psych0pomp

Trash for the Trash God [Just Breaking BBCode]

	CHARACTER NAME CHARACTER NAME _________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ ▮▮▮▮▮║▮▮▮▮▮ CLASS/// ║ SUBCLASS RACE//// ║ SUBRACE

C H A R A C T E R N A M E
C H A R A C T E R N A M E

T H E S K E L E T O N T H E S K E L E T O N _______________________________________________ "Quote." T H E S K U L L T H E S K U L L N A M E ║ Enter Character name Here A G E ║ 20-100 & DOB (Age - 100005 TK) G E N D E R ║ Gender & Pronouns R A C E ║ Enter Race Here S U B -R A C E ║ Enter Sub-Race Here, None for Humans M A G I C ║ ⬤ T H E S P I N E T H E S P I N E T O W N ║ Name the Town R E G I O N ║ Refer to the map P O P U L A T I O N ║ Enter the # C E N S U S ║ What Race dominates the census? T R A D E ║ How does this town make it's money. N A M E S A K E ║ Enter something here. ✦ ✦ ✦ P A R E N T ║ Name P A R E N T ║ Name (remove if it's N/A) S I B L I N G ║ Name (add as many as you want or remove) O T H E R ║ Feel free to change the title and add whomever L I M B S L I M B S W E A P O N 1 ║ Weapon 1 W E A P O N 2 ║ Weapon 2 or remove it S H I E L D ║ Shield or remove it A R M O R ║ Armor even if it is robes T R I N K E T ║ Something you wear on you at all times. C O N T E N T S P E C K S ║ 1 peck = 1 dollar B A C K P A C K ║ ///✦ Add as many ///✦ As you need ///✦ But no weapons ///✦ or armor

T H E F L E S H & M U S C L E T H E F L E S H & M U S C L E 𝕾𝖔𝖑𝖉𝖎𝖊𝖗 𝕰𝖝𝖕𝖑𝖔𝖗𝖊𝖗 𝕸𝖆𝖌𝖎𝖈𝖎𝖆𝖓 𝕻𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘𝖙 𝕾𝖔𝖑𝖉𝖎𝖊𝖗 𝕰𝖝𝖕𝖑𝖔𝖗𝖊𝖗 𝕸𝖆𝖌𝖎𝖈𝖎𝖆𝖓 𝕻𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘𝖙 S U B L C A S S ║ Subclass Write out what the subclass means to you, and what you feel like you want to learn to really solidify it. ▮▮▮▮▮ ║ ▮▮▮▮▮ SKILLS RACIAL SKILL ║ Just copy and paste, and put the status effects below. Status effects go here. CLASS SKILL ║ Just copy and paste, and put the status effects below. Status effects go here. ✦ ✦ ✦ SKILL NAME ║ RANK # MAGIC/COMBAT/EXPERTISE ║ ATTACK/AID/EXPLORATION ║ RANGED/MELEE/SELF/UTILITY A brief summary on what this entails. One or two sentences max. Status effects go here. You can take a stab at this or ask me. SKILL NAME ║ RANK # MAGIC/COMBAT/EXPERTISE ║ ATTACK/AID/EXPLORATION ║ RANGED/MELEE/SELF/UTILITY A brief summary on what this entails. One or two sentences max. Status effects go here. You can take a stab at this or ask me. SKILL NAME ║ RANK # MAGIC/COMBAT/EXPERTISE ║ ATTACK/AID/EXPLORATION ║ RANGED/MELEE/SELF/UTILITY A brief summary on what this entails. One or two sentences max. Status effects go here. You can take a stab at this or ask me. Y O U R B R A I N & N E R V E S Y O U R B R A I N & N E R V E S S T U D Y ║ ///✦ PLACE OF STUDY/MENTOR/ETC ║ A brief description of what you learned. /// Date Range in which you attended ///✦ PLACE OF STUDY/MENTOR/ETC ║ Copy/Paste/Delete how many you need ///Date Range in which you attended E X P E R I E N C E ║ ///✦ WORK/JOB/BATTLE/ETC. ║ Where did you put that knowledge to the test? What did you see? How did you put that knowledge to the test? ///Date Range in which this happened ///✦ WORK/JOB/BATTLE/ETC. ║ Copy/Paste/Delete how many you need ///Date Range in which this happened Y O U R S O U L & H E A R T Y O U R S O U L & H E A R T ✦ GOOD TRAIT ✦ BAD TRAIT ✦ GOOD TRAIT ✦ BAD TRAIT ✦ P E R S O N A L I T Y ║ Give a brief run down of your character's personality. ✦ G O D N A M E ✦ ✦ G O D N A M E ✦ D E V O T I O N ║ Why do you worship them? How do you worship them? For priests, I'm looking for also how you draw power from them. Everyone else can have something a little lighter. M O T I V A T I O N & I M P E T U S M O T I V A T I O N & I M P E T U S Why do you delve? Is it a rescue mission for someone imprisoned there? For the gods? For the glory? For the money? For the discovery? There's a reason that you will risk life and limb for this. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet. Ut velit libero sit dicta quae At porro doloremque qui dolore perferendis ex consequatur alias. Non quos numquam in delectus cupiditate ab placeat laboriosam aut magnam dolores quo sunt repudiandae ut similique doloremque. Est nihil velit quo recusandae tempora qui iusto voluptas quo atque deserunt. Aut natus neque sed eligendi quia ea modi ullam et voluptas reprehenderit ea pariatur neque id dolor atque! T H E T R A P P I N G S T H E T R A P P I N G S A P P E A R A N C E ║ How do you look? And this is not entirely cosmetic. This can also be stance, demeanor, or even how well you take care of yourself and your weapons. I N J U R Y ║ INJURY MAP

Blades of the Blood Coast

<Snipped quote by psych0pomp>

I am an easy going GM as long as I feel like you're trying. If you need to write a filler post, that's completely fine.

@POOHEAD189

Thanks! Sorry if that seemed rather deflated. The past two weeks have been insane with work. I work in the medical field and the sudden spike in Covid cases has... uh... not been great. So, my brain is like a lukewarm mush. I pulled myself together enough to re-read and formulate the half-assed plan you see before you now.

I have next week off. So hopefully, my brain will work better and the plans will be more whole-assed.

