Supercape

That hits, and has no effect! The Infiltration Unit responds, by smashing Velocity with his fist! Its a shifted attack -2 DC, +2 Attack 1d20+12=23 Miss! Then, it activates it stealth field, gaining concealment to all visual senses! Round 2 48 - Velocity - Fatigued - 3 HP 27 - Robert - Unharmed

Is it worth even rolling? 1d20+17=26 Steed is delaying action for the moment, so basically will have an initiative of whenever! Round 1 48 - Velocity - Fatigued - 3 HP 27 - Robert - Unharmed Velocity is up!

GM "They are indisposed..." said Robert in a flat, dull voice. "And you will not stop me..." he finished, looking only at the Icy Fragment in front of me. Robert barged, rudely into Megan, and with rough, crude hands, he tried to throw Megan to one side. He may, of course, have been trying to paint he moon yellow. Velocity was so fast he could not lay a hand, or a finger on her. She could bat away any advance at her leisure. "You have to let me have it! I won't stop! I will have it!" he yelled at her. "I don't want to hurt you...but I will...." shouted his dull, monotonous voice, echoing through the small ice cave,

Ok so technically I suppose this is handled as an overrun attempt by Robert So its a trip attack: 1d20+12=22 which, against Megans stupidly high defence, is a miss! Initiative Rolls probably in order here, also, awarding 1 HP to Thev for general boyfriend troubles!

GM Unperturbed, Robert advanced towards the icy spike that held the fragment in it. "You don't understand...." he said in a flat voice. "This is to stop Collapse. It is the only weapon against him..." he explained, eyes glazed and fixed. "The Stopwatch, the prototype, they were made from him...they create him, they destroy him. They are all an abomination against time and space itself..." he said in the same monotone voice. "Do not stop me! For the sake of...everything!" he said, and with purpose, but with hurry or sloth, strode towards the final and largest fragment, his hands reaching out to clutch the prize...

"That depends on you" answered Pitch, solidly. "And...it..." she finished, pointing at the infernal instrument. She brought up her hand and summoned the power of the infernal forge, a dimension of metal, fire, and smoke. With a flick of her wrist, and length of coiled, smoking and black metal chain flew to the demon and wrapped around it. "You have to relinquish your bond, your pact" she explained. "Hush not a word!" she said, fingers to her mouth before Mary spoke. "And so does that thing you played!" she explained emphatically. "Which means you better tell me all you know about it, because we need every lever and hold we have, to get it to agree..."

Laying on a snare for the demon just to be on the safe side I presume it hits a defenceless foe, so a plain ol toughness 10 snare.

GM "What is this?" asked Steed, examining all the equipment. "I'm an Archeologist, not a nuclear physicist...ooph..." she mumbled, clutching her chest. "I feel...funny...the fragment..." she complained. "I feel...funny...the fragment..." she clicked, like a broken record. This time the time anomaly was localised, and Velocity could see her repeat herself. In the distance, at the top of the sloping tunnel, she heard the sound of a whumph...an impact, or a shout of distress. She could not be entirely sure. Robert slid down the slide, landing in a crumpled heap at the bottom, quite alone. He looked - battered was the word. "Don't touch the fragment!" he said in a firm voice. "I must have it!!!" he demanded, standing slowly to his feet and looking rather dazed.

Ok so not an expert, but yeah, she can work out from the readings on the machines that the Fragment is highly activated, and has been increasing in power over the last few minutes.

GM "W...Wait! Its Dangerous down there!" blurted Sobchack, reaching out to stop Velocity with utter futility. Steed was no less keen, jumping into the tunnel and sliding down on her behind with an echoing "whooo-hoooo!" shout of adventure. Robert, Lvov and Sobahcak followed more slowly, with Robert looking queasier by the minute. Even in the cold air, he was sweating. At the base was a small hollowed out cave. A generator hummed away in the corner, providing light but little heat. Despite this, it was less bitter down in the cave. Still cold, but without wind to strip heat from bone. And in the centre, on a pillar of ice, was, without doubt, the stopwatch prototype fragment. Arguably the biggest of the three. It throbbed with a faint light, and several cables were strung to it, connected to monitoring devices. Finally, a camera on a tripod was pointed directly at the fragment, visually recording it. Even as she reached the cave, Velocity could feel a strum of nauseating awareness, time slowing and speeding in warped ways around her...

