Supercape

Lets say that is a few bumps and grinds but nothing more. With that, he can easily catch up with any gang member in the rennovate dbuilding (inside) as a move action. Standard action?

GM Rob staggered towards the Leapfrogger and sort of slumped into him, clumsily pinning him to the floor. It was hard to say who would pass out first. Jann flew outside. The gang were running up New Jersey, straight north. It was a dark night but for now street illumination was good enough to see them. They had chosen their escape plan well; whatever else, they had planned this carefully. On the street in front of Jann was an old building, perhaps used for administration or business. Brick, and rather nice. And full of scaffolding and boards. It was being renovated, and was quite abandoned. The first three gang members twirled up the scaffolding and dived in, like trained free runners. The last spun round and threw something at Jann. It was a good throw but Jann was a moving target. Behind Jann he heard a Crack! of loud sound and a brief magnesium flare as the projectile hit the outside of the Eclipse.

GIven Janns last action was essentially "Fly through window and take stock" we are at... Round 2 22 - Gang Member 1-4 [Unharmed] 7 Bird of Arms The Gang members are running and currently 25' away. Three of them will vault into the rennovated building next door. this is a tricky situation as its full of construction beams. They chose their mark well. Jann cannot fly here (As per power drawback) at least without risk of knocking himself out / sending the building works crashing round his ears / at the very least landing on his rear. Ill allow a Reflex DC 25 toll to fly through the building with failure causing various degrees of failure. Well, three Gang Members will do so. The fourth will spin round just outside and throw a firecracker at Jann. Throws Firecracker: 1d20+5 15 which misses. That Makes Gang Member 4 outside the rennovated building, 25' away, the other three are in the building, 40; away (and in cover / concealed as in building).

GM The gang member staggered back, one step, two, then sliding across the floor from the blow. The other four did not stop, leaping on to stage and tearing the ruby necklace from Verity's sleeping form. The rubies were torn apart, and each member grabbed a couple. "Say hello to the Leapfrog gang!" waved one to both Rob the Troll and Jann, as the remaining audience members passed out. And then, they did just that. Leaped. They dove, they tumbled, they clambered up the wall with impressive speed and agility. And out through the upper window of the Eclipse bar, vaulting, swinging, and diving through it like frogs. Only the man Jann had punched stayed behind, shaking his head from the force of the blow...

And for the Parkour gang: Initiative: 1d20+7 22 So we are Round 1: 22 - Gang Member 1-4 [Unharmed], 5 Bruised + Dazed 7 Bird of Arms The Gang Members will split! Smashing through the windows and leap-climb-acrobating through it!

Its a hit anyway, gang guy is only +2 toughness. Tough Save vs BoA: 1d20+2 15 So, that is a damage 5 effect base, plus 3 (24 vs 18 def) from autofire, meaning a DC 23 TOughness Save. He is bruised and dazed. Yes, these five are low PL but we are in a for the mother of all chase scenes with them; they are not minions! For reference: Bird of Arms, 3 HP, Exhausted Fatigued effect: No all out, -2 STR and DEX (but we shall ignore the Init stuff as it gets too fuzzy), and -1 to attack and defence. Could you throw me an initiative roll?

ok so accidentally we moved over to ic thread! I will edit my IC post to reflect what happened, perhaps you do the same to respond? In the mean time, boom! Fort 15 Save vs Fatigue (Poison) Effect for everyone! Obviously I wont be rolling for the crowd. Over half fall asleep, the rest will drop off at the speed of PLOT. Rob the Troll gets a lone save: Fort Save vs Poison Gas: 1d20+5 10 making him exhausted

GM The man was a tall, in shape guy. Spiked black hair, badly done. He put his hands up, and whilst no master martial artist, he was quick and fast, and in shape. But fast didn't mean much when he was hemmed in a crowd like a sardine in a tin. One punch, half blocked, another, smack in the face, and the gas mask slipped off. Perhaps he would have been standing, dazed and confused, with a magnificent bleeding nose. But other events overtook that determination. An audible hisssss erupted from several locations. Smoke bombs? There was certainly some smoke, but faint, transparent, barely impeding vision. A pleasant shade of purple, one could note. And all around him, the crowd breathed in the fumes from mouth and nose, and started dropping like flies, fast asleep. Even those that fought to stay on their feet swayed like drunkards, as if they had got up mid REM sleep, not quite awake yet. Aortic Valve were no exception. The drummer executed and impressive bang on the snare drum with his head. Rob the Troll was one of the few left on his feet, holding his hand to his mouth. This spared the small conscious audience what must have been an almighty cussing. The man Jann had punched succumbed too, practically falling asleep in Jann's arms. But around him, spaced around the slumbering or drugged crowd, where the five intruders in gas masked. One could well imagine they were smiling as the gas started to dissipate....

