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Oily, rank water splashes across your shoes as you step off the crumbling curb into the cobblestone streets. You curse, flicking the grime away with a kick of your heel as you tuck one hand into your pocket, pulling out a silver and gold chased engraved watch. With a click of your thumb, it falls open to reveal a chaotic interior of ticking hands, shifting needles and rotating wheels of strange symbols. Most people, Hell, anyone that isn’t you would be quite ill just by looking at the mess but you’ve long since learned to read it. It tells you everything you need to know and what it tells you is...

“He’s late AGAIN”
You look up and down the darkened street, only a few vagrants and other night folk out wandering at this hour. With a shake of your head and a mild curse, you pull a tobacco box from an interior pocket of your shirt and roll a cigarette, lighting it with a brightly burning match that pinwheels into the street as you flick it aside. Drawing the flavorful smoke deep, you can exhale slowly, leaning against the wrought iron lamppost, the whale oil inside sputtering as it burns.

Looks like you’ll be waiting for a bit.

>Stay against the lamp. You’re more visible for both good and bad reasons.

>get out of the way and get against one of the apartments. Inconspicuous but not trying to hide.

>Step into the alley and wait in the dark. You’ve got no reason to be seen until you want to be.
>>
>>3740128
>Step into the alley and wait in the dark. You’ve got no reason to be seen until you want to be.
>>
>>3740128
>>Step into the alley and wait in the dark. You’ve got no reason to be seen until you want to be.
>>
>Get out of the way and get against one of the apartments.
>>
>>3740128
>Wait in the dark.

You ash the cigarette by tapping it against the dull black iron of the lamppost, sighing as you exhale. With a shake of your head you quickly walk over to opposite side of the street. Water splashes softly and your shoes tap a bit louder than you’d prefer but you don’t draw overt amounts of attention as you walk along the side of the boarded up ruin and duck into the alleyway behind it.

A squeaking rat is tossed aside by your shoe as you gingerly lean against the brick of the alley wall, the space between the two decaying structures occupied by vermin and various degrees of debris. Rotting crates and boxes, their contents unknowable under layers of mold and grime, empty bottles and rusted cans, broken glass tinkling under the feet of the dozens of rats. A moth eaten blanket and ragged pillow stuffed beneath a large crate, a stolen tarp acting as a makeshift roof for whatever wretch made camp here.

“He’s gonna keep me waiting all night”
You mutter to yourself, holding the stub of your cigarette with your teeth as you roll another. You tip your hat back as you light the new with the ember of the old and flick the dying coal away, a fat grey furred rat squeaking indignantly as it impacts its scarred rump. The dull glow of the burning tobacco casts a extremely faint red glow as you watch the street, only someone who knew you were here would notice it. As if to prove your point, a pair of barmaids make their way past you drunkenly. Ones curly black hair is in disarray and you can’t help but take note of her rather pointed ears protruding through the mess. With a exasperated sigh and a pinch of your nose, you make a mental note to remind Claretta that she has to maintain appearances in public.

“Speaking of appearances”
You mutter to yourself again, honestly the only intelligent conversation you ever got. Looking down at yourself, you dust off your shirt and shoulders, the brick dust clinging to you like a rash. It pays to look...

(Various general character flavor and mild personality leanings. Feel free to write in your own suggestions or alterations to these.)

>Clean. You prefer to dress very nondescriptly. Your shirt, jacket, pants, boots and hat are simple and utilitarian.

>Experienced. You wear what works for you. Your jacket is worn and slightly frayed, your shoes scuffed and your hands stained and calloused.

>Intimidating. You dress to show everyone who is in charge. The sleeves of your shirt are rolled, exposing scars from years of rough work.

>Proper. You dress to impress. While not flashy, you keep your garb and demeanor polite and professional from shined shoes to starched hat.
>>
>>3740128

>get out of the way and get against one of the apartments. Inconspicuous but not trying to hide
>>
>>3740263
>Proper. You dress to impress. While not flashy, you keep your garb and demeanor polite and professional from shined shoes to starched hat
>>
>>3740263
>>Intimidating. You dress to show everyone who is in charge. The sleeves of your shirt are rolled, exposing scars from years of rough work.
>>
>>3740263
>Experienced. You wear what works for you. Your jacket is worn and slightly frayed, your shoes scuffed and your hands stained and calloused.
>>
>>3740263
>Clean. You prefer to dress very nondescriptly. Your shirt, jacket, pants, boots and hat are simple and utilitarian.
>>
Rolled 1 (1d4)

>>3740281
>>3740325
>>3740353
>>3740365

We’ve got one for each, a 4 way tie. Rolling for the winner
>>
You smooth the plain black coat, the cloth soft beneath your fingers as you brush away clumps of brick dust and cobweb. The vest beneath is simple, black with red stitching. You make sure the buttons on your coat are fastened securely as you tuck your pocket watch back into place. You straighten your hat, a curve brimmed bowler and nod appreciatively as you check your shoes, the oil of the shine having shed the grimy water quite easily.

You’ve always preferred to dress and behave properly when possible. It makes you feel more legitimate and respectable than if you were some ragged madman running around dealing with the insanity that is your day to day life. You haven’t quite devolved to a monocle and cane yet despite what Jorgen down at the Spotted Toad says. You hum softly to yourself as you simply relax and smoke, watching the clouds of exhalation waft into the street and carry on into nothingness. You’re nearly ready to vacate the spot and go track Cullin down yourself when you hear footsteps on the cobblestones. Shuffling, heavy footed along with wet, rasping breathing and the occasional hacking cough.

