Supercape

No, I think we can incoreprate that into the acrobatics roll. As its not a 25, feel free to add in a little wobble and drama to the climb - and the truck is getting closer to the fireworks factory (3 rounds now)

Yes, not easy so lets say DC 25 Jump elegantly into the driver seat DC 20 Perfect langing on the roof DC 15 Prone on the roof Failure, and make a Reflex DC 15 to hang on to the side of the truck with a cinematic dangle Anything less, crunch, call it a DC 20 Toughness check

OOC for this

GM Near Midnight... ...On the streets of Bedlam The night of Bedlam was alive with its normal nocturnal residents. Tramps, drunks, burgulars, pimps, slingers, and buyers. But that was not the main event of the night. The main event was announced by the beeping of horns, the crash of cars, the screams of pedestrians. And round the corner came a lorry - large, steaming, travelling far faster than it should, threatening to jack knife as it turned. One light was out, and it was hard to see who, if anybody, was behind the wheel. It crashed through parking meters, it collided with parked vehicles. Steam poured from its damaged grill. What was certain was that it was only a matter of time before the runaway lorry would crash into some building or worse. And the people of Bedlam seemed only interested in one thing; getting out of the way. And who could blame them? For at the end of the road it hurtled down was a fireworks factory. The night looked like it would soon be illuminated with a bang. Unless some hero was on the prowl...

Gamma Buzz "Do I even have hips?" asked Baz, putting up one clubby finger with one hand and palpating his midsection with another. "Wait! I do! I still have hips! Hurrah!" He gave a little flex and twist to demonstrate. "Right, so I need to twist and then ker-pow? right?" He walked up to the super-strength bags. "These look pretty much my size, am I right?" He bent his knees, turned, twisted, and KER-POW! The super strength bag wobbled and rotated. Baz was indeed super strong. But not, as yet, skilled. "Whoopsy!" he said from the floor, prostrate and tangled up in himself. One arm had popped out of socket, dangling at some obscene angle from his shoulder. "But how about that! I punched that bag pretty hard, right? And only slightly completely dislocated my arm and ended up on the floor!"

GM The golden glob got no bigger, having absorbed all available gold, both old and new. It appeared not to fancy rust or dust, or even the relatively solid parts of the container. The broken, fragmented dead, barely holding together, were not to its taste either. Instead, it started spinning, like a vortex, on the floor. It was hard to make out, at first, in the dimmest of light, but it so happened some superheroes could see in the dark... Ripples. Ripples growing larger to the point of waves, circling, rotating around a central point. Like a whirlpool. The smell of dust. The screeching of metal. The liquid gold was drilling! Ripping into the bowels of the ship. Whatever cursed magic was on this gold, it seemed intent on destruction! Intent on scuttling the ship!

GM Professor Armitage looked rather offended by Blackstaff. "Of course I let on more than I know," he answered, hands clutching lapels. "I have spent fourty years and more studying every nook and cranny of occultism, theology, history and mythology. It would take me weeks to explain just how knowledgable I am. You think this hubris? No, sir, it is mere fact. Forty years of dedication will fill even the dullest of wit with knowledge, and I can assure you I am not dull of wit." "As for the master mage, I am a scholar of the occult, not a magician. I do not have the master mages number, nor, quite frankly, would I ring it should I have. Master mage indeed! Did they elect her? who elected her? It smacks of secret societies and nepotism, and I trust neither." He softened. "Although I confess my family stretches back centuries, ripe with occultism. But my monies and my studies are my own, not bought or handed down to me from father to son." He coughed, realising he had let anger rule his senses. "Apologies, such an outburst is unbecoming and rude, and will not solve the problem. Someone is flooding our continents with cursed artifacts from the old world. I would imagine that smuggling is perhaps more up your street, more mundane, than fighting extra dimensional horrors." "And perhaps yours, too, young lad?" he asked Golden Star. "And my impuslive protoge, too, even," he added, glaring at Thomas Dickens.

