PrivateVentures

Ravnica: A Magic RP

@Kenaron Also add Sluiceway Scorpion. 2/2, Deathtouch/Scavenge. No Golgari is complete without it.

To Teluval, Farewell

<Snipped quote by PrivateVentures>

Much like wizards, Con-men arrive exactly on time, neither late nor early.

@Goldeagle1221

That was good. I can't beat that one.

To Teluval, Farewell

<Snipped quote by PrivateVentures>

FILTH!

@Goldeagle1221

SAYS THE GUY WHO'S LATE TO THE PARTY

*snap* Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat

To Teluval, Farewell

So excited for my second post! Dali gonna give ya'll a show ;)

Pens and Swords (PV's literature dump)

Storing this one too

The Lovecraft Rogue

Pavara Valoro, “PV” (The Lovecraft Rogue)

Backstory
Pavara was born to Father Valoro, an middle-ranking Orzhov Clergy and an unnamed Dimir Information Broker, an illegitimate and secret union. She is not a true Valoro, as her father denies her existence, but claims the name all the same, mostly in spite. Her mother took her under the crest of the Dimir, teaching her eldritch secrets at a young age, and, more importantly, taught her the means to discover her own secrets. Her mother was killed when she was a teenager, in a summoning accident. The resulting horror is the most perfect and complex horror (Hunted Horror) Pavara has ever interacted with. It vanished, and to this day, Pavara keeps an eye out for it, feeling more of a connection with the horror her mother became than the human she once was.
She was taken under the wing of a Secret Stealer/Assassin, accompanying him on his jobs sometimes, learning as she went. She eventually became skilled enough herself to surpass his achievements, and became his partner, rather than his apprentice. She felt herself drawing further and further away from her life’s work, infatuated with this new counterpart. But before anything of consequence could begin, he was arrested in his home by Azorius lawmages. He was executed under Ravnican law for the murder of over thirty political, military, and civilian individuals. She escaped charges, due to the fact that no one could easily identify her as being who they said she was, and vows to someday have her vengeance, preferably with a Horror-God in tow.

Signature spells
3 Recoil
2 Dimir Charm
3 Psychic Strike
3 Pilfered Plans
2 Far
3 Away
2 Breaking
8 Reap Intellect
4 Call of the Night Wing

Creatures
2-Baleful Strix
6-Dinrova Horror
5-Consuming Aberration
5-Horror of the Dim
6-Cosmic Horror


Personal Appearance
Human Rogue, Blonde, blue eyes, Female, petite, 22 years old, 5’4”, 140 lbs. Athletic, low body fat, high muscle density. Attractive yet diminutive features, seems fragile at first glance. Wiry, small bust/hips.
Tends to wear thin blue plates over black leather, with a thick black wooly cloak over all of it. She keeps her Dimir Charm close at all times, drawing off of its power in times of emergency.
Kind of a blend of:



and



and



with this figure,



and this style of armor:



Combat Preferences
Tends to go straight for enemy morale, summoning horrors to terrify them into surrender, before marching in, countering everything they have to throw at her, and taking what she came for.
Uses Consuming Aberration to overwhelm large forces, the Dinrova Horror to beat down larger enemies, the Horror of the Dim for subterfuge, and the Baleful Strix for both aerial assault and assasination.

Psych Profile
She is interested in all things secret, particularly things that others take great care to hide. She loves all things metaphysical, and believes the universe to be held together by an insane god, the greatest of horrors. And so, she summons horrors, pushing herself that much closer to godhood. More than anything, she wants to venture into the sky, to explore among the stars, to learn truths that no one else ever even dreamed existed. This curiosity is extremely dangerous.
This curiosity has led her to craft new horrors from old ones, using a very Simic-like way of dealing with things, but with a more Golgari mindset. None of her horrors survived, being both biologically as well as cosmic-dimensionally unstable, and each imploded and destroyed itself before much study could be attained. She continues, certain that she could someday create the next God.
She is extremely powerful, but squanders this potential in jobs and activities that are beneath her skill level.
She is slow to anger, and is careful, methodical in her planning. She has been a Dimir Silencer for several years, and has proven herself almost prodigious.
Her duties include silencing the guildless and despondent, and learning as many things as possible that Orzhov and Azorius want to hide. At the same time, some secrets must be maintained, and though it pained her to silence deep truths, she served with honor.
Note: She is almost Simic in her experimentation, Izzet in her motives, and Golgari in her methods, but the Dimir understand this asset very well. After all, it’s the next best thing to having double agents from those guilds.
She tends to respond to ignorance with derision, and has a nasty habit of "running her mouth" that often gets her into trouble, but never so much that she can't get out.