>Wait and watch. See what Cullin does.

>Step out and confront the twit. Its nearly four in the morning.

>whistle. Get his attention.

>Other
>>
>Thumb twiddling commences
>>
>>3740409
>Step out and confront the twit. Its nearly four in the morning.
>>
Your shoes click on the stone of the alley and then on the sidewalk as you take a final drag of your cigarette, flicking it into a puddle as you tuck a hand into your pocket. You lift your head, watching Cullin approach with his sedate, shuffling pace. It takes a lot of patience on your end to not walk over and belt him in his few remaining teeth.

Cullin is a portly man, his stained and greasy shirt stretched tight over a belly of blubber and swollen innards. His arms are pale and fleshy, mottled by scabs and sores while his fingers are bedecked I’m tarnished rings, the pinky on his left hand ending in a ragged nub that appears to have been bitten off. His jowls and chins quiver with each step and movement of his jaw as he walks along the sidewalk, his hairless face resembling a fat covered egg as his head tapers to a clean shaven dome. A beet red, crooked nose sits above his wide set mouth, the stench of his breath reaching your nose even from here.

You couldn’t profess to actually liking the man but Cullin has his uses.

He bobs his head as he approaches, coughing raggedly into his hand before wiping bloody slime onto his trousers and shirt. His right leg drags slightly, a visible limp as he shuffles along before he stands before you, panting slightly from the short walk. You cock an eyebrow and look the wretch up and down before nodding politely as he pulls a flash from one of his dozens of pockets, unstoppering it and taking several hearty swallows.
“Evening Cullin. How thoughtful of you to make it”

Cullin nods slowly, droplets of sweat trickling down his face despite the coolness of the hour as he rests a hand on the lamppost.
“Sorry bout bein’ late an’ all... They’s got Dogs fightin’ over at Karl’s an’ I lost track o’the time.”
By the witless smile on his face and constant head bobbing, it seems that he thinks this is an acceptable excuse for being nearly an hour late. You sniff and immediately regret it, the man smelling of spoiled food, stale sweat, wet dog and old blood. But you have no doubt that you’ll have to pay Karl a visit, having mangy mutts rip each other apart is all well and good but if he’s letting Mundanes watch some Dogs fight... that will MAKE it your business.

You wave aside Collins offer of sharing his flask and cross your arms across your chest, looking down on the shorter man as he takes another heavy draught. Finally, FINALLY, He puts it back in his pocket and sighs happily, looking around blissfully as you lose a tiny bit of your patience.

“Cullin”
Silence as he continues to watch the vagrants down the road argue over a half empty bottle.
“Cullin?”
The halfwit wipes his nose on his sleeve, leaving a trail of mucus across his cheek.

>Pt1
>>
>>3740607
>pt2

“CULLIN”
Your voice comes in a low growl that catches the mans attention finally and he returns his gaze to you, lips clenched right as he notices the look in your eye. You give him a small nod, a tight smile on your face as you clear your throat.
“You has something you wanted to tell me? Usual meeting spot? Usual TIME?”

Cullin brightens, his face breaking into a wide, if Ill advised smile.
“Oh! yeah I went an’ found out what ya need needed me to find out boss.”

And from the interior of Cullin’s filthy jacket, some of the pockets *wriggling* with unwholesome contents, he fishes out a small roll of paper that he unrolls and hands to you.
“‘Ere ya go boss. Ol’Cullin always comes through dont’e?”

You don’t respond, attempting to decipher Cullins chicken-scratch and raising a eyebrow at the blatant misspellings that run rampant like the pox in a 2nd Alley Brothel.

>The rumors are true, some members of your district have been kidnapped and sold to a circus freak show. Time to be the protector again.

>The rumors of a “Monster” in the North End sewers are true. He’s one of yours and he’s out of control. Time to go hunting.

>A gang of Mundanes has made their way into your district. Its only a matter of time until they see something or hurt someone.
>>
>>3740610
>>The rumors of a “Monster” in the North End sewers are true. He’s one of yours and he’s out of control. Time to go hunting.
>>
>>3740610
>>The rumors of a “Monster” in the North End sewers are true. He’s one of yours and he’s out of control. Time to go hunting.
>>
According to Cullin’s near nonsensical scrawling, The rumors that have been circulating around about some kind of monster in the North End sewers are true. Now if someone wants to hide out in the dark that’s their business but if they’re getting seen and god forbid eating the occasional sewer worker or vagrant... well, that’s your business. You’ve already had to deal with the Mayor this month and you’d hate to have to explain why there’s a mob of Mundanes marching through the district and lynching folk from lampposts.

Again.

Well... that’s why you have the job you do. If you can subdue him and bring him in, that’s great. If not.... there a lot of corpses in the sewers anyway. One more wont hurt. You tune out Cullin’s prattle about how he won thirty coppers at Karl’s and read through the papers details. Gathered from “eye witness” reports and general hearsay, you can surmise that whatever is mucking about in the sewers is large, extremely strong, fast moving and intelligent. There’s already reports of folk going missing near the open sewers in the poorer side of North End.

