Character updated to reflect new equipment and appearance change.
Sigil Member
Literary Hatchetman
STATUS: Malfunctioning Space Toilet (favorite death post in RPG) : roleplayerguild.com/posts/4… 8 yrs ago
- Last Seen: 1 day ago
- Joined: 11 yrs ago
- Posts: 3220 (0.80 / day)
- VMs: 3
-
Username history
- Sigil 11 yrs ago
-
Latest 10 profile visitors:
-
Most recent →
RPM,
Zman,
Shadow Dragon,
ppppppp,
Not a Sayan,
Simply Not Real,
Fetzen,
Lewascan2,
Arty Fox,
Lady Absinthia
Status
Recent Statuses
8 yrs ago
Current
Malfunctioning Space Toilet (favorite death post in RPG) : roleplayerguild.com/posts/4…
4
likes
10 yrs ago
Example of a "Character Flaw": roleplayerguild.com/posts/32..
1
like
Most Recent Posts
As Shein-Fang spoke, Keystone's face registered with shock for a fraction of a second before it faded into understanding, and resignation. "Thank you, Grandmaster. I 'preciate greatly."
...
The burly fighter made his way back to his pack and inspected his belongings. He could travel well for a few days, but not much longer. He would have to move fast and far. The offer to raid the Monastery's supply rooms was a blessing; one he eagerly accepted.
The first order of business was to alter his look, including personal effects that may be identifiable to people who had seen him around Telflamm. His traveler's pack was replaced with another, larger one, and neatly stuffed most of his undamaged clothes and belongings into the bottom.
His utilitarian clothing, commonly associated with a tradesman or laborer, gave way to more tactical gear suited to unarmed combat - tough, simple, allowing for movement. Darker colors, as well. Though not overly trained in stealth, the white and tan and grey he ordinarily wore certainly wasn't helping matters any. Gloves went next, after cutting short the fingers of a pair that (miraculously) fit. Long strips of black linen wrapped around his wrists and up over his new bracers, almost up to the elbows. Over everything, he layered a sleeveless, mostly black, hooded monk's robe. Finding similar spares for everything, he proceeded elsewhere in stores.
Food and drinkable water were important. He stocked up on enough nutrient-dense items as he could, along with a few items to assist in their preparation. The last bit was a little selfish, but he did have a fondness for cooking; it was a talent he had little opportunity to practice as of late. Waterskins and/or canteens would be important. As would be alcohol, he figured after locating casks labelled "shochu" and "plum wine". Value in trade on the road was immeasurable to find safety in numbers or a warm spot to stay.
Finally, weapons. While Keystone was not an avid user of them, others knew this, too. Having already stashed his personal knives, he sought to replace them on his person. Scanning what they had to offer, he settled on one interesting style of short stabbing implement - a weapon he had heard the monks refer to as "kunai": Triangular bladed, utilitarian knives with large ring pommels. He grabbed two sets of six larger ones, both sets in bandoleers.
Disguising Glith's sword was slightly more interesting. In the end, he fastened it with cloth and strapped it to his back, through his new pack. Confident the weight wouldn't throw off his balance, he rose to leave.
Keystone caught sight of himself in a polished metal mirror on his way out. He walked into this place as a brawler, but in the short time he spent among these people he had come to regard himself differently, if just a bit. He still did not consider himself a Monk, at least not in the way others did, but he certainly looked the part now. One thing bothered him, however; his face was still very western, very non-Shou. He felt rather foolish as he found a possible answer in a wide, conical hat, one of many piled in a corner. Fitting it on, he regarded himself again. He felt a little silly, but had to admit that he looked just as dangerous as before. Possibly moreso. Most importantly: He didn't look like Keystone. If needed, he could always toss the hat as soon as he put distance between himself and this place.
After grabbing a few more odds and ends useful to a man in his position, rope, hook, camping effects, map of the area, he exited the storage areas and returned to the open air. He caught the eyes of Shein-Fang while walking toward the exit. He strode up to the elder monk and adopted a humble stance. "I appreciate everything you have done for me, Grandmaster Shein-Fang of Telflamm. Respectfully sir, where do you think I should travel next?"