GM The flapping bird man raised a few cheers. Verity Vein did not look particularly pleased with someone stealing their audience, but she just screamed her next song, Your Love Cuts Deep even louder. She gave a little nod to the sound man who turned the sound up even higher, thus competing for attention. And with some success. The newcomers were young, but not kids. In their twenties, by the looks of it. Dressed up like Goths, with leathers and studs and make up. But no piercings, and somehow the hair and makeup did not blend. Jann could count a good half dozen of them. Maybe more. They danced a little, so as not to draw attention. They were all lithe and agile, that was obvious, but unfamiliar with the music and how to dance to it. Their movements were thus both fluid and odd. But in the frenzy of sweat and music little attention was garnered. Only Rob the Troll seemed concerned, frowning. Perhaps it was because the club was dangerously overcrowded. Perhaps because security wasn't coping. Perhaps because security was unconscious, fast asleep outside the building... Perhaps because the newcomers were putting on gas masks...

Lord Steam "Oh I don't know. A bit of this, a bit of that. A couple of new Turing Battleships. A Trans-asian railway. William Blake has escaped from the Tower of London, is the word. But its all rather hush hush, don't you know..." To be honest he was not entirely sure the Ministry of Extraordinary affairs was giving him entirely accurate information. "It was a difficult position, you see. It would be possible, although extremely difficult, to aide this dimension. Due to our specific pecularities, we can open dimensional portals" like my own "but it is most hard to do any large scale transportation" "We would of course come to aide if we could. From the Terminus, or the like. But the truth is, this was a civil war, essentially" And if we did interceded it would be for humans rather than fish-men...at least, that was the official line. As for Lord Steam, war was an unpleasant business however you cut it. "But you will appreciate however that our government has an interest in stability. For humanitarian as well as pragmatic reasons. Come some interdimensional crisis we all need to pull together, say I!"

You can also make a DC 15 Pop Culture Knowledge Roll on Aortic Valve

Olopi can recognise some of the new entrants as "faux" goths; not really into the scene. Perhaps that is innocuous, but he realises that Aortic Valve are only really followed by "true" Goths.

Knowledge (Pop) Culture roll please. Untrained, DC 10.

GM "I'm not going to tangle with your sort" answered Rob the Troll, bluntly. "I'll tangle with any human. As long as he ain't high on Zoom, or boosted up somehow" he answered. That was his deal. If it wasn't human, it simply didn't count. Not many men were stronger than Rob the Troll, and he knew it. But he wasn't dealing with a man here, at least, not in his eyes. "Least, not unless you cause trouble" he explained. He didn't wait for an answer. He strode off, eyes peeled for trouble. Rob didn't like the fact that anyone was stronger than him. And he had earned his strength through years of brutal exercise. He had plain contempt fort he "superheroes" who just had strength drop in their lap. He would gladly bust one up, badly, just to teach them a lesson, if he could. But for all that, Rob was a law-abiding man, and hard working. And effective at his job. Nobody really disliked Rob the Troll, and a few even liked him, even if he was angry most the time. It was not an explosive anger; he rarely if ever "lost it". it was just a bubbling sourness to his personality. A frustration at the dice of the universe. "Don't sweat him. Not too bad" said Derek, all eye make up and piercings. Miche and Jack seemed hardly to notice. The crowd seemed to press together tighter. More people were coming into the Eclipse as the music got louder. Odd; this was the end of the set. Rob could be heard shouting to "Stop them coming in!" to the other staff...

