teamVASIMR
Plasma Rocket
Did he kick it toward or away from you?
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A Leash of Foxes
- Thread starter Cutlerine
- Start date
Pink Harzard
So majestic
I fourth this. Chase the guy. Don't be to agressive as that can scare him off. Just question him friendly. If he gets dangerous, it's time to be agressive.
Cutlerine
Gone. Not coming back.
He recognized you very quickly, so it's very likely he knew you before you lost your memory. The only other alternative is that he was there when you decided to pull the Exit, Riding a Dragon – so, finish your drink and go after him. Quickly, as he might be going off to fetch the guard or something. But it would be best to not be thirsty if you have to fight.
Don't be too aggressive as that could scare him off. Just question him in a friendly way. If he turns dangerous, it's time to be aggressive.
You bolt the last gulp of your beer and rush out after him. However, he is nowhere to be seen; evidently he has an impressive pair of legs on him.
You take a moment to think. What could he have wanted? Will he be alerting guards? It does not seem likely. You haven't actually committed any crimes, unless freeing the Charizard counts – and there's no way this Verne could know about that yet. Lazar's Spit is a nothing town. It takes nearly as long for news to get here as it does to arrive at Rust.
So perhaps he is afraid of you. Perhaps he is even leaving town – but, you recall, he asked about the mail-coach. That means he's waiting for a letter, or needs to send one. So …
You go back inside, where Sam is standing behind the bar looking confused, and ask when the mail-coach arrives. You have to tell your employers that your caravan was attacked by bandits.
“Huh? What – did you see Verne in here?” he asks. “Short fella, fancy city moustache?”
You nod. He left, you explain. Looked like he was in a hurry. When does the mail-coach arrive?
“Huh. Strange. Strange – uh – oh, tomorrow, round about seven. Listen, did he say where he was going?”
You shake your head. Verne's motives are more or less as unclear to you as they are to Sam.
But you do know one thing. You know where he'll be at seven o'clock tomorrow. You know that after that point, there's no guarantee that he'll still be around – he looked at you as if he wanted to get as far away from you as humanly possible.
That means you have a little less than twenty-four hours to find him.
At least you now have some direction in your life that does not come from unusual birds or mystic portents.
Note: teamVASIMR: he kicked it over mostly in his surprise, but it did fall between you.
Don't be too aggressive as that could scare him off. Just question him in a friendly way. If he turns dangerous, it's time to be aggressive.
You bolt the last gulp of your beer and rush out after him. However, he is nowhere to be seen; evidently he has an impressive pair of legs on him.
You take a moment to think. What could he have wanted? Will he be alerting guards? It does not seem likely. You haven't actually committed any crimes, unless freeing the Charizard counts – and there's no way this Verne could know about that yet. Lazar's Spit is a nothing town. It takes nearly as long for news to get here as it does to arrive at Rust.
So perhaps he is afraid of you. Perhaps he is even leaving town – but, you recall, he asked about the mail-coach. That means he's waiting for a letter, or needs to send one. So …
You go back inside, where Sam is standing behind the bar looking confused, and ask when the mail-coach arrives. You have to tell your employers that your caravan was attacked by bandits.
“Huh? What – did you see Verne in here?” he asks. “Short fella, fancy city moustache?”
You nod. He left, you explain. Looked like he was in a hurry. When does the mail-coach arrive?
“Huh. Strange. Strange – uh – oh, tomorrow, round about seven. Listen, did he say where he was going?”
You shake your head. Verne's motives are more or less as unclear to you as they are to Sam.
But you do know one thing. You know where he'll be at seven o'clock tomorrow. You know that after that point, there's no guarantee that he'll still be around – he looked at you as if he wanted to get as far away from you as humanly possible.
That means you have a little less than twenty-four hours to find him.
At least you now have some direction in your life that does not come from unusual birds or mystic portents.
Note: teamVASIMR: he kicked it over mostly in his surprise, but it did fall between you.
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OOC: Hey! Cutlerine, I have been following you since The Thinking Man's Guide and finally am going to reply.
Try to get some food, after that wander around a bit, since you don't have any clues on were he is now that's your best bet. After some wandering, try getting a little rest. Try finding the mail-coach before it arrives and follow it, chances are Verne has a similar idea, if not he will eventually come.
Try to get some food, after that wander around a bit, since you don't have any clues on were he is now that's your best bet. After some wandering, try getting a little rest. Try finding the mail-coach before it arrives and follow it, chances are Verne has a similar idea, if not he will eventually come.
Yeah, wander around. While you're at it, try and find somewhere to get yourself patched up a bit, because letting the damage sit there will only lead to infection.
Cutlerine
Gone. Not coming back.
