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GM Content Note: Disturbing Content, maybe a little Gore "Then we have an accord." The voice was deep and smooth, but its words dropped like stones into a grave. He took his bargains seriously; even a verbal agreement strummed with power, especially in this place-between-places. His new partner, however temporary, swallowed hard. Baku the dream demon was ancient by human standards; he fed in infancy on the nightmares of early Japanese hunter-gatherers, more than ten thousand years ago. His travels across the world spawned numerous myths, and with those myths he himself changed. Few had seen more of this planet's history--open and secret, the history of shadows and unseen things, hidden behind walls that were themselves beyond most mortals' comprehension--than he, but one such person stood before him now. The deal he made tonight linked him to someone whose age dwarfed his own by orders of magnitude--who, too, walked freely through the borderlands and laughed at barriers meant to hold back flesh and blood. Baku knew he wasn't the first spirit to make a deal of this sort, although he couldn't understand this person's interest here. What does it matter? What does it matter, so long as he gives me what I need? Looming over the tiny demon, the sorcerer held out a swirling globe of pure magic--a thing of beautiful light that defied color schemes, its shining particles moving in directions that corresponded to no physical space. A living spell, ready to take effect even without its master present...for the right price. And that price, Baku paid. He told his partner of the things he had seen, spying invisible and intangible on his enemy and those associated with him. He dared not come close to Presto the Preposterous in the waking world, not after their last meeting. He certainly would not risk approaching the terrible creature that had taken Presto under her dark and bloodstained wing. Only from a distance had he watched, and through the bland, dull nightmares of average mortals. Their memories often came secondhand, mere rumors, but some rumors spoke loudly. Beware the Grimalkin! When they were done, when Baku had been wrung dry of everything he knew or suspected, his tall companion at last presented him with the spell. Baku took it in his little claws and chortled. Vengeance would be his! He stepped sideways through the walls of reality and went to find a dream.

This is the OOC thread for Viva Val Verde.

@Heritage It hadn't taken much convincing. All Samuel Steiner had to say to get their attention was "Val Verde," and all he had to say to get their agreement was "Vacation." Three words were all it took to get Lynn Epstein and Gretchen McDaniels to board a plane to the secretive little island a few hour's flight off their nation's southwestern coast. That, and a few days of planning. A employer can't just disappear along with two of her employees in tow and expect everything to keep running like Swiss clockwork in her absence. Schedules needed rewriting, tasks needed assigning, and subtle, only half-joking threats of terrible retaliation for failure needed making before they could leave. All things considered, it was a painless procedure. It could have been even more-so, with the power available to the three. A few spells and they could have stepped from their homes to the island in an instant, without the need for planes, trains, or automobiles. But part of the joy of vacation is the trip, and so they took a passenger jet to the American southwest, arranged a taxi to a small, private airfield, and boarded another plane -- small, but richly furnished -- to the island. The process had been described in great detail by Steiner's letter, now slightly crumpled but none the worse for wear. Written by their would-be host, a man named Gallo, the letter had given the two women only the smallest taste of his personality, the tiniest glimpse of what he'd be like. Sam had tried to fill them in on the rest but some men, like Gallo, defied simple explanation. "He just is," the magician explained. "He's larger than life. Big eater, big drinker, big talker. He and I go way back; I think you'll like him. He was a good friend to me... kind of like how you guys are, now. He took me in when I needed taking in and helped get me back on my feet when I was laying low." Eventually, the flight neared its end, and it wasn't long after that when the three could look out the windows and see it: Val Verde, set like a gleaming emerald on a sea of blue velvet. "My God," said Sam. "It's just as beautiful now as it ever was. I'd almost forgotten." @Blarghy James Warne dusted his hands and reached one of them into his jacket, intent on removing the battered carton of cigarettes nestled into a pocket therein. He was surrounded by the prone bodies of groaning men, their firearms thrown haphazardly around the room by a telekinetic storm of disarmament, with their persons having followed shortly thereafter. He flicked the lighter with a practiced thumb, lit the smoke, and inhaled. Other men might have allowed themselves a smile, if only a bitter one, at the idea of a job well done. Not Adept, not here. Duty called, he answered, and that was all. The cigarette, the smoke in his mouth, the fire in his lungs; that was his smile, his concession to the world. His phone buzzed, once, an indication of incoming text. He reached for it, touched the screen, and brought up the client. TSA pegged your old friend [STEINER, SAMUEL] leaving the country w/ 2 women, it said. [EPSTEIN, LYNN] & [McDANIELS, GRETCHEN]. They're headed for Val Verde. Pack for sunny weather and report for briefing. Sorry. It was signed, at the bottom, by 'B,' which meant it couldn't be ignored. Warne grunted, replaced his phone, and strode towards the exit. He passed police and paramedics on the way, who hustled towards the battered men behind him. When he was out of sight, he took to the skies like a bird of prey and flew back to the city. It was going to be a long day.