You roll the paper up, tucking it into your sleeve and chew your lip for a moment as you think to yourself on how to approach the situation.

>Speak to Cullin some more, see what else he can dig up for you while you prep

>Turn and walk off. Cullin has served his purpose and you’ve got nothing more to say.

>Leave and go home. Its getting better overly late and you don’t want to be on the streets come dawn.

>Other
>>
>>3740792
>>Speak to Cullin some more, see what else he can dig up for you while you prep
>>
>>3740831
supportin
>>
You nod to yourself once as you turn to face Cullin fully, the man mid ramble about how he once saw a Faerie whore do something inproper with a set of billiard balls and hold up a hand, cutting him off. You smile civilly, not a bit of the expression reaching your eyes as you reach out to pat the man on the shoulder, making a mental note to wash your hands afterward as he partially relaxes.


“Good man Cullin, Good man. Now, what you’ve given me? This is helpful. If you could dig around a bit, see if there’s anything else you can find out, I’d be very appreciative of that.”
Your voice is low and conversational as you reach into your coat with your free hand, withdrawing a single gold coin that you press into Cullin’s sweaty palm as he eagerly reaches out for it. Your hand clenches on his shoulder enough that you can feel the muscle and bone beneath the layers of fat and he winces slightly, cringing like a beaten dog.
“I expect my money’s worth Cullin.”

Cullin nods frantically, his chins and jowls wagging as he tucks the coin back within his trousers. He can practically taste the cups of All-Sorts he can buy with that. His faintly high pitched, rasping voice has a touch of indignation as he replies.
“An’ when ‘ave I ever not? Ol’Cullin gets th’job done yessir. Anythin’ in partic’lar ya want found out?”

>Exactly what I’m dealing with. There’s dozens of variants of “Non-Human” out there and you’d rather “Know your enemy” and all that

>A map of the sewers overlain on the North End, with attacks and sightings highlighted would be helpful.

>Names and whereabouts of the surviving witnesses. If they can’t be persuaded to keep quiet, you may need to exercise your discretion.

>Other
>>
>>3740895
>Exactly what I’m dealing with. There’s dozens of variants of “Non-Human” out there and you’d rather “Know your enemy” and all that
might be able to tailor our aresenal to it.
>>
You resist the growing urge to strangle Cullin and think it over for a second before replying.
“Well for starters, I need to know what I’m dealing with, EXACTLY what I’m dealing with if you can. Ask questions, poke around, sneak into the morgue and look at the bodies they found if you can. Find what I need to know”

Cullin makes a face at the thought of inspecting the mangled corpse of some sewer worker but the second golden coin glinting between your fingers as you roll it over your knuckles solidifies his resolve. With a quivering nod, he pulls out a ragged notepad and a pencil and scrawls some notes down before tucking it into his jacket.
“Got it boss. I’ll find out what I can find an’ we’ll settle up. Th’fountain? Sunset?”

>The Fountain works. Its a common meeting spot in the District.

>Meet me at The Spotted Toad. Jorgen always keeps a booth open for you.

>Meet me here. Same place as always
>>
>>3740967
>>Meet me at The Spotted Toad. Jorgen always keeps a booth open for you.
"Besides, its thirsty work, gathering information." surely the billiard fairy just bawdy talk...surely.
>>
“Meet me at the Spotted Toad.”
You turn on your heel at that, striding off into the darkness as Cullin bites the gold coin once your back is turned. His pained grunt as he cracks another tooth isnt lost on your ears as you grin softly and light another cigarette, smoke trailing behind you as the shadows of the Districts streets swallows you whole.

Eyes peer out of the alleys as you walk. Some are those of drunkards and bums, passing bottles between grimy hands. Others are more vigilant, a soft green or yellow glow behind illuminating that the watchers aren’t quite human. A Mundane wouldn’t know what to make of it, they’d be convinced they were seeing something but you know better and as you meet the catlike eyes, they blink and are replaced by those of normal humans. You nod, continuing on as footsteps make hasty retreats down the alleyways, not wishing to have any infractions noted. You shake your head at their nervousness, humans had a hard time in Eastside, the streets themselves would turn them around and lead them right back out.

You hum to yourself as you walk, the Eastside District and its changing roads having engrained itself into your memory over the years. The slums of the dockyards where those with an “affinity” for the sea rest during the day. The warehouses and loading docks where those with more strength a man but less wits than a post earn their pay. The sewers and rail lines where those with a predilection for the dark and stone use their gifts. And all that in between, from the borders of South Town to North End, from the slums and alleys of Eastside to the wealth and opulence of The West Bank.

Its all your problem, your responsibility. You keep the Mundanes OUT of Eastside and the Non-Humans, they stay in. That’s the deal, that’s the arrangement and damnit, you will make sure everyone abides by it. The rules aren’t iron clad, for the most part. If a faerie or a Nachthund or a Dwarf was seen in their “True” shape by a single Mundane? At night? That would be the ravings of a madman. But groups of Mundanes, of regular humans, seeing something truly inhuman during the day? That would be cause for alarm. You tip your hat to a young Faerie as she flits along the rooftops, singing to herself as she hangs laundry to dry on the lines, her bare feet hanging in midair thirty feet above you. She waves at you brightly, clothespins held in her teeth as you call up.

“Dawns coming. Put the wings up quick as you can”
You call out in a friendly reminder. Her nods and affirmative noises are the best she can manage with her teeth full of clips and you continue on.

