Penny

Penny's Pencils

The Sunday Group

Eleanor Tregellan - Operations Director and woman very upset that you are calling out - Sunday Group LLC

Cold Iron and Black Powder

Koenig picked up a piece of the venison Hannah and Dietricha had been sharing, ignoring the utensils in favor of his dirty fingers. He took a bite and masticated noisily while waving to a waitress. The frumpy looking woman came over looking skeptical.

“Be a good lass and fetch us some bread and ale,” he instructed, making a broad sweep to indicate the table. He pinched her rump as she turned away and was rewarded with a venomous look. Hannah mouthed ‘put it on the watch’ over Koenig’s shoulder, delighted to get out of having to pay for her dinner.

“O’right,” Koenig continued, pausing to swallow a mouthful of chewed meat. He reached for one of the wine glasses to wash it down but both Hannah and Dietricha snatched their goblets away. Koenig gave them a wounded look and the picked up the bottle and took a drink from the neck.

“Oh where are my manners!?” he exclaimed, lowering the bottle and licking the last few dregs of wine from the top.

“It is a mystery,” Hannah put in dryly, draining her own goblet and waving to the overworked waitress to bring another bottle of claret.

“This ‘ere is Hannah Fischer, despite all appearances she’s a sharp one.” The compliment left Hannah to taken aback to frame an insult and Koenig plunged onwards into the verbal breach.

“Hannah, this is Sir Torm Kaufen..kriger..hemier…dorf?” Koenig stumbled onwards uncertainly, his grip on the Middenlander’s name clearly tenuous. “Lets say Sir Torm of the White Wolves.”

“Charmed,” Hannah put in, rolling her eyes at Koenig for Torm’s benefit in what she hoped was a comeradely fashion.

“And this is Mortess Dietricha who is also here for some reason,” Koenig put in with a pointed glance at Hannah who heroically refused to rise to the bait.

“Slow day in Morrs Garden,” the white haired priestess said demurely.

“Which leads us into how we don’t want it getting a lot bloody busier in Morr’s little patch of dirt,” Koenig segwayed neatly. He paused for a moment as the serving girl returned with four circular loaves of yeasty bread with a pot of churned butter and a trencher of pungently spiced stew. Hannah flicked her a gold Imperial which the woman snatched from the air, bit and made vanish into her bodice with a deftness that any duelist would be proud of.

“I think its fair to say that we are all aware that our devout Sigmarites and our fierce Ulrician’s are not exactly seeing eye to eye,” Koenig explained.

“Truly the Watch has its finger on the pulse of the city,” Hannah observed dryly, tearing into her bread and dipping a hunk of it into the savory stew. Koenig ignored the comment with regal disdain.

“Now for the tricky bit,” Koenig admitted, the jocular bruiser fading into the concerned watchman.

“I think someone is deliberately stirring the pot,” he confided, reaching into his jacket to produce two small press papers. One bore in large type, ‘Are Ulrician’s Loyal’, the other ‘Middenland Pushes for Secession’. Hannah leaned over to examine the crumpled flyer.

“Judging by the type they might have come off the same press,” Hannah observed. It was Koenig’s turn to feign astonishment.

“I didn’t know you could read Fischer, blimey and here I thought you spent all your time drinking and shooting people.”

“I’m branching out,” she admitted, lifting a flagon of ale to her lips.

“Unfortunately there are too many people in the watch that might come down one way or the other, so I need some people who are… neutral I suppose is the word, to look into it.”

“Hannah here knows everyone who is everyone in Altdorf on account of owing them all money,” Koenig explained. Hannah lifted her tankard in salute to a fair point.

“And because of recent … lets say theological opinions she has shared, neither side takes her too seriously.” Hannah blushed slightly at that hoping that Torm hadn’t yet heard of her drunken rant.

“Unfortunately, everyone who meets her is overcome with the immediate desire to murder her on account of the fact she cant seem to shut her oh so clever mouth. Sir Torm here, it can be hoped, can prevent such justifiable homicide.”

“Homicide? And he accuses me of reading?” Hannah stuck in, but Koenig plowed on.

“Sir Torm here can open doors with the Ulricians as well as stop some well meaning citizen from stoving in Hannah’s head with a paving stone. Between the two of you we might just be able to get to the bottom of this without burning down the capital,” the watch captain concluded, looking very somber at the prospect.