Blades of the Blood Coast

Migi thought the blonde woman had a plan. She almost slammed her palm into her face as she watched Emmaline pull the bandit’s head down for a kiss. Honestly, she thought that the sex slave act was just that, an act. And even if it was, Emmaline was committing on an unnecessary level.

She glanced back as the bandits approached the woods, watching as the others scrambled for a plan. Migi reminded herself, if they lived through this, to punch all those imbeciles in the dick. They were tripping over themselves when there was a decent enough distraction. Her attention shot forward again as one of the captured villager’s neck was cut. They were running out of time.

Them Emmaline vomited. It took everything in Migi’s power not to stomp her foot and curse at the sky. Instead, she went into action.

The blonde woman had kissed the man and then made a spectacle of exhuming the contents of her stomach everywhere. Along with the smell of blood and burning bodies, bile was not a welcome addition to aromas. Yet, Migi used that moment to grab for the blade that the bandit wielded. Hopefully, between Puking Beauty, the raucous by the tree line, and her own invisibility, she’d have some luck. Migi knew that her power wouldn’t last forever. So, it was now or riddled-with-bolts-later. And Migi hadn’t survived by ramming her thumb up her ass to look for treasure.

Rolls

Perception: 7+1= 8
Stealth: 5+1= 6
Strength or Pickpocketing (whatever makes sense for her to take a weapon off the man): 5

Blades of the Blood Coast

Yep. Thanks for the heads up!

I'm trying to figure out what the heck Migi would even do in this moment, considering. She's backup to Emmaline, but has no idea what happened. And I feel like a post reflecting that would be boring and just filler. So, I'm trying to ponder something active.

I've stupidly done this to myself.

Priest and Hawthorne Investigations: A Modern Fantasy Adventure!

Now presenting... whatever hot mess this is!

Sloane Southsühn

𝐍𝐚𝐦𝐞

Sloane Southsühn

𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 & 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐬​​​​​

Technically Genderless but Masculine Presenting; (he/him/his)

𝐑𝐚𝐜𝐞/𝐒𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐞𝐬​​​​​

Judeo-Christian Archangel

𝐀𝐠𝐞

Mentally Since the Dawn of Time; Physically Early Thirties

𝐀𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞​​​​​

What does one visualize an angel looking like? In truth, if one studied any holy texts they'd note the form would be akin to something Clive Barker would make while on peyote and lost in an bird exhibit. So, what does their mortal husk look like? Probably something more like Michelangelo would produce on a good, non-petty day.

Sloane has all the makings of a gorgeous angelic figure, but with one resounding flaw. Tall, though probably not the tallest in the room, broad-shouldered, and with a bone structure that would make the aforementioned Clive Barker Michaelangelo cry. He has blond hair, short on the sides and longer on top with a slight curl to it. His brows are not like other natural blonds, non-existent and spooky in darkness. Instead, they are a darker shade and expressive. His eyes are downturned and a pale shade of hazel with flecks of blue in them. He has strong cheekbones and an even stronger jaw. The only part of his face that might be offputting to modern beauty standards would be his gold-rimmed, round spectacles set atop a Greek nose. Another deterring factor of what would be a rather picturesque Adonis is the fact that Sloane has been around for twenty or fifty or so years, and has not really known how to cope. His mechanism, at first, was his compulsive need to organize. But once things were organized, it was hard to re-organize them infinitely. And he did try. So, he turned to food. That was a hole that could be filled again and again. He's quite overweight, though he dresses in a way to appear slimmer. Still, it doesn't stop the round curves of his form and a noticeable belly that he attempts to girdle with a waistcoat. Notably pearshaped, his face remains equally as striking as his weight is a balance between broad shoulders and a long gait. And one might simply recommend a diet, but Sloane sees nothing wrong, or at least he finds nothing wrong with his habit. Mortals have far more destructive behaviors. And, he's quite fond of donuts.

His clothes are all tailored and bespoke. The colors follow the trends of the seasons as he's fashionable. Sloane adores three-piece suits, ties, and well-polished buckles and shoes. On his days off, he'll wear something only a smidgen less formal. Good luck ever seeing the angel in shorts, no matter the weather. He always smells of warm fires on a new winter morning with a dash of birch for lightness.

𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲

The first thing to know about Sloane, and probably the most noticeable is that he doesn't lie. It's hard to tell if that's an angelic trait or a concept that he can't quite fathom and so can't enact. But he does have a tendency to not wax poetic, or wax at all. Everything from his lips is as blunt and square as a brick. He doesn't really care if it hurts your feelings, because quite frankly he thinks lies are childish padding that displays mortal's fallibility. And, of course, he's an instrument of God. He can't be prone to mistakes.

Except that he is. Trapped in a human husk has made him prone to the same machinations as any other mortal around him. In truth, he does try to hold himself to a higher standard. But the years on Earth have caused his gears to slip more and more. His angelic properties come to light in the form of his meticulous nature. His desk is absolutely organized, his sticky notes color-coded, and his office plants sufficiently watered and groomed. More so, he seems to be the most willing to fence phone calls and tend to secretarial duties with ease. Though, if you ask him to fetch you a coffee, you're getting a black liquid with congealed grounds in the bottom where he has coffee the color of a lightly toasted marshmallow. He enjoys work, but he doesn't live to serve. Well, he did, but he's currently on hiatus from that facet of his life.

And here we breach into Sloane's imperfections. He thinks he's right. He knows he's right. All the years of mortals blundering and butchering the simplest of things have just shown him that they're incapable of learning from their mistakes. That has led to him having a sense of pride that is both grating and self-aggrandizing. He gives in to his notions and compulsions because they must be right. Right? He'll take the last muffin from the break area because quite frankly mortals are neglectful and prone to wastefulness... even though he's already had two, and half the office hasn't had any. It's that justification he gives himself which leads him into compulsive and sometimes foolhardy decisions.

Sloane will get the job done with great speed and efficiency and will assume no one else could do what he could.

