Sigil

The Legend of Zelda: Fragments of Hope

@Kafka Komedy@Jester Acharis@Sho Minazuki@The Fox Without@Bai Suzhen@Sigil@Gowi@Zeroth

Hey, all. Been a bit since the last post. Things are getting underway, curious as to who's still in this thing. Post worthy opportunity, followed by a short(ish) trip to the action.

🦄 Duplicity - D&D Style Fantasy Rp Adventure (Completed)

Keystone

Location: Road North of Salarn, One hour north of Camp

Interacting With: Cremwise, Calanon, Lerraina, Everyone In The Wagon

Keystone strained to raise the corner of the wagon. It wanted to move, it really did. But even with assistance, it just wasn't enough. Whatever they were hauling must be heavy indeed. If he could just divest the conveyance of a couple hundred pounds, surely that would be sufficient to allow the large man (and not quite as large Elf) enough purchase to separate the wheel from the road's muddy Bastille, bent upon holding it fast within.

And let us not forget the Orcs. Oh yes, the hordes of angry, greenskinned, pissed-off Orcs that lived right around this area, utterly annoyed at the presence of Humans and other, less Orcy races. From his last encounter with them, the tiniest scrap of possibility arose that the Orcs didn't really start this conflict. Keystone imagined that were he an Orc, he'd be rightly upset at the non-Orc him if he found himself creeping about in his forest so soon after an attack.

Truly, he had a dizzying intellect. Of sorts.

Either way, Orcs or Undead, Keystone had no desire to be out in the middle of hostile territory during a downpour as the overall season was transitioning out of autumn. His approach to informing the others was terse and quite direct. He poked his head inside the covered portion of the wagon with their living cargo, exclaiming with faux cheer, "Wakey wakey, li'l ladies! It's buggerin' off time! before immediately continuing in his normal, low voice, "Nah seriously, shake it out, then. Wagon's stuck in a rut, need to lift it out. I got a tarp in there you lot can stand under, if'n y'need it."

The upstart Pugilist put his back to the wagon again, bracing to make another attempt. He set his jaw firm and cut an angry, determined glare. He would lift this wagon out of the mud, or projectile-shit a kidney in the attempt.

Before he rectally expelled an internal organ, however, Keystone heard a small but clear voice mention something about needing a hand from the edge of the treeline. Another mystery guest, crawling out of the forest. This seemed to be happening a lot lately. The large man's level of acceptance of these events was slowly turning toward the positive. It wasn't quite there yet, but he had reached grudging tolerance. Maybe there was some higher metaphysical purpose to them being thrown together. Best to wait and see. At least until the next town. All the same, he had to take the opportunity to Snark.

"Do I need an 'and? Look lady, it's been a day. I swear by all things Good and Bacony, if you start applaudin', I'll bloody thump ya." He sighed, resigning himself to the inevitable of his situation. "C'mon then, best get with it. Name of Keystone. We're headed that way. We'll get to the whys and hows after we're movin'."

🦄 Darker Than Black - Merged With T.S.

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Caesar Gonzalez

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Location: Street
Interacting With: Alicia, Lorna

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Continued contact with the roasting pan (possible irony here) was making Caesar's hands uncomfortably cold. Having been in the freezer and containing frozen custardy delights, it was quite clearly communicating to the venerable Mexican its desire to lower his core body temperature, possibly as an act of revenge for being smothered with chocolatey pepper topping. It seemed like an excellent idea at the time. Point of fact, it still seemed like an excellent idea. Maybe if it went over well at the block party, he'd invest a bit of fluid capital into development. Possibly produce a workable product for ice cream trucks or bodegas. But these were thoughts for another time. Right at this moment, Caesar was being interrogated by his only legitimate daughter.

”Papi, what the hell is that?”

"Hey there, M'hija." he began in an uncharacteristically relaxed, almost pleasant voice. "The landlord was happy to take care of the carpet for you. Used the time to contribute to the fiesta. I call them "Engelatos". Try one?"

Caesar opened the corner of the foil covering the container to allow Alicia access to the sweet and spicy contents therein. "Talk to me about taquitos, M'hija. What do you need?" Though his attention was focused on his daughter, Caesar glanced over to Lorna, motioning to offer her an Engelato.

“I’ll get some in a mo, El Jefe! Gonna be gettin’ me some smokey goodness first!”