>pt1
>>
>>3741081
>pt2

Another beautiful night. One more out of hundred, out of thousands maybe. You’ve honestly forgotten how many it has been. Most of the residents of Eastside know you or know OF you. You keep the peace, between both worlds. When one of yours loses their minds and goes on a rampage, you put them down and keep it quiet. When humans encroach on Eastside, they magically disappear, either coerced to leave or simply vanished. Everyone knows WHAT you do, but few know who you really are.

>Who are you?
>Please be as creative as you want.
>>
meet me here same place as always
>>
>>3741084
Lantern John, you real name doesn't matter too much, given that you were hung some 5 years ago. Most people know you for a friendly demeanor, and noose around your neck. Granted you don't really need to wear it but you like the effect it has on people, reminding them that you're not one to die so easy.
>>
You don’t remember or care to remember your life before Eastside. You’ve heard lots of rumors, some of which have been corroborated by others over the years. Your name from before has long since been left to time though, no records of your life or death existed as far as anyone knows. All you know is what you’ve been told and what others have confirmed.

It was during the turmoil of 1852, before Eastside was given a will of its own and humans found it monumentally difficult to enter the district when a riot broke out. Superstitious yokels, violent gang members, the bloody bluebacks, they all stormed Eastside by the hundreds. Beatings, murders, rapes and lynchings occurred on every corner. Stores were burnt, homes were robbed and blood flowed in the streets. You had apparently sought to safeguard a group of young children, fighting in the doorway with all your might, first as a man but then in your *True* shape. They say you piled bodies ten deep as smoke filled your lungs and blood left your body through dozens of gunshot wounds. But you had protected them.

The Mayor stepped in when word of the violence reached her. Her words erased the memories of the rioters, their weapons falling from limp hands as they turned and walked away. But some had gotten away beforehand and she had to make an example of someone for breaking the Veil. That someone, stepping forth over a pile of bodies, was you.

Bloodied and wounded, you had been frogmarched to the Fountain Square and after your crimes were read off, chiefest among them being “Breaking The Veil that protects us all”, hanged by the neck until dead. For a day and a night you’d been left there as a reminder to all of the consequences. Then you had been cut down and brought to the Mayors home where after three days of strange sounds and lights, you had emerged into the cool night air. Your neck still bore the scars from the rope and your flesh was cool to the touch but your heart still beat, your mind was your own and you had proven to everyone that Lantern John was exceedingly hard to kill. The noose you wore around your neck like a tie was proof of that.

>Go home, get some rest before you head out for the day

>Take a walk around Eastside, make sure everything is in order

>Head by Karl’s, make sure he’s just fighting actual dogs

>Other
>>
>anybody lurkan?
>>
>>3741208
>Take a walk around Eastside, make sure everything is in order
>>
>>3741135
Ow the edge.
>>
You allow your feet to carry you around Eastside, noose swinging from your neck and trails of fragrant smoke left in your wake. Stars, visible through the glimmer of magic woven by the Mayor, twinkle overhead as the moon coasts between wispy clouds. Stray cats, vermin and the occasional drunken vagrant are your only company as you whistle to yourself, smoke oozing from your lips as the tune echoes out of the empty streets.

Houses line the road on either side, many still possessing scars from the riots five years ago. Like fitful shadows, you can see the early risers puttering about behind tarnished windows, many of which show cracks and chips taken from the glass.

Shops and storefronts dominate the lower floors and basements of many of the three story dwellings. Old Oleg’s general store, Kara’s Apothecary, Boldun’s Firearms and Accoutrements, Hilda’s Oddities and Exotics, Undermountain Metal-orders. Many of the old shops have been here longer than you’ve been alive (either time), several of them sporting heavy iron shutters over their windows and doors, several others you know for a fact are protected by Golems, enchantments or their owners themselves. The shops themselves are safe from anything short of a End-Times scenario and you doubt ANOTHER dragon will show up in your lifetime.

That being said.... hazards do present themselves from time to time.

>Roll me 1d20, best of 3 for how your patrol goes.
>>
>Lonesome doots
>>
Rolled 8 (1d20)

>>3741541

(That was some good-ass worldbuilding. I'm in for Lantern John.)
>>
Rolled 10 (1d20)

>>3741541
>>
Can I get 1 more D20? Samefagging is fine id just like to make sure nothing higher comes in before I post
>>
>>3741677
>>
Rolled 9 (1d20)

>>3741689
Fuck
>>
>>3741666
>Devilish 10

Writing
>>
Dawn has begun coloring the distant horizon a paler shade of blue-black as your feet finally bring you to something of interest. You spy a vagrant shuffling by, muttering happily to himself as he peers into his hands. Turning your head, you catch the glint of gold between his fingers, a small pile of golden coins clutches tightly as he rushes off to hide them. You run your tongue across your teeth, rolling the butt of your cigarette between your fingers until it falls apart and curse to yourself.

Several times.

“Azazel.... son of a... Ah Bloody hell gotta make this quick”
You grumble to yourself as you increase your pace to the fiends normal stomping grounds. The fact that there seem to be several more bums than usual increases your suspicion that the bastard is making Deals again.

