@mattmanganon Uh, I don't know about SoB Terminators, since I'm pretty sure Sisters of Battle don't even use Terminator Armour in canon; however, a Deathwatch Black Shield Chaplain sounds like a pretty good plan to me. It fills up a Chamber Militant slot that might not otherwise contain anything, at any rate, though you'd have to figure out which Inquisitor's retinue the character is part of by talking to the players who are vying for Inquisitor slots. Or he could be in Ravenstein's retinue, of course, but you'd want to take that up with @Flagg, not me. And remember, we have quality requirements for Chamber Militants and Inquisitors. Gotta follow those quality requirements.
@POOHEAD189 Tonight would be preferable, I think. Thank you for your co-operation.
Ditto to all of the above.
I'll have approvals for folks this weekend, so get your CSes up if you can by then (though we won't nec close admission then) and we can start next week!
Your writing in the last one of these @Kingfisher noirfantasy RPs was some of the best I've seen on RPG, ever. So I think you should join this one too.
Name/Nicknames: Special Agent Hector Whyte, United States Federal Bureau for the Regulation of Magic
Race: Human
Age: 42
"...you have no idea what He has planned. You're in over your head, pig."
"Am I?" asked Agent Whyte, cracking his big, easy ain't-this-fun? grin. It was a smile that was hard to argue with, even if you were on the wrong side of an interrogation. Flashing those pearly whites and twinkling baby blues had gotten Hec Whyte on the good side of more than a few hostile witnesses and suspects, not to mention secretaries, waitresses, stewardesses, housewives...
The smile had its limits, though. This customer here was sure as hell not buying.
He was a stringy little man with an even stringier little mustache, in cheap dark slacks and a yellowing, bloodstained guinea-tee. Which was funny, 'cause this fella was no guinea. He was a Hanged Man.
"In the kingdom of the pigs, butchers rule," the little man said, spitting out a mouthful of blood and a few teeth- Special Agents Wild and Harker had worked him over a bit in the course of the...well, wasn't exactly an arrest, legally speaking, was it? Kidnapping? Abduction?
"Cute poem," said Whyte, who sat down in the chair opposite the one the little man was handcuffed to. They were in an old warehouse out near the Dump, rain drumming against the sheet metal roof and pattering through creases and holes into the dim room below. Wild and Harker were prowling back and forth in the gloom, menacing pug-faced counterpoints to Whyte with his Rat-Pack looks and lopsided smile, "You may have noticed, pally, that we're not in the precinct, are we? Or the Bureau offices downtown? So you might wanna think about who's the butcher here and whos gonna end up pork chops if they don't play along. As the kids say, can ya dig? Are you picking up what I'm layin' down?"
The little man spat out another tooth. Whyte's smile didn't fade, but it did stop going all the way to his eyes.
"Now then," said Whyte, "Let's start with the charming little movies your boss is putting together."
"Our Art," said the little man with a sly smile. Blood bubbled in the corner of his mouth.
"Art is it, cutting the throats of junkies on camera?"
"You don't see it yet, but you will. The beauty. The Truth in the films."
Whyte pulled out a pack of Chesterfields and lit one.
"His Truth is in the blood."
"I'll take your word for it, haven't watched 'em myself, I value my sanity," said Whyte, "But I have taken a look at the film stock he's using. Was made about fifteen years ago...in Germany. Same type that Riefenstahl broad used. Where are you boys getting that kinda film? FBI's official position is that we found and destroyed it all, though no doubt Uncle Joe and the Ruskies pulled their share of it out of the ruins."
The little man began to laugh quietly. Whyte stood up and removed his jacket. He took his time rolling up his sleeves, cigarette dangling from the center of his mouth.
"I know you're one of the buyers," said Whyte, "Tell me who your contact is. Russian? A German of Argentine extraction, perhaps?"
"In the kingdom of the pigs, butchers rule," whispered the little man quietly, and Whyte broke his nose.
It went on like that for some time, until the little man's face didn't look much like a face anymore, and Whyte's pressed shirt was speckled with blood.
He got a name though. One he recognized.
Then he drew his sidearm and put a round through the little man's forehead.
"Should we get rid of the body?" asked Agent Wild.
@Flagg Fuck yes. Is Whyte FBI or Magical Regulations Bureau?
didnt think about that. Is it established somewhere that the MRB is distinct from the FBI? Otherwise, I'll just have him be part of the FBI, Magical Regulation Division.
"...you have no idea what He has planned. You're in over your head, pig fuck."
"Am I?" asked Agent Whyte, cracking his big, easy ain't-this-fun? grin. It was a smile that was hard to argue with, even if you were on the wrong side of an interrogation. Flashing those pearly whites and twinkling baby blues had gotten Hec Whyte on the good side of more than a few hostile witnesses and suspects, not to mention secretaries, waitresses, stewardesses, housewives...
The smile had its limits, though. This customer here was sure as hell not buying.
He was a stringy little man with an even stringier little mustache, in cheap dark slacks and a yellowing, bloodstained guinea-tee. Which was funny, 'cause this fella was no guinea. He was a Hanged Man.
"In the kingdom of the pigs, butchers rule," the little man said, spitting out a mouthful of blood and a few teeth- Special Agents Wild and Harker had worked him over a bit in the course of the...well, wasn't exactly an arrest, legally speaking, was it? Kidnapping? Abduction?
"Cute poem," said Whyte, who sat down in the chair opposite the one the little man was handcuffed to. They were in an old warehouse out near the Dump, rain drumming against the sheet metal roof and pattering through creases and holes into the dim room below. Wild and Harker were prowling back and forth in the gloom, menacing pug-faced counterpoints to Whyte with his Rat-Pack looks and lopsided smile, "You may have noticed, pally, that we're not in the precinct, are we? Or the F-B-I offices downtown? So you might wanna think about who's the butcher here and whos gonna end up pork chops if they don't play along. As the kids say, can ya dig? Are you picking up what I'm layin' down?"
The little man spat out another tooth. Whyte's smile didn't fade, but it did stop going all the way to his eyes.
"Now then," said Whyte, "Let's start with the charming little movies your boss is putting together."
"Our Art," said the little man with a sly smile. Blood bubbled in the corner of his mouth.
"Art is it, cutting the throats of junkies on camera?"
"You don't see it yet, but you will. The beauty. The Truth in the films."
Whyte pulled out a pack of Chesterfields and lit one.
"His Truth is in the blood."
"I'll take your word for it, haven't watched 'em myself, I value my sanity," said Whyte, "But I have taken a look at the film stock he's using. Was made about fifteen years ago...in Germany. Same type that Riefenstahl broad used. Where are you boys getting that kinda film? FBI's official position is that we found and destroyed it all, though no doubt Uncle Joe and the Ruskies pulled their share of it out of the ruins."
The little man began to laugh quietly. Whyte stood up and removed his jacket. He took his time rolling up his sleeves, cigarette dangling from the center of his mouth.
"I know you're one of the buyers," said Whyte, "Tell me who your contact is. Russian? A German of Argentine extraction, perhaps?"
"In the kingdom of the pigs, butchers rule," whispered the little man quietly, and Whyte broke his nose.
It went on like that for some time, until the little man's face didn't look much like a face anymore, and Whyte's pressed shirt was speckled with blood.
He got a name though. One he recognized.
Then he drew his sidearm and put a round through the little man's forehead.
"Should we get rid of the body?" asked Agent Wild.