Hronos - 0 HP Velocity - 2 HP - Fatigued Stunt away!

Well, Im not sure Pitch knows the answer to the question! So, a Knowledge Arcane Lore roll? 1d20+7=15 (Includes +2 from Favoured Enemy feat, which I imagine counts?)

GM It was cold. Beyond any regular cold. The kind of cold that felt solid, like an axe. The kind of cold that hit you in the face. At first, one could pass it off as a refreshing, bracing cold. But then it turned into an insidious, creeping and painful cold. Without proper clothing, a man could freeze to death in winter. Even with it, the conditions were challenging. "Thank God for the bug!" said Steed, hugging herself and blowing cold air from her mouth. "I wouldn't like to tread through this..." "Although the view is beautiful..." "You get used to it...." said Lvov with black Russian humour and a half smile. His twist of pun might have referenced the beauty or the cold. Or both. It was only a couple of minutes in the Bug, and all non-super-speed passengers where extremely grateful for shortening what would have been a ten or twenty minute walk to three or four minutes. The fragments resting place, it seemed, was under snow and ice. A couple of marker boys and some drilling equipment marked the spot where a tunnel descended down into the ice at an uncomfortable but manageable slope of thirty degrees. Of sheer Ice. "Did you bring you ski's?" laughed Lvov with another bout of Russian Humour. He motioned to a cable line that lay embedded in the sloped tunnel. "Hold on tight...it is about thirty metres down. Took some drilling, I can tell you...well...hypothetically that is..." he laughed. "Be...be careful..." said Professor Sobschak. "The anomalies have been...rising...." he gulped.

Just for the pedantry of it, some Fort Saves vs Cold DC 10, modified by +5 for good quality clothing. It is every minute, with a progressive +1 DC, and I will say it takes only 2 minutes of travel in "the bug". Velocity is of course completely immune to cold environments. I'm going to skip Commander Lvov and Shoback as they are experienced arctic men. Not the same as immunity to cold, but Ill say their experience gives them an additional +5 to the fort save, making the top DC only 1 with their clothing. Steed has a +6 Fort Save (she is actually a fairly competent PL 7 Semi-super!) Harrow has a +5 Fort Save (Even without the stopwatch he is a PL 8 Genius!) So they will both be ok for the short jaunt too! (For reference, the environment in the arctic is extremely cold and the snow is equal to a 50% move deduction)

Dok, dropping in for a few words is really great to hear. We miss you and, yeah, we love you. Take care of yourself!

