Supercape

Right then! The Create Object Hits. that means a DC 16 Reflex Save for the ?Duke? 1d20+8=10 He is caged. Dropping out of combat. As for Velocity, with her superior non-drugged mind, she can make some deductions: Namely, that the slowing down and speeding up effects are Mental / Psionic in nature. Also, that whilst it is a very small effect (it wont effect her powers), something is siphoning off her "speed" (However you want to narrate it) to counteract the slowing effect. Likely, it is the technology she is examining. She can also make a Knowledge (Technology) roll to understand all the equipment if she wishes (again, DC 20 trained)

GM Zaki ordered another thick gloopy coffee for Erick. "<I hope you like coffee down here. Rich and powerful. Like Egypt once was>" he sighed sadly. Given the brownouts and infrastructure chaos of the last year or two, his sadness was not undeserved. The coffee was indeed good. Thick, powerful, aromatic, in a street vendor way. Zaki clearly knew the nooks and crannies of Cairo. "<Doctor Zero. Ah yes. You know how he got his name? Most think it is because of his famous weapon, the Cold Gun he uses. No. He is patient Zero. From his blood, his DNA, Darwin-X was synthesised. It is a highly unstable, dangerous virus. It forces the body to evolve, you see? But evolution is a blind watchmaker. In nearly every case, the mutations were lethal. Even when they were not lethal, they created monsters>" "<But with superhumans and supersoldiers running around, every Government in the world wanted their own army. Superhumans are an arms race, just like everything else God and science brings forth. So, despite the risks, despite the horrors, Darwin-X kept popping up. The Soviets had the virus, Nasser had the connections. And Egypt had non Russian test subjects>" he sighed. "<I don't know the Politics. I don't want to go digging either. And I would advise you to avoid that road too. But I do know that Egypt acquired the unrefined Darwin X and used it...>"

Sure, but as you are hidden it is no problem. Post the transformation! YOu could of course do something like the process is painful this time, causing her to scream/howl and break cover. That is a complication.

Geckoman - 4 HP

Tidied up a few format issues (although you still may want a slightly small font size) This all looks good to me except a few niggles in the bow power: Fatigue: Sleep is an Extra (+0). You may be thinking of the Sedation feat, although Sedation is an unlikely power for an arrow (It effectively means you can keep someone unconscious via a free action each round. Which suits something like a telepath) Drain: Slow Fade 1 is, I think recovers 1 / minute? Note that slow fade isn't really needed for inanimate objects (As they cant reciover at all). Dazzle arrow: Cant get slow fade on status effects. Snare: I make Improved Range 2 equal to 250' Increments?

GM "Ah sweet pixie! I did not know you could be such a butterfly! But of course, it makes perfect sense!" A third Duke stood by the entrance to the Kitchen. Holding a Crossbow in his hands, casually. His clothes were similar - regal, purple, and grand, but not the same. His features had not changed a jot, though. The same cheerful smile, waxed sideburns, and rotund belly. But for all his girth, he had moved with great quietness and stealth. "How could you tie me up, my dear. Most ungracious of you. I don't know if I can forgive such uncouth transgression!" he sighed, casually gazing around the Kitchen and away from Grimalkin. His crossbow waved lazily in the air. And then, in a flash, slammed down to his palm and fired. The Crossbow bolt whizzed through the air and embedded itself in the wall behind. Grimalkin caught the whiff of some exotic chemical on the bolts tip.

Coffee Time! Round 1: 18 - Duke - Unharmed 16 - Grimalkin - Unharmed - 1 HP Not in combat yet (Velocity - Unharmed - 3 HP) So start off, a Feint from the ?Duke: 1d20+10=25 youch quite good (includes -5 penalty from move action) Crossbow bolt to Grimalkin: 1d20+13=23 which will hit if Grim cant beat the feint.