OOC for this

GM The Eclipse Night Club September the 9th, 23:30 The Eclipse night club was booming to industrial Gothic Beats, an effective repetitive sound of limited musicality and excessive passion. Aortic Valve where playing and had been expressively forbidden from any self-harming blood throwing antics. On another night, this might not be the case, but the Eclipse did, from time to time, open its doors to the 16-18 age bracket with clear parameters for acceptable behaviour. Gotta Gotta Gotta, Gotta Gotta Gotta, Gotta Gotta Gotta Slash the Pash....ion! sang the leader Singer of Aortic Valve, Verity Vein, dressed in slashed up leathers and black make up. A bit too little of the former, a bit too much of the latter. She sang in a voice that alternated from drone to scream and was really rather effective. And 'twas on this night that Bird of Arms was out partying. And the place was packed. Not just with the 16 and 17 year olds, but older adults too. Alcohol was not served, but a frenzied spirit was, and in copious quantities. Rob the Troll was enjoying the show. He was six foot six and hideously ugly, not helped by a broken nose and scar that ran down his face bisected by an eye patch. His arms were as thick as most peoples legs, if not thicker, and he had tattoo's on (it seemed) every square foot of his skin. Rob the Troll kept the peace in the Eclipse, and such was his reputation that he could do it by reputation alone. However, with Bird of Arms here, his reputation and indeed his skill might not suffice. He sidled up to Bird of Arms as Slash the Passion finished (to much applause and screaming). "No trouble from you tonight, you hear?"

The Red Rat Superior Soviet Technology May Not Be Quite Superior Enough....at least this time. Might have to rely on flesh and bone, wits and brain. Although superior soviet technology might just help... Activate Concussive Explosive As her head sent the message to her gun, she felt the little whirr and click of the weapon, as the round was modified. High Explosive, non-lethal. The "Zombies" might want to eat her brains (may they feast heartily on SLAVE if they did), but they were unwilling innocents. With one hand, she scooped up the box. With the other, she took the briefest of aims; accuracy was not an issue here, and fired an explosive round at the door... Barely had the round left the barrel, and she was sprinting across the room to dive through a window...