Gear and Armaments
She wears a full suit of black leather, not skintight, but close, layered in thin plates of blue steel, each plate engraved with words of arcane origin, and some now unknown heiroglyphics. She wears a Dimir Charm around her neck, and a cutlass with special White mana-manipulating properties, allowing it serve as a spell counter on its own for a number of weaker spells, curses, and summons. Her cutlass is also used in her experiments, similar to how a surgeon might use a scalpel.
Her armor is ordinary, her cloak unspecial. What is special, however, are the engravings in her armor. They give her great strength of faith, the resulting arrogance pushing her more and more to make a better and better horror, certain that one day, she will craft God.
Her armor is designed for finesse and agility. It will turn a spear, deflect an arrow, bend a blade, but it has not the durability to resist a warhammer, axe, or similar onslaught. As such, she relies mostly on her speed, summoning, and stealth, resorting to magically-augmented melee combat with her cutlass if need be.
Her cutlass is relatively normal, aside from an unusual folded-steel/silver blade, infused with White mana, designed originally to be used to combat geists, and counter their curses and spells. What was once a slayer of evil now aids in crafting the most sophisticated and tenebrous of evils, refined to an art form.

Interests and Goals
Her primary motivation is the transcendence of humanity. She desires to not only create the God-Horror, but impart her essence into it, effectively becoming the God-Horror. It is not known whether or not this is possible, as it deals with ancient and eldritch branches of magic both forgotten and theoretical. That having been said, she’s trying anyway.

Fears and Triggers
She despises Orzhov for their focus on money and greed, believing the accumulation of wealth and knowledge without the intent to share is counterproductive. However, she is endlessly fascinated by their servant thralls.
Above all else, she fears Rakdos Demons, having accidentally summoned one once while trying to splice three horrors together, causing a massacre in the Undercity. Since then, she is wary of all Rakdos revels, circuses, even retail stands on the sidewalk. She does, however, harbor great respect for Murder Girl, the Rakdos thrill-kill assassin, for her tenacity.
Second only to Demons is her fear of failure. Failure to create the God-Horror, failure to worship the God-Horror, failure to produce a horror worthy of God, it is a circular fear without reason, for its subject is without reason.

Likes and Dislikes
She prefers savory food over sweet, whiskey over beer, Golgari over Selesnya. She sees the white factions as being closed minded, the red factions as being too hasty and impatient, and Rakdos in particular as being completely and totally unproductive. In her mind, Golgari and Dimir are the only ones making scientific progress, with the Izzet, to a minor degree.
She enjoys noodles of any kind, particlarly if they are accompanied by a rich broth, or stew of some kind. She enjoys all types of breads, and all types of fish. She dislikes loud, fast music, preferring slow, cold, melodic pieces. Almost all of her free time is spent in an apartment in the undercity, drawing power from the Shadow when it passes, using the dark mana of the area to conjure up disgusting, revolting, otherworldly horrors of varying capability, then mix and match all the best/worst parts.
She hates sweets, particularly cake, regarding it as a nigh-heretical manifestation of bread, believing also, that certain sugars, oils, etc. In ones’ diet could lead to arcane blockage, stifling the flow of mana.
She also hates pyromancers, for their tendency for physical collateral damage. She is all for psychological collateral, but when it comes to the real destruction of villages, she sees it as dishonorable.

Guild Rank and Association
She would be considered rank 3 for her network, and rank two for her professional credentials.
She has associated with few high ranking individuals, save Jarad, the Golgari Lich, and a small number of inconsequential guildmages from the Simic and Izzet guilds. She sends them letters, pretending to be young nameless aspiring mages, just asking for summoning techniques. Typically, they comply, giving healthy tips and a window into their world of summoning.