Try to get some food, after that wander around a bit, since you don't have any clues on were he is now that's your best bet. After some wandering, try getting a little rest. Try finding the mail-coach before it arrives and follow it, chances are Verne has a similar idea, if not he will eventually come.
While you're at it, try and find somewhere to get yourself patched up a bit, because letting the damage sit there will only lead to infection.
Sam seems perplexed.
“Well,” he says, “I guess that's that … now, what was it you were sayin' about the mail-coach?”
You asked when it was, you tell him. You need to send a message because the caravan you were with was swarmed by Cacturne in the night. There were too many to drive off. Only you got away.
Sam frowns.
“How long you been walkin'?”
All night.
“Jesus,” he says, and for a moment he looks just like John, saying the same thing back in Rust after you killed the Cacnea. “Why didn't you say so? Hold on a moment.”
He disappears into the back room and returns with what you assume would have been Verne's breakfast.
“Here,” he says. “On the house, on account of I reckon you need it.”
After you get over the surprise – kindly people seem to be in short supply in this part of the world – you thank him as eloquently as you can and sit back down to eat. You wouldn't call it good food, exactly – Joshua Stone probably never eats fried false-cactus root. But it's manna from heaven after all you've been through recently, and it's all you can do not to bolt it.
When you're done, you sop up the oils with a piece of bread and sigh, content. You hurt a whole lot less, or you can ignore the pain better; either way, you feel more like yourself again. You thank Sam again, politely refuse more food – he doesn't really want to give you any, you can tell, although he feels like he ought to offer it – and leave, ready for a walk.
It's growing hot outside now, but you can take it, and stroll down Lazar Spit's main street only a little discomforted by your current lack of headgear. With food and drink inside you, you can think more clearly, and decide now that a hat has to come before any medical attention; infection is unlikely since your skin is not actually broken anywhere apart from the graze from the Cacnea, and it takes the expensive sort of medicine to deal with bruises as deep as yours anyway. You can carry on as you are for long enough – but if you have to head back into the desert, you're going to need a hat or you won't get far.
But that too can wait. For now, there is shade from the ubiquitous awnings, and that will do. Of more interest to you is Lazar's Spit itself; like many small towns, it has its own charm. There, where the two main streets intersect – a bulky thing a little taller than a man, wrapped up in burlap and rope. You know what lies beneath without having to look: a six-sided needle of rock, inlaid with incomprehensible patterns of bone and wood. It's what they call a spit, a mangled version of the fox word hs.picha, whatever that means. (You frown. You do not know how you know that.) Foxes put them up here and there, for reasons known only to them, and humans are afraid, even after they settle nearby, to take them down. There are rumours – possibly groundless, possibly not – that they are cursed, or haunted, or alive in some uncanny way, and after two destroyed spits in the early days and two separate cholera epidemics soon after, most people would rather leave them than risk it.
You pass the spit, shrouded in its sacking like a dead thing, and even though you do not really believe that it is alive, or that such a thing is even possible, you cannot help but give it a wide berth.
Well, it never hurts to be sure.
Houses, shops, a few kids playing in the dirt. A pot-bellied baby Cacnea, carefully dethorned and waddling around tamely behind a young person of mysterious and indeterminate gender who twirls their parasol and gives you an openly lascivious look as you walk past. You blink in surprise; they, with the smallest of smiles, sweep off, their Cacnea bouncing along after them.
A few streets later and you are in the shadow of the twisturne barricade; Lazar's Spit is not a large town. The inside of the wall is clipped and polished smooth; the vines are so tightly packed it would be hard to even grab one, let alone climb it. This is what twisturne ought to look like, you think, remembering Rust.
Around the perimeter, then, and through a few streets where building work is taking place. You stop and watch loosely-clad men and women scramble up and down scaffolding – is that a church they're repairing, or the town hall? It must be important in some way, because it's made of brick, not wood. There is even stone quoining at the edges.
Further on, and you come to a tiny pocket of parkland – scrubby tufts of grass and a few bushes with small white flowers. At the centre is a well, which must account for the vegetation. Idly, you wonder how the seeds actually manage to get there. Do they lie in the sand, dormant, until water comes? Or are they blown by the wind?
Leaning on a railing and watching the flowers shift in a minute breeze, you become aware that you are not alone.
“You startled Verne,” says the man leaning on the railing next to you. “He thought you were dead. Always did want to believe in the easy way out.”
You say nothing. You do not look at him, either, but beneath your apparent slouch you are tensed and ready to draw your revolver.
“Me?” He makes an indeterminate sound in the back of his throat. “I don't believe in easy ways out.”
You still remain silent, hoping that he takes this as confirmation that you know what he is talking about.
