Sigil

Forgotten Realms: Tales of the Dead

No worries. Chilling with scotch, Turkey, and in-laws anyway.

Old-School AD&D, Forgotten Realms

Another quick nudge, let's see who's interested. Slots are very available.

Forgotten Realms: Tales of the Dead

Keystone nodded his thanks and took a gulp of water. For all of his efforts this morning, he was more thirsty than he'd realized. He continued until the mug was half-drained before breathing a muted note of gratitude. The mug was handled rather awkwardly in the process as Keystone hadn't bothered to remove his new knuckle dusters. Much like a kid with a new toy, he had no desire to remove them just that instant, inconvenience be damned.

The mug found its way to a flat surface just as the illusory dummy appeared. While not startled, Keystone's defensive instincts leapt to the forefront; his hands raised and his stance dropped slightly, one foot drifting behind the other before he was fully aware as to the details of his situation. All of this freely used magic tended to irk him. He was beginning to trust this spellcaster, with some apprehension, though it was hard to suppress his more ingrained initial reactions.

A glance toward Saran and Avar assessed their own reactions to the new thaumaturgical arrival. Mild amusement (probably at him) hinted at safety, before Keystone realized fully what was expected of him at the moment. A slow grin developed on the elated brawler, birthed partly of foolishness and partly childish glee at getting an opportunity to test out his new acquisition. He snapped into a stance proper and executed a textbook example of two-step infighting.

From a middle stance, Keystone drew his back leg in close and back out wide in front of him, effectively dropping his stance mid-step. Using the momentum of the lateral movement to reinforce his attack, he executed a classic counteroffensive combination - a flowing parry block batted away an arm of the magical construct, opening its defense to accept a near simultaneous backfist, connecting with its temple a tenth of a second later.

The striking hand immediately turned into a three-fingered claw, looping into its clavicle (or reasonable facsimile thereof) which was quickly followed up by a side facing forefist to the sternum. A chest splitting blow against a human opponent, Keystone took a half step into the hit and rotated his torso as the punch developed.

Ordinarily, this combination called for a palm heel strike; his passive Ironfist Technique would still be effective thusly, but the curious pugilist wanted to experience the full effect of his new armament connecting with a target at optimal impact.

***

Keystone smiled broadly at Avar and Saran in turn. "I bloody well hope I don't have to fight another Glith. Rotten bastard near did me in. Then again... I didn't have these last time."

An idea suddenly hit Keystone, birthed of the bits and pieces from their conversation. Source of gold ale and gold, magical constructs, even his own reluctance around the arcane arts. While not a full fledged plan, it was the embryo stage of a course of action.

"Gen'rous hosts, by your leave, I'll be ruining your kitchen for a while. Bread pudding for starts, bean soup and fresh brown bread, maybe a roast duck or three with oat muffins and sugar yams come suppertime? Oh! And I have the most lovely turnovers in mind for tea. Remind me, do your people take tea? Tea proper, I mean. Lovely meal, that. Either way, tons of stuff mostly prepared, it'll be done in short order."

"And..." he began in lower tones, "Once we're all done for the day, I might know how we can get some extra gold together and me some answers, though I'll need help. Let's talk come suppertime, eh?"

He gave a look to both Saran and Avar, acknowledging the both of them, again enacting his ritualistic gesture of bowing his head slightly and tapping his knuckles together. Habits, hard to break. Especially after a morning of exercise, forms, and abusing a magical sparring dummy. The clink of his knuckles this time was more muted, prompting an amazed shake of his head and smile.

"Trade secrets, eh? Can respect that, Master Smith. This alloy, what do you call it among lay folk like me, so's one might request the material when more gold comes 'round?"

Keystone smiled, nodded, and made his way indoors to dress and begin the day anew with his culinary prowess.

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

In all fairness, we haven't asked each other what our names are, either. The interesting bit about expecting a horrible, intestinal-ripping death may have transfixed our attention. My guy's still waiting to see what our hosts have to say, now that the less aggressive have filed out of the room. Kinda figured there'd be more of an information dump than "expect to die".

Is there a point to gathering a group of hero descendants in one place? The darkness is coming, so it'd be safe to assume that the guys doing the recruiting have a plan, or at least an idea, as to where to start. Cricket is waiting to see how they're going to organize this group, catalog skill sets, assign duties.

Not to say that he didn't appreciate the meal, mind you.