OOC for this thread. Note that this should be pretty freeform, without any rolls that I anticipate, so this is mostly a place for questions and clarification. In that vein, please make your opening post a description of whatever dream you wish for Presto to have, when Baku rudely invades it.

Above Silberman's Books. Monday, August 1st, 2016. 11:36 am Lynn unlocked the door and pushed it wide open as she stepped into the living room/dining nook of the one bedroom apartment Tona recently vacated; the room was bright and airy, with hardwood floors, white painted walls and a working gas fireplace flanked by built-in bookshelves. Salvaged stained glass windows on the east wall added color and a charming rustic quality. "Okay, so this is the front room; that pillar sort of designates the dining area, but obviously you can use it however you want. There's no central heating or air, but the radiator heat is free and works great, and you've got ceiling fans and an AC unit in the bedroom." Gretchen followed in, pointing out the small flat-screen monitor on the wall near the door. "I've upgraded the security system. Multiple cameras, motion and heat sensors, extra sturdy locks."

GM March 14th, 2016, 7:48 A.M. As dawn just started to creep through Freedom City, fresh off daylight saving, a series of impatient knocks hammered against Samuel Steiner's apartment door. All was not right in his corner of the world (though it rarely was), whether or not the magician knew it. Cackling madness linking arms with easy power. Strong souls brought low by a king with a strange crown. Scraping nails against transparent walls--and worse prisons with no locks or doors, all the stronger for it. Mice wearing rigid smiles as they marched into the cat's jaws. And now, to be thrust into the center of it all, a former convict destined--doomed?--to uphold the law. The sweet can be sour, and the sour salvation Strongest steel will fail, but the weakest chains may set you free.

OOC for this. Rolls and such go here. So, my first game. If more experienced GMs happen to follow along and have advice to offer, I'm open to it (probably through PM, though). I plan on posting my notes at the conclusion, for critique and to let Sophistemon get a look behind the scenes.

Lynn Epstein's Apartment. Saturday, June 18th, 2016. 2pm. It was a very mild and pleasant late spring day; there was no need to run the AC, so instead Lynn and Gretchen had just opened all the windows and turned on all the ceiling fans, so that cool breezes and succulent cooking smells wafted through every room. The weekend before, Gretch had offically moved in, and at her insistence the apartment now possessed real live, actual furniture; some of them were ancient hand-me-down pieces that once bellonged to her late grandmother back in Maine, all dark, massive and brooding. Others were recent additions from the Ikea out in Ashton, which they had bought together, because that's what couples do. It took a while to get used to, but Lynn was starting to enjoy the smell of history on the old stuff pleasantly mixing with the new stuff that smelled of dorm rooms and promise. What was a bit harder to get used to were Gretchen's ferrets, Otto and Bosco; they tore around the apatment like they were rats on crack, their long, loping bodies wriggling into every corner imaginable, terrifying Lynn's three cats DB, Mafia and Plaque Attack, who currently spent most of their time hiding out in the bedroom. The ferret cage stood in one corner of the living room, a symbol of the end of the Era of Feline Domination. Out on the rear deck was the Weber grill that Gretchen had also insisted on, which was having its trial run this weekend; it hadn't been fired up just yet, because Lynn wanted everyone to have a little time to have a drink and kibbitz. As for the couple themselves, each was representing their unique stylistic tastes. Lynn wore sandals, a short denim skirt and a creamy, sleeveless cotton blouse; her hair was up and out of the way, indicating that she was both hard at work and comfortable enough with the guests to reveal her pointed ears. Meanwhile, Gretchen wore boots, loose cut jeans and a black vintage Lou Reed t-shirt; surprisingly, her hair was also up, showing a rare glimpse of her graceful neck. The two women worked together smoothly like a well-oiled machine, a machine that frequently stopped to smile or affectionatly touch a shoulder. Their guests would be here soon.