Gamma Buzz Baz crawled to the gym. The thing was, being a half cockroach teenager kinda sucked. So he had to make as much use of his powers as possible to remind himself that it wasn't all bad. Some of it, in fact, was good, like crawling along the walls, and the ceiling. And backflipping to land just by Michael. "Happy New Year!" he said, straightening his antennae. "Ker pow! Hiyaaaa! Your kung fu is really really terrible! Your golden fool style is no match for my radioactive cockroach style! Hi----yaaaaa!" Baz did a couple of spinning kicks and a karate chop. "I mean, that's what it looks like in the movies, right? Hong Kong action! Hi-yaaaa!" he explained, giving a couple more quick karate chops. The thing was, Baz was agile and fast, but really had no idea how to fight. His spins and flips were very impressive, but fighting? that was another matter. He had no experience, and no training - and anyone with half an eye could tell it.

Switching to Nauseate Aura And as I guess initiative will be coming up soon: 20

Gamma Buzz! "Woohoo! Yayayaya! Action!" Baz hopped from foot to foot. "Time for a Slowball Slam, Lawrence! Wait... did we ever work out what a slowball slam was? It sounded cool, right?" Baz pulled his antenna straight with clubby hands, and started to glow a magnificent green. "Right. Tyrannosaurus Rex, top hat, lots of fancy words. Well, I can use fancy words too! Trimexicolopezometrez! There! Take that!" he yelled at the top hatted gentleman. He paused and looked shame-facedly at Spaceman and Lawrence. "Wait they have to be real words, do they? Dang. And also... errr... .where we meant jump in and use the element of surprise?"

GM The Professor dusted snow of his jacket. "Golden Star, yes. I have heard of you. I hear of a great many things. Is it coincidence that a golden superhero brought the golden wreath to heel? Perhaps. But words have a way, especially with curses." He raised an eyebrow out Blackstaff. "Curses, it appears. Some feedback of some sort. As I said, someone is deliberately cursing America. And, yes, before you ask, it seems that the curses are landing pretty square on our soil. Not the united states, but both north and sounth America. As far north and south as you can go. Greenland seems to have missed the infection, but Greenland is not the most habited place in the world - I cannot be sure." "Someone is playing a very dangerous game, gentlemen, and...errr... madam."

Sorry for delay 21

Captain Cosmos Captain Cosmos rubbed his chin. "Quite the conundum..." "If you find out, speak out," he said. "I do... ah... keep abreast of the news, so you can be assured if the media know, I will know. I cannot reveal my secret identity, for reasons that I am sure you are aware. If anything, this night has demonstrated more than ever why I wear a mask. But I am a man under this mask, and I do promise to help, if I can." "But for now, let us be grateful the fates have smiled on us. And please, be careful. Both of you." And with that, the Multi-dimensional Man soared into the sky, and shot off. But had he seen the last of this mystery? Time would tell...

Gamma Buz "Honestly, its just a bit of harmless lethal radiation" said Baz, shocked at the Spaceman's reticence at standing in a green glow. "Velocity eh? You got one hot mama, Lawrence. She's got a magnificent pair of...err... I mean she's a really amazing superhero and really heroic. And shes as superhero too. A heroic one. That's amazing. And heroic." Fortunately, green armour plates and glowing green skin prevented Baz from blushing. "I can see why you keep it quiet. Parents footsteps, and all that. You can stand on your own two feet, don't need no special favours, I am right?" His antannae twitched. "If she was here, would she have any tips on how to go on patrol? I mean... to be be honest, I havent got a clue how to do it. I mean, what do we do? Just watch and toast marshmellows in some really amazing green radiation?" "Did anyone bring marshmellows, by the way?"