1d20+12=17 you notice! Initiative Roll please, vs: 1d20+12=18

Pitch Bad Hospitality Texas… The heat was a fierce as the sun, even when it hang low in the air, a giant hazy orange bloom, sending long shadows across green and humid lands. Carmen was sweating like a pig. Even with a demon in her stomach, the Rock Reporter was not immune to the heat. Unless that same demon flared and boiled, smoked and burned, and turned her into Pitch. Still, she needed the City out of her hair. She needed to let rip along a road. And a week off from deadlines and crazy drug addled musicians, a week off from traffic and e mails and the boss. Everybody needed a week off now and again, or they got as crazy as the city. And that was pretty crazy. “Crazy Mikes Crazy House†Well, that sounded pretty crazy. It was just off the highway, a bar for bikers, a bar for drinkers. Probably a bar with one or two women selling particular entertainment for the night, too. None of that bothered Carmen. She had grown up with hard knocks, diesel fumes, and loud music. She had drunk too much, and too young, but was still drinking too. And crazy as it sounded, sometimes crazy was kinda normal. The music was pretty bad. Some lame band called “Aw3s0m3†was on the speakers. She vaguely recalled them – a kind of pretty boy pop group trying to be a bit rock. Well produced, but with no teeth, and no balls. And the lead singer was an ass of the finest pedigree, she recalled. The patrons were a heterogenous group of rockers, bikers, babes and drop outs. A t shirted youth with some Rock Band logo drinking beer. A thick set bearded rocker with hair, leather, and a bottle of whiskey. Some crop topped waitress with a perm, smile, and cowboy boots. A long haired boozer, crumpled and old before his time. Just samples of the zoo in front of her. A bit later… Carmen was in some drunken conversation with a university drop out, a long haired, lanky man with eye make up and jewelry and black nail varnish. She slammed her shot down on the table, and called him a dork, bringing forth her opinions on real, as opposed to pretentious rock music to counter his own opinions. She also admitted to herself that she found him rather hot and wouldn’t mind locking lips with his. She licked her lips unconsciously. Then realised she licked her lips. Then downed her shot in anger with herself and excitement with him. Then, a thick fingered hand grabbed her shoulder and pulled her round. Three of them, bikers. With leather jackets, silverware. A pair of dark glasses. A bandana. The ornaments of the lifestyle. And that included tattoos. She could see all the regular ones – skulls, snakes, ladies draped across motorcycles wearing little but the motorcycle. And gas, and exhaust. A style she knew. Gaschuggers. The Gaschuggers had been around for decades. They had fought a pyrrhic war down south with the Blacksmokers. The Gaschuggers were fundamentally heavy merc’s, dealing in guns and providing muscle, grabbing power however they could. The Blacksmokers were stoner dropouts, reknowned for sorcery and black magic. And they had power. And the Gaschuggers wanted it. Thing was, the Blacksmokers were lead by one Carlos Cantos. A black magician with real power, and the cunning to use it. He also happened to be the father of Carmen Cantos. And no Gaschugger or Blacksmoker ever forgot the Cantos. “Well I’ll be damned. Carmen Cantos! Pretty little girl of Carlos!†grinned the first Gaschugger. He had two missing teeth. Only one had been replaced with a gold one. He was tall, big, that kind of body that hovered between muscle and fat but tended towards the first. A scar here, a scare there. And fists like sledgehammers. No guns in the Crazy house, she remembered. There had been a pat down as she came in. Still, fists hurt. “Your old man shot me once, you know. Right in the leg. Busted up my knee pretty good. Hurts bad in the winter. Heard he busted up your leg even worse though, didn’t he? Serves the old scumbag right, havin some cripple for a daughter!†he grinned again. It wasn’t a grin full of mirth. Carmen fumed past the initial fear. Sure, she had had more than a few jibes about her being a “crippleâ€. Thing was, she was pretty good at shoving her boot or her fist into the mouth that made the mistake of making the jibe. If not her, then the Blacksmokers she hung around with. The Cantos name swung both ways – enemies of the Gaschuggers, idols of the Blacksmokers. And she had been in a fair few fights as a kid, and beyond. She didn’t know kung fu, or train in ju-jitsu. But being in enough fights, you get to learn how to fight. You get to know how to fight with your elbows, your knees and even your teeth, as well as your fists. You get to know how to jab, how to hook, how to kick a man’s shins and headbutt him. And you get to know how to plant your boot between his legs. If it had been some stupid guy making a stupid comment, she might have restrained herself to a biting comment and maybe a shove. But the Gaschuggers, they were bad news. They were crooks, criminals, bullies, down to the last man. If there was a clean Gaschugger, she didn't know about it. They wanted a fight, and they were getting one. “You are making my Vacation real fun, honey†she said as he sunk to his knees, his breath gone and his eyes bulging so far out of their sockets they looked like they might fall out and roll under a table. “Oh shoot…†sighed Crazy Mike, ducking under his bar and grabbing his baseball bat. Mike was a middle aged man in good shape with an eyepatch and a crew cut from his time in the Marines. He was as good with his bat as a rifle. The Crazy House lived up to its name. It had had no shortage of bar fights, and tonight it got another one to add to its history books. There were probably under ten involved. Numbers were dynamic, and involvement was variable. From a full on onslaught of knuckles and boots, to a hearty shove of someone when they were thrown out of the fray into somebodies lap. Crazy Mike was there, and his bat was a crazy thing. Smack, crack, whack, like a bolt of lightning. He had taken down one biker in a flash. He could possibly have taken down more, if he hadn’t had a lucky sucker punch to his jaw. He was a wizard with a bat, but had a glass jaw. Carmen’s young handsome dude got a few tasty blows in, before a boot to his chest sent him flying. Carmen got one in a head lock and punched his face repeatedly. She was surprisingly strong at any time, but with rage powering her, she let rip altogether, tossing about the brawlers like rag dolls. “Happy Vacation!†she said to the Biker who had taunted her and now had a triplicate of missing teeth. She put her boot squarely, firmly, and speedily into his face, to make it a pentuplate of dental grief. The crack of boot against jaw was a particular punctuation of the night. In the end, they got separated. In the end, the police were called. They seem to have the Crazy House on speed dial, and that was probably no bad thing. A night in a cell, and a breakfast of hot coffee and a headache. The cops were not that bad really. Whatever Texan hospitality had been lacking in the Crazy House, the cops made up for it. A few cautions were given. Nobody would really be able to disentangle who flung their fist first. And nobody had been seriously injured. Black eyes a plenty, bruises by the dozen. Even a broken finger. But nobody had ended up in hospital. Another caution for Carmen Cantos. But that would only add to her Rock n Roll Reporter status, her outrageous mythology. And she signed a few issues of Rock Report for the Cops. All in all, it was a good Vacation.