Patriotism Rene de Saens Paris, 18th July, Bastille Day Despite living in Freedom City full time – or at least, a goodly part time – Rene always made his way back to Paris for Bastille day. He had not missed one since its inception. He had, in some small way, been part of the history that inspired it. The Arc de Triumph had for him, too. The site of a horrible battle between some jumped up dabbler, the ancient evil Gallu, and opposed by Rene, The King of Suits, and his friend, Marcel. Paris had an ancient order of most peculiar guardians, the Legio de Halbediers. Suitably anarchistic and passionate, the order fluctuated in size and nature, but was always committed to protecting Paris from supernatural threats. From the mysterious, beautiful exotic woman known only as Yasmine, to the ancient and wordy head (without body) of Count Bonnaire, they were quite a remarkable and often argumentative collection of people. Of them, Marcel was probably the most solid. A sewer worker and minor magician, Marcel served his role well. He was very good at cleaning up the sewer system – not just literally, but cleaning it of undead prowlers and reckless kids dabbling in black arts down there. Marcel always claimed that the sewers had some foul history and seeped black magic, but nobody had been able to confirm or refute his history, not even Count Bonnaire’s head. Of course, what with Marcel’s job, he never got entirely clean. Even when he scrubbed up well, there was a slightly stale, stagnant smell to him. “Goes with the Job!†he explained, smiling as was his nature. Today, he had not scrubbed up well. He was wearing his work clothes and taking a very vexed Rene down o the Parisian sewer system once more. “Zut Alors, the smell does not get any better does it?†complained Rene, holding his nose. “Non!†laughed Marcel, switching on his light to show the way down the filthy tunnels. “But I have something to show you. Bastille day reaches everywhere, it seems†he said, enigmatically. His voice betrayed concern, but not danger. It was not a long trip, although slow going in the dark. Marcel was no longer a young man but he was still strong in body. Rene, however, was not. The years, far beyond that of mortal men, had taken their toll. He probably had the physique of a healthy seventy year old, not crippled, but worn enough to find a stroll in the dark, up and down ladders and over barriers of concrete a difficult task, sometimes requiring the strong arms of Marcel to aid. Not that he would admit it. “Leave me be, I am fine!†he muttered, irritably, as inside he swooned with relief when Marcel help put him up the last few rungs of a ladder. His hip ached and his knees moaned their discontent. “I hope this is worth it†he grumbled. Marcel merely shrugged. “I don’t know what to do about this, Rene. But it is worth seeing, if only to witness such a peculiar sight†he explained. But it was not a sight that first struck them, but a sound. Click, click, click, click… It was a scratching, clacking sound, almost faultlessly rhythmic, like the beat of a drum, growing stronger as they came nearer. Marcel stopped behind a rusted iron door, his flashlight wavering has he fumbled with his key ring and slotted a suitably large iron key into the door. “It’s quite something†he smiled faintly, and turned the key. It was hard to make out in the darkness, at least until Marcel turned his flashlight to the spot. It was a skeleton dressed in rags. Neither cloth nor bone was in good condition, but here and there traces of an old soldier’s garb could be made out. A rusted musket-rifle lay half gripped by a hand a few metatarsels short of the full count. The skull had caved in, but somehow the hollow black eyes looked firm of purpose. And it was marching. Click, click, click, click… The sound of skeletal feet kicking against concrete. The Soldier was too broken up to stand, but nevertheless, he marched. He rolled from side to side on the floor as his legs flailed uselessly like a metronome against the floor. “Bastille day does indeed reach far†agreed Rene, moved by what he saw. The two men watched in silence for a moment. “Who knows what his story was?†said Rene, thoughtfully. “Did he die here, or was he washed up here? Was he crook, or thief, or deserter?†he mused. “What was his name, what qualities did his life bear? Alas, we shall not know, it is lost to the wind and the dust†he sighed. “But one thing we do know, this unknown soldier was a patriot. He marched for liberty. The power of the day of the Bastille does reach far and wide, indeed, possessing the faithful to ever march on, and for the most faithful of all, that reaches beyond death…†he explained. “But I think now, Marcel, this patriot should rest from his march through the centuries†he said, touching the skull kindly. “Soldier, you have marched long enough†he whispered to the body. “No man can deny your fervour, and we…and France, salutes you. Rest now….†Marcel gave a solemn and long salute. And the soldier rested.