“You made it easy to find you,” the man goes on. “Wandering around in broad daylight. So I'm curious. Are you challenging us? Do you want revenge? Because let me tell you, we had nothing to do with what happened. We would've paid you and all, if – if we'd had the chance.” He pauses. “Or is that not it? Are you just here to talk?”
It doesn't seem possible to avoid giving an answer any longer.
Note: Oh my goodness, I am so sorry this has taken so long. My term ended and I've been packing up and moving back home for the last couple of days. But I'm here now, and everything's more settled, so let's hope I can maintain a more regular update schedule.
Also, hello, 5221A, and welcome! It's always nice to meet new people. And overwhelming to meet people who casually say they've been following me since TTMG2DTW as if I were someone important instead of a random woman with a keyboard and some zany ideas. So ... well, I hope I've kept you entertained!
While you're at it, try and find somewhere to get yourself patched up a bit, because letting the damage sit there will only lead to infection.
Sam seems perplexed.
“Well,” he says, “I guess that's that … now, what was it you were sayin' about the mail-coach?”
You asked when it was, you tell him. You need to send a message because the caravan you were with was swarmed by Cacturne in the night. There were too many to drive off. Only you got away.
Sam frowns.
“How long you been walkin'?”
All night.
“Jesus,” he says, and for a moment he looks just like John, saying the same thing back in Rust after you killed the Cacnea. “Why didn't you say so? Hold on a moment.”
He disappears into the back room and returns with what you assume would have been Verne's breakfast.
“Here,” he says. “On the house, on account of I reckon you need it.”
After you get over the surprise – kindly people seem to be in short supply in this part of the world – you thank him as eloquently as you can and sit back down to eat. You wouldn't call it good food, exactly – Joshua Stone probably never eats fried false-cactus root. But it's manna from heaven after all you've been through recently, and it's all you can do not to bolt it.
When you're done, you sop up the oils with a piece of bread and sigh, content. You hurt a whole lot less, or you can ignore the pain better; either way, you feel more like yourself again. You thank Sam again, politely refuse more food – he doesn't really want to give you any, you can tell, although he feels like he ought to offer it – and leave, ready for a walk.
It's growing hot outside now, but you can take it, and stroll down Lazar Spit's main street only a little discomforted by your current lack of headgear. With food and drink inside you, you can think more clearly, and decide now that a hat has to come before any medical attention; infection is unlikely since your skin is not actually broken anywhere apart from the graze from the Cacnea, and it takes the expensive sort of medicine to deal with bruises as deep as yours anyway. You can carry on as you are for long enough – but if you have to head back into the desert, you're going to need a hat or you won't get far.
But that too can wait. For now, there is shade from the ubiquitous awnings, and that will do. Of more interest to you is Lazar's Spit itself; like many small towns, it has its own charm. There, where the two main streets intersect – a bulky thing a little taller than a man, wrapped up in burlap and rope. You know what lies beneath without having to look: a six-sided needle of rock, inlaid with incomprehensible patterns of bone and wood. It's what they call a spit, a mangled version of the fox word hs.picha, whatever that means. (You frown. You do not know how you know that.) Foxes put them up here and there, for reasons known only to them, and humans are afraid, even after they settle nearby, to take them down. There are rumours – possibly groundless, possibly not – that they are cursed, or haunted, or alive in some uncanny way, and after two destroyed spits in the early days and two separate cholera epidemics soon after, most people would rather leave them than risk it.
You pass the spit, shrouded in its sacking like a dead thing, and even though you do not really believe that it is alive, or that such a thing is even possible, you cannot help but give it a wide berth.
Well, it never hurts to be sure.
Houses, shops, a few kids playing in the dirt. A pot-bellied baby Cacnea, carefully dethorned and waddling around tamely behind a young person of mysterious and indeterminate gender who twirls their parasol and gives you an openly lascivious look as you walk past. You blink in surprise; they, with the smallest of smiles, sweep off, their Cacnea bouncing along after them.
A few streets later and you are in the shadow of the twisturne barricade; Lazar's Spit is not a large town. The inside of the wall is clipped and polished smooth; the vines are so tightly packed it would be hard to even grab one, let alone climb it. This is what twisturne ought to look like, you think, remembering Rust.
Around the perimeter, then, and through a few streets where building work is taking place. You stop and watch loosely-clad men and women scramble up and down scaffolding – is that a church they're repairing, or the town hall? It must be important in some way, because it's made of brick, not wood. There is even stone quoining at the edges.
Further on, and you come to a tiny pocket of parkland – scrubby tufts of grass and a few bushes with small white flowers. At the centre is a well, which must account for the vegetation. Idly, you wonder how the seeds actually manage to get there. Do they lie in the sand, dormant, until water comes? Or are they blown by the wind?
Leaning on a railing and watching the flowers shift in a minute breeze, you become aware that you are not alone.