The older man smirked just a little. He seemed to be in unusually high spirits today. That is to say, he wasn't angry, sulking, and/or intoxicated while sharpening a long blade of some kind while writing down a list of names in a pocket notebook labelled "Lista de Asesinato". Maybe this Vacation thing was a good idea. Regarding Lorna's postponing of his culinary haphazardry in favor of Smoker-Boy's fabulous meat products, he leaned in a little closer to Alicia, intoning, "Smokey Goodness, eh? Wonder what she means by that."

Ice cream and a joke all in one day. He must be in high spirits, indeed.

His high spirits were blunted somewhat by the presence of the media along the edges of the gathering. Yeah, someone died the last time a big party went down. Now here stood the various representatives of the news; print, television, or other. They'd likely be hanging around into the darker hours of the evening, interviewing people, poking around the neighborhood, and such. Given Caesar's experience with reporters, he wouldn't at all be surprised if at least one hangs around to see if something else horrible occurs, or worse yet - tries to stir up their own trouble for a story.

Maybe it was his own pessimism, but this setting had the potential for something unpleasant. Forcing himself to lighten up (or at least outwardly appear so), he smiled and looked to his Alicia, querying, "There a place to put these before we get to it?"

The subtle shift in his posture, unrecognizable by most, hinted that he was at least halfway back on the clock.

🦄 Duplicity - D&D Style Fantasy Rp Adventure (Completed)

Keystone

Location: Road North of Salarn, One hour north of Camp

Interacting With: Cremwise, Wagon

The rain hammered down on the earth and everything upon it, mercilessly and seemingly without end. The white noise sound of the troublesome weather still reminded Keystone of a steak sizzling or bacon frying, reminding him yet again that he had a substandard supper the previous night and no breakfast this morning. It was a matter of creature comfort, anyway; Keystone was accustomed to hardship and missing meals. Didn't mean he was happy about it, though.

Looking at the situation through the faintest veil of optimism, it could be worse. True, there were Orc corpses back down the way a bit, probably a lot more that would be very unhappy to see a group of non-Orcs traveling down a road they claimed as their own. Also true, Mother Nature was being particularly unkind that morning. But, they all could be dead. Point of fact, a very hostile group tried to make that very thing happen about an hour ago. Plus, Keystone's coat kept the vast majority of the rain off of his body.

Sadly, it was far from the first time that someone wanted to kill the stalwart Pugilist. In a way, it was almost comforting. Whenever someone wanted him dead, Keystone took it as a sign that just might be doing something right. Granted, it wasn't a foolproof litmus of his moral choices. Just happened to work out that way.

Keystone's optimism took a slight hit when the wagon lurched to a sudden stop. The rain was excellent at washing away tracks. It was also excellent at saturating unpaved roads and turning them hazardous to laden merchant conveyances. Or, to put it in plainer, more Keystonespeak, "Bloody wankmuffin's stuck, it is."

Front left wheel, sunk a third of the way to the hub. There must have been a rock or some other obstruction underneath the surface as well, because that horse just couldn't seem to get the proper angle to put one more revolution on the wheel. Indeed, the bloody wankmuffin was quite stuck.

"Oi, 'less one o' you lot's got some magic what can un-frig this, better let me on it."

Keystone probed the wetness and silt of the ground around the wheel. Lots of squishy dirt, gravel, and a couple of largeish pieces of flat stone. It could be some time if they stopped to dig out the rock and fill in the hole with gravel and packed dirt (the prescribed but temporary fix of wagoneers everywhere), but time was not their friend. Not with a tribe of Orcs that wanted to use their faces for drum skins. Instead, Keystone ambled up to the cart backwards, grabbed the bottom of the wagon bed in his hands, and did his best to raise that one corner of Cremwise's wagon over the stone that held it fast. For good measure, he planted a bootheel on the offending rock, hoping to use the same effort to push the ornery lump of minerals downward.

"Nnneeerrrrrraahhhhh..." grunted Keystone, straining to get whatever purchase he could from he wagon. "Gravy's Sake, Cremmy, get yer fongin' horse forward, eh?"

🧚🏻‍♀️ The Walking Dead - Year 6 Part 1

Astridgette

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Cresting the low hill came a sight not commonly seen in this part of the world, or any really under common expectation. But it was a new world, or rather, the New Dark Age of the same old world. Looking at it from that point of view, the sight really shouldn’t have been that unexpected.

