Tlaloc

Random Access Memories

█ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █	█ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █	█ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █	Tonight I'll shave the mountain I'll cut the hearts from pharaohs I pull the road off of the rise Tear the memories from my eyes And in the morning I'll be gone	█ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █	█ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █	█ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █

Random Access Memories

Music

I know dark clouds will gather around me
I know my way is hard and steep
But beauteous fields arise before me
Where God's redeemed, their vigils keep
I'm going there to see my Mother
She said she'd meet me when I come

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Songs to use:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3DR8qJlzOcc (light hearted)

Shattered Steel - An Ace Combat/Project Wingman/etc inspired aircraft-based RP

Okay, GM Speaking here.
I don't know who the hell all you people are, but if you're not involved in the game? Stop being disruptive in my OOC.

@Rhona W

Apologies, wasn't my intent to be disruptive, was just trying to be light-hearted! I won't make any further comments.

Shattered Steel - An Ace Combat/Project Wingman/etc inspired aircraft-based RP

@Tlaloc, I presume you're interested in joining?

@Letter Bee

Not right now. Enjoying reading though.

Shattered Steel - An Ace Combat/Project Wingman/etc inspired aircraft-based RP

This is microwaving tin-foil.

@Thayr

Sparks are flying; that much is true.

Shattered Steel - An Ace Combat/Project Wingman/etc inspired aircraft-based RP

Hey @Chronic
What does that IC post actually add to the game
You don't need to be every other post. In fact it's probably best if you're not every other post.
Just a thought.

@Thayr

Let him cook.

'Floating' (Star Wars 2 BBY)

collab with @Zoie Hart

Viszt watched the others as they shuffled away, swift and decisive — they hadn’t seemed inconvenienced or otherwise irked by the Chiss’ audacity. The pressure was, for at least a moment, reduced, and all Viszt had to concern himself with was the woman accompanying him to the med bay. He hadn’t quite decided what he’d do next, but having one brigand breathing down his neck was much better than three. He started walking hurriedly in the direction of the med bay, the woman a pace behind him, watching his every move. He glanced back at her every few moments, trying to make some kind of judgement.

“If he thinks about double crossing me. I’ll shoot him myself.” — that’s what she’d said to her accomplices. A bluff or a promise, he wasn’t sure. Was she the type to kill indiscriminately to get the job done? Her actions in the alleyway made him uncertain. Indeed, there was a chance that Viszt’s captors were smarter than they let on. Maybe they’d seen him in a precarious situation in the alley, and sent the woman to his aid to use as a bargaining chip, only to feign disorganisation later on. However, unless they were fantastic actors, it was much more likely that their existing plan was complicated by Viszt’s involvement. If that were the case, it struck Viszt that this woman might not be a cold-blooded killer, lest she’d have simply left him to a grisly fate at the hands of the junkers.

”What’s your name?,” he asked, sure he wouldn’t receive an answer. He’d given her his name back in the alleyway.

Silence.

He sighed.

As they approached the med bay, the ambience of hazard set in; low persistent alarms, flashing yellow lights, several droids cordoning off the area, and chemical smell hanging in the air. Viszt noticed his abetter’s eyes dancing around the corridor.

“Is there a locker room nearby? Wouldn’t mind changing out of this bulky armor.”

Viszt nodded his head across the hall, where the medical cloakroom was situated. ”Just over there.”

This was a chance to run, he thought. But, as the woman disappeared into the room for a minute or so, he felt unable to. He wasn’t sure why, but it felt, in this moment, like a door had been flung open; the idea of slamming it shut didn’t appeal. He made his way into the lab, but he didn’t say a word about his new associate. In here, the ruckus was even more apparent; two imperial engineers stood facing a busted machine and squabbled over the logistics of how best to fix it.

“Where have you been!?,” Benaire cried as he saw Viszt enter. Before receiving an answer he rushed over, handing over a datapad with various readings about the cold storage and its chemical levels.

”Sorry, I came as quickly as I could.”

