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|Down with Dacian!|
|Topic Started: May 10 2011, 07:08 PM (532 Views)|
|Wil Grieve ✿||May 10 2011, 07:08 PM Post #1|
Saint of Fools
It was a night for celebrating, as Terror Moon customs dictated; North Seolfor had been captured. His bounty was a substantial haul for the pirates, who had (though Captain Schenkkan would never have admitted it) suffered a short bout of financial troubles in the weeks following the day of the Red Sun. And while the Ruthless Gentleman had seen fit to stay in Rechvald, at home with his family, the rest of the crew departed for a town in the west, part of the capital megalopolis but virtually independent from the government, thanks to corporate ownership of the area. While officially a part of the Exionan nation, the town of Greile was mostly under the authority of a local corporate firm, which made it exempt from most of the nation's laws; for the most part, everything that did not impact the firm was no concern of the police force.
This made it a perfect stop for the pirates, who normally faced the scrutiny of Corsair's government at every Exionan port. Leuther usually had no problems, nor did anyone who carried the Schenkkan name, but the rest of the crewmen preferred the anarchic designs of Greile when they wanted to party. Docked in a private airfield, they set off into the city, and around twilight met up in their usual haunt, the Greasy Can. A sleazy bar with topless wenches and equally risqué men, the Terror Moon crewmen loved it there - some, of course, more than others.
Clive had settled in a corner with a tall glass of rum and a new, sugary, fizzy drink the bartender alleged to have invented when he convinced the painted pirate to buy it; Desmond had joined the other older, saltier men and was now harassing one of the shot girls. The gunners were spilling all over the place, and Jagger sat entranced by the movements of an athletic, tattooed dancer. The pounding beats of a live brass band nearly drowned out the sounds of marching in the streets.
Under the influence of a distressing amount of alcohol, Jagger made eye contact with the dancer, extending a silent invitation to join him at his table; Clive had shifted a concerned gaze out the window at a series of shapes moving in the night.
As the band closed off one of their dancier beats and heavy-handed, sluggish applause filled the bar, Clive heard a call coming through the swinging doors from outside.
"Down with Corsair!"
"Amen!" shouted back the majority of the pirates, including Jagger, crossing the center of the bar with his new friend; he glanced to the door to find the source of the voice. His eyes froze open when a small, round, black object with a burning fuse landed just inside the front door.
|-Rikter-||Jun 6 2011, 06:05 PM Post #2|
Rikter watched the riots outside with great interest, to the dismay of the young prostitute who had been unfortunate enough to find refuge in his home. Rikter found it all rather exhilarating, and was enjoying it immensely. In fact, the riots were the only reason he had declined his friends invitation to the Greasy Can, located across the street from his apartment. Perhaps that was untrue, thought Rikter. Perhaps the pirates had something to do with it. It wasn't that he disliked pirates as a principle, he just, for the most part, found their company so very...barbaric, he supposed. Warlike as well, in a fashion. Their conversation consisted primarily of vast stretches of boredom punctuated by moments of sheer terror. The resemblance to war was not lost on Rikter in the slightest.
"Are you just going to sit there and watch them?" Rikter turned at the sound of the prostitutes voice.
"But of course." He replied, smiling. "What would you have me do, but stare? Go down and help?" The prostitute thought for a moment, before nodding vigorously.
"Oh, that is quite impossible." Rikter shook his head and turned back towards the window. A moment later, he watched one of the particularly violent rioters light several small bombs and throw one through the door of the bar. He whistled in expectation, but before he could witness the result, he was interrupted by a knock at the door. The prostitute squeaked and dived under the bedspread. Rikter grinned again and took the four strides necessary to reach the door. Unbolting it, he was surprised to see a young policeman at the door, and was even more surprised to be seeing him past the muzzle of the rifle the policeman was pointing at him.
"Can I help you, officer?" Rikter said, strategically letting a small amount of fear into his voice.
"Yes, you may." The young man sounded very confident, Rikter noticed. Strange for a boy his age. "I have a warrant here to search these apartments, for the purpose of locating and apprehending possible insurgents."
"You mean like the ones down there?" Rikter asked, gesturing back over his shoulder, towards the window. The policeman nodded.
