Face down in the gutter. That' where they say you'll end up, no mater what you do. It' just the new rule of the streets, nothing personal. It isn't like the good ol' days, when a cutter had to have syndicate backing or serious skills to get the real arctic chrome. Now every two bit gillete has spurs and some second hand wires. Tamanous does good business in the sprawl cleaning up runners-gone-liability, pawning that hard earned edge to the gangers on the street. Every day the technology of yesterday does it's best to kill the street warriors of today.
The real samurai of the streets find nothing but disgust in the youths with more wires and skill softs than brians behind them. Any idiot used to be able to get his hands on a street line special and end your day in a very bad way. Now it seems like Ares has so over-pushed their predators that street folk carry a metalink in one hand and a Predator II in the other. The concepts of Honor, Dedication, and a Code seem to have gone the way of the fiber optic data jack. It's old tech that only the old school and just plain old waste their time on while the younger, sharper, deadlier crowd gets on with the business of knifing each other.
Within the Ancients, the self- appointed guardians of Lords of the elven haven of Trasilar, these words still have some meaning. Here the old guards like Sting and Green Lucifer still hold a killing edge against their rivals, leading the gang on the principals that founded it. If the lower echelons of the go-gang can rememer what those principles are that is. Shake ups in the Land of Promise, political fall out, Exiles, and rogue Rinelle members make many young elves forget what exactly it means to be an Elf. The changes in Seattle, including the appointment of Kenneth Brackhaven as Governor, Lord Torgo's imprisonment and changes in the Spikes, and half of Redmond moving up to town change the feel of the streets completely, making Ancients forget what it means to wear the green and black.
Now another winter has come and gone. Like the Warlords of the old word, the thawing snow and Spring dawning always heralds the seasons of change and War. It's in the air, it's all around. People know that something has to happen, but no one is sure just what that something is. It's a vague sense that something is not right, it out of synch. But things always change in the Sixth World. Life never stand still. And like all change in this terrifying new world, it always starts out with a bang.
Full Version: The Ancients
Seattle - Puyallup - Tuesday, April 1st -2117 - Lulu's
Life as a ganger: How does one sum it up? Blood, pain, scraping by to survive, doing what ever it take to be the fastest, deadliest, or even just survive. For some people, it's living hell. But for the right people, well, it's Tuesday.
The Ancient are the gang in the plex. No one doubts it. Even the Spikes know they're out manned, out gunned, and out styled. Nothing gets respect quite like that distinctive A, not even yak tattoos. Sure the yaks control the majority of the Seattle Underworld, but the Ancient are Seattle. They live it, breathe it, mold it, they simply are it.
Sadly, for those not in quite the right amount of favor, life as an Ancient can be somewhat lack luster. And so it is that four relative strangers find them selves in the same slummy E-caf-e one April evening. It's the Emerald City right smack in the heart of Spring, so of coure it's raining blackberry cat and barghests out there. The Acid Rain Adivsory shows an unsurpriing increase this month, meaning everyone's wearing treated jackets, hoods, glove, the works. Sure it won't pock mark you right away but who wants to tempt cancer anyway?
Lulu's is a dive of a caf shop, that not even cut rate hacker spend any time in. The only thing that makes it worth remembering is it's affiliation with a small time ork gang called the Black Spears. They're no hot drek, but they have ome decent numbers, and a warrior adept by the same name leading them who, drek you not, carries a spear around. Not usually a concern for a crew of Ancients, but then, a small crew of Ancients don't usually find them selves cooling their heels in the gang's chosen squat spot. So what would bring for such reckless 'adventurers' to a dive like this on a rainy Tueday night, with no alcohol in sight?
In a word: desperation. Deperation to escae the tedium. Looking across the table, each recognizes the same frustrated look on their fellow's faces. Each was a rising star within the gang, until a month or two ago. They just started pulling drek assingments, or none at all. Sitting in the chapter house downing another soy-beer is just no life for someone destined to make things happen. But that didn'tchange matters any for the desondant crew. Life took a turn to This-Blows-chunks-ville.
So when Vixen, one of Sting's trusty non-official lieutenants and all around go-to girl, come with an offer for some "major action ... if you think you can cut it", after a number of choice responses of where she can put the attitude, each received directions to Lulu's, and instructions to be there at 2100 sharp. 17 minutes later .... and four very confused and a bit pissed off Ancients are wondering what the frag is going on.
Life as a ganger: How does one sum it up? Blood, pain, scraping by to survive, doing what ever it take to be the fastest, deadliest, or even just survive. For some people, it's living hell. But for the right people, well, it's Tuesday.
The Ancient are the gang in the plex. No one doubts it. Even the Spikes know they're out manned, out gunned, and out styled. Nothing gets respect quite like that distinctive A, not even yak tattoos. Sure the yaks control the majority of the Seattle Underworld, but the Ancient are Seattle. They live it, breathe it, mold it, they simply are it.
Sadly, for those not in quite the right amount of favor, life as an Ancient can be somewhat lack luster. And so it is that four relative strangers find them selves in the same slummy E-caf-e one April evening. It's the Emerald City right smack in the heart of Spring, so of coure it's raining blackberry cat and barghests out there. The Acid Rain Adivsory shows an unsurpriing increase this month, meaning everyone's wearing treated jackets, hoods, glove, the works. Sure it won't pock mark you right away but who wants to tempt cancer anyway?
Lulu's is a dive of a caf shop, that not even cut rate hacker spend any time in. The only thing that makes it worth remembering is it's affiliation with a small time ork gang called the Black Spears. They're no hot drek, but they have ome decent numbers, and a warrior adept by the same name leading them who, drek you not, carries a spear around. Not usually a concern for a crew of Ancients, but then, a small crew of Ancients don't usually find them selves cooling their heels in the gang's chosen squat spot. So what would bring for such reckless 'adventurers' to a dive like this on a rainy Tueday night, with no alcohol in sight?
In a word: desperation. Deperation to escae the tedium. Looking across the table, each recognizes the same frustrated look on their fellow's faces. Each was a rising star within the gang, until a month or two ago. They just started pulling drek assingments, or none at all. Sitting in the chapter house downing another soy-beer is just no life for someone destined to make things happen. But that didn'tchange matters any for the desondant crew. Life took a turn to This-Blows-chunks-ville.
So when Vixen, one of Sting's trusty non-official lieutenants and all around go-to girl, come with an offer for some "major action ... if you think you can cut it", after a number of choice responses of where she can put the attitude, each received directions to Lulu's, and instructions to be there at 2100 sharp. 17 minutes later .... and four very confused and a bit pissed off Ancients are wondering what the frag is going on.
Checking his time display for the fourth time in less than a minute, Claymore grits his teeth and viciously stabs his cigarette butt out on the tabletop. Pushing himself up out of his seat, he runs his hand through his dirty blond hair as he glares at the still-empty doorway.
"Fraggin' slitch!"