"I need you to help sort this out. It's worse than I thought. The leak is affecting other systems. We’ve got to transfer the remaining chemicals to emergency storage, and the droids are struggling to keep up."

Quickly, Viszt hurried into action, assisting the doctor. He set to work, moving vials and containers onto droids, which went back and forth, and assisting the engineers with assessing the leak. Though he had moved the excess chemicals off the ship, now everything that remained had to be cleared out, or a dangerous chemical reaction could occur. Removing the apparatus would prove a big issue for the ship’s crew, as, from this point on, they were no longer equipped to deal with medical emergencies. On account of the armed trespassers on board: this was bad. Additionally, these chemicals were valuable, and could make a black-market seller a good few hundred credits. Viszt hoped that his captor, who had re-emerged at the doorway, was not aware of this.

Time ticked by. Every few minutes, as the arduous process dragged on, Viszt would glance up at the doorway; where Aellyn lingered, waiting, checking the time. As the hour dragged on, she seemed to grow more restless.

He wasn’t sure how long had passed, but it must’ve been close to an hour when his captor entered the room, weapon in hand. No longer would she wait. The process was incomplete, and the chemicals were volatile. He wiped the sweat from his forehead, apprehensive.

Aellyn raised the rifle toward the engineers and Benaire. “The three of you…don’t move….” She gripped the rifle and turned toward the lab technician. “Are you almost done with fixing the leak? Hour is almost up and I’m leaving on that ship.”

”I… No. I’m not done yet,” he said. Just give me fifteen minutes,” he pleaded, but he knew that wasn’t enough time.

“What?” Benaire looked at her, then at him. It took a few seconds for him to realise he was being threatened. “Viszt — what is happening? What does she mean, three of us?”

”I don’t know, ” Viszt lied, still tussling with the damaged apparatus, glancing over his shoulder in panic as he continued to work. ”Can we just… calm down, for a —”

It was only a mere second as they saw movement, an engineer lunged toward Aellyn as she shot a stun at him. His body hit the floor.

Kriff! She quickly moved to stun the other two.

Viszt stopped still, paralyzed without need for a shot. The others slumped down, unconscious, and he was next in the line of sight. But she didn’t shoot; not yet.

“Look, I am a floater. The two others just happened to stop here on their way to my destination. I do not like this situation but they will leave me here to rot if I don’t leave now. I am, was like you. Stuck in a corporate job on Coruscant working with the ISB. There are things I uncovered, things I never thought the Empire would do. The Empire is not what they say. Freedom? There is no such thing. We are slaves to do their bidding. These chemicals can go to people that need it. Don’t make me keep that promise from the warehouse… I don’t want to shoot you. But I will…”

He gulped dryly. Fight or flight. Or… was there a third option. In the subtext of her words, there was an offer, an olive branch. She could’ve just shot him, but she wanted his help. He could go with her, get the chemicals off the ship, and get out of this life.

Everything he’d learned told him to say no.

”What’s your name?,” he repeated, calming himself. If he was going to put his head on the line, he needed an answer.

“Aellyn.”

”Alright,” he inhaled. ”We need to move fast.”

♤ THE CURSÈD WEST ♤

^{In collaboration with @Cool Ghoul as Detlev Schäfer, @TaintedMushroom as Westley Maston, and @Archazen as Sir Reginald Percival Hawthorne.}

Music

The Lord looks down from heaven
on all mankind
to see if there are any who understand,
any who seek God.
All have turned away, all have become corrupt;
there is no one who does good,
not even one.

— Psalm 14:2-3

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The scent of old leather, burnt oil, and the faint musk of gunpowder lingered over Ramos' office; a small cubby of justice betwixt a landscape of chaos. He dropped into his chair, his hand brushing past the disarray of papers, maps, and ink-smeared ledgers crowding the desk. He retrieved his worn notebook and dipped the nib of his pen into its inkwell, the dark liquid blooming like blood upon the page as he made to swiftly record the night's grim findings. He made no effort to ensure the notes were particularly legible for anyone but himself, so long as he could return to them later. He never deviated from this practice, this ritual: after assessing a crime, he would commit every detail to paper, no matter how small or seemingly irrelevant. His thoughts poured from his mind, each stroke of the pen exorcising the weight of the last hour until the ink ran dry. Only then did he pause, allowing himself a brief moment of reprieve.