Captain Cosmos "Mr Hero. I like that," said Captain Cosmos with a smile. "Its Captain Cosmos if you want my name, madam..." He bowed at the girl. "A kid your age, hmmm? Interesting..." Lots of people had kids around eight. Not much to go on, but anything was better than nothing. And perhaps it was a clue to the villains personality. If indeed, he was a villain. In Captain Cosmos' experience, things were usually a bit more nuanced than that. The mastermind behind this spectacle had some sympathy with the girl. And motivation? To manipulate the senator? It sounded likely. "I'm fine with the media normally, but I dont think this is the time or place, not after your girl's shock. And I appreciate your faith in me, sir. I may not always live up to it, but I hope you think well enough of me even if I do come up short sometimes." He looked around and softened his voice to a whisper. "I doubt this show is finished. Someone set this up, and we need to stop him, or her. Maybe it wont be your granddaughter next time, maybe it will be someone elses. Maybe I cant stop it. The question is - why this show? Is someone trying to humiliate or manipulate you?"

GM "Tra la la la bubble bubble blub" sang the fish, quite happy in its bowl, and seemingly still possessed with a love of singing. Who knows? Maybe Bernadette could have a novelty back up singer in the future? Summer wrung her ten fingers dry. "I need to listen to some death metal to get that place out of my head. Best be bad death metal without any tune or rhthmn, too!" "I need to drink!" said the Leprachaun, who dissapeared in a puff of magic green smoke. "Now I have a regenerated liver, I think I will join him! Adieu, ladies. Yes, ladies indeed. I shall keep my eye out for you!" said the Duke, with a wink. Taking a deep breath of sweet and stale air, he exited - by more conventional means. "And as for us. Maybe its time to start a band for real!" said Summer.... ~ Fin ~

Starshot Vignette (1250 Words) -> Roll to Haven. Shoaling Patterns (9 Posts) -> Roll to Haven. Captain Cosmos Glory Days Are Here Again (2 Posts) Diamondlight VIgnette (1.2K Words)-> Roll to Haven Let the bodies hit the ground (2 Posts) -> Roll to Haven Snakebite Vignette (1.2K Words) Haven Vignette (1.2K words) Echohead Vignette (1150 Words) Gamma Buzz Deviations (6 Posts) The Study Group (2 Posts) Bolt From The Blue (4 Posts) Quirkombat (1 Post) Study Group: Biology (9 Posts) Tropical Getaway (4 Posts) [26 posts total] GM Double the Treble (2 Posts) Curse of the Swamp Hag (14 Posts) The Golden Dead (8 Posts) Animal Whip (11 Posts) Total GM Posts = 35 = 70 "Bonus" Posts Allocated thusly 14 to Haven (25 Total = 3 PP) 25 to Captain Cosmos (=3 PP) 10 to Echohead (=2 PP) 10 to Snakebite (=2 PP) 10 to Peak (=2 PP) 1 Lost to the void

