had wished for the Order to act, and now that it had, he was a peculiar mix of optimistic and concerned.
But this would need to be pushed aside, and that he did; a true Jedi would not allow his will to waver and Kyman purged himself of these thoughts. Through meditation, he looked inward, feeling the Force flow through his mind, down his neck, and through his limbs. As if driven by a beating heart, it circulated through him. When he was but a child, Kyman did not understand it, but now, it was his life, as normal as his breath, as the feeling of a sun's light upon his skin. It was an inseparable element of his very being.
Slowly his focus shifted, down his right arm, and then to his four fingers. Lain on the floor beside him, his lightsaber stirred and then took a lazy flight, up into the air and then in orbit around his now-outstretched hand. For Kyman especially, this too was yet another extension of himself, and the presence of his warrior's weapon was itself calming. His long studies of Makashi, or Form II, had instilled in him a sense of belonging with his blade. It was the point around which he pivoted, the counter-weight to his stance, the object of his focus. Some would call it an archaic form, useful in times of war between wielders of sabers, but now with the hailstorms of blaster fire, the elegance of battle seemed lost.
Kyman however saw the finesse behind this war, the contest between the Mandalorians and Republic, and knew that despite the brutality of it, the sharp edge of the Jedi minds would be the deciding factor. In the arid badlands of Kalee, the wise warlord knew that sheer manpower nor direct force would maintain a tribe. No, it was refinement, true warriors, that would not only conclude a battle, but an entire war. The Jedi were that refinement, and even some Mandalorians had grown to understand this. Even amongst the 37 was a Mandalorian, no doubt a defector who saw the writing on the wall. And Makashi was the pinnacle of refinement, a form that was beautiful in the martial sense. Perhaps it was merely the historic significance that intrigued young Kyman, but now even a Knight, he held a deep appreciation for it.
"30 minutes to drop. Prepare to board drop pods on the red light mark..."
The words stirred him from his deepening meditation, and as he opened his eyes, his lightsaber fell into his hand. The curved hilt complemented his two-thumbed grip and for a brief moment he appreciated simply holding onto it. Shortly, however, he would become well-acquainted with its feel once again, but that was later and now is now. He clipped it back unto his utility belt and gave his next thoughts to the planet below.
But this would need to be pushed aside, and that he did; a true Jedi would not allow his will to waver and Kyman purged himself of these thoughts. Through meditation, he looked inward, feeling the Force flow through his mind, down his neck, and through his limbs. As if driven by a beating heart, it circulated through him. When he was but a child, Kyman did not understand it, but now, it was his life, as normal as his breath, as the feeling of a sun's light upon his skin. It was an inseparable element of his very being.
Slowly his focus shifted, down his right arm, and then to his four fingers. Lain on the floor beside him, his lightsaber stirred and then took a lazy flight, up into the air and then in orbit around his now-outstretched hand. For Kyman especially, this too was yet another extension of himself, and the presence of his warrior's weapon was itself calming. His long studies of Makashi, or Form II, had instilled in him a sense of belonging with his blade. It was the point around which he pivoted, the counter-weight to his stance, the object of his focus. Some would call it an archaic form, useful in times of war between wielders of sabers, but now with the hailstorms of blaster fire, the elegance of battle seemed lost.
Kyman however saw the finesse behind this war, the contest between the Mandalorians and Republic, and knew that despite the brutality of it, the sharp edge of the Jedi minds would be the deciding factor. In the arid badlands of Kalee, the wise warlord knew that sheer manpower nor direct force would maintain a tribe. No, it was refinement, true warriors, that would not only conclude a battle, but an entire war. The Jedi were that refinement, and even some Mandalorians had grown to understand this. Even amongst the 37 was a Mandalorian, no doubt a defector who saw the writing on the wall. And Makashi was the pinnacle of refinement, a form that was beautiful in the martial sense. Perhaps it was merely the historic significance that intrigued young Kyman, but now even a Knight, he held a deep appreciation for it.
"30 minutes to drop. Prepare to board drop pods on the red light mark..."
The words stirred him from his deepening meditation, and as he opened his eyes, his lightsaber fell into his hand. The curved hilt complemented his two-thumbed grip and for a brief moment he appreciated simply holding onto it. Shortly, however, he would become well-acquainted with its feel once again, but that was later and now is now. He clipped it back unto his utility belt and gave his next thoughts to the planet below.
I too am open to anyone getting in a pod with Kyman, just so long as you don't mind staring at a spooky Kaleesh face that closely.
@HeySeuss I'm here!
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