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Messages - Wheel-Son

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1
General Discussion / Re: Last Man Posting: -50% SHENANIGANS
« on: September 03, 2021, 04:38:23 am »
no NO AAA--

2
Rec Room / Re: A History of Time to Come
« on: February 09, 2020, 01:00:08 am »
   Before the fall of Abbadon, and the construction of the Brand. A suit of armor stood in the center. He gripped a claymore made up of an exotic white metal, with runes along the blade.
   “...There isn’t any other way?” The Chosen asked,
   A voice spoke up from within himself:
We have failed in our mission. The means to truly sunder the parasite in one fell swoop...but we have the means to bind it. Wound it. Then...look to the horizon. Void awaits...and that which has been smote by the scarring flames can fall prey to it.
   The Chosen paused for a moment, glancing at the Ritual Blade in his hand. “I… See. There was a reason that you had me restore my old blade…”
   He paused once more, “My soul for binding that parasite?”

   Yes. It would've been sufficient to use the axe, but then your essence would be consumed. It is your tie to the old weapon that allows a...third option, of sorts. The Veiled King spoke once more.

   The Chosen undid the chestpiece from his armor, revealing the large sigil on the backplate. He gripped the claymore by the crossguard, the point pressing against the sigil. The Veiled King seemed to gasp at that.

   I hope that you realize, that it will be a long, arduous journey before you will be reunited with the hunter...it will ensure you have earned your penance, but there will be grave risk. If you falter in your crusade against Those Below, your very being will be lost, farther into the abyss than the limbo I first called you from. If you are certain…

   The Chosen pressed the blade against the sigil further. “Absolutely.” He confirmed, driving the sword through himself. The sigil and sword’s runes began to crack with blue energy. The Armor, no, Horace drove the blade in deeper, keeling over. Parts of the armor began to fall off, the left arm, the helmet fell into the chest and a pauldron sloughed off.
   The Veiled King spoke up one last time…

   By this mark of freedom, emancipation from your servitude to me, you enter into a new oath. And with it, draw out the parasite, and forge the chains that others shall bind him with…

   The Leather began to petrify and the armor and sword fused together, before Horace exploded with a concussive blast, blowing away the parts of the armor into the sky. As the ground cracked open and formed a peculiar symbol.

   The Brand.

   Like clockwork, or rather, fate… Three people had a piece of the armor land near them.

        An Unaging Gunslinger.

   The Iron Marshal.

   And The Hunter of Hunters.

   Years after the construction of The Brand, inside of an old and creaking mansion, where hunters of the wicked and otherworldly gathered, an old hunter of hunters lit a quintet of candles, fingers of bronze delicately gripping the match with a steadiness unusual for his advanced age. Four flames, surrounding a candle of distinctly pristine white wax, of a clarity greater than the other four candles. "For the hunters who have fallen."

        Then, he lit the fifth, a peculiar blue flame taking to the wick. "And to those who still wander, but are not yet lost..."

3
Creative Endeavors / Re: Spinning Sightlines: A Bizarre Adventure
« on: September 27, 2019, 12:50:02 pm »
Old News Excerpt-- Printing date: 1834

Japanese Immigrants flood into Flordia

    An unsurprising turn of events-- Japanese immigrants from upwards of 5,000 potential citizens come in after Japan, a monarch island state, opened itself up to the west in 1829.




The Coyote


    Clydesdale sat the odd, black stylus on the counter of the general trader. "What can I get f'this?" He inquired.

    The shopkeeper gave him a look and scoffed, "Ya'feckin' kiddin' me? Yeh'think this trash is worth any--" He interrupted himself as he gave it a closer look. "Hnmph. Well-- I can't really resell this. But. The jeweler a lil' ways outta town likes this kinda weird shite."

    Clydesdale squinted at him for a moment, before letting out a simple “Christ…” under his breath, walking out of the general store. He walked down the street, close to the edge of town was a rickety, old jeweler’s workshop. Inside, behind the counter was an old, short asian man. He let out a soft grunt, greeting Clydesdale with an “Irasshaimase. What do you need?”

    With another solid thunk, the bounty hunter sat the obsidian black stencil on the counter. “The fella’ over at the general store said you had an interest in these kinda’ trinkets.”

    The old man behind the counter let out an interested chuckle, “Oooh, hooohoohooo… I do… This is made of something very interesting. Not a whole lot of people get this metal. Very special. You’re the-- Ah.--”

    He snapped as he tried to remember the word, “Gansuringā. Shooter man. Shootist?”

    The jeweler snapped once more and pointed at Clydesdale, “Gunslinger!”

    Clydesdale stifled a little chuckle at the shorter man in front of him, “That’s- uh. That’s me.” He responded as the jeweler gave a nod.

    The old man dug out some tools, a larger crucible, a cast, a set of little hammers, a vice, and a little acetylene stove. “I can make you something very special, friend. Something that may assist with your ‘work’.”

    Clydesdale scrunched up his nose, “And how much would this be?”

    The old man let out a little laugh, “Good sir! It’ll only be 10 dollars for my handywork! Anywhere else would of scammed you with maybe two-- three dollars! Or if they’re a craftsman, charge you three-- four times more!”

    Puledro stared at him for a moment, before Clydesdale pulled out a wad of cash and handing over a few bills. “It’d prob’ly make a p’good ring…” He mumbled as the old man counted.

    The jeweler nodded, “Alright, good sir. It should be done in a couple of hours. Stay safe.” He praddled on, as Clydesdale tipped his hat and walked out. Having returned to the center of town, he frowned a bit. Passersby gave him side-glances and dirty looks, his duel from yesterday left a sour taste in many of the townspeople’s mouths.

    Puledro let out a huff, before stumbling into Mashad again. “Oh-- Uh. Sorry, Mr. Clydesdale."

    Clydesdale let out a little noise, “It’s fine, how’s the cut, kid? Two hundred good enough?”

    The young man nodded eagerly, “Y-yessir.”

    Clydesdale frowned a bit at that, “Naw kid, I ain’t your boss. No need to call me ‘sir’ or ‘Mr. Clydesdale.’”

    "Just Clydesdale?" Mashad asked

    "Just Clydesdale." He confirmed.

    The two walked and talked down the road, down towards the saloon to get out of the sun and the dry heat. Inside the dusty bar was a man with a guitar, singing a little tune¹. They checked in with the bar man, got a pitcher of water, a couple of glasses, and a bottle of watered down whiskey. Clydesdale and Mashad picked out a small booth in a little nook up on the second floor. They celebrated a job well done, Clydesdale rose his whiskey, as Mashad clinked his glass of water with the bounty hunter’s.

    Clydesdale and Mashad talked, the bounty hunter learned about the younger vagabond’s past. However, it wasn’t long before the two heard a chilling, humorless, chuckle². “As I live an’ breathe-- The golden gunslinger! An’ he’s a bounty hunter now.”

    Clydesdale glared at him, “‘The fuck are you?” He grumbled.
    The man with a thick southern accent, “Ya’ got a lil’ pest with ya’. I heard y’were ‘round here, Leprett’s a nice town. Folks don’t talk much if y’pay ‘em well ‘nuff. An’ the guv’ment folks don’t do shit.”

    Clydesdale rose up in his chair, “Who. In the Hell. D’ya think, y’are?”

    The southern man let out an ‘ahhh’ before he answered him, “‘Bobby Pierce’, y’might know me as ‘The Coyote.’ Anyways-- My point, some ‘a my friends ‘round here said they saw a strange feller sign a contract with the local pinkertons an’ come back with a well dressed corpse on th’back of his horse. Not unusual fer an undertaker, ‘cept it was a gunslinger. So they figured it was someone who fancied himself t’be the next Wild Bill or maybe th’next Zeppeli with them steel balls on yer gun-belt. But neither of ‘em are alive so Ah Digress. I like ya’ Clydesdale, ah really do. Stories ah hear ‘bout’chu are straight outta a dime novel. Fun t’hear! Now if yew--”

    Clydesdale slammed his hands against the table, standing up and clearing leather. He shot Pierce square between the eyes³.

    Inside the dusty bar was a man with a guitar, singing a little tune. They checked in with the bar man, got a pitcher of water, a couple of glasses, and a bottle of watered down whiskey. Clydesdale stopped dead in his tracks, he felt clammy and looked pale. “...huh…?”

    Mashad blinked for a moment, as they sat at a booth, in a nook on the second floor. “You feel that deja vu too, right?” He asked, as Clydesdale nodded.

    “That-- happened. It must’ve--” Clydesdale stammered, as they heard a familiar, cold chuckle.

    “An’ it did, my friend. Ah see I must be slippin’ a lil’bit, cuz you sir. Are certainly fast enuff t’put John Wesley t’shame, friend. But I digress, I’m willin’ t’put Kalvin aside since honestly, th’man was a sonuvabitch. But if y’all come after me an’ what ahm doin’? I’ll make sure y’all’re six feet under, ya’hear? Now, arrivederci as them Italians say.” He said, with a little tip of his hat, leaving the saloon with the message.

    Clydesdale sat down, putting his face into his hands. “What-- Was that?”

    Mashad swallowed nervously, talking in a low voice, “He has a ‘Stand’, Clydesdale. I saw it--”

    “With what I could se-- My blood ran cold at the sight of it...“ He finished, pouring himself a drink from the pitcher. Clydesdale rubbed his eyes, pouring himself a drink from the whiskey bottle. Taking a swig from the glass and rubbing his eyes, Clydesdale let out a sigh.

    “At least the Pinkertons told me there’s more work over out in the boonies, an’ there’s a sighting of one of Bobby’s gang over in a town called ‘Whitetail’. Prolly will take th’next train over there, y’- uh.” Clydesdale paused, “You an’ me make a good team, suprisin’ly. Yer welcome t’come along if y’d’like.” He offered.

    Mashad responded with, “Are you… sure? I dunno if a mostly blind man would be much of use…”

    Clydesdale waved him off, “Naw kid, you can see them hoodoo stand whatsits. I donno if I’ll run into any more of them ‘stand users’ like with Kalvin, but ‘cides. Yer pleasant t’talk to.”

    “Hah- fair enough…” Mashad chuckled at that, raising his glass. Clydesdale raised his in response.

To Be Continued⁴

Quote
¹ https://youtu.be/aTGRMpVg_-s
² https://youtu.be/tf_EvjG7Ir8
³ https://youtu.be/YYQNxTRAJLU
https://youtu.be/oyQNvgVJyRM

4
Creative Endeavors / Re: Spinning Sightlines: A Bizarre Adventure
« on: September 05, 2019, 03:30:19 am »
Stephan Cero-Meido

   A man found himself with a bag over his head and his hands bound, with a pair of men chattering amongst themselves and the sound of a grave being dug.

   “Look who’s waking up, what’re you waitin’ for?”
   “Maybe you don’t like to look a man in the face when you’re takin’ out loose ends. But I owe ‘em that at the very least. Take the bag off.”

