Hugo Fowl

Heard this was the last rodeo for Fox. Praise be to him of orange fur, he shall be missed. I've been busy between my irl campaign, my apartment move and work but I saw the email notifier.

"That should do it." Henry said swiftly as he added for the benefit of the rest. "Much as I'd love for him to share out of the goodness of his heart, this should help immensely." He then took the cash and split it up, taking $3000 from the pile as he spoke. "This should be enough considering what we want. Not that we're gonna offer all of it at once, but a little negotiation should go a long way. If you need anything else, nows the time."

Corvo landed. With a wave, he dried and cleaned the bardic dark Elve as he spoke aloud. "Glad someone else made it. As to where we are, your guess is as good as mine."

Inwardly, Henry sighed. Give a kid powers and they think the solution is to punch everything away. There was a reason there were more metahuman gangs then there were people who could actually make a lasting solution-Henry hoped to change that. Thankless as it was and less glamorous than some first page spread, punching some villain out on the newspaper it would only ever be a symptom. Violence just begat more violence and it was always, inevitably the lowest on the totem pole who'd pay for it. Desperation and frustration made criminals and powers gave them the ability to make the world pay for both. One needed only to look at the City itself and its current state for that much. More on topic he added, with an innate compliment. "Ideally I'd want either Mercury or Voyd with me. In a crowded club, full of people and potential violence the both of you are best suited to deal with things in a non-lethal fashion. Especially if guns are drawn. Last thing I think we can all agree on is this going south and our first public appearance to be a press conference for some dead person at his bachelor party or something while we were there." He then added. "Not that I'd say no to some muscle Ray." His lip quirked as he added. "That and it's nice to know we have some folks who won't jump the gun at the first hurdle we face-most of the time, asking nicely won't work which means the universal language." He then spoke aloud in curiosity to their handler. "How much can we take in bribe money?"

The storm washed over and all that Corvo could think of was gratitude. Gratitude that his group was safe below, save for the one who helped him with the ship because these were terrifying conditions. And then all too soon it seemed, they were flipped upside down. The water was oppressive, his lungs burned for air. He was still bound to the wheel. Easily dealt with by teleporting out, but the moment he went up for air, once more he went down. The sea was callous and his wings and jacket felt like weights, dragging him to the depths. Jessamine transformed then, wrapping around his arm into a clawed gauntlet similar to the one he usually wore. With the claws, he managed to snag himself a floatation. From there, all he could do was hold on and agonize how he felt like he failed his friends as the storm raged on and he desperately searched for the rest of them. Time passed. Corvo woke up. Land. He sat up quickly and regretted it, his head pounding as he went to work cleaning himself with Prestidigitation. The salt would be removed, his body and clothing were clean again. He found his hat. Jamming it on his head, he spread his wings and took off into the sky. If he was on this beach, hopefully the rest were too. He would scout back and forth till his eyes bled if he had to.

Henry had no idea what he was talking about. But he felt it deserved some response as he said calmly. "We get one shot at this, not just for hunting a rat but also setting the standard for how we're going to be perceived. Now we could go in, full costume and just kidnap him. Between your speed and Voyds portals we actually stand a great chance. But then what?" He turned to face him as he kept going, weaving the tale as he kept on. "How much do you think he'd look on any of us with any sort of fondness, more so if we decided torture was the best way to make him talk? Even if we didn't, the fact we took them will be resented and the perception of it will taint them among their contacts. Unless-and this is a wild idea, we ensure that their anonymous nature remains just that and create a good first impression for the times we might need them again. That's the real world, where people don't think beating up on a problem is enough to make it stop." It was why he earned his P.I. liscense, why he considered himself a detective first and a vigilante second. He'd fought before, but that was never his goal. It always felt good but it didn't nothing about the issues that drove people to crime in the first place nor stopped the real villains untouched by the law. For every petty thug hungry and angry, there was a kingpin fat and goading them on. For every addict, lost in the throes of habit there was a dealer who took even their souls(in one case, literally) and walked away secure. Well, not so long as he was here. He did extend an olive branch though as he added. "Don't see why we can't do both though. I'll be frank,this mission is going to be delicate and it seems like quite a few don't do that. Kids right...We do need folks willing to join in to talk. But we don't need everyone and some look like they prefer a straight fight. Could we do both missions at once? Send me and one more to the bar and the rest beat the shit out of that gang?" He looked to Guerra in curious expectation.