　　　Two women on horseback made their way down Smokey Rd, south and west of Newnan proper. They were armored and garbed like time travelers who hit the wrong number on the dial, mistakenly showing up a millennium or so late for one of the many Scandinavian incursions onto Saxon lands. One of the women rode point, if only slightly, eyes bright and searching for anything of note in the scenery before them. She wore a long hauberk of heavy gauge chain mail, matte of color with impressive coverage, and bore a large Viking roundshield on her back. One hand grasped a winged spear, taller than herself, the other hand controlling the reins of her destrier. Were one to look closely, they would notice more modern clothing peeking from underneath her armor.

　　　The other woman’s horse was hitched to a wagon, pulling goods of some kind, not discernible to any outside of the transport. She looked like a relic from a former era, even more so than her counter part. Each bit of leather on her corset and her pauldrons reeked old world craftsmanship and endless battles. Her cornflower blue tunic which lay beneath her seemingly restrictive binds was stained in blood and mended several times over. Blonde hair was intricately braided back out of her face and flowed halfway down her back; partially covering the round shield secured there. The sheath of her sword bounced against the top of her boots with each stride of the pearl white draft horse on which she was mounted. The cart rolled steadily behind her with each clack of her steeds shoes against the concrete.

　　　Off in the distance just ahead of them a single Walker shambled down the street as if it was following something that had passed long before they arrived; only to finally divert his attention towards the women as he heard one of the horses ninny behind him. ”Bri, got a live one,” she called out as she glanced towards her lone companion of the last year.

　　　”Yeah, Astrid. I see him. Gimmie a sec.”
　　　
　　　Bridgette nudged her horse forward, unslinging her steel reinforced roundshield from her back. She slid her grip farther back on her spear, nearer to the spiked counterbalance on the butt end of the weapon. As the horse picked up speed, her blonde braids trailed behind her like a tournament favor. For a brief moment, she looked much more like her companion - a product of a simpler (and only slightly less horrifying) era.
　　　
　　　Astrid pulled back on the reins and sat there, resting her hand over the hilt of her blade as she waited. Just because there was only one in sight currently did not mean there weren’t more. These things always seemed to travel in packs; like damn locusts just waiting for a fresh meal. They had survived this long by playing it smart about how they handled matters outside of their walls; they weren’t about to make some stupid mistake, like taking things for granted.
　　　
　　　She closed the distance between their cart and the lone Biter in narrow seconds, her spear angled ahead of her like a light lance. The application of classically trained precision found the speartip deftly penetrating the eye socket of the shambling bastard, removing it from the unpleasant state of animation in which it resided. Bridgette angled her horse hard to the right and relaxed her arm, turning the animal about and freeing her blade from the undead skull without incident.
　　　
　　　Trotting back to the wagon, the mounted anachronism took stock of their situation, really feeling out the events of the past couple of hours. Whenever they got to where they were going, she still wasn’t sure whether she wanted to help them or kill them.

Four Hours Earlier

　　　Astrid pulled on the leather straps of her horses pack, tightening things down. The night before hadn’t been too bad and they had been able to take a couple of shifts of sleep. It was time to get moving before the sun got too high in the sky and the heat of Hell, I mean Georgia, started to make itself known. Patting down Edgar, she rubbed his neck a bit before glancing over towards Bridgette. ”We need to move out soon.”
　　　
　　　
　　　Then the sound hit, like a tornado only diesel fueled and Astrid’s brow arced slowly above one eye as her head turned. Stepping towards the tree line she picked up her shield and drew her long sword. Then she saw it, this monstrosity of a machine roaring down the street with some woman perched on top of the cab like a damned owl. ”What the hell was that?” she asked more to the air than actually to Bridgette but she figured her companion would answer her anyways in a very colorful manner.
　　　
　　　”It looks like a train grudge fucked a dump truck and put the kid through Catholic school.” Bridgette answered. ”Someone must have worked goddamn hard to make a truck that ugly. ” Astrid smirked slightly at Bri’s description, the woman had a way with words, especially when it came to cursing. She half wondered at times if the woman had some celt blood in her.
　　　
　　　As much as Bridgette made fun of the vehicle, it was impressive. The machining alone that must have gone into it piqued her interest. Hell, just overcoming the road vibration factor when attaching the monster cowcatcher in the front must have taken weeks to figure out without electronics or internet research time. And unless she was mistaken, was that the scent of homemade liquor wafting faintly toward them? Yeah, if she ever ran across them again, she’d have questions.
　　　
　　　But whatever asshole welded that thing together could have spent some time prettying it up. Seriously.
　　　
　　　Bridgette readied her own gear, checking and double checking. It was a morning ritual, just as upkeep was the prescribed ritual for the evenings. Her forge gear, hammers and tongs and whatnot, were all accounted for and carefully stashed away. Weapons were present and in perfect condition, melee and otherwise. Spear, axe, seax. In any Apocalypse, a girl that could make her own weapons was always one step ahead of the competition. Contrasting her partner, the younger Shield Maiden found use in the limited application of firearms. A double barreled Remington, sawed off and pistol gripped, was a girl’s best friend sometimes. That, and it hid nicely behind her shield.
　　　
　　　Food was always a slippery commodity. She had a few cans of things, maybe some crackers. It was a halcyon month, a while back, when they came across a stash of Campbell’s Chunky Soup, but that eventually dwindled, as all supplies do. Well, they had enough for now. However long now was.