Between the Ragged Hare Tavern and the Nymphs Pool Brothel is a small alley lit by a single guttering torch that burns from dawn to dusk. The smell of sulfur and ash fills the air as soon as one crosses the threshold, the air seeming hotter and drier by several degrees. Its this heat that brings a edge to your already fouling mood as you step across the threshold and place your hand on the shoulder of one of the waiting as one of three in a ragged line. He half turns as your hand clenches on his shoulder, his teeth momentarily becoming crooked fangs while his eyes become slitted green orbs. The momentary hostility vanishes as he realizes *WHO* has hold of him and with a jerk of your chin, he and his companion turn tail and run, their features molding back into those of normal humans.

The last remaining bum stands before a desk set in a small alcove in the wall, a pair of black candles burning with a deep red light as he mumbles and sounds his way through the parchment in his hands. The crimson ink is still wet and judging by the bandage wrapped around the mans grimy thumb, you can imagine what it is. Behind the desk sits a swarthy man, his skin a deep golden bronze while his long black hair is pulled back into a silken ponytail, a wire thin goatee and mustache providing edge to his already angular face. He pointedly ignores you as he slowly counts out large golden coins onto the table, a stack of ten nearly complete. He clasps his hands as the last one is placed, smiling with a predatory glint in his eyes as he pats the gold with one hand.
“See Marcus? Ten Golden Marks from my very own stash. Enough to make you a rich man. Just make your mark there on the line like we agreed and you’ll be set for the rest of your life!”
His voice is deep and pleasant, the warmth of his smile refusing to reach his black eyes as he watches his mark attempt to read the nearly microscopic fine print.

>Pt1
>>
>>3741745
>pt2
You clear your throat, the bum failing to hear you, half drunk as he is but Azazel finally looks up as if he is just noticing you, giving you a polite nod and gesturing to a mold covered crate that immediately shimmers and becomes a comfortable looking leather chair.
“Ah John, how nice of you to stop by. I’m just hashing out the details with my new friend Marcus here and if you give me just one moment I’ll be right with you”

You stare pointedly at the sack of coins behind the Fiends desk and to the clearly oblivious (and obviously half drunk) bum that is dangerously close to signing his soul away for a handful of near worthless coins. No human bank would accept them as they would simply see them as tarnished copper and no Eastsider would trade for them.

“That’s why I’m here Azzie. You and I both know you’re not allowed to make bargains anymore. Remember what the mayor said? Forevermore means...”
You step forward, placing a hand on the desk with a resounding thump, the elegantly carved wood dissolving around your fingers into the crumbling top of wooden box. You lean in conspiratorially, the bum still puzzling his way through the damning contract.
“Forever.”

Azazel locks his gaze with you, a trickle of sulfurous smoke oozing from his lips as he scowls. The manicured nails he taps against the wood shift, becoming cracked black talons that gouge small chips from the wood as he refuses to meet your gaze for a moment. He then smiles, his incisors having sharpened a bit and waves the statement away.
“Ah but that’s the beauty of it! These aren’t Deals or Bargains or Contracts! These are simple exchanges! I’m just taking a small portion and paying them a fair due! Surely you wouldn’t stoop to harassing a small businessman would you?”

One of the black candles hisses as you place a hand on it, the heat searing your skin for a brief moment before you press the wick into the ebony wax, scraping the pitchlike substance off on the edge of the mouldering crate. Your impassive gaze never leaves Azazels face as you lean closer, the sulfurous stench growing closer as you do. A bead of sweat rolls down his neck as your voice rolls into his ear.
“They’re the same to the Mayor Azzie. They’re the same to *me*. I’ve cut you slack before but no more. Pack it up. Tear up the contracts. Cut your losses. This is the Last warning you’ll get”

Azazels gaze hardens as his newly taloned fingers dig deep into the wood as he visibly gnaws his lip, a pair of curling, ebony black horns starting to push through the skin of his forehead. He looks up at you, his voice deepening by several octaves as the other candle flares like burning phosphor.
“And if I don’t?”

>pt2
>>
>>3741749
>pt3

>Intimidate Azazel. You’re Lantern John and you don’t take backtalk. (Feel free to write in)

>Remind him of what happens to those who break the Mayors laws. (Feel free to write in)

>Let the beast out to play. Just a little. Fear is good for the soul, not that Azzie has one.

>You know what? Azzie has had more than enough chances. Time for him to retire back to hell (Kill Azazel)

>Other
>>
>>3741753
>Intimidate Azazel. You’re Lantern John and you don’t take backtalk.
"I didn't think I'd need to remind you so soon, Azzie, I always took you for a smart fellow. So are you going to prove me wrong?"
>Let the beast out to play. Just a little. Fear is good for the soul, not that Azzie has one.
>>
>>3741758
This. Seems like it should work well. Pretty bad cop but w/e. Im still catching up.
>>
A wry smile touches your lips as you lean in even closer, your mouth almost against Azazel’s ear. Your voice rumbles out like stones falling through a deep hole, the bass notes causing the coins on his illusory desk to vibrate softly.
“I just didn’t think I’d need to remind you so soon Azzie. I always took you for a smart fellow”
Your hand lifts from the edge of the desk, your fingers lengthening and broadening, curving white talons sprouting from your fingertips. The fabric of your coat and strains as coils of corded muscle bulge beneath the darkening skin as coarse hair sprouts from the back of your hand. Your fingers close around Azazels forearm with inexorable strength, your eyes never leaving his as steam hisses from beneath your palm. Your fingers tighten, the bones of his forearm creaking like flexing wood as your eyes shift from pale blue to a deep gold. Your own teeth sharpen slightly, rows of razor sharp enamel gleaming as you smile calmly, your grip nearly enough to pulp the flesh of Azazels arm with a errant twitch. Your voice is closer to the growl of some ancient horror from myth as you whisper into his ear
“Are you going to prove me wrong?”