Additional Information
Keeps a Childhood Horror as a pet, feeding it bits and pieces of her kills, and letting it roam through the streets of the undercity at night to hunt. It is faithful and loyal, and always returns to its putrid basement by morning. She and it both understand their potentially lethal relationship, and have made their peace with it.
She is terrified of the Phyrexians, seeing them as abominations, half horror-half machine beasts that have no business existing. At the same time, she hates them, and wishes them extinct.
She has a shrine to an entity she calls Tsthogga, supposedly an Eldrazi of epic propotion and influence. She worships this Eldrazi to an extent, believing them to be transcended horrors, and theorizing that a God-Horror could potentially be an Eldrazi, if, of course, the lore is true.
She is known to be one of Jarad’s only non-Golgari correspondents, the two conversing often on new breeding and splicing theories, being interested in very similar subjects.
She is regarded by her colleagues as eccentric, even among the Dimir, and is generally avoided, as a rule, due to so many of her associates dying “tragically” in “horrifying summoning accidents”.
Among the lower-ranking Bearers of Secrets, there is a phrase, “Valoro’s revenge”, that is used when describing any incident in which horrors ravage a civilian settlement for little to no reason.
She is well-known among House Dimir for her eccentricity, but her name rarely, if ever, reaches the ears of other guilds. Such is the nature of her trade.
She dreams in other worlds, catching tiny glimpses into Planes both past and future. Without further understanding of the Multiverse, she believes these to be ordinary dreams.

Pens and Swords (PV's literature dump)

Love this character. Storing him here.

Dali the Dream Painter

Name: Durandal, “Dali the Dream-Painter"*

Race: Ophidian

Profession: Bard

Age: 22, (mid thirties, in human years)

Magic:
Minor Spells
Hallucination- Causes a target to see and hear visions of Dali's choosing, so long as the target can hear Dali's voice or guitar. If the song or story is interrupted, or if the target is unable to hear Dali's voice or guitar, the spell is broken.

Pacification- Induces a target with extreme relaxation, to the point of incapacitation, so long as the target can hear Dali's voice or guitar. If the song or story is interrupted, or if the target is unable to hear Dali's voice or guitar, the spell is broken.

Major Spell:
The Epoch's Epic- An ancient magic exclusive to Ophidian Bards, passed from one bard to the next, generally from a master to an apprentice. Summons the spirits of dead Ophidian heroes and villains of lore to Dali's defense, serving as bodyguards or soldiers, or even as entertainment. Spirits last so long as Dali can hear his own voice or guitar. If he is unable to hear his own song or story or is interrupted, the spell is broken. Spell can only be cast once per week, with some situational exceptions, primarily regarding the blessing of a Holy Serpent. With that blessing, the spell can be cast as many times as desired for so long as the blessing is in effect, (requires proximity to the blesser).

Desription:
Tall, a good 6'1", covered in scales of varying shades of green, a coat of tropical camoflage. His tail is an additional 7'9", extremely long for his species, and though his family has a history of long tails, his surpasses all others. It is a point of pride for him, similar to phallic size for human males. His back bears a line of dark green and brown spikes, not for defense, but for both temperature sensitivity as well as a deeper interaction with the world's magnetic poles, giving him and his kin exceptional sense of direction, similar to the method birds use for migration. He generally wears an old brown duster coat and matching wide brimmed hat, simply for protection from the sun when he is too warm. He wears his guitar on his back, and his knife on the strap. His chain he keeps coiled around his arm, or tied onto his beaten leather rucksack. His claws are brown, some with a vein of white running through them, and are long and sharp on one hand and both feet. His left hand's claws are filed down, generally with a rock, so that he can play his guitar without breaking the strings. His eyes are almost always wide, the reptilian smile, and his head always cocked, a reptilian mannerism for curiosity, so eager is he to gather material for his life's all-important yet technically useless work.