　　　While Astrid readied the wagon, and her Clydesdale to it, Bridgette saddled up her destrier mount, a young charger she pulled from a jousting stable named Cadence. The horse’s original owner wasn’t going to need it anymore, having succumbed to whatever flu killed off half of her people what seemed like ages ago. Saddlebags and tack, saddle, brushes, etc. All accounted for. Ok, morning ritual done, ready to ride out.

Astrid finished hooking Edgar up to the cart and double checking that everything was in place. It would be another long day most likely, days were always long now. There was never just a day to relax and enjoy the world around you. If you took a break, you ended up dead; or worse. Stepping over to Edgar she placed her foot in the stirrup and pushed off the ground; swinging her leg over and resting down in the saddle as she took a hold of the reins. Giving Bridgette a slight nod that she was ready for her to go ahead and take point.
　　　
　　　As per the norm, the lady with the more agile horse NOT attached to a wagon scouted out to make sure the path was clear. Being able to see the road from their concealed vantage was not quite the same as being able to see up the road. Being on horseback had some significant advantages, but one disadvantage was a lack of ability to outrun most internal combustion engine vehicles on flat, open blacktop, if the driver chose to be an ass.
　　　
　　　Everything looked clear, but there was a strange stillness in the woods around Bridgette that made her uneasy. She returned to their site, eager to be underway. ”Hey, girl. Looks clear. Let’s make with the fucking off, huh? Bridgette tied a pink bandanna over her braids, pulled the hood to her chain coat up, and reined Cadence back toward the road.

Astrid nodded and gave a quick kick of her heel to her horses flanks; edging him forward until he was on the road and turning to ensure the wagon was settling right before continuing forward and down the road. ”Another day towards who the hell knows,” she muttered under her breath.
　　　
　　　They were on the road for a good while afterwards, traveling at a leisurely pace. When you have no where specific to be, getting there on time just doesn’t have the same priority. The conversations varied throughout the morning.
　　　
　　　”Why the ass do you wear that leather all the time? Honestly, this is Georgia. You’ve going to smell like a foot wrapped in bacon by four o’clock.”
　　　
”One, you would kill for some bacon right about now. And Two, like that damn chainmail of yours is any better. Keep wearing that shit and you’re gonna have a permanent hunch back.”

　　　”Hell no. Long coat of twelve gauge titanium wire mail. Twice as strong as steel, half the weight. Best part - AIR GETS THROUGH.

...
　　　
　　　”Hey, do these bracers make my ass look big?

”No, your ass makes those bracers look small.”

"Yeah. Go fuck a doorknob."

...
　　　
　　　”...and then the one Biter says to the other one, “Hey, does this taste funny to you?” HA! Can’t remember where I heard it...”

”I think we need to find a joke book, you are really running out of material.”

...
　　　
　　　Nearing the top of a rounded hill, Bridgette looked around to get a good lay of the land. What she saw behind her gave her pause. A horde. An honest to God wall of bodies lumbering up behind them; not close enough to have noticed them yet, but close enough that the warrior women could estimate numbers, speed, and make a quick prediction on survival chances if they stayed anywhere near it.
　　　
　　　”Wait. Hva faen? Fucking hell. We need to go.”