𝐏𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐬, 𝐓𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐬, & 𝐀𝐛𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐬​​​​​

In Heaven or the various Otherworlds of differing religions, Sloane is quite powerful. On Earth, he's not so much. As regent of the sun, he does contain the ability to bend light to his will. Only if it is made naturally, though. He can't just cause light to appear. He isn't a paltry magician. It's white-hot and filled with sanctified energy. Basically, it's a night light constructed of holy water. He uses it to mostly form weapons and takes to wielding long stave-like ones--grumbling if anyone asks him to make a sword. He seems to have a fond dislike for his sibling, Michael. He can also use the ability to refract and reflect the light in a way that can make him invisible (to sight) or blind his target. Don't ask him to make a rainbow, though.

His angelic powers also allow him to see the lingering dead and speak with them. He can't help them cross over--anymore. But he can converse with them and point them in the direction they need to go to receive such relief. He's basically a glorified DMV employee for Heaven.

Sloane can also fly. He reminds people that the depictions of angels, humanoid figures with wings, aren't really how they look. So, when he sprouts wings and darts about, it's because mortals can comprehend that. They couldn't comprehend his true form, a mass of wings and eyes that would make even Lovecraft blush.

His mortal body can also be destroyed without it destroying him. He just shifts back to Heaven, regroups his power, and then creates another mortal husk for himself. His spirit can be stopped from regenerating, but one needs to know quite horrific and unnatural arts. Sloane has admitted to the fact that angels have been caught and snuffed out. He hasn't ever been caught, though. And it's apparent he doesn't even allow much damage to happen to his mortal husk considering the wear he's put on it.

All that said, if you want something that Sloane does wield like a sword look no further than his prowess with Excel. That angel can build tables, create graphs, assign budgets, and present and PowerPoint with all the numbers and talking points that you could ever imagine. If the angel could become an accountant without years of study and experience, he would.

In Sloane's off hours, he enjoys cooking--more prone to baking than anything else. He'll drive the next city over to participate in chili cook-offs and pie baking contests. He also owns a plethora of cats as he fosters them in hopes of relieving the local shelter of its overcrowding. Not that you would be able to tell considering he never has a single strand of fur on him. But he seems to relate to the cats, they're just as fat and self-absorbed as he is.

As much as Skiball is concerned. He just states that it's a game for hacks and mortals. Of course, that's right before he decides he'll play. Maybe he'll win this time around. He never does.

𝐘𝐞 𝐎𝐥𝐝𝐞 𝐁𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝

“… so, I went on hiatus.” Sloane said into the phone’s receiver, fingers twirling his pen slowly. There was a beat when the person on the other side of the line didn’t respond. “Fine, I was asked to go on hiatus. But honestly, Gregory you have to look at the numbers. The socio-political climate of Earth was… well is… revving up for another massive influx. It’s hard to say if we have the infrastructure for such numbers.”

Another pause came across the end of the line. Gregory, the man who had called him, seemed flustered. “I don’t even remember the question I asked you or the answer.”

“Right.” Sloan leaned back, setting the pen down. It was an inch from this blue pen, which in turn was an inch from his red pen, which was an inch from his tablet pen. They were all about half-a-foot South from his bonsai plant. He eyed it. One of the branches was uneven. Where were his scissors?

“Sir?” Another pause. “Jesus Christ, dude.”

“Oh, right.” Sloane focused back on the phone. “You don’t wish for me to get into the conversation of my old boss’s son. That is a can of worms I do not wish to open. This brings me to my next questions. Where did that saying arise from?”

“You know what, Management doesn’t allow us to hang up, but I’m hanging up. Have a nice day Mister Soth-sun.”

“It’s South-sewn.” But those words were greeted with a solitary beep beep beep, letting Sloane know that he had truly been hung up on. He placed the starch white phone back on the receiver. “There’s an umlaut over the u.”

Sloane counted down the drawers to his third one and pulled it out. In it were the instruments to attend to the assortment of objects on his desk. He grabbed the pruning scissors and slowly closed the drawer. The counterweights grabbed it and pulled it into the housing. There wasn’t much difference between it and the rest of the other carbon copy desks around, except that Sloane’s was sparkling clean and perfectly manicured. He’d even added the counterweights after work one day, because the sound of them slamming was an ear sore.

He lined up his scissors to take care of the errant branch on the tree when a nasty “whump” of paperwork landed on his desk. Sloane snipped too soon and barely missed snipping off the entire branch. That didn’t stop him from narrowing his eyes at the interruption.

The shadow that had so unkindly caused an earthquake on his desk was one Turver. Maybe. Whatever his name was; it was dumb. Sloane glanced up at the other gentleman.

“Wow, you were on the phone for a while, Sloane.” He waggled his brows. “Was it a hot girl? Er, boy? Er, sentient, non-gendered blob? You know, I can’t tell what you like.”

“I like manners for one, Turver. It was a telemarketer asking me if I was happy with my life insurance.” Sloane lined up his scissors for another attempted snip at his tree. Turver huffed.

“It’s Trevor, and I’m assuming you told them all about Heaven’s infrastructure, and how you got into an argument with God about it.”

Sloane ignored the correction. “We didn’t get into an argument. It was a disagreement. A polite disagreement between a higher power that controls life as we know it, and me—the one person in that stinking place that can count higher than fifty-two.”

“I know I’m going to regret this, but why fifty-two?”

He lowered his scissors. “Right. You mortals count on your fingers, and there are ten of them if you don’t decide to involve your bottom fingers.”

“Toes, but sure.”

“So, we have fifty-two.”

“Fingers?”

“No, wings. Keep up, Turver.” Sloane laughed; it was an antiseptic sort of thing that cleaned the air of any merriment. “Fingers…”

“Oh my Go—osh. I owe Joanne five bucks. I cannot do this.” He patted the stack of files. “I was told you were more than happy to digitize these. So, digitize away. I’m going to try to remember which bathroom I hid the Fireball in.”

Sloane lined his scissors back up with the bonsai. “Thank you, Turver, for the enlightening conversation.” He paused. “That was sarcasm. How did I do?”

There was silence as Trevor walked away, making sure to hip check Sloane’s desk. It caused his elbow to swing inward, leading to him snipping way too much from his bonsai tree. The angel just stared. He slowly lowered the scissors, crossing his hands over them. A few deep breaths were taken before he stood. He rounded the side of the desk and grabbed his garbage can. Setting it underneath the edge of the desk where the bonsai tree was, he pushed the now-and-forever ruined shrubbery into it. It landed in the can with a deep ‘thud.’