He starts to pace in frustration, his black biker boots ringing against the filthy cracked linoleum. Reaching the far wall, he spins to begin the return trip, his long black leather duster flaring open far enough to reveal the butts of a pair of pistols in rip-away holsters under his armpits. A big revolver also protrudes from the waistband of his pants, tiger-striped leathers in black and green that hug his hips like a second skin. His tie-dyed t-shirt contains yet more black and green, along with various shades of purple, with the image of a troll's head with a bullet hole between the eyes superimposed in white under the slogan 'Out of ConTroll'.
He strides back toward the table where the others, also obviously agitated, are still sitting.
"How long d'ya think we should wait?"
"Fraggin' slitch!"
He starts to pace in frustration, his black biker boots ringing against the filthy cracked linoleum. Reaching the far wall, he spins to begin the return trip, his long black leather duster flaring open far enough to reveal the butts of a pair of pistols in rip-away holsters under his armpits. A big revolver also protrudes from the waistband of his pants, tiger-striped leathers in black and green that hug his hips like a second skin. His tie-dyed t-shirt contains yet more black and green, along with various shades of purple, with the image of a troll's head with a bullet hole between the eyes superimposed in white under the slogan 'Out of ConTroll'.
He strides back toward the table where the others, also obviously agitated, are still sitting.
"How long d'ya think we should wait?"
"At least until some Spears show up. We'll bring back their tusks just to show everyone else we did something tonight, and to remind Vixen we're more than half-assed errand boys." Tain swirls his cup and doesn't even look up from the murky depths of soycaf and sweetener to answer. "Hell. Maybe that's all she wanted us here for in the first place. A little culling."
He's got his sword on his left hip, like always, hanging low from the belt he wears especially for it. Stashed all over him there's a half dozen other stickers (and he's sitting straight-backed enough that big knife has to be at the small of his back again), also just like always. On his right hip, just behind his three o'clock, the rubberized grip of his big black wheelgun juts from its green polymer holster.
Tain still dresses what he smirkingly calls ganger-casual, never leaping headfirst into the fashion the way most Tir expatriots do just to fit in; he's just wearing rain-faded black cargo pants and a pine green Henley under his A-branded coat. The pants are bloused and tucked into black Peace-Force issue combat boots, but at least the guy's been slumming it in Seattle long enough he's stopped polishing them and let the things get scuffed up a bit here and there. He stays true to the Ancients colors well enough to blend in, but he's just not comfortable in the in-your-face nonsense most of the others seem to care for. He doesn't even bother with a longcoat, even in the rain, instead opting for an obviously armored synleather jacket. Not that he needs it -- he's already closer to Ork-broad in the shoulders than most folks, adding an intimidating amount of bulk to his Elf height.
He still shaves every other day, though, which is pretty fucking often for a Nobilis. Meticulous, that's Tain, when it comes to facial hair. He's as nitpicky about always being clean-shaven as he is about avoiding liquor. His reddish brown hair is trimmed short but then carelessly tousled, feather and curling just a bit.
He tosses back the last of his soycaf, grimacing -- knowing him, because the last mouthful was probably too thick with sweeteners to be bitter enough for his liking -- and then crumples the flimsy container and carelessly lets it skitter towards the center of the table.
"And it can't be long now before some of the tuskers show up, anyways. This is just about the only place with a fucking roof they can call their own, and I'm sure even they've figured out there's only four of us here by now." He flashes a feral grin, not terribly unlike the baring of teeth he's known for when he's deep in a berserker rage, "And even trogs gotta come in out of the rain, eventually."
He's as careless with metaracial slurs for others as he is courteous (almost courtly, at times) with his own. He's impeccably polite to every Elf you've ever seen him talk to, sometimes right up to and including when it's time to start cutting them open like trout. For others though, from round-ears to tuskers, halfers to anything else... he doesn't care less what they think, and it's obvious to anyone in earshot.
He's got his sword on his left hip, like always, hanging low from the belt he wears especially for it. Stashed all over him there's a half dozen other stickers (and he's sitting straight-backed enough that big knife has to be at the small of his back again), also just like always. On his right hip, just behind his three o'clock, the rubberized grip of his big black wheelgun juts from its green polymer holster.
Tain still dresses what he smirkingly calls ganger-casual, never leaping headfirst into the fashion the way most Tir expatriots do just to fit in; he's just wearing rain-faded black cargo pants and a pine green Henley under his A-branded coat. The pants are bloused and tucked into black Peace-Force issue combat boots, but at least the guy's been slumming it in Seattle long enough he's stopped polishing them and let the things get scuffed up a bit here and there. He stays true to the Ancients colors well enough to blend in, but he's just not comfortable in the in-your-face nonsense most of the others seem to care for. He doesn't even bother with a longcoat, even in the rain, instead opting for an obviously armored synleather jacket. Not that he needs it -- he's already closer to Ork-broad in the shoulders than most folks, adding an intimidating amount of bulk to his Elf height.
He still shaves every other day, though, which is pretty fucking often for a Nobilis. Meticulous, that's Tain, when it comes to facial hair. He's as nitpicky about always being clean-shaven as he is about avoiding liquor. His reddish brown hair is trimmed short but then carelessly tousled, feather and curling just a bit.
He tosses back the last of his soycaf, grimacing -- knowing him, because the last mouthful was probably too thick with sweeteners to be bitter enough for his liking -- and then crumples the flimsy container and carelessly lets it skitter towards the center of the table.
"And it can't be long now before some of the tuskers show up, anyways. This is just about the only place with a fucking roof they can call their own, and I'm sure even they've figured out there's only four of us here by now." He flashes a feral grin, not terribly unlike the baring of teeth he's known for when he's deep in a berserker rage, "And even trogs gotta come in out of the rain, eventually."
He's as careless with metaracial slurs for others as he is courteous (almost courtly, at times) with his own. He's impeccably polite to every Elf you've ever seen him talk to, sometimes right up to and including when it's time to start cutting them open like trout. For others though, from round-ears to tuskers, halfers to anything else... he doesn't care less what they think, and it's obvious to anyone in earshot.
An animalistic grin briefly tightens Claymore's features upon hearing Tain's response. Slender hands covered in fingerless leather gloves clench unconsciously, and the strange, gem-like sparkle from his emerald cybereyes seems to intensify ever so slightly in anticipation of the prospective fight.
Slumped in the seat by the table, Aero looks around for what must have been the twentith time in the last minute or so, the bored expression on his painted up face only getting worse each time he looks around to find that still nothing interesting has happened. He brightens as the others start to show the agitation more than normal as he pushes the remains of his krill burger about the plate.
"Frag it! Why's nothin' happenin'? At least the tuskers could turn up and we could have fun like Tain suggests."
His hair, lank still from the rain, hangs around the neck line of the duster on his back, the symbols, both the large green A of the Ancients and the smaller orange and black mohawk of the Young Ones, proudly show between his shoulder blades. The coat mostly hiding the Screamers t-shirt underneath and the still wet faded jeans above the army style combat boots on his feet. He twitches slightly for a second, not uncommon for him and something the awakened have noticed to coinside with his signature changing, and then refocuses on the group at the table.
Anyone who's astral percieving at the mo
"'Meet at Lulu's at 2100' she says, 'Make sure your there on time' she says. Fragging hell, I had better things to do tonight.... Oh no wait.... I didn't. Fraggin' crap jobs. So 15 more minutes or 'til we get to blow off some steam then? Don't wanna let them кровопролитно tusker have too much time to try an' jack my ride."