Starshot in Starrylocks and the three Bears Starshot was tired, tired and hungry. He could have eaten a tri-horned Fairytail and gone to sleep for a week, on a hundred mattresses. Even if there was a pea at the bottom. Wait, this wasn’t right… A moment ago he was traversing the Sinusoid Rim, on his way to pick up a well-paying prince who was quite charming. And now…? He was tired and hungry, in the middle of a forest that seemed to have absolutely no food, not even a nut, or a berry. Not even a crawling insect to crunch betwixt his teeth. He had a craving for porridge. He didn’t even like porridge. It reminded him of the war. Once again, the flashbacks of snowy mountains, frostbitten toes, and the cranage of artillery and small arms flashed into his brain. The flashback went faster this time. Gone as soon as it had arrived. Maybe it was the pressure of this new reality he found himself in, a pressure that squeezed out anything other than the here-and-now. He was hungry, and he needed to eat. He was tired, he needed to sleep. He was dressed in rags, pink rags. His hair was gold, and full of twinkling stars. Nothing was right. But he still had that gnawing desire to survive. Ahead, a cottage. A cottage of wood and stone, thatched roof, chimney. You could not imagine a more cottage-like cottage if you tried. It looked like it had come straight out of a children’s book of fairy tales. That – that there. A children’s book of fairy tales. For a moment, Starshot had a flash of insight into the strangeness he had been fired into. And then it was gone, the thought evaporated like sunshine with the setting sun. He burst into the cottage, his muscles feeling the lack of energy, his limbs clumsy from fatigue. It was as quaint inside as it was out. And on the wooden table, its surface full of scratches (that looked remarkably like the marks of claws from some large apex predator-a bear, for instance), were three bowls of porridge. At last! Something to eat! He slumped on one the three wooden chairs that circled the table. No, that chair would not do. The chair was far too hard for his delicate glutes. A small part of his brain protested that this was all wrong, and his glutes were not sensitive. But that part of the brain was squeezed out, as before, by the pressure of the tale. The next chair? Well that was too delicate, too plumped up, too cushy. How a wooden chair could be too cushy was a question that, if it manifested at all, would once again be squeezed out of ones brain. The third chair was, however, quite perfect. Starshot sat on it, and it broke. The fact that an ostensibly perfect chair broke was quite the narrative inconsistency, but such forth wall breaking inquiries were not to be tolerated in this tale, and would be curtailed as soon as the were wri… Clambering to his feet, and nursing his bruised backside, Starshot started on the porridge, taking one of the blunt wooden spoons to test for heat. The first bowl was far to hot. Steam swirled from each morsel. Starshot dared not even try it. In fact, he was scared that the blunt wooden spoon would spontaneously combust from the sheer heat. The second bowl of porridge was a cold, congealed lump that looked more like a building material than a meal. It would have looked quite at home welded to the bottom of a cement turner. Starshot gently prodded the icy meal with his blunt wooden spoon; it clanged. One would need a jack hammer to penetrate that meal, and whilst Starshot had excellent dental health, he did not risk his teeth on that endeavour. But the third bowl! Ah! Perfection! Neither too hot, nor too cold. Nay, just right. He wolfed it down with his blunt wooden spoon, savouring everymouthful. His stomach full, Starshot decided to sleep. Perhaps, without this realities pressure grinding away at his brain, he would have had the common sense to leave at this juncture, since the porridge had not been made too long ago and the inhabitants of the cottage would surely be back sooner or later, vexed at the lack of porridge on the kitchen table. Starshot tried the first bed. Too hard. The second bed was quite the opposite; far too delicate. However, the third bed was quite fine; neither too hard nor too soft. This time, he was cautious when lying in it, for recent experience had taught him that even so-called perfect furniture could collapse under his weight. To his great relief, the bed held, and the soft feather mattress embraced him. In a matter of moments, Starshot fell into a deep sleep. How long he slept, he could not say. But he was awoken by a very queer sound; the sound of three bears arguing over who had eaten the porridge. To be precise, father bear (who knew he was right), mother bear (who knew she should be right even if she wasn’t), and child bear (who knew that it didn’t matter who was right, because it wasn’t fair). Starshot wiped the sleep from his eyes and, with belly full, crept downstairs to witness the three bears pointing fingers, baring teeth, and growling at each other. Who had eaten the porridge? Who had left the door unlocked? Who had broken the chair? Each of them was quite certain that someone else was to blame. If Starshot had his plasma rifle, or even his machete, he might have charged in, swiping left and right, hoping for some bloody vengeance, a thrilling hunt. But all he had was a spoon. And a blunt spoon, at that, in case it had not already been clumsily foreshadowed. He studied the spoon intently, perhaps hoping some previously undiscovered psychic powers could bend it, or even sharpen it. But it remained resolutely a spoon, and a resolutely blunt one at that. He tossed it aside. Besides, where the bears really to blame? It was not like they were eating him. They were no hunter’s prize either. These were talking anthropomorphic bears that made complete sense. He had no business even hurting them, much less cutting off their heads, stuffing the skulls with feathers, and placing them on the wall of his starship. If anything, it was Starshot who was the villain of this piece! Breaking and entering! Destroying furniture!... and eating porridge! The villainy! Quite why anyone could ever sympathise with a porridge-stealing, vandalising burglar of this, or any closely related story that it is not based upon (for legal reasons) is quite the mystery. Instead, he swung a leg to the side, and in a dramatic movement, rushed across the upper floor (his footsteps creaking on the wooden floorboards; quite loud enough to alert the bears), launched himself at the window, smashing through, and landing in an elegant roll on the forest floor. He stopped only a moment to dust himself off. He expected the bears to rush out for a good old fashioned brutal fight. But he caught site of them through the window – huddled together, terrified, trying to console the traumatised child. It didn’t feel right. Not at all. Something was deeply wrong with this story. It didn't even come to a sastifactory