“You startled Verne,” says the man leaning on the railing next to you. “He thought you were dead. Always did want to believe in the easy way out.”
You say nothing. You do not look at him, either, but beneath your apparent slouch you are tensed and ready to draw your revolver.
“Me?” He makes an indeterminate sound in the back of his throat. “I don't believe in easy ways out.”
You still remain silent, hoping that he takes this as confirmation that you know what he is talking about.
“You made it easy to find you,” the man goes on. “Wandering around in broad daylight. So I'm curious. Are you challenging us? Do you want revenge? Because let me tell you, we had nothing to do with what happened. We would've paid you and all, if – if we'd had the chance.” He pauses. “Or is that not it? Are you just here to talk?”
It doesn't seem possible to avoid giving an answer any longer.
Note: Oh my goodness, I am so sorry this has taken so long. My term ended and I've been packing up and moving back home for the last couple of days. But I'm here now, and everything's more settled, so let's hope I can maintain a more regular update schedule.
Also, hello, 5221A, and welcome! It's always nice to meet new people. And overwhelming to meet people who casually say they've been following me since TTMG2DTW as if I were someone important instead of a random woman with a keyboard and some zany ideas. So ... well, I hope I've kept you entertained!
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OOC: Well it has been a while since I started reading your work. But those "zany ideas" and creative writing style keep me coming back to these forums, and I don't regret a word I read from your posts. Look at this for example, your incredible idea made a stalker like me comment.
IC: What an awkward situation...
Answers, something you need. Although it seems it will be even more awkward if you ask for them. Try to avoid using force, but if necessary then by all means do. So for now talk, don't trust them though.
IC: What an awkward situation...
Answers, something you need. Although it seems it will be even more awkward if you ask for them. Try to avoid using force, but if necessary then by all means do. So for now talk, don't trust them though.
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Deadly.Braviary
Well-Known Member
I doubt he'd be honest if you told him to refresh your memory, so tell him you'll talk later. Suggest some time when you'll be far away, if possible.
~Deadly
~Deadly
Cutlerine
Gone. Not coming back.
I doubt he'd be honest if you told him to refresh your memory, so tell him you'll talk later. Suggest some time when you'll be far away, if possible.
You tell the man he'll have to wait. You aren't planning on hanging around here; if there's any talking to be done, it's going to have to be another time.
He snorts.
“Now, if I could believe that, I'd be a happy man,” he says. “But come on now. No one is ever just passing through Lazar's Spit – it's too out of the way. You came here for a reason. And after what happened in Tarnasshe, it seems obvious to me that Verne and me, well, we're the reason.”
He reaches into his pocket and you tense, ready to draw your gun – but he is only getting out his pipe and a quantity of tobacco.
“Listen,” he says, filling the one with the other, “if you really aren't here to cause us any trouble, then that's fine by me. I'm not so naïve that I think either Verne or myself would survive if you really wanted to hurt us. I saw what you did to – to those men.”
Is that a tremor in his voice? You wonder what you showed him to make him feel that way, but it does not concern you. Right now, your past self and whatever brutal actions they may have carried out seem very far away, almost blurred – as if you can view them only through a lens of warped glass.
You look at the man for the first time and smile. It has the desired effect: he flinches, dropping the match he was trying to strike, and very nearly takes a step back.
“What do you want?” he asks. A plaintive note has entered the smooth cool of his voice, despite his best efforts.
Answers, something you need. Although it seems it will be even more awkward if you ask for them. Try to avoid using force, but if necessary then by all means do. So for now talk, don't trust them though.
You continue to look at him. He is tall, with greying whiskers and a hint of a nascent paunch beneath his waistcoat. His suit is pale grey and of a cut that you do not know the name of; that, and his gold watch-chain, seem to mark him out as a man of some wealth and taste.
The man shifts uncomfortably under your gaze – not much, and he tries to hide it by busying himself with his pipe, but noticeably so.
What do you want, you repeat to yourself. It is a good question. What do you want? Ideally, you'd like to not be Joshua Stone's enemy, and to have some answers about the burning-eyed stranger in the cave. But other than that, you do not know. The East is full of opportunities for people with your abilities. You could be anything and anyone. Take any name and any life. It would be only too easy.
You have to remind yourself that that is not what the man means. He is concerned more with what you want of him and Verne.
A thin plume of smoke rises from the bowl of his pipe, and as if to counterbalance it, a droplet of sweat trickles down his forehead. He is afraid, and that makes him vulnerable. If you chose the right questions, you think you could get information out of him without revealing the extent of your ignorance.
You tell the man he'll have to wait. You aren't planning on hanging around here; if there's any talking to be done, it's going to have to be another time.
He snorts.