Not sure if we'll really need this, but a better place for stuff than just doing PMs. For the record, I am a very bad chess player, so I don't think we should get very detailed about Gretchen and Lawrence's game

GM July 1st, 2016 Just outside Freedom City The plane was private, small, and expensive. It landed smoothly, on a small private runway, and came to a smooth stop. The plane was silent, still. Not a soul moved in, or moved out. Meanwhile Presto the Preposterous had plenty of people clamouring for his attention. From autograph hunters, to female (and male) admirers, religious puritans, drunken students, and those pleading for help for the most unusual of predicaments. Only yesterday, Ms. Widdlecrumb, from next door, had demanded he conjure up Tiddles, her cat, who had gone missing the day before. Presto well knew Tiddles, the depositor of dung, and thief of food, who seemed to have several million lives rather than nine. He was, surely, not in peril. Today, a short, red headed man with thick spectacles and bad dress sense (in so much as he took the worst of student slacker and professional reporter and blended them most impressively into a hybrid horror), was banging on his door. Wesley Brush! Occult Times! C'mon Mr Presto! I got a great story for ya! Gimme a break! This could win me, I mean us, the Pullitzer! he shouted. The Occult Times was a semi respectable occult magazine that came out every two months, had a small circulation, and was desperately trying to lower its standards in order to increase its circulation.

OOC for this For record: Presto: 2 HP, unharmed Presto can be assumed to know about Occult Times magazine. He can also make a straight INT roll (DC 20) to see if he recalls Wesley.

Silberman's Books. Monday, April 25th, 2016. 9:56 am. Back in January, Lynn Epstein offered Samuel Steiner, a stage magician, ex-convict and would-be crimefighter, what amounted to his 'dream job': the opportunity to catalogue and itemize the collection of his hero Ira Silberman, formerly known as the Amazing Al-Kazar. To say that he couldn't wait to start his first day would be the understatement of the century. Yet wait he did; in February, the departure of her long-suffering assistant manager Kiki Knox came as a shock, and Lynn sent him an apologetic letter explaining that she wanted to bring her new AM up to speed and get everyone settled into a new routine before adding any additional staff. That the letter contained a check for eight hundred dollars did something to soften the blow. Then March came, and another apologetic letter arrived, with the same-sized check and a promise of work in April. Now April was almost over, and Sam feared his amazing opportunity had gone up in smoke, but then a third letter arrived on Friday, as apologetic as before, but now letting him know that he would finally be able to start that Monday, bright and early at 10 am. And yay, another check! - - - "Does he get an apron?" Lynn briefly looked up from her desk, where she was typing up a last minute email; her assistant manager and now partner in all things Gretchen McDaniels was limply holding up a brown standard-issue Silberman's apron, a bored expression on her face. "No, he does not get an apron; he will be an apron-less freak." "If I have wear one, he should, too. We should all be equal partners in discomfort and embarrassment." "Technically, he's not an employee of the store; he's an independent contractor. Plus he'd look really stupid with that thing over his coat and tails, doncha think?" Gretch looked over her shoulder back towards the sales floor and shook her head. "You really think he wears that all the time?" "Yep! Sleeps in it, showers in it, makes sweet, sweet love in it..." "Eww. Thanks for that disturbing visual." Lynn beamed cheerfully. "You're welcome! Now go ahead and open up while I finish typing this." "Yes, O master." Hunching forward and dragging her foot, Gretch lurched towards the front door like a hunchbacked assistant; behind the bar, Lance Bettendorfer, barista extraordinaire, cocked an eyebrow at her performance. "Everything alright there, Gretch?" "Breaking in some new boots," she deadpaned. Once she got to the door, she flung it open dramatically, still in Igor mode. "Enter, at your own risk!" She almost managed an expression there.

This is the OOC. Feel free to ask me quite literally anything about the thread, especially if it doesn't make sense. I've likely missed something. As for vital details about the situation, I do believe I've covered it quite well. Though I will admit the sky is only properly darkened around the Canterbury Estate. Doesn't mean that North Bay isn't having a very bad afternoon, though.

March 21. Freedom City. Port Royal. Shore of Lake MacKenzie. Helena Canterbury was a sheltered young woman. Born into wealth and privilege, she wanted for nothing. Except her freedom. She had the best of tutors. Private and very exclusive. The best schools and the finest university. All so that she’d be the all too worthy heir that the Canterbury family deserved. She was never given a choice or asked her opinion. Upholding the family name was the most important thing in the world. And yet…university provided a small window, a way to spread her wings a little. She joined a poetry club, where her skill at macabre verse was immediately compared to Edgar Allen Poe. The small window, once opened in such a way, allowed all sorts of emotions to spill out. Helena had always resented her family and the seemingly vast circle of other people deeply invested in her success as the Canterbury heir. They never showed any interest in what she liked. In who she was as a person. The little sparks of poetic and artistic creativity, the oddball clothing she wore when she could, the interesting quirks of personality she at times displayed…all met with fierce disapproval. Don’t be like that. Be like this. Be what’s wanted. What’s expected. What’s necessary. Helena’s anger burned inside her, but she was not strong enough to oppose her parents. They had trained her too well. She had to be content with the little rebellions, like the poetry club. For now, it was spring break. She and two friends from the poetry club had come back to Freedom. They had bought a few things from an old costume shop in Lantern Hill, and now they were going to act perfectly silly. Helena put on the mask she had bought. Instantly, she noticed a change. The whisper of feathers. Birdsong. A great presence in the sky. She thought it would be nice if she could see it, and birds of all kinds appeared out of nowhere. They sang her songs of understanding. Of compassion. And of power. Sparrows, pidgeons, hawks and eagles. Birds smaller than her hand and almost as large as her. Crows and ravens. Helena smiled. Oh, yes. Strength at last. Vengeance would be hers. But her friends had earned her favor. With a thought they too were empowered, and their loyalties made unquestionable. She did not hear their screams of terror. They were not important. First she must find out her limitations. And then, plan well. Helena Canterbury was no more. Long live The Matriarch! March 25. Freedom City. North Bay. The Canterbury Estate. 3 PM. A flock of birds of all kinds darkened the skies about the North Bay. Screams echoed from many mansions as they broke windows and fluttered about everywhere, attacking nigh indiscriminately. For the smaller birds, like sparrows, this was not a life threatening attack. For the larger birds, like eagles, lives were very much in danger. Maybe a superhero could do something about it?