GM And lo, they were back in the "real" world. Whatever "real" meant... After the ultravivid and gaudy sights and sounds of Musicland, their home reality seemed rather bland by comparison. Quite the relief. Although they were all soaking wet. "Oh thank the wicked Gods and all their wicked minions!" said the Leprachaun, sinking to his knees and imitating two devil horns on his scalp. He threw a challenging look at the others. "Well, sue me. I was around when Pan played on his pipe's y'all. The original devil!" The Duke dusted himself off. "I care not for dieties and demigods, a dusty old tome from a long forgotten game. Of reality. Myself, I am just glad to not be dying anymore. It really was getting to be most tiresome. My bodies wear out faster than ever these days. I feel quite rejuvinated!" As for Summer, she seemed quite alright bad being soaked to the skin. "Dum... dum... derr derr... um... dumm.... oh dang, I'm trying to remember some of the songs. It was all quite clever and beautiful, but its like... its like the volume was turned up to eleven!"

Rev in Jet and the Beanstalk Lexa Venn found herself wearing a simple peasant boy’s outfit, barefoot, straw in mouth. The sun was shining and all was well in the world. It was, of course, completely impossible. She had been welding cars back together just a moment ago, but now there was not a hint of engine oil on her skin, or indeed on her shiny tin limbs. Tin? Yes, no longer chrome, but tin. That appeared to be the metal of choice for the land of fairy tales. Yes, the sun was glorious, a cool zephyr of wind drifted across rolling green hills and onto her face. Nature was alive and well. A cow, chewing cud, looked at her across the field with wide cow eyes. Bah! This was terrible! Screw green fields! Lexa Venn, the superhero known as Rev, needed engine grease and pumping pistons! How had she got here? She did not know, or could not remember. Or maybe they were the same thing. All she knew was she had sold a cow in the market. Now, what had she got? Money? Gold? An adjustable spanner? A combine harvester! She searched the pockets of her dungarees and found something soft and small. What was it? A bean! She had sold a cow for a bean. Now, admittedly, Lexa Venn had never studied the intricate nature of agricultural economics, and most likely would never do so (it was more interesting to watch paint dry, providing the paint was on a souped up v12 sports car)… but that said, even she realised that selling a cow for a bean seemed like something of a bad deal. She had been diddled! She was about to let off steam – literally, for her tin ears started piping like a ripe kettle – until she remembered some hazy fact of the deal. This was not just any bean. This was a magic bean! But what was she meant to do with a magic bean? Eat it? No, that didn’t seem right. Cook it? No, it would be the most meagre of feats. That wasn’t right either. Plant it? Ah! Now that was the thing. After all, what else would you do with a magic bean? Well, if Lexa Venn had had her way, she would have built a bean-shooting pop gun and fired it at the “Magic” bean seller, demanding a refund (maybe a cart instead of a cow). But no, she was quite sure that plant it was the instruction, and so plant it she did. Bean planted. Foot tapping. Lips whistling. Well, how long were magic beans meant to take, anyway? This was annoying. She wiped the sweat from her brow and gave the finger to the beaming Sun that seemed to delight in shining down its sweaty rays on her skin and tin. Zoomf! So that was what a magic bean did! Up from the depths, thirty stories high, breathing fire…. …no, not breathing fire, although that did give Lexa an idea. The beanstalk was as thick as the thickest tree trunk you ever did see, and it was indeed thirty stories high, or thereabouts. It had grown in the blink of an eye. Lexa could barely see its peak, it seemed to fade into some ridiculously fluffy white clouds. As white and as fluffy