“Now, if I could believe that, I'd be a happy man,” he says. “But come on now. No one is ever just passing through Lazar's Spit – it's too out of the way. You came here for a reason. And after what happened in Tarnasshe, it seems obvious to me that Verne and me, well, we're the reason.”
He reaches into his pocket and you tense, ready to draw your gun – but he is only getting out his pipe and a quantity of tobacco.
“Listen,” he says, filling the one with the other, “if you really aren't here to cause us any trouble, then that's fine by me. I'm not so naïve that I think either Verne or myself would survive if you really wanted to hurt us. I saw what you did to – to those men.”
Is that a tremor in his voice? You wonder what you showed him to make him feel that way, but it does not concern you. Right now, your past self and whatever brutal actions they may have carried out seem very far away, almost blurred – as if you can view them only through a lens of warped glass.
You look at the man for the first time and smile. It has the desired effect: he flinches, dropping the match he was trying to strike, and very nearly takes a step back.
“What do you want?” he asks. A plaintive note has entered the smooth cool of his voice, despite his best efforts.
Answers, something you need. Although it seems it will be even more awkward if you ask for them. Try to avoid using force, but if necessary then by all means do. So for now talk, don't trust them though.
You continue to look at him. He is tall, with greying whiskers and a hint of a nascent paunch beneath his waistcoat. His suit is pale grey and of a cut that you do not know the name of; that, and his gold watch-chain, seem to mark him out as a man of some wealth and taste.
The man shifts uncomfortably under your gaze – not much, and he tries to hide it by busying himself with his pipe, but noticeably so.
What do you want, you repeat to yourself. It is a good question. What do you want? Ideally, you'd like to not be Joshua Stone's enemy, and to have some answers about the burning-eyed stranger in the cave. But other than that, you do not know. The East is full of opportunities for people with your abilities. You could be anything and anyone. Take any name and any life. It would be only too easy.
You have to remind yourself that that is not what the man means. He is concerned more with what you want of him and Verne.
A thin plume of smoke rises from the bowl of his pipe, and as if to counterbalance it, a droplet of sweat trickles down his forehead. He is afraid, and that makes him vulnerable. If you chose the right questions, you think you could get information out of him without revealing the extent of your ignorance.
OOC:
I set myself up for this one, I guess I was way too hopeful for leaving Cutlerine to come up with the questions.
To be honest, I was afraid you wouldn't understand my post, my intentions came out a bit fuzzy. Thankfully you did and averted another awkward crisis. Then you make the protagonist act odd. Very funny.
Well I think discussing this a bit will be the best option, because the only way I see to resolve this matter is keeping him ignorant of our character's amnesia.
Okay we know almost nothing about the person we are interrogating, other than the fact that he is apparently:
-Afraid of the protagonist;
-Verne's comrade;
-A person we met before we had amnesia;
-Ignorant about our amnesia;
We are also certain on his location.
From these facts and assumptions the only ones I can see being expanded on are that he and Verne form a gang, alongside his location.
Asking him why he is here is very risky though, if he dose not frequent here then we win. If he lived in this area pre-amnesia the situation will go down hill. Also the fact that Vern seems to know Sam helps that they live here for a while.
So that leaves the mail-coach and why Verne wants it. It is the only functioning way I see to scrap off more information. I hope other posters consider this and improve our overall answer since this is probable our only shot. I may be over analyzing this though.
-Afraid of the protagonist;
-Verne's comrade;
-A person we met before we had amnesia;
-Ignorant about our amnesia;
We are also certain on his location.
From these facts and assumptions the only ones I can see being expanded on are that he and Verne form a gang, alongside his location.
Asking him why he is here is very risky though, if he dose not frequent here then we win. If he lived in this area pre-amnesia the situation will go down hill. Also the fact that Vern seems to know Sam helps that they live here for a while.
So that leaves the mail-coach and why Verne wants it. It is the only functioning way I see to scrap off more information. I hope other posters consider this and improve our overall answer since this is probable our only shot. I may be over analyzing this though.
Somewhat-in-character: I think we should flow the conversation into asking what they want with the mail-coach.
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teamVASIMR
Plasma Rocket
I suspected they're Zavarat's agents (who stole your gun originally).
Since it seems you'll probably have to deal with Zav & co. eventually, might as well try to learn what you can about their operation.
Since it seems you'll probably have to deal with Zav & co. eventually, might as well try to learn what you can about their operation.
If they were agents of Zavarat, they would probably have had a reaction that wasn't outright terror. Try and poke him about what they're currently doing aside from the mail coach, but be subtle about it.
Also, keep an eye out for anything that might interrupt the conversation. Getting knifed in the back as you talk would be annoying.
Also, keep an eye out for anything that might interrupt the conversation. Getting knifed in the back as you talk would be annoying.
teamVASIMR
Plasma Rocket
Well not directly but the ones who responded to the $10k reward. Come to think of it they probably know next to nothing.
