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In post 24, James Brafin wrote:I've never seen the show but I think I have the gist of it. I think I can whip a path template up for that pretty easy, and you can tell me what you do and don't like in it, so we can tweak it to your preferences. Sound good?

Perfect.

Hi, sorry for vanishing for a day.

I can do Discord but might have to make a new account depending on if my phone keeps being a butt-- I'm staying with my dad in St. Louis for the week, and Discord wants me to confirm it's me through my email; unfortunately, Google also seems convinced I'm a hacker, and the couple of times it's tried to send a verification thing to my phone have failed. So yeah, mildly frustrating.

I kind of wanted to do a roguish saboteur character, but since Felissan and FF both seem to be incorporating rogue-ish elements, it makes me want to be kinda different.

My main holdup is I'm not entirely sure how the interaction with magic and steampunk-y machinery stuff is gonna work. I'd be game for playing a magic caster but am having some trouble fitting it in a steampunk setting in a way that intuitively makes sense to me. (I looked up "steampunk rpg classes" for inspiration and like the idea of an alchemist, but I'm also playing a transmutation wizard in an upcoming D&D game, which seems pretty similar to the aspects of alchemy I like, and I like having some variety.) Anyone have any suggestions?

Sorry, I don't think I can do this after all

Hope it works next time, Sushi!

So I’ve been giving some thought
And barring another /in before we get started
I will be joining you all as a fourth player so you guys have someone a little more experienced with this edition of the system playing alongside you. That way you’ll have an example of the gameplay in addition to having someone you can direct questions to.

Sorry it’s been a while guys, I’ve been getting ready for moving and it’s made it super crazy.
That being said, we’re gonna start with Inferno, Former, and NMSA, and allow others to join or replace Inferno as necessary.
I have an 8-hour drive tomorrow so expect the first major post then.

I’ll sit down at the bar and order a big old shot of fire-whiskey., taking in my surroundings.

A new city.

A new lease on life.

I was forced to leave my ancestral home and the land I was set to inherit after a plot against my family was initiated. My Mother and Father were killed, my Brother and I were able to escape but were separated as we fled. I spent a week out in the woods, living off the land, hiding from anyone who came close enough to make contact. The only person I could trust implicitly was my brother, and I'm not even sure if he made it away safely.

I slowly made my way to civilization so that I could blend into the crowd. The weeks growth of stubble and some clothes I borrowed off a line outside an unattended window has me looking like any other insignificant citizen eking out a living where and when I can. It was a year before I had enough money saved up to get out of my home country and go somewhere safer. I couldn't go to any of the family homes spread across the continent because they would undoubtedly be set up upon and watched in case we make the mistake to think we were safe.

Fralise, the City of Light! Our family vacationed there one time and my brother and I had the most fun of any place we have ever been. The way that the city had been built upon itself so many times meant that there was much to be explored. It was nice to be somewhere that we weren't recognized as being sons of a prominent member of our countries ruling class. If only those who worked against us had known that my brother and I had no interest in ruling over anyone. My brother was an artist. He could take nothing more than an idea in his head and turn them into works of art so realistic you would swear you were looking at the real thing through a window he carefully crafted just for you. I want nothing more than to solve the mysteries that I find intriguing and worthy of my time and considerable expertise.

I only have one goal in mind right now though, and that is to find my brother and avenge my families death, or die in the attempt. My first stop is a seedy little bar that I had heard about. This is the type of place where you keep your head down, talk quietly and don't ask too many questions. People often forget that those serving them are within listening distance, and of course tongues become a lot more loose when the libations are flowing and the ochire is burning. This is the perfect place to start my investigation and see what the word is among the rogues and vagabonds.

I walk into the bar and see the tables taken up by small groups, and an almost full bar. A single stool sits unoccupied near the middle of the bar, right in front of a wall sized mirror. Serendipity smiles again. I settle into the seat and use the mirror to subtly check out my surroundings. Exit signs mutely glow as they indicate one other exit on the back of the bar in addition to the one up front. A gaming table is surrounded by beings of all manners, man, alien, machine, vying for a spot to see the action. Money is flying as bets are made back and forth. I've never taken much to gambling, I've seen it cause to much ugliness. I wonder if that had anything to do with my families misfortune.

Counting the man at the door, and the bartender there are 3 more employees milling around, and at one of the tables the owner is sitting with a few of the harder looking individuals I've ever seen in my time. Either they are muscle or this place is more connected than I thought. The cameras all over the place give me the impression that there is more to the place that I know.

I hate to be as trite as to tell another story that starts with a man walking into a bar, but here we are and I'm thirsty. Reaching into my pocket I pull out a stack of credits. The bartender catches the movement and makes their way over.

Dang Former, you’re going to make me work aren’t you?