He found himself looking upon his Bible, which lay unopened on the corner of the desk. It had been a while now since he had sought its counsel; a thin coating of dust had begun to form in testament. It's spine, though, was cracked and worn, showing the signs of repeated, long-lived use. It had been an old friend to him, a guide through the dark. But at some point along the way, he had found himself questioning: how long would it lead him through the dark, with the promise of light? It felt like false hope, and yet he longed for its comforts. It felt like a fool's errand, and yet he cursed himself, guilty for roaming astray. He was unaware of his momentary dissociation, but it washed over him. His eyes glazed over, his physical brain stalled, and the immaterial mind wandered. He found no answers in this empty state, but pressed the cross he wore around his neck and closed his eyes for a moment, whispering a prayer that tasted of resignation rather than hope.

Admist this brief moment, wherein Ramos was lost in himself, his gaze snagged on a figure: a dimly-lit apparition who lingered outfront the bakery. The figure stirred his perturbation, but as his eyes adjusted to the dark, he saw that it was only Detlev. He cursed himself for his anxieties and returned to the door, opening it; feeling a sense of relief as the old ranger moseyed over. No matter how bad a situation he'd found himself in, it couldn't be worse than what Detlev Schäfer had been through. Despite being ground down by the harshness of the frontier, he remained a good man; a reliable man. Probably the closest thing to a friend that Ramos had in this town, even if he wasn't intent on remaining in Amistad for more than a few weeks.

"Dios te bendiga; I'm glad to see you," Ramos said with a heavy exhalation. “Do you have a minute?”

In a gesture of respect seldom-seen from the rugged man, Detlev cast his cigarette aside and extended a hand out towards Ramos — which was quickly accepted. "I’ve got several, if you’re willing to share what had you charging back into town like hell’s hounds themselves were nipping at your boot-heels." There was a hint of a smile on the older man’s lips — honest mysteries were far more his wheelhouse than monster slaying these days… likely a consequence of the scarcity of the former, and the overabundance of the latter. Now, with their formal greeting complete, and Detlev’s hand now free, in one sweeping motion he was once again bedecked with a cigarette, and reached up to light it. The old lighter took a few sparkings gasps, but ultimately sputtered out, failing to evoke a flame.

Ramos reached for his own lighter as he ushered Detlev in, immediately clicking the less abused igniter into action, and restoring his ally's font of dopamine.

"Your hands are shaking, Benjamín," Detlev offered upon entering, his gaze lingering on the other man’s extended hand, that telltale shimmer of curiosity briefly lighting his amber eyes up, followed by a slightly less intense glare of concern — his previous hesitation had been out of respect for his old friend’s position: if he were to march into the sheriff’s office unbidden and started throwing questions around, well, it wouldn’t exactly be a response befitting the hospitality he’d received thus far… He’d expected to have to make a strong case for access to the old Ranger safehouse, but Ramos had given him the key the very same moment he’d asked — there was trust there, that much was clear, and Detlev was loath to deny it the reverence it deserved.

Ramos didn't directly respond, waiting for the door to creak shut behind him. "Sit if you like," he offered, remaining stood himself, hands resting on his hips as he digested his circumstances. He approached the whiskey on his desk, and glanced up to Detlev in wordless offering.

Detlev’s eyes lingered on the bottle, then the man — he didn’t often imbibe, it wasn’t in his nature to dull his senses, but there was an unwelcome weight to Ramos’ movements, his fingers white-knuckled as he grasped the neck of the bottle. Whatever the nature of the illusive burden that sat upon the Sheriff’s shoulders was irrelevant — all that mattered was how clear it was to see. So, with a nod of his head, he acquiesced to the offer of a drink, and slung it back without a second thought: a subtle invitation for Ramos to do the same, should he need it.