Just make casual conversation and see where it goes. "How's business?" might be a good starting point.
Just make casual conversation and see where it goes. "How's business?" might be a good starting point.
That would be too casual, especially if you are supposed to hate them. I think that using their fear as an assist would be the way to go. Maybe even outright asking about their business with the mail-coach? They might not even have business for all we know.
EDIT: Also want to mention I really like the idea that they originally stole your gun. Did not leave that clear in my posts. But it is still to soon to act upon that theory, the only hint we have can be anything really, our character seems like he has been through a lot.
But on that, they might know about our amnesia, I doubt they will though. But still information obtained form them will not be 100% trust worthy. Not that it ever was.
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Cutlerine
Gone. Not coming back.
Just make casual conversation and see where it goes. "How's business?" might be a good starting point.
You do not answer his question. Instead, you ask him one of his own: how is business going?
“Very funny,” he says. “There isn't any. Not with Tarnasshe gone. We're just waiting for word from Scourston.”
I think we should flow the conversation into asking what they want with the mail-coach.
Is that why he and Verne are waiting for the mail-coach?
“Yes,” he replies. “When that Charizard turned up, we got the hell out of Tarnasshe as fast as we could. Knew it wasn't going to end well. We sent word back to Zavarat soon after – let her know we're alive and all – and we're expecting a reply from her in the next post. Orders about what to do next, and that.”
He's clearly eager to please. Probably he's trying to not get killed.
You wonder what sort of message the two of them are going to receive. It will have been written before Zavarat met you, which means that neither this man nor his partner are going to know about … whatever it is that happened to her. Perhaps that will be useful. It certainly seems like it ought to give you an advantage over him, though you don't quite see how at the moment.
Try and poke him about what they're currently doing aside from the mail coach, but be subtle about it.
You ask if there was a reason they chose Lazar's Spit other than being close, but he shakes his head.
“Like you say,” he tells you, “it's right here. We couldn't have done a longer journey. Would've been too much of a strain on Verne's health.”
A surprisingly protective note has entered his voice. Evidently, he cares more about Verne than for a mere colleague. You wonder how long they have been working this branch of Zavarat's operation together for. Verne is in his thirties, and this man here in his mid forties. They could have been doing this for decades. Tiny cogs in a great unseen machine, whirring endlessly alongside each other. Theirs must be a friendship that runs on clockwork, or like it.
So, you ask, are they just waiting here? They aren't doing anything else?
He gives you a nervous look.
“What are you trying to say?” he asks. “What have you heard? I swear, that's all we're doing, just … waiting.”
Note: I'm sorry this is such a short update, but this conversation might need a bit more management than most, and I thought I'd better give you a chance to speak for yourselves rather than providing your words for you.
You do not answer his question. Instead, you ask him one of his own: how is business going?
“Very funny,” he says. “There isn't any. Not with Tarnasshe gone. We're just waiting for word from Scourston.”
I think we should flow the conversation into asking what they want with the mail-coach.
Is that why he and Verne are waiting for the mail-coach?
“Yes,” he replies. “When that Charizard turned up, we got the hell out of Tarnasshe as fast as we could. Knew it wasn't going to end well. We sent word back to Zavarat soon after – let her know we're alive and all – and we're expecting a reply from her in the next post. Orders about what to do next, and that.”
He's clearly eager to please. Probably he's trying to not get killed.
You wonder what sort of message the two of them are going to receive. It will have been written before Zavarat met you, which means that neither this man nor his partner are going to know about … whatever it is that happened to her. Perhaps that will be useful. It certainly seems like it ought to give you an advantage over him, though you don't quite see how at the moment.
Try and poke him about what they're currently doing aside from the mail coach, but be subtle about it.
You ask if there was a reason they chose Lazar's Spit other than being close, but he shakes his head.
“Like you say,” he tells you, “it's right here. We couldn't have done a longer journey. Would've been too much of a strain on Verne's health.”
A surprisingly protective note has entered his voice. Evidently, he cares more about Verne than for a mere colleague. You wonder how long they have been working this branch of Zavarat's operation together for. Verne is in his thirties, and this man here in his mid forties. They could have been doing this for decades. Tiny cogs in a great unseen machine, whirring endlessly alongside each other. Theirs must be a friendship that runs on clockwork, or like it.
So, you ask, are they just waiting here? They aren't doing anything else?
He gives you a nervous look.
“What are you trying to say?” he asks. “What have you heard? I swear, that's all we're doing, just … waiting.”
Note: I'm sorry this is such a short update, but this conversation might need a bit more management than most, and I thought I'd better give you a chance to speak for yourselves rather than providing your words for you.
