wanderingwolf — Roleplayer Guild

Hey all!

After checking out some running games, I didn't see any running Pathfinder 2e games. Is there any interest in a Pathfinder 2e RP here?

The Player Core 1, GM Core, Monster Core, and Player Core 2 have all been released in the wake of Wizards of the Coast's change in license, and they're free online at Archives of Nethys: 

Example:
Player Core 1: 2e.aonprd.com/Rules.aspx?ID=1995&NoRe… (really the only one you need to start playing as a player)

Since it's free (and legally so), it might be a nice starting point for anyone interested in trying a TTRPG here.

I'm looking at GMing in a few different places, an in person game, a possible Virtual Table Top game (I'm thinking Foundry), and I was curious if there was any interest here.

Kind regards,
Wolf

Making Your Mark

OOC:  JP from @wanderingwolf and @sail3695

The postmaster stall was, as it ever is, both a reminder of Alliance reach and incompetence. “What happened to Willie?” Cal asked an unfamiliar face. “Willie?” the short, stocky man replied. Cal nodded, “Yeah, big fella, always eatin’ somethin’, never gained an ounce.” Willie’s half-pint stand-in tilted his head in recognition, “Promoted closer to the core, left half a dozen ticks ago,” he punctuated the news with a hawk but no spit. “‘Promoted,’ eh? Wouldn’t exactly call the core a promotion,” he cogitated,  and added to Abby, “Younger me thought so, though seein’ it first hand left much to be desired.”

“Uh huh,” Abby said kinda absent soundin’.  She seen plenty ‘o’ postmaster offices; this one weren’t no different.  They all come in tha same colors, leastways years of hand prints an’ dust kinda wore ever’thin’ down tah that universal drab.  They’s a packagin’ station for them as didn’t think tah box what they’s shippin’.  Ident card applications an’ capture on demand.  Collectable postage certs…looked like tha latest was “Unification War Memorial Sites.”  Poster screen rolled through each purty picture.  Serenity Valley, Du Khang, Three Sisters…places once turnt upside down by war…now made gardens sproutin’ placards an’ statues of heroic Alliance soldiers, each place decked out with guided tours an’ gift shops.  Made Beautiful…To Honor Their Memories the poster claimed.

Abby come out with a quiet snort.  ’Cept fer what they don’t show yah, the girl conjured of all tha fake shiny.  She’d been tah New Kasmir…seen tha ragged, unmarked ground what held the mass graves.  She walked ‘em all, ever’ one she could find, ponderin’ which ‘o’ them grisly fields mighta held ‘er parents.

By and by, the girl’s ruminations set her eye upon her fav’rite part, ‘Wanted’ posters what flipped an’ scrolled over a broad piece ‘o’ wall.  Captures changed ever’ few ticks tah display a passel’ ‘o’ hard cases an’ what coin may come fer their capture.  She read, lookin’ over names an’ crimes.  Sometimes, Abby might see one ‘o’ them gunfighters was ranked in The Book.  Last was ole Charlie Two Horses, a tribal who give up his teepee fer licker, women, an’ tha fast payoff of a hired gun.  He’s Number Twelve fastest draw…leastways til he bought his bullet squarin’ up with Jean Ann Cuthbert nigh on four years back.

She’s just gonna turn back tah see Cap’n’s dealin’s when a face caught ‘er eye.  Then another.  She looked ‘em over.  The one she called ‘Big ‘Un’ stared back, same dead eyes she recollected from each time she’s forced tah deal. “Pistool…pistool…” Abby muttered afore dismissin’ that thing he called her in whatever lingo them grifters used.  “Eight counts ‘o’ conspiracy tah defraud,” her lips moved as she read.  “Four counts ‘o’ grand larceny.”  Not much money on ‘is head; he wouldn’t have tah sweat tha serious bounty hunters.   His sister, Green Haired Girl, held ‘er prim smile, but Abby conjured she looked tired ‘round tha eyes.  She had ‘er own raft ‘o’ charges, some like ‘er brother, and some what read ‘Cortex Fraud’ and ‘Data Larceny.’   Alliance offered a smidge more coin fer her, but still not enough to set a real tracker on their trail.   Only one missin’ was Little.  She looked about.  His face was nowheres among all them Wanted folk.  Down inside ‘er, Abby felt sorta good he’s not under scrutiny.  She once held that “them grifters would save a drownin’ man, rescuin’ what’s in ‘is pockets first.”  Though she saw no need tah change that opinion on tha pair, Little had turnt out tah be a decent sort.  She wished ‘im well, then gravitated back tah Cap’n an’ his pallaver with tha postmaster.

