Sigil

Titans of Gotham [Spots Available!]

El Sasquatcho shifted the television under his arm. It was cumbersome; an odd shape carried with one hand still takes some doing, enhanced strength or not. The hairy warrior of justice finally set it down, leaning against the nearby wall.

Si, si... El Sasquatcho has a wonderous adventure planned, wherein we get into our best combat gear and race to the parking lot, from there (and this is good), we take up our best Team Pose, and assist the Indomitable El Sasquatcho to install a set of bullbars on his mode of conveyance!"

He had set the paint cans down while he spoke, and was waving and gesturing furiously as he spoke. To look at El Sasquatcho, it was uncertain as to whether or not he was being sarcastic. Nonetheless, he was very animated about it.

"The day may come soon wherein El Sasquatcho will have to ram something, or push a vehicle out of the way. Hence, the bars. They're really nice ones, too... El Sasquatcho may one day install a winch, but that would necessitate the purchasing of one. Afterwards, it is time for the painting and furnishing of the private rooms! Homey touches, maybe some skulls and a little splash of color. But for now, the bars. ¿Esta bien?"

Titans of Gotham [Spots Available!]

Looks like we've got ourselves a party. Yay Titans!

Titans of Gotham [Spots Available!]

Maybe a fresh recruiting session would be worthwhile.

Titans of Gotham [Spots Available!]

Peachy, just peachy... curious as to why it's so quiet, though.

The Legend of Zelda: Decedents of the Hero (OPEN)

"...!"

The Legend of Zelda: Decedents of the Hero (OPEN)

Somewhere, just outside the Kokiri Forest, a strange boy with red eyes leaned on a deku stick, wondering where he was supposed to go next. Reaching into his coat, he produced a mystic tome titled "The Complete 'LoZ: Descendants of the Hero' Game Guide", and started reading.

In his mind, he reviewed the steps in the guide to begin. He inserted the game disk. He pressed START. He made sure his card had adequate memory. Everything seemed ok. The title screen roared to life, and he even got the first bit of the backstory. Still, something seemed amiss. He inaudibly sighed.

Perhaps he was supposed to wait there until he received a sign. The boy tucked his tome away, twirled his staff about him, and trudged back into the treeline to his campsite.

Titans of Gotham [Spots Available!]

The days that followed the incident with Mr. Freeze, El Sasquatcho became more sedate. True, he hadn't been present for the skirmish. That is part of what bothered him. The incident caused the loss of teammates, be it by injury or their own choice to withdraw.

The team was weaker now.

Perhaps if he were present, things would have gone differently. Some of the amazing luck to which he was accustomed could have been of use to the Titans. For that matter, another body out there, one with heightened strength and unnatural durability, would have been especially useful. But no, he was Dance Dance Revolutioning and eating wings. There was a bit of guilt there. Maybe he could have stopped his new friends from getting hurt. Logically, he understood that there was no way he could have known what would happen. Emotionally, he believed that logic could suck it. He was absent, and took others away with him.

Again, he threw himself into training. More time in the ring, more time fighting the 'bots. His Wrestling was still magnificent, and he endeavored to put polish on his Capoeira. Fun was still to be had, he did believe that recreation was important to the fighting spirit. Necessary, even. But now he was part of something grander than himself: An idea, a concept. A group of young people living in Robin's honor.

El Sasquatcho was a Luchador, from a line of proud fighters going back for many generations. He was the of the Blood of The Saint, a proud follower of Dama Muerte, in all of her wisdom and splendor. He was born into a gift that few in this world would ever have. It was time to curtail childish things and step more into responsibility.

When he wasn't training, he was teaching classes at the Cultural Arts Center. When he wasn't doing either, he caught a couple hours of sleep. It was a brutal schedule. After a few days of this, he awoke one morning, looked about his still spartan quarters, and came to a conclusion.

"El Sasquatcho needs some color in his rooms."

He rose, stretched, and popped his joints in several places. Grabbing a towel and a pair of boxer shorts (with smiley faces on them), he plodded out to the showers. In hindsight, he probably should have worn more than just his mask.

Several minutes later, the hairy wrestler emerged from the showers and wandered into the common area for breakfast. Thankfully, his undergarments were on this time. A bowl of oatmeal and fruit down, he settled into another day of training. More time with the 'bot, more time practicing his form. More time pushing himself.

By early afternoon, he decided that it was time for a break. After a quick snack, and a lengthy inform to Wildcat, the remaining team, and post-it on the fridge concerning his expected whereabouts, El Sasquatcho roared away in his El Camino.

He returned about two hours later, carrying cans of paint and a television. He arrived almost exactly two minutes after the latest team member was presented in costume.

"Hola, team. El Sasquatcho has gone by his storage unit to gather some belongings. Hey, New Guy! You know how to use a wrench? C'mon, El Sasquatcho needs a hand with something!"

Titans of Gotham [Spots Available!]

Didn't want to gun forward to be the first one to post after this, but... If nobody else has by the time I'm off shift tomorrow, I'm on it.

Forgotten Realms: Tales of the Dead

I really hadn't thought about that one before. Makes sense, though.

The Forcemeat Unleashed.

Forgotten Realms: Tales of the Dead

Solemn gratitude assumed itself on Keystone's features. "I appreciate, Sir Cleric." he began, bowing in return. "I'll see to this as I can, but I'll tell ya - I'm not one for consecrating anything. Mostly I just hit things 'til they can't cause hurt n'more. I heard it's connected to a spot called Delhumide, though I've little idea how. Truth told, I'm mostly concerned with a related piece of dark magic. Need to free a soul without harming it, an' then melt the bloody prison into a waffle iron."