Astrid shifted in her saddle and glanced over her shoulder. Well that wasn’t good at all. Grumbling a bit she glanced over towards Bridgette. ”I bet that damn machine that roared by earlier got their attention. They might want to work on making that thing a little quieter,” she snipped in annoyance.

Back to Present

　　　
　　　For now, as long as they kept moving forward, they were ok. Bridgette thought about that strange truck they passed them earlier. It was the kind of vehicle scrapyarded together by people with the means to do so. That meant walls, that meant tools. Probably meant food. Sure as hell meant people.
　　　
　　　”Hey, didn’t we pass some hole in the wall settlement up the road, like, a long-ass time ago?” Astrid nodded as they continued on their way. Luckily they had a bit of a lead on the hoard behind them and didn’t have to push their horses too much more to keep putting more distance between them but they would need to find one heck of a place to hold up over night if they didn’t want to end up a victory meal.
　　　
　　　”Think they may have built the place up some? I mean, that dump truck had to come from somewhere, right?”

”Oh, you mean Newnan? There wasn’t much there when the outbreak began but I guess they could have built it up more. ”
　　　
　　　”Well, that means the Horde back there’s headed right for them. That’s going to fuck with their weekend.”

”Well maybe if they didn’t build something that was basically ringing the dinner bell they wouldn’t have to worry about that damn hoard. It’s like they were asking for trouble.”
　　　
　　　”You think they’re following the truck? So those twatwaffles lured them onto us?

”Doubt they meant to, but seems like they aren’t thinking about what consequences come with a rig like that. I mean seriously. Rule one, keep quiet.”
　　　
　　　”Oh, I would love to shit in a box and mail it to those guys. Let’s go say hi to Newnan, then.”

”Yeah, about time we did I would say,” Astrid smirked as she nudged Edgar forward some more.
　　　
　　　They had continued for some time like this, just ahead of the perception of the Horde, traveling up Smokey Rd at a constant pace, moving northeast. If the once small reclaimed portion of Newnan still stood, there would be walls to hide behind. Their fault or not, they had no idea an army of dead people were marching on their location. At least they could give advance warning.

Astrid would glance back every so often to check on the progression of the hoard. She really did not like having so many within eye sight but it was better than not knowing where they were. If Newnan had standing walls, they better fucking let them in or it was going to be time for a good old fashion Viking Raid. Like hell she was going to get eaten because of someone else’s mistake. Whether they meant it or not she didn’t care at that point. It put her and her partner in danger.
　　　
　　　If worse came to worst, their old home was a handful of miles in the same direction, anyway. If it still stood.
　　　
　　　
　　　
　　There were few people in the world nowadays, and even fewer before the outbreak, that could deal with the anxiety of riding horseback along a road at a moderate canter with a small army of soulless flesh-eating former people snarling up behind them. For women like these, it was part and parcel with being on the road for the past year. Not an everyday thing, mind you, but it wasn’t the first time they had to lead a slow chase against Biters while carrying precious cargo.

”Yeah, I remember this area now. Couple more miles, this road turns into Lagrange and takes us into Newnan proper. Almost there... Let’s put this into a higher gear.”

🦄 Duplicity - D&D Style Fantasy Rp Adventure (Completed)

I'll take that as "single stuck wheel", and plan accordingly. Keystone's a really strong guy, maybe he can brute force his way out of this one.

Also, will miss my deadline tonight with the posting. Regretfully. Taking care of something on my end, will have it drafted and submitted tomorrow. Thanks!

🦄 Duplicity - D&D Style Fantasy Rp Adventure (Completed)

Due for a post today. Will jump on it this evening, have Keystone address the issue of a wagon stuck in mud in the pouring rain.

Question: are we talking one wheel here in a tight spot, or is the wagon mired and/or slowly sinking into a patch of mud that requires heroic effort to undo?

🧚🏻‍♀️ The Walking Dead - Year 6 Part 1

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Black James!

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Location: Newnan Courthouse Clocktower
Interacting With: The About To Be Dead

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It wasn't clockwork. That was apparent. Nothing was clockwork anymore, nothing ran smoothly. The best one could hope for in this day and age was success with minimum collateral damage. Nonetheless, Newnan (such as it was) pulled together, beating back the swarm of Dead and Living invaders both. They seemed to tumble over each other like ants; angry, angry ants biting and ripping part a rival colony. This was Newnan. It wasn't pretty anymore. But it was a home for the living, and the living fought very hard and very ugly to keep it.