Titans of Gotham [Spots Available!]

Or, there's always the internet. The entirety of human knowledge, accessible from a device that fits into a pocket. Sadly, the majority of mankind uses it to post pictures of their supper, look up pornography, and browse cat videos.

Amorphous ice... If memory serves, doesn't that only naturally occur in space? Road trip to the Watchtower to train, anybody?

Titans of Gotham [Spots Available!]

The outpouring of support concerning his desire to install bullbars on his vehicle was staggering. While El Sasquatcho was all about teamwork and togetherness, it really only took one, maybe two people to do this particular job. Still, at least they were doing this together. Maybe he could even convince them to help move his stuff in.

"Meet El Sasquatcho in the parking lot! I will just be a moment!" he called, recovering his armloads of belongings and shuffling them off to his room.

Before joining the rest of the team, El Sasquatcho poked his head into the training room, noting Zero's growing frustration. He waited a few seconds for a quieter moment, and cleared his throat to announce his presence.

"Cero? Por favor... un momento of your time. I could maybe give some advice? The ice you are using, it is not strong enough for you to use like a sword, yes? It has no... como dice, de tensión um... Bendy strength! Yes, it does not bend. You hit, it shatters. Ice is not metal. Maybe a different tool?"

The masked wrestler realized that he may very well be coming off as a know-it-all, but he meant it kindly. Seeing as his teammate was already rather frustrated, he figured it probably wouldn't hurt. On the other hand, a fresh set of eyes may be just the thing to yield a simple answer.

"El Sasquatcho remembers from High Escuela, my Earth Science class, that the strongest ice, the very clear stuff you find in lakes that crazy people drive trucks over - it is made despacio, eh, very slowly. If you insist on making a blade, perhaps prudence would be in the making of it slowly, and well before you need to swing it."

"Or maybe you would better like to be left alone. If you want to talk more, we will be servicing the Vato Truck outside for the next bit of time."

The broad Luchador made his way back out, and up into the light outside. He strolled purposefully toward his El Camino, the cargo bed laden with various furnishings and personal effects. After a bit of rummaging, he recovered a particularly impressive and elaborate set of what looked like used ironworks, and a flat box with bold, block lettering, reading, "Push Bar Installation Kit, El Camino 1970". Putting his back to the door, El Sasquatcho slid down to a seated position, and took a piece of emory cloth to the rougher spots on his bullbars.

"Join if you like, my friends. El Sasquatcho needs to sand this a bit, lift it into position, and mount it onto the frame. Then, the detail work. El Sasquatcho has not decided whether to go with the matte black, or something more festive. The black would go well with the black cherry paintjob as it is, but... finalmente El Sasquatcho will want to accent it some."

"Anybody got any music?"

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

I went a little long with the introductory post, sorry about that. Got a clear image in my head and had to commit it to paper, of sorts.

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

Days Ago

A tiny point of light flitted curiously from tree to tree, nearing an unusual sight near the edge of the ancient forest. A boy, by the looks of him, one of the Shadow Folk that took up residence in the forest so long ago. Several generations of their people had lived and died here; the lives of most of these people were mere eyeblinks of time compared to the fairies that were present since the beginning. Some few of them lasted longer – three, maybe four fluttering of eyelashes by the little fey’s reckoning, but they were rare. Long ago the shadow people built their home here, and made it into a place where they constantly trained for a war that never quite happened.

Many battles had come and gone, but apparently not the one for which they trained. Generations upon generations of these industrious (but scary) people fighting, learning, and passing along their knowledge to the next group of kids to come to adulthood in their dark little town, like a brutal, stealthy snowball picking up size and speed, rolling downhill over the course of centuries.

The fairy didn’t much like them. Admittedly, she wanted to know more about them, especially when they did something unexpected, like the boy she came to spy upon. They rarely left the forest, and never alone unless one of the older ones told them to. But no, this one seemed content, even happy, to strike it off on his own. She had been watching him for some time now. He was strange, this one. Seemed nicer than most, but very strange.

On this particular early evening, the boy was sitting cross-legged near the coals of a small fire, his back to a stout tree. A Deku Stick covered in resin lay suspended above the glowing embers, curing in the heat. The features of the shadow person were obscured by the hood of a long brown coat, but she knew them well. He looked like most of his people did; thick, white hair and red eyes, tawny skin, but unlike most of the Shadow Folk, he bore a mark around his left eye – three triangles above and a teardrop below. It was a common symbol among these people, but the fairy had not seen it inscribed ON one of them in a very long time.