"If you can point me to anyone in the Realms, could help me for the sake of doing good, I'd be grateful."

---

Keystone noticed again how Kaylee was pushed aside when Saran came into view. He began to seriously wonder whether she was a guardian spirit or something truly terrifying, to have that kind of ability. He still wasn't 100% on her not being a shapechanger, to use such magic fluidly and constantly as she did. Then again, Keystone knew next to nothing about magic. For all he knew, a facade would slip or an enchantment would break, and he would be known as "He Who Has Lain With An Ogre Magess". Stranger things had happened.

Were he honest with himself, he would say that he found the mystery and potential peril quite alluring.

---

During supper, Keystone discussed with Avar, Tim, and Saran what he had learned from the High Priest of Tyr that morning, and asked of them their opinion. "It's an interesting position I'm finding myself in, y'see. I could try to follow the path that Glith took, but that'd take me into Thay proper, looks like, unless I've missed something. Could learn more. Or, I could try for the help of others with thick walls and powerful magic. The Dwarven kingdoms come to mind. I put off most Elven folk, thinking on it. Big, lumbering Human with two pieces of dark magic'll probably get pincushioned on sight. If there's a closer suggestion, I'm keen on hearing it."

Keystone was a bit anxious on the subject of the old smith's work on his new Bouncer's Helpers. "I'm mighty grateful for your efforts, Master Rocksteady. I would have been satisfied if they were Dwarfcraft and battle worthy, with a good hard surface suitable for bludgeoning those what deserve it. Hearing that they're that, plus something that'd make your forebearers proud... It'd be insulting to glimpse them too early. I'll wait for the big unveiling tomorrow. And I'd appreciate hearing as much as you can say concerning 'em then, as well. I'm also damned near giddy to see what you can do with a cold-wrought waffle iron, good sir. I promise, I will help keep you in good food as long as I'm around."

He glanced over at Glith's sword after noticing Rocksteady's irritated gaze. "That's an ugly thing, to be sure. I'm looking forward to when it can be re-cast as kitchen utensils. Make no worry, it'll be gone as I take my leave. ...you know, the priest did mention burying and consecrating the other item, might could help with this, too..."

Supper otherwise passed with everyone getting their fill. Keystone insisted on clearing the table as Avar and Tim took their leave. With an open surface, the presently stuffed brawler made quick work producing paper and pen from his pack, a peculiar look of near obsession crossing his face.

While he still held the day's labors fresh in his head, Keystone committed it to paper. "Pelmeni... excellent work, that." He had something similar back home, though it was more like a meat pie or loaf of bread with savories precooked and then baked inside. So long as it was cold out, the pelmeni would make for excellent traveling fare. He asked other questions as they cooked, and was quite intent on recording them as well. The thought was to start a diary of sorts - primarily dedicated to his culinary pursuits.

Keystone had a great deal memorized from epicurean pursuits during his adventures, and so much more from home. This little breather in between things trying to kill him gave the hulking culinarian a moment of epiphany. How many people get the opportunity to do this? Sure, he goes on these long journeys, some voluntary (most not), and does some good while he's out, but what did he have to show for it? His scars told the stories of a hundred fights. More would be added before he was done, certainly. Writing down the tales of his second love, cooking, seemed a slightly more cultured use of his time. Something he could be proud of. Something that would bring that culture to, and uplift, the slums of his home.

When he felt it was time to settle down more, he wished to capitalize on his abilities, culinary and martial. Maybe he would actually create the Northern Ironfist Temple, the cover story he said aloud to throw off the soldiers from two days prior. Maybe that Temple would have available lodging. Maybe that lodging would have a well recognized cuisine that would draw many. Just maybe, it would draw students; chefs and fighters alike. Monk-like followers, people like himself of an occidental culture. Humans and Dwarves, those most common from his place of origin, as Western Monks.

The thought of a Dwarven Monk of the Keystone Way amused him, probably more than it should. A second later, the serious concept intrigued him.

Though it seemed like he was lost in his own thoughts for quite some time, it was merely enough to write down a single recipe and annotate it with Saran's input. He'd definitely have to start a book or three. Tomorrow morning, he meant to procure a blank one, along with a couple of things for breakfast. For right now, he had someone to thank.

"Miss Saran, it has been a right lovely day," he began, moving to rub her shoulders, "and I'm thinking you deserve some credit for it. It's the first day in quite a while that no one's tried to kill me, as I'm aware, anyway. Plus, taking the day shopping and cooking, learning a little something about it; without price. And spending time with good people. Depending upon what happens next two days, I might find myself missing this all too soon."

He paused in his efforts to relax his hostess's tension, and poured himself another small ale. "It is a distinct bit of happy gettin' to make your acquaintance, ma'am. Now as I'm healed up proper, to be blunt, I'm positive I can be of more vigorous service to your ladyship this evening, whenever you'd care to turn in. Although, a shared drink is also one of them starlit moments of quiet serendipity."

The last turn of phrase Keystone uttered, while somewhat poetic, seemed out of place with his underclass accent. Almost a point of irony, though one could rarely tell with his sense of humor; ever a half-step off of most of society's. Such was a curse of those born beneath those born beneath privilege.