“Or worse.”

The Sunday Group

Will make final decisions on characters in a day or two in order to give the last few interested parties a chance.

The Sunday Group

You guys are killing me with all these great characters...

The Sunday Group

@PatientBean You do not have to be purely human. Magical talents are often inherited from congress with various magical creatures. I'm thinking more along the lines of magical bloodlines, but if you can make a case for a full on fantasy race I will listen. Keep in mind you do need to be able to pass as human and interact with human society.

Cold Iron and Black Powder

Piebald’s was an upper chop house between the Street of A Thousand Taverns and the Nob Quarter. It did a considerable trade, both in walk in business and in delivering meals to the houses of the various minor nobles and merchants who wanted to eat out but couldn’t be bothered, or didn’t want to risk the streets. Unlike most of Hannah’s haunts Piebald’s was primarily an eatery, with a large common room appended to massive stone kitchens with attendant ladders and cellars. Every time the doors between the kitchen and the common room opened, they provided a brief glimpse into a world of shouting cooks, hurrying servers and overworked chefs. One of them was a halfling with quite the biggest set of lungs Hannah had ever heard. The shiny old grease burns across his face identified him as the titular owner of the place. The eatery itself was a relatively simple affair, plain pine benches upholstered with clean but cheap linen. It wasn’t a place you brought a date to impress her, but it was a good place to get a good meal at a fair price. It also lacked the smell of stale beer and vomit that characterized many of the divier places. Piebld’s did serve ale of course, otherwise Hannah wouldn’t be caught dead here, but they were very fastidious about cleaning up the resulting ejecta.

The key to living in Altdorf was knowing which Altdorf you were in at any given time. Hannah had suggested Piebald’s to Koenig as a rendezvous because it was upper class enough to be above the sectarian partisanship in the streets. The clientele was well dressed, though like Hannah, had deliberately avoided wearing red or white, and very nervous. People didn’t give the idle rich much credit, but they were smart enough to know that rioting and mob violence, no matter where it sprang from, would naturally progress to property damage and looting, both of paramount concern to those with significant stores of loot and property.

“It feels very strange,” Dietricha commented for what Hannah carefully calculated was the billionth time. The acolyte of Morr looked radically different than she had earlier in the afternoon. The iconic black robes, faintly redolent of must and death, had been replaced with a cream and green dress from Hannah’s garet. The dress was one of the few that Hannah hadn’t pawned and was a touch snugger on Dietricha than it was on her. A rather pleasing effect all things considered. Koenig would doubtlessly be pissed when he learned she had invited the death priestess along, but if he got too rowdy there was a good chance that the bouncers to whom Hannah was a renowned duelist and Koenig was guttersweepings, would take her side on the matter. The two women were enjoying thin slivers of venison cooked in wine and some kind of spicy sauce in ‘the Brettonian Fashion’ which probably reflected actual Brettonian cuisine as much as Hannah represented the Grand Duchy of Averland, but was the fashionable thing to say. A bottle of claret sat on the table between them, though so far Hannah had been doing the majority of the drinking.

“Drink,” she encouraged Dietricha with a little flick of her hand.

“Otherwise I’ll drink the whole bloody thing and Im trying to cut back,” she said by way of encouragement.

“Well we wu’dn’t want that now would we?” Koenig’s distinctive voice boomed as he stepped through the door leading another man who… God's teeth, he was dressed in the armor of a bloody Templar of Ulric. Hannah was frozen with a fork full of venison halfway to her mouth.

“The great Hannah Fischer lost for words hey?” Koenig put in cheerfully, grabbing a chair from a nearby table and spinning it round so that the could straddle it with is arms on the backing. With a smooth motion he snatched up the bottle of wine and took a long pull from the neck with a satisfied smacking of his lips.
“Were you kicked in the head as a child?” Hannah enquired, her voice slightly strangled with shock.

“Did your mother pound her laundry dry with your skull?” she continued warming to the topic.

“Did all the idiots in all the villages of all the provinces hold an election for Supreme Idiot and carry you to victory by a landslide?”
“Did the Gods, in solemn conclave, come together to create for the word a single pure moron from which all other morons derive their moronity and cry out in a ringing voice: Behold for his name shall be Walther Koenig, King of the Imbeciles?” she declared portentously.