The fairy hovered a little closer, out of the protection of the greenery the forest provided. Ever nearer to the Shadowkin boy, she felt compelled to make some kind of actual contact if he was leaving for good. Unsure as to why, the tiny sprite just needed, for whatever reason, to announce her presence.

A sudden rustling in the leaves nearby caught her attention, right off to her side. It was just a fat squirrel, doing fat squirrel things around the base of a nearby tree. It was hardly worth the head turn, but being this close to one of the Shadow Folk made her a little jumpy. Her gaze rolled back to the boy in the brown coat, just in time to see a triangle of sharpened steel dangerously dart past her. The movement to throw the weapon didn’t even register with the fairy; it was as if it flew from somewhere in his coat of its own accord.

A sickeningly short squealing sound issued from where the squirrel used to be. In place of a happy, fat woodland creature, there swung a lifeless sack of fur and meat, pinned to a tree by a kunai dagger. Its death was mercifully quick, despite its bushy tail continuing to spasm a few times more before finally relaxing and joining the rest of its body in motionless defeat.

Shocked that some outcast kid from the Shadow Folk would be so cavalier with hurling a knife near her, the gossamer winged fey buzzed right between he and his kill, put hands to hips, and shouted,

“Hey! Listen!”

The kid in the brown coat was already on his feet to recover the squirrel. Hearing what the diminutive creature of magic said to him, he paused, furrowed his brow, and gave her an otherwise blank expression. Since the time of the Hero (when he was still a Hero), a fairy saying that to one of the larger folk could be considered quite insulting, depending upon presentation.

Of course he saw the fairy before he threw his kunai. He’d have to be completely oblivious not to. She had just been trying so very hard to stay hidden, he didn’t want her to feel discouraged. This was his first time seeing a fairy so close up, and he marveled at her tiny, delicate features.

Even if she did seem livid with him.

Her fury at the upstart youth faded almost instantly upon looking at his face. He was in awe of her. A broad, warm smile upswept his features, melting away the jagged, dangerous opinion she had of the boy. Something else, too – this was no child. Youth, perhaps. She had been following the young man around for a while now and never realized this. It was all the same to her, though; all of these people were kids compared to her. Even the ones that outlived the rest of their kind. Yeah, she would keep referring to him as a boy.

The fairy’s face must have softened, because instantly the young Shadow had darted around her before she was aware. The kid was fast. Alarmingly so. He recovered his kill and ran back to his little fire. In a flash, he had skinned and gutted the woodland appetizer, much to the disgust of the fey lady, still hovering in the same spot as before. He waved her over with bloodstained fingers, and threw the carcass onto a cooler spot of the coals with a bit of sweet grass.

She shook her head and flew closer. “You’re Cricket, aren’t you?”

The youth nodded, still smiling as he poked his supper around the coals with a stick.

“You’re that weird Sheikah who talks to bugs.” she continued flatly, even as Cricket raised an eyebrow and assumed a faux bemused look. “Can you show me?”

Perhaps the fairy wasn’t trying to be rude. If so, she was demonstrating measured success in the attempt. But, this was Cricket’s first discussion with a fairy, such as it was. He would remain civil. He sighed, and briefly shook his head. Pointing at the sun, sinking slowly toward the horizon, he wagged his fingers separately and lowered his hand until it came level with hills in the distance. The fairy understood.

“When it’s dark? You’ll show me when it gets dark? Ok!” She seemed a little too excited by this.

Cricket flipped over his squirrel, inspected the still-curing Deku Stick over the coals, and began cleaning his knife. After another quarter hour, he removed his squirrel from the heat and set it on a flat rock along the edge of his fire pit. Cricket’s casual gesture, offering some of the squirrel to his dinner guest was answered swiftly as the fairy rushed her tiny hands to her mouth in hopes of preventing vomit from falling earthward. Cricket shrugged, wiggled out of his coat, and took a big bite.

As the last light of the day caressed the trees on the edge of the Great Forest, Cricket picked up his freshly cured Deku Stick and gave it a twirl. The resin, activated by heat, had osmosed into the light, fibrous wood of his new staff, giving it amazing tensile strength and flexibility. Enough to use as a walking stick or martial tool, it was versatile, strong, and if necessary, disposable. He easily spun it in his hands, making the air around him perilous with his practiced movements. No mere stick anymore, this was a proper Deku Staff.