“Two dead on a ranch not two-thousand yards out. Torn up to a shred. By the looks of it, the handiwork of a man, not a beast,” said the sheriff, knocking back a single shot. “Worst is, there’s been folk gone missing up the quarry way. I had my concerns before, but reckoned that people disappear of their own volition out here all the time. Couldn't find any trace before. But I’m startin’ to think it’s no coincidence.”

"Killing innocent folk belies a lack of perspective, more than anything else." Detlev offered — there wasn’t much feeling in his delivery, only a delicate undertone of contempt. "But a man operating wholly without perspective is dangerous in his ignorance… Though it may not be my place to advise you, I urge you to tread carefully in this, Benjamín: you hunt a monster who walks in the skin of a man, and on such hunts, one must be selective with their trust. I learned as much during my bounty hunting days… tell me, what will your opening gambit be?"

"I’ll get the lay of the land," Ramos said, dabbing the sweat from his brow: a bodily response that betrayed the cool of the night he’d just escaped. "But if this is as gnarly as it looks, ‘might have to mount a posse — should that be the case, I could really use a hand from an old friend."

"Then you have it." Detlev offered, the corners of his lips curling upwards briefly in an altogether slight but definitely present half-smile, indicative of seldom few years spent practicing the gesture.

A colossal crash echoed from the saloon, followed by a cacophony of smaller, lesser shatterings of glass, and both men were up on their feet. The rare moment of warmth that’d seemed so recent, so important, now faded, pulled out of their periphery by the cold, inevitable grasp of memory.

"¡A la verga!," Ramos barked. "Excuse me," he said, sparing no time in reacting, swiftly marching out of his office in the direction of the Kiskadee; his dominant hand hovering an inch or thereabouts from his waist-holster. He didn't stop to see if Detlev followed, but he doubted the ranger would stray too far.

Outside of the saloon, a groaning man was crumpled in a heap, the shattered remains of a window surrounding him. Ramos briefly appraised him, finding him to be carrying only minor scrapes, and to be bathed in the ripe scent of alcohol, and disregarded him.

"Enough!," he bellowed, blasting the swinging doors to the saloon wide-open. When the ruckus didn't immediately die down, he repeated himself, louder: "Hey, enough!!"

Twice was, indeed, enough. Ramos had a reputation for fairness in spite of harshness; and a call thrice would've been enough to have him blow his gasket. The townfolk of Amistad knew him well enough to gauge that today was not a day to test his moxie. Whether or not the comers-and-goers would maintain that same level of deference, it remained to be seen. With his warning call heard, and a stillness befalling the room, an exhale saw Ramos’ rage subdued. The castigator melted away, and the lawman returned. He scanned the room. Tables were overturned, chairs splintered, and a few patrons were still engaged in half-hearted grappling, though the majority had backed off at the sight of the sheriff. Big Jim, the burly fool with bloodshot eyes, stood by the bar, rubbing the back of his head and glaring daggers at a little guy across the room — a caravaneer Ramos knew not the name of, who stood poised, eyeing their surroundings like a cornered fox might. Ramos’ eyes narrowed. Big Jim wasn’t the type to start trouble unless he was deep in his cups. Ramos strode toward the oaf, glancing down at the glass shards scattered at his feet.

"You better thank your lucky goddamned stars I got here before McRiley," he said sternly, firstly regarding Jim. Behind the bar, there was a veritable chunk of a man; not the saloon’s proprietor, who must’ve been out back or otherwise preoccupied. "Now I’m only gonna’ ask this once; which of you jackwagons is responsible for this ruckus?," he demanded, looking around the room for an answer.

Maston's eyes began to roam, searching for any sort of alternative exit. He hadn’t necessarily started it, not in his own eyes at least. That didn’t mean he’d be confessin’ his part in matters anytime soon. He reached up to tuck his hat down, attempting to not look at the lawman who’d just barged through the door. Trouble on day one was certainly not what Maston was looking for but he’d be damned if it weren’t par for the course.