Patriotism Bloody Mess and the Hound July 4th, 2013 The Bloodhound Detective Agency. “What a day†moaned Harry “the Hound†Hound as he collapsed into the beaten leather sofa of the Bloodhound Detective Agency. The poor thing was ragged and worn, held together more by thread and sheer obstinacy than the aged brown leather that half covered it. He and Freddy had often considered buying a new one, but it oozed familiarity and, when all was said and done, it was damn comfortable. The day had indeed been an uncomfortable one. They had been investigating some beating which had left some hard working shopkeeper they knew in hospital. After a few days, using their particular and unique skills, they had tracked down and arrested some right wing nut job who was a racist as anything the Klan had ever vomited up. Their ears where still ringing from his ranting as the Mess had hauled his ass to the police station. This is America! Land of the free! Its for the white Christian! That’s how it was founded! We will never give it up to the slave race! Suffice to say, nobody in the Fens, full f every race and colour under the sun, had much sympathy with the man. As he was hauled away, they had to duck a few rotten vegetables being thrown t him. “I had half a mind to stuff a mould ridden tomato in his mouth myself†explained the Hound, pressing his hands to his temples.It had in fact been a difficult task to protect the perp from the wrath of the community. And, whilst he didn't condone vigilantism, he could easily confess to wanting to give the man a knuckle sandwich himself. “This country stinks, my friend. Its as rotten as those vegetables†he sighed. “The rich get richer, the poor get poorer. It’s a plutocracy, as filthy on the top as it is the bottom. Damn, about the best you can say for it is it’s not as bad as communism…†“A Pluto-what?†grunted the Mess, with a more cheerful grin on his face. They had, in his opinion, caught a crook, done a good deed, the sky was alive with fireworks, and the street alive with goodwill. “Plutocracy†explained the Hound, to fed up to lecture and berate. “It’s run by the rich. Corporate businesses control this land. Keep the money and power to themselves whilst hard working mugs like you and me do the actual graft†he sighed. “I dunno about that†sighed the Mess, scratching his close cut and wild hair, and rubbing his flat nose. “My old folks, they come from the old USSR, right? Back when the communists where there. They got out, they wanted a better life…†His mind wheeled back to the conversations he had with his parents whilst growing up in the Fens. Sure, life had been tough. Money was tight, and luxuries were few. His parents had been fighters, stoical, and determined. And somehow they got through. Yeah, life had been hard for them. But despite it all, despite the hardships, despite the prejudices against immigrants, his parents never wavered in singing the praises of America. They were American’s to the core. That’s probably why they only spoke English, even when alone together. He drifted back to his father's words over the dining table in their old cramped flat. Son, in America, a man is free. Free to make what fortunes and life he wants. In America, if you work hard, you can make it… The Mess smiled to himself. His Dad had imparted some steel into his heart and soul. True, he had fallen off the path in his teenage years, and fallen off badly. He used that steel for something bent and twisted. But now, he felt that steel was straight and true. “Here, we have opportunity†he said, sitting down by his partner and pouring himself a Guinness. “I heard my folks talking about Lenin, and Stalin, and the bad old days. What did my pa say…the old joke…you pretend to pay me, I pretend to work…†he chortled. “Pfah†hissed the Hound, listening but not conceding. “So Russia screwed up. So what? Don’t make this country any more rotten. I love this country, but she’s sick. Something went wrong. We threw off the yolk of the British, and damn, didn’t we celebrate it. No chain’s in Amercia, no sir. Well, as long as you are white…†he scowled, revelling in his cynicism. The Mess looked sad for a moment. “My friend, you gave me a chance, did you not? That is the spirit of America. Here, we have a chance. And I took it, and I made it. Sure, we ain’t livin’ the high life, but we got this…†his arms waved over the agency. “And we doin’ good. We are making a difference†he said, proudly. He thumped his club like fist on the table. Not in aggression, but as friendly punctuation. “I’m proud to be an American. And so should you!†he said. The Hound stopped for a while and got up. “OK, OK, so that guy just go the better of me today†he explained, smoothing down his crumpled mac. “I guess with freedom you get all sorts of whack jobs mouthin’ off. Comes with the territory. And its better than having your mouth stapled together by some booted secret policeman†he shrugged. “So for all its faults…†he said, cracking open a beer. “And all it’s glories!....†he added. “To the land of the free, and the home of the brave!†he said, with a sheepish smile and clinking cans with his partner and friend.

Supercape None! Rene deSaens +1 PP (Roll over to Pitch please) Lord Steam Bloody Mess/The Hound +1 PP Pitch GM Misc Ref point to Supercape, rolling over to Pitch please GM Posts to go to Supercape (and then to roll over as below) Rene/Supercape posts to roll over most efficiently, priority: Pitch, Mess, Steam.

THunder, did you want Graft to catch up with Megan/Velocity as per chat discussion?

"Ghost's and Wards?" replied Carmen. "Not me, I'm just a simple rock reporter" she replied with a wink to Nick that nobody else could see. She felt a kind of connection with Nick. Something unsaid. Empathy perhaps. Both of them dealt with things beyond this world, and in that sense they could recognise the open eyes of each other. Yeah, he knew. And she kind of guessed he wouldn't blab either. "But I'll help how I can" she added. "I've covered enough black metal bands and Satanists to know my way around a seance or Ouija board" she explained. "I've got your back!" she concluded, giving him a smile.

Carmen listened carefully. "It's a good old sad story, I'll give you that..." she muttered. She didn't like people who played with demons. Which perhaps was hypocritical, although she justified it as having that fate forced on her. But, at the end of the day, she disliked demon's even more. "I'll see what I can do" she answered, without filling her voice with any optimism. "But it seems to me its all about breaking that chain. And that will mean bartering with an infernal beast, which is like playing with dynamite" she explained. She limped back to Mary and knelt by her, contorting her face when a bolt of pain ran down her leg. She cradled the woman's head, with genuine gentleness, and spoke to her. "Mary, mary...wake up!" she said, rocking her slightly. "You need to wake up now!"