Flintlock 2007: High Rock ‘Twas not yet built, but impressive it was, standing on the top of a mountain spire amongst tepid warm clouds. Below, softly churning blue-black seas spanned to every horizon, with gentle fog and mist laying over waves like a blanket. Strange and toxic islands dotted the seas, but it was the mountain spire that dominated. At its base was a small port, but few knew how to sail to High Rock, and fewer still would visit. It was an eldritch place on an eldritch sea, connected to every ocean in every realm, but few could sail to the Great Ocean of All Things. Though perilous to body and sanity, the Black Flag sailed the Great Ocean of All Things, captained by the famous swashbuckling sorcerer, Annabelle Flint. By her side, the Skeleton Crew, undead pirates of bone and rotting flesh, the ugliest of whom, Handsome Jack, was the first mate. High Rock was still being built, and few knew how. ‘Twas a mystery even to Captain Flintlock, and she had peered into the six wells of Tanhueser valley, and watched Eldritch rays glitter on the plateau of Leng. Not much was a mystery to her mad eyes. Up top, far from the port, up long winding pathways that demanded much from legs, Captain Flintlock was amongst the forming stones. High Rock had yet to reach its full majesty, but still, some rooms were formed. It already had some very special guests. “I would have words with William Blake” said Anabelle Flint, hand on hip, other hand fluttering about like a mad butterfly in an attempt to perform a crazed and flamboyant bow, or courtesy, or something else. The target of her request and bizarre antics was a Mr. Erasmus Drake, the warden of High Rock. Or at least, he would be once it was finished. Erasmus Drake was an old man of thin build, with grey hair in a refined cut, and an equally grey and refined beard. His cheekbones were acute and his eyes were black. He was no taller than Flintlock, and perhaps an inch shorter. A frail man of steely intellect and steely purpose. He wore a fine tweed jacket that seemed both official and individual at the same time. “Mmm…” he hummed, almost inscrutable as to purpose or thought. “He is locked away quite safe, madam. Our first resident. In fact, it was Mr. Blake who inspired the building of High Rock” he said. High Rock was an insane asylum for the magically gifted. “Mr. William Blake flitted between worlds like a falling leaf, as you know. A man of considerable talent. His art is quite magnificent. But dangerous, yes. Very dangerous. Both the man and his art” he said, as way of preamble. “The Tower of London was no longer suitable for his incarceration. In truth, it did not so much keep Mr. Blake from the world, but rather kept the world from Mr. Blake” This was true, and Flintlock knew it. The government of Earth Victoriana had kept Blake from the world (and visa versa) for several centuries, but it was with Mr. Blake’s agreement. If had set his mind to it, they could not have held him. Of course, he was rarely able to set his mind to anything that was not of art or dreams. The government had vaguely hoped they could utilise him one day. One might as well hope to nail down mercury. “I am not sure talking to him would be either safe or productive” concluded Drake, stroking his immaculate grey beard. “You could…would…unsettle his mind which is quite fragile, you know. Quite fragile…” A measure of vexation poured into Flintlock, but she would sail with it rather than drown in it. “I appreciate your medical concern, doctor” she rambled (although every word was well measured in truth). “But I fancy Mr Blake is my best chance” she explained, with dramatic pause. “The Unspeakable one stirs in his slumber. Something is awakening it. I be hoping Mr. Blake can, despite his restless soul, direct his eyes to the cause…” There was a deliberate pause that ended with Erasmus Drake. “That is bothersome” he said, brazenly understating the problem. “We should pay William a visit. But be mindful, do not press him. That would be unwise”. As it happened, Mr. William Blake was in rum spirits. He was sketching. One could not quite make out the details, but it looked rather splendid. Wings, tail, curing wisps of smoke, that kind of thing. “Hmm de doo. The Unspeakable one!” he said to himself, fingers drumming his temples in a mad beat. “I have seen him, yes! Haha! And they call me mad! Haha!” he said, with a toothy grin that looked like it had been painted onto his face rather than born from any joy. “I can believe it” said Flintlock who would not have said such a thing of any living (or, for that matter, dead) soul she had met. “And you say he is stirring in his slumber? Ah! Beneath oceans of insanity, above the clouds of madness, he stirs! That would be magnificent and terrible! Terrible and magnificent!” he said, his voice rising in pitch and hysteria. “You are safe and secure here, Mr. Blake, quite safe, quite secure” said Erasmus, in a firm and pleasant voice. “For now! Ask me in twenty years time!” said Blake. “Why, this does give me inspiration! The mere thought of the Unspeakable one! Yes! I shall proceed!” he said, starting to make bold strokes on his sketch. Flintlock did not really have time for William Blake to paint his declared masterpiece. Especially if, as he implied, it would take decades to finish. “That is mighty impressive, yes indeed” she said, buttering him up with charm. “A man could get quite lost in it. Perhaps though, a man might give a woman a few words. Perhaps point her in the right direction? Perhaps let her know what disturbed the great and unspeakable unspeakable one?” “Yes yes!” muttered Blakely, caressing his canvas in rapture. He was almost irritated, but he mood and focus was so transcendent he would not be blighted by such base emotions as irritation. “Rapa Nui! Yes! Something rumbles there! Something horrible!” 