"Well, you certainly won't find any in here, so if you don't mind officer." As Rikter attempted to shut the door, the policeman shoved his rifle in the gap, halting the door.
"I don't think you understand. I am going to search this apartment." The policeman called. Rikter pulled the door open again.
"Are you?" He said coolly, and just as coolly, he grabbed the rifle out of the policeman's hands and punched him hard in the face, bloodying his nose and knocking him against the far wall of the corridor. He then closed the door and bolted it again, before the policeman could rise and counterattack.
"What the hell!?" The prostitute cried, half emerged from the bedspread. "Are you mad!?"
"Not at the moment, but I was just a moment ago." Rikter said, propping the rifle up against the door and fetching his sabre.
"If you'd like to stay, that's fine. Otherwise, you should leave quickly." Rikter addressed the prostitute sidelong as he drew his sabre and made to open the door to enter the fray below.
Edited by -Rikter-, Jun 20 2011, 12:39 PM.
|Wil Grieve ✿||Jun 18 2011, 02:29 PM Post #3|
Saint of Fools
A blinding flash seemed to lift Jagger off of his feet, a bout of synesthetic chaos flooding his senses; the colors burnt his skin, and the screams of the Greasy Can's patrons tasted of blood and gunpowder. He felt the small of his back come into sudden, violent contact with something brassy and cylindrical, surely the bar's handrail, and his upper body tumbled backward, sending him in a tangled flip over the splintering wood. Glasses dangling from their gilded holders dropped to the floor and coated it in a glittering sea of shards, and Jagger splashed into the cracked sea, taking several seconds to regain composure.
Clive's jaw dropped involuntarily as the bomb shot through the bar's front door, his only thoughts regarding his best friend standing far too close to the explosion's epicenter; his survival instincts overrode his brain and he dove to safety behind a set of stairs leading to the few shabby hotel rooms capping the seedy establishment. The bassy boom reverberated within his chest, and his heart began beating with twice the ferocity of the average ship boarding; the utter spontaneity of the explosion left his perception blurred and his mind addled.
As Jagger shook off the worst of the bomb, he opened his eyes to a set of arms that would not respond to his mind’s desperate attempts to move them; sure he’d been paralyzed, he renounced every god he knew of (and did not believe in) and spat out curses left and right, as a sailor is wont to do. But when the arms moved of their own accord and Jagger realized he lay in a tangled mess with the dancer he’d grown fond of, he breathed a sigh of relief.
“Are you okay?” he asked, concern elevating his voice over the din of the recovering bar.
“What the flying FUCK just happened?” the dancer hocked, his dark skin blistered by the pelting of wood splinters and other debris. One of his tattoos, a shaded star beneath one of his clavicles, had been shorn clean from his body, lost in the dusty asbestos raining down on them; its matching counterpart on his other shoulder stood intact. With a horrid pain racking his joints, Jagger sat up and stared down at the exotic dancer, resting a hand on the man’s firm, but shaking, midsection in order to prop himself up.
“A fucking BOMB! Hoooooo-ly shit, that looks bad,” Jagger coughed, his eyes on the bloody mass remaining of the star tattoo. The dancer glanced down and immediately proceeded to flip every shit on the planet; Jagger pushed his floundering torso to the (glass covered) floor and held up a single finger, motioning for the dancer to stay still.
“Hey hey hey, slow your roll, hombre,” he said, one of his hands methodically massaging the huge bruise forming at the base of his own spine. When he was confident that there were no more bombs, he clambered to his feet, peeking his head over the bar.
“Everyone all right?” he called out, now aware of just how intimate he’d gotten with the explosion. Scorch marks blackened the wood floor all the way up to the bar. And he’d been the closest, so casualties looked minimal. It was, however, gonna cost a pretty penny to patch up the bar’s newly-created bay window. Looking out into the night, he could see fire bottles splashing on the nearby homes and businesses. It looked like chaos for chaos’ sake; Jagger despised Dacian Corsair as much as the next guy, but something was offputting. This wasn’t an ordinary riot.