If he ever could, Keystone intended to resume his studies with these people.
...
A man exited the Xiang Temple at a run. To look at him, this man was intimidating and single-purposed. He was equipped for either a long journey or a short relocation. He did not look like an Assassin of Telflamm, nor did he look like a Red Wizard. The man also did not look like Johnathon Keystone. One of many Xaing Monks, this one in dark garb, he moved with haste and precision to his next destination.
...
The burly fighter made his way back to his pack and inspected his belongings. He could travel well for a few days, but not much longer. He would have to move fast and far. The offer to raid the Monastery's supply rooms was a blessing; one he eagerly accepted.
The first order of business was to alter his look, including personal effects that may be identifiable to people who had seen him around Telflamm. His traveler's pack was replaced with another, larger one, and neatly stuffed most of his undamaged clothes and belongings into the bottom.
His utilitarian clothing, commonly associated with a tradesman or laborer, gave way to more tactical gear suited to unarmed combat - tough, simple, allowing for movement. Darker colors, as well. Though not overly trained in stealth, the white and tan and grey he ordinarily wore certainly wasn't helping matters any. Gloves went next, after cutting short the fingers of a pair that (miraculously) fit. Long strips of black linen wrapped around his wrists and up over his new bracers, almost up to the elbows. Over everything, he layered a sleeveless, mostly black, hooded monk's robe. Finding similar spares for everything, he proceeded elsewhere in stores.
Food and drinkable water were important. He stocked up on enough nutrient-dense items as he could, along with a few items to assist in their preparation. The last bit was a little selfish, but he did have a fondness for cooking; it was a talent he had little opportunity to practice as of late. Waterskins and/or canteens would be important. As would be alcohol, he figured after locating casks labelled "shochu" and "plum wine". Value in trade on the road was immeasurable to find safety in numbers or a warm spot to stay.
Finally, weapons. While Keystone was not an avid user of them, others knew this, too. Having already stashed his personal knives, he sought to replace them on his person. Scanning what they had to offer, he settled on one interesting style of short stabbing implement - a weapon he had heard the monks refer to as "kunai": Triangular bladed, utilitarian knives with large ring pommels. He grabbed two sets of six larger ones, both sets in bandoleers.
Disguising Glith's sword was slightly more interesting. In the end, he fastened it with cloth and strapped it to his back, through his new pack. Confident the weight wouldn't throw off his balance, he rose to leave.
Keystone caught sight of himself in a polished metal mirror on his way out. He walked into this place as a brawler, but in the short time he spent among these people he had come to regard himself differently, if just a bit. He still did not consider himself a Monk, at least not in the way others did, but he certainly looked the part now. One thing bothered him, however; his face was still very western, very non-Shou. He felt rather foolish as he found a possible answer in a wide, conical hat, one of many piled in a corner. Fitting it on, he regarded himself again. He felt a little silly, but had to admit that he looked just as dangerous as before. Possibly moreso. Most importantly: He didn't look like Keystone. If needed, he could always toss the hat as soon as he put distance between himself and this place.
After grabbing a few more odds and ends useful to a man in his position, rope, hook, camping effects, map of the area, he exited the storage areas and returned to the open air. He caught the eyes of Shein-Fang while walking toward the exit. He strode up to the elder monk and adopted a humble stance. "I appreciate everything you have done for me, Grandmaster Shein-Fang of Telflamm. Respectfully sir, where do you think I should travel next?"
If he ever could, Keystone intended to resume his studies with these people.
...
A man exited the Xiang Temple at a run. To look at him, this man was intimidating and single-purposed. He was equipped for either a long journey or a short relocation. He did not look like an Assassin of Telflamm, nor did he look like a Red Wizard. The man also did not look like Johnathon Keystone. One of many Xaing Monks, this one in dark garb, he moved with haste and precision to his next destination.
As the scene in Telflamm began to calm, Keystone decided that continuing to run would make him appear more conspicuous rather than less. He slowed to a determined walk and kept his senses alert for detail of pursuit or surveillance. As he made his way generally back to where he began, Keystone caught view of Raa Tel'Nimras, Paladin of Mielikki, Lion of the Whitehorn, carried away from battle as one of the honored fallen.