Outside Silberman's Books. January 15th, 2016. 10:05 pm Two young women waited on the stoop In front of the West End's most unusual bookstore, one effortlessly balanced on one foot and juggling five tennis balls, the other pacing up and down to keep warm. The juggler was Lynn Epstein, also known as Grimalkin, currently wearing jeans, a suede jacket and a black Stenson. The colder of the two was Gretchen McDaniels, who sometimes went by Shrike, and clearly her jeans, FreeSA hoodie and black leather jacket were not cutting it. Finally Gretchen stopped in front of her boss and scowled. "I demand coffee." The changeling smiled and shook her head, her eyes never leaving the task at hand. "Sorry, I'm all out; besides, it's not even that cold out." "You always have coffee." Gretch began poking around in Lynn's jacket pockets like a puppy looking for a treat. "It's just a matter of finding...where you hid it on your person." "Hey, knock it off, I can't-" She didn't actually fall over; Lynn was too freakishly graceful for that. But she did lose control of her tennis balls, which went bouncing down the steps and rolling down the sidewalk. "Great; thanks a lot, Gretch." "Cof-feee." The fae threw up her hands in exasperation. "Fine!" After making sure no other pedestrians were nearby, she reached into her jacket, traced a small circle with her finger, and drew forth a large Thermos that was clearly too big to have fit inside. Gretchen eagerly took the Thermos, poured herself a cup of rich black coffee, and smiled like the little brat she was currently being. "Thanks, boss. Lynn merely shook her head and grunted, keeping her eyes peeled for the newest member of the Silberman's family.

Silberman's Books. Friday, January 15th, 2016, 11:15 am. Lynn Epstein was not a fan of the sort of 'roller coaster' winter they were having this year; true, her fae physiology meant extreme temperature variations didn't bother her as much, but they were still irritating, and more importantly very hard on her mortal staff. Her assistant manager Kiki was home fighting a nasty bug, and Maddy's apartment had become a modern-day plague house, with her, her partner and child all sick and bedbound. So this Friday morning saw the store manned by all of three people in their brown Silberman's aprons: Lynn, her ever-reliable assistant and battle buddy Gretchen, and the indomitable Lance, barista extraordinaire. Many of the patrons were shuffling about and coughing, holding wads of tissue and/or wearing disposable face masks, giving the place a somewhat dismal air. But the store itself looked much the same: a combined front counter and espresso bar, several small tables and chairs for patrons, tidy bookshelves crammed with books, and walls covered with old movie stills and posters from the Golden Age of Magic, depicting such luminaries as Houdini, Blackstone, Thurston, Carter and of course the store's founder, the Amazing Al-Kazar. The morning rush was finally drawing to a close, giving Gretchen a chance to catch her breath and fix herself a quick espresso shot as she surveyed the store; today, she wore a green flannel shirt with rolled-up sleeves, black jeans and her favorite Doc Martin's. She had several of her favorite piercings in her ears, and her arm tats were clearly visible. Beside her, Lance wore classic reprint Star Wars t-shirt, jeans and a black bandana covered with tiny skulls on his head. The overall feeling of crappy winter and illness put Gretchen in a darkly humorous mood, and she sent a whimsical sending to Lynn out on the floor via the magic ring on her left hand. -"Bring out your dead!"- -Tell me about it! I keep expecting one of those skeletons from a Hieronymus Bosch painting to show up.- For her part, the attractive store owner wore a sand-colored Irish fisherman's sweater, comfy jeans and light hiking boots; being immune to illness herself, she took the lead on the sales floor, greeting patrons and offering suggestions.