The patrons murmured in response, completely dazed, while a few of the burlier men ran outside to teach the bomb thrower a lesson. Desmond was among that group, and behind him fell most of the Terror Moon crewmen. Clive emerged unscathed and seething from behind the stairs, waves of psionic energy warping the air around him as he stepped deliberately and angrily toward the door. He and Jagger nodded toward one another, and Jagger turned to help the fallen dancer to his bare feet, knocking a cleaning rag to the floor so the dancer would not step on the shattered glass.
“Well, tonight could’ve gone better I suppose,” Jagger joked, drawing his pistol, “I’ll be back. Will you be around?”
“Screw that, man, I’m going home,” the dancer rasped, blood dripping from the singed wound.
“Hospital might be a better idea. Good evening, then.”
Exiting the bar, Jagger found Clive locked in a hand-to-hand brawl with a black-coated stranger; it only took seconds for it to register that it wasn’t a rioter in Clive’s psionic grip, but a police officer. Off to the right, two lines of shielded riot cops bearing the emblem of Corsair marched down the street.
“Clive! What the hell!”
“Down with Corsair, right?” he grinned, an impulsive madness elevating his pitch. A roundhouse kick to the stomach took the wind out of the armored officer and he sunk to the ground, his eyes rolling back into his head.
((Enter Black Bomber if you so desire, Mako.))
|-Rikter-||Jun 20 2011, 12:59 PM Post #4|
As the door to Rikter's apartment swung open, the young policeman sprang up, presumably with intention to attack him, but Rikter never gave him the chance. Swinging his sabre up in a wide sweep, he carved a deep gash from the policeman's right hip to his left shoulder, and in an extension of the same movement, sheathed his sabre and straightened his posture. With a low, frightened whimper, the policeman fell to his knees and brought his hands up to what used to be his chest. However, he didn't really get the chance to go through shock, either, for a moment after he fell to his knees, Rikter kicked him in the face, sending him sliding along the hall to end up in a sorry pile on the opposite wall. Rikter gazed at him in disgust for a moment, before continuing on his way. taking a left out of his door, he began down the long hallway towards the narrow staircase. A low smirk crossed his face for a moment when he heard a faint squeal from the prostitute as she peered out the door, which Rikter had left agape, and saw what was recently the policeman.
The first policeman to see him didn't waste any time asking questions. Turning towards him, the officer's hand flew forward, carrying the black blur of a billy club. Luckily, Rikter reacted fairly well to blurs. Ducking under the club, Rikter jabbed backwards with his (still sheathed) sabre, striking the policeman directly beneath the sternum, and kicked backwards hard, propelling himself around to face the rest of them. Rikter removed his glasses, shook his hair out of his face, and drew his sabre coolly before nodding to the largest and most intimidating of the group, a man he remembered from his workplace.
"Ready when you are, Sergeant Friedrich." He said softly, and prepared for the police attack.
|Mako ✿||Jun 20 2011, 02:45 PM Post #5|
Doesn't it sound familiar?
There was a reason why she was called the Black Bomber. Her indulgence with explosives and anything that could be wired up to be detonated became widespread throughout the regions of Exiona. Despite popular belief, Gretel didn't have a short of a fuse as the bombs she created, rather she was the cool, calculating type albeit quite the lunatic as well. How else would she be able to lead a revolutionary against the prime minister if she didn't have plans? The Exionan government wasn't so much of a pushover to just stand idly by as to watch their country destroy itself internally. No, they've been pretty busy lately quelling rebellions mercilessly, especially with Prime Minster Dacian Corsair at the helm of the nation.
"DOWN WITH CORSAIR!" she shouted over the masses of traffic in complete disarray. There she was, scantily-clad in sable leather and black fishnets, darting through the streets of Greile, eluding policemen and pirates who haven't yet suspected a thing from this woman. But it wouldn't be too long before she became unnoticed. The men at the bar, if they were still alive that is, would surely go out and look for The Black Bomber.
"And the next target is..." she muttered, recalling from her memory the names and images of locations to blow up. 'No lists,' was what she told her second in command, 'I don't have time to read from a list.'