   The burlap sack was torn from the man’s head, revealing a bald man with a thick, grey beard ending in a knot. The older man looked the thug in the eyes, “Kch, Coward. Couldn’t take me face to face, huh?” The man spat at his captor, “Pansy.” He mocked, as his captor wiped the spit from his face. “From where you’re kneeling- it must seem like it’s an 18-carat run of bad luck, right? It ain’t nothing personal, but--” He dug out a percussion cap revolver from his harlequin pattern suit jacket. It had two large golden rabbit brooches on each breast pocket.

   “Your lil’ trail here? It’s runnin’ cold.” He uttered coldly, as he put two in the older man’s chest. The aging man fell backwards into the shallow grave, then he blacked out.


   ‘Stephan Cero-Miedo’

   'Cero Miedo…'

   ‘“No fear”, 'eh?'

   A chuckle rang in Stephan's ears, it was a wheezy, unpleasantly sharp sounding voice.

   'You may be… Worthy. But will you accept being worthy?.'

   'Will you stand up after taking two lead slugs to the chest.'

   'Who you were before was old, aging.'

   'Insignificant'

   'Who you will be now will be inconceivable'


   In the back of Stephan's mind he scoffed at the offer, "Y'damn spook, who in th'hell d'ya think y'are?" He grumbled, as the voice scoffed right back.

   'Moron, I am You.'

   'And you--'

   'Are Me.'

   'Payback is what we're owed.'

   'At the very least.'

   'I am the Hombre De Trapo y Hueso'

   'Or-- The [Rag 'n' Bone Man]'

   'Now get up.'

   'Spit out that blood--'

   'And go spill theirs.'

   Something dug itself from Stephan's 'grave' and let out a loud, piercing screech. It has a deer skull for a head, dark navy blue skin with 'Cero-Miedo' tattooed over and over down the length of its arms and legs and across it's back. It's hands had long, bony fingers ending with claws unlike sickles with limbs that nearly reached it's calves. It was nearly dusk already and the thugs' footprints were still fresh. The '[Rag 'n' Bone Man]' followed their tracks.

   Benji, the man that shot Stephan, holed up in an old desolate cabin for the night. One of his goons, a skinny, weaselly man. "Hey-- uh- Boss. Y'sure we should be stayin' so close t'where we buried--"

54   Benji brushed him off, "It's fine. No one knows what happened to him. He usually works alone anyways, yeah?"

   The droog gave a shrug, "I suppose, yeah…" He scrunched up his face, "Still can't shake th'feelin' like we got a 'bad omen' or somethin'."

   Benji rolled his eyes as the goon walked off to keep an eye out of the window. Unbeknownst to him and the rest of his goons.

   There was something on the prowl.

   Suddenly, a clawed hand snatched up one of the goons through the window with a crash. It dug it's curved, sickle-like claws into the man's skull as it left as suddenly as it appeared.

   Panicked shouts and sounds of cleared leather filled the cabin. The group of five drew their cheap blackpowder pistols. Dragoons, patersons. One kept a sawed down lever-shotgun.

   It was dead silent as the goons watched the windows, the doors, any way that beast could get in. Before they could get comfortable there was another crash, the snatchee's upper half was thrown through another window.

   The corpse's face was mangled, almost mush. One of the goons let loose his supper at the sight, another began to cuss and pray. Benji kept his cool, gesturing towards the back room and the man with the scattergun. "You! Make sure it won't go after the young'n!" He barked, before he noticed something in shattered window.

   A stag's skull, with a pair of dark brown eyes with a large, black iris in it's sockets. "CHRIST-- THE SPOOK!" Benji hollered, as he worked the hammer clumsily to fire at the beast. The woodwork was torn to shreds as the remaining four open fire. It was silent once again, the goons glanced around just as the beast reached deep into the cabin as one subconsciously backed up. Benji shouted at him, only to dodge too late and the sickle-like claws ripped a chunk of the man’s neck.

   He fell to the floor, clutching at the gushing neck wound as he gurgled. Slowly bleeding to death, he squeezed the wound in a vain attempt to stop the bleeding. The [Rag ‘n’ Bone Man] climbed inside-- And Benji worked the hammer of his pistol, firing the last shot in the cylinder. The beast barely even flinched as it screeched, and everyone’s ears began to ring. The beast gripped a weathered end table, bashing open another goon’s skull. The piece of furniture broke into splinters as [Ran ‘n’ Bone Man] took another shot from a pistol, before the beast skewered the thug with a piece of the splintered end table. The monster took in a deep breath and let out another deafening screech, as it descended on Benji as he struggled to reload his pistol.

   The beast dug its claws into Benji’s chest, before ripping the man’s body into two seperate pieces. The creature huffed, and wheeze.

   And it began to calm down, somewhat. It’s eyes went from dark brown with a large iris to a more human-like green, with a smaller iris. The creature stumbled towards the back room, only to open the door. Inside was a young child, a little boy. The beast stared at it. It stared at it for a while.

   Before it simply stepped out of the way and pointed towards the front door.

   As soon as the little boy skittered out of the cabin, the beast blacked out. Soon, Stephan woke up to the slaughter. He got up, a couple of new pains ached from his excapade. He groggily looked around, it was already morning and he spotted a box of cigars.

   Grumbling at that, he picked up a fresh cigar from the box, snatching up the lever-shotgun. He walked outside, sat on the wet grass, and lit up the cigar. It was already morning and the stench inside the cabin was overwhelming.

   Someone walked up, someone dressed in a maroon gothic waistcoat, a dark blue puffed shirt and houndstooth pattern pants. He had bright blonde hair, and bright blue eyes.

   Stephan knew him as Edward Blutsauger, he worked with him often. He was a close friend.

   Edward let out a “Christ, old man. I thought you got yourself killed… You look like shit.”

   At that, Stephan let out a simple, “Feh. That bastard couldn’t kill me with my hands tied behind my back. Did’ja find the kid?”

   Edward nodded, “Yessir, brought’im back to the sheriff. Got a pretty penny for it.”

   Stephan let out an amused snort, “Good. Ah need t’get a new coat…” He grumbled, as he stood up with a groan, walking back to town with Edward.

To Be Continued

5
Creative Endeavors / Re: Spinning Sightlines: A Bizarre Adventure
« on: August 14, 2019, 02:08:25 pm »
Old News, printing date-- 1879:
An Explosion Rocks California!

   A shocking turn of events; There was a meteor strike off the coast of California, just off the border of mexico! Many have travelled there due to the strange happenings, beginning a small scale gold rush! Rumors are stemming that there's also fighting for the meteor between Mexico, The United States, and a currently unknown, foriegn Third Party.


Bellbottoms

WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE:
'Kalvin Kornelious King'
For robberies and raids with "Bobby Pierce" and his gang.
Last seen at Leprett, asking about the original Leprett Church. Now called "Coot's Chapel". 35 miles southeast of town.

Reward
$$750.00$$

   Clydesdale gave the bounty a once-over, "Awfully close, ain't he? Why don't you take him in ya'selves?"

   The aging man behind the desk gave a sigh, "Well, we couldn't technically prove it was him. The piece'a shit paid off the local law and we're under a strict 'employer only' under the US guv'ment."

   Clydesdale let out an unamused snort, "Right. Anything I should know?"

   "From what 'ah hear is that he's the paranoid sort. Expect him t'have a few other bastards wit'm." The old man responded, just as Clydesdale got up to leave. The old man sighed, "Happy huntin'."

   Soon after, Clydesdale was leading a deep auburn horse out of town. It had purple reins and saddle, with a hound’s tooth pattern sheet underneath. Slipping a foot into the stirrup, Clydesdale mounted his horse. However, someone seemed to be tailing him.

   


Meanwhile…

   Kalvin King stomped around the cellar of the old church as there was a half dozen men with axes chopping up the floorboards, “Gat dammit, y’all ain’t worth what I paid for! C’mon! It’s gotta be in here somewhere! Them pinkerton sumbitches are on ON MY FUCKIN’ TAIL! SO HURRY IT THE FUCK UP!” He screeched. Kalvin was a finely dressed man, in a pastel blue velvet three-piece suit and a silver particularly puffy puffed tie. He had a finely cut goatee with long, greased back hair.

   A ragged, older man’s eyes widened, “M-mistuh King?! This whatchur lookin’ fer?” He barked, holding up an object wrapped in yellowed butcher’s paper. Kalvin snatched the package from the ragged man’s grip, opening it up. Inside was a crudely crafted crucifix, made up of what looks like wrought iron, a stag’s horn forming the cross. King gave a chuckle as he ran a thumb across the rough, porous metal. “Hwueeheeeehee! Fantastic, YOU! Big man! Get this man a beer! He’s earned it!” He cackled, making a snapping point towards the largest of his workers.  “Fuck it! Everyone gets a beer!” He declared, as everyone let out a loud cheer and Kalvin passed out cash, ten dollar bills per person.
   
   The half dozen workers filed out of the cellar, and out of the church grounds. Most mounting on their respective horses or mules. Kalvin King kept cackling as he inspected the cross, “Hwueeheeheeeheee, Mister Pierce is f’sure gonna be happy ‘bout this…” He mumbled to himself, as he stepped out of the cellar and into the church itself. As he stepped out, he caught the eyes of Clydesdale, ‘The Golden Gunslinger.’

   “Howdy.” Clydesdale said simply, “How hard d’ya want this t’be?” He growled, a hand settled on his pistol, and the other adjusting the hardee hat on his head. Kalvin held up his hands, “Not hard at all, bounty hunter…” He said calmly, as there was a whistling of wind and displacing air.

But then, there was a loud whooshing sound. Clydesdale cleared leather, worked the hammer, and fired as soon as it got near. Kalvin’s suit grew red in his calve, as he let out a loud yelp of pain. “A-AAGH! What?! You have a ‘sta-’” He snarled, as Clydesdale gave him an equally confused look. “What did I hit?” The bounty hunter wondered aloud, unintentionally interrupting his quarry.

A grin curled on Kalvin’s lips, “You can’t see it?” He asked simply, as he began to cackle. “Cut him in fucking half! ‘Bellbottoms’!” He screeched, as the displacement of air was heading towards Clydesdale. From Kalvin’s perspective, he saw a bird-like humanoid, with a golden wattle below it’s neck with a similar pattern to King’s tie. It had blades on it’s wrists, that extend to the side made up of a metallic bone-like material.


However, Kalvin heard a faint voice and another humanoid parried [Bellbottoms]’s blow, It was a skinny humanoid with a camera for a head with a small weathervane on top, with a skeletal body made up of wrought iron and with two blades extending from it’s elbows replacing its hands. Inscribed on the head of the camera is ‘Luna malum ortu’.

‘Bad Moon Rising’.