GM Captain Lvov came up to them, thumping his arctic clothing. "Ah! It is too cold for my bones to walk" he complained. "I'm taking the bug" he said, as he opened the door to a blast of cold air. He pointed to a small buggy with tyre tracks on both side. It probably wouldn't hit more than 30mph, but it would do a fine job through the snow. "I'm coming too" insisted the nervous Professor Sobchak, who looked like he disliked cold weather more than anyone, but was insistent on coming. Steed jumped into the bug. "I wouldn't miss this for the world!" she smiled, equally adamant. Robert hugged himself in the face of the cold weather. "Megan...I...don't know what to do. Shall I come? I can...feel it, I'm sure. I could help. But...." he said, croaking i his voice with fear and more.

GM M was in a relaxed posed on the other side. It was a very similar mansion to Steam Manor, but more antiquated or anything. M was being served tea by a butler, whilst a scribed kept notes on everything he said. Two men in starched suits and bow ties stood at ease. No doubt his bodyguard, probably from the Special Zepplin Squad - the SZS had the best fighting men in the dimension. "Ah there you" he said, standing up and dusting of some scone crumbs. M looked perhaps a bit more thinning, perhaps a bit more rotund of waist, and perhaps a bit more lined with worry. But he still had a genuine smile on his face. Despite his soft appearance, the man was fiercely smart, and his eyes could not conceal it. "Well, if I had not seen it with my own eyes, I would not have believed it!" he said, putting down his tea and studying Cannonade. "The leader of the Cannonites! Your face is plastered half way across London, sir. It adorns every issue of The Cannon of Justice, that appalling rag they produce. Not a perfect match of course, clearly memory and desire failed and filled in respectively. Your jaw not as square, your eyes not as sparkling, but a hero nonetheless! welcome back to Earth Victoriana!" he said, with genuine pleasure. He offered them seats and continued. "Now, I don't know how much that unscrupulous rotter Lockwood has told you. We are a few weeks away from a general election here, and somehow the Luddites have found some magic potion. All their candidates are storming ahead, and all the main parties have somehow been caught stealing, adultering, defrauding, or - if none of the above, just tripping over their tongue and gaffing every speech they make. And we haven't found anything. Something is up, I tell you..." he moaned.

GM "Secret conversations in old drawing rooms?" smiled Lord Steam. "My dear, you have all the makings of a world-class spy!" he laughed. "I can see why M likes you. Give the old fart my regards, won't you?" he smiled, standing up and bowing to them both. He walked up to the grandfather clock, and fiddled with the time hands, which clicked...letting the clock swing open to reveal a mass of pipes, wiring, and - yes - odd puff of steam, and a treacle-finish swirling mirror. "He's on the other side, when you are ready!" he explained. "I'll just go and take a stroll. Toodle pip old bean!" he said, doffing his top hat to Cannonade, before tucking his silver headed cane under his arm and striding out with his long legs.

"Damned if I know, old bean!" said Steam, finishing his tea. "M has more details. And probably more details than he cares to share with you, or anyone else. The man has the mind of an octopus, tentacles everywhere" he said, slightly irritated. "What I do know is that the Luddites have a splinter group, the Cannonites. Guess who they are named after? They took your words quite seriously in that little speech, and are a moderate group. Which made the original Luddites even more nasty. The oikes!" he said, clearly no fan of them. "Which would be quite manageable, but what concerns us is that the Luddites are putting up candidates for the next election. Mainly in London. And they are extremely well funded. And they are winning. Well, that's no a problem for a democracy, but M smells something fishy. The other candidates are lacklustre, losing every debate, getting involved in scandals, and having dirt on them dished out like it was a five star restaurant....all politics, I know, but the pattern here is beyond the normal social pugilism" he explained. "I suspect M wants you to mobilise the Cannonites and use your influence to see exactly what has happened. Its a bit of a weight on your shoulders, old bean, and probably as dirty as you would expect coming from a spymaster who is responsible for a quarter of the world, but if M smells something fishy, you better expect something to smell rotten!"