By the time Abby rolled eyes around, Strand had concluded discussion with Little Moriah’s latest, albeit abbreviated, postmaster, Mason Gouch. “So who’s on Purple’s Most Wanted these days? Is it Yuri? Bet even his mug shot is a portrait.” M. Gouch sourly disappeared before Abby sidled up, Cal reclining as he awaited his parcels, back to the PM and eyes on the rest of Little Moriah. Honest folk among them, surely, but the kind grabbing attention hereabouts were the sort that made him feel for his wallet. No salt of the Earth-That-Was accounted for, himself notwithstanding. Speaking of, Cal thought, better disobey the doctor’s orders… His fingers fished for his silver cigarette case, the thought of Yuri winking in a mug shot curled his lip.

“Nobody worth goin’ out our way for,” Abby replied as she watched the postmaster through an open door…little fella…ruttin’ about inside a room stacked with boxes an’ crates.  “Pshaw,” she give a snort at mention ‘o’ Yuri on a ‘Wanted’ poster.  “No way he’d end up on nobody’s wall,” she chuckled.  “Ain’t even got a crime name.  Aw, yew know,” she said to put paid tah tha question growin’ in Cap’n’s eyes, “a crime name…like a nickname, but sumpin’ ties yah to yer gang or whatcha done.  All them bikers had names,” the girl explained.  “They’s Root, Cottonmouth, Nips, Mouse.  One fella they called ‘Cheese Dick,’ an’ afore yah ask, I got no idea,” she giggled.  “But Yuri?  Short ‘o’ ‘Purty Boy,’ I got nothin’.  Ask Edina.”

“Cheese Dick, huh? I’m gonna hafta noodle on that one. ‘Sides, I’d rather not ask Edina her pet name for ol’ Chisel Chin.” He lit the cigarette, still leaned against the postmaster window. “What’d they call you? Them bikers. What’s your crime name, hmm?” His tone was curious as he pulled long and deep, exhale aimed skyward. 

“Payback,” the girl piped up. “Earned it fair enough, I conjure, but if Ah git muh pick, I’s right tickled with a name Hook gimme after we had a little target shootin’ contest.  Abby Oakley.”  Mem’ry brought a smile with it. Then another, from ‘er time with Lorraine, who’d called ‘er ‘Cornflakes.’  Irritated ‘er a might to start, but as their friendship grew it wound up layin’ easy on ‘er brow.   “But doncha fret none, Cap’n,” she added.  “Ah’m just as good with ‘Abigail’ or ‘kid.’

The Captain nodded as he heard both names, then paused to consider which he fancied. Just then, the stocky Postmaster returned with four small bundles tied up with brown paper and twine. Each was about as big as his palm as he stacked them on top of one another and cleared his throat. “Strand, here are your parcels, C.O.D.” He slid a receipt across the barred counter to which Cal quickly counted out the amount and slid it back. “Aye, here we go,” Cal murmured, pawing the four packages as he opened them up right away.

As Cal tore into the first, Abby would notice that most of the contents of the brown paper parcel were packaging materials and glittery notes of some sort. Cal set the notes aside as he delved into the heart of the package and retrieved something with a look on his face that put him somewhere akin to a kid in a candy store, cigarette perched in his cheek. “It’s ‘Hank Aaron outfield Milwaukee Braves’” he read from the card itself, fingers tracing the words as he went. “Wouldja look at that, kid, Hank Aaron! Just look at that fella!” An excited Cal brandished the card for Abby to see, holding it out to her to take if she wanted a closer look.

If she’s bein’ truthful, Abby couldn’t figger out exactly what she’s lookin’ at.  Pitcher of a fella wearin’ a blue an’ red cap with letter M on it.  He’s clean shaved.  His skin was darker’n she ‘membered Hook.  She could read what Cap’n blurted out from mem’ry…but it din’ really spell out jest what she’s sposed tah know or think.  

Only two things she conjured.  Thing one?  This pitcher was old…crazy old.  Old enough she’s kinda skeert…scared, she corrected ‘erself… touchin’ it.  Thing two was Cap’n.  In the years she been flyin’ China Doll, she never saw Cal Strand so spun up.  Like a lil’ boy, the deckhand mused, a lil’ boy who found himself a real treasure.  And here he was, holdin’ his prize out tah her, like a mama dog willin’ tah let her pup be handled.

After wipin’ ‘er hands on ‘er shirt, Abby held ‘em out.  “One-nine-six-four…Topps,” she read aloud, puzzlement in her eyes.  Then it come, all sudden like.  “That tha year?”  Abby’s jaw dropped as she looked at Cap’n.  “Nineteen sixty-four?  This was made…five hunnerd,” she gasped.  “Five hunnerd sixty years ago?”