Translation
"Frag it! Why's nothin' happenin'? At least the tuskers could turn up and we could have fun like Tain suggests."
His hair, lank still from the rain, hangs around the neck line of the duster on his back, the symbols, both the large green A of the Ancients and the smaller orange and black mohawk of the Young Ones, proudly show between his shoulder blades. The coat mostly hiding the Screamers t-shirt underneath and the still wet faded jeans above the army style combat boots on his feet. He twitches slightly for a second, not uncommon for him and something the awakened have noticed to coinside with his signature changing, and then refocuses on the group at the table.
Anyone who's astral percieving at the mo
[ Spoiler ]
"'Meet at Lulu's at 2100' she says, 'Make sure your there on time' she says. Fragging hell, I had better things to do tonight.... Oh no wait.... I didn't. Fraggin' crap jobs. So 15 more minutes or 'til we get to blow off some steam then? Don't wanna let them кровопролитно tusker have too much time to try an' jack my ride."
Translation
[ Spoiler ]
Lulu's isn't a very big cafe, perhaps 15 meters across, making it a tight packed room. In this neighborhood, the most common meta is the ork, rough and tough on average, and more so in this 'hood. Presently there are perhaps 8 orks all looking very agitated with the constant stream of curses and slurs coming from the four out of place elves. So far though, none have taken enough offense, or perhaps had the hez enough, to make an issue of it with the street knights.
Lulu, the ork woman that owns the caf, looks more than a bit impatient, but seems to have decided that letting the small crew blow off their steam and leave without an incident is the better decision.
As Claymore paces, the distinctivef sound of the low growling of road hogs reaches their ears. The Black Spears might be crawling up the totem pole slowly, but they're no go-gang. The sound is very recognizable to anyone who's every heard the rumbling of a pack of Hond Vikings roll up, especially to anyone who's faced the Spikes before, as they tend to use the massive Viking as a signature ride.
As their hackles rise at the sound, and their elven vision begins to compensate for the interior lighting to see out side into the rain drenched night, nearly everyone instictivley jumpsas the window shatters and something small flies through it!
Perception Test -2 (Visual), Reaction Test for Surprise)
Lulu, the ork woman that owns the caf, looks more than a bit impatient, but seems to have decided that letting the small crew blow off their steam and leave without an incident is the better decision.
As Claymore paces, the distinctivef sound of the low growling of road hogs reaches their ears. The Black Spears might be crawling up the totem pole slowly, but they're no go-gang. The sound is very recognizable to anyone who's every heard the rumbling of a pack of Hond Vikings roll up, especially to anyone who's faced the Spikes before, as they tend to use the massive Viking as a signature ride.
As their hackles rise at the sound, and their elven vision begins to compensate for the interior lighting to see out side into the rain drenched night, nearly everyone instictivley jumpsas the window shatters and something small flies through it!
Perception Test -2 (Visual), Reaction Test for Surprise)
Rolls
The shotgun tears into Claymore's shoulder, shredding the jacket and spraying blood. The concussion of the blast helps the elf's already fast reflexes, knocking him backwards and under the massive chain swinging for his head. More weapons come up and open fire as the trolls unleash their rage on the elf. The leader with the mohawk steps of his bike with an assault shotgun in one hand, drawing a large combat axe off of his bike with the other.
Trolls defintely know the old saying about brining a knife to a gun fight, bringing somethign with a better reach instead. As one of the trolls brings a super war hawk to bear, a black-chrome streak flies frome the wrecked cafe reflecting firelight, burying it's self in the pistol wielding troll's neck. The young troll roars in pain and rage, turning his aim towards the building and opening fire at his attacker.
Claymore
- Troll #2 - Heavy Pistol - 3 Hits
- Troll #3 - Spiked Chain - Already attacked
- Troll #4 - Mossberg Assault Shotgun/ Combat Axe - Leader - 5 hits
- Troll #5 - Sawed off Remington 990 - Already fired
- Troll #6 - Super Warhawk - Firing into cafe at Tain - 2 Hits, 3 hits
Roll Reaction to Dodge
The furious elf's eyes narrow in an angry glare as he finds a garish, nickel-plated, hand cannon waved in his direction. Electronics built into the tissue around his eyes compensate for the dragon's-breath ball of flame that roars from the massive barrel, but no matter how fast you are you can't do much more than twitch or flinch away from a firing gun; in this case, it's enough. A fist-sized hole is blown in the wall near Tain, but all the elf knows is he's not dead, so he's not hit.
The chain lashes hard into Claymore's leg, tearing armor and flesh, digging in painfully as the brute treis to pull the elf from his feet. The massive troll grins triumphantly as the elf cries out in pain. The massive leader comes in, combat axe gleaming along it's monoedge as he comes in to finish off the deadly pixie, but is stopped cold by the flash of steel from his flank. Tain is there before anyone realizes it, the leader's throat already gaping open as Tain flashed by, well inside the troll's gaurd before he realizes the danger. Rather than an axe, Clamore is hit by a spray of blood as the troll's jugular opens, spraying the elf and soaking his New Orleans Tombstones t-shirt red with blood.
Claymore's shot takes the still standing troll with thespike in his neck through the chest, the pair finishing each other's kill in the chaos. Of the shotgun wielding troll, there is a smoking heap left, although it still moves and groans on the ground.
aaAAAGH!! Off my arm OFF my ARM! Fuckin' KeeB! Rip said he got a call! Dat's it! Js a call, said you'd be here! Off my [b]fraggin' arm![b]
The troll screams and thrashes as Tain applies pressure, the pain apparently plenty to rouse him from his stupor. He screams and yells under the elf's weight, his wounds enough to keep his muscles weaker than the neededto throw him off.
[ Spoiler ]
All -
The cafe erupts in general shouts of alarm and crashing as a few people, probably more wired on caffeine and stronger stimulants than the rest, dive under tables. There's a disctintive *clunk* sound somehow heard over the din of the crowd.
[ Spoiler ]
The cafe erupts in general shouts of alarm and crashing as a few people, probably more wired on caffeine and stronger stimulants than the rest, dive under tables. There's a disctintive *clunk* sound somehow heard over the din of the crowd.
Having been forced to cool his heels long enough, Claymore is more than eager for some kind of action. Still pacing impatiently, the blond elf turns and takes a couple of steps toward the window as he registers the first sounds of the rumbling engines.
Although Claymore is fully expecting some kind of attack, the form it takes is still somewhat surprising. Acting purely on instinct, he launches himself headfirst through the cafe window and out into the rain-filled street.
Although Claymore is fully expecting some kind of attack, the form it takes is still somewhat surprising. Acting purely on instinct, he launches himself headfirst through the cafe window and out into the rain-filled street.
Frag! That's about all Aero gets out as he doesn't even have time to dive for cover, just covering his face as best he can with his arms as the blast happens.
Rolls
Rolls
[ Spoiler ]
Tain's eyes widen, but he just lets out a grunt of -- exertion? irritation? surprise or disdain at their method of attack? -- and leans back in his chair. Far back.