Not that he really needed another weapon, mind you. He already possessed several knives, two flat and single-edged kodachi short swords, and (most surprisingly) a deep red boomerang of ancient design, familiar to the fairy. She gasped, audibly. She knew exactly what it was AND what it meant, but kept quiet. It cemented a decision for her, when she saw it. Whomever this kid is and wherever he was going, she was going, too.

Day slowly turned to night as the young Sheikah reached into a case and removed a masterfully constructed violin. He raised the bow to the strings, cycled a breath, and readied himself for the upcoming symphony. Before he could begin, the mischievous sprite lighted upon the neck of his instrument, and said in a very matter-of-factly tone,

“You’re Cricket. I’m Faye. Of course Faye isn’t my real name, but Cricket isn’t yours, either, is it?”

Cricket shrugged and nodded in agreement. Faye continued, “You’re about to make a big mistake tomorrow, aren’t you? No one’s supposed to leave the forest without permission, and no kid is supposed to go without a fairy. Now, I know you’re not a Kokiri, but the last kid that left like this wasn’t either, and believe you me, he really needed a fairy.”

Her face darkened, as if remembering something tragic. “Ok, so he isn’t the best example. Look, I know things about the bigger world, kid. You need me. And I was asked to keep an eye on you. I’m coming with, and that’s that!”

Cricket smiled and nodded his consent, then shooed Faye off of his violin and began to play. The light of the big, white moon through the trees and soft red of the still-glowing embers before him played little tricks on the eyes of would-be observers of the scene. Not that there were any, except for Faye and the occasional nocturnal bird.

Crisp sharp notes sprang from the enchanting instrument, nimble fingers guiding short, fluid strokes of horsehair across silvery strings. Rhythmic chirps on the highest register of the violin greeted the night air, matching pitch and tempo with the crickets native to the area. His efforts immediately bore fruit.

The sound of the little black insects grew louder as they moved closer, beginning to chirp in unison. Soon, the sound threatened to overpower that of the Sheikah’s music, until he staggered his own notes between the new cadence of the crickets. A good third of the assembled insects switched to match his notes again. The alternating sound of cricket and cricket made for a powerful natural percussion as he began to play in earnest.

It was not so much that Cricket plied his talent, more than he seemed to open an unseen gate that allowed the dulcet, magical tones to flow in an ever changing yet perfectly blending stream of emotion-inspiring melody. He played with no particular song in mind, allowing the music to go as it seemed to need. Free-flowing sweetness, ethereal, like cold starlight through a strand of pouring honey, a piece of his soul made audible. Frightening at times, but beautiful beyond imagining, his song continued.

Faye could not believe what she was witnessing. In a life as long as hers, she had personally seen only two other events which affected her in this manner. It seemed to pull raw emotion from her tiny heart and splay it open for her to see, uncovered and honest, without reservation and without barrier. She hovered where she was, mouth agape, blinking away tears of forgotten feelings and glowing faintly in the young night.

From deeper in the woods, fireflies signaled again and again, a swirl of visual beauty and confusion that echoed Faye’s thoughts. How dare this child, this child of a race that hunts and kills under orders or their own dubious reasons, this unfit, unspeaking outcast make her feel anything this strongly? And what under Nayru’s sky gave him the right to play such music that would stay with her until the day her light was extinguished? She understood now, with no small amount of annoyance, that she was bound to the Shadow Folk youth.

Cricket’s concert was quite done before Faye realized that the music has stopped. Like a flavor lingering long after the fruit was finished, the experience of this music kept moving in her mind, fading slowly, bit by bit until she realized that most of the crickets had gone and the night was still again.

Most, not all of the crickets were gone. In the gloom, the fairy’s sharp eyes caught the outline of her new companion, bent down with his arm extended. Tiny chirps sang from his arm, indicating more than one of the little black bugs had decided to remain with him. He nodded, again presenting an engaging smile. The masterful manipulator of music and emotion was gone, replaced by the cordial (if strangely quiet) Woodland Sheikah.

Fading into the darkness of the woods about them, Cricket gathered a few more sticks for the fire. When satisfied with the rejuvenated blaze, he scrambled up the nearest tree and settled comfortably onto the crook of a large branch, confident that any unwanted visitors would be drawn to the light and unaware of his presence until he deemed it necessary. If it needed to be deemed with something sharp, Cricket was prepared.