Biography:
Durandal grew up in a large family, even by Ophidian standards. His brothers and sisters proved to be capable soldiers, mercernaries, bodyguards, hitmen, even some negotiators. All were important, all bore reasonably high social status. Dali was left in the dust, until he discovered his niche.

He began telling stories in the town square. First, just to other children. Then adults began to gather. Gradually, he had a daily crowd, buying him drinks, throwing money at him, into his vase, his lap, until he had become one of the wealthiest citizens in town, the envy of his siblings. His grandfather, the last bard his family had ever borne, was dying for most of Dali’s childhood. He gifted to Dali a guitar on his deathbed, saying “Storytelling ain’t a career. You wanna keep it up, be a bard. And a bard ain’t a bard without music.”

Dali took this to heart, earning him the nickname “Dream-Painter”*.

He coasted for years until his 22nd birthday, the same age his grandfather was when he got sick. He told a tale, to a great crowd on the outskirts of the empire, of a mighty emperor who oppressed his people. The people let him do it, for a long, long time. But one day, a small boy stood up against the Emperor's secret police, and his parents joined in. Soon, the whole village was in uproar against the tyrant. Then the city. Then, the empire. They overthrew the emperor and brought about an age of prosperity. Needless to say, the real emperor was not happy. It was time for a change anyway.

Dali now must undertake a journey, one he may not return from. But, even if he dies, one thing is for certain: it’ll be a damn good story.

Psychological Evaluation:
Dali, as he prefers to be called, is, plain and simply, a storyteller. He claims to be the last of a long line of Ophidian royalty, a prince among lizards. He claims to be able to weave magic spells with his guitar and his stories, conjuring up otherworldy gods and conversing with them. He claims to have once slain a troll with a song.

In the end, he is not a liar. He is a storyteller, and that is the key difference. A liar deserves guilt for their deception. For a storyteller, skilled deception is not only part of the job, but the job. Dali is not a fighter, but he can scrap with the best, earning him a nickname in his hometown: “Dali the Dream-Bringer”. Preferring to be known for his stories, he spread that his nickname was “Dream-Painter, and now no one agrees what it started as. Clearly, he has a flair for not only the telling of a story, but the story itself. After all, as he often says, “Story’s only as good as the journey that made it.”

Dali’s interests include: Laying out in the sun, playing songs, telling stories, eating, and laying out in the moonlight.


Equipment:

Black Ironwood Acoustic Guitar, custom made, egg shaped body, diamond-shaped sound hole, brown leather sling. The guitar is well-built and strong enough to deflect blows if need be, or even be used as a shield, if it came to it.

Three empty scrolls for recording stories and songs that were particularly good. Each is in its own leather pouch.

15 ft. Chain whip, barbed tri-point grappling hook on the end for combat and traversal, generally tied with leather string onto Dali's rucksack or coiled around his arm. He is skilled with it both as a weapon and a method of climbing. The hook's great weight allows the tool to be used like a barbed flail, and the long chain gives it great range.

Rucksack, primarily filled with fruit and dried meats, also containing a box of 36 35 matches, a little flint firestarter, and a little clay tube pipe and cleaning kit. He also carries with him a magnifying glass, in the event that he runs out of everything else.

Folding polished steel mirror, for sunbathing. He also uses it sometimes as a tray when rolling one of his cigars.

A bag of birdseed, as songbirds make very good snacks. His birdseed can also attract mice fairly well.

Quadruple-sized Water Sack, as a reptilian is quite prone to dehydration on the road. This is his heaviest possession, next to his guitar.

A pouch of seeds, from a variety of fruit trees. He plants them as he walks, and always extracts the seeds from any fruit he eats.

Ophidian ceremonial knife, given, as per tradition, on his twelfth birthday, his first day of adulthood. He has carried this with him for ten years. It is half serrated, with a ‘Dragon’s Tooth’ curved tip, designed for hooking, slashing, and gouging. It also makes an excellent carving knife and fruit peeler, as Dali has found.

A pouch of herbs, which he rolls into accompanying leaves and smokes as cigars when relaxing or entertaining. They are petals from a secret flower that grows only in the Empire. It is a commonly smoked herb among Ophidians for spiritual purposes, and is known to induce relaxation and euphoria, even in humans. He carries also a larger bag in the bottom of his rucksack from which he refills his pouch.