He kicks up as he falls and his feet clip the edge of the table as he throws himself backwards, past the balance point of his rickety chair's back two legs; the table thumps into place as an impromptu wall between him and the pipe bomb. In mid-tumble he twists just like he'd learned in the Peace Force, ending up face-down on the ground with his hands over his head and his legs crossed, protecting his vitals from shrapnel all while staying low to the ground.
If only the entire thing were a little more graceful, it might be in a textbook somewhere.
He kicks up as he falls and his feet clip the edge of the table as he throws himself backwards, past the balance point of his rickety chair's back two legs; the table thumps into place as an impromptu wall between him and the pipe bomb. In mid-tumble he twists just like he'd learned in the Peace Force, ending up face-down on the ground with his hands over his head and his legs crossed, protecting his vitals from shrapnel all while staying low to the ground.
If only the entire thing were a little more graceful, it might be in a textbook somewhere.
The blast shakes the small shop as small metal projectiles tear through the air, and everything inside. Nails poind into synthwood, tile, and flesh as the pipe bobm explodes, sending torn bodies flying, destroying much of the room.
Tain manages to avoid most of the blast as the chair and table take the brunt of the pie bomb's load. Small peices of metal tear into his back and arms, managing to penetatrate in some spots.
Aero reacts less quickly than his name might imply. Panicking, he rolls back in his chair, and catches a shoulder full of pipe debris and nails as the bomb explodes.
Claymore leaps through the broken window, destroying what's left of the safety glass, already spiderwebbed and cracking. He rolls out into the night, heat and flying death at his back, cold rain in his face. Quickly assessing the situation, he sees no less than six trolls wearing the distinctive Spike's markingsin a half circle around the shop, ready for action. The groups eyes and collective hate quickly settle on the lone elf that managed to escape the inital attack.
Tain manages to avoid most of the blast as the chair and table take the brunt of the pie bomb's load. Small peices of metal tear into his back and arms, managing to penetatrate in some spots.
Aero reacts less quickly than his name might imply. Panicking, he rolls back in his chair, and catches a shoulder full of pipe debris and nails as the bomb explodes.
Claymore leaps through the broken window, destroying what's left of the safety glass, already spiderwebbed and cracking. He rolls out into the night, heat and flying death at his back, cold rain in his face. Quickly assessing the situation, he sees no less than six trolls wearing the distinctive Spike's markingsin a half circle around the shop, ready for action. The groups eyes and collective hate quickly settle on the lone elf that managed to escape the inital attack.
[ Spoiler ]
"Of all the insolent, cowardly..." Tain plants his palms on the ground and pushes himself to his feet with an irritated grunt. The indignity of diving for cover in front of his lessers stings more than the bits of metal in his back, bothers him more than the trickles of warmth he feels from his bleeding wounds. "...pathetic, wretched, methods of attack."
"The peasantry of it. Some rickety home made piece of garbage!" He swats at his thighs and the front of his shirt out of habit and reflex, brushing himself off after having to sprawl out on Ork-owned floor. He couldn't care less about the workaday patrons of the trog-run establishment right this second, his next question is solely for those -- those who haven't yet leapt through windows and out of sight -- with the same ears and gang colors he wears. Meaning one person in particular, "You dying?
He's not half the healer any other Ancients mage is, but with sheer force of will he can stop some bleeding, at least. He's itching to do otherwise with his magic, of course, but comrades came first; with no other bombs sailing through the window, he could take a second to make sure Aero didn't need a hand.
"The peasantry of it. Some rickety home made piece of garbage!" He swats at his thighs and the front of his shirt out of habit and reflex, brushing himself off after having to sprawl out on Ork-owned floor. He couldn't care less about the workaday patrons of the trog-run establishment right this second, his next question is solely for those -- those who haven't yet leapt through windows and out of sight -- with the same ears and gang colors he wears. Meaning one person in particular, "You dying?
He's not half the healer any other Ancients mage is, but with sheer force of will he can stop some bleeding, at least. He's itching to do otherwise with his magic, of course, but comrades came first; with no other bombs sailing through the window, he could take a second to make sure Aero didn't need a hand.
Fraaaag! The blast of light and nails spins Aero around and slams him brutal into the floor with a number of nails and shrapnel penetrating the armour of his coat. Rolling, as best he can with his injured shoulder, he gets into the nearest cover he can find although the armour protperties of the cheap tables isn't really enough to call it cover.
Hearing Tain call over to him as he reflexively extends his counterspelling to the group, he grimaces over to him. Not yet omae, I got this, give 'em hell. I'll be right with you. and focusing his energies as he begins to carefully pull the nails free, the healing energies starting to close up the wounds but it pulls at his mind at the same time starting a headache that'll probably last all day.
Hearing Tain call over to him as he reflexively extends his counterspelling to the group, he grimaces over to him. Not yet omae, I got this, give 'em hell. I'll be right with you. and focusing his energies as he begins to carefully pull the nails free, the healing energies starting to close up the wounds but it pulls at his mind at the same time starting a headache that'll probably last all day.
Tumbling to a stop on the sodden, glass strewn sidewalk, Claymore already has one of his jade-handled, glossy black Predators in his left hand even before taking in the semi-circle of trolls arrayed against him.
The streetwise elf has long ago learned not to waste time bothering with questions of hows and whys in this type of situation, but even if he were so inclined, the mere presence of the Spike gangers would have been more than enough to obliterate any such train of thought.
"Fraggin' trogs! Time ta die!"
Claymore's emerald cybereyes seem to sparkle brighter as his right hand reaches for one of his numerous pockets even as he squeezes off a couple of rounds at the troll on the far left end of the arc with the big semi-automatic.
The streetwise elf has long ago learned not to waste time bothering with questions of hows and whys in this type of situation, but even if he were so inclined, the mere presence of the Spike gangers would have been more than enough to obliterate any such train of thought.
"Fraggin' trogs! Time ta die!"
Claymore's emerald cybereyes seem to sparkle brighter as his right hand reaches for one of his numerous pockets even as he squeezes off a couple of rounds at the troll on the far left end of the arc with the big semi-automatic.
Amazingly, the big troll goes down in a spray, the two rounds impacting solidly with his center mass. Two other's manage to react in time, as no one really expected to have a crazed keeb leaping out of the cafe before the bomb blew.
One of the trolls blasts away at claymore with a sawed off street sweeper, the other lashing out with a heavy chain.
The troll at the center, apparently the leader, with a large black mohawk and sleevess armored jacket, point at Claymore and roars out Ge dat' fraggin keeb! I want 'is ears! Bikes roar and weapons are drawn as the Spikes give Claymore their full attention.
One of the trolls blasts away at claymore with a sawed off street sweeper, the other lashing out with a heavy chain.
The troll at the center, apparently the leader, with a large black mohawk and sleevess armored jacket, point at Claymore and roars out Ge dat' fraggin keeb! I want 'is ears! Bikes roar and weapons are drawn as the Spikes give Claymore their full attention.