>Roll me 1d20, Bo3 for intimidation
>>
Rolled 1 (1d20)

>>3741767
THE QM HUNGERS FOR DICE!
>>
Rolled 6 (1d20)

>>3741767
>>
>>3741753
>Intimidate Azazel. You’re Lantern John and you don’t take backtalk.

>Remind him of what happens to those who break the Mayors laws.

"Look up, Azzie. You don't think all those gargoyles came from Normal stonecarvers, do you? I'd hate to see that pretty face all snarled up in eternal torment, decorating one of the parapets of our fine city. Don't break the rules, and the Mayor won't break you."
>>
>>3741772
Dang, too late.
>>
Rolled 4 (1d20)

>>3741773
>>
>1. Azazel doesn’t take kindly to being threatened apparently.

“You’ve always been attentive to my... business, John. Very well then”
Azazel sighs, looking down at his desk as he nods slowly. He meets your gaze with solid black eyes, the horns still bulging from his forehead. His face is hard and set, his jaw clenched as he extends his hand, the contract ripping its way from the bums hand. Like a trained dove, it lands squarely in his palm, rolling itself into a neat scroll which he touches to the flame of the remaining candle. Ignoring the indignant and slurred complaints of the vagrant, you hold his gaze as the contract burns brightly, seaming to squeal unhappily as it is scorched to cinders.

Finally, as the cursed parchment collapses to ash, you release your grip on Azazel's arm, deep imprints visible in the red tinged flesh. Your hand shrinks to normal size, the talons melting away to nothing and the hair retreating into your skin. You dust yourself off and nod to Azazel as you straighten up, adjusting the noose as a banker would his tie.
“Smart lad. Now, I want this cleared up and ALL of the contracts bur-OOF”

You’d hesitate to say that the full force blow to the jaw was a surprise but it sure as hell came faster than you thought it would. The impact threw you backwards, slamming into the rear wall of the Ragged Hare with such force several bricks crack down their middles, a shower of dust falling all around you. You groan to yourself, spitting a mouthful of blood as you look up, the Bum finally taking the initiative and fleeing into the roadway.
“That wasn’t very nice Azzie”

With a guttural snarl, Azazel has thrown the desk aside, the illusion shattering as quickly as the half rotted wood did as he quickly shed the majority of his Veil. The grey suit he wore had split into tatters of ragged and charred cloth as horns a full foot in length sprouted from his forehead, curling upwards like a rams. His shoes melted into goatlike hooves, the cobblestone of the alley steaming and smoking around them as a pair of stunted wings sprouted from his back. Jagged and crooked yellow fangs fill his mouth as he snarls, clenching fists that have more than doubled in size as he rolls his head bullishly, pointed ears now bedecked with bronze rings. His swarthy skin is now a deep crimson, veins and steelly muscle bulging beneath it. His voice is a bestial growl as he stomps towards you, talons clenching and unclenching
“Couldn’t just leave it alone could you John? You do your job, I do mine! But no! You have to meddle! You ALWAYS have to meddle!”

A hoofed foot draws upwards, the cracked surface resembling the head of some great sledgehammer as he prepares to stomp downward onto your back.

>What do?

>Dodge. Roll out of the way and let him burn himself out.

>Try to catch the blow. He seems to have forgotten what real strength is.

>It’s time to remind him why they hanged you. Let him get a glimpse of the *Real* John
>>
>>3741780
>Try to catch the blow. He seems to have forgotten what real strength is.

Dodging the blows will just lead to collateral damage to the area and possibly hurt others. Catch the blow and try to pin him down. Doubt it will work but we want to end the engagement as fast as possible.
>>
>>3741780

>Try to catch the blow. He seems to have forgotten what real strength is.

Here goes nothing
>>
>Try to catch the blow
>Roll me 1d20 please, best of 3!
>>
Rolled 1 (1d20)

>>3741790
Lets see my second nat 1 of the day!
>>
>>3741790
>>3741795
>Nat 1. Ouch.

You brace yourself with one hand on the rough wet stone of the alley floor, your other shooting out like lightning as the great cloven hoof descends. The fabric of your jacket creaks and pops at the seams as you let yourself slip just a little bit. You grin darkly as you anticipate catching the blow and stopping it short, throwing the agitated fiend off balance. Azazel is cocky, sure of himself and his otherworldly origins but one thing he’s always done is underestimate others.

He seems to have forgotten to do it this time though.

With a slam, the hoof connects with the ground next you you, the tremor shaking your entire body as you half turn in surprise, having expected to take several hundred pounds of force to the arm. Your instinctive jerk is rewarded with a double fisted downward blow that hammers into your back, slamming you into the stone so hard the wind is knocked from your lungs. A follow up blow rockets into the side of your head, driving it against the stone so forcefully small chips and flakes of stone fly free as your cheek impacts the rough surface, blood spilling from a small gash in your cheek and streaming from a split lip. Burning hot hands grip your shoulder, yanking you back up onto your feet before another punch slams into your stomach, causing you to wheeze in pain and stumble back.