Sloane took a deep breath before sitting the garbage can back to its place and returning to his seat. As he was tucking away his scissors, the beams of light seemed to intensify from their source until they pierced through the plastic can and ignited the bonsai within. A small, holy fire roiled upwards, producing quite a bit of smoke.

And that’s how Sloane Southsühn ended up overseeing the Fire Safety courses.

Trash for the Trash God [Just Breaking BBCode]

Last Moments of Dys

The bottom of the prophet’s feet tore open as brambles sprouted below her. Each pulsed, writhed, and hummed with a thousand blood-red worms that propelled them forward. She glanced back, the darkening sky illuminating the gray landscape. Red spiked from the monochromatic ground as it roared towards her like a surging tide. She jerked her head forward, tallow locks stuck to her brow through sweat. She drew the scroll in her hands to her bosom as she ran. It was the last divination from the Grand Prophet. It was to be seen by the Empress’s eyes, and the Empress’s eyes only. She was almost there.

The last ship out of Dys. She had to board it. The ritual was almost finished. If she was touching the land or sea around it, she’d join the thousands locked in stone. The last bit of magic pulsed through her. Shyssryra’s power was waning, but the god of the air was still alive. The prophet flexed her palms parallel with the ground below. Wind poured from them and vaulted her into the air. The stagnant smell of death washed off her for a moment. Her golden hair danced in the waning light. She looked like an angel—an arbiter. The prophet stretched her arms behind her, and the wind rocketed her forward. The Empress’s boat lingered in the harbor, and she could feel the eyes of her majesty on her.

Pain lanced around her abdomen as the red vines ripped up through the ground and wrapped around the prophet. Once a flying bird, she now went limp in its hold. The prophet screamed. No. She was almost there. She was almost free. Her hands tore at the vines, but the brambles atop them pierced deeper into her flesh. She felt the worms enter her body. At that moment the goddess of air’s voice died, and another took its place. An infinitesimal number of consciousnesses infiltrated her mind. It was the Blighted. The Worm Queen had her hold. Using the last ounce of her magic, the prophet vaulted the scroll towards the ship. The wind carried it as far as it could. She couldn’t see whether it made it onto the deck as she was dragged down to the ground.

Sing. They Sing. One Voice. Sweet. Sing. Sing. were the words that thrummed in the prophet’s head. Yet, whatever victory the Worm Queen had gotten, by converting a prophet of Dys, the gods made sure to take it from her. The ritual finished. Pressure pushed through the air and screaming infested the prophet’s mind as the Worm Queen begged for answers. The gods had died. They’d sealed their bodies in stone. And their bodies were the creatures, the plants, the sky above, the water around them, and the land underneath them. As their immortal flesh hardened, so did all Dys—even the Worm Queen and her subjects.

The prophet smiled as the world around her turned to stone, the sky blackened, and the water dried up. The brambles were caught in the stone, stuck to writhe against the indomitable might of the dead earth itself. She turned her head towards the boat, watching it push off and into the horizon beyond. This was the mortal’s last hope, she thought, as her flesh was sealed in stone along with the worms in it.

The records of the Worm Queen's true name were lost to time. All that was known was that she was the betrayer god, the fallen of the almighty. Sent, not into the earth below, but the abysmal ether that existed at the edges of this reality. There the tearing and twisting of time and space turned the goddess into a horrendous abomination that no one could dare lay eyes on. The gods were content in their decision to banish her, her crimes unknown but unfathomable. Once a goddess of beauty and creation was now one of parasitic hunger and congealed madness. So, the gods shouldn't have been surprised that she wasn't content to stew. That she'd formed plans, conscripted minions, and gained power.

She infected the minor gods first, planting her blood-red worms into their holy flesh and letting them burrow deep—devouring them from the inside out. Before the gods had a chance to realize that they had become compromised, it was too late. The mortals went to war in their name. But as the gods began to fall, so did their prophets. Those that commanded the gods' power began to lose it as their flesh was devoured by the Worm Queen's minions. Those that had decided to serve her had power unbridled. Their abilities far exceeded those of the prophets. They became known as the Blighted, powerful infested servants of the Worm Queen.

The gods tried to fight against their folly, but not even their pride could overcome the Worm Queen's onslaught. So, they sent the Arbiter's of Mortality away, angelic creatures that were not deities but whose powers were intrinsic to the mortals' existence. And then the gods sealed themselves away, turning the massive continent of Dys into stone along with them. All the people upon the land, blighted or no, were frozen. The Worm Queen became trapped within the bowels of Dys itself.

The surviving mortals were sent to faraway lands, ones that they had barely colonized. There were only a few cities in the massive Dyssian Archipelago, but there were also few mortals left to occupy what they had built. They'd been reduced so dramatically in number. The last to leave Dys was the Empress, but her boat was never seen or heard from again. No one knew what happened to her or her consorts, and as the years passed—they came to not care.

The Arbiters helped the mortals build and stabilize their new home before they sealed themselves away in seven hidden temples throughout the archipelago—safe from any residual corruption of the Worm Queen. Only one arbiter remained outside of confinement, the Arbiter of Balance. She took a mortal form and became Grand Inquisitor to the Prince Reagent.

Fifty years have passed, and the Empress's nephew sits on the throne of the archipelago. Once a powerful commander in the Empress's grand army, now an unbelievably fat monarch who's barely aged from those days of yore. The Arbiter of Balance has seen to it that the last of the Empress's bloodline doesn't leave the throne abandoned. The Dyssian Empire is too frail to try to handle a political uprising. And as long as the arbiter stands by the Prince Reagent's side, no one thinks to challenge them. And what of the Blighted cultist? In the fifty years since escaping Dys and forming the New Dyssian Empire, there have been isolated incidents of cultists across the isles. Yet, it was nothing that the Arbiters and their Inquisitors couldn't squash. Stability was hard to carve out in the decimation of thousands of years of culture. Yet, one balmy autumn night, a dark corner of our history was about to have a light shown upon it.