[ Spoiler ]
Tain doesn't respond to Aero with anything more than a curt nod. His feet and hands are already moving by the time the other elf's sentence is finished; he's talking clearly enough that it's obvious he's not mortally injured, so there's no good reason -- with another Ancient outside alone against whoever is attacking them -- to hold a conversation when there's blood waiting to be spilled just outside.
His right hand dips into his jacket and comes out having sprouting a pair of matte black polymer spikes, point heavy and sharp. Tain may have appreciated the irony had he, right that second, known who he was about to hurl the slender throwing weapons at. Spikes for a Spike, ho ho ho, how accidentally clever.
As it is, rather than chuckling at the irony of his opening assault, he's seeing red around the edges. His lips are back and teeth are bared in that most basic of primal responses, rage. Metahumans, even Homo Sapien Nobilis, were born with sharp teeth because they are predators by nature. Every predator, from the scruffiest junkyard dog to the proudest lion, shows their fangs when they're angry. Tain is angry. It's easy to mistake the flash of teeth and gleam in the berserker's eyes for a smile, but it's not a mistake people make twice.
His right arm blurs, a whip-snap motion that takes it back and forth across his body. The backhand comes first, arm swinging out wide and one dart flung forth. His weight shifts, he twists at the hips as his feet continue to carry him towards the door, and his arm goes back across his body with a near-overhand throw that sends his second spike flying.
The follow-through's already got his hand going for his sword. The trouble's just starting...
His right hand dips into his jacket and comes out having sprouting a pair of matte black polymer spikes, point heavy and sharp. Tain may have appreciated the irony had he, right that second, known who he was about to hurl the slender throwing weapons at. Spikes for a Spike, ho ho ho, how accidentally clever.
As it is, rather than chuckling at the irony of his opening assault, he's seeing red around the edges. His lips are back and teeth are bared in that most basic of primal responses, rage. Metahumans, even Homo Sapien Nobilis, were born with sharp teeth because they are predators by nature. Every predator, from the scruffiest junkyard dog to the proudest lion, shows their fangs when they're angry. Tain is angry. It's easy to mistake the flash of teeth and gleam in the berserker's eyes for a smile, but it's not a mistake people make twice.
His right arm blurs, a whip-snap motion that takes it back and forth across his body. The backhand comes first, arm swinging out wide and one dart flung forth. His weight shifts, he twists at the hips as his feet continue to carry him towards the door, and his arm goes back across his body with a near-overhand throw that sends his second spike flying.
The follow-through's already got his hand going for his sword. The trouble's just starting...
[ Spoiler ]
Rolling to his left toward where the ganger has just fallen, Claymore desperately tries to avoid the trolls' attacks.
[ Spoiler ]
[ Spoiler ]
The shotgun tears into Claymore's shoulder, shredding the jacket and spraying blood. The concussion of the blast helps the elf's already fast reflexes, knocking him backwards and under the massive chain swinging for his head. More weapons come up and open fire as the trolls unleash their rage on the elf. The leader with the mohawk steps of his bike with an assault shotgun in one hand, drawing a large combat axe off of his bike with the other.
Trolls defintely know the old saying about brining a knife to a gun fight, bringing somethign with a better reach instead. As one of the trolls brings a super war hawk to bear, a black-chrome streak flies frome the wrecked cafe reflecting firelight, burying it's self in the pistol wielding troll's neck. The young troll roars in pain and rage, turning his aim towards the building and opening fire at his attacker.
Claymore
- Troll #2 - Heavy Pistol - 3 Hits
- Troll #3 - Spiked Chain - Already attacked
- Troll #4 - Mossberg Assault Shotgun/ Combat Axe - Leader - 5 hits
- Troll #5 - Sawed off Remington 990 - Already fired
- Troll #6 - Super Warhawk - Firing into cafe at Tain - 2 Hits, 3 hits
Roll Reaction to Dodge
[ Spoiler ]
Claymore continues to roll with the blast, doing his best to avoid more damage and buy time to gain a more advantageous position, his right hand having found the object of it's quest.
[ Spoiler ]
[ Spoiler ]
The furious elf's eyes narrow in an angry glare as he finds a garish, nickel-plated, hand cannon waved in his direction. Electronics built into the tissue around his eyes compensate for the dragon's-breath ball of flame that roars from the massive barrel, but no matter how fast you are you can't do much more than twitch or flinch away from a firing gun; in this case, it's enough. A fist-sized hole is blown in the wall near Tain, but all the elf knows is he's not dead, so he's not hit.
The shotgun catches Claymore as he dodges, spinning him around from the force of the impact, while Tain ducks for some cover, bringing more weapons to bear. The victims in the blasted cafe have recovered enough to begin screaming and diving for cover in ernest while the firefight outside goes into full swing. Bodies and cappuccino litter the floor, making for rough ground, but ample cover.
[ Spoiler ]
Bouncing off the graffiti-marred wall of the café with the force of the shotgun's blast, Claymore grunts and winces as he comes to rest on the sidewalk up against the still spurting body of the downed troll. Luckily he manages to keep the big Predator firmly in his grasp, and he quickly brings it to bear on the nearest target, the ganger brandishing the Ruger knockoff of a Manhunter, squeezing off a couple of shots.
At the same time, he slips a grenade from his pocket, already primed and set for air burst via skinlink, and desperately sends it soaring in a high arc toward the ax-wielding Spike leader.
At the same time, he slips a grenade from his pocket, already primed and set for air burst via skinlink, and desperately sends it soaring in a high arc toward the ax-wielding Spike leader.
[ Spoiler ]
Two quick shots snapped off take the troll in the head, splattering his thick skull across the pavement. The grenade gets everyone's attention though. THe leader dives forward, towards Claymore, his bike taking most of the blast for him. The troll with the sawed off isn't so lucky however, getting blasted from his bike by the grenade. The leader comes up swinging, literally, his axe lashing out for Claymore's head in a flash as he stands from his roll.
Coming from the other side, the troll with the chain swings at him, trying to herd him towards the axe.
Coming from the other side, the troll with the chain swings at him, trying to herd him towards the axe.
[ Spoiler ]
The green-and-black clad elf barely has time to register the ax-wielding Spike ganger's charge, and just manages to evade the massive blow. Unfortunately the close quarters means that Claymore rolls right into the path of the other troll's seeking chain.
[ Spoiler ]
The gap between the Elf and his chosen target -- the Troll with eight inches of polymer spike stuck in his neck -- closes, and a black blade with gleaming silvery edges suddenly appears in Tain's hand as if by magic. A cat's-eye looking stone in the hint catches the light for an instant, and he's two steps away from the lunge and leap that will get him atop the Troll like a lion taking down prey. He plants his feet and changes direction, instead, angling off to the side where he hears the woosh of a chain through the air and the clank and rattle of it striking meat.
Two on one just for numbers, but the Trogs had Claymore outmassed by quite a bit more than that. Dogs. Curs. Time to cut one down to size. He hurls himself forward, blade leading, into a quick two-strike routine that pits Elven magic, monofilament edges, and skill against Troll dermal plating and secondhand armored jackets.