“See what I mean,” Koenig said to the knight, looking not the least offended by the prodigious string of insults. “Can’t get her to shut up to save me life,” Koenig said apologetically.

“You ask me to keep a low profile, and then march up to my table with a giant, hairy, half wolf, in thirty pounds of armor stamped with ‘I love Ulric’?!” Hannah demanded, eyes bulging with outrage. Dietricha coughed meaningfully and nodded her head towards the newcomer in warning. Hannah paused in mid diatribe and then leaned around Koenig to look at the warrior.

“No offense ahh… Sir Knight,” she put in quickly, realizing rather belatedly that being torn apart by a mob wouldn’t be a concern if she were decapitated by a touchy northerner.

The Sunday Group

@Hellion No they do not. Few people are in the know when it comes to the supernatural and so people tend to be from all walks of life. Some Sunday group members may have no magical abilities whatever. A burned out ex cop and a half fairy punk rock witch are both equally valid choices

There's Always a Price: Sci Fi Bounty Hunters

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It was impossible to be bored if you had access to information. Jocasta’s mother had always maintained that. As a girl Jocasta had spent many hours in her mothers electronic repair workshop cobbling together devices from the recycled tech she found there. It was amazing what you could accomplish with a little curiosity and access to a data link. Military training had made being bored an offense, intelligence recruits were often left in semi-secure areas and always scolded for probing too much, or reprimanded for not probing enough. Being interested was a habit by this point in her career. She didn’t much like Dirk running off to a meeting without her, but she figured she had already been paid and if he fucked aroudn too much she could just ditch him and be on her way. The guards, or whatever they were with the shotguns gave her appraising looks as she longued against the hallway wall. She returned them a look of lazy consideration, calculated to keep them interested enough not to move her along, but not to encourage them to bother her, an impression she reinforced with the slightest hint of psi.

Jocasta split her mind. One part of it was assigned to keep watch on her immediate environs, another part followed the camera feed of her drones, watching there would be assailants tramping down corridors. Judging from the audio she sampled they were bitching at each other for botching the job and discussing getting better hardware and going back to finish the job before their targets got off world. Data searches from the cities integral link ran in mental sidebar, comparing their route with maps of the city and various underworld players, running computations on who they might be working for. Another fragment of her mind was placing orders for the ship from one of the more reputable chandleries. Laying in extra food and electronic components in bulk. Ordinarily she liked to do her shopping in person, but it didn’t seem likely she would get that chance here. On a whim she placed an order for some automotive parts also, pondering repairs and updates for the speeder they had recently acquired. Still another fragment of her mind was running comparative searches on the various pieces of Dirk’s armor, comparing manufacturing marks and silhouette with various military databases for which she had forgotten to turn over her access passes. Another part of her mind was bored.

Nearly eight minutes had passed when their attackers emerged from a low rent hab block which records suggested was owned by one of the major organized crime families in the spire. The drones immediately tagged weapons, a mixture of slug throwers and laser carbines of Commonwealth surplus patterns. There was a loud debate about where ‘that bastard’ might be found and some discussion of heading to the hangar decks to head him off. A chronometer display suggested a possible transit time of twenty minutes to reach the hanger, perhaps half that if they headed this way. Jocasta was not unduly worried about the hanger. Better quality muscle than this had tried to force their way onto the Dragonfly. She rather hoped they would try, that certainly wouldn’t be boring. Abruptly the men changed direction. A pulsing symbol showed that one had just received a message alert of some kind. The probabilities suggested that they were on the way here, which meant someone had tipped them off. Her visual field didn’t have a correlating sender but that didn’t mean much, other than the informant had taken a minute to get out of sight.

She was thirsty. She wanted a bath. She needed to replace number three lateral stabilizer within the next two hundred operational hours. She hoped that Dirk would hurry.
@POOHEAD189

Paranormal Detectives

@udonoodles@KZOMBI3

The rp is open to all. I'll make a final selection of characters prior to starting the IC. Come on over if you are interested!

https://www.roleplayerguild.com/topics/188465-the-sunday-group/ooc