Supercape

Starshot Quite how the aliens would get the "resources", and exactly what the "resources" were; well, that was the rub. Starshot had a bad feeling about this. Maybe he should keep his mouth shut. Maybe not. "What exactly are you looking for?" he asked the alien company in the shuttle. "And how do you propose to trade for it? or are you just going to take those resources?" he asked. It was a provocative question, he knew, but blunt needles sometimes revealed the nature of a man. Or alien, in this case.

Starshot There was a pause for thought. Starshot pressed his fingers to his forehead and then ran his fingers through his hair, looking upwards. Diplomacy could give a man a headache. He ached for the Xeno. "I'm not a diplomat, or a negotiator. I don't represent the company that runs this system. Once I am paid, them and I part ways. But come along. It will be at least interesting, and I don't want to spend the trip talking to the pilot". He could have used more choice words for the man, whom he did not particularly like, but was not yet in his book of contempt.

GM The Sailors quickly dipped into the relaxing spa, scuttling a little to avoid the female gaze. Arna was tempted; these were four antiquated sailors. "But I must" she explained to the Black Knight. "I can't die knowing I missed bathing in hot springs with the Northern Lights above me, with snow on my face, in a different universe!" was her reasoning. Whether it was her bold nature, the presence of Lord Crane, or the fact that her boyfriend had just killed two Polar Bears virtually single handedly, the Sailors turned away. Probably. Maybe a quick furtive glance was risked as the tall Arna dipped into the pool, quite naked, and with a sigh of pleasure. For the pool was hot. Lord Crane did not look. He was a gentleman, it seemed. At least on this occasion. Instead, he kept look out. But whilst he did have his long slender pistol in his hand, he also was more intent on studying the maps of the region. They were rather elegant but inaccurate, with large areas vague or missing. This was a map hand drawn, with meticulous craftsmanship and via excellent cartography. But this was not a world of satellites, and hence it was rather minimalist. Behind Black Knight, there was a crunch of rubble under boot. The man had been careful, quiet, but this was awkward terrain for sneaking. He was a big man despite his stealth. Well over six foot, and broad. A cowboy, by the looks of him, with a bushy moustache, unkempt rough hair, and a belt full of bullets, with two heavy dull iron pistols on either side. They had a curious, imposing feel to them, as if they had purpose and gravity. "Ah shoot..." mumbled the man in a Texan drawl. Despite the cold, he was dressed in but a thin shirt and pants, more suitable for a hot Texan sun. But he seemed to not mind the cold at all. He gave the Black Knight a look, and pressed his finger to his lips.

Stealth Roll: 1d20+10 16 for stealth.

GM A round of applause came from the sleds, although Lord Crane seemed to be clapping a little slower and softer than the sailors. Professor Littlefield hardly seemed to respond at all, wrapped up in a blanket of academic superiority. "Well done" she said, without enthusiasm, in a barely audible voice. At least, at some level, acknowledging the efforts made. The sailors reloaded their guns, on order of Crowbolt, in case of another attack. Some whispered about turning back, but Lord Crane would have none of it. "Nonsense! The threat is over, and we are as near to our prize as we are to the ship. Besides, we have plenty more bullets, and a stout sword in case of further attack" he said, bluntly and with full authority. Despite mumblings of discontent, there was no suggestion of mutiny. The ground ahead looked progressively steep, with broken rock everywhere. They might be near, but the going would be hard. A few caves and crevasses ahead. And... "Hot springs" said Professor Littlefield, with the certainty of an skilled geologist. This raised spirits; the prospect of heat and warmth, and even a dip in the pool, whilst snowflakes gently fell from the magnificent sky, still alive with the northern lights.

For Reference: Black Knight: Bruised, Injured, HP 3

Rflex Roll vs Sword: 1d20+3 19 makes the reflex save! Tough Save vs Sword: 1d20+5 8 not so good, fail by 10 so at this point I will call it; you can narrate knocking the bear out, chopping its head off, or anything in between

Ok I make that, with Ice modifiers, a 5' Knockback (thanks to impervious toughness), which sends the Black Knight Prone. Post that how you wish, but also dazed! Black Knight - 4 HP - Bruised, Injured

GM The Bear was bloodied and battered, but had furious rage in its veins. It stopped a horrible moment, eyes black and narrow, teeth bared, growling low. It was crouched, claws scraping against ice that was second nature to the beast. Then, with a huge power in limbs, a huge weight to its bones and flesh, it slammed into the Black Knight. It seemed to care little for its own life, it was simply determined to take the head off the Black Knight and chew the marrow from his bones. The bear literally fell on to the Black Knight, one mighty paw swinging with fall, in an apparent attempt to part head from shoulders and send it spinning across the ice...