as you could possibly imagine, and quite unrealistic. What had the magic bean seller said? That the way to her destination was just a climb away? Bah! How stupid! Lexa Venn was going to climb! She was going to breathe fire! She was going to fly! She clicked her tin heels together, three times, and made a wish. The action seemed somewhat out of place, like it belonged in some other story, some other land, something to do with Kamsas and yellow roads. But with the third click, her wish came true – bolts of flame fired from her heels and lifted her a foot or two into the air. “Jet…. Set… go!” she yelled, before pushing her feet downwards and ejecting a mighty thrust of fire. She was now not just hovering, but ascending! Shooting through the air, following the twisting magic beanstalk to the sky. She glanced down to see the rapidly shrinking fields. The Cow’s jaw lolled wide, the cud falling from shocked maw. And now she was in the cloud! A woolly mist that tickled her skin. And then, above it! And what lay atop the cloud? Not just a beanstalk tip, no. A castle! Built on the cloud! How impossible was that? Impossibly impossible, in the judgement of Lexa Venn. She heard a deep rumbling snore come from within the castle. A snore too slow and low to be from any human mouth. At least, from any normal sized human. Now she examined the impossible castle in more detail, it was clearly four times the size of a normal castle. Its doors were thirty feet tall! Who would live in such a giant castle! Why, a giant giant! “Fee Fii Foe Fum! I smell the blood of a cybernetic organism infected with a mutant bacterium derived from the Darwin-X virus!” roared the giant, bursting out of the front doors of his castle. “Quite the nose you have on you! Very precise!” said Lexa, giving the giant a clap. “Why thankyou!” said the Giant, proudly tapping his bulbous nose. He had stodgy fingers and bristling eyebrows, and was dressed in regal velvet. His head seemed to have a shrunken brain but magnified features. “It is quite the narrative too, I can tell you! But enough about my nose! You look like somebody I can make a delicious soup out of! And not just soup… a kettle, too! I need a new kettle and you look all shiny. Well, except for the fleshy parts. What I’ll do is…” He started counting down his action plan on clumsy fingers and fat brains. “Ill boil up some water for the soup. No wait, I need the kettle for that. Wait, I can use the saucepan instead. Then I’ll put you in the pan of boiling water to strip off your flesh. Some salt. Maybe some pepper. Maybe some mint? No, not mint. Thyme. Yes, and Basil too. And then once all your pink fleshy bits have boiled off, I can drain you in a sieve, and collect all the metal bits. Then, I can make a new kettle! See! I have it all pla---” He looked left, he looked right. “Wait? Where did you go? I need to make a soup from you. And a new kettle. You ungrateful little small tin person!” Rev had used the opportunity of clumsy and ponderous monologue to make good her entrance into the Castle. She ran as fast as her little legs could carry her. And faster still, for in the blink of an eye she had extended her tin legs to ten feet in length! That certainly gave her some pace! Into the kitchen of the castle. Or, more accurately, the magic kitchen of the magic castle. What other type of castle could be built on a cloud? The cauldron bubbled, toiled and troubled. Noxious its fumes, green its broth. A magic cauldron full of magic potion. Thanks to her elongated legs, Lexa could peek over the rim and study the fluid. She saw a vision in the film of green ooze that swirled to the top. Her chop shop! Her garage! Her buggy! Enough of this clean and pleasant world! Lexa Venn needed dirt! She dived right in! Pop! And she was back in her den, back with the beauty of grime and stains, the smells of oils and petrols. Ah, this was better than any castle in the sky. Never again, she swore. Not for a whole hill of beans!