The living invaders were either hunkered down or running like hell for any possible exit. They had killed enough of Newnan's people. Now that the tide of the battle was turning, it was their opportunity to reciprocate.

Case in point: There was one fellow, seemed to be having some difficulty making it over the inner wall. Black James squinted his eyes, trying to figure out who would be quite as mentally daft as to attempt to scale the Newnan Inner Wall with all of the bullets and dead people flying about. He raised Alicia's rifle to his eye, peering through the scope.

"Wait wait wait... I don't know you, Squirrely-Man. An' that means you gotta die."

James felt that this kill deserved a personal touch. He quickly but carefully set down the weapon in his hands and hauled up the Anti Materiel Rifle he called Vera. A heartbeat later, a silenced round exited the gas recoiled barrel, traveling faster than the speed of sound. It entered the man as he bent over the top of the Wall, less than an inch from his rectum, literally tearing a new hole in his ass. It nicked lumbar vertebrae on its way through, chipping off sharp points and causing a cacophony of internal damage as the splinters pinballed about his innards. But the real damage occurred when the bullet, now tumbling ever so slightly, made it past the arch in his lower spine and slammed hard into his cervical vertebrae. It found the hole in the center, obliterating the spinal cord and exploding bone after bone in rapid succession, faster than human thought could hope to match.

It destroyed his neck entirely and ripped the back half of the man's skull out of his head. He didn't even have time to feel it.

While he didn't have the optimal vantage point to see the extent of the damage Vera had caused, James saw enough to know that they wouldn't need to call the School Nurse about this particular boo-boo. The fine, red mist that quickly blew away in the wind was an excellent indicator of the man's passing from this world in a swift and dramatic fashion. The ebon-skinned hog hunter gave the tiniest smile, and whispered "...hatchetman..." before switching back out to his previous rifle.

In the distance, along the path of the offending round, the crown of a mighty tree splintered and collapsed onto the ground below.

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Ashton Holloway

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Location: Newnan, Building to Building running combat
Interacting With: Meg, Newnan, Edenite

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The three volunteers that joined Ash and Meg were well known to the good Captain; they had been with him since almost the beginning. They were part of his original group back in Virginia, working for his father in the distillery. He had seen them around town even before a giant lump of shit slammed, sumo-style, into the maniacally flailing, ever-spinning fan known as human existence.

The three teams armed and split up, each taking a section of buildings and set to the task of cleaning house. A few of the Dead in familiar surroundings did little to slow down vigorously motivated teams of five, and given the blessed absence of Edenites in their search, all three teams were able to take three buildings each in short order. Team Ash wasted no time blowing through their allotted buildings, with little incident outside of jamming a blade into a dead guy's face.

Until the last building, anyway. Things had gone a little too easy. Given the day so far, easy made Ash nervous. He approached the door with knife and carbine at the ready. It was a dwelling, one of a few actual houses inside the inner wall. Something didn't seem right. Some detail that his conscious mind didn't point out that his subconscious powers of perception screamed at him.

"Meg, you stick behind be. Umm... eyes to the back. Make sure no one sneaks up on our six, ok?"

It was more for her protection than his actual worry concerning a sneak attack. Ash liked the girl. She still had a sense of pragmatic optimism that the apocalypse hadn't yet taken away. That was a kind of strength. Annoying at times, but strength nonetheless. Newnan needed harder men like himself for situations similar to the one they found themselves mired into presently, but to look forward, Newnan would need people like Meg to maintain their humanity.

Slowly scouting from room to room, the team met zero resistance. Then a bedroom door swung open, followed immediately by the report of a large bore handgun. Instinct kicked in, Ash going to one knee and firing off a single shot of his own to answer for the unwanted guest's. He tried for a quick and dirty headshot, but his haste affected his aim. It was a neck shot. In one side and out the other, the man was dead anyway.

The invader dropped his weapon and slapped both hands to his neck, reflexively trying to keep his life's blood from spilling away. He looked at the assembled group of Newnanites and slumped to his knees. He knew he was dead. Pure instinct to survive fueled his gurgling attempt to plead for his life. Ash looked coldly at the man, carbine still trained on him. He glanced to the men around him, the Virginians, and spoke in a low, cold voice.