He settled into a light sleep, the occasional chirp of his new cricket friends helping him drift off into dreamless respite. Faye, now committed to her charge as the Sheikah’s companion, dimmed her light and flew carefully up the tree. It would be a first for her, sharing lodging (of sorts) with a Shadow kid and a couple of insects. She had a feeling she would be in for many other firsts before this chapter of her life was over.

In the morning, Cricket slowly opened his eyes, allowing them to adjust to the cold, grey light of the dawn before committing his body to any attention-drawing large motion. Confident that his surroundings were safe, Cricket slowly stretched and lowered himself to the ground. While admittedly more comfortable moving about in the dark, he was preparing for overland travel. Crossing the plains of Hyrule at night had always been perilous, even moreso in recent years. This day needed to start early and end early, hopefully with the red-eyed youth locating appropriate shelter, or at least a good, stout tree to climb before the sun surrendered to the dusk yet again.

Some force, unknown and constant, compelled Cricket forward. Silent certainty filled him; this is where his destiny lay. His first steps in his new journey took him out of the Kokiri Forest and into Hyrule Field at a jog, pacing himself for the long road to come. New friends, or at least new companions, joined the determined Sheikah as he moved ever forward to whatever fate, or the Goddesses, had in store for him.

For once, the Sheikah youth tried to be open and non-secretive with new people in an unfamiliar setting. It wasn't going very well for him. He felt exposed. He could feel the eyes of others linger on him; judgemental eyes, curious, some even fearful. He shrugged off his insecurities as best he could and made a move for the pile of food.

The sheer variety of people present made it rather difficult to melt into the background, so he didn't bother trying to blend in. To attempt to do so would, paradoxically, merely serve to draw attention to himself. Taking the opposite route, the shadow kid leaned his deku staff against a chair to reserve it, ran to the gigantic table of delicacies, and loaded up a plate as high as it would go without causing a foodalanche.

When he returned to his seat, he proceeded to inhale everything in short order. New foods were always interesting, especially rich, city fare. Having lived off of roots and small, open pit roasted field mammals for the last few days, the change was welcome.

There was one tiny concession that he allowed of himself, owing to his "skittish out in the open" nature: he selected a seat near a wall and a window - affording a vantage point from which to observe people as well as a potential exit if the scene got ugly. He didn't know any of these people, and while he was trying to put himself out there (achieve his destiny, and all that), he didn't want to make a stupid mistake by ignoring his instincts.

Were a person to take special note of his smaller movements, one may notice the youth pausing his rapid consumption and tilting his head to one side, as if listening to a tiny voice only he could hear. This was immediately followed by his shiny, red eyes locking on one or another of the guests with a studious, inquisitive glare. This repeated every so often, generally only directed at those who had actual Heroic relics. Every so often he would nod, occasionally smile, or shake his head as if he were mid-conversation.

He also noted the drama with some disdain. Whether or not these people were well-versed in warcraft, he was certain that when it mattered, they would provide an excellent distraction. Distraction was important; it allowed him to use his own talents more efficiently. Still, with everyone acting the part of the blustery adventurer, he didn't want to look like a pushover, or worse yet, something's meal in the near future.

In an attempt to stave off this perception, he pushed his chair back and reclined somewhat as the vocal intonations of the people with really valuable time reached a crescendo. He unbuttoned his long, brown coat, letting it fall open at his sides. His open garment revealed sleek, black attire, adorned at regular intervals with a myriad of short, stabbing implements. Setting a cheshire grin across his face, the shadowkin youth leaned forward and began drumming his fingers together.

From somewhere in the room, there issued the soft sound of crickets chirping.

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

Let's not go doing anything rash, guys. A delay isn't cause for a full-scale packing up of toys and moving to another sandbox. If this works out, and we're all into the setting and style of play, it sure as hell wouldn't hurt to have another storyline on deck to continue afterwards, though.

Don't know about you, but I'd hate it if Cricket were a one RP character. The idea has merit. Let's just see where this one goes, first.

Forgotten Realms: Tales of the Dead

The rain woke Keystone. For one groggy moment, he didn't remember where he was. The resulting bolt upright motion culminated in a defensive stance, starting his morning with urgent, ragged breaths and a shot of adrenaline more sure and effective than urinating on an electrical ward. Sleep having been made the fool of by irrational defense mechanisms, it was definitely time to begin the day.