With the silence outstaying its welcome, Ramos let loose a haggard, disappointed sigh: "Someone better talk, lest you all fancy yourselves a night in jail."

"Sheriff, I didn’t mean no trouble, it’s these drifters, sir, they’re always out pickin’ fights," Big Jim bumbled, still nursing his mildly bludgeoned crown. The large man raised his sausage-like index finger first in the direction of Maston, and then in a sweeping gesture towards the other newcomers.

Ramos narrowed his eyes towards Maston: a face he didn’t well recognise. He waited for explanation. It could well be the case that Jim was underplaying his own part in this mess; alcohol was lingering on his breath, after all.

Maston damn near cursed aloud when the big man pointed that meaty finger his way first. Christ, all he’d wanted was a drink after arriving in town and a bed for the night, not all this malarkey. "Now that don’t feel too mighty welcomin’, a stranger blows in lookin’ for meal and board ain’t barely been here a’day and bein’ blamed for all this ruckus. S’a mighty fine town ya’s got here lawman," Maston said with just a tad bit too much sourness in his drawl.

"Well, I don’t mean you any disrespect, mister —," Ramos said, pausing expectantly, waiting for the stranger to conjure up some verbal identification, his words laced with saccharine insincerity.

"Mister’ll do," was all Maston responded with, a slightly belligerent tone taking form.

"Well, Mister," Ramos echoed, clearly a little irked by the lack of compliance. "Looks like you and Jim'll be sharing a bunk t'night." He beckoned Jim, knowing quite well he’d come and follow, tail between legs, as it wouldn’t be the large man's first night in jail. The newcomer, however, Ramos had no reason to trust, so he made to restrain him.

Maston almost made to bolt, he genuinely considered it for a second. Clearly this whole situation had gotten out of hand and it’d be just like him to make things worse, his hand twitched slightly, an itch in his trigger finger whispering dangerously in his ear. His heart rate ticked up a couple notches and a sense of anticipation built: "Ah hell." He spit through gritted teeth, exhaling with frustration. It took every bit of willpower to keep it in check, but Maston certainly didn’t need to make matters worse. Any other time he might’ve drawn, but that same feeling that had drawn him here made it hard for him to jeopardize his situation on the first day.

With that, Ramos disarmed the coachguard, restrained him, and firmly, but with no sense of belligerence, began his delivery from out the saloon. Maston, while not actively seeking to break free of his bonds, seemed to challenge the sheriff somewhat, striving to inconvenience his momentary adversary. Ramos was used to it. These types always liked to make a show, make sure everyone knew they weren't soft-like. But they all ended up in the jail cell the same; wasn't worth it to run from a lawman after a bar-brawl; best-case, you became a wanted man, and worst case, you found a bullet in your head then and there. It was a much more rational decision to take the slap on the wrist and accept detainment, which most often would see you a free man by next morn'.

Before Ramos could shuffle out of the door, Maston in tow, another individual made their presence known. Reginald cleared his throat, a subtle yet deliberate gesture to capture the attention of Sheriff Ramos. "Sheriff, might I request a moment of your esteemed attention?" he began, his voice carrying a tone of respectful urgency. "I discern that you embody the very essence of bravery and integrity: a steadfast protector of truth, a shining exemplar of unwavering justice. With such distinguished qualities, it seems only necessary that you would be inclined to address a few irregularities. Surely, such matters fall within the scope of a man of your remarkable stature, would you not agree?"

Ramos raised an eyebrow, nonplussed by the gentleman’s jargon. He decided that he’d let him run his mouth, see if anything of use would slip out in the process, letting his grip loosen on Maston for a moment, but keeping him in eyeshot nonetheless.