GM It could have been a comedy picture. It could have been a sexy comedy picture. Two women fighting over a microphone. Slaps were exchanged and nails were clawed before Valeries voice cut through to stop them. "What? That's Valerie?" said Amanda, who had momentarily got the upper hand and was on top of Rachel. On the other hand, Rachel had one finger up her nostril and another finger fish hooking her mouth. The two disentangled whilst Amanda wracked her brains. "What? how did this happen! Wait! I know the answer!" she said, pointing two fingers at her two temples. "I know everything about Valerie Cain!" she explained, scooping up all the pictures and pamphlets she had brought in to get signed and scattered on the floor in her initial excitement. "Like, did you know you are descended from a Sorcerer?" she asked the Microphone. "That's right. Count Necromme! Count Nicolas Necromme! He was some seriously spooky necromancer in France, back in the 18th Century! That's waaaaay old!" she explained, helpfully. "Turned out he and his Chateaux got burned down by Broken Crow and some young Frenchman. A Private DeSaens, whoever he was. Amazing, yeah? But wait! It gets more amazing still!" she said excitedly, as she brought out a genogram. It was an impressive one, no question. The young Count had spawned a number of children. And they had been busy themselves. The tree from the Count spread like wild fire over a dozen generations and more, every descendent blessed (or cursed) with a number of children. And at the bottom, as Amandas stabbing finger showed, was Valerie Cain! "All sorts of rumours and gossip about the Count" she explained. "Like, some say he is foretold to possess the body of his descendents. Like some kind of ancestral curse! Spooky stuff! Even some " she said, excitedly.

Ah yes, me bad. Your call on what you want to happen (or, not happen if you dont want the HP).

Simple. If it works, it works. If it doesn't, you get an HP! The complication system is straightforward like that. Complications aren't mechanical attributes like "-2 to attack rolls" or something. other the complication happens (You miss, you fall, you lose your powers, you break a leg, you go blind) and you get an HP, or it doesn't happen, and you don't! I tend to play it as characters choose when to use their complications (not always)...so, in this case, do you think she can use it or not?