"A Knight has died, and I lived." he mumbled to no one in particular. "A righteous man that at least one god smiled on is dead, and a low-born brawler, sack of meat and skin like me survived." he wished he could have been with him. Maybe he would have been the one to keep that last strike from taking him down. Guilt hit him, and hard. Raa was the closest thing to a friend he had for a long while. He and several others had died for Keystone, and the prize he carried in his head. It was a new feeling, whatever is was. Uncomfortable. As if he were now obliged to something greater than himself. This was not how it was supposed to happen. Heroes like Raa fought the good fight. Pugilists like Keystone fought and died for money.
He approached the detail of stalwart guards, keeping pace with their march at respectful distance, and opened with short, direct inquiry: "Raa was a friend, sirs. What's to be done with him?"
...
Some time later, Keystone found himself back at the Xiang Temple. This entire situation had gotten turned around; sailing without map or compass. He felt the overwhelming need to reequip himself, get his bearings, and get back on the path. Especially after seeing Raa. He owed it to everyone who died to finish this, whatever this was now. Time again to seek answers.
"A Knight has died, and I lived." he mumbled to no one in particular. "A righteous man that at least one god smiled on is dead, and a low-born brawler, sack of meat and skin like me survived." he wished he could have been with him. Maybe he would have been the one to keep that last strike from taking him down. Guilt hit him, and hard. Raa was the closest thing to a friend he had for a long while. He and several others had died for Keystone, and the prize he carried in his head. It was a new feeling, whatever is was. Uncomfortable. As if he were now obliged to something greater than himself. This was not how it was supposed to happen. Heroes like Raa fought the good fight. Pugilists like Keystone fought and died for money.
He approached the detail of stalwart guards, keeping pace with their march at respectful distance, and opened with short, direct inquiry: "Raa was a friend, sirs. What's to be done with him?"
...
Some time later, Keystone found himself back at the Xiang Temple. This entire situation had gotten turned around; sailing without map or compass. He felt the overwhelming need to reequip himself, get his bearings, and get back on the path. Especially after seeing Raa. He owed it to everyone who died to finish this, whatever this was now. Time again to seek answers.
Sensing the meal was drawing to a close, El Sasquatcho wrapped up and stored the leftovers from his own bag, and moved to consolidate whatever anyone else wasn’t working on. He stacked it neatly in the nearby fridge, and left to go to his quarters to change.
His personal space was a bit spartan. It would seem strange that such a colorful guy would have such a bare room to himself, possibly symptomatic of a histrionic personality or some kind of manic disorder. The truth was far simpler, however – the huge, hairy lug just hadn’t had time lately to put “Homey Touches” in his rooms. Oh, how he longed to spread paint across the walls and tack up posters, move in electronics, etc, but his self-imposed training schedule and light day job made this difficult. As it seemed to be a less busy day, perhaps he’d start to rectify that when they all got back from their more recreational pursuits.
El Sasquatcho quickly changed out of his tactical gear and replaced his mask with his original. Worn jeans, black boots, and his favorite Pollo Negro band shirt. He really liked that shirt. Black Rooster - Mexican Death Metal at its finest.
He pocketed a moderate amount of cash, grabbed his keys, and replaced his tactical gear on the mannequin. Jogging out to the main room, he called to his companions, "If you're riding with El Sasquatcho, the El Camino train departs in ten!"
The optimistic luchador walked out to his truck and leaned against the door, taking in the crisp air while waiting for the others.
His personal space was a bit spartan. It would seem strange that such a colorful guy would have such a bare room to himself, possibly symptomatic of a histrionic personality or some kind of manic disorder. The truth was far simpler, however – the huge, hairy lug just hadn’t had time lately to put “Homey Touches” in his rooms. Oh, how he longed to spread paint across the walls and tack up posters, move in electronics, etc, but his self-imposed training schedule and light day job made this difficult. As it seemed to be a less busy day, perhaps he’d start to rectify that when they all got back from their more recreational pursuits.
El Sasquatcho quickly changed out of his tactical gear and replaced his mask with his original. Worn jeans, black boots, and his favorite Pollo Negro band shirt. He really liked that shirt. Black Rooster - Mexican Death Metal at its finest.