   Kalvin’s blood ran cold, “I thought-!” He stammered, before digging around in his coat for his own pistol. “Fuck! [Bellbottoms]-! Help me!” King yelled out, as his ‘Humanoid’ recalled back and towards it’s master. Clydesdale worked the hammer again, and fired.

   If I can get my [Bellbottoms] to cut this bullet. Then I can fight- no- Maybe I should run…! Kalvin’s thoughts ran wild as his ‘Humanoid’ deflected the ‘Steel Ball’ into Kalvin’s side. He let out another yelp of pain, as the spin went through his body. “N-! N-NOOO!” King hollered, as the flesh twisted around the gushing wound.

   I can still win…! I just need to cut this bastard’s throat! Kalvin went on the offensive as Clydesdale fanned the hammer, emptying the cylinder. Three missed but planted itself into his hip, “Oh-ho-hoh!” Clydesdale chuckled, as [Bad Moon Rising] blocked [Bellbottoms]’s strike once again.

   Clydesdale smirked at the bloodied and bleeding Kalvin, “Are y’done yet?” He drawled, as he holstered his pistol. “Cuz if y’are. I think I can make it back t’town b’fore you bleed out.” Kalvin King spat out some blood, before drawing his own pistol. An ornate schofield, before he felt something inside of him move. The two bullets inside him tore out through his back, before curving back under his ribs, then through his back once more, before one made it’s home inside Kalvin’s collar bone, and the other inside his throat.

Kalvin Kornelius King, user of [Bellbottoms]
Bounty: Claimed


   Clydesdale hauled the southern gentleman’s corpse to his horse, before he heard a familiar voice. “Excuse me, sir! Are you okay?!” Mashad hollered, as Clydesdale let out a groan. “God fucking- Boy what part of I cannot help you do you not understand?” He growled as he stomped over to him.

   Mashad simply stared up at him with his milky white eyes, “If I didn’t help you we wouldn’t be talking right now!” He hollered right back. Clydesdale scowled at that, “The hell do you mean by that?” He barked at him.

   Mashad glared right back, "That ‘thing’ you shot and what was making that ‘wind’. It’s a ‘spirit’ of sorts-"

   “A ‘Stand’. Some have called it, it’s hard to explain-- I don’t get it either…” He admitted, as Clydesdale rolled his eyes. “Don’t really care, t’be fair.” He said plainly, as he mounted his horse. “I’m headin’ out, come get me after I turn this sonuva bitch in. Y’earned a cut.” He continued, settling the wrapped cross into his saddlebags as he rode back to town.

To Be Continued

6
Creative Endeavors / Re: Spinning Sightlines: A Bizarre Adventure
« on: August 08, 2019, 07:42:59 am »
Mashad Clearwater

   ‘This ‘story’ is how I began to see, not in the literal sense however. But in a spiritual sense, a sense I haven’t tried in a long time. My name is Mashad Clearwater, and after meeting that man, ‘Puledro Clydesdale’. Who was full of mysteries, beginning to end.’

   ‘When I look back, why was I in Leprett? This religious little ranch town. Did I just happen upon here randomly?’

   ‘Or was I drawn here? Was I destined to meet this gunslinger? This Bounty Hunter?’

   ‘It was rumored that this little town had the most beautiful church in the American Frontier. Not that I could see it very well, of course.’

   ‘I grew up as a pastor’s son, and I thought I was destined to follow in his footsteps. When I was four, I already could read the bible front to back. My father was beyond proud, he called me his ‘Little Parrot’.’

   ‘In my late teens I was diagnosed with ‘Glaucoma’. And my eyesight was going. It hasn’t completely left me yet, but it’s like looking through a straw.’

   ‘A few years back I told my father I was leaving, becoming a Missionary. That was a lie, but… I boarded a train in the black of night. Couldn’t see anything strange about it.’

   ‘But it ultimately caused me to lose most of my eyesight. But it gave me a ‘strange ability’, And a mark that reads, “Luna malum ortu.”’

   ‘“Bad moon rising”’




   And then, just for a moment, the milky whiteness of Mashad’s eyes went away. “H-huh? I-... I can see?” He said, dumbfounded. Clydesdale looked him in the eye as he walked away, and the milky-whiteness returned.

‘What just happened? It couldn’t… It’s not possible…’

‘But the disease… Did that really happen?’

‘I touched it… that man’s revolver… My eyes…’

   Mashad’s thoughts ran wild, “W… Wait! You! How did that- How could I see again?!” He shoved past the crowd, “Excuse me, let me through! Dammit move!” He hollered, one of the citizens gave the blind man a look. “What? What’s so-?” Mashad shoved past, “Not now- sorry! Dammit-- Wait!”

   Clydesdale rubbed his eyes, before pinching the bridge of his nose. “Christ, boy. What do you want?” he barked, as the blind man wheezed a bit. “What- How did that happen? You saw something. I could see again.” He sputtered, as the bounty hunter let out a silent curse. “Alright, listen. Lemme-” He checked through his wallet for a moment, “Dammit… I’ll treat you to a meal an’ explain it. C’mon.”

   The pair got settled with a stew that’s been cooked for far too long and a rough wood table in a corner of Leprett’s saloon. Clydesdale took out a leather bound journal, with a simple charcoal pencil. He drew a simple rectangle in the journal’s back pages.

   “So. There’s a shape called ‘The Golden Rectangle’. You prolly heard of it. It’s a rectangle that’s made to the ratio 9 to 18. It’s got several characteristics-- Let's say I make another rectangle…” 

   Clydesdale drew another rectangle, “This rectangle I just made is the same ratio, 9 by 18. Now, let’s add another line. See? Another rectangle. And then I make another, and another, and another. And so on and so forth.”

   Clydesdale continued to scribble on the journal, “When I connect the centers of all these shapes… I get a spiral that theoretically goes on infinitely.” Mashad gave him a look, as Puledro took the steel ball and set it on Mashad’s hand. He gave it a spin and the blind man’s eyes healed once again, if only for a moment. “It’s a disease, ain’t it? ‘The Spin’ can’t get rid of the disease, but…” Clydesdale looked Mashad in the eye, “Forget it.”

   Mashad gave a shocked look, “But--    Why did you explain this to me?!” He shouted, slamming his hands against the table as he stood back up. Clydesdale explained calmly, “Y’prolly could figure it out yerself, you seem smart enough.” He explained, standing up to leave the table. Mashad simply stood there, stunned as he watched him walk up the stairs to his room.

To Be Continued

7
Creative Endeavors / Spinning Sightlines: A Bizarre Adventure
« on: August 06, 2019, 05:25:47 am »


To Summarize a Historical Background

   The ‘Automobile’ that was invented by Henry Ford in 1903 and were quickly purchased by the wealthy and even the government. Over 5,000 automobiles were purchased and in use within the next few years.

   Soon after the ‘American Civil War’ and ‘The Steel Ball Run’ and the mysterious death of the 23rd president of the United States ‘Funny Valentine’. There was a crackdown on american outlaws within the ‘American Frontier’.

   The ‘Pinkerton National Detective Agency’ became a national name even in the ‘American Frontier’. This hinted at the end of the american frontier, as they hired and gave work to thousands of american and foreign bounty hunters.

   There was a large influx of Neapolitan immigrants after the ‘Kingdom of Naples’ had a revolution in and the monarchy was ousted, being absorbed into the Republic of Italy. Any former members of the royal family came to America for work.

Puledro Clydesdale

   A middle aged bounty hunter read through a ‘contract’, a fountain pen in hand. He was dressed in a purple hardee hat with brightly colored feathers, a dark red paisley vest with two rows of golden buttons like an old civil war coat, dark red jeans, black cowboy boots with Damascus steel toes, and his gunbelt with various pre-loaded cylinders, his ‘Pietta Model 1851’, and a strange ‘Steel Ball’ behind his shooting iron.

   He skimmed through the contract, before looking up at the ‘Pinkerton Agent’ in front of him. The bounty hunter spoke up with a raspy voice, “So, if I’m gettin’ this right… I get five guaranteed bounties. But they may change if, say, I get a bounty for an entire gang rather than an individual?”

   The agent nodded, “Yess’m, that’s right, sir. An, if you’ll look at the fine print, you y’gatta take the ones we give ya’. No bein’ fussy.”

   The bounty hunter rubbed his temples at that, “Alright, fine… So I sign…” He trailed off as he signed the bottom of the contract.
   
“Puledro Clydesdale”

   The agent grimaced at Puledro’s handwriting, “‘Puledro’? Are yeh Italian?” He asked, raising a brow. Clydesdale answered simply with a, “Naw, my pa’s from Naples. Was his daddy’s name, ah think.”
   The Pinkerton gave a nod as he looked over the document, “Alrigh’, alrigh’... Everything looks good. Yer good t’go. You’ll have yer first bounty t’morrow, git plenty of rest.” He explained before Clydesdale got up to leave. As he stepped out of the appropriated sheriff’s office, heading back to the town of ‘Leprett’s’ Saloon and Hotel. A youngster, can’t be much older than 19 bumped into him. “Ah- Sorry Mister, didn’t see ya’ there. Say-”

   He pointed at the Damascus steel ball in it’s own holster behind his pistol. “What’s that steel ball on your belt?” The young man continued, going to touch it. Clydesdale simply set his hand on the young man’s, and he fell to his knees. Puledro pried open the youngster’s other hand, “What d’ya think you were doin’ with this?” He asked, holding up a ten dollar coin.

   The young man stuttered, “U-uhh…” Clydesdale simply shook his head, “Law man! C’mere! This lil’ shit’s a pickpocket!” He shouted, as a deputy came by to drag him away. The young man sputtered and wheezed, “Hah… Hah… Hah…”    

   “Come on…” The deputy grumbled, but he felt his pistol clear leather. The young man let out a shout, “You’re dead!” He exclaimed as the deputy pointed the pistol to the sky,

   “Dammit! He got my gun!” The deputy hollered as the young man cackled.

   “You’d be dead if I felt like it! You didn’t catch me when I took the ten dollars! I’m faster than you!” He ranted, trying to get a rise out of him.

   Puledro gave a grumble, stepping out into the street. “If you’re really done talkin’. Give him the gun back, lawman.” The deputy let out a little, “Eh?” and there was a long silence afterwards. “I’m not gonna press any charges, I’ll forget about it. Lettim go. An’ give ‘em the gun.”

   The deputy shrugged and tossed the gun to the young punk’s feet, as Clydesdale glared at him. “Pick it up.” The youngster stared at him, sweating. “But… If you do, that’ll be th’sign.”

   He spat into the dirt, “That you’re not gonna be any more than a pissant.” He antagonized. The thug glared at him as a small crowd formed, a ‘Blind Vagabond’ stepping through the crown. “What's all that noise?” he said, tapping ahead with his cane. “A duel?” He wondered, milky white eyes looking ahead towards the two.