Sorry I thought you had fatigued the gun rather than yourself? Even so you could drop to exhausted as one option. Or be blinded. Or have a power loss for one of your powers. As its your character I would rather you choose something that you thinks befits and defines him, rather than me impose one on you.

Of course. Let us say he is fatigued? or how do you want to play it?

GM "I have ways and means, undead. Ways and means. I have hunted the undead for decades. First for the Vatican, and now for God. For the old men and fools of the Vatican are locked in their ways. Unable to dirty their hands with blood" he said, genuinely angry for a moment. "But, the vaults of the Vatican hold many marvels, my friend. Like this!" he smiled, aimed his antique musket, and fired. It was not the flash of gunpowder, not its smell, but rather an harmonious tune of light, that beamed its way to over Bloodlines head, before exploding in majestic brilliance. It was undeniably beautiful. It was undeniably light. The whole sewer lit up like a midday sun was overhead. "Hunters! Spare not his life, for he has none!" he said, commanding his flock. Whilst he seemed to have no qualms about sending in his soldier, he was more tactically astute himself. He ducked into a side tunnel, taking cover.

Round 1 17 - Daybreak - Unharmed 6 - Hunters [4] 5 - Bloodline - Unharmed - 2 HP - Gun Fatigued (-2PP) So, Daybreak will open up proceedings with an Environment Control (Bright Light) 8 Power. Essentially a continuous effect. He is also going to take cover (partial). The Hunters will fire weapons. they are essentially bystanders who have been given very basic combat training (+1 Att, +1 Def) 1d20+1=14, 1d20+1=4, 1d20+1=17, 1d20+1=17 All missing. Bloodline is up!

GM Professor Zaki looked up from his coffee into the eyes of Dee. "<I did not know you could speak such good Arabic, madam>" he replied graciously, gesturing her to a seat. "<These are difficult times for our country>" he said, almost apologetically, before switching to almost equally fluent French. "<Do you speak French as well? I would prefer this language. What we talking about are not for idle ears that could overhear us. Many speak a little English. And besides, English is a language that could raise suspicion in these turbulent times>" he explained. "<Egypt is a land in flux, as I am sure you know. A time of shadows, whispers on one hand, and revolutions on the other. I fear the people are tired of it>" he said, stirring his coffee. It was thick, black, and aromatic, full of richness and bitterness. "<Tell me, madam, what do you know of Darwin-X?>" he asked, straighforwardly.

GM "Beats me" answered Robert, scratching his head and yawning. "Although I good cup of coffee would certainly help get my brain moving. I'm normally pretty good at temporal quantum mechanics. Did my PhD in it, actually. Old Professor 'Crazy Pipe' Pendleton-Smythe would have a few stiff words for me today, I'm sure" he finished stifling yet another yawn. "The spikes are there whenever you are here" he explained. "Its subtle, but its as if something is siphoning off your potential energy. Whatever the Duke, or Dukes, is..or are...up to, I have to hand it to him. This stuff is crazy genius. And its working. Its counteracting the slowing down around him, and the castle. I could even say its slightly speeding up time?" he pondered, still drugged. "Damn I need some coffee, then we can see about doing some more tests..."