Abruptly stopping in front of an apartment complex, now remembering that the grey facade indicated that this building was one of her targets. Her intelligence had gathered that this area housed some of Corsair's crooked supporters, so it needed to be bombed. She peered through the window to see a lone man wielding a saber facing off against a squadron of enforcers. Valiant of you, Gretel thought of this black-haired anarchist, But they're all gathered up like rodents. A can't miss opportunity. Reaching into her brown leather satchel, she grabbed a black bomb, slightly bigger and deadlier than the one she had tossed into the bar. She ignited the bugger and hurled it into the window, the black ball smashed the glass and rolled behind the group of policemen.
"DOWN WITH CORSAIR!" she bellowed once again before running off.
"THERE SHE IS! STOP THAT WOMAN NOW! THE BLACK BOMBER!" someone had finally caught on. Gretel could do this all day.
Edited by Mako, Jul 1 2011, 12:58 PM.
|-Rikter-||Jun 20 2011, 03:08 PM Post #6|
Rikter swept his sabre in a wide arc, causing the majority of the officers to back away from him. A few of the more confident, however, remained in his range and the first two of these were cut rather shallowly. The third was not so lucky. His enthusiastic scream reverberated around the lobby as he fell back into the throng, his hands scrabbling around his stomach, trying to hold his intestines.
"MOTHERFUCKER!" Another policeman, presumably a friend of the dead man, bellowed and charged forward, his shield solidly before him. Rikter gave a short, barking, joyless laugh and kicked the man's shield, sending him sprawling back. Following this movement, Rikter stepped forward and slashed down at the officer. However, the officer raised his shield in time, halting Rikter's blade with a dull whump! Realizing his momentum was lost, Rikter jumped back and returned to his old stance. It was at this point he heard a faint tinkling, like a window breaking, and turned towards the sound. Suddenly a massive voice filled the lobby as the whore (Rikter really had no idea of her occupation, but he was willing to assume that any woman who dressed as shabbily and indecently as this woman did was below even a prostitute.) outside the window screamed her point through the shattered glass. Rikter didn't even flinch at the volume, unlike the policemen. He didn't have time. He quickly put two and two together and glanced towards the shabby carpet a few feet from the window. And, lo and behold, there it was. A remarkably good-sized bomb, it's fuse half burned through already, sat, almost tranquilly on the dingy carpet. Rikter's eyes widened for a moment, and only a moment, before he sprang into action. Slicing deep into a policeman's thigh, he rammed the man with his full body weight and knocked him flat. Wrenching his sabre free of the man's flesh, Rikter leapt forwards and dived out the nearest window. Unfortunately, the window only led to the Rent Office, where Rikter's heartless landlord spend most of his time. Rikter landed heavily on his right ankle, twisting it cruelly with an audible pop, and rolled underneath the large, open desk Theresa, the landlord's young secretary and presumed lover, sat at most of the day. Hunched down under a desk, his ankle burning, Rikter awaited the explosion he was sure would kill him.
|Spider ✦||Jun 23 2011, 12:35 PM Post #7|
Expect my visit when the darkness comes. The night I think is best for hiding all
Nightlife in Exiona was always something special. The hustle and bustle of the local riff-raff, the sounds and the smells.... oh the smells of hundreds of factories spewing smoke and pollutants mixed together with the odour of thousands of unwashed people combined together into a rich bouquet that practically assailed the senses with sledgehammer force. It made eyes water, throats scratchy and if one was particularily fortunate, it could even overwhelm one's gag reflex.
This was the reality of this great industrial nation and Tax loved every solitary moment of it. Having lived his entire childhood beneath the earth in the dank dark tunnels of the warrens the sensory overload of the surface world was wonderful. With his sharpened senses he gorged on new sensations till his mind fizzed with an almost sexual pleasure. People passing by gave the odd fellow a wide berth, some even stepping off onto the street to avoid him. It wasn't necessarily his alien appearance, no it was the gleam in his eye, the strange red-brown smears that stained his clothing and his disturbing lunatic ramblings. The goblin walked down crowded streets arms outstretched as if recieving a holy benediction, his eyes wide open staring up at the dazzling city lights, breathing in as deeply as he could,
"MORE, MORE, MORE!" he shouted at the top of his lungs.