   There was a long pause, as Clydesdale unbuckled the pistol from it’s holster, staring him down. The pickpocket spoke it, “I-it was just a joke… Y-your face is scaring me. I’m just a pick pocket…! H-have a good’n…” He stuttered, holding his hands up. The sheriff stepped up, “What in th’hell are you two doin’?” He asked, before the pickpocket picked up the pistol.

0

   Puledro cleared leather, sending a steel slug to the man’s shoulder. The flesh around the wound began to twist and the bones in the shoulder began to crack. The pickpocket began to let out a scream, “A-AAAAHH…!” The cracking intensified as the smaller steel ball dug its way into his flesh. “AAAAAAAAAAA!!!” He screeched, before Clydesdale held up a hand to send the small, albeit deformed steel slug back to his hand. “Yer jus’ a kid, put down the gun and go to the clinic. The flesh continued to twist around the wound, as he continued to let out little shouts of agony before it flared up again. “NOOOOOO!”

   Clydesdale let out a hmmph before walking away, “B’fore noon.” The young man shot a look of fury at him, “YOU BASTAAAARD!” He screamed, pointing the gun at him. The limb let out a loud snap as it turn grotesquely back towards him, just as he pulled the trigger.

   The pick pocket laid dead in the street, as the crowd began to let out a shout of horror. “Sheriff! We should-” The deputy said, pointing towards Puledro. “Naw, Jus’ a duel. No laws were technically broken. Jus’- Lettim’ go.”

   Two witnesses were discussing the duel, “What’d he do?”
“He shot ‘im in the arm, then it- Richocheted back to ‘im?” He answered, equally confused.
   The blind vagabond let out a ‘huh?’, as he walked towards Puledro, “Uh, sir! Can I- See your gun for a moment?” He asked, touching Clydesdale’s pistol. “Wait! Don’t touch them! They’re still spinning!”

   And then, just for a moment, the milky whiteness of the man’s eyes went away. “H-huh? I-... I can see?” He said, dumbfounded.


To Be Continued

9

8
Rec Room / Re: CDDA: Adventures in Cataclysm
« on: May 29, 2019, 03:41:15 am »
      The wagon went further west, past the mountains. As there was less mointains, and more trees Quincy played a little tune on his guitar. The obnoxious tune about cheese and pizza continued for most of the trip west, no matter how long Horace glared at Quincy, he didn't stop. Horace looked at the axe for a moment, 'I'm going to kill him, I swear to the gods.' Celine gave a little sigh as she looked back over at Quincy, trying to think of some other song, literally anything else, and how to convince him to switch to it. "Maybe something that isn't about food? It's going to be a long way before we can make camp and prepare dinner, and I think the knight's starting to eye you like a steak." she joked.

      Abraham rubbed his temples, "I swear to god, boy. If you don't'n pick another song or shut up I will personally blow out your god damn kneecaps." Quincy gave a little cackle, and stopped his silly little song. "I haven't been at it for that long!" He stated, Horace barked at that, "You've been at it for over an hour." Celine breathed a sigh of relief, before giving the treeline up ahead a cautious glance. "Looks like activity up ahead." she said, Horace perking up finally, gripping his axe tight. "Someone else seeking to give their opinion on his taste in music?" he remarked, Abraham casting a wary gaze down the road. "Keep y'pants on boy, looks like a town down th' road..."

      As Horace, despite his grumbling over the lack of a fight, dismounted from the wagon, he gave the area a wary glance. "Something still isn't right about this place..." he mumbled, Abraham giving a nod. "Y'can sense it, boy?" he asked, Horace feeling a faint presence. A vague ominous feeling. Though it seemed to fade as they neared the village, a hint of calm among growing darkness, the trees farther down the road carried a sense of foreboding, and a distant warning channeled through the axe hinted that the Veiled King was wary as well...

9
Rec Room / Re: CDDA: Adventures in Cataclysm
« on: March 12, 2019, 09:15:54 am »
The trio had purchases a few more supplies, flour and other goods for the journey ahead, sold at cost given the aid they offered to the village in its hour of need, traded away for some of the coin Horace still had on him.


They would find, after getting ready, Abraham just outside the village, snapping branches off dead trees and sweeping up dead leaves, piling them onto a body. That of the sickly old mare that had weathered the journey this far. Whether it was the harsh blizzard or simply old age, the gunslinger wasn’t certain, but he suspected the latter.


Horace looked at what Abraham was doing, “...What are you doing?” He asked. Abraham shrugged, “Ground’s t'hard fer an actual burial.” He drawled matter-of-factly. Celine balked a bit at the sight, looking away in disgust, before she finally spoke up. “So where we headed next, anyway? Guess he’ll be riding in the wagon...”


“West. Across the mountains. We may find what we seek there.” Horace answered plainly, looking back towards the road. “There’s a mountain pass along the way, as well.” he added, Abraham hmming a bit. “Think yer wagon’ll be good enough fer shelter?” Ceiline gave a nod, “Should be… Not a whole lot of space though.” She explained, scratching her head for a moment.


Abe hmmphed a bit at that, looking down the old road. “Right. Better than a crowded chuck down to Santa Fe at least.” he remarked, getting a stare of confusion from Celine, and an amused chuckle from Horace, as he mounted his own steed. “Let’s go...”


They rode onward, along a cracked and worn old country road, running along the way towards one of the major passes in the Appalachian mountains, knowing full well they were in the shadow of a haven for the otherworldly and ethereal, and that way lay beyond was likely to hold even stranger things. The signs of life, at least earthly life, seemed to fade the farther along they went. However, every so often there were signs that some people occasionally still traveled these old roads.


“So why are we heading this way, anyway?” Celine asked, looking down from her position on the wagon at Horace. “Finding a way to deal with a threat we’re after.” he answered plainly, the mage shaking her head. “That...doesn’t explain much.” she remarked, only for Abraham to leaning out the wagon a bit, having overheard the conversation.


“Fuckin’ space shoggoth his talkin’ axe done sent him t’ kill. So what y’find up there anyway?” Abe added, an explanation that just confounded Celine further. Horace gave a little hmmph at that, gaze focused on the road ahead. “Got a few answers. We’re after Astor. The demon controlling God’s Army. There is a way to harm it at least. The artifact can open rifts as well as manipulate them, and that can weaken it...”


“Open rif-are you crazy!? Last big one that opened up made everything almost as haywire as back when this started! What the hell could be worth causing that again?” Celine said, only for Horace to shake his head. “Anything big enough to kill it would likely be at least as disruptive to The Veil as the last one that opened, not to mention take more power to be practical. But a smaller one, a ripple. This thing can open them safely, and close them afterward.” he said, before looking back to the mountains looming in the distance.


“We’re being sent to find something that might help kill it. But for now, we at least have something that can wound it.” Horace gave a dry sounding exhale, as he got as comfortable as one could in that wagon.


Time passed, Horace was left to his thoughts and Abraham dozed off as the wagon found itself onto a paved road. The party neared a roofed small stage on the side of the road. Must have been a part of a bar due to the large pile of rubble nearby. Over a dozen people crowded in front, to watch a man in odd looking motley garb put on a show.


As they neared, the mix of travelers that obverse seemed to include a few of less savory appearance, kept from causing trouble only by the offer of momentary respite and a few words from a silver tongue. Even then however, as the strumming of a weathered old guitar wound down into an outro, one of the men spoke up, heckling the odd fellow with some indistinct drunken shout.


Horace hmmed a bit, hopping out of the wagon and walking ahead as Celine pulled the wagon to a stop, Abraham mumbling groggily as he stretched before practically rolling out of the back, the all-too-brief rest leaving him feeling practically hungover at first. “Never can sleep well in those gatdamn things...” he mumbled, the three of them making their way over to get a closer look.


Pretty much right as the three got to the back of the crowd, one of the more rowdy bandits stepped up, waving a half-empty bottle of probably-stolen alcohol. “Hey Krusty! Do Freebird!” The Jester turned his head towards the heckler, he seemed to start Freebird and strumming the strings before suddenly stopping. “No thanks!” The Jester said, giving a little chuckle as he set the guitar aside. “I don’t do just music, I do magic too!” He stated in a joyous tone, as he took out a deck of cards. “I’m going to need a volunteer, friends! Hm…” The Jester tapped his chin, looking at the crowd. He pointed a gloved hand towards Celine, “You! The redhead! Come on up!” He said, his grin widening as he gestured up towards the stage.


Celine was taken aback by this, looking back to Horace who simply shrugged, before stepping up on stage with him, one of the banduits giving a catcall right up until her nervousness gave way to a glare that promptly shut him up. The Jester nodded, the bells on his hat giving a little jingle as he passed the deck to her. “Alright! Look through the deck, then showcase the deck to our lovely crowd here, then pick a card” He explained, before giving a turn of his hands at her.


Celine regarded the act with curiosity, knowing more of the arcane than sleight-of-hand, playing along with it out of genuine interest. After all, this was something she never thought she’d end up seeing after the cataclysm. Horace meanwhile watched on, his gaze at this point fixed on the jester. Abe glanced over at The Knight, “What? Y’see somethin’?” He asked, as he simply gave a hmmph, “He has got essense on him. Cards are magical too. Can’t you see it?” Abraham gave a nod, “Since I saw ‘im, yeah. But he’s playin’ a show, what’s the worst that could happen?” He answered, which Horace gave a shrug to.


Celine, in contrast, had no innate sense of the odd magic that was afoot, showing the audience the deck as instructed, looking through to pick a particular card, settling on the jack of hearts. “Alright...” The Jester took the deck back, “Thank you! Now, with a quick shuffle…” He narrated as he put a little pinch of dull essence on the cards, before he stumbled a little. “Whuh-” He exclaimed as he fell forward, dropping the deck onto the stage, all the cards face up.


Celine was about to try and catch the jester as he stumbled, though the sight of him bumbling around earned momentary amusement from the crowd, only to stop and stare as she realized what he’d dropped. One moment the deck had been perfectly normal, the next every single card was the same one she’d picked. The Jester did a little sumersault, gesturing towards the cards with a flourish. “Tadaa!””


Celine found herself applauding the trick as well as most of those present as she stepped off the stage, not realizing the nature of the spell and merely assuming it was a stage trick, in which case it was genuinely impressive.


By now the group that had gathered was starting to disperse, a few conversing among themselves as they prepared to continue on their way, when a pickup truck pulled over nearby, clipping a battered old motorcycle as it went, a couple men in similar

garb to the few drunken troublemakers stepping out and glaring at the trio who’d stopped to watch the show. “Now what in the goddamn are you louts doin’, standing around watching a puppet show or somethin’? Ain’t y’ got work t’ do?”


    The Jester grew pale, “Uh oh…” He said quietly, as he slinked off suddenly, snatching his guitar. Horace hmmphed a bit, already keeping his gaze on the group of troublemakers, as was Abraham, a few of the other travelers quite wisely getting out of the way. One of the men who got out of the truck pushed one of his drunken comrades aside as he stepped forward, holding a crowbar in both hands. “And where you think you’re goin’, clown?”