Deadly.Braviary
Well-Known Member
I think he's lying. Give him your most dangerous look and elicit the truth from him.
~Deadly
~Deadly
Ugliduck99
Wobbufet fan
I concur with Deadly
OOC: from what I've heard so far I think the foxes are Delphox and co.
OOC: from what I've heard so far I think the foxes are Delphox and co.
teamVASIMR
Plasma Rocket
I have no idea what Nameless should say now...
O well.
OK so maybe they're the Tarnasshe representatives.
Still doubt he knows very much. Zavarat isn't the type to let things leak to the lower ranks.
And he's either very brave, stupid, or both to come and talk to you like this.
Of greater import is whether the coming mail-coach is the one with news from Scourston of your exploits. If it left Scourston before those events you're safe to stay for a little while longer, but if this one is the one, well maybe it's time to get ready to leave.
OOC:
Now I'm thinking Verne and him are the local "Semi-Incompetent Duo" of Team Zavarat.
I was hoping Nameless would smooth-talk him properly, in a friendly-yet-threatening way -- like a British spy. Bonus entertainment value if everything you say has a double meaning.
Hmm,, if they're Delphox then why would they bother bringing a Charizard?
I think they're
O well.
OK so maybe they're the Tarnasshe representatives.
Still doubt he knows very much. Zavarat isn't the type to let things leak to the lower ranks.
And he's either very brave, stupid, or both to come and talk to you like this.
Of greater import is whether the coming mail-coach is the one with news from Scourston of your exploits. If it left Scourston before those events you're safe to stay for a little while longer, but if this one is the one, well maybe it's time to get ready to leave.
OOC:
Now I'm thinking Verne and him are the local "Semi-Incompetent Duo" of Team Zavarat.
I was hoping Nameless would smooth-talk him properly, in a friendly-yet-threatening way -- like a British spy. Bonus entertainment value if everything you say has a double meaning.
WHOS DAT POKEMON??
Hmm,, if they're Delphox then why would they bother bringing a Charizard?
I think they're
Kadabra, because
of the Human-Kadabra war which I believe was fought within this time period. The Kadabra were winning, until the invention of automatic firearms turned the tides squarely to the Humans' favor. So in the end, the Kadabra's lands were colonized and the survivors confined to reservations. Reference: My Trip to the End of Time, by Pearl Gideon. See Ch. 19.
Edit: I am such a nerd... T_T
Edit: I am such a nerd... T_T
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Cutlerine
Gone. Not coming back.
I think he's lying. Give him your most dangerous look and elicit the truth from him.
You look into his eyes and do not blink.
He cracks after barely ten seconds.
“Really!” he cries, waving his pipe and spilling ash into the dirt. “That's it, that's all – look, what do you think there is to do in a place like this? Our outfit in Tarnasshe burned with the rest of the city, and we fled to the nearest safe place to wait things out. We're not important, you know. We take payment. We watch. We pass on a few messages. That's it. Taking your gun was the biggest thing either of us ever did, and right now we both regret it.”
He shakes his head. His hands are trembling.
“I don't know what you think we did in Tarnasshe,” he says, “but we were just administrators. There were people under us – agents on the street, working against Dirge's militia. That's why the organisation exists, after all. But as far as I know, none of them survived.” He shakes his head again. “Only a few people did. Those who didn't burn ran out of the fire and right into a fox ambush. Verne and I – we only made it out because we were lucky. Knew that the only reason a Charizard would come so far east was if the foxes brought it here. So we went out through the underground passages as soon as we could – before they had a chance to connect their tunnels to them, and come up in the streets. That brought us out on the other side of the twisturne, and the other side of the ambush. Everyone else? Burnt. Smashed. Cuttled.”
He pauses now, and spends half a minute puffing on his pipe before continuing.
“Been living off credit for the past couple of weeks. Knew the boss would send up money and instructions on the mail-coach, but you know what it's like. Takes a week to travel from here to Scourston and a week back again.”
You nod. You are trying to think of something to say when a distant roar echoes through the hills.
A big, reptilian roar.
The man blanches, and looks up sharply.
“Oh God,” he whispers, pipe slipping from between his teeth. “Not again …”
The Charizard's roar sounds again, and now you are looking for the source too, but you cannot see it.
“You!” Apparently the man is more afraid of the dragon than he is of you, because he grabs the lapel of your jacket with more anger than fear. “What did you do? Have you brought – oh god, what are you?”
You are about to tell him that that is a very good question, but before you can speak he seems to remember who you are, and lets go of you abruptly. The Charizard roars again, but more distantly this time. It does not sound like it is coming for Lazar's Spit; after Scourston, it is probably afraid to go near human settlements.