Goals:
He desires to return home with the greatest story ever told, an epic to be resung for centuries. He believes that this will grant him true immortality: a legacy.


Dislikes:
Birds of prey, predatory fish, eating birds of prey or predatory fish, hecklers

What is your crime?
"I am no criminal. My only crime is bringing hope, inspiration, angst, fear or sadness, depending on the demographic.


Your most treasured item?
"My tail, undoubtably. My brother lost his, and I am terrified."


Your favorite poem?
"Something I wrote a long time ago. Hang on, it's in here somewhere. Nope. Ah well. I'll find it later."

How would you like to die?
"In any way that would reach my family. Especially if it's shocking or horrifying. Bonus score if I also die heroically."

Frequent Quotes:

"Sure as scales"

"Walloped"

"Snorf Snorf"

"Caterpillars are delicious/ taste incredible/ gotta find me some caterpillars/ caterpillar-good"

"Wanna hear somethin' crazy?"

"If I had an inch for every _______ ___ _______, my tail could be its own snake."

"I got a song for that."

"You ever wonder if ________."

"That tastes awful. Really awful."

"Go on, eat it."

"You'll never know unless you try it."

"Wanna hear a stupid story? Your career. Slap."

"Snakes talk funny."

Intro Description:
As Dali rounded over the hill, he heard his father in the back of his head, past all the songs, and the story he was making up specifically for an automaton audience. "How're you gonna sssurvive? Gonna sssing sssongsss all your life? How ya gonna find a mate? Tellin' ssstoriesss? No girlsss' gonna think you could protect her! Or her brood! Embarrasssssment! Now you've ssshamed the family in front of the emperor! Get your thingsss! You no longer have my name. Leave! EXsssILE!"

Deep down, he remembered how the guards had waited for him outside. He'd collected his things. His entire collection of worldly possessions could fit on his back. He'd always done everything he could for the family, given all his water-rations and money to his home, to be doled out to his younger siblings. He remembered all of this, and the way his father had shouted at him. And all his high and mighty brothers and sisters and all their holier-than-thou mates and their perfect little children-

Of course! He thought. Automatons love tragedies! That's it! Grumblers like them, too, right? I can never tell. The sun was just reaching its peak, so Dali removed his hat. There was a lone dead tree and a big, flat rock on the hill. Just perfect.

He lay on the flat rock, carefully folding his coat, and placing his hat on it. His rucksack went on top of that, only on his hat's brim, to hold it down, but not to crumple it. He sighed as a slight breeze rolled in, but otherwise, the air was still. Not a cloud in the sky. Absolutely perfect. He tugged a pouch out of his rucksack, a soft little brown thing, packed with fluffy herbs and dry leaves. He gently removed a leaf, careful not to rip it, and folded it in his left hand, making sure to keep his claws out of the picture. He passed it to his right hand, and pulled out a little pinch of herbs, sprinkling them into the paper in a gradual line. Needed a little more. Satisfied, he extends a long, forked tongue, and places the leaf's edge just between his tongue-tendrils, leaving a line of sticky saliva soaking into the leaf's surface. He tucked the dry edge underneath, and rolled a tight cone, just enough airflow, with practiced technique.

He slipped a little box of matches from his bag, and with surgical precision, extracted a single match with his claws. He put the cigar in his mouth and tasted the leaf. Sssweet. He rubbed his left hand's claws on the rock with great vigor, filing them down flat, before gripping the match head in between them and squeezing.

KKZZZZkksshh!

He puffed gently as his cigar caught the flame. Sweet lemon-pine smoke filled his mouth and nostrils. He inhaled deeply, and coughed a bit. Sure as scales, this is nice. He took up his guitar and began to strum simple chords, just enjoying the sun on his scales.