A pleased looking Cal replied off-handedly, “That’s right, this here’s a bit of history. Way I see it, baseball–that’s the name of the sport–had all the right ideas. Big wooden bat? Check. Field like a diamond you run ‘round? Check. And them striped uniforms weren’t bad neither. This here sport was world famous, on Earth-That-Was. Teams from every country, all competing against each other.” Cal righted his cigarette and took a puff. “You ever held somethin’ that old ‘afore?” He drew a breath, as if savoring the very air around the object. “There’s something deep that comes in through the fingers when you hold it. Like the millions that musta held this card through the years left a mark, each one.” Strand shook his head, it was the closest thing to spiritual he felt, he thought to himself; bits of cardboard connecting past generations in a line through time.

“A bit ‘o’ history,” she repeated.  As Cal talked about this…base-ball, Abby laid one palm over t’other, fingertips touchin’.  In that gentle cage she turned the card over, avoidin’ the pinch of fingers upon it.  Hank Aaron, it told in bold letters over faded orange.  She conjured where it said his height an’ weight, but Bats: Right and Throws: Right puzzled her a bit.  Below lay column after column of numbers what left her without a clue as to their meanin’.  But they’s one part caught both eye and imagination.

BORN:  FEBRUARY 5, 1934

“You ever held somethin’ that old ‘afore?”

“Don’t believe Ah ever seen nothin’ this old…ever!” she confessed.  She seen plenty of things designed old…replicas, they called ‘em.  Her daddy’s Colt, now worn on ‘er hip, was called “Navy.”  Looked the part ‘cept fer tha target scan an’auto reloader give it twice capacity of its’ cylinder.  Also, her long rifle, tha Mosin Nagant.  Looked right close tah ones she read was used by Ruska tah bring down them nazis.  Simple an’ keen enough tah knock a gnat off a bull’s swishin’ tail, she loved it…but it weren’t tha actual thing.

”There’s something deep that comes in through the fingers when you hold it. Like the millions that musta held this card through the years left a mark, each one.”

Abby ruminated on that.  Hank Aaron, thirty years on when this was made.  She wondered what he might think about all them folk, knowin’ his name, lookin’ at his likeness, from century tah century.  “Yer right,” she said in a wonderment.  “First time I ever conjured what ‘permanent’ can truly be.”  Her outstretched hand offered the ‘base-ball’ card back tah it’s new owner.  “Funny how such a thing can getcha thinkin’.”

“That it is, kid.” She had a look about her that said she still had one foot miles off in thought. It reminded him of hisself the first time he’d stumbled on the collection of the late ‘Strand,’ his predecessor. A trove of plastic covered cards resided under the foot of his bunk in the captain’s quarters when he inherited it. Strand the former had had a keen eye for basket-ball and something called hockey, but the handful of baseball cards he’d squirreled were enough to hook a younger Cal Boone. 

There were three more packages from the postmaster, just like the first, but Cal tucked the bundles neatly into his breast pocket. “Permanence in this ‘Verse is a pipe dream, that’s certain, but makin’ your mark? Now that’s plum possible. For instance, the Sister might say Buddha’s permanent, but to my eyes, he ain’t no different than any fella on these cards. Permanent don’t matter to nobody, less there’s a body still around who cares.” Wisdom thoroughly dispensed, Cal took one last gander at Hank Aaron before trading his likeness for a cigarette from his silver case. 

Cal stepped away from the postmaster’s window to look out on the throng in the heart of Little Moriah. Pulling on his cigarette, “Well that’s me sorted here; I got to wander on to the barber, then to catch up with Yuri. Suspect he’s pullin’ down the reqs right now.” Strand asked, “You got business ‘fore we head out?”

Making your mark.  Something else to think about.  Abby never conjured great things to come of her life.  She weren’t no Hank Aaron, nor a Buddha, after all…just a deckhand tryna make her way in a life what seemed to grow as complicated as you might wish.  Mr. Eleanor pointed out she could change that path if she wanted.  Thomas also had thoughts on the matter.  One could lock ‘er feet dirtside, while t’other offered a strong chance of joinin’ them grifters on a postmaster’s wall.  But Cal showed ‘er somethin’ she understood right now.  ...A body still around who cares…  Mayhaps, if you just make your mark with one, like Cal did with her, and she might do with another…mayhaps that was all the ‘permanent’ a person needed.  “Nah,” she give a toss of ‘er hair as they made for the corridor.  “Edina handed me part ‘o’ the shoppin’ list.  Thought I might take care ‘o’ that afore headin’ back.”

“Shiny,” the Captain said, “Well, get your ya-ya’s out while you can, hear? We’re pent up for a spell while we haul out to the job.” Cal’s eyes scanned for look-y-lou’s as he nodded to the deckhand. “Ku?”

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