After taking care of his more pressing morning constitutionals, Keystone stripped down to his pants and stepped out into the blinding rain. He ignored the presence of anyone else around him, and seemed to have quite forgotten the first half of his commission with Master Rocksteady, laying quietly on the stone counter. Something was bothering the large man, something intangible. Couldn't quite out a finger to it, though. Keystone needed to clear his head and get his bearings.

His lack of shirt displayed an impressive, if somewhat gruesome history. Scars, mostly blade cuts and punctures, crisscrossed his bare form over mountainous expanses of sculpted muscle. If each reminder of wounds long past told a story, it was one to fill several volumes of bardic work. This man had obviously lived a horrifying life, and he was still young. To the trained eye, one may have noted that a few of his scars seemed more methodical - not the crazed slashes of combat, but the slower manipulations of torture.

Slowly at first, he started his forms. To begin, his older training exercises; the more western movements common to the bareknuckle pugilists from which he took his origin. Series upon series of linking jabs, crosses, and uppercuts, interspersed with middle blocks, high redirections, and knee shots. Dancing footwork, the situational type of fighting used over and over by necessity, discarding what doesn't work and reinforcing what does, until a style emerged. Streetfighting and ringfighting blended into something lethal, passed down from many teachers over generations.

The rain continued to hammer down upon him as he switched into a maintenance workout, using his bodyweight to strain targeted muscles in slow, nigh acrobatic movements. By the time Avar returned to his forge, Keystone was balanced on his knuckles, feet straight in the air, slowly pushing himself from the cobblestones beneath his fists and lowering his body back down with determined, arduous repetition. When he seemed to near the limits of human expectation, he kicked himself out of his latest masochistic exercise and onto his feet.

The white noise of water slamming earthward did well to isolate Keystone in his own thoughts. Mulling over the past two weeks (that seemed like months and months), he tried to make sense of everything. There was an angle he was missing. He was like a child wandering into an adult conversation midway; he needed perspective. Keystone drove emotion out of his head and settled into another collection of forms, this one less occidental and more leg-based. His bare feet slapped down into the cold water flooding over the fitted stone as he moved from low to high stance, and back down again. His movements became more fluid, less prone to quick attacks and more toward flowing counterattacks and open hand strikes.

Another round of grueling calisthenics down, and he was quite tired. A sudden flash of inspiration had him, and despite his previous effort he began the forms taught to him by Grandmaster Shein-Fang. Slowly at first, to cement the exact movements, and again at a forceful pace. Keystone meant to incorporate the teachings into his repertoire of fighting skills; possibly the real prize of his adventure along the Golden Way.

Finally, he stopped. Keystone bowed his head and tapped his knuckles together in front of him, a ritualistic gesture if ever there were one, and trudged back to the forge. Saran had come and gone back inside by this time, and Keystone briefly entered the domicile to retrieve his steel mirror and one of his knives. He wandered back outside, careful to stay under what awning there was to afford some protection from the rain, raked his hair back, and raised his blade to his neck.

Keystone tilted his head back, eyes transfixed upon his mirror, as he began to pass the blade across his darker beard stubble. Underneath the disappearing facial hair, there hid more scars. Scars, but a cleaner, more polished brawler. As needed, he stuck his knife out into the rain to rinse it, and in sort order he was fresh-faced, if a bit itchy.

There was a distant look about him, as he looked over to Avar. While he worked, Keystone spoke in low, even tones.

"I'd like to thank you, formally as I can, Master Smith. You've taken me into your home, and let's face it, I'm not exactly the trustworthy-looking type. I'm not sure what's going to happen in the near, but I'd like to count you among my friends. I ain't got a lot of 'em, but what few I count dear. I am at your service, if'n you need it, sir."

Keystone's eyes wandered to the shiny, black metal. His eyes expressed childlike mirth, and a tired smile formed on his freshly shaven face. "Those look right painful, Rocksteady. Love the look, what're they made of? Hell, give me the guided tour, as it were. What're these beauties capable of?"

Handling them reverently, Keystone slid them onto his large hands. He felt the weight of them as he tightened his fingers into fists, and nodded his satisfaction. Marveling at his new acquisition, he wondered aloud again, "What ARE these made of?"