Two on one just for numbers, but the Trogs had Claymore outmassed by quite a bit more than that. Dogs. Curs. Time to cut one down to size. He hurls himself forward, blade leading, into a quick two-strike routine that pits Elven magic, monofilament edges, and skill against Troll dermal plating and secondhand armored jackets.
[ Spoiler ]
[ Spoiler ]
Rolled dmg resist ... 4 hits. 
The chain lashes hard into Claymore's leg, tearing armor and flesh, digging in painfully as the brute treis to pull the elf from his feet. The massive troll grins triumphantly as the elf cries out in pain. The massive leader comes in, combat axe gleaming along it's monoedge as he comes in to finish off the deadly pixie, but is stopped cold by the flash of steel from his flank. Tain is there before anyone realizes it, the leader's throat already gaping open as Tain flashed by, well inside the troll's gaurd before he realizes the danger. Rather than an axe, Clamore is hit by a spray of blood as the troll's jugular opens, spraying the elf and soaking his New Orleans Tombstones t-shirt red with blood.
The chain wraps around Claymore's left calf, ripping through the tiger-striped leather pants to dig deeply into the flesh beneath. Instinctively his left hand grasps at the heavy chain to prevent any further damage, dropping the Predator to the sidewalk in the process. As the spray of blood soaks the elf, his cry of pain becomes an inarticulate roar. Without a thought for his safety, Claymore launches himself bare-handed, using the chain to aid his momentum, right at the throat of his attacker.
[ Spoiler ]
Tain pushes off the body of the axe-wielding Troll, shoving off to change direction as much as to knock the dying titan off his feet. He plants a foot on the massive metahuman's thigh and vaults off to the side, the comes in low and fast on the other Spike; the one with his hands full of chain and his face full of angry Claymore.
[ Spoiler ]
Claymore's fist gets passed the troll's clumsy defense, connecting solidly with troll jaw. He's rewarded with a satisfying crack , leaving the troll's head spinng. Tain comes in low, a blade finding it's way beneath the behemoth's guard, taking him between the ribs and into the heart. The troll stumbles back, to overwhelmed to even riase his hands, then crublmes to the ground as his strength gives out.
Initiative Round two - Post actions with Init - then I'll post the Spike's actions with their initiative.
Initiative Round two - Post actions with Init - then I'll post the Spike's actions with their initiative.
Claymore never forgets to count.
He's learned over the years, sometimes the hard way, that there is any number of things to constantly account for in a gunfight. Expended ammunition from both your own weapons and those of your opponents ... number and location of various exits or escape routes ... quality of available cover ... reaction times of the local 'Star ... and the list goes on. According to the elf gunslinger though, the most important figure to keep track of during a gunfight is the exact number of opponents.
The chain-wielding troll all but dealt with, Claymore dismisses him and quickly spins to his right even before the ganger's body hits the ground, ripping the discarded jade-gripped black Predator's twin from its harness beneath his left armpit. Pausing only long enough to bring the pistol in line, he squeezes off a single deliberate shot at the lone Spike ganger still standing.
Without hesitating any further, Claymore sets out at a run in the same direction in which the grenade-blasted troll was thrown.
He's learned over the years, sometimes the hard way, that there is any number of things to constantly account for in a gunfight. Expended ammunition from both your own weapons and those of your opponents ... number and location of various exits or escape routes ... quality of available cover ... reaction times of the local 'Star ... and the list goes on. According to the elf gunslinger though, the most important figure to keep track of during a gunfight is the exact number of opponents.
The chain-wielding troll all but dealt with, Claymore dismisses him and quickly spins to his right even before the ganger's body hits the ground, ripping the discarded jade-gripped black Predator's twin from its harness beneath his left armpit. Pausing only long enough to bring the pistol in line, he squeezes off a single deliberate shot at the lone Spike ganger still standing.
Without hesitating any further, Claymore sets out at a run in the same direction in which the grenade-blasted troll was thrown.
[ Spoiler ]
Tain twists his blade and jerks it free -- feeling, for just one pulse, that horse-big Troll heart beating at the other end of his sword -- and spins away even as the big dermal-plated slab of meat is tumbling to the street. The black rubberized grip would be slick with blood if this were all happening a thousand years ago and it was just wood or wire or even leather wrapped, but as it is he can pass the lethal blade to his left hand easily enough.
His right hand streaks for his waist even as he's striding purposefully towards the injured Troll he'd left with a black polymer spike in his neck, maybe two whole seconds earlier.
"Alive! Keep one alive!" As it often does when the world runs red around the edges and his blood is up, his voice comes out a deep Sperethiel roar. He's hoping Claymore is listening, because he certainly isn't in the mood to stop killing just yet.
His right hand streaks for his waist even as he's striding purposefully towards the injured Troll he'd left with a black polymer spike in his neck, maybe two whole seconds earlier.
"Alive! Keep one alive!" As it often does when the world runs red around the edges and his blood is up, his voice comes out a deep Sperethiel roar. He's hoping Claymore is listening, because he certainly isn't in the mood to stop killing just yet.
[ Spoiler ]
[ Spoiler ]
Claymore's shot takes the still standing troll with thespike in his neck through the chest, the pair finishing each other's kill in the chaos. Of the shotgun wielding troll, there is a smoking heap left, although it still moves and groans on the ground.
It was like watching a movie when some fragger had turned scan forward on. He could hardly follow the other combatants motions, and then it dawned on him. The decision earlier to go 'stealthy' and not have active spells, well that turned out fragging well.
Rolling to his knees Aero gets ready to take a glance outside as he builds the mana for a direct assault, whilst holding the chord sustaining the internal healing. Fraggin' gloves are off pal, no playin' around with you slitches
Rolls and stuff *8->
Got a post idea lined up for when I get to act.... if their not all dead by then *8->
Rolling to his knees Aero gets ready to take a glance outside as he builds the mana for a direct assault, whilst holding the chord sustaining the internal healing. Fraggin' gloves are off pal, no playin' around with you slitches
Rolls and stuff *8->
[ Spoiler ]
Got a post idea lined up for when I get to act.... if their not all dead by then *8->
Claymore leaps over the grenade-blasted bike just in time to see its owner, the sole remaining Spike ganger, rise smoking and bloody from the sidewalk where he had been thrown. Even before the elf can bring his pistol to bear on the wounded troll though, the ganger falls back down once again in a heap, this time seemingly for good.
With little more than a small shrug, Claymore momentarily sets aside the problem of a prisoner, his mind occupied with another, more pressing agenda now that the battle is all but over.
Limping over to retrieve and holster his discarded pistol, the Ancients' gunslinger then quickly sets to work tending to the two Spike corpses that he himself created. After capturing the trolls' images for future reference, he removes the gang colors from the bodies, then pulls a Leatherman multi-tool from his pocket and busies himself quickly and efficiently collecting his trophies, a maniacal grin plastered across his blood-streaked face.
With little more than a small shrug, Claymore momentarily sets aside the problem of a prisoner, his mind occupied with another, more pressing agenda now that the battle is all but over.