"I'm down for half and half." Henry decided immediately, considering it was his first suggestion. "Plainsclothes would mean we could talk without the mark being spooked, with costumed backup buying us time to switch if we need an escape. Though who will be who is the question. Personally speaking, I'd prefer to be backup-no one generally sees me unless I want them and it's a skill I've worked hard on....But I also have experience with this sort of meeting. So I'll volunteer for plainsclothes if we go that route."

"Well whoever wants to join? Feel free or go below!" And taking rope, Corvo lashed himself to the wheel just in case.

Session 7: The Vampire went down to Barovia As the paladin strode down from the manor house,the invisible Billy and the shape shifted Bruno would opt to scout the place. They would also be in time to hear the last words of Henry Sutton, who brought out a hand mirror and spoke to someone he called 'Anastasia' as he said he'd impose on her hospitality after all as soon as he switched on the defenses. He then teleported away, though Billy and Bruno had no idea how far. But the pair then engaged in a battle against a Barbed Devil Hillbilly, wielding a golden fiddle as he played and with a burning dance floor, took both out. When they woke up, stabilized and barely conscious it was to the sight of the Ghost of Strahd talking to the Hillbilly before they shook hands and the Hillbilly left. The Ghost then clapped both on the shoulder and proclaimed it was a shame before leaving as the strange, Flesh-Wearing Worms appeared from grates to approach the tied up duo. Bruno would turn into a horse. Billy would use a lockpick planted on him from the Ghost clapping his shoulder to escape, the two fleeing off into the dark. Meanwhile, the party below argued whether or not to go up,with Kalin and Alistair opting to do so, accompanied by Murica the drone before meeting the Ghost midway. After a brief talk about why bothering to do so, the Ghost decided to help them through the first part. With him, they removed land mine traps and when the hounds came out to fight and bite, the Ghost made short work of them before they vanished. Within, Kalin and Alistair fought off a phantasmal killer trap and managed to defeat the Hillbilly, earning the golden fiddle though Alistair attempted to sell off Kalin in doing so, earning the rangers ire. Around at this point, the rest of the party caught up to them and they had a choice of two places to go. Either through golden doors with musical notes engraved or beneath the wendigo dummy set up to hide a secret passage to the basement. After fighting off two giants, the party headed below, found the fallen Billy and Bruno and decided to retreat for the night. The town due to their actions with the camp locked them out of the inn, the place closed to them leaving their only choice to be with the Vistani camp for the night. There they spoke to Madame Eva, who was slowly dying due to the efforts she was making to protect them as she revealed her left hand-shriveled and black from the arcane attacks. She answered their questions, revealing and clearing up some of what puzzled them. From 'the beast with a weapon', referring to the Ghost and the tool he protected(the Holy Symbol of Ravenkind, which was a bane to the undead as a whole). They also discovered more of Strahds past as well as information on the realm as a whole, learning that the demiplane was a prison for more than Strahd Von Zarovich as they learned of his rivals and peers. Other monstrous beings whose crimes in life swept them away to this cursed demiplane. Including 'A Beast that fed upon minds that lurked below the earth'. They also learned due to waiting too long, that they failed to retrieve and kill Sutton... Something that Strahd had words for them in the morning hours over. Thankfully, he had made one of them pay in blood for them all and casually tossed the still gas-masked head of Heinrich to the group, proclaiming to do better next time as he turned to leave. Yimir,fed up at this point mooned the vampire lord and then threw off his polymorph attempt. Strahd, deciding his willpower enabled a stay of execution nodded in respect and told them he expected them at his castle and would send his gamekeeper to retrieve them when the time came before he left on a Nightmare. The party then headed back to the manor to clear it out. Discovering a Sending Stone with a connection to two places-one in the manor and one out to the forest, they found a Dwarven teenage girl-supposedly buried alive. She turned out to be a vampire spawn, recalling 'red eyes' and nothing more. Yimir put her to rest among a sober party and the Ghost spoke over the Sending Stone, expressing sorrow they killed her. Yimir, angered at this point proclaimed he would be coming for him next, the Ghost grimly satisfied as he said he would be waiting before the connection cut off. The way before them is clear. Before Strahd tires of them further, they would need the tools and weapons to defeat him. Starting with the Holy Symbol of Ravenkind. If they could get past the Ghost of Strahd first.