The Red Rat in... Little Red Riding Rat This wasn’t right. The Red Rat couldn’t remember how she came to be trotting down a forest path, wicker basket in hand, wearing a red hood and cape. But here she was. What was she doing? She knew she had a mission, and but not where it had come from or why. She was to deliver supplies to Grandmother Russia in the forest. Who had told her? SLAVE? The KGB? Easy Steve, her cab boss? No, it felt more like the wonderful wizard of Oz had given her this mission. It was silly. She looked under the clean white sheet that lay atop the wicker basket. There – provisions for Mother Russia. Red Cabbage, Pure Vodka. And, of course, because the Red Rat was a super spy, there were two customised hand crossbows with superior soviet bolts already locked in place, ready to fire. So, it wasn’t the same as the world of yesterday, where the Red Rat snooped around the spy world in a red jacket and sporting two neuro-linked smart pistols. But it was a close echo. Grandmother Russia’s cottage was exactly the kind of cottage one would expect to see if one was in the middle of Russian Forest in a fairy tale. Grey, warm smoke plumed out of a rackety chimney, small windows were simultaneously dark and translucent, the small herb garden outside was neat and orderly, with vivid colours. The cottage was of flint coloured stone, somewhat chaotic but nevertheless robust – it would take several wolves to huff and puff and blow the house down. Little Red Riding Rat went to knock on the door. There was a black iron knocker, in the shape of a hammer, that clanged dramatically when struck against the black iron sickle stuck to the door. The door itself was wooden, warped, and painted with a chipped Red. “Who is it?” came a growl from inside. “It’s me. The Red Ra—I mean, it’s me, Little Red Riding Rat!” chirped The Red Rat, her brain twisting and mutating to fit in with the fairy tale. “Come in, its open!” The inside of the cottage was as twee as the outside. Net curtains, smouldering fire, the smell of herbs and bread. Wobbly wooden furniture, bleached and stained. The sound of birdsong from the branches of the forest, and the nests in the chimney and rafters. No bird droppings, noted little Red Riding Rat. Poop did not often feature in fairy tales. And in the corner of the cottage was Grandmother Russia, tucked inside several hand knitted blankets, a bonnet on her head and reading glasses perched on her snout, er, nose. Given Grandmother Russia looked suspiciously like a ferocious bear dressed up as an old Russian peasant woman, little Red Riding Rat approached cautiously. As a rat would approach a bear. She wondered why she didn’t have a snout of her own, complete with whiskers and a pair of anthropomorphic rat hands. It was, she decided, best not to dwell on such matters. The whole story was quite insane, and threatened to push her brain to equally impressive levels of madness. “You look… ah… well… Grandmother….” She started. “All thanks to the superior soviet health care system that attends to the needs of the hard working proles, my dear. You see, with communism, health care is no longer the exclusive right of the wealthy and powerful, who seek nothing more than the total enslavement of the common man. Or woman.” “Or bear,” added Little Red Riding Rat. Grandmother Russia coughed. It was a cough that sounded suspiciously like a bear growling. “Yes. Or a rat,” she added. “Now, do you have my provisions?” “Why yes, Grandmother. Cabbage… like you said…” “A glorious staple vegetable foodstuff for the people of the land. We salute the farmers!” “And vodka…” “A glorious way to drown ones sorrows whilst lamenting the brutal oppression of the communi--- I mean, a glorious way to drown ones sorrows lamenting the heroic sacrifices of the men and woman of the soviet revolution, laying down their lives to overthrow the brutal oppression of the capitalists and royals that blighted our fair land of green fields and lush forests. And Siberia.” Little Red Riding Rat decided not to mention the two superior soviet hand crossbows in her basket. She had a feeling she might need them. Otherwise, she might be gobbled up whole. “What a long winded speech you have, Grandmother!” “All the better to spout vapid parrot fashion Communist Propganda regurgitated from glorious state owned media apparatus such as newspapers and wireless communication devices, all in the name of freedom for the common man!” nodded Grandmother Russia. “And what big eyes you have, Grandmother!” Grandmother Russia licked her ursine lips and ursine teeth. “All the better to appreciate the fine meat that the glorious communist state provides its hard working and loyal citizens. You see, in the well organised socialist organisation of industry and agriculture, animals that were once considered a pest can be efficiently repurposed into succulent meats to provide vital nourishment to the workforce, hence maximising productivity for the uniform good of all, rather than the select and privileged few.” “What meats, Grandmother?” “Why, a particular common pest become feast would be the ra---- I mean the rabbit. Yes, the rabbit. Not the rat.” Little Red Riding Rat’s uncanny rat-sense picked up something dangerous in the way Grandmother spoke. Perhaps it were the slobbering lips and sharp teeth. “Why, what particularly sharp teeth you have, Grandmother!” Grandmother Russia could no longer contain herself. Her drool had pooled on her blankets and her eyes were wide with anticipation of a feast! “All the better to gobble you up with, imperialist traitor! Long live the revolution! The workers, united, will never be defeated!” And so she pounced onto her bed, on all fours, emitting a furious bear roar, and leapt and little red riding rat. Fortunately, the rat was anticipating such a bold charge, having correctly guessed that the bear-like grandmother was in fact a bear. She leapt to one side, her hood and cape flapping around in an elegant twist, and she was away, running outside the cottage and to the forest path. Grandmother Russia slammed into the side of the cottage, knocking loose a few slated which cracked on her skull. A few birds magically circled her cranium, chasing stars. “I’ll get you, see if I don’t” she roared, charging out of the cottage. But Little Red Riding Rat was ready! A leap, a tumble, and she was facing Grandmother Russia with two loaded crossbows in each hand. Not mere normal capitalistic crossbows, either, but superior soviet ones. And loaded with superior soviet bolts! Pffft! Pffft! Two crossbow bolts fired, and two hit their target, right in the bears eyeballs. Grandmother Russia let out a death roar, and collapsed onto the forest path with a puff of dust, dead as a doornail. Little Red Riding Rat puffed the tips of the crossbows. “And thus, the brave little rat defeated the obnoxious giant bear! Here endeth the lesson! Don’t go down forest paths plagued by communist bears without arming yourself to teeth!”