Ok Initiative time: 1d20=6 for the four hunters (minions) 1d20+5=17 for Daybreak

Starshot Busmans Holiday In an far corner of the Galaxy...Hutan-5... Oskar Otto, aka Starshot, didn’t get away much. Or rather, he did. He was always taking paying customers to distant worlds, boldly going to the far corners of the Galaxy. The thing was, he was always going with customers, and had to constantly look over his shoulder to keep them from being bitten by a poisonous snake or falling over a cliff, or any of the hundreds of other hazards that could befall them. He couldn’t complain about his job. But sometimes he needed a break from it. Are we going to shoot something? I really want to shoot something! Something big! And Fast! Pyow Pyow Pyow! Starshot had been on the trail of the legendary Black Septuraptor, a sleek lizard with six legs, a long whip like tail, and the mouth of an Alligator. A poisonous alligator. Of course, the Black Septuraptor was considered a dangerous animal, and technically Hutan-5 was a red planet, all travel banned by the Lor due to its wild menagerie of dangerous animals. Hutan-5 was thus the hunters paradise. The Rich and Famous would pay huge money to visit it, if they were brave enough. It had become a boast “I hunted on Hutan-5 you know…†But Hutan-5 was dangerous enough that some didn’t make it back to boast. Some kind of vacation, huh? He had spent a day or two on Hutan-6, drinking in the islands, breezes, and beautiful oceans. Hutan-5 was hot, sulphurous, and dry, with cracked and defiant cactus like plants growing everywhere, full of crawling vines on the floor and thorns to prick the unwary. Like everything on this planet, the plants were poisonous. Even the air was muggy and thin on oxygen. The islands of Hutan-6 were nice. A little swimming. A little star gazing. But Hunan-5 was the vacation for Starshot. “Trigger, we will surely shoot something today. But if you keep on talking, something may just rip us to shreds at the same time†he muttered to his Gun. Trigger had never been the smartest private in the army. The AI copy of him was even more…limited. What the hell are we doing here anyway? This place is dangerous! Whispered Mask. The paranoid sentience was suspicious and vigilant, and doing an excellent job of providing Starshot with a heads up display of the terrain, complete with distances, times, direction. It’s a Vacation, fool. Time to pluck the prize! Squarked Fingers. Starshot didn’t reply. He didn’t hunt for the Credits one could get for selling a rare hide, or stuffed head. He respected his prey too much for that. No, it was the passion and thrill of the hunt. The danger, the anticipation, the calm fury of it all. He caught sight of a venomous jumper on a nearby Cactus leaf. Two foot long, countless legs, a snake’s body and acidic tongue. A nasty vermin on a nasty world. Despite Trigger’s pleading, he didn’t want a discharge here. It had taken him some time to track the Septuraptor to its lair, and the crack of a plasma weapon would alert it to the hunt. His left hand came up. Not flesh and bone, but bristling cybernetics. A green glow of power cells lighting it up. Fingers had come to replace his own hand, blown off decades ago in the Swiss Alps. It was useful to. Handy, one might even say. Quick as a flash, A razor sharp needle extended a good foot from the hands pointed finger, skewering the venomous jumper on the cactus leaf. A faint hiss of gas and acid, and a horrible smell, and the lethal pest was no more. Hutan-5 really was horrible. Starshot cut short Triggers attempted try at inpatient pleading with a sharp tsk. “Do you remember Earth? I do. Long summers fishing with my father. It was not for the fish we went, although they made a good supper, baked and seasoned with herbs by my mother. It was not even the air, clean though it was, or the view, although the view was beautiful†He creaked his neck, and zoomed his view in to the lair of the Septuraptor. “No, it was for the stillness. The waiting, you see, it gave you space, cleared the mind. There was just you, the lake, the ripples in the water like moments lost and found. The sense of being present, even when you did nothing. Control was discarded, and Life embraced†He cocked Trigger, feeling its ancient but and steel. It looked like an antique, but fired like a state of the art weapon. “It was a time, as the Japanese say, of Zen. In action, find stillness. And in stillness…†He was still. The Septuraptor came out of its lair like the apex predator it was. Close to the ground, black eyes, six muscular feline limbs, and a prehensile tail ending in a claw. For one second, it focussed on Starshot, and bared its teeth. And it was still. “Find action†said Starshot, voice calm. Muscles calm. And, just then, his soul calm, unhaunted by the horrors of war and servitude. And he pressed the trigger.

Thats your call! Your character, your choice!

So out of combat, may as well roll that second fort save.

GM After the spinning blur of violence, only the first thug, whom Geckoman had expertly disarmed, was left standing. Although that was an unfair description. He was slumped against the wall, holding his hands up to ward the primeval horror of the Superhero. "Wait! Wait! Don't hurt me! We were just hired to draw you out!" he jabbered. "We got these guns and we got sprayed with some chemical. Feromoan, I think it was, or something. Said it would bring Geckoman to us!" "No way, we said! We don't want smart ass cape bustin' our ass! But this guy, he told us the Feromoan would knock you out or something..." he explained. "Damn it, we got played!" he scrabbled on the floor. "I'm gonna kick that guys ass!"

1d20+5=16, 1d20+5=21, 1d20+5=7, 1d20+5=15 All out, post away!

Ok so that has the poison extra on it, so another save...later (this wont last 10 rounds). You are up again. COnsider the disarmed due frozen with fear. Four left, in reasonably close proximity.