Without waiting for a response, Reginald pressed on. "Excellent, then: the first issue — there is an utter lack of tea available, a grievous oversight that has left me in a state of profound dismay. The absence of such a fundamental comfort is nothing short of a travesty, and I implore you to rectify this most egregious error posthaste." He took a brief breath, his eyes narrowing slightly as he continued. "Additionally, I have noticed the absence of any hourly chime from the town clock, and this simply will not do. Such neglect must be rectified immediately. Any town worth the merit of being recognized as one should have its clock tower be prompt and on time." Reginald’s tone grew more insistent. "This is a matter of utmost importance and surely falls within your purview to address. These are injustices that simply cannot be overlooked… I trust that a man of your caliber will see the necessity of these actions and will act accordingly." Reginald’s eyes softened slightly as he concluded, peering intently at the sheriff, ensuring the enforcement of his words.

A silence hovered in the air for a few moments in the aftermath of Reginald’s rant. The patrons, baffled by such behaviour, which was frankly alien in a place such as this, exchanged looks of befuddlement, awaiting the sheriff’s reply. It was anyone's guess how Ramos, overburdened by many a pressing issue that superceded tea and town-clocks, would respond to such demands. Whether in lunacy or genuine amusement, he cracked a smile, which became a chuckle, and then a throaty laugh. This was met by confusion among many of the patrons, but, for a fair few, it was matched with laughter of their own. As his laughter dulled, Ramos poked a rigid finger onto Reginald’s lapel: "Listen, silver spoon, you must’ve took a wrong turn; this ain’t Buckin’ham Palace, and it sure as shit ‘aint no quaint resort. If you’ve got complaints on how this town is administered, I suggest you take it up with Mayor Davis; but I expect he’ll tell you the same thing I’m about to. We’re tryin’ our damnedest to just about survive out here, and as you can see," he gestured to the debris around him. "Your problems ain’t one, two, three, four, or five on my list."

Reginald, utterly aghast at the positive uproar his plight had incited, took a step to the side, his eyes wide with disbelief. Convinced that his concerns were of the utmost importance, he was utterly baffled by the laughter that ensued. With a deliberate and cautious grace, he lowered himself into a chair, wincing internally though his face remained a mask of composure. The audacity of these common folk to live in such squalor and yet not aspire to better themselves was beyond his comprehension. It was an affront to his sensibilities. Yet, he reminded himself, this was their world, not his own. Could it be that his words, so reasonable in his eyes, were perceived as unreasonable in the current state of affairs? The thought gnawed at him as he pondered the disparity between his expectations and their reality. As he sat there, Reginald dabbed his forehead with his handkerchief, a gesture of both frustration and an attempt to maintain his dignified appearance amidst the bewildering circumstances.

Whether summoned by the fighting, the smashing, the hollering, or the laughter, Ol' McRiley burst in from out the back door. "Well, what in the hell!?," he snarled, his eyes forming daggers at the employee behind the bar, then at just about every patron who looked complicit in the shenanigans. "Can a man not go to answer the call of nature for, what, ten minutes, without this place goin' t' shit?!"

"All under control, Mr. McRiley," Ramos said, as he reclaimed his restraint on Maston.

"Well who’s payin’ for my damn window-glass?"

"I’ll make sure your windows are seen t’," he replied. "Maybe Prince Edward here’ll lend a hand," he pierced a glance over at the Englishman. He then turned his attention to Detlev, who watched on from the doorway. The lever-action the man had previously held ready now rested over one of his shoulders, but still remained easily to hand, should the situation have suddenly changed for the worse. Ramos approached, speaking in a hushed tone: "Can ya'... Could ya' get a scope of these?," he tilted his head back towards the new faces in the saloon. "Need to get these locked up, then pay the Mayor a visit... If you can get an idea of what we’re working with, it'd be appreciated."

Ramos knew he asked something of Detlev that would likely make the old ranger rather uncomfortable, but he also knew him to be a good judge of character, and a man who, above all else, had an interest in protecting the lives of the good-natured folk whose lives were presently at risk. He gave his old friend a strained smile, a token of his gratitude. He'd pay him after all this was done; not that Detlev had asked for it.