One rough-looking individual slips into the bar, avoiding attention but catching it anyway. He is an older gent, perhaps in his fifties, with skin a dark brown and cropped hair the color of stormclouds. The man is also built like a mountain, packed full of muscles that dance under the skin like flames as he moves. He comes invariably dressed in a white shirt stained yellow-gray, suspenders, and a pair of heavy work jeans tucked into brown boots. Today his suspenders are a dark green. His blue eyes flick around the bar from behind silver wire frames, taking in today’s crowd. The bar is pretty quiet now, before most of the other workers are off to waste their money. The workers treat him with a distant respect, giving the man the space he craves while acknowledging his presence. The man is a patron of the place, they know, but not in a bad way. He returns night after night for his evening meal, and keeps the place quiet so others don’t have to. The last man who interrupted his meal got their head beat in.
The man sits down at the bar and nods to the other customer down at the other side. Then he slips his hand into his jeans pocket and pulls out three small circles of metal, copper gears intricately etched with swirling lines. The bartender nods as he passes the man to his waiting newcomer, and the man nods back before setting the three marks on the table.

In post 36, James Brafin wrote:

The bartender approaches Bradford with a wary eye. “Hello, stranger,” he growls, not unkindly but with a touch of concern. “What can I be getting for you today? A drink? A meal?”

"Beer. Cold." Is all Brad says to the bartender. Long ago a wiser man than himself passed along the knowledge that the use of words should be conserved until they are needed. Watching and listening will do a man much more good than he could gain from speaking.

I look around the room to see if anyone is paying attention to me. One of the bosses muscle men eye me up and down, I return the gaze with passive disinterest. I hope that those guys aren't going to end up causing me trouble. Deep down though I already know how that chapter of this story will end.

The bartender returns with the ice cold bottle of Elliot Ness lager, setting it on the opening station. Pressing the button the machine goes into action. Gears churn, axles turn, and belts whine and the parts shudder and spit to life. After a few seconds the machine gets going, and pops the top off the beer. The bartender passes it across the bar, and says "Five credits."

I slide a 20 credit chit to him from my stack, and he tells me that he'll be right back with the change, which I tell him to keep.

I take a sip of the cool nectar of the gods, and I wait.

In post 39, James Brafin wrote:

A) Inferno, don’t use that color. It’s tough for me to read.
B) Former, are you actively trying to hide your identity?

Actively no. I don't look like how anyone would remember me though.

Before I ran I was clothed in the finest fabrics in the most current trends. A team of attendants would groom every facet of my body to keep a pristine look.

Now I have a year's worth of unkempt beard, haven't had a haircut to mention, and I am dressed in common clothes found anywhere around the world.

And I came to this land because no one should know me here.

In post 40, Inferno390 wrote:

Is this better?

In post 41, Formerfish wrote:

In post 39, James Brafin wrote:

A) Inferno, don’t use that color. It’s tough for me to read.
B) Former, are you actively trying to hide your identity?

Actively no. I don't look like how anyone would remember me though.

Before I ran I was clothed in the finest fabrics in the most current trends. A team of attendants would groom every facet of my body to keep a pristine look.

Now I have a year's worth of unkempt beard, haven't had a haircut to mention, and I am dressed in common clothes found anywhere around the world.

And I came to this land because no one should know me here.

In post 43, James Brafin wrote:Gotcha. Would you make an opposed roll then? No bonus.

While I may not be actively hiding who I am, I don't like to make myself the center of attention for any reason. I will roll in opposition to have more control of the conversation.

The man glances down to the other side of the bar at the new figure that has arrived. He makes two observations: 1) The newcomer is clearly drunk beyond reason, and 2) the situation looked ready to go downhill quickly. “Just my usual, please. And a large shot of fire-whiskey.”

I keep trying to figure out if I should be using 3rd person perspective for myself right now. Thoughts?

In the middle of a long thirst quenching draw off the bottle (I'm actually about to grab one in real life too!) Brad feels something tug on the back of his shirt. At first he believed it to just be catching on something, so he adjusted it and went back to his thoughts and his beer.

It was on the second tug that Brad turned around and saw a man just a forehead or two shorter than himself. Brad tries to make eye contact but the man is crosseyed and swaying so hard it was difficult to focus on his eyes at all. The red stained teeth told him all he needed to know. Ochire was a hell of a drug. The high goes one of two ways, either a nice relaxed feeling for the evening, or an irritable evening that could be set off faster than a spare smoke tossed in the oil drums out back.

Brad takes the last pull from his beer, wipes the foam from his bushy mustachioed face and says to the man, "Well, , if you look around you'll see that every seat is taken here tonight. Must be something with the moon, making us all come out into the streets, down into the bars, and hideaways, and speakeasies to join each other and carry each others burdens, if only for a little while at least. You seem to have you own burdens to carry, as you wear them well on your face. Since this is your seat in your bar in a city I am a stranger in I offer a compromise. We get rid of this seat, then you and I stand here while we drink the beers of the round I take care of. How does that strike you, friend?"

Upon finishing Brad slides off the stool, makes a show of picking it up and moving it off to the side, clearing up enough room for two men to saddle up to the bar and join each other in the brotherhood of the bar, or there is enough room for something else if it were to go that way. Brad would like to keep this under wraps as the situation has already come to the attention of the servers on the floor, and now one of the bosses muscle men is paying close attention to what is going on.

Brad says to the bartender, who has stayed close by since he saw the crosseyed gentleman first tug on his shirt, "I'll take another beer, and whatever my new friend will be having as well."

Alexander Hunt, sitting in a dark corner of the bar with some whiskey in front of him, smiles. The crosseyed fellow should make for good hunting tonight. The drunks are always unpredictable, but it ends up being a game of cat and mouse.