In the dwindling hours of the morning, the navy captain on an official Dyssian patrol ship saw a massive dreadnought lurching into the bay. He summoned all hands to the deck and attempted to flag the ship down. Yet, it moved towards them without aim. When they were able to get their lanterns angled at the portside, they saw the banners. It was the Empress's ship, having been deemed destroyed or lost at sea. The last ship to leave Dys, and home to relics and knowledge of their now Lost Age. The captain silenced his crew with either coin or a blade and ran through the streets of the capital straight towards the Arbiter of Balance's home. Whatever was aboard that ship could change everything, and he was terrified of what would happen if the Blighted got their hands on it. If they hadn't already...

The Formation of the Dead Men Brigade

Prince Reagent Ambrose Halfauhst Valecario's eyes darted over the waxy pages that he held gingerly in his hands. Torn from a book, they should have been nothing more than tattered leaflets to be burnt on a pyre. Yet, these pages were old, taken from a book that was published at the height of the Lost Ages. They spoke of the Underhen Wall and its creation to ward against the raiding barbarians from the north. The haunted truth of it, the one written in those pages, was that it was formed from a mixture of stone and bones. Bones taken from the barbarian's ritual burials. A resounding piss in their face. Ambrose knew this was all inconsequential to his current rule. Yet, the Mistress of Masks and Ruler of Spies, a woman only known as Traveller, delighted in bringing him things from their collective past. Neither of them could stand the scholarly types, and so they relished the infrequent times that they could speak of history in candid tones without being corrected.

At that moment, the doors to his audience chamber burst open. The Arbiter of Balance, Grand Inquisitor Seraphine, stood in the entrance. Her pale hair contrasted brightly with her dark skin, and those haunting lavender eyes fell on Ambrose. "Everyone out," she barked. The chamber always held the courtly hangers-on, Ambrose didn't mind them. It reminded him of the times at his aunt's court, except there was more light, and the conversation was far more pleasant. The members of the court glanced around as if Seraphine was talking to anyone but them. She narrowed her gaze. "I said everyone out." They scrambled out, ducking their heads as they passed by the statuesque woman. Ambrose handed the papers back to Traveller, who bowed and probably smiled behind her porcelain mask before excusing herself as well. Seraphine glared at the woman as she left.

"I do not know why you consort with her, she's Old World danger." The Arbiter said as she turned, shutting the doors and barring them from the inside. Ambrose chuckled, watching what might have been a diminutive woman in some people's eyes hoist up a massive slab of wood and slide it into the holder.

"What do they say about keeping your enemies closer?" Ambrose asked. He shifted in his seat, the worn velvet padding having lost its luster in its hasty trip across the sea. He tugged at his waistcoat, the fanciful fabric barely clinging to his prominent midsection. The dress shirt underneath was displayed in diamond-shaped gaps between the pearl buttons.

"Just don't," Seraphine snapped as she briskly approached him. "But this conversation is neither here nor there. I come with important news."

"Obviously. Didn't think you'd lock us in for the weather report."

"Your humor is not the armor that you think it is." There was only a beat before she began again. "Your aunt's ship has arrived in the harbor."

Whatever smile that had been plastered on Ambrose's face quickly died. He ran a hand through his coifed blond hair. "The Empress's ship? Was there—"

Seraphine shook her head. "Not to our knowledge. Captain Renalt Highfield caught sight of last night during his patrol. He managed to latch onto it and tow it out of sight of the rest of the harbor. And in all that time, he said he didn't see a single body or light. It's assumed that there's no one on board."

Ambrose propped his elbows upon the armrests and rested his softened jaw in his hand. His eyes went to the numerous paintings that adorned the walls of the audience chamber. Many were of royalty and heroes long gone. There was one of his family, and next to it was one of the Empress Nova Valecario. Her jet black hair was pulled away from her face in a severe manner, adorned with a gold crown that looked as if the sun was cresting just over her head. Her eyes were gold, and her face was fair with a dark smile. She was an intimidating figure, even on painted canvas. His eyes may have drifted to his own portrait, painted when he was known as the Hero of the Last War. He'd held the line against the Blighted as the mass exodus had been underway. Long blond tresses, a crown, and a svelte form holding a golden sword. "Well, if she was truly on that ship. They'd plowed into the harbor and demanded that I abdicate whatever inkling of power I had to her. So, it doesn't take a prophet to know that she's dead."

"Or in a state that wouldn't allow her to command the ship," Seraphine added cautiously.

"As if the Empress would be incapacitated. She'd rather die than see herself rendered useless. I know my aunt. Nova was impossibly stubborn. Unnaturally bullheaded." He sighed. "But we had expected as such when she didn't show up within the first few years. Now, that just brings to question why the ship has arrived now?"

Seraphine, garbed in the red and blacks of the noble houses of the Empire, shifted. "That was my thought. It could be a trap. It could be a blessing. What I do know is that whatever lost vaults of information that were aboard the ship need to be recovered, immediately, before the Blighted have a chance to infiltrate it."

"I agree. And it will be hard to achieve something on that scale without the Blighted being alerted and planting their own people in the rescue crew. That's why we need to find a way to do this swiftly and without the inclusion of those that we don't trust." He straightened up, eyes sliding across the stained glass windows of the building. "Which, I hate to say, is everyone. The oligarchy is so disrupted that it's a hat toss as to who is truthful. These are no longer the clandestine rulers of old. This is new and unknown territory."

"Are you implying, Prince, that we not use the soldiers we have our disposal? That we hire mercenaries? It would still be quite easy for the Blighted to place themselves in those ranks as well."

Ambrose smiled. "My dearest, Arbiter. I've had quite the idea." He straightened up in his chair and interlaced his fingers, resting them on the swell of his belly. "Where's the one place that the Blighted couldn't infiltrate on short notice? A place filled with people that the Empire wouldn't mourn if they were lost on this mission? That would give anything to prove themselves whether it be for glory, coin, or otherwise?"

Seraphine raised a pale brow and placed her hands on her hips, her claw-like nails biting into her clothing. "Are you saying what I think you are saying? My Prince." She frowned. "Ambrose. That is a foolish idea."

"But it is a good one."

The arbiter rocked back and forth on her heels before turning away sharply. "I'll let the Warden of Iron Spike know that we will be borrowing a few of her prisoners."