Before long, Maston and Jim were safely behind bars in the back-room of Ramos' office. The sheriff was grateful he had two cells, as he could only imagine what round two would look like in such a small, contained space. He looked down at the sorry state of Jim, and was satisfied with what he saw; a man who let his bravado and his temper get the best of him, and nothing much else. The other feller, though, he wasn't so sure about. It'd be worth questioning him later to see if he knew anything about the killings. Something told him that this man wasn't quite a homicidal maniac, though.

"When I'm back, you an' me are gonna' have a chat," Ramos said, looking down at the coachguard. He didn't linger to hear a response, and made his way outside.

As he mounted Captain, he mapped out the coming day. Mayor Davis usually woke up good and early: five sharp. Ramos would have to be at his door then. He'd have some morning coffee, and inform the good mayor of all the night's gruesome events; or, at least, the ones that the mayor needed to know. Then Ramos would get dear Nurse Davis and bring her along to collect the bodies from the ranch, then he'd secure the perimiter, then he'd be back in Amistad to continue investigations. But he couldn't sleep yet; he hadn't the time for it, so he banished the thought of sleep from his mind completely. First, he'd find Guillermo.

I need rp advice.

<Snipped quote by Kuro>

bassically that but with memory loss, and no grief.

@Sky Blue

Maybe just start with "i forgor"

Blood Tides (BunniesOfDoom and Tlaloc)

Nils stood at the edge of the Tenio docks, his boots propped up on a battered crate, arms crossed as he watched the Maiden's Lullaby pull away from the pier. Bastards, he thought. He should've been on that ship... Hell — he was on that ship, until Captain Riley lost his patience; or as Nils would've put it, gave up on his ambitions. All because the good captain didn’t like him suggesting they actually do something other than smuggling crates of rum. Had they not already been docked in the port town, Riley might well've had Nils tossed overboard. Luckily for Nils, he was marooned in one of the most pleasant corners of the know world: Sun-kissed Xaegosti; where beautiful women, delightful food, and breathtaking, ancient architecture were all abundant. Though for the past few days he'd licked his wounds by playing the tourist for a little while, he couldn't help but get hot under the collar as he watched his best chance at finding the hoard drift away. Worst of all, they knew nearly everything he did, and he didn't have a boat, so the idea of them using all of his hard work, and him not getting a single silver coin to his name, was a possibility he couldn't bare the though of. He quickly sobered from the thought, smirking as he wondered how long it would be before Captain Riley realise his coin-purse was full of Xaegosti beach pebbles, and not two-months of pay. Hopefully, it'd be long enough for Nils to find his way off the island.

Nils and Riley been on the hunt for Cazaban's treasure for close to two years now. Sure, they hadn't gotten remotely close, but things were slowly piecing together. Day by day, Nils' confidence had redoubled. He'd find Cazaban's hoard, and he'd become the most respected and wealthy adventurer from Skaldvarr to Elqirza. That'd been the ultimate goal ever since he'd stepped board on a ship nine years ago, at the tender age of sixteen. The Maiden's Lullaby hadn't been the first, second, or third ship he'd pursued his aspiration from; nor was it the first that'd left him on a foreign island without as much as a good-bye. He'd worked many a job on many a ship, with his dreams of finding the hoard always superceding any other responsibility, which was seldom appreciated by his captains. He'd been a deckhand, a navigator, even once a chef (though that particular tenure ended very quickly due to a ship-wide case of food poisoning). He always ended up on his feet in the end — he had a way of talking himself out of trouble.

Nils sighed. The process would have to start again. No matter how many times he'd been knocked down, his tunnel vision had never deviated. Cazaban. The name lingered in his mind like a ghost; whispered among thieves, sung by troubadors in taverns, but no one ever knew what had become of the treasure the infamous vampire lord left behind. Untold riches, they said. Enough to buy kingdoms. Enough to settle scores. Nils had his own reasons, beyond just that of wealth, to take an interest in the matter — personal reasons. But, hell, the coin was damn good incentive on its own.