“Those lot look like trouble...” Abraham muttered, watching as Horace started to step forward, Celine glancing back at the group warily. They were just close enough to overhear The Jester, with a shit-eating grin, give the bandit a response. “Ya’know. To see your mother?” he answered. “On second thought, do we hav’ta help the idjit?”


The Jester’s grin just widened, as he held out a palm full of essence dust. He blew the blue dust into the face and eyes of the crowbar wielding bandit, as he threw another handful of dull essense onto the hard pavement. The dust threw up a thick plume of glittery smoke as he backpedaled, giving himself space as the Jester drew a dirk with a black grip.


The man stumbled a bit, crowbar raised defensively as one of the others caught him. “Oi. Y’alight?” he asked, and the man looked around only to go into a panic, promptly braining the bandit that caught him. Everywhere around him, was that same jester, and he simply lashed out at the first one that seemed “real” to him, which just happened to be an image mimicking the fellow behind him.


“Oi! You fuckin’ dumbass, watch where you’re swingin’ that goddamn thing!” another shouted, a few others stepping up and drawing various weapons, mostly knives and clubs, though one had a wary hand on a sawed-down shotgun. “C’mon kid, don’t make us get too rough. Can’t pay us back if you’re dead...”


As this went on, Horace started to step up, hefting his axe as a couple others watched the flank, one of the glaring looking up at the knight. “Mind yer fuckin’ business ‘less you want a few holes in that armor. I swear, a knight, a cowboy, and a girl walk into a bar...” he muttered, pointing a short-barreled rifle at Horace. Quincy of course, quite gleefully spoke up at that. “Hey! I write the jokes here!” he called out mirthfully.


Already the other two quite wisely stepped behind Horace, or at least Abraham pulled Celine behind the armored figure as he drew his revolver, and the bandit fired at Horace’s chest point-blank, expecting the round to go right through him. He had just enough time to realize that the round had hit the strange iridescent steel only to be reduced to a spray of bullet fragments, before the axe cut deep into his collarbone, continuing on through ribs and everything else in its way until it had cleaved halfway through his torso, his rifle dropping to the ground utterly soaked in blood.


Horace struggled to yank the axe out of the bandit’s gushing wound, as he was distracted he was clonked in the back of his head by an aluminum bat. The suit rung like a bell for a moment, the knight struck the man across the jaw with the back of his gauntlet. He followed up with a haymaker that sent the bandit flying.


Quincy chuckled a bit as he twirled the dirk a bit, letting one of the others come at him with a knife before he deftly, swayed and whirled out of reach, letting the man push ahead of the others and isolate himself in his eagerness. The very next moment he was behind his would-be attacker, delivering a pair of quick cuts that opened up tendons along and arm and a leg, ensuring he dropped the knife and stumbled to a knee. At that he vaulted over the bandit, using that added momentum to send the man crashing hard into the pavement. “Heehee, play that tune again, friend!” he said, seemingly in response to the noise Horace’s helm made when struck.


Horace groaned a little, “I’m not a drum…” He grumbled as he stomped on the man’s throat. The shotgunner levelled the sawed off towards Quincy before a shot rang out, splattering the bandits fingers. Abraham drew first, having already cleared leather and fired off two shots. The man clutched his hand as the shotgun clattered the floor, another of the men rushing towards Abraham with a makeshift machete, before a burst of flame struck him square in the chest, charring the leather of his jacket and sending him smacking into the side of the pickup truck.


“What the fuck!?” Between the sight of the flames leaping from Celine’s hand, with at least two men crippled and another two slain, the few of them left were variously either backing away and dropping their weapons, or frantically scrambling to pile into the truck, intending to simply cut their losses and run. Horace grimaced at the sight, half-tempted to give them no quarter until Abraham set a hand on his shoulder, watching the old man still keeping his gun in their direction as they chose flight other what was quickly looking to be suicide. “About goddamn time sons o’ bitches think to quit while they’re ahead...”


Horace let out a little yelp at the hand on his shoulder, raising a hand and nearly backhanding Abraham. “Don’t- Don't touch me.” He rasped out quickly, shrugging the hand off his shoulder. Abraham shrugged at that, while Celine gave a little wave to Quincy as she approached. “Are you okay?”


The Jester skipped over into a bow as he offered a pink tulip from his sleeve. “Better than okay, my dear!” He declared as he held a hand over his chest. Celine blinked at that, a bit surprised as she looked back to Horace and Abraham. “That’s, er...that’s good then.” It was then Horace stepped forward, hmming a bit. “What were they after, arcanist?” he asked bluntly.


Quincy’s entire body seemed to wilt alongside the flower, he got back to his feet and dusted himself off. He stuffed the flower back into his sleeve as he explained, “I may have used a teensy weensy itty bit of magic to- ah.” He cleared his throat


“Cheat in a game of poker.” Quincy admitted as he scratched at the back of his head. Celine was just about to tease Horace for mistaking a magician’s tricks for actual arcane ability, until Quincy seemed to just brush the remarks off without acting like being found out was at all unusual, or if the accusation wasn’t rather weird. “So that wasn’t just sleight of hand, it seems...”


Quincy shook his head, “Kinda-sorta!” He exclaimed. “I still have to hide the essence use!”


Horace stifled a sigh, “...and why did you cheat at poker?” Quincy seemee to perk up a that, “I was strapped for valuables and they seemed pretty stupid!”


Horace uttered an “Of course…” Under his breath as he clonked an open palm against his helmet, which caused Quincy to give an amused giggle. “Hee hee! You make a great chime, friend!”


Celine found herself snickering a bit at that, looking back to Quincy. “You know, maybe between a humorless knight and a gruff cowboy, we could use some comedy. What do you say?” she asked, Abraham giving a blank stare. “So yer basically askin’ ‘can we keep ‘em’ like he’s a stray puppy.”


Quincy's grin grew toothy as he looked up at Horace, who would grimace if he could. “Fine. He better be useful…” He growled as he made his way back to the wagon, Quincy simply gave a mock salute. “Sir yes sir!” as he followed behind him, the various bells on his outfit jingling.

10
Creative Endeavors / Re: New Sydney Bounties
« on: December 23, 2018, 01:37:45 am »
Unshaken

The duo woke up bright and early, getting a lean breakfast of crispbread and some goat cheese. As they went back to the stable, Gil had a little surprise for her. “You can ride a horse, right?” He asked suddenly, Zulu gave him a look. “...Vaguely, why…?” Gil grinned from ear to ear, “Won a fella's horse off him in a card game. Took care of ‘im but always took Beetle out. He's a relaxed fella, now he’s yours.” He explained, as he strolled deep into the halls of the stable.

Inside one of the stalls was a tall, grey, and muscular Dutch Draft horse. It was already saddled and ready to go, and the two set off towards one of Gil's leads. An old bar in The Long Empty, southwest. A taphouse before the cataclysm, one of the few buildings still standing in that barren wasteland. Gil's lead said that Oscar had some goings on under the table over there.

As they rode towards the bar, Zulu let out a huff. “What’s wrong?” Gil asked, and shot a glare at him. “Why’re we going through this lead bullshit? I know where the fuckin’ factory is!” Gil rose a brow, “Can you point it out on a map?” He said, glaring back. Zulu looked away, “N-no…” She grumbled, scratching at her scales. “Thought so.” Gil retorted, picking up the pace. They thought they were alone, but little did they know.

They were being trailed.

An aging man knew the roads well, and where the partners were going. One of Oscar's lackeys heard Gil asking about him, and the Lackey gave the info to Oscar, then to him. His name was Cyrus O'Toule, he was from the states. Older than most in Australia, sharper too. He trailed ahead, he knew where they were going.

A few hours later, the two neared a ruined city block, much of it was rubble due to the attempts to slow the triffid infestation. A few high rise towers remain, albeit ruined; And Cyrus was in one of them, he worked the bolt of a scoped rifle. A Krag Jørgensen rechambered for .30-30 winchester, with a fine maple stock and a well carved scene of a buck on the butt. The aged man cradled the rifle as he sat criss-cross, loading an engraved round in he peered through the scope first at Gi, who was obscured by foliage. Then he aimed at a rusting Yield sign, and fired.

A loud crack filled the air before a loud twang replaced it as the bullet struck the sign and struck Gil in the hip. The shot knocked him flat off his Kelpie, just as Zulu dove off her steed. Gil groaned out, clutching his hip as he scrambled to cover. “He fuckin’ shot me! He groaned, drawing his sidearm. Zulu scanned the buildings, before spouting “Sixth floor of the hotel, far left.” Another shot cracked through the air, blowing off a chunk of concrete of the wall Zulu was braced behind.

There was a distinct delay between shots, Zulu pulled the BAR from her shoulder. “How’s the wound?” She asked, Gil groaned as he clutched the bleeding hole. “Bleeding… could be worse.” Zulu trailed to the other side of the building. “Keep him pinned, I'll flank him.” She ordered, before Gil waved her off. “Aye, go kick his shit in…” He rasped, before he blindly fired back at the sniper.

Cyrus ducked in his perch, the Fish was keeping him pinned. Smart, He thought. 100 Dollars each, not much but it should be easy. There was a pause and Cyrus popped back out again, taking another shot. A narrow miss, “Bah… Ahm gettin’ old…” He drawled.

Zulu was already at the office building, scrambling up the fire escape and vaulting through a window. She stalked down the hallway, rifle gripped tightly in her hands.

    Cyrus was keeping Gil pinned. The well-oiled bolt worked smoothly, then his eyes widened. “Where in the gatdamn hell did the girl go?” Zulu burst in and cracked Cyrus with the butt of her rifle.

    When Cyrus came to he had his hands cuffed behind his back with two mutants glaring at him. Gil had his hip-wound patched up. The fish-man winced a bit a she gestured with his Jericho, “Why the fuck didja shoot me?” Cyrus shrugged his shoulders. “Munneh. Ya do th'same shit.”[/color] He drawled as he looked Gil in the eye. “From who? He asked, “Whom.” Cyrus corrected, “Oscar O'Malley. 1000 for the both've ya’s” Gil frowned at that. “I’m only worth a thousand?”[/color] Cyrus shook his head, “Naw, pardner. 500 each. Roughly.” Gil frowned intensified. “Dammit… How does uhh… Twelve-fifty sound?” Zulu shot a glare at Gil, “The fuck- Why?” The two argued back and forth for a moment, Gil explaining another would be nice to have.

    Cyrus interrupted them, “Get to y'all's point!” he barked. The two glanced at each other, before Zulu rolled her eyes and muttered a “Fine…” Gil unlocked Cyrus’ cuffs and gave him the money. The two shook hands and nodded, the deal agreed upon and Cyrus’ rifle and pistol belt returned to him.