Thanks for the comments guys. Trying my best to experiment with different styles of matches beyond just the usual fight/comedy stuff I do.

"Radios might be a bit much. Mostly because who carries those in public? If you have a cell phone or something that might work better-no one's going to be suspicious looking at their cell phone." Pointed out Henry, much more in his element. He added with a critical eye. "Also, I'd suggest plainclothes work for this. We go in as vigilantes, we'll be treated as them and our target might be spooked. So maybe half as backup, the other half as contact?"

Pretty much. It's the basis of how I wrote this match and it's a pretty old concept used by a lot of writers far better than I. And sometimes, worship creates entirely new gods. Like gods of Trains, Car Gods, etc.

Odin isn't that kind of god. Actually some scholars believe he's the archetype of the old,wise wizard figure that Merlin and such came from. Mostly because the stories of Odin all entail his search for greater wisdom. In context of the fight, he doesn't have it but he knows what Randall is and Randall knows of Odin. It's basically old man Rocky Balboa who's been around the block vs Mason "The Line" Dixon, young and fresh. Experience and cunning vs power.

As a scribe once said, this was a bad land for gods. America was a melting pot and it made it absurdly easy to melt away among the masses unseen. But it brought with it a deep sense of melancholy, seeing how swiftly the people flocked to new gods, only to forget and discard them in a pattern repeated since before clay tablets was regarded as the best thing ever. God's of Iron and Steam, bloody gods of the road fed more sacrifices upon metal grilles than all of his colleagues in South America could ever dream of, gods of wire, voices in the air soon turned discordant as a thousand-thousand prayers, curses and more became so much white noise for those of his kind. And yet he was here and it could have been worse. His chosen people had carved their mark on history, represented by scribes of silver-color now, he supposed in flashy battles and such that baffled the old god. But there was *something* there he supposed, sitting in a crowded theater filled with the young and old, transfixed at what he saw. There was a disconcerting tendency to mix his wife's brothers character with his son by the mortals, but there...As he looked around at unknowing worshippers,all believing then in him and his sons? Well, he felt something akin to gratitude, certainly enough to treat himself that night to a steak dinner. You took what you could from a land flushed with gods. And while he reminisced on the old days, recalling horns of mead, the finest cuts from Andrimnir's roasts? As he sliced his simple salt and peppered steak(middling grade), with some potatoes on the side? It never tasted better than that moment, the juices savored as he sighed with bliss. Nothing worse for a god than being forgotten. ------ He was old, but not doddering just yet. The old god woke up with a deep sense of forboding in the air as he rose from his bed. As he got ready mechanically, he grabbed the remote by his bed to switch on his cheap television, seeking the news station as a vapidly, pretty reporter smiled with a grin that was far too wide to be genuine as she shared the morning news. A traffic jam, some athlete caught in bed with some actress, all the scandalous and shocking news of the day delivered from a face that looked like a parody of beauty as she displayed a little cleavage for the viewers. Finally, as the old man was putting on his jacket she said what he had been listening for. "-And in other news, riots today hit an all-time violent high as a standoff turned bloody in the streets with fifteen hospitalized and twelve confirmed dead as a result of trampling and gunfire from authorities. People are advised to remain in their homes for the duration as police strive to restore order." The old man did no such thing as he stepped out of his apartment and for the first time in years,neglected to lock the door behind him. If all went badly, it wouldn't matter anymore. And he knew exactly where he was now, following the scent of violence and pain all the way up to some dive bar, little more than a hole to store cheap booze and drink it till you die. Not his particular tastes, but very much to his. The floor was sticky and black as