It'd been nearly twenty years now since Cazaban had came to his end; the legendary vampire-prince who'd brought every major power in the region to their knees. Not only had he cultivated an empire of brigands and swashbucklers, but he'd otherthrown the island realm of Morgorad, declaring himself its ruler. For all intents and purposes, he'd been the most powerful man in the world. Until Cazaban, the Khoralis Basin had been an untamed body of water, like it was now; a huge inland sea that was perfectly equidistant between a handful of empires and kingdoms, the most important region for trade in the entire world. Cazaban hadn't sought to crush trade between nations, but to control it, and he made damn sure he had a slice of every single proverbial pie that passed through his waters. He ruled through fear and intimidation, treating those who failed to conform to his rules with complete, unabridged ruthlessness. During his reign, he'd been responsible for death of tens of thousands of innocents; it was said that, during the many uprisings in Morgorad, he'd nearly halved the nation's populace. Eventually, for his tyranny, he was assassinated. Many had tried to pick up the pieces of his empire, but with his death, the cult of personality crumbled into ash. Now, as it was before Cazaban, the Khoralis Basin was ungoverned by any single power. Instead, it was frequented by many dozens of separate pirates; but ones that couldn't quite hold entire kingdoms to ransom. After the vampire-prince had died, thousands began to search for his riches. He'd accumulated an inordinate amount of wealth, and none of it was found. Evenutally, people gave up, lost interest, and reasoned that it was forever lost to the tides. Nils felt differently, and he'd spent the last decade of his life aggregating every single piece of information he could find on its whereabouts.

Having been lost in his own head for a few minutes, he realised that his former ship had now disappeared from view. He glanced around the harbour, hoping for some kind of opportunity to emerge. He was good at sniffing them out, and in a busy port like this, there was sure to be something. He hopped to his feet and began his saunter around, quietly seeking out a free ticket off Tenio.

After a while, he slowed to observe an interaction between two men at the beginning of a pier. The first was a tall, dark-skinned man, with thick hair, and tattoos covering every inch of his body. He had the look of a real swashbuckler — scars on top of scars, and towered over the smaller, older, bald gentleman, who, though appearing rather scrawny, had an equal measure of scars upon him.

"Where's Sotiriani?!," the taller man said, his voice incredibly deep.

"He - uh, he couldn't make it," the bald man replied.

"Couldn't make it?!"

"Think he lost his nerve," the smaller man replied. "Suppose after he realised that we actually go looking for trouble, the chances he'd have to actually fight a leech went up. I think he thought he was just coming along as insurance."

Ah, a leech - slang for the vampire corsairs that roamed the seas. These people were sailors, and by the sounds of it, they'd lost a member of crew to good old yellowbelly-fever.

"She's a beauty," Nils said with a sigh, approaching the two gentlemen with a glint in his eye as he looked over at the ship afront them, whose bell was ringing. "What I'd do to taste the sea breeze on her back."

The two men exchanged a look with eachother, perhaps a little mistrusting of Nils' angle.

Nils had begun his gambit. Yes, there was every chance these two men would take no interest in him, shoo him away, and that'd be that. But equally, there was a chance they might, in their desperation of being a crewmember short, test the waters; entertain the possibility that Nils was the answer to their questions. Of course, whatever they needed, Nils was — or at least he would pretend to be. Opportunity rarely comes to those who tell the truth all of the time, after all, sometimes you have to fake it until you make it. Or just keep faking it until it's made for you.

"You ever seen action, kid?," the older sailor asked. "We need an extra pair of hands to man the stakes, so to speak."

"As a matter of fact I have," he said, without any need to lie. Most ships in the Basin had a small team of dedicated vampire slayers, and those that didn't were pushing their luck. Nils had worked this station once before, though admittedly, he'd only been involved in a handful of scrapes with vampires — not on the level of these two gents, clearly.

"You lookin' to get off this rock?," the taller man said.

Nils grinned, and nodded his head curtly.

"Tell Ayita that Sotiriani flaked, but we've got a replacement," the larger man said to his comrade, before returning his focus to Nils. "Get your stuff and get on board. We're leaving any minute."