He pocketed a moderate amount of cash, grabbed his keys, and replaced his tactical gear on the mannequin. Jogging out to the main room, he called to his companions, "If you're riding with El Sasquatcho, the El Camino train departs in ten!"
The optimistic luchador walked out to his truck and leaned against the door, taking in the crisp air while waiting for the others.
For just a second, Keystone forced his mind to focus on the image of the Red Wizard to his right stripped naked (except for his very important looking hat), his extremities tied to stout stakes, splaying him out taut over a pit of glowing beechwood coals. From above, an elaborate system of ropes and pulleys lowered an endless procession of feral Gnomes (clad only in bone jewelry, their teeth filed down to grotesque points) down onto the Wizard's face where they took turns attempting copulation with his nostrils. Other gnomes, spent from their nasal debauchery, prodded him with sticks and giggled with a glee associated closely with drunken, demonic toddlers.
If that mindraping piece of sewage still had a fix on what Keystone was thinking, the large man's brutal yet vivid imagination would provide an answer forthwith.
That's when he noticed the glint of steel from atop the building his procession neared. Either this ambush was meant for the people guarding him, or Keystone was being led into a trap. Either way, he was not capable of snatching arrows out of the sky - yet. Not being alive to make it into the fortress where he would likely get killed anyway would net the same result, only sooner. He locked his eyes on the crossbowmen, silently, and waited for the last possible moment before his window of opportunity closed.
As the arms holding the crossbows tensed to make small corrections, necessary to accurately hit their intended targets, Keystone spoke in a clear, urgent voice, "Archers, left high!"
It was unfortunate that Keystone, otherwise a marginally bright guy, occasionally had problems distinguishing right from left in times of stress. At least, that's what he was going to tell anyone who asked. Healed and energized, he took off at a sprint into the alleys of Telflamm.
If they the Red Wizards and Merchant's Council thought they had him, any eyes that may have been on the Xiang Temple may have been recalled. First order of business was to circle around indirectly to discourage pursuit, reclaim his equipment, and get the hell out of lands influenced by the Red Wizards OR the Council. It would be a compelling reason to keep him in town, now that he's a fugitive. Someone else must know how to set this right. If he survived the next couple of days, anyway.
If that mindraping piece of sewage still had a fix on what Keystone was thinking, the large man's brutal yet vivid imagination would provide an answer forthwith.
That's when he noticed the glint of steel from atop the building his procession neared. Either this ambush was meant for the people guarding him, or Keystone was being led into a trap. Either way, he was not capable of snatching arrows out of the sky - yet. Not being alive to make it into the fortress where he would likely get killed anyway would net the same result, only sooner. He locked his eyes on the crossbowmen, silently, and waited for the last possible moment before his window of opportunity closed.
As the arms holding the crossbows tensed to make small corrections, necessary to accurately hit their intended targets, Keystone spoke in a clear, urgent voice, "Archers, left high!"
It was unfortunate that Keystone, otherwise a marginally bright guy, occasionally had problems distinguishing right from left in times of stress. At least, that's what he was going to tell anyone who asked. Healed and energized, he took off at a sprint into the alleys of Telflamm.
If they the Red Wizards and Merchant's Council thought they had him, any eyes that may have been on the Xiang Temple may have been recalled. First order of business was to circle around indirectly to discourage pursuit, reclaim his equipment, and get the hell out of lands influenced by the Red Wizards OR the Council. It would be a compelling reason to keep him in town, now that he's a fugitive. Someone else must know how to set this right. If he survived the next couple of days, anyway.
"No, no... The chocolate is seasonal. El Sasquatcho will not be able to procure it from the Taco Hut until the middle of October. At that time, we have the option of Cayenne or Pumpkin Spice. It is muy dark, thick, and lovely; not unlike the lucky young lady El Sasquatcho escorted to his junior prom."
El Sasquatcho ponders on the question of chocolate briefly, and thrusts his finger into the air with a wordless exclamation. "Aha! There reside elements of the semi-sweet goodness on the Churro Bites! Perhaps if we leave a trail of them to the break room, Senor Zero will be drawn away from the site of his robotcide!"