"Do it. Save your ammunition."

The remaining three set upon the already doomed man, knives opening him up with cathartic ferocity.

🦄 Darker Than Black - Merged With T.S.

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Caesar Gonzalez

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Location: Apartment 1D (his), Street
Interacting With: Himself, Lawson, and the Reason He Lives Alone

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A shower. Oh hell yes, a shower. A little post-hangover cleansing of one's self, and a metaphorical sloughing off of the previous day to meet the new one with a fresh attitude and fresh perspective. There was something about cascading hot water and a coarse, exfoliating (yet absorbent) washcloth that unmade minor annoyances and prepared one for the coming day.

It was also useful for removing enchilada sauce from one's self.

When the water's thermal output reached a level two notches below excruciating, Casear kicked off his bunny slippers and divested himself of his smiley boxers. Now it was just him, his extensive tattoo collection, and that blessed bastion of cleansing relief: The Shower. Caesar had already set the remainder of his Patrón bottle upon the counter and rested his machete on the tank of his toilet. He had seen Psycho, many times in his youth. While the Spanish translation left much to be desired, it was regardless one of Hitchcock's better productions. Some random cabrón with a mami fetish wasn't going to catch him with soap in his eyes, oh fuck no. Especially with what he'd heard of this town. Looking back, it was a great place to set up a branch office of M.S.S., but a less than ideal spot for a semi-vacation.

The elder Mexican looked himself over in the mirror, the image mildly unclear due to accumulating condensation from the shower's steam. His skin told a story. Some several stories, point of fact; some adventure, some horror. Tragedy and comedy were mixed in there too, in smaller amounts, though decidedly more of the former than the latter. Every tattoo and scar had a few words attributed to it, and there were plenty of each. His skin also told the story of age - many tales piled upon each other over decades, more than six of them. His skin was wrinkled and stretched in places. Not overly, but enough to indicate that the man had seen many hard years.

Beneath his skin, his physique told the same stories. But it was not the physique of an old man. Not by far.

Caesar set a foot inside the nigh-scalding shower, making a noise that was either a growl of annoyance or a sound of immediate relaxation. The expression of positive and negative emotional states lead with crossed signals and mixed takes from second parties. Even his more mid-coital pursuits left his partners awash with feelings of awe, fear, and considerable confusion in addition to the usual gratitude associated with accumulated experience in the pursuit. "Okay shower, let's do this." he mumbled, stepping fully into the shower and tending to his personal hygiene.

"Hmm, fresas y jojoba." he exclaimed with mild amusement, selecting a hair conditioner for the day. He never used to give a rat's ass about bouncy, lustrous hair before, and likely still wouldn't were it not for his daughter's influence. And his daughter's friend. The concept of trying to put up a better social image, now that he was the head of a growing professional enterprise, made sense. And let's face it, his own nature wasn't overtly sophisticated, nor was it genteel. For instance, what the hair care product called "Jojoba", he referred to colloquially as "Goat Nut". It fit.

"...heh, jojoba. Heh heh..."

Refreshed and sadly much more sober, Caesar toweled off and got into his more casual garb. Lots of dark colors, boots, biker vest, a different pair of smiley boxers, and a couple of sharp implements. One always finds daily use for sharp things. A pistol he wore out of habit; American law was always a little fuzzy about thing like that, especially in California. But he possessed the proper legal and corporate permits for such a thing, and besides, the last time this street held a block party something tragic occurred. He had meant to ask about that.

Packing or not, tragedy or not, Caesar had a Block Party for which to get ready.

His native Monterrey didn't have block parties. Well, they did and they didn't, you see. They had massive family gatherings for things like weddings, quinceaneras, holidays, and the like. The extended families tended to live very close to one another, often taking up a block or three of space in the city. As best as Caesar could tell, this was kind of like a Block Party. Except no one really knew anybody else unless they made an effort to. And fistfights might break out. And obnoxious music was a constant.

Come to think of it, a Block Party sounded exactly like a Familia Gonzalez gathering. This meant he would have to bring a covered dish. Crap.