Limping over to retrieve and holster his discarded pistol, the Ancients' gunslinger then quickly sets to work tending to the two Spike corpses that he himself created. After capturing the trolls' images for future reference, he removes the gang colors from the bodies, then pulls a Leatherman multi-tool from his pocket and busies himself quickly and efficiently collecting his trophies, a maniacal grin plastered across his blood-streaked face.
Looking out through the window and seeing all the trolls down and the others seemingly fine, Aero lets the manabolt dribble away through his fingers and back into the astral.
Sighing and feeling the healing spell finish it's job he scans the dinner and is slightly shocked at the damage. Heading quickly over to the nearest injured person, his instincts kick in as he checks the wounds and patches them up as best he can with bits of cloth from his t-shirt and other cloth he can find.
Don't worry chummer you'll make it.... Can't believe the fragging Spike slitches would through a nail bomb inta a dinner like that. and then raising his voice a bit to carry to the two gangers outside. Hey guys! Either of you two hurt? And how long do ya think 'til the fraggin' 'Star shows up?
Intentions
Sighing and feeling the healing spell finish it's job he scans the dinner and is slightly shocked at the damage. Heading quickly over to the nearest injured person, his instincts kick in as he checks the wounds and patches them up as best he can with bits of cloth from his t-shirt and other cloth he can find.
Don't worry chummer you'll make it.... Can't believe the fragging Spike slitches would through a nail bomb inta a dinner like that. and then raising his voice a bit to carry to the two gangers outside. Hey guys! Either of you two hurt? And how long do ya think 'til the fraggin' 'Star shows up?
Intentions
[ Spoiler ]
THe smoking remains of the sole still living Spike twitches and gorans on the ground while Calymore collects his grisly trophies. Inside the diner, moans and cries of pain can be heard from the cafe' goers, now filled with small spikes from the pipe bomb. A few rush from the scene while others simply lay on the ground, to consumed by pain to do anything else.
The ork Aero is tending to groans, only able to nod his head in thanks as the spell of healing slowly pushes out the spikes from where they are embedd in his neck and abdomen. There's no sounds of sirens, as the small massacre occured in Puyallu[, but it's a sure bet that BlackSpear and crew will be making an appearance sooner rather than later. Still no sign of Lulu either, although with all the bodies on the floor, she could be anywhere.
The ork Aero is tending to groans, only able to nod his head in thanks as the spell of healing slowly pushes out the spikes from where they are embedd in his neck and abdomen. There's no sounds of sirens, as the small massacre occured in Puyallu[, but it's a sure bet that BlackSpear and crew will be making an appearance sooner rather than later. Still no sign of Lulu either, although with all the bodies on the floor, she could be anywhere.
"The Star? I'd say we've got a week or two."
He ambles over towards the remaining Spike, blinking twice as he feels some strength slipping away from him. The red fog recedes and his peripheral vision comes back; Tain fights down his usual headache, but doesn't let it show as he saunters the last few steps towards his prey. Tain takes a knee next to the last groaning Troll -- whoops, clumsy him, he takes a knee on the last groaning Troll, comfortably settling the bulk of his weight squarely on one injured forearm to keep the Spike pinned and conscious. Tain's forearms cross on his other knee and he peers down at the bleeding tusker, sword held casually out a few centimeters from the Spike's broad throat.
"Hullo, Elf-killer." The flat of his blade nudges at the trog's warty chin, a slap-slap that never takes the edge far from his jugular but is enough to get his attention. "Who told you where we'd be?
It's a simple question, and he doesn't bother calling up Gryphon in his voice just yet, or even stating any threats out loud. He doesn't have to. The questioner is an Ancient, the questioned is a Spike. They both know how this is going to end, it's only a matter of how long it takes.
He ambles over towards the remaining Spike, blinking twice as he feels some strength slipping away from him. The red fog recedes and his peripheral vision comes back; Tain fights down his usual headache, but doesn't let it show as he saunters the last few steps towards his prey. Tain takes a knee next to the last groaning Troll -- whoops, clumsy him, he takes a knee on the last groaning Troll, comfortably settling the bulk of his weight squarely on one injured forearm to keep the Spike pinned and conscious. Tain's forearms cross on his other knee and he peers down at the bleeding tusker, sword held casually out a few centimeters from the Spike's broad throat.
"Hullo, Elf-killer." The flat of his blade nudges at the trog's warty chin, a slap-slap that never takes the edge far from his jugular but is enough to get his attention. "Who told you where we'd be?
It's a simple question, and he doesn't bother calling up Gryphon in his voice just yet, or even stating any threats out loud. He doesn't have to. The questioner is an Ancient, the questioned is a Spike. They both know how this is going to end, it's only a matter of how long it takes.
[ Spoiler ]
[ Spoiler ]
aaAAAGH!! Off my arm OFF my ARM! Fuckin' KeeB! Rip said he got a call! Dat's it! Js a call, said you'd be here! Off my [b]fraggin' arm![b]
The troll screams and thrashes as Tain applies pressure, the pain apparently plenty to rouse him from his stupor. He screams and yells under the elf's weight, his wounds enough to keep his muscles weaker than the neededto throw him off.
"Rip the dead guy with the axe? Yes? Well, I can't ask him any questions, can I, so I guess we'll just have to keep talking." Tain shifts his weight, to thumb over his shoulder in the vague direction of the axe-wielding Spike, knowing the new jostling will provide more than enough discomfort to keep the troll's attention. "Who called him? Male or female? Another Spike? What time? You've got to know something else."
Quickly completing the messy task, and quieting his internal demons, at least for the moment, Claymore carefully wraps and pockets his treasures, his full attention snapping back to the here-and-now. Taking note of the direction of Tain's questioning, a couple of steps brings him to the body of the axe-wielding leader of the Spike raiding party.
Rolling the dead troll over with his foot, Claymore then starts to search through the ganger's pockets, grinning with satisfaction as he pulls a commlink from inside the bloody jacket, and waves it in the other elf's direction.
Rolling the dead troll over with his foot, Claymore then starts to search through the ganger's pockets, grinning with satisfaction as he pulls a commlink from inside the bloody jacket, and waves it in the other elf's direction.
[ Spoiler ]
Some Slitch! Rip just said "some biff"!! That's it! Fuck, god my ARM!
Claymore pulls an old worn metalink from the troll leader's pocket, as well as a packet of minty fresh chewing gum, and some condoms. The commlink's black case is heavily worn, with the Spike's insignia scratched into the side crudely.
Claymore pulls an old worn metalink from the troll leader's pocket, as well as a packet of minty fresh chewing gum, and some condoms. The commlink's black case is heavily worn, with the Spike's insignia scratched into the side crudely.
Discarding the trash from the troll's pockets, Claymore rises and takes a few limping steps to where Tain is standing over the sole surviving troll ganger. Handing the Spike's Metalink to the other elf, he nods toward their prone captive.
"You done?"
"You done?"
"He is," Tain stands up and gives Claymore a little nod, turning his back on the corpse-to-be. His gaze sweeps over the remnants of a battlefield, and he strides back towards the ruined coffee shop. He wants to go see what's taking Aero so long in there, and is hoping the owner/operator of this filthy Orkish dive hasn't vanished yet...