"If nothing else, let us do something. We've been training for days."
El Sasquatcho ponders on the question of chocolate briefly, and thrusts his finger into the air with a wordless exclamation. "Aha! There reside elements of the semi-sweet goodness on the Churro Bites! Perhaps if we leave a trail of them to the break room, Senor Zero will be drawn away from the site of his robotcide!"
"If nothing else, let us do something. We've been training for days."
So, can Keystone actually see the four guys with crossbows, or is this detail added to build suspense?
I understand, sir.
In death, a member of Project Titan has a name. His name is Richard Grayson.
His name is Richard Grayson.
His name is Richard Grayson.
His name is Richard Grayson...
In death, a member of Project Titan has a name. His name is Richard Grayson.
His name is Richard Grayson.
His name is Richard Grayson.
His name is Richard Grayson...
El Sasquatcho, somewhat recovered from his colonic struggle, attempted to readdress the conversation he was almost in prior to his hasty exit. He looked to Chester, pointing with a tortilla chip to emphasize his words.
"Senor Rat Whisperer," he intoned respectfully, "El Sasquatcho is familiar with the Street Fighter series of games. Mostly, preferring to fight with the large Russian wrestler or the green Brazilian who electrocutes his adversaries. Good combos."
He started to slow down the assault on his ethnic-inspired goodies, his bag about halfway emptied and the edge of his hunger blunted somewhat. The culinary hiatus gave him a little more opportunity to expand upon his earlier thought. "An arcade experience of particular delight is Dance Dance Revolución. El Sasquatcho does enjoy rhythmically shaking himself in front of total strangers for the approval of digital lollipop anime kids. No buttons upon which to make one's thumbs sore."
A ways into observing the conversational exchanges around the break room table, the burly luchador looked over to the moderately distressed Caitlyn, and prodded an unopened box slightly nearer to her. "Psst... If you're still hungry after this, nobody's touched the rice." He then returned to his own meal.
That is, until the ruckus in the training area. El Sasquatcho pulled down his mask fully and filed out to investigate with the rest of the interested parties. He looked to the scene with a touch of both understanding and annoyance - he had hoped to destroy one of those damnedable machines himself, just as soon as he could beat it at at its own game, preferably at a high level of difficulty. Seemed wasteful, but everyone grieved in their own way. El Sasquatcho's grief generally involved acts of extroversion and comfort foods. He nodded at his fellow neophyte Titan, and returned to the break room.
Before getting back to his own repast, he pulled a number of choice items aside and bagged them, then moved to locate a writing utensil. With a fat, black, magic marker, he wrote in block letters, "Ice-Guy, whenever you're ready to eat. -Us". He deposited it in a very obvious spot.
For a moment, he had the odd feeling that this was less of a team of heroes, and more of a Metahuman support group. They were all broken, one way or another. The catastrophe with Robin just gave them a reason to come together. Maybe it was time to begin supporting each other.
"Senor Rat Whisperer," he intoned respectfully, "El Sasquatcho is familiar with the Street Fighter series of games. Mostly, preferring to fight with the large Russian wrestler or the green Brazilian who electrocutes his adversaries. Good combos."
He started to slow down the assault on his ethnic-inspired goodies, his bag about halfway emptied and the edge of his hunger blunted somewhat. The culinary hiatus gave him a little more opportunity to expand upon his earlier thought. "An arcade experience of particular delight is Dance Dance Revolución. El Sasquatcho does enjoy rhythmically shaking himself in front of total strangers for the approval of digital lollipop anime kids. No buttons upon which to make one's thumbs sore."
A ways into observing the conversational exchanges around the break room table, the burly luchador looked over to the moderately distressed Caitlyn, and prodded an unopened box slightly nearer to her. "Psst... If you're still hungry after this, nobody's touched the rice." He then returned to his own meal.
That is, until the ruckus in the training area. El Sasquatcho pulled down his mask fully and filed out to investigate with the rest of the interested parties. He looked to the scene with a touch of both understanding and annoyance - he had hoped to destroy one of those damnedable machines himself, just as soon as he could beat it at at its own game, preferably at a high level of difficulty. Seemed wasteful, but everyone grieved in their own way. El Sasquatcho's grief generally involved acts of extroversion and comfort foods. He nodded at his fellow neophyte Titan, and returned to the break room.