The Polar Bear will now retaliate: Swings at the Black Knight: 1d20+7 25 Which is a power attack (its an all out power attack!) which is DC 26 Toughness! If that causes a stun, then knockback comes into play as we are on ice, and we can increase the distance on the knockback chart by 1 progression given the slippery surface.

GM "As you wish, young man" replied the man, who stood up and straightened his suit. He had a faint French lilt to his voice. "And what about you, sir?" Morello hissed slightly. "I think I must decline" he said, rather softly. "I am sorry to hear it, tsk tsk" said the man, sadly, shaking his head. "I am Monsieur Jaune, owner of this fine building, and indeed our restaurant. I am sorry if you find me...us...unpalatable" he said, growing his smile back. "The door...I mean, the main door, is that way.." he nodded to the grand archway and heavy wooden doors, to one side, where an ancient gentleman in a loose fitting suit, half asleep, waited to greet or farewell guests. Even though the place was not open yet. "Before you leave, may I have your name?" he asked John. The question was not directed at Angel Morello.

So a plot driven Fiat (being spotted by the owner), to give the Tattered Man - 4 HP

GM As John crept through the kitchens, through the strange and rather tasty smells, through the steam that seemed to permeate the entire kitchen, he was soundless. Morello too seemed used to the quiet touch of foot. And then Angel stepped on a floorboard. And froze. A soft creak sliced through the air. Not loud. But present. "Mrahwadabble...Nyarlothotep...be quiet my little ones!" mumbled the crazy cook, who looked quite unkempt now that John saw her up close. She did not, however, look up from her large black pot, stirring in some parsley to her stew. Morello gave a look of relief at John, then looked upwards and offered a prayer. The two crept through the kitchen to the end, and entered the main Church hall. It had been converted to a Gothic, dimly lit, and rather beautiful dining room. There were some rather odd, even disturbing, pictures on the wall, and rather disturbing, even odd, sculptures to the corners. It has a purple flavour to the colour code. Chandeliers full of candles lit up a head. It was cool of temperature, but not cold. And by one table sat a gentleman of indeterminate years, in a tweed suit and bow tie, a monocle in eye. He had a rubbery face with a friendly fat that was not limited to just his head - it extended to a portly belly, and clear grey coloured eyes. "Good evening gentlemen" he said, without looking up, studying the menu. "Welcome to our little restaurant. Would you like to dine with me?" he asked, looking up with fathomless eyes and broad smile.

Stealth: 1d20+11 21 For Morello. That will do!

Let us see! but feel free to post your stealthy stealth IC!

GM Whilst the wood creaked alarmingly, and dust crawled up one's nose, the ladder could be ascended and the trapdoor opened. But the trap door was not a doorway to a trap. Instead, the faint sound of violin music wafted over them. A rather ominous but beautiful, hypnotic piece by a solo violin. It was well played, although one would not call it world class. Morello and John had ascended into the back of the kitchens, quietly. A heavy smell of roasted and stewed meats hit them, entwined with the smell of herbs such as basil and thyme, and other ones John could not quite make out. Beyond the kitchens was the main restaurant, although it was not open. It seemed candlelight was used more than electric light, although there clearly was some power running to the church. John could see, just ahead in the kitchens, a slightly bent middle aged woman fussing over simmering pots and muttering to herself in a manner that did not inspire faith in her sanity.

GM "God will protect the innocent" remarked Morello, boldly. "And God will protect me, as long as carry out his will" he said, with perhaps a shade less boldness. How easy it was to be brave with other people's lives rather than ones own. It took a minute or less to sweep the rest of the cellar. If they were looking for fine vintage wine, or dust, or slightly rotten wood, they would be finding those very things everywhere and in great abundance. Morello even helped himself to a little wine, declaring it an excellent and fruity French make from the west valley, with hints of earthy mushrooms and a fine floral aftertaste. There were cracks in the masonry. Enough for a rat. Or a very large rat, even. But no innocents, no captives, and nothing bigger than the thing they had seen. Just a vague scrabbling sound from the walls. Whatever else was in the Church come restaurant, it was not in the cellar. If it was indeed to become a restaurant, however, it might easily be reported as having a vermin problem.