C- C- C- G- G- G- Am- Am- Am- G- C- C- C- G- Em- Am
He was high up, on a hill over a hill over a flat mountain, and the mist below filled the valley like water. A thin wooden bridge, a snake of splinters and nails, serves as the road beyond. Make a good start for a story. 'In the company of friends, high on a hilltop above a sea of mist, where black shadows dance around green lights at midnight, the road ahead stretches far, a serpent with no end. But there is an end, yes, and it is more terrible than any of us could have imagined.' "Oh yeah." He says to no one in particular. "That's good."

Sample Passages:

• The fire was hot, and bright. It lit gaunt shadows across the face of every listener. Dali's face became a lantern, lit by the cherry on his cigar while he spun his ancient magic. The crickets chirped, and a distant murmur floated on the wind, the mass whispering of the Grumblers in the valley. His claws clicked on his guitar strings as he played a slow, sad and steady tune, a melody that evolved quickly from melancholy to sinister in the darkness. Fireflies glowed in the distance, fairy lights that lent credence to his story. The group leaned in, pacified, dark shadows growing smaller in the light cast by the flames. The little ring of rocks around their small campfire cast darkness into their laps where they sat. It all came together into a little world of darkness where the only inhabitants were these pale faces and everything that lay beyond was alive, the hallucinogenic unknown.
  
  Dali spoke softly, and they leaned in close to hear.
  
  "Many deny the existence of pure evil. They say it is subjective. They say that without an entity to represent evil, its qualities cannot be truly defined. Yet, we can identify evil when we see it. That is because evil does, in fact, have a manifestation. In these very hills. The Grumblers have seen it. You can still hear its name if you listen to their nonsense closely enough. It's all they ever talk about." Something rustled in the brush below the hill. The whispering in the valley seemed to grow louder.
  
  "It has no face, but is the face of everyone you've ever known. Just for cruelty's sake. Those who know of It live in terror, of seeing It in the mist, of hearing It, calling their name." A voice rang out below the hill, but the sound of the Grumblers in the distance drowned out its words. "They fear death. But it is not death that It brings." There were soft, slow footsteps coming up the side of the hill, crunching on old leaves and dry brush. "It has long, thin arms, for reaching deep into hiding places. Its skin is black as tar, and its feet have long talons, like a vulture." Something black fluttered into the tree above, then, in an instant, it was gone. "They can rend a man's soul from his body. But It cares little for your soul. It stands tall as a tree, and thin as Death himself." The old dead tree groaned and leaned, but there was no wind. "And sometimes, it calls a name. When it calls your name, you have no choices. There is only to obey. You have no choice. Your legs will walk, and your mouth will scream, but you can make no sound. Your eyes will roll back in your head when you behold It. Description can give It no justice." Dali stood, and his voice grew louder and louder, his song's tempo increasing, a deep crescendo. "Your heart will jump to action, faster and faster and faster and FASTER AND FASTER AND FASTER until you can take no more. Your brain will turn to jelly, and your mind, your mind will scream as it peels you apart from the soul up. You will feel everything. You will feel every memory it reaps, every lost love it devours, every childhood nightmare it dredges up." The whispering rose to a dull roar in the background, maddening white noise.
  
  "And you will weep. You will weep for everything you've lost, and more, for everything you've learned.
  
  Well, The End! Good night!"
  
  Dali tugged his coat over him, and rolled onto his stomach, kicking out his arms and legs and letting loose a satisfied sigh.

It's a Lonely World - Open for Apps

@ChaoticFox Well, that's it for Joseph Ferrier. I hope to see other players eventually find something of his, perhaps when they're out of ammo and in need of a drink.

It's a Lonely World - Open for Apps

Joseph Ferrier

I awoke, peeling my face off the table, where the blood had dried, gluing my skin to the wood. For some reason, I expected to see a half-eaten Lo-Mein box when I opened my eyes. Just wishful thinking. My whole body was on fire. A hot sweat had coated my body in slimy perspiration I could feel had soaked into my clothes. I felt awful. But, I still had to move. Standing was trouble. I realized that as soon as my ass left the chair and my head spun. Throbbed, too, like a deep war-drum heartbeat in the depths of the earth. But it was all in my head. Just like the urgency. If I hadn't been so damn panicked, I might have made it.

The crying next door had stopped. I'd knocked over the rest of the gin while I slept. That sucks. At least I had my flask. I'd need it.