Before getting back to his own repast, he pulled a number of choice items aside and bagged them, then moved to locate a writing utensil. With a fat, black, magic marker, he wrote in block letters, "Ice-Guy, whenever you're ready to eat. -Us". He deposited it in a very obvious spot.
For a moment, he had the odd feeling that this was less of a team of heroes, and more of a Metahuman support group. They were all broken, one way or another. The catastrophe with Robin just gave them a reason to come together. Maybe it was time to begin supporting each other.
"If I am truly hurt? Really?" began Keystone, quickly figuring out what was going on. What bothered him was how quickly the welcoming committee arrived following his skirmish, or how they even knew who he was. Suspicion flashed to Meriv, that nervous, twitchy bit of potential fart-kindling.
Glancing down at his injuries, he piped up, "I suppose I had me an accident with a cherry oublie?"
He joined in step with the procession with just a touch of paranoia. Though thankful for the healing spell, he could not discern the source of the blessing. At least he was back to his best condition for whatever was to happen next. Keystone used the time spent walking to review his options. None of them looked particularly inviting.
Option One: Go with these people, Play it straight, tell them exactly what went down and why. Great idea, if he were in an honest, forthright community interested in the public interest AND doing the right thing. If they were not, he was marching into his tomb. Unless he had something to offer them.
Option Two: Go along with Kaylee's idea, and run for it. Maybe he'd get away. Problem was, his pack and most of his money was back at the Xiang Temple. Keystone had no contacts out in this part of the world to assist him. He'd have to circle back and retrieve his belongings before getting out of town, and yes, Keystone would definitely have to get out of town if he chose to run. Almost positive someone was had been following him, the temple would likely be watched. And the Grandmaster didn't seem particularly happy to see him in the street.
Option Three: Fight. Nope, odds were not in his favor. Though he was a little flattered that they sent out such a heavy entourage just to "request" his presence.
Another concern - Glith's sword. The sword that housed two voices now, and was tangible to only himself. Well, himself and one other set of eyes somewhere out in the crowd. Keystone's head was a little too full today; full of voices, full of concerns.
"Okay, Kaylee," Keystone intoned inwardly, "We have a LOT to talk about. For right now, we're going to talk about that other voice, and why you need me to risk dying to run away. We need to be right quick and right honest with each other. I don't know what's going to happen to you if I die. What is going on with you just now?"
Glancing down at his injuries, he piped up, "I suppose I had me an accident with a cherry oublie?"
He joined in step with the procession with just a touch of paranoia. Though thankful for the healing spell, he could not discern the source of the blessing. At least he was back to his best condition for whatever was to happen next. Keystone used the time spent walking to review his options. None of them looked particularly inviting.
Option One: Go with these people, Play it straight, tell them exactly what went down and why. Great idea, if he were in an honest, forthright community interested in the public interest AND doing the right thing. If they were not, he was marching into his tomb. Unless he had something to offer them.
Option Two: Go along with Kaylee's idea, and run for it. Maybe he'd get away. Problem was, his pack and most of his money was back at the Xiang Temple. Keystone had no contacts out in this part of the world to assist him. He'd have to circle back and retrieve his belongings before getting out of town, and yes, Keystone would definitely have to get out of town if he chose to run. Almost positive someone was had been following him, the temple would likely be watched. And the Grandmaster didn't seem particularly happy to see him in the street.
Option Three: Fight. Nope, odds were not in his favor. Though he was a little flattered that they sent out such a heavy entourage just to "request" his presence.
Another concern - Glith's sword. The sword that housed two voices now, and was tangible to only himself. Well, himself and one other set of eyes somewhere out in the crowd. Keystone's head was a little too full today; full of voices, full of concerns.
"Okay, Kaylee," Keystone intoned inwardly, "We have a LOT to talk about. For right now, we're going to talk about that other voice, and why you need me to risk dying to run away. We need to be right quick and right honest with each other. I don't know what's going to happen to you if I die. What is going on with you just now?"
© 2007-2026