    The three picked up Cyrus’ mount, a tortoise-shell colored Llama with a simple black-leather saddle with a rifle holster and a pair of saddlebags. The marksman packed up before the three disembarked for the long empty.

11
Creative Endeavors / Re: New Sydney Bounties
« on: October 27, 2018, 04:51:30 pm »
Rehabilitation

    As the two trotted away from the scene, they headed north. “Where are we going?” Zulu asked, as she looked around. Gil looked back at Zulu as the Kelpie rode ahead, “New Sydney. We oughta getchu some new duds, ‘eh?” He asked, letting out a gleeful chortle. The Raptor let out a chuffing sound through her nostrils, “I s‘pose…” She mumbled, which caused Gil to let out another laugh. “Weren’t a fan of those two, ‘uh?” He asked, and Zulu let out a growl at that. “Yeah. They were fuckin’ cunts.” She spat, and Gil laughed out loud at that, “Not surprisin’, seeing how they spoke t’me.” He said, scratching at his scales.

    The ride was long, around an hour or two. Gil rambling on and on didn’t help Zulu none, she stayed silent for most of it. As she looked around the foliage of the Jungle, scanning the jungle for anything. Zulu was focused on doing that, before she knew it, she was nudged by Gil and they arrived at New Sydney. It was the largest city in Australia, built around a huge, deeply beached cargo ship that crashed inside a fishing town. As they went through the gate, Zulu looked around the mostly intact town. Zulu dismounted as Gil stopped outside a mechanic’s garage which has been converted into a stable, The Bounty Hunter payed the man running it, and met back up with Zulu. “Which way d’ya wanna go?” He asked gleefully, “I dunno, I don’t live here.” She said bluntly. “Choose a road then.” Gil said, gesturing at the many roads and alleyways outside the stable.

    The two wandered around the town’s old shopping square, before a store caught Zulu’s eye, Andey's Apparel. It had a flashy black and gold varsity jacket on display, She walked towards the store without a word. Gil jumped a bit and walked through the front doors with her. Inside was a typical clothing store, behind the counter was an aging woman with greying blonde hair. “Welcome, if you're lookin’ for anything specific lemme know…” She said, not bothering to look up from her book. Zulu spoke up immediately, “Can I get that jacket that was in the display?” She requested, that made the woman look up. “That ugly thing? If you’re payin’...” she said, getting up with a grunt as she walked to the display room.

    The old hag set the coat against the counter, “Izzat everything?” She said, Zulu shook her head and looked around some more. She picked out a pair of faded jeans, a button-up polo-shirt, a pair of fingerless driving gloves, and a leather belt. As Zulu payed for the clothing, the owner made a comment about the outfit. She and Gil ignored it as the Raptor went to the back to change. When she came back out, she had the jacket zipped up, and her jeans tucked into her boots. Gil gave a thumbs up at the outfit before the duo left the store to the hag.

    Gilbert looked over at Zulu, before giving a thumbs up. “Looks good on ya’.” He said, before Zulu shot a glare, “Nnnevermind…” He said, looking away. The two neared the beached ship in the center of New Sydney, going through the hole in the side of the ship. Inside was a large marketplace set inside the ship’s cargo hold, a cacophony of stalls peddling their goods, hammers striking steel, and the sounds of lathes and other machinery. As the pair wandered around, Zulu visited several different gun peddlers. They sold mainly ancient antiques or recreations, a cut down BAR caught her eye . Recreation or not, it was in very good condition and cheaper than most of the more modern assault rifles. Along with two boxes of .30-06, she got a 40 round mag with two more 20 round mags. For a sidearm, she got an old Model 10 Smith and Wesson revolver, with a Kelpie-skin holster and a box of .38 special.

    Then Gil strolled into a general store set within several old cargo containers, while Zulu went to a different store, a smaller stall in an ‘alley’ between two of the cargo-shops. The… person running had a face that didn’t discern either gender, and had green cactus-like ribs on his skin with thick spines poking through his clothing. “What can I getcha, girly?” They asked, putting emphasis on the ‘h’ in ‘what’. Zulu eyed up a broad bladed short sword, like a parang machete. It’s blade was a blood-red iron-like chitin. “Like it? It’s made of somethin’ called a Razorclaw, in fact. It’s made from wunna their alphas.” The Cactus explained, a grin forming on his lips. “How much?” She asked simply, and the Cactus thought for a moment, “Hm. Hunnerd fifty quid.” Zulu scrunched up her face at that, “One twenty five.” She haggled, and the Cactus scrunched right back. “One thirty five an’ I can getcha a vest made from the same shite.” They haggled back, and Zulu nodded. “Deal.” The Cactus gave her the machete, a simple scabbard made from scrap copper and pig-leather, and a vest made from a grey chitin, lizard skin, with simple scrap iron buckles. Zulu gave up the brightly colored banknotes for her new gear.

    She was left with 20 dollars, she stood outside the general store, waiting for Gil. As he walked out, he had two skewers of meat and fruit. He gave one to Zulu who inspected it, it had large chunks of a greasy, greyish brown meat with a contrasting grilled magenta cubes of fruit with a orange seasoning sprinkled on. “C’mon, eat. It’s kelpie ‘n macefruit.” Gil said as he dug into his skewer, Zulu shrugged and dug in too. The meat was greasy, tough and tasted like a fishy pork. While the fruit was soft, and has a pleasant sourness, while the spices gave it a nice bite.

    The two strolled back outside, Gil leading the way to his abode, they continued down the road. When Gil looked back, Zulu got distracted again. She stopped in front of a small stall selling various gadgets. Zulu bought an old MP3 player with headphones, she scrolled through the songs as she caught back up with Gil. They walked into a welded together stack of cargo containers, serving their purpose as apartments.

    As the pair walked up the stairs of the apartment tower, Zulu’s eyes were practically glued to the MP3 player’s screen as she read through countless songs on the list. “Oi. Earth to Zulu, y’there?” Gil said, which caused her to jump. “Whuh- Yeah?” She said, which caused Gil to chuckle. “Well, I gotta couch. You oughta get some sleep before we head out.” He explained, which Zulu nodded to absentmindedly as the two walked into the small apartment. Zulu went to lay down on the couch, before Gil decided to give the tour in the morning. He gave a “G’night” before heading into his own room.

    Zulu put the MP3 player’s earbuds into her ears, tapping a random song on the screen.

    “We're occupying boxes of concrete, but the world continues to spin.”
“A peek of endless vibrant colours from the outside looking in.”
“Let me run, let me ride, please let me go outside.”
    “Let me hunt, let me cry, just let me be alive”

   
    As the song continued, Zulu drifted off to a dreamless sleep.

12
Creative Endeavors / Re: World building
« on: October 23, 2018, 09:20:23 pm »

13
Creative Endeavors / New Sydney Bounties
« on: October 22, 2018, 04:48:02 am »
Deals Down Under

A pair of men rode slowly on horses with a line of a half-dozen chained up men and women followed behind them. They had electric lanterns strapped to their saddles, as they spotted another man riding towards them. “Oi! Whose that stumblin’ ‘round in the dark? State ya’ business or prepare t'get wings!” The taller one barked, and the man riding up simply waved. He had fish-like features, looking similar to The Creature from The Black Lagoon. “Put your guns down, I mean no harm! I’m Lieutenant Gilbert Anderson. And this is my Kelpie, Beetle.” Gil said back, raising his hands. “What kinda lieutenant.” The shorter one said, “Police. And are you two the Baxter brothers? And from what I have heard, Amongst your… ‘inventory’. Is someone I’m looking to acquire.” The Lieutenant rambled on, looking past the Baxter Brothers, “Is there someone who came from the Nicholls Production Line?” He asked the group of ‘servants’. A woman spoke up, “I’m from the Nicholls Production Line.”

Gilbert perked up, grabbing an oil lamp from his steed. He dismounted and walked in-between the slavers, walking down the line-up before holding the lamp up to a lizard-like woman. Gil spoke up, asking “What’s your name?” The Raptor looked the fish-man in the eye, “Zulu.” And at that, Gil grinned. “You’re exactly the one I’m lookin’ for.” He said gleefully.

“Do you know who Roger’s Raiders are?” Gilbert said and Zulu looked him in the eye, before nodding. “Who are they?” He asked, and Zulu spoke up. “Big Raj, Oscar, and Xavi.” Gil nodded again, “Great, would you recognize these three gentlemen if you saw them again?” He asked, before getting interrupted by one of the baxter brothers. “Oi. Stop talkin’ to that bitch like that.” He barked at him, “Like what?” Gil said, as the brother gestured with his rifle. “Like that!”

Gilbert walked slowly towards the two, them having turned their steeds around to face him. “Everybody calm down, I’m simply trying to purchase one of your fine servants here.” The taller brother shook his head, “I don’t care, no sale. Now fock off!” He shouted, gesturing with the rifle. Gil scoffed at that, “Pfff- Don’t be stupid, of course they’re for sale.” He mocked, before the taller brother aimed his rifle at Gilbert. “Move it.” The tall one shouted, “Last chance, pig.” he added, pulling back the hammer on the single-shot rifle. Gil shrugged at that, “If you insist.” He said, before dropping the lantern in his hand. He drew his Jericho from inside his chest-holster and sank a round into the taller brother’s skull, and branied the shorter brother’s horse.

The horse fell to the side, and directly onto the shorter brother’s leg, practically snapping it in half. The brother wailed in agony before Gil mosied on over, tossing a wad of australian banknotes onto the broken man. He snatched the keys from the slaver’s belt, “Two-Fifty for that fine lady.” Gil sneered, before he walked back to the group of ‘servants’. He unshackled Zulu, and tossed the keys to the rest. “Just so you know… Nearest town is that-a-way” Gilbert said, pointing to the north.

Zulu rubbed her wrists, before glaring hard at the shorter brother. She walked over and planted her boot onto the dead horse, putting her weight on it. The brother's wails intensified, before Zulu let off and scooped up the bank-notes, pocketing them. Gil was already mounted on his Kelpie and Zulu climbed up behind him, and the two set off. And as they made distance, they heard a loud rifle-shot and the brother's wails were silenced.

14
Rec Room / Re: CDDA: Adventures in Cataclysm
« on: September 22, 2018, 06:45:36 pm »
   A nice, calm beat was played by the small band inside the old cabaret. It was well maintained, despite the cataclysm. Lights were still working and and it was a lightshow inside, many went to the Golden Circle Cabaret for the lights, the cold drinks, and the live music. Despite it being little more than a fancy Hooter’s a good few mutants, many came just to talk with the ‘hostesses’, there were many rules in place. That unless you were behind the curtains or shut doors of the hostess’s rooms, you aren’t allowed to touch them.