I packed up some essentials in an old duffel bag. By 'essentials', I really just mean a first aid kid, a lot of extra ammo, and some clothes. Odd that I, a free American with the resources to up and move to Canada, owns over twelve-hundred rounds of .45 ACP ammunition, and yet the only food in my kitchen is a single can of Vienna Sausages from god-knows-when. Breakfast. After eating my meager meal, I could think a bit more clearly. Except for the pain. That was still a fairly distracting factor. A couple swigs of gin later, and that wasn't an issue anymore. But, I also wasn't thinking very clearly anymore either.

I devised a plan. First, to loot the nearby apartments. I was certain that there was a good amount of food and supplies left over, if only not in my apartment. The first door I knocked on was the one I'd heard crying from the day before. No answer. I knocked again, a little louder. No answer. Once more, a full on 'cop-knock', three hard, solid raps on the door, and called out, "POLICE! Open up!" No answer. I knocked again, this time with my bootheel.

The door swung open as the frame splintered, the deadbolt tearing through the veneer like a little wrecking ball, and I entered the room, revolver ready in my left hand, my bandaged right held behind me, to keep it out of the way. It was pretty empty in here. Didn't even look like anyone had been there in weeks, it was so clean. It looked like a goddamn IKEA catalogue. Then I saw it. A red blossom, bursting up the pantry door, and a slumped body below, wearing a thick green oven mitt. There was a hole in the mitt, where an index or middle finger might be. The hole was ragged, a gunshot if I'd ever seen it. Well, that's why I didn't hear a shot. Her head was gone, torn off by what further inspection revealed to be a .357 Magnum revolver. Five full chambers. Off-brand. Absolutely no nonsense. If you gotta kill yourself with something, you could do a lot worse. I slipped it into the back of my waistband, and without even a trace of reverence, kicked the body aside and went to open the pantry. Something stopped me.

That 'something' was a wire coat hanger, coiled around the pantry's double doors. Oh dear. I knocked on the doors. "Police. Come on out-"

The doors stretched and groaned as something heavy hit them from inside the pantry. Something small. A child- The doors creaked and bent again, and the coat hanger screeched on the metal knobs. I stepped back, and raised my weapon. On the third impact, i fired twice, and the resulting thud within assured me of a good shot. I uncoiled the wire with difficulty, considering I only had one good hand.

Just then, there was a shout from the hall. "KNEES ON THE FLOOR AND HANDS IN THE AIR. I AIN'T FUCKIN' PLAYING." A man. As though I thought, perhaps, that maybe he was in fact playing, he felt the need to emphasize this with a shotgun pump. But I know the sound of an empty shotgun. And I know the sound of a bluff. And I heard both. Unfortunately, I am unfamiliar with the difference in sound of an empty or full bolt-action rifle. And that's what I heard next, accompanied by "Do what he says. We ain't playin'." A woman. I dropped my gun and knelt down on the floor, still unable to face my new 'friends'. "Go get his gun."

"Nah, you go get it."

I took advantage of their squabble to slip my hand inside my jacket. I only needed one thing.

"I got the fuckin' shotgun. You go get it."

"Give me the shotgun, and you can get it- HEY NO MOVING!" I dropped what I was holding, and it bounced on the floor, where it caught the light just right, reflecting gold and blue sparkles onto the ceiling. I took that opportunity to speak.

"I'm CIA. You're impeding a federal investigation." I heard a weapon barrel hit the floor as their jaws dropped.

"Oh, shit." That was all the time I needed. I tucked and rolled, snatching up my pistol in my damaged right hand as I went. The pain was blinding. I'd have to make this count-

BLAMBLAM! BLAM! They returned fire.

CRACK!