Madmen weren't exaclty uncommon but there was something about this particular fellow that made people extra cautious. Tax moaned and swayed down the streets, dancing to a mad tune only he could hear. Rounding a corner he came face to face with a large mob running towards him. They were fleeing something with great haste but miraculously none trampled him in their rush to escape. Seemingly oblivious to the danger the goblin continued onward seemingly lost in his own world. Shouts now filled the air and a brace of policemen rushed by. One of the men knocked Tax from the sidwalk and he tumbled to the road. His head connected with the pavement with a crack and he sat up rubbing his head and staring around bewildered as if seeing his surroundings for the first time.
"Hmmm that's strange how did I get here?.... Last I remember I was working on that new aphrodisiac the brothel owner had requested...."
Muttering to himself he picked himself up from the ground and looked around. People were rioting in the streets and officers in full riot gear were everywhere.
"Oh how I do love civil unrest!" he squeaked clapping his hands together.
"So many mutilations and things to steal!"
Rubbing his hands together in anticipation he made his way over to the nearest bar, a sorid place called the Greasy Can. Just before he neared the doorway and scantly clad young woman ran up and shouting some anti-establishment slogan hurled a lit bomb into the bar. Tax stopped to watch, massive grin plastered on his ugly face, as the fireball exploded out of the doorway sending dust and debris everywhere. Moments later the patrons of the bar, some of them pirates by the looks of their dress, rushed out and began to engage the police in fierce fighting.
Tax laughed in appreciation and turned to see where the woman had gone. The bomber in question had run towards an appartment complex and, after tossing another bomb through a window, had turned and darted down another street.
The bomb exploded with an impressive display of fire and destruction and the streets bellow were showered with gore from the unfortunate caught in the blast. Something came flying through the air and smacked into Tax's chest with a wet "SPLAT." Looking down he saw a severed human hand lying on the ground. It was a delicate looking thing that seemed to have once belonged to a young woman. The skin was soft and white, the nails carefully manicured and a gold ring was around the third finger. Tax bent down and, after carefully examing the severed limb, stuffed it into his apron pocket.
"Waste not!" he cackled.
While the riot was in full swing the goblin was of the opinion that there were not enough explosions, especially since the young bomber had run off. Smilling gleefully he reached into his smock and produced a handful of glass vials filled with an amber coloured liquid.
With a yell he threw his arms into the air releasing the vials in all directions. They arced slowly through the air glittering like diamonds in the flickering lights before plummeting down carrying their explosive payloads with them.
Edited by Spider, Jun 23 2011, 12:39 PM.
|Wil Grieve ✿||Jun 23 2011, 04:38 PM Post #8|
Saint of Fools
As Clive stood over the crumpled officer and the wall of shielded cops advanced closer and closer to their location, they watched the woman who’d bombed the bar rush over to another building, then another, leaving in her wake a trail of explosive breadcrumbs. The angry mob moved almost too quickly to keep up with, a stampede of revolutionaries with destruction on their mind – of the regime, of the city, of human life. Jagger was all for the revolution; his Schenkkan heritage made him a dissident of Corsair’s by birth, but above that he believed the man was a revolting excuse for a politician. But this method, he knew, was not the way. While it would likely bring about quick results, those results were armed with billy clubs and uninterested in the plight of the working class.
“Clive, stay your hand! We’re not involved!”
“When in Greile, baby!” Clive whistled, launching into a full sprint toward the crowd, his speed augmented by psionics. Jagger shook his head lackadaisically, now seeing that the rest of the crew, including his uncle Desmond, was already lining up to take on the advancing riot responders.
“Fools, every one of them,” Jagger chided, “Clive! Wait up!”
Bursting into a run aided by his wind elementalism, he caught a glimpse of something odd out of the corner of his eyes; what appeared to be a child threw a bunch of glass containers into the air, and as they cracked on the pavement, more explosions rocked the street, releasing clouds full of toxins into the already polluted air.