Map of the Dyssian Archipelgo

Firefly - Second 'Verse

^{Collab Between @psych0pomp & @sail3695}

Persephone! Planet of wonder, planet of sights, planet of tall buildings, and even taller egos. Rex rubbed his nose with the palm of his hand, smearing the darkening blood across his tan skin. He tsked. “You know, you can stop bleeding any day now? No one is asking you to continue to spurt out like a fountain.” The trickle of warmth from his nose answered his question. One more glance at the paper with the docking information for the China Doll, and he ripped the edge of it and balled it up. He rammed that into his nose like a jagged, ink-stained plug. He then crumpled the rest directions up and went to hurl them over his shoulder. That was when he caught the eye of a woman, her brows furrowed. He just smiled and pitched the piece of paper in the next trash can before curtseying to her.

“Remind me again, Lucky, why we thought it would be a good idea to come here of all places?” he asked the cage in his right hand. A plum-colored scarf, from an employee of an above-board business that definitely wasn’t a brothel, covered the small black wired cage. Rex could feel the small bird stir underneath and let out a chirp. It wasn’t as if he knew what Rex was saying. He just knew his name. Still, it was nice to pretend. He shouldered his bag and moved forward. Frankie had just let him off with a bloodied nose because she had something else to attend to before she could finish the job. It was a nice way of saying “you have twenty-four hours to get out of here.”

As Lady Luck would have it, planning his escape was easier than expected. After spending his last credit on information for escape routes, he found one China Doll docked. And more to his surprise was that it was still captained by one Cal Strand. He was unsure how he was going to pay for a ride off the planet. But favors didn’t cost anything immediately, and Rex was fine with racking up a few more with his dear friend. If anything, Cal could pay him. The man couldn’t ask for a better First Mate. Rex knew the ship. Rex knew Cal. Rex knew where the secret whiskey was stored. The last part was more for him.

He approached the dock, his steps getting a little faster not wanting to catch any shadows out of the corner of his eyes. The tall and broad man was dressed in a bright blue button-up with pink lotus flowers printed on it. He had a few of the buttons undone, allowing for his necklaces to be shown and the chains of some unseen ones to be visible. He had a thick belt on, holstering both his knife and pistol. The leather that held his pistol was practically new. His gray coat with a fur-lined collar caught the sun and shimmered a bit in the light. As Rex came closer, he brought up a heavily ringed hand to pull down his circular, red-tinted glasses.

“Cal didn’t tell me he had a kid.” He whistled. “Shit. Got you doing his paperwork? Who taught you to read and write? Sure as hell wasn’t him.”

Abby looked up from the weight calc she was writing up. Their timing for New Melbourne was turning out to be alright, what with King Tuna season about to kick in and folk wanting to be there for work or sport. And then...this guy. “Who’s askin’?” she cocked an eyebrow at the explosion of color that stood before her. Hope he knows there ain’t no casinos on New Mel…

“Rex Black, your new first mate, or old first mate. Honestly, I don’t know how long you’ve been around. We go way back.” He pushed his glasses back up. “He wasn’t expecting me. I’m what some people like to call a surprise.” He waggled his brows. “Now, what do I have to do to get by you? You know, besides pick you up and move you myself. So tiny.”

Abby’s eyes landed on the clipboard. “One thing yew got right,” she said as she thumbed pages, “Cap’n sure wasn’t expectin’ ya.” But, she noted, he did have a First Mate on the wish list. Reason enough to let him walk the ramp. But there was somethin’ about this guy...made her feel like steppin’ aside was akin to invitin’ a hurricane to come callin’. “First mate?” she asked. “Done tha job afore?”

Rex considered what he had in his pockets. Was she too old for chocolate? Too young for cigars? He squinted. It didn’t seem like she was the sort that would take to bribery. “Does a bear… you know what, just ask me a question. Anything.” He paused. “Anything First Mate related. Don’t ask me about other things. Like, for instance, where I got the bloody nose or why my fingers smell like they do.”

“Peacock like yew,” Abby snorted, “take a body some time tah spot a little dab ‘o’ blood. Cap’n hired me today,” she said. “Just sized me up an’ gimme this clipboard. I know me some first mates...an sizin’ you up agin them? Y’ain’t makin’ me feel all warm an’ fuzzy ‘bout yah.”

“Peacock? Awe. Been a while since someone said something so sweet to me. See, I’m already wearing you down, kid.” He snorted, the makeshift plug in his nose holding fast, but more red seeping into the white. “You literally just met him today? That figures. You aren’t ugly enough to be his kid. Anyway, I’m not here to make someone feel warm and fuzzy. If that was the case, he could plop a teddy bear in a seat and call it a day. I’m here to do a fucking job and make sure we don’t get fucked by it in return. That good enough for you?”

The sudden shift of his demeanor raised a thin smile from her. “Watcha say yer name was?”

“Rex Black.” He shrugged. “I’d ask for yours, but I think I’m just going to stick with Cal Junior.”

“Well, Rex Black,” Abby scratched his name onto the sheet, “If the Cap’n hires yah proper I’ll give it. Til then, yer fixin’ to bleed on my cargo ramp. Bad fer business.” She closed the clipboard, glancing up to meet his eye. “Cap’n’ll be back in a couple hours. We’s loadin’ fer New Melbourne. Go on get cleaned up...afore yah stain some ‘o’ that perty shirt.”

“Awe. Hear that, Lucky?” he seemingly asked the air, but drew up his arm holding the cage. “Someone likes my shirt.” The bird was small, maybe a hand tall, but had bright blue and white plumage. His black eyes fixated on Rex before rotating his head in an odd way to look over at Abby. It was hard to say if he was being judgemental or just being a bird. “Thanks, Junior. I assure you, if I’m not supposed to be here, Cal’ll have me flying off that ramp faster than you can fly into the sky.” He then reached into his jacket and procured… something. At first, he thought it might have been something of use to the girl, but instead it was a deck of playing cards. He extended the deck, twined up, towards her. “Um, don’t spend them all in one place?”

“Keep ‘em,” the girl’s eyes didn’t move. “Mebbe put’em down so the bird don’t la shi on the deck. I don’t mop up no bird la shi, Rex Black.”

He pocketed the cards. “Not with that attitude, you won’t. Keep doing a good job and someday you’ll be promoted to bird janitor.” Rex started to move past her, his arm going numb from the weight on his shoulder. He wasn’t about to admit that, though. “And if I can’t give you the cards, Junior. Maybe I can give you a bit of advice. Diction. It’ll make people respect you more if you don’t sound like you’ve eaten your own shirt and are storing it in your cheeks for winter.”