Azazel snarls in contempt, his eyes pools of liquid black as he clenches his grip on your jacket, his talons punching through the soft material. You mentally add that to your expense report for the mayor and focus your eyes on the fiends face, his teeth bared in a gruesome smile as his forked tongue darts out to lap blood from his knuckles.
“Gotta way, I’m surprised... more than a little disappointed too. I expected more out of the great Lantern John.”
The hand gripping your jacket tenses, lifting you up onto your tiptoes.
“What do they call it when one of your mortals dies twice? Surely that’s never happened before...”

That ham sized red fist draws back, tendons popping like steel cables as Azazel smiles cruelly, intent on hammering your skull until your body simply gives up. He’s a determined lad, you’ll give him that. He picked his hill to die on.

Might as well help him follow through.

>Give him a glimpse of the real you. He thinks a few love slaps are going to intimidate you?

>Eat the hit, literally. He’ll be less cocky with less fingers.

>Break his grip, literally. A shattered forearm will be the least of his worries.

>Fight Dirty, spit blood in his eyes and hit every sensitive spot he has

>Other (feel free to get creative)
>>
Rolled 15, 8, 16, 14, 1, 12, 8, 13, 4, 19, 20, 3, 14, 15, 14, 16, 10 = 202 (17d20)

Clearing the RNG so we have some actual nonfuckery happen
>>
>>3741795

Can you never fucking do that again?

>Eat the hit, literally. He’ll be less cocky with less fingers.
>>
>>3741802
>>Eat the hit, literally. He’ll be less cocky with less fingers.

If he wants to use them to make illegal contracts when forbidden then he has lost his rights to own fingers.

>>3741805
I make no promises. I am at the will of RNGeezus.
>>
>Eat the hit

Feed me some tasty 1d20 please.
>>
Rolled 6 (1d20)

>>3741807

Something good?
>>
Still 2 more chances. Samefagging is allowed if it’s slow
>>
Rolled 19 (1d20)

>>3741807
>>
>>3741811
>19. Fingers are chewy.

Azazel grunts in Herculean effort as his fist pistons out like a cannonball. Veins and tendons bulge out from his fist and forearm, his fangs bared in a gruesome snarl as he seeks to crack your skull and leave your body here in this alley. Azazel is a relatively young fiend, his ego unearned and his power having never really been tested. Its with no small amount of personal pleasure that you take the chance to impose a extremely harsh lesson on the hellborn.

Your jaw pops as muscle and bone both shift, your teeth warping from human molars and incisors to rows of gleaming ivory fangs as sharp as razors. Your eyes glow golden in the lightening gloom as you stretch your jaw wide, lunging your head forward and sinking your teeth into Azazels oncoming fist. The impact barely jerks your head backwards, the muscle of your shoulders and neck thickening as your spine cracks and bulges upwards and outwards. Hot, scalding hot blood pours down your chin as your free hand shoots up, ivory white talons digging into Azazels forearm as he tries to yank his trapped hand away with all his might. His groans and snarls of pain heighten in pitch and frequency as you clench your jaw, harder and harder, blood spattering and smoking on the stone as you feel tendon and bone pop under the relentless pressure of your teeth.

*RIIIIP*
“MY HAND!!! YOU BASTARD!!!l
Azazel’s agonized howl peters out to a rasping squeal as you wrench your head back with finality, blood spurting out from the gouge taken from his hand. His pinky, ring and middle finger are gone, spat to the ground to smoke in spreading pools of blood. Ragged tendon and strips of flesh dangle from his mutilated hand as he punches ineffectually at your side, his jaw clenched as a agonized whine squeezes between the crooked fangs. You spit a large chunk of flesh, bone and gristle onto the ground, wiping the boiling blood from your face and smile viciously down at the maimed fiend, your fangs gleaming in the light as you dig your talons a inch deeper into his forearm.
“I gave you all the chances in the world Azzie. You had to be persistent. You HAD to push me, break the Mayors laws. I saved children and she hanged me for breaking them.”
Wrenching Azazels arm at a vicious angle rewards you with the crack of splitting bone as you force the fiend to his knees. Your free hand shoots out to grasp his throat and you squeeze with the unyielding strength that has kept the peace for five long years.
“What do you think she’ll do with you you fool?”

Azazel gurgles our, his form shrinking as he loses the will to maintain his true shape. His eyes flutter but he manages to rasp out.
“N-Not...Afraid....Death.. I’ll b-...be back”
>>
>>3741828
>Pt2

You shake your head in exasperation, cursing sadly as you think of the punishments in store for this wretch. You release his arm, slapping him across the face to get his full attention.
“Listen to me Azzie. Listen. To. Me. Death?.... Bloody hell, you’ll beg for something as sweet as death by the time she’s finished with you.”

>Take Azazel in. She’ll want to deal with him personally.

>Kill Azazel. You’ll honestly be sparing him a few centuries of torture as a gargoyle.

>Let him go. His wounds won’t heal for years but he’ll carry the memory forever.

>Other
>>
>>3741829

>Let him go. His wounds won’t heal for years but he’ll carry the memory forever.