Caesar rummaged through his kitchen for ingredients. Maybe if he could throw something together on the quick, it would be covered over by the informality of the social function. So first step: See what he had. In any respectable amounts, Caesar's larder yielded him a metric fuckton of flour tortillas, a couple bottles of chocolate syrup, some fresh chiles, a gallon of coffee ice cream, vegetable oil, some dulce de leche, a bit of raw sugar, and some leftover duck.

The first thing he did was hide the duck deeper in his fridge. That shit was good. He was keeping it.

The second thing he did was get some oil going in a deep pot and set out the ice cream to soften. Rolling the tortillas into cylinders and securing them with toothpicks, Caesar fried up a multitude of them until they bubbled and held shape, like little edible paper towel tubes. He wasn't 100% as to where he was going with this, but it was a good, basic start.

Caesar poured a tiny amount of oil into a saute pan and put it on medium heat. With one of his favorite stabbin' knives, he bisected the chiles and scraped the seeds out, then diced them small. They made a considerable sizzling sound the moment they hit the pan, settling down to a white noise murmur as heat broke down cell walls and lightly caramelized the capsicum bearing vegetables. He was no chef, certainly. But he had to prepare most of his own meals. Eventually, he learned not to screw basic things up.

Some sugar went into the pan with the diced chiles, immediately breaking down into brownish liquid and desiccating the peppers. After a moment Caesar was satisfied that they had candied just enough, and deglazed with the last half ounce of his Patrón. Well, the last half ounce in that bottle of Patrón, at any rate. When the liquid bubbled mostly away, the culinarily anxious Latino Grande poured in a smallish can of Dulce de Leche and an entire bottle of chocolate syrup, hitting it with a few quick side-to-side motions with a whisk. So, it's a chile/chocolate/milk pudding sauce. Yeah, let's go with that.

Now softened, the coffee ice cream spooned fairly well into the fried tortilla cylinders. Caesar found a couple of aluminum roasting pans they would fit into, more or less, and spread a thin layer of the sweet and spicy sauce over the bottom of them. The ice cream fried tortillas stacked (almost) neatly in rows on top of that, and the lion's share of the sauce was spooned atop them. They needed to go back into the freezer for a few minutes, just to make sure that the ice cream stayed good and solid before moving them out into the open air.

Packing the last tortilla roll into the second pan met with some difficulty, evidenced by the flaky shell fracturing and splitting in half. One too many, it seemed, and it looked ugly in comparison to the other portions, fitting neatly in the pans. No sense in it going to waste, Caesar was motivated to sample his improvised handiwork.

His face lit up, eyes widening with heretofore unexpressed emotion, at least for a while. "Dios efucking mio," he slowly exhaled, "M'hija's going to love this. Cookie might, too." This was actually something. Maybe he could pass it off as a local dish from back home, for the naysayers who would be surprised to find their mouths on fire after expecting something purely sweet and processed. Maybe he would sip from a tall, cool glass of Fuck'em and hide this in Alicia and Lorna's place for the three of them to sample at their leisure with a bottle of fine Mezcal after darkness fell proper that evening.

Twenty minutes later, the pans came out of the freezer, and Caesar came out of his apartment en route to Alicia's abode a few meters away. He noted the guy at the smoker/grill, the guy that'd been there all day and was there still, manning the meat searing apparatus like a Redneck Beefeater. He didn't know the guys name, but perhaps he could find some use for him. He shouted across the way to him, "Órale, Smoker-Boy!" as he readied the other half of the broken confection he sampled earlier for a slow and easy toss, "Eat my food!"

It sailed gently through the air, wrapped tightly in waxed paper. Not bothering to stick around for feedback, nor even to see if the poor fellow had caught it, Caesar continued his short journey to the only people he actually cared about on this street. Mostly to test out the word he'd come up with for his dish, he called out in his gruff, accented voice, "M'hija, Cookie! The EnGelatos are ready! EnchGelato? Engelata? Eh."

EnGelatos would have to suffice for the meantime. Party to prepare for, you see.

🦄 Duplicity - D&D Style Fantasy Rp Adventure (Completed)

@IcePezz

Ok, weighing in on the character submission:

First off, we really don't have that many active rogues in play, so we're good to go. That, and rogue types are almost as customizable as fighters. Don't think we'll have too much overlap. That being said, the only hangup I see right now is your Raven. The description of it leaves a bit open. So - Normal bird, or is there anything we need to know?

Otherwise, I'm good. Lady A?