Whilst I doubt its pertinent, Baz is going to irradiate the rooftop - Warm Environment, 25' Radius, Slow fade for 1 hour.

Gamma Buzz "You cold this cold? Bah! I can do this all day. I mean night." Baz looked left and right and twiddled his blocky fingers. "But then, I am radioactive," he admitted. "Nuclear furnace keeps me nice and warm!" He squinted, cracked his knuckles (and the squat digits cracked very loud!), and a misty green light fell from his shell onto the ground, where it sat and glowed quietly. Not much illumination, but the temperature rose a dozen degrees. "There we go! You can all keep warm now. Its entirely harmless lethal radiation. So put on your shades and bring out the sun tan lotion. If we are going to freeze ourselves playing truant, we may as well be warm whilst we do it!"

Thankyou

GM "No, it is not," said Professor Armirage, digging himself out of the snow. "66 Golem Drive is my house. This is Emerald City... and this..." he plucked Mr Dicken's ear and gave him a yank. "ow!" "...is my rapscallion friend Mr Thomas DIckens. Who has taken it upon himself, quite unwisely, to show some initiative. Unfortunately my friend has been cursed with slightly above intelligence. He is quite able to conjure up initiative, whilst not having the wit to see the bigger picture." He snatched the golden wreath of Mr. Dickens head. The man gave a yelp, like he had been given an electric shock, and then cradles his hand in his head, grimacing in agony. "Cor Blimey!" he groaned, in a faux cockney accent. "That gave me quite the pain in me swede. Anyone got an asprin? or some laudenum, even better?" "Mr DIckens likes to pretend he is a character for a Charles Dickens novel. He is about as English as the Emporer of Japan drinking Russian Vodka in the Taj Mahal. And he is a fool, this wreath is cursed!"