Abby Travis held her tongue as Rex’s boots clattered up the ramp. Yeah, she mused, just like a hurricane. Flipping to the back page, she set the pen to work, scratching out a single word for herself. D-I-K-C-H-U-N.

Rex made his way up the ramp, turning away from the young woman with the clipboard. His smile faded to a pained look as he paused at the threshold of the ship. He wondered if the ship being here was as lucky as he wanted it to be, or if he was trading a coffin in the ground for a coffin in the sky.

It was a little too late to ruminate on that, though. He’d hate to go back down the ramp and explain to Cal Junior his indecision. Rex didn’t have many fears, but being mocked by someone more than half his age was definitely one of them. So, he swallowed his doubts and moved on. Time to claim his room back. He just hoped it wasn’t filled to the brim with storage boxes or something sadder… like hand-sewn cat dolls.

Firefly - Second 'Verse

EDIT: Fin.

Trash for the Trash God [Just Breaking BBCode]

Rex Black - First Mate

𝑵𝒐𝒎 𝒅𝒆 𝑷𝒍𝒖𝒎𝒆

Rex Black

𝑨𝒈𝒆

38

𝑮𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓

Male

𝑷𝒉𝒚𝒔𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒍 𝑨𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆

If the saying "built like a brick shit house" was a person, it'd be Rex. At 6'3", he cuts an imposing figure that finds all the door heads with his forehead. He has broad shoulders, covered in thick musculature that tests the patience of his shirts and jackets. His physique lacks the finer details of someone that tries to keep in shape for aesthetic reasons, with a thicker waist and utilitarian edges. That doesn't keep him from dressing as if he's hot shit, though. Rex has surprisingly good posture for someone dressed like they lost all their platinum on a border planet. His hair is dark, cut short on the sides but is a little longer on top. He has a well-trimmed beard that shows his age with a bit of gray coming in. But he's well-coifed despite the cracks of age. He has brown eyes that are nowhere near the innocence of a doe, and a smile with straight teeth that are suspiciously pristine. Fond of bright prints, worn pants, well-shined boots, and his leather jacket--it's hard to tell if he'd fit in with the Core Planets or the Border ones.

𝑴𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑴𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒎𝒔

Rex doesn't like for other people to get the last word in. Quick wit is belied by his figure and tendency to roll his eyes and snort through other's words. He's congenial in a way that mayonnaise is appetizing. Maybe mixed in with other things it's palatable, but it is an acquired taste by itself. In pleasant company, he can handle himself like a member of high society. He'll degrade his tone and nature to vinegar and grit mixed in with a teaspoon of sugar in a less-than-pleasant company. In a company that he's familiar and familial with, he's substantially more appetizing. Still prone to biting remarks, they're the sort a brother would give you. A laugh, a wink, and a nod later, there will be no hard feelings. He's fine with receiving as good as he gives. It'll be a cold day in hell before he takes people's opinions to heart. This makes personal growth hard for him, but it also allows for him to be someone's emotional punching bag with nothing lost. He'll listen and offer advice. Then he'll hand over his knife and point to the nearest box or bag to throw it into. He believes that both emotional and physical release is good for one's soul.

𝑺𝒌𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒔

Rex is known as the sort that can get things done with a bit of elbow grease, money changing hands, and occasionally some stabbing. Despite the brick shape of his head, it's actually a good one for business. He's a decent lie detector, if only because he does it so often. He knows how to make good on his promises, and finagle a contract to benefit himself and others. He'll show his hand if he needs to. He'll not show off his shipmates, though. That's their own business. But he knows what the sum of their experience costs, and he'll not suffer a platinum less. He's good at spotting talent and putting talent where it needs to go. His record-keeping is immaculate, the sort of tending to books and ledgers that someone with extensive academic experience (and culinary experience in cooking books) can provide. And that aforementioned stabbing? Well, he's surprisingly skilled with blades. If he could own a sabre and not seem like a posh bag of wind, he would. Instead, he has a rather nasty knife that he wears on one hip. He has a pistol on the other, but no one should ask him to shoot a can off of their head. They might not have a head afterward. He's well-traveled and versed in a few different customs. He's no Companion, but he's not a mewling babe in varying societies. He's penned a lot of information in a small book of star charts he has. Beyond that, he is a decent violinist, a hobby that his mother wished for him to take up. Maybe she wanted a daughter? Maybe it was a way to get him to use his hands for something other than scheming. He's picked up card-playing from high-society to poor rabble and everything in between. And he's an amateur ornithologist if only because owning (or being owned by) a bird takes a level of knowledge and commitment that one might need a degree in. No one should remark on the bird memorabilia he carries around. He knows.

𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝑺𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒚 𝑮𝒐𝒆𝒔 𝑫𝒐𝒘𝒏 𝑬𝒂𝒔𝒊𝒆𝒓 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝑾𝒉𝒊𝒔𝒌𝒆𝒚

Long Story Long

Rex Black was born Reginald Belle LaPaygne, a member of Alliance High Society. They weren't a family that was born into wealth but instead cobbled it together through numerous trade deals that had gone their way almost too easily. He knew the best schools, the best fashion, and the best care. Of course, none of that involved his parents. He was shuttled between nannies of varying ages and stature. By the time he was five, he could write every single one of their names but not his own parents'. He had an older brother, Gerald "Gherry", that was set to inherit the family business when their father decided to retire. Gherry usurped all their time and left Rex to his own devices.

He spent most of his formative years on the planet Valentine in the Core. Occasionally, his family would visit their expansive estate on some of a border planet to oversee "business." This was where Rex got a taste of freedom. When he was a young teenager, he decided to skip out of the estate and visit town. He was robbed, beaten, and laughed at. It was probably the best experience of his life. He'd never faced a challenge or its consequences. This event provided both in a neat, little package. Sure, he could tell his father and something could be done. But what was the fun in that? He knew he couldn't try to challenge them to a fight, despite his fencing and wrestling lessons. Instead, he decided to play smart. Between greasing the palm of the local law enforcement and acting like a wounded animal, he was able to get each of those little shits out of his hair. He smiled wildly at them as they were disciplined in the town square. It was a thrill to get his way without his hand being held. While this sounded like a learning experience, this was not a good lesson to take to heart.