“Leave us alone,” says the man, grabbing his pipe. “Just – look, I've told you everything, all right? I swear it on – on Verne's life, and if that's not enough for you I don't know what the hell is.”
He doesn't give you a chance to respond. Before you can say anything, he has turned his back and is hurrying away down the street.
Note: Re: the identity of the Golden – I'll confirm nothing yet, but I will say that though I'm recycling certain ideas (albeit with substantial alterations), this story does not fit into the same history as my others.
Our protagonist can't really smooth-talk anyone. That's not exactly their skillset, and it'd be hard to write anyway, what with me disallowing them direct speech so they can speak with your voice.
As for the mail-coach – it takes a week, as you've just been told, so news of what happened in Scourston won't reach Lazar's Spit for ages. I thought I'd made that clear a while back when I said that the mail-coach would be bringing things written before Zavarat regained her artefact, but to clear up everyone's concerns I'm pointing it out again here.
Also, here is an important notice! From Wednesday, I will be out of the country and mostly away from the Internet for two and a half weeks. I'll try and squeeze in one more update before I leave, but after that, there will be no future updates until I get back.
Also also, just to keep you guessing while I'm away, here is some bonus information: you may soon meet someone you haven't seen in a while.
You look into his eyes and do not blink.
He cracks after barely ten seconds.
“Really!” he cries, waving his pipe and spilling ash into the dirt. “That's it, that's all – look, what do you think there is to do in a place like this? Our outfit in Tarnasshe burned with the rest of the city, and we fled to the nearest safe place to wait things out. We're not important, you know. We take payment. We watch. We pass on a few messages. That's it. Taking your gun was the biggest thing either of us ever did, and right now we both regret it.”
He shakes his head. His hands are trembling.
“I don't know what you think we did in Tarnasshe,” he says, “but we were just administrators. There were people under us – agents on the street, working against Dirge's militia. That's why the organisation exists, after all. But as far as I know, none of them survived.” He shakes his head again. “Only a few people did. Those who didn't burn ran out of the fire and right into a fox ambush. Verne and I – we only made it out because we were lucky. Knew that the only reason a Charizard would come so far east was if the foxes brought it here. So we went out through the underground passages as soon as we could – before they had a chance to connect their tunnels to them, and come up in the streets. That brought us out on the other side of the twisturne, and the other side of the ambush. Everyone else? Burnt. Smashed. Cuttled.”
He pauses now, and spends half a minute puffing on his pipe before continuing.
“Been living off credit for the past couple of weeks. Knew the boss would send up money and instructions on the mail-coach, but you know what it's like. Takes a week to travel from here to Scourston and a week back again.”
You nod. You are trying to think of something to say when a distant roar echoes through the hills.
A big, reptilian roar.
The man blanches, and looks up sharply.
“Oh God,” he whispers, pipe slipping from between his teeth. “Not again …”
The Charizard's roar sounds again, and now you are looking for the source too, but you cannot see it.
“You!” Apparently the man is more afraid of the dragon than he is of you, because he grabs the lapel of your jacket with more anger than fear. “What did you do? Have you brought – oh god, what are you?”
You are about to tell him that that is a very good question, but before you can speak he seems to remember who you are, and lets go of you abruptly. The Charizard roars again, but more distantly this time. It does not sound like it is coming for Lazar's Spit; after Scourston, it is probably afraid to go near human settlements.
“Leave us alone,” says the man, grabbing his pipe. “Just – look, I've told you everything, all right? I swear it on – on Verne's life, and if that's not enough for you I don't know what the hell is.”
He doesn't give you a chance to respond. Before you can say anything, he has turned his back and is hurrying away down the street.
Note: Re: the identity of the Golden – I'll confirm nothing yet, but I will say that though I'm recycling certain ideas (albeit with substantial alterations), this story does not fit into the same history as my others.
Our protagonist can't really smooth-talk anyone. That's not exactly their skillset, and it'd be hard to write anyway, what with me disallowing them direct speech so they can speak with your voice.
As for the mail-coach – it takes a week, as you've just been told, so news of what happened in Scourston won't reach Lazar's Spit for ages. I thought I'd made that clear a while back when I said that the mail-coach would be bringing things written before Zavarat regained her artefact, but to clear up everyone's concerns I'm pointing it out again here.
Also, here is an important notice! From Wednesday, I will be out of the country and mostly away from the Internet for two and a half weeks. I'll try and squeeze in one more update before I leave, but after that, there will be no future updates until I get back.
Also also, just to keep you guessing while I'm away, here is some bonus information: you may soon meet someone you haven't seen in a while.
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Indeed.
I don't really know what to do now, running after him would be useless and going after the Charzard would not be very wise. But maybe you can make that madness work. Maybe not though...
I wonder if we will see her soon as in before the next Wednesday. There are really only two people that it could be.