tar, the sort that a mop would commit suicide over and require the use of a pressure washer. The tables were metal(easier to clean and sturdy), all of them bolted into the floor in varying places as booths in dark corners were only ominously illuminated by neon signs, curvy women perpetually kicking upwards forever and ever in shades of red, green and blue. The smell of beer was strong and sickly, just managing to mask the more familiar scent to the old god as a juke box in the corner wailed out it's tunes for the price of a dollar. [Randall Flagg's Theme] He found the man he had come to see dancing on the floor. All alone, save for a withered corpse in his arms as he twirled and shuffled in old cowboy boots like some macabre line dancer. All around like some undertaker's sick joke, the corpses of bikers, a waitress and more sat frozen in their chairs in a state of decay. Food for maggots wriggling in the flesh as flies buzzed and swarmed thick in the air, eager and feeding. He noticed him of course, raised a hand in the universal motion of 'one moment' and only when the jukebox finished it's song did he deign to pay attention. He had an easy grin on his face, of a sort his berserkers might have worn but with an underlying nastiness that could not be hid. It was a smile that might be seen on the sort of person who fed maggots to the elderly, who had a lead foot at children crossing the road. It was a smile fit for the Lie-Smith and he gave an exaggerated bow to the old man. "I was wondering if you'd come here. Or whether or not you'd just up and die in your bed like the rest of your kind. Would have been easier for you." The old gods voice was raspy. It had been a smoggy day and the bars miasma didn't help as he retorted in a voice like old steel drawn. "You obviously don't know me well if you thought I would go gently into that dark night. Especially to you." The other laughed aloud, like a racous carrion crow as he stared at him. It was obvious he didn't consider him any kind of threat and it showed in his scorn. "And what are you gonna do about it? Hmm? Old man like you? Hasn't been a true worshipper of yours since the White Gods son was hot news. Your kind is going the way of the Dodo and you'll be missed just as much. Hadn't you heard?" He spread his arms wide,gesturing all around as he said coyly, doing a little spin on his cowboy booted heel with a laugh. "It's my year. My time now. This is your serving order and it's time for all your kind to leave. No one cares about god's anymore. Nihilism is the new black and I've never felt so strong." "Perhaps not. But that was never our role." The old man's voice was calm, standing before the walking avatar of suffering as he spoke. "People believe Ragnarok was a bad thing. The death of the world, the ship of nails and all that. It was never meant to be. Ragnarok is a final hurrah. It's a time when a parent steps down, entrusting the future of the world to his sons in the knowledge it will be better. It is knowing that death comes when it does, that all things have a life and no more to mark the world. To fear the end, to believe it something to be terrified of are the ramblings of a child who is scared of their own shadow. I do not fear death old one..." His one-eyed glare fixated on the other, firm and clear as he continued. "And I do not fear you." His hand flicked out to the jukebox as immediately a song played out. Because if you had to go out, why not to Led Zepplin? [Odin's Theme] The Dark Ones smile faltered briefly before he laughed. "You can't kill ME. Y'aint got the power for that." "Oh I'm not going to kill you." The old gods voice had changed-more firm, an old accent of a land never forgotten filling the void between them. In his hands, a staff of ashwood was gripped, two ravens flying in to land on his shoulder as a wolf padded in snarling. The flies had retreated and for a moment, the lines were drawn. And Odin, All-Father spoke with all the judgement and majesty he was known for as he pronounced sentence on the Dark One. "I'm just going to kick your ass until you're shitting through your mouth." The setup: Randall Flagg vs Odin All-Father. The stakes are humanities souls or at least this particular city. Flagg has to defeat Odin. Odin has to beat him up enough to drive him out of town or disincorporate him. Join us for a battle I had to call...'Old Gods for New Times.'

"Mission one."