10 Years later…2017 Rapa Nui ‘Twas a remote island, with few people. Rolling green and stony heads. If a cult was present, it should have been easy to find. And yet ten years had passed and Flintlock had found nothing. She had sailed strange seas and stranger oceans. Worlds where the sea was silver dust, or burning blood. And no world was Rapa Nui home to any cult at all, let alone the cult of the Unspeakable one. She had wondered if Blakely was simply an insane man in an insane asylum. Much of his work was simply impenetrable. Perhaps much of it was simply wrong, having no meaning but to the hand that painted or wrote. But now, there was a new head to consider. A new, massive stone head, unearthed far from the others, with strange markings and strange countenance. Eyes too far apart, ears too small. Scholars and occultists from around the world had come to study this new archaeology. Something was rumbling, just as Blake had said. Flintlock had plied Professor Block, a stout German academic with her finest rum and her most silver of tongues, and waltzed into the dig site with him. They spoke in fluent German. “Wunderbar!” he said, a bit too loudly, with his mind and voice slightly out of synch thanks to an impressive alcohol level. “You can see the etching here…and here…not like anything else on Rapa Nui. Some kind of cult…most peculiar. You can see similar symbols in De Vermiss Mysteriis, or Dax Buch von den inasuspechlichen Kulten…all mad, of course….” The Professor stumbled on his words and shuddered. Flintlock peered closer, and shuddered too. The etchings on the massive head. She had seen them before. As the preliminary sketches of Mr. William Blake, ten years ago, on High Rock. 2027 High Rock ‘Twas a grim stony room, and there was no rum. Flintlock paced up and down, with boots that were as worn as the stones. Ah, frightful impotence this was. Below, she could hear the lapping waves of the Great Ocean of all things. If she strained her ears, she could even here the creaking of the Black Flag, chained a fathom below the surface of the sea. But then, she fancied she was mad. Erasmus was looking older but he had aged well. His eyes darker, his brow more furrowed, his hair thinner. He was a well of infinite, and his words where like a void. “How are you?” Flintlock span to face him, eyes chaotic. “Vexed! Vexed! And thrice vexed! I have been trying to speak to Blake for years, but you would not let me into High Rock! And now….this!” she said, throwing her arms in frustration at the stones surrounding her. “It is lamentable” agreed Erasmus. Where her words were frantic and frenzied, his were empty and eternal. “Eyes that see too much, ears that hear too much, it takes a toll on ones sanity. There are things that are beyond existence, beyond possibility, and you have partaken of those too much, for too long….your mind cannot take the strain, and your mind, you have lost…” Flintlock tore at her already wild hair, now like straw and thinning, with grey hairs peppered. “And you would know, would you Doctor Drake? Yes, you would know…hahahaha!” she screamed. Erasmus did not respond, his eyes like lenses, studious but empty. “Yes, I would. I am the resident doctor of High Rock. It is sanctuary and haven to those sorcerers who have succumbed to madness” he said, coldly. “And is that all it is, no no! I think not!” demanded Flintlock, standing tall and baring her teeth. The gums were receding, and fleck of blood littered her mouth. “No, it is not. There are some here, too, like Mr. Blake, who are simply too dangerous to be left to roam the infinite worlds” he conceded, stroking his elegant trimmed beard. A slightest of smiles invaded his lips. “Some are too dangerous not to be!” retorted Flintlock, her hands clasping and unclasping. No sorcery would work her. Oh for a blackpowder pistol! Even a knife! She would make handy work of throat and entrails if she had one. Erasmus remained calm, patient, cold. “You refer to Mr. Blake, again. Tell me, from whence your fascination with him? He is a fascinating man, I know” “I am sure you do. Subject to much study, I daresay” hissed Flintlock. “Indeed, subject to much study” replied an unruffled Erasmus. “And what dividends did your studies bring?” Erasmus looked away for the first time, through the grated window, to the skies and seas. “Significant” Neither spoke for a moment, until Erasmus continued. “What did you find on Rapa Nui? That was were Blake sent you, did he not?” “I went of my own free will. But Blake pointed the way” agreed Flintlock. “I found nothing but relics from the past. Etchings, scratchings, and a German professor willing to educate me”. “Interesting. I have always like the Germans. Focus. Yes, Focus…” whispered Erasmus, still gazing at the sky, as if he had lost that very quality. “And the etchings I saw. A gateway, said the Professor. Something to summon the Unspeakable one”. Erasmus merely nodded, still lost in thought. “Exactly the same etchings as William Blake was drawing. That’s why I needed to speak to him! I still do!!!” screamed Flintlock, her rage exploding. “I am afraid that is quite impossible” said Erasmus, standing up. He spared Flintlock not a glance. “Your search for the cults of the Unspeakable one have left you too damaged, too deranged. It is for your own good…” He left the room, shut the door, and turned the key. “You will remained detained in High Rock for the course of your life. There is, I am afraid, no cure for your affliction….” Flintlock merely screamed a crazed scream at the departing man, shaking the bars to her cage with so much fury that she might even dislodge them. But High Rock was a serious place. Nobody would ever escape. “What is he doing? What is he doing?” she screamed at Erasmus, who merely half turned his head towards her. “Why, he is decorating…” He left the cells, and walked, slowly and deliberately, to the main courtyard of High Rock. The floor was a half-finished Muriel, a masterpiece. On red knees and red hands, scraped raw from feverish devotion, Mr. William Blake was at work on the work of art. “Nearly finished…nearly finished!” he grinned with mad eyes. Erasmus did not answer, but studied the work for a minute or two. “Yes. A gateway….the Unspeakable one shall come….” He walked away, his feet gently brushing against the art. A giant picture of a gate, with wheeling insane dervishes, playing pipes, and something most horrible and unspeakable on the other side.