   It was a normal business day, many customers came to spend their trade-goods and have a good time. However, one of the customers got a little too tipsy… And too handsy. “Sir! This establishment has a firm policy about touching. Please refrain from doing so, sir.” The drunk ignored him, “Look, I’m warning you here.” The drunkard stood up, and glared at the waiter. “An’ you’ll do what, exactly?!” He shouted, before pushing the man to the floor. The cabaret went silent, “Yer gettin’ paid, quit your griping!” A man in a snake-skin dress-coat tapped the drunk on the shoulder.

   “Sir.” The manager went, “Your patronage is much appreciated, thank you so very much, however. I please request you don’t touch the hostesses.” He continued, bowing his head. The drunk looked him up and down, “Th’fuck are you? A bouncer or somethin’?” The manager chuckled, “A common mistake. But, a mistake none-the-less.” He explained, the drunk replied with a “Yeah? Then what the fuck are ya?” The manager took out an Employee ID, showing it to the man. “My name is Nashio Yuko, and I am the manager of this Cabaret.” The drunk laughed in Nashio’s face, “YOU’RE the manager? Hah! They got a jap running the place?” He glared at the drunk, “Sir, please. Refrain from calling me as such.”

   “But I digress, sir. Please refrain from touching the hostesses and acts of violence while you are our guest.” Nashio explained clearly, “If it bothers ya that much, why don’t you do somethin’ about it?” He shouted at the manager, “I’m afraid I can’t do that, sir. ‘The customer is king’, you see.” The drunk had a wicked grin on his face, “Oh?” He said, grabbing the bottle of champagne from his table, “Quite a policy you got there, I’m a big fan. Here, a drink on me.” The thug said, pouring the bottle over Nashio’s head. He didn’t even flinch, he grinned in-fact. “Very kind of you, sir.” He said as he got the liquor out of his eyes, “I always said I loved this brand so much, I wish I could bathe in it.” The manager’s grin widened, “You’ve made a dream come true.” The drunk was furious, “Prick! You’ve certainly got a pair!” He growled, gripping the bottle by it’s neck.

   The bottle was swung, but Nashio dodged effortlessly. It was swung again and again with similar results, “Sir, perhaps you had enough for one evening? If you insist on interrupting our business any further…” The man stepped forward, “You do what, huh?” The manager grinned, “[If that’s the way you want it…] Boys! Gimme one with some beat!” The music erupted again, “The fuck?” He said, confused. “If you insist that I overstep my station, then I, Nashio. Shall dance with you! I will not, however, raise a hand. After all, ‘customer is king’!” He said with a little bow. “You’re still going on with that, Smug motherfucker! I’ll kick your teeth in!”

   The drunkard tossed the bottle over his shoulder and put his fists up, as Nashio adjusted his tie. The drunk swung at him, and he simply stepped out of the way. The thug lost sight of him and looked around, just as Nashio put a hand on his shoulder. “Over here, sir.” He said mockingly, which caused the man to kick at him. Nashi simply caught it, he lifted the leg up and dropped the man onto his back.

   The drunk let out an annoyed growl, before drawing a small folding knife. “Oh dear, sir? I don’t think anyone here wants you to hurt yourself…” Nashio mocked, which caused the man to lunge at him. He dodged out of the way, gripping his wrist, Nashio disarmed the man and threw him over his shoulder. “I will be confiscating this for your own safety, sir.” He said, folding the knife back up and sliding it into pocket.

   The drunk was dragged out by two waiters as he let out a sigh of relief, “Fucks sake… I need a drink.” He grumbled as he walked up to his office, pinching the bridge of his nose. An hour or two pass without much needing his attention as he goes through a nice glass of oolong tea with Sake.
   
That was, at least, until another argument broke out was heard, just as the music went dead silent. “Dammit... “ He grumbled, grabbing an old louisville slugger. He quietly opened the door to peek at the comotion, there was around four God’s Army thugs and the drunk. “Fuuuuck me sideways… my fault for stayin’ here. Those punks are right at my doorstep.” He growled as he creeped ahead, the intruders were saying something about ‘everyone here isn’t free of sin’ or something. However, Nashio’s eye locked onto one of the crusader’s weapons. The capped man had a signed bat, and Nashio wanted it.

   “You all will be smited by the will of god hims-!” and as if on cue, the maple met the visor of the riot helmet. The glass shattered inwards, and into the crusader’s face and eyes. The man fell to the floor, screaming about how he couldn't see. Nashio scooped up the crusader’s bat, and the three privates recoiled. “He actually hit him…” one of them mumbled, “Not even that van-hellsing looking motherfucker couldn’t…” another said.

   “...what? It’s just a bat. A very nice bat, yes. But a bat none-the-less.” He asked, confused. Another private spoke up, one of the more devoted ones. “It’s been blessed by the lord almighty Himself! And you will be struck down for even grasping-” Nashio brained the privated with the baseball bat, “Really now? Huh.” Cue another meaty thwack at the Private’s skull. “Doesn’t seem very blessed…” He mocked.

   He brought it down again, and the wood snapped in half. The other two privates were stunned, “...what, he- he actually broke it! It caved in tin-heads skulls without breaking! What are you?!” One of them cried out, “You two wanna end up like him? Take your boss and get the fuck out of here, leave the shitstain.” He barked, nodding towards the former drunk.
   
   The two picked up the blinded crusader and dragged him out, leaving the corpse. Nashio got one of the waiters to toss it for the wolves outside. He dragged the Drunk inside the office, scooping up his maple bat. “You little fundie fuckboy, You thought to bring your fucking choir boy friends here? ‘Eh Merridew?” He tossed him inside his office, and pointed his bat at him. “You. Fucked. Up.” Nashi snarled, cracking the less-than intelligent man across the jaw. He brought it down again, and again as business returned to normal and the band played in the main hall. The drunk was left a beaten and bloody mess when Nashio stopped, just before he opened the window of his Office. It was a two-three story drop, and he set the bloodstained bat to the side. Nashi grabbed the man by  the back of his collar and proceeded to throw him out of the window.

   As he hit the pavement, his skull cracked open and splattered against the concrete. Nashio glared at the mangled corpse, and caught an eyeful of a pair of vehicles, a station wagon and a pick-up truck. Barreling towards the Cabaret with blue crosses on the hood. “[Oh son of a BITCH]” He exclaimed, going to the gun locker he and one of the ‘waiters’ nabbed from an old police station. All they could find was a semi-auto hunting shotgun, a magnum, a pair of semi-autos, and even a small SMG. For being so far north, GA held pretty much a monopoly on whatever firearms they could find. It was a luck of the draw they could even find that.

   Nashio stuffed whatever into his leather bag, the guns, boxes of ammunition, the works. He peered out of the window again, just as God’s Army began to pour out of the black vans. The manager stormed out, scooping up his bat he shouted “Everyone! Get to the back rooms, I need the waiters to stay! Everyone else needs to HIDE!” Everyone began to flood behind the stage, save for a little under a half dozen waiters. Nashi barred the door with his bat, “I need something sturdier! Like a fucking… Barstool!” He shouted, pointing at the bar. One of the ‘waiters’ nodded, an older, middle aged man. An pre-cataclysm immigrant, Nashi could tell from the accent. He said to call him ‘Jimmy’ when he first came around a couple years back. He ran over and hopped the bar. “The fuck are you-?!” Nashio questioned, just as Jimmy grabbed his bag, an old, patched together dufflebag. He took out an barely used sawed off pump action shotgun, he held it in his off hand and grabbed a bar stool with the duffle over his shoulder. “No worries, boss man. Jus’ grabbin’ my ol’ girl here.” Jimboy said, bracing the front door with that barstool. Nashio sighed, before passing out the pistols to the rest.

A tall skinny man, said he used to be a security guard when he first got employed here. He accepted the small SMG and checked it’s chamber, he stuffed the spare mag that was given to him into his dress pocket. Another was a old man, clearly from the south. Was a farmer, he was good muscle for the cabaret. He gladly took the Python and a hefy handful of loose rounds. The other two were average joes, but could at least point and shoot. They were given the semi-autos, the group got situated behind the bar in the center of the hall. The moment the door was blown open, the group of Mundies were torn apart by gunfire, the final crusader struggled to get up as Jimmy finished him off with a shot through his visor.


Nashio rose a brow, “That can’t be it…” He mumbled, his train of thought interrupted by screaming in the back rooms of the stage.  “Oh FUCK.” Nashi exclaimed, scrambling to his feet as several of the waiters followed. The farmer and Jimmy, primarily. Nashio barged into the back room, to be met with a baseball bat to the head. He felt his brain get knocked around inside his skull and was knocked on his back. The man with the bat was blown away by Jimmy, as the farmer walked in to check the room. Nashio was dragged out by Jimboy, groaning. “Aw hell, get DOWN.” The farmer yelled as the drywall was torn up by gunfire, Farmer caught a couple of rounds and returned them in kind. One round per private. The magnum clicked as he slid down the wall, Jimmy barged in as Nashio’s skull pounded as he got back to his feet. The last two privates were taken out, inside the large room was a massacre.

Nashio was sickened, “Ohh no…” he mumbled, but he noticed something. None of them were the hostesses. The corpses were mostly the customers, a door to one of the changing rooms eased open. One of the hostesses spoke up, “Uh- Are they gone?” She meekly asked Nashio, “Yeah, they’re gone. Y’alright back there?” He asked, raising a brow. He looked over at the Farmer. “Aw hell pops, they gotcha bad, old man…” Nashio whispered, kneeling down. The old man wheezed and sputtered, “Nawh, nawh. It’s fine. Jus’ go. Lived my life, kiddo…” He drawled, as the former yakuza nodded. “Rest well, old man…” He whispered, getting up.

There was an agreement that they need to leave, more will no doubt be coming. So they ‘commodeered’ the late GA squad’s vehicles. And with a paint can from storage. They painted over the crosses and Jimmy scratched the back of his head. “Well, boss. I fink this may be our separate ways. I got some unfinished business I shoulda’ taken care of a long time ago. Be seein’ ya.” Nashio nodded, “You too, Jim-boy. Stay safe.” He said, as Jimmy took the old station wagon. The handful of folks following Nashio, along with Nashio himself, took the cube van.

   The Yakuza and the Brit took their separate ways, and hopefully fate had something pleasant in store...

15
Rec Room / Re: Winds of memories (Cata RP Character background stories)
« on: September 03, 2018, 05:56:29 pm »
Timeline: Nearly 7 years before the cataclysm.
Characters Involved: Tajima Suzu



   Tajima stood outside a Ginza district club in Tokyo with another man, a man named Nashio. Nashio explained why they were there, “[Alright, Tajima-chan. Expect a couple’a bouncers to prevent us from takin’ what’s owed.]” He explained, twirling a baton in his hand. Tajima nodded, “[Got it.]” he said as they strolled into the front entrance. Taji slipped on a pair of brass knuckles as a bouncer stopped Nashio, only to be tripped and met with a dress shoe to the teeth.