Despite Gherry's birthright, Rex wasn't entirely forgotten in the family business. His physical demeanor and conversational acumen were noted by his father. So, he was considered his brother's "partner" for a lot of business deals as they entered their early twenties. About that time, the patron of the LaPaygne family wished to retire. So, the two sons were sent to his varying clients and fixers to make sure the family's deals were "in line." Rex quickly learned that his family had made their money off of criminal networks trying to play as if they were altruism embodied. He found this quite amusing, considering the airs that his family put on. His brother, on the other hand, was repulsed by the nefariousness of it all. Rex was able to convince Gherry to perform like the zoo animals they were for their father. When he retired, Gherry could go any way he wished to with the family business. That seemed to placate his older brother--if not worryingly so.

Rex traveled with him, and while they were securing business deals and extending ones that were already in place, Rex was finding his feet in the galaxy, as well. He started a bit of a side hustle to secure himself a nice honeypot when things went south, as he was sure they would with Gherry's sweet nature. The hustle didn't involve physical goods but instead secrets and knowledge. Words were an untraceable and infinite resource. It wasn't a lot, but he was able to slide some favors into his back pocket. He had expected to use them for something more monumental... destiny had a different idea.

When the Unification War knocked on their door, the Alliance was more than happy to use the LaPaygne's connections to secure ways to win. This meant that the nature of the sibling's trips became more and more hazardous. It wouldn't be Rex's doings that would catch up with them, but instead, it would be Gherry's. They would get stuck in the middle of a conflict, a battle of attrition that had left them stranded and without an engine. Worse yet, they were Alliance-born citizens that had been doing business with the Independents. It had been Gherry's idea. He'd become bolder and bolder as the years had gone on. The plan was to sell weaponry to both the Independents and the Alliance. Fuel a war from both sides, and make a profit off of both. Rex thought it was a bit too risky, but everything seemed to line up perfectly. That was until the Alliance ambushed the Independence forces, all parties were surprised to see each other there.

So, in hopes of getting out of that unwinnable situation alive, Gherry sold Rex out. He abandoned his brother on their sinking vessel, The Highland, as he escaped in an Alliance pod after jettisoning all of theirs, stating that Rex had betrayed the Alliance and had been holding Gherry hostage. The Highland was fired upon and left for dead. Fortunately, the ship wasn't entirely as critical as believed, and Rex was able to land, but there was no going back in it.

Considered dead, Rex decided to start the hell over. In the small town of Shallow Gulp, he was able to do just that. He quickly cashed in the few favors he had, knowing that when his brother got back to proper society he'd be declared dead. It allowed him to adopt a nom de plume, information and payment for a ride on a ship called China Doll, and one parrot he named "Lucky." The last little bit was more for his sanity than anything else. Lucky had been left alone in a cage for days, sitting on the shelf of a general store like he was nothing more than stock. "Abandoned too?" was all Rex had said to the bird as it perked its head up and stared at the rough-looking human. It was a bond forged in understanding. But it wouldn't be the last one that day.

Rex met Cal when he offered too much platinum to get a ride off the dismal planet he'd been trapped on and to a place where he could shovel out a new existence. It was more than conspicuous, a man that looked like he'd been through hell offering a lot of money for a simple ride. It came out rather quickly to Cal who Rex really was. He gave the basics to the captain, not really knowing how it would go but not having anything to defend himself with other than the truth. Things went surprisingly well. Rex kept expecting Cal to betray him, but the man never did. So, maybe Rex held on for a few more stops. He learned his way around the China Doll and helped secure lucrative jobs without too much fine print. It also helped cement Rex Black as a living person that was very detached from his previous life. Cal and he traveled together for a handful of years throughout the galaxy before parting ways. Their adventures were many and more than a few were blackmail worthy, but it was all done in good faith. Yet, as the years went on, the unfinished business of his past finally gnawed at him enough for him to attend to it. He didn't want Cal to suffer for his dealings, and so he parted ways on good terms with the captain.

His recuperation and reflection led him to wonder how his family was doing. As much as Rex hated it, he had to get back into the business of knowledge brokering to get to his family. He was only able to nab a couple of favors, nothing big, but it did land him in the Core System. After a few hands of cards, terse situations involving guns, fists, and blades, and many a platinum and credit shared--he'd finally found a way to hold his brother accountable for his actions anonymously. Rex had the records from all those years ago. Unfortunately, the plan went south. Fortunately, needing a ride off of Persephone couldn't have come at a better time. It was time to reunite with an old friend and see the stars again.

Long story short? Rex is a grifter and card shark that came from the far reaches of the galaxy. He dodged the Unification War, learned to gamble and fight, and made some friends along the way. Of course, he also made some enemies, but you aren't here to know about that facet of his life. His troubles are his. You're just here to hear about that bird, aren't you?

Lucky was won off a man called Big John. A nasty fellow that had a tendency of slitting the throats of anyone he lost a bet to. So, he never lost a bet. That was until Rex came along. A few hands of cards later, and he liberated the poor avian creature from Big John's grasp. Unfortunately, he also had to run as fast as his legs could take him, or he'd be liberated from them.

A man by the name of Cal Strand, and his ship the China Doll, was there to save him. They shot off into the sky as Rex flipped off the shrinking spec of John in the distance. A bond of brotherhood was formed shortly thereafter. The two became inseparable. Their adventures were numerous and could be recounted over cigarettes and liquor to anyone dumb enough or close enough to listen. That was until Rex had to skip town. He'd received a rather interesting message in the middle of the night. Nothing too grand. Just a poor damsel in distress that he needed to destress. He bid goodbye to Cal and set off into stars of his own.

Fast forward to today. A few scars and a few tales later, he'd be reunited with an old friend on Persephone. Maybe Lady Luck favored him after all.

𝑶𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓

Yes, Lucky still travels along with him. The bird has quite the attitude but seems more than happy to be around Rex. He has a fondness for tucking himself into the folds of Rex's coat and finding his way around the ship like a nosey mouse. Surprisingly, the bird is still alive, but Rex seems to believe that the bird's invincible. That being said, Lucky always stays aboard whatever ship Rex is on. There's a rumor going around that the bird helps him cheat at cards.