Only reason I'm even thinking of letting you go is because you burned the contracts like instructed. Now that I writing new contracts would be hard. And now that I have your blood. Well you know how easy it is to track someone down when you have a piece of them... Pull this shit again and you are going to the mayor. The tortures you go through will define your character for the rest of your life. Dont fuck up again.
>>
>>3741835
And i fuck it up. Meant that now that I have taken your hand writing new contracts would be hard.
>>
>>3741829
>Take off the rest of his hand, make sure he's learnt his lesson properly.
>>
>>3741829
>Take Azazel in.

We're basically the lawman of Eastside, right? Gotta do our job. Cuff him.
>>
>>3742283
supportin. Gotta make an example of trouble makers.
>>
Hey hey guys, I’m going to be working the next 2 days so my ability to update will be heavily limited by work schedule. I’ll be able to update after I get off work at 7am-9am and at 3-5pm Central US time. If you guys want to just keep the tab open so you don’t miss any updates, discuss in thread or what have you, that would be awesome.

Thanks for playing so far guys!
>>
Rolled 1 (1d2)

>>3741835
>>3741855
Take the hand and let him go. He’ll learn this lesson for sure

>>3742283
>>3742287
Bring him to the Mayor. For better or worse.
>>
As you look down into Azazels face, his swarthy skin growing mottled and swollen as your grip cuts off the blood flow, you think back to all the others that the Mayor has “punished” over the years. You’ve seen tortures, administered beatings, brandings, lashes and worse. You’ve seen her turn men and women to stone to serve out their time in agonized stillness as gargoyles, others shunted through a doorway in the air to a place beyond this world. The Mayor is a pragmatic woman, her punishments elegantly simple and to the point. If you break the laws of Eastside, if you break HER laws, you pay the price. And as the noose around your neck is a testament, that price can be steep.

But as you look at the ruin of the once haughty Fiend, his face graying from blood loss as his maimed and shattered arm twitches weakly in your grip, blood still streaming from the ragged wounds. Your jaw twitches as you think about the myriad of punishments he could be dealt and as you think, you realize very few truly matchup to what you’ve already done to the swindler. Its that thought that prompts you to release Azazel’s throat, his ragged gasp for breath as he sags like a sack of potato’s sounding like the gleeful inhale of a drowning man. You wait for his frantic oxygen intake to subside and look down at him, picking a piece of flesh from your teeth as you do.

“Now, Azzie boy. Dreadfully sorry about all...that”
You say, nodding towards his ruined hand as your pinky nail excavates the scrap of gristle.
“But you did bring that on yourself. You wrote more contracts after swearing to me you were done. That was either a hand or a tongue in the Mayors office and we both know it. That’s pain that was coming regardless.”

Azazel coughs, clutching his throat with his good hand as he shakes his head.
“Try-trying to s....stay legit. Make... making deals”
He manages to slur out before you shake your head dismissively.

“Not how it works Azzie. Its not a ‘you can’t write THAT kind of contract anymore’ old boy, this is much more of a ‘you can’t wrire ANY more contracts anymore. Ever. As long as you, me or her still live.”
You tighten your grip on Azazel’s captive hand and try not to snarl as your fingers shift and extend, warping into slashing talons
“And to make sure you remember it time. Be hard to write contracts with one hand anyway.”

Before he can respond, flinch or every blink, your hand descends like a executioners greataxe. Like butter before a hot razor, his skin and bone part under your claw as you cleave into his wrist with such feed the blood holds its frantic escape for several seconds before spurting out as Azazel howls in agony so fierce he can only manage a mournful gurgling as he rocks side to side, clutching the bleeding stump to his chest. You tip your hat, wiping blood from your chin as you turn on your heel.

>Take the hand

>Leave it there

>Other
>>
>>3747182
>Take the hand
My guess is that a fiends hand might be a tad dangerous in the wrong... err hands, we should see that it's disposed of safely.
>>
>>3748504
Support
>>
>>3747182
>Take the hand
>>
Kneeling down for a moment, you grasp the severed hand, wrapping it in the tatters of Azazels jacket and stowing it in your coat. A Fiends hand could serve useful in the future and it would be good to ensure it didn’t fall into the wrong.... hands. You ignore his groans of agony as you stride out of the alley, wiping a droplet of blood from your split lip and straightening your slightly disheveled coat. The area is completely deserted, Azazels howls of rage and then screams of agony having notified everyone nearby this was the wrong place to be.

“He could’ve just listened the first time”
You mutter to yourself, rolling a quick cigarette and shaking your head as you walk down the road, the early morning sun casting golden rays of light across the rooftops. Fragrant clouds of smoke drift past as your shoes clack against the stone, your mind wandering through hundreds of nights before. You smile ruefully as you fully consider the fact that Azazel got off easy, the Mayor would have taken a lot more than a hand.

>Go meet with the Mayor. It would be best to report this.

>Go by your hour, get some rest. You have a long night ahead of you.

>Go by the Shops, it might be a good idea to grab some equipment

>Other
>>
>>3749213
>>Go meet with the Mayor. It would be best to report this.
>>
>>3749213
>Go by the Shops, it might be a good idea to grab some equipment
Better get some more cigarettes, it'd be bad to run out on the job.
>>
>>3749653
>>Go meet with the Mayor. It would be best to report this.

Maybe inquire about a way to leave progress reports without having to stop by in person. (If we dont already have some way of doing this, If we do then tell the mayor using this method if it is secure.)
>>
>>3749213
Grimm you still there?



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