   Two more bouncers ran in, One swung at Nashio while the other charged at Tajima. The bouncer threw a punch, The Calm Pheonix grabbed the bouncer’s wrist and the back of his head. He slammed the thug into a nearby wall face-first, as he fell to his knees Taji kneed him in the back of his head. “[Are we really neglecting the fact we could of talked to him?]” Nashio cackled at his comment, as he kneed the bouncer in the face. “Heeheehee! [It isn't as fun, dear Tajima-chan!]” He teased as Taji rolled his eyes as the two continued into the club.

   A good half dozen thugs, looking to be rival yakuza and bouncers are ready to fight, many of them armed with bats, golf clubs, and a couple of tantos for the rival Yakuza. Many of the civilians have already ran or are in the process of leaving through the back. Save for a woman sitting at the bar, wearing a green snake-skin jacket. “[Nashio’s always the forward one…]” She mumbled as she got up from her seat. Tajima looked over, “[Imada’s here, Looks like she had the right idea of negotiating first.]” Nashio cackled once more, “[She always had a stick up her ass!]”

   Nashio stepped to the side, as a bouncer swinging his bat down. He cracked the baton across the bouncer’s jaw, causing him to drop his bat. Scooping up the aluminum bat by the top end, he shoved the bottom into the Bouncer’s mouth once he stood up. Nashio brought the bouncer back to his knees before kneeing him in the jaw, breaking several teeth with a nasty crunch. He tossed the bat in the air, catching it by the grip and gripping it with two hands as rival yakuza with a knife ran at him. He was met with an aluminum bat to the face.

   Nashio’s eyes widened at the knife the Yakuza was wielding, “[They’ve got knives! All bets are off!]” Tajima turned, “[Rea-?!]” He was interrupted by nearly getting stabbed in-between the ribs, being saved by a kick across the jaw by Imada. “[Did Nashio-sama get you wrapped up in this again?]” She teased before Taji gave a glare, “[Now is not the time, Imada.]” He said as he dropped the brass knuckles and drew his own Tanto.

   Meanwhile, there is a discussion inside the owner’s office. The large fireplace inside roared “[Oh dear. Looks like the other racketeers are coming to collect.]” The rival Yakuza boss said, his sickly pale face turning towards the noise. “[Wh-what’re we going to do?]” The owner asked nervously, “[You said you were going give me benefits the Yuchi family couldn’t!]” The Shateigashira took out a golden chalice and set it against the mantle of the fireplace, “[Don’t worry.]” He said all too calmly as he took out a small cooler containing a blood bag, and his dagger. Skewering the bag, he emptied the contents into the chalice, one of the men guarding the door gave his boss a concerned look.

   “[B-boss? What’re you doin’?]” He nervously asked, before the rival grabbed his shoulder and gave the shorter man a unsettling smile. “[Don’t worry, I’m just much stronger than you are now…]” The thug widened his eyes, “N-nani?” He said before the dagger skewered his jugular and was tossed into the fireplace. The man screamed and gurgled as the fire charred his skin and bones. “Sit hoc esse necessarium vulnus in Velum…”

   The others stood, fixed by horrified confusion as the man was engulfed in flames, of such intensity that it obscured the grisly sight with a white-hot glow, and filled the room with unnatural heat that made every breath utterly stifling. It was only when the flames died down and the screaming ceased, that the boss' actions became clear. Instead of a charred corpse, something was scrabbling and clawing its way out of the flames, shedding embers and strips of burnt flesh as it crawled out out the fireplace.

   As it stood, the unnatural proportions of its muscular, towering humanoid form became apparent. It had the head of a bull, partially-burnt fur as white as the flames were at their peak, and its leathery skin bore distorted parodies of the tattoos that covered the thug's body. Much of the outfit had burned away as well, or seemingly been ripped by the unusual contortions of its body. The man's shirt, jacket, and shoes most notably had been reduced to burning scraps. What remained of its outfit, though scorched and charred, at least endured the form it was forced to fit.

   The second guard drew a gun, a small snub nose. “[The fuck did you do to Suto?!]” He barked, the boss simply smiled again and gestured at the Gozu who let out a huff in acknowledgement and charged at the guard. The ox tanked a shot in the side before grabbing the Guard’s wrists and yanking down roughly, the arms letting out a sicking pop as they were yanked out of their sockets. Those massive hands gripped the thug’s head and began to squeeze, and he began to scream in agony.

   Tajima drove his tanto into the last of the half dozen thugs’ gut, kneeing the knife to drive it in deeper. That was before they all heard the scream, “[The fuck is going on up there?]” He wondered aloud, “[Nothing good. We need to move.” Taji answered as Imada looked wearily at where the scream came from, “[I have a bad feeling about this…]” She said, grimacing.

   A mutilated corpse with a caved in skull was thrown through the wall, the Gozu stepped through the hole in the plaster and looked at the three. “[What the hell is that?!]” Nashio exclaimed. “[I don’t know, just keep it busy.]” Tajima said calmly, sheathing his tanto and tossing it to Imada.

   His eyes locked onto something, an antique sword. An old worn katana in a display case, he sprinted towards it and the Gozu turned towards him. The creature was met with an aluminum bat to the back of it’s head and the beast swung blindly at Nashio. Taji grabbed a barstool and threw it at the display, breaking the glass and sending the sheathed blade clattering on the floor.

   The gozu was stabbed in the side by Imada, followed up by a bat to the back of it’s head. The minotaur swung it’s arm at Nashio, sending him flying and the baseball bat clattering on the floor. A fist was sent at Imada, who dodged to the side and stabbed through the bull’s wrist. The blade was pulled out and driven back in-between the Gozu’s ribs. Tajima gripped the katana with one hand, and with a flick of his wrist, the scabbard was removed. With two hands on the handle, Taji was ready to get back into the fight. Nashio was back on his feet and took off his suit-jacket and jumped onto the Bull’s back, putting the coat over it’s head, blinding it and disorientating it. The Pheonix remained dead calm, running towards the gozu and slashing open it’s gut. It’s insides nearly spilled out, but Imada slashing it’s open it’s throat certainly didn’t help matters.

   The minotaur was brought to its knees and Nashio got off it’s back. Tajima rose the blade over his head, and brought it down onto the back of the cow-man’s neck. It’s head was severed from it’s shoulders and on the floor.

   A gunshot was heard from the other room, and the three couldn’t even get a breather in before they ran through the hole in the wall. They found the rival Yakuza boss standing above the dead owner of the club, a single gunshot to the head. “[Can’t have him blabbing about what he saw. Neither can you three.]” He said in a monotone, aiming the gun at the three. It was the guard’s snub-nose. Imada stepped forward, “[What the fuck did you d-]” and in response she was shot in the head. “[Stupid bitch.]” The boss said coldly, and Tajima was livid. “[Imada! I’m going to fucking kill you, bastard!]” He growled at him, the usual calm mask he being shattered as he ran at him.

   The boss aimed the gun, but as it was being fired, Nashio tackled Taji out of the way. However, he caught the bullet in the eye. “AAAGGGHH. [CRACK THIS BITCH, TAJI.]” He screamed out, and Taji obliged. He opened up by grabbed the boss by the arm, and kneeing the elbow. The rival yakuza let out a scream before Tajima put his hand to the back of his head and slammed it hard into the hardwood desk. The Shateigashira cupped the blood coming from his nose with his good hand before Taji grabbed him by the hair and cracked him square in the face. As he was on his back, the fuming phoenix stomped on the man’s ribs. He struggled to get back up, but he was only met with a stomp. Tajima ground the sole of his feet into the man’s face, before letting out a deep breath and sliding the gun away with his shoe.

   He helped Nashio up, and let him brace against his shoulder. “[We need to leave.]” Tajima said coldly, as the remaining two made their exit through the back, police sirens rang ever closer.



   The two of them were sitting at the desk, an older man rubbing his temples in frustration at the story relayed to him. He believed them of course, but that honestly was more of a headache than if he hadn’t. “[Even if the others buy this, what happened is going to cause quite a disturbance..]” the man muttered. “[It will take time to smooth things over. This is a bit beyond just keeping a low profile for a while. Beyond even the kind of discretion that killing one of the family heads would already warrant.]”

   Taji bowed his head, “[I understand, sir.]” He said solemnly, taking out his own tanto from inside his coat. He set his right hand against the desk, “[Taji-]” He said, only to be inturrupted by the family head. “[Tajima, stop. No need. You two have lost enough. I’d say Nashio’s eye is enough.]” He said, glancing over at Nashio, who looks away.

   “[It might be prudent after all this to move somewhere quiet in the meantime. I’ve already made arrangements, if you two find it acceptable. A contact who’s worked with associates here and in the states on multiple occasions, most notably after that incident with the Path of the Sun, couple decades back.]” he added. “[Brings back memories, though back then there were never stories of strange creatures like that, spiritualists or not...]”

   The family head sighed, “[I’m not going to let you stay here and look over your shoulder for the rest of your lives. How’s your english?”]” Tajima nodded, “Fluent. [Are you sending us to america?]” Nashio cocked a grin, “You tell me, boss-man.” Taji shot a glare, “[Nashio!]”

   Their boss gave a little chuckle at that. “[You can be such a little shit sometimes, Nashio.]” he remarked, before regaining his composure. “[Our contact will be here within the hour to finalize arrangements. He has a few ideas for suitable work already it seems, should keep you both busy and out of trouble. Assuming I can trust the both of you not to accidentally stumble into any more cultists?]” he joked.

   Nashio let out a snort, “[We’ll try, boss.]” Tajima nodded, “[What’re we going to be doing over there, sir?]” He asked, hands settling on his knees. The boss gave a nod at that. “[For Tajima, the family under one of my associates has some work for him. As for you Nashio, it might be best to space things out a bit so that the two of you attract less attention. There’s a local business they’re running, a small hostess bar. It’s Something relatively low-key but shouldn’t bore you to death, as you’ll be the manager.]”

   Nashi rolled his eye, “[‘course, ‘The customer is king’. Right?]” The boss nodded at that remark, which caused Nashio to grumble. Tajima bowed his head, “[Thank you, sir. When will be leaving?]” He asked, which cued the boss to slide two plane tickets ahead. “[Had to bribe the right people for these, you can bring whatever you’ll need. Plus.]” He tapped them, “[First class, ‘eh? Fancy, fancy. You two’ll be leaving tomorrow.]” The head said, smiling at him. “[I couldn’t ask for better Yakuza, although I could do without Nashio’s attitude at times…]” he teased, which caused Nashio to chuckle. “[Love ya’ too, boss.]”

   As the two were dismissed, they went to their separate homes to pack their bags. A certain uncertainty gnawed at the back of Taji’s mind, and a frustration at Nashio’s. A frustration at being reduced to being a civilian, he grumbled before sighing. On his way home he spotted that small clothing store Imada went to, always had all sorts of tacky leather jackets. Snake-skin, alligator. He stopped inside to get a tan python skin coat, and head home.

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NOCTIFER IS A FAGGOT