ME HEARTIED! by Abdsurdist Flintlock Could you spend 15 PP on minions, and removing the "free from rewards", hence freeing up a slot.

Starshot "Greetings don't normally include weapons" commented Starshot, although he kept his voice reasonably low. But audible. Even he had the sense to go into the mother ship unarmed. But now, let the fools talk with their foolish words. Trying to get the write words from the other. He did not see this an elegant or honest world, but for all his ignorance, he could appreciate the subtle nuances and from a pragmatic viewpoint, he could see it got things done. Hitler had words. And from his words came guns, and horror. Words could forge war as well as peace. "I need a drink" he grumbled. Surely a few Akrovarian Ale's would not go amiss...

GM Morello gripped his gun tightly, as if pondering. It was not exactly that he was afraid, and not exactly that he was shaken. It was more than he had a kind of blind fury, a terrible disgust, running through him. "That thing is an abomination! You saw it, did you not?" he demanded. "An affront to God and Jesus. It should not be allowed to live. Sorcery! Yes, Angel Morello knows of sorcery. He knows it well..." he said, teeth gritted. But he put down his gun. "It must be destroyed, burnt, like all witches...like all witchcraft, I mean" he added, wiping sweat from his brow. "But you are right, this is not the time. A gunshot would give us away. And we have larger schemes afoot, you and I...we must cleanse this place! A den of stinking evil!" He gestured with his flashlight beam. There was a half rotten wooden ladder leading up to the church..or restaurant...or whatever...above. There was a wooden trapdoor in the ceiling, but it was unlocked and unbolted.

GM "Satan's buttocks that was a Rat!" screeched Morello, furious. "That was witchcraft!" He pulled out his pistol, an elegant one, with a nice pearl handle emblazoned with a crucifix. "We need to kill it! Burn it! BURN IT!" he screamed, his torch swinging this way and that. Every second or third sweep, the flashlight beam caught sight of something that seemed both fascinated by the light and keen to avoid it. A dweller in darkness, but a moth to the flame. It was quick, like grease, of this there was no doubt. But it seemed to be hard to look at, too. A horrible mess of pink mutated flesh. And a constant drool. Even with the dust, one could imagine smelling it, something diseased and sickly sweet. "Let us burn this cellar down! The wine! That will do!" said Morello, barely able to keep his from the trigger of his gun. One more jolt and his finger would surely squeeze...

GM "What?" Morello, unlike John, could not see in the dark. He twisted his flashlight on. The beam sliced through dust, thick dust. But even through the dust, it swept past the wine barrels, and something stared back at them. It was no more than a foot tall, may a foot an a half, with pale pink flesh and startled, malign eyes. It mouth quivered and puckered and squeaked, dribbling all the time. Then, in a moment, it scurried off behind the wine barrels, squeaking and gibbering. "What the hell was that!" said Morello, angry and frightened.

Thats enough to pinpoint the "Rats" behind some of the wine barrels. He can also know whilst it sounds like a rat, it must be a very big one, or is not, in fact, a rat.

Starshot It seems more stick than carrot...but who was he to comment on the art of diplomacy. It was shifty words, shifty glances, and he would have no part to play in that arena. Things got done with honest words and will. The machine of society seemed to operate despite of, not because of the apparatus of the government. "Keep your mouth shut" was his directive to the pilot, whom seemed (to Starshot) to have a dangerous combination of diplomatic ignorance, and ignorance to the fact he was ignorant. Starshot may not have known the right words to say, but he would at least keep lips sealed in case of a wrong one. Whatever else, this fleet of aliens had at least some capacity for war. There was little more to do now that wait for the ship to arrive, and see what clash of words and idea (and perhaps swords) would materialise.

Starshot I wouldn't be so sure...muttered Starshot in his head. "We can do that" he agreed. Leave diplomacy to the diplomats. Who knows, maybe they can strike a deal... But maybe not. It seemed like trouble. The question was, trouble for who. He did not much care for the look of the approaching aliens. But sometimes appearances could be deceiving. Like the ferocious cuddlebunny of Omricon-8. He wouldn't forget that monster in a hurry. He was unarmed, and he raised his hands to show it. "Who are those soldiers?" he asked the Asshui he had been speaking to, nodding towards the military men.