“Hey, kid! Where’d you get those? Stop that, you’ll hurt your…self…” he said, trailing off as he approached the child only to discover that it was not a child at all.
|Spider ✦||Jun 23 2011, 07:02 PM Post #9|
Expect my visit when the darkness comes. The night I think is best for hiding all
The riot had escalated to a new level of intenisty and Tax was loving every minute of it. As his bombs decended to the street and exlpoded, sending people flying and setting fire to nearby buildings he laughed and danced a merry jig. Next to surgery, fire and exlposions were his greatest passion and now he was able to engage in both! The whole experience was funner than a barrel of monkies (Something he had tried once before and had been quite disappointed with the results. Initially the monkies had made some rather interesting noises but eventually the shrieking had subsided and after a few days the contents had begun to smell terribly and he had been forced to dispose of them in the dark of night)
There was a roar from the crowd as the authorities finally seemed to realize that the black-clad woman was the main instigator and armed officers moved to apprehend her. They found their progress blocked by a growing mob of angry commoners. The rioters' numbers were soon augmented by the patrons of the now derilict bar. It was easy to spot the pirates in the crowd not only because of their dress, but also from their more sophisticated and effective fighitng styles. Two men in particular seemed effective, a tall lithe brunette and smaller blond man with peculiar pink highlights.
The taller man rushed past Tax to continue battling officers but the blonde seemed perplexed by Tax's presences and ran towards him shouting a warning. Tax's ears perked at the shouts but quickly wilted in annoyance when he realized the man thought he was a human child.
Crossing his arms he raised himself to his full four feet and sniffed in disdain.
"Kid?! Phaa! Do you not know who I am sir? I am the brilliant, the genious Ta... ackkk!"
His introduction was cut short when an officer appeared out the melee and seizing him by the scruff of his collar jerked him off his feet and into the air.
"Got you you little bastard!" he shouted over the crowd.
"I don't know where you got those but if you think that being a minor means you will get off easily, you've got another thing comming to you!"
So saying he raised his club and turned his captive around to face him. His expression changed to that of utter bewilderment when he suddenly realized what he had caught was no child.
"What in the blue hells..."
The goblin was holding a silver nozzled blow torch in his right hand and vial of blue liquid in his left. He was beaming from ear to ear as the splashed the contents of the vial on the officer's chest and with a flick of the trigger sent a single tongue of flame leaping towards the man. Fire connected with liquid and suddenly the man was consumed by a ball of fire. As his hair and clothing ingnited he dropped his captive to the ground and ran off screaming before collapsing to the road in a burning heap.
Tax who had been unceremoniously dropped on his head picked himself up once more and very seriously attempted to brush the dust from his clothes.
"I must say the manners of the local law enforcement does need some improving! Why did you see the way that man just dropped me and ran off without apology? I could have been seriously injured and the world deprived of my talents! tut tut!"
Suddenly remembering the blonde man who stood nearby Tax turned and with great flourish bowed deeply, a wide grin plastered across his face.
"Tax Needlefingers, Tinker, Alchemist and Surgeon at your service."
|-Rikter-||Jun 26 2011, 11:11 AM Post #10|
Rikter kicked viciously at the desk which pinned him to the ground. Slamming his boot against it again and again, he finally managed to kick it off of him, but the triumph was short lived, as two chairs and a filing cabinet took the desks place. Rikter swore under his breath and slammed himself against his confines again. However, these new obstacles proved easier to escape than his previous one. Rikter broke free from the pile of rubble with a gasp, both in pain and rejoicing. The explosion had almost leveled the building, but Rikter had escaped due to the dumb luck of a small upset in the layout of the room. As the bomb detonated, a filing cabinet was tipped over and landed to form a makeshift blast shield for Rikter's hunched form. However, as far as Rikter could tell, he wasn't absolutely unharmed, and had suffered several bruises and burns, the most serious of which were found in his lungs. But even this was a miracle considering the sheer size of the explosion, and Rikter's proximity to it.
Pulling himself free, Rikter retrieved his sword, which was blackened but had seemingly suffered no damage, and stood. His legs were shaky and weak, but he could still stand. However, upon standing, he could also be seen. There wasn't much left in the way of walls in the lobby, so he was quite visible. But at this point, he was the least of their worries. As far as Rikter could see, there was a little...thing thrower chemical explosives everywhere, and several pirates, no, a whole crew of the villains, had joined the fray. In general, this meant bad news for the police. Rikter smiled. Good. leaping back into the fray with sabre held high, Rikter laughed gleefully.
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