Lord Steam "Ah the league. They have all the virtues I abhor, and none of the vices I admire" bowed Lord Steam. Maybe he should play a game of cards with the princess. She looked like she had admirable vices. "I am not sure I could say, my dear lady" he mused, spinning his stick in a jolly way as he contemplated her question. "Boiling water is just a stage in transformation of energy, you see. One does not get energy, one harnesses it. From burning coal to boiling water to the delightful spinning of well oiled wheels and the tinkling clatter of tiny levers" he said, soothingly. "And all harnessing of energy begins with a purpose, does it not? The light of the human mind, the blood of a beating heart? The best engineering is like a fine music! Why, look at your splendid ship! It is like an opera!" The manymind? he noted, pondering the slip. Some kind of gestalt? "A song that brings people to harmony, of purpose and will, I should think!"

Starshot "They don't sell rocks here" answered Starshot. "But if you want asteroids, why not go to an asteroid belt?" He finished his Tri-noodles. "And if you don't want the best Tri-noodles in the galaxy...i'll have yours" he offered, eager for some more. That was the thing with Tri-noodles. Once you feast, you cannot cease. In his mind he vaguely conceived of the alien as having evolved from some space fungus, somehow etching out a living on solar asteroid belts. Impressive stuff. "And they sure don't sell asteroid belts here". Or maybe they do? he wasn't sure of local or galactic law on belting. Wasn't his things, asteroid belts. Rarely any game on them. "You would need a lawyer or something for that..."

GM "Minerals?" Starshot knew a bit about biology. It came with the job, really. There were some life forms that were silicon, as opposed to carbon based. Perhaps....? Then again, the galaxy was a big place and the universe was even bigger. Anything was possible. Silicon wasn't really part of Lor culture. Or was it? It depended on the meaning. Silicon chips, certainly. On the other hand, gold, silver, the precious metals. They were woven more deeply into the cultural fabric. How much of a language problem was there? "Speak plainly, if you can. Minerals come in many shapes and sizes, although I am no geologist. What minerals do you need? or all of them?"

Starshot "Well have some of this" said Starshot, throwing some credits to the Tri-noodle seller. It was a Lor man, with an impressive rotund girth and an enormous smile. He had tri-noodle stains down thefront of his clothes. That was the sign of a good Tri-noodle cook. Someone who relished the spices and textures, and cared not for anything else. He handed the alien a carton of tri-noodles complete with spoonsticks, and proceeded to eat himself. It was good. He slurped them down, dispensing with manners. His jacket would need a clean,but he realised he was more hungry than he thought. "What exactly do you need? The market sells nearly anything. Most of it legally, too..."

Starshot Starshot was in a marginally better mood now the pilot had left. "Why not? I fancy some Tri-noodles" he said, feeling hungry. "I don't know what you eat but they are delicious!" He picked up his gun and equipment, feeling better by the minute. Perhaps some drink and food might improve things still further. On reflection, he realised that killing the Bortha earlier had set him up for a sour mood. He could not put it behind him, and resolved not too. But a change of scenery would do no harm. "Lets go. And don't fall for the trade talk. Everyone at the market will want to get a good deal, not a fair one..."

Starshot "Cant argue with a hungry man" agreed Starshot. Especially if they want to put you in the pot. And that had happened on one occassion. But there was reassurance in the aliens word. They came to trade, not take. And honestly too, it seemed. But appearances might decieve, and whilst they might be honorable, the company they dealt with might not be. Starshot still harboured some suspicions about his original mission. Crime seemed woven into the day. He had nothing more to say, so put his boots up and waited for the ship to dock...

In which case, firing a knockout dart at the man with the hammer. Firing KO dart at hammert man: 1d20+13 21 If hits: Fort 15 Fatigue effect (with poison)