Clouds of smoke and disturbed dust floated through the room, obscuring everything in a light mist. I could barely see what had happened, but the sounds clued me in. One of them coughed, wet, phlegmy coughs, that could only produce that sound through a lungfull of blood. I got one. The other dark figure lay on the floor, unmoving. I got em both. I stood, feeling like Bruce Willis, and approached, walking like John Wayne. I made up my mind right then to forget about looting. Clearly, it doesn't end well. The coughing one raised his hand, and I spit on his face, before raising my weapon to his forehead. I could see it in his eyes. He was begging. There was a rustle in the hall. I spun fast, barrel already seeking a target. But all it found was a little girl, less than three years old, sobbing silently. I looked back at my assailants. Same hair color. Same eye color. Her parents. I holstered my weapon, collected my bag and left them there, left the little girl to say goodbye, and left her father to choke on the words 'I love you'. The rules of engagement had changed, and not for the last time, either.

I shed little more than a few tears for that girl and her parents. They made their choices. I made mine. Mine just happened to be a lot faster.

The elevator was stuck on the floor above mine, of course, and I was left with two options. I could force the door with the 'EMERGENCY' button, and make my way down the shaft. It was sure to be pretty clear, but the dangers were great. For one, what if the elevator dropped? Or what if I slipped? The other option was the stairs. Sure, I hate stairs, but with only one good hand, the choice was clear.

Surprisingly, the stairs were clear as well. It seemed as though everyone in my building got out alright. There was a hole in the plate glass lobby door, probably how that little family of looters got in. How stupid do you have to be to bring a child out here with you? It seemed as though everyone got out alright, except for the mystery of a full parking lot. What happened here? I picked out a Jeep, an old maroon one, and raised my sidearm.

BLAM!

One round, through the window. I fumbled with the locks as the alarm went off. I slapped the hood release and made my way around to the front, feeling under the hood for the latch, peeking around, certain that someone was about to sneak up on my. I pulled up the hood, and yanked off the red battery cable. The alarm ceased, leaving behind an eerie silence. I reconnected the battery after counting out thirty seconds, and threw my gear into the passenger seat, before kneeling down to pull open the console. What was it? Yellow to red? Green to red? Blue to red? Yellow to blue? I took a guess at Yellow-red, and was rewarded by the sound of a starting engine.

CRACK!

A shot rang out. My windshield shattered. I ducked.

CRACK!

A hole in the open driver's door. They were in front.

WHAM!

From the side, a shotgun. I drew my .45 in my crippled right hand, and held onto the steering wheel with my left, propping up my feet on the car floor, so they couldn't see me from under the Jeep.

CRACK!WHAM!

Only two attackers. I can take these assholes-

POPPOPPOP! POPPOP! Behind me.

Stings in my back. I fell onto the pavement. My shoulder was on fire. I was bleeding. A young woman stood over me in a red leather jacket. She laughed. The pistol in her hands was small, but seemed enormous when she put it to my head. I could hear them unzipping my bag. I could feel them pulling my weapon out of my hands. They found my ankle holster, too.

"No food. Lotta ammo. Sickass guns."

"Who goes around with no food?"

"Hit pretty fast. Maybe he didn't have time. 'Least he got us a car."

The woman spoke. "He can still hear you guys."

"Jesus, put him down. Have some mercy."

Her rouged cheeks, her cherry nail polish, her jacket. Right before she pulled the trigger, I heard my own voice in my head, saying,

Red equals dead.

I choked out a laugh. The woman put a boot on my face and pressed. "The fuck you laughin' at?"

I slipped my good hand behind my back as I rolled, to move her heel to a more comfortable position on my cheek. My right leg tensed like a spring. I spit out blood and responded, "Red equals dead."

The scavenged .357 thundered as I whipped it out of my waistband. My right heel crashed against her ankle, throwing her shot wild. POP! POPPOP! One round hit my chest and ricocheted off my flask. Her left eye burst like fireworks.

BOOM! BOOM! My weapon roared like a lion while I laughed like a hyena and bled like a busted hip flask.

In the end, no one got the chance to shoot me again. In the end, she got the same funeral I would've. Her buddies left in my car. I crawled and bled, and crawled, and bled. And crawled, and bled. And bled.

The rules of engagement had changed. And not for the last time.

Ravnica: A Magic RP

@Cu Chulainn Don't worry. You can find acceptance in the arms of Pavara Valoro. She's a human, so you don't have to worry about being eaten by her

To Teluval, Farewell

FIRST POST! YEAHHHH