Claymore nods to the other elf.
Kneeling right on the same part of the troll's injured arm that Tain had just used, Claymore captures the troll's image with his cybereyes while he makes a show of deliberately pulling a long knife from his boot. Without a word, the elf reaches down, firmly grasps the ganger's left hand, and slowly draws the blade's monofilament edge through the joint of the thumb.
Holding the severed appendage up for the ganger to see, the elf stares into the wounded Spike's eyes, waiting for the initial screaming to subside before addressing the bleeding troll in a calm, menacing tone.
"Now that I have your attention, let me tell ya how this is gonna go. My name is Claymore, an' I'm gonna ask you some questions. The good news is that if I'm happy with your answers, well I'm gonna send you runnin' back home to Torgo's puppet with a personal message from me, no worse off than you are right now."
Claymore pauses for a moment to let that sink in.
"Of course, there's a but! If you don't answer a question, well then I'm just gonna have to carve another chunk off your worthless trog hide. An' if even one of your answers in any way strikes me as bullshit, well then that piece is gonna be of a highly personal nature"
The blood-streaked elf runs the sharp blade up the front of the troll's pants, splitting the synth leather crotch, emerald eyes sparkling wildly as he glares menacingly at the ganger.
"Shall we start off with a few easy ones? I want names! Yours and theirs."
With a small mental command, the commlink on Claymore's wrist projects the images of the faces of his two latest victims. The troll's response brings a small smile to his face. He leans closer as he speaks again.
"That wasn't too hard, was it? Now, I know my friend asked you already, but just t'be sure, humor me an' start from the beginnin' an' tell me every ... single ... detail you know about us, and this here 'situation'."
With that, Claymore once again touches the razor-sharp blade of the knife to the helpless ganger's crotch.
Kneeling right on the same part of the troll's injured arm that Tain had just used, Claymore captures the troll's image with his cybereyes while he makes a show of deliberately pulling a long knife from his boot. Without a word, the elf reaches down, firmly grasps the ganger's left hand, and slowly draws the blade's monofilament edge through the joint of the thumb.
Holding the severed appendage up for the ganger to see, the elf stares into the wounded Spike's eyes, waiting for the initial screaming to subside before addressing the bleeding troll in a calm, menacing tone.
"Now that I have your attention, let me tell ya how this is gonna go. My name is Claymore, an' I'm gonna ask you some questions. The good news is that if I'm happy with your answers, well I'm gonna send you runnin' back home to Torgo's puppet with a personal message from me, no worse off than you are right now."
Claymore pauses for a moment to let that sink in.
"Of course, there's a but! If you don't answer a question, well then I'm just gonna have to carve another chunk off your worthless trog hide. An' if even one of your answers in any way strikes me as bullshit, well then that piece is gonna be of a highly personal nature"
The blood-streaked elf runs the sharp blade up the front of the troll's pants, splitting the synth leather crotch, emerald eyes sparkling wildly as he glares menacingly at the ganger.
"Shall we start off with a few easy ones? I want names! Yours and theirs."
With a small mental command, the commlink on Claymore's wrist projects the images of the faces of his two latest victims. The troll's response brings a small smile to his face. He leans closer as he speaks again.
"That wasn't too hard, was it? Now, I know my friend asked you already, but just t'be sure, humor me an' start from the beginnin' an' tell me every ... single ... detail you know about us, and this here 'situation'."
With that, Claymore once again touches the razor-sharp blade of the knife to the helpless ganger's crotch.
It does indeed take some time for the troll to get anything more coherent than screams and whimpers out. Eventually, he manages go force some words out. By then however, people are starting to gather in the street, watching the aftermath and the bloodied street people stumbling out of the store front.
Name is .... m' name's Rich. Dat's ... dat was Coop, and Rip and ... fuck man .... jes lemme go man fuck. Rip said ... said some biff tol' 'im bunch of Ancient's would be at dese digs ta'nite. Said we'd say 'hello'. Dat one ... dat's Reese....
The troll names a couple of the other bodies on the ground before finally passing out from blood loss.
Name is .... m' name's Rich. Dat's ... dat was Coop, and Rip and ... fuck man .... jes lemme go man fuck. Rip said ... said some biff tol' 'im bunch of Ancient's would be at dese digs ta'nite. Said we'd say 'hello'. Dat one ... dat's Reese....
The troll names a couple of the other bodies on the ground before finally passing out from blood loss.
Wiping his brow as he ties off the last make shift bandage as Tain walks in Aero looks up and nods to him.
S'up chummer? See you two been getting what the trogs know, anything interesting or either of you two hurt?
Standing and smiling to a little ork girl hugging her mother, Aero starts to limp out towards Tain, and carefully looks past him before continuing.
Think I'm all done here, unless you need a hand? No sign of the slitch I'm guessing.
S'up chummer? See you two been getting what the trogs know, anything interesting or either of you two hurt?
Standing and smiling to a little ork girl hugging her mother, Aero starts to limp out towards Tain, and carefully looks past him before continuing.
Think I'm all done here, unless you need a hand? No sign of the slitch I'm guessing.
As the wailing troll loses consciousness, Claymore's feral grin evaporates. Breathing a sigh of frustration and regret, the elf shrugs and draws the monofilament blade across the wounded ganger's throat.
Looking around at the small crowd that is gathering around the area, he considers just leaving the dead Spike as he was, but despite that being the smart move, he just can't quite bring himself to let the matter lie. Hunching down over the body to try and disguise his activities, Claymore once again pulls the Leatherman from his pocket and quickly sets to work relieving the troll of his colors and lower tusks.
Looking around at the small crowd that is gathering around the area, he considers just leaving the dead Spike as he was, but despite that being the smart move, he just can't quite bring himself to let the matter lie. Hunching down over the body to try and disguise his activities, Claymore once again pulls the Leatherman from his pocket and quickly sets to work relieving the troll of his colors and lower tusks.
"We've both got a few scratches, but we'll live." His voice drops a bit, unwilling to show that Ancients notice blood loss in front of a crowd of their lessers. They'll get sorcerous healing from him when they've put a few blocks and a few corners between them and the predominantly tusk-bearing crowd. "Next time, comrades first, hmm? Bystanders a distant second."
There's a note of reproach in his deep voice, not threat or order but simple tactical sense. He gives Aero a nod and a pat on the shoulder, guiding him outside and double check with Claymore, then settles his own booted feet into the rubble and broken glass of the cafe. He casts a glance around the room, hoping to catch the eye of the dingy girl who'd been serving them soykaf moments earlier.
"What's left after my boys take their pick is yours. For repairs and your trouble. Guns, bikes, chrome. Whatever you want to take, whatever you want to sell." There's a matter-of-factness to his voice, a surety of tone that makes it clear this is simply the right thing to do. He couldn't, on a personal level, care less about some tusker and their beat-up coffee shop, but that's not what matters when you're looking at right versus wrong. "Just remember, it was Spikes that bombed the place, and Ancients that were doing nothing but sitting and talking. Their goods are yours by right."
He turns on one heel, glass crunching, and strides back outside. As he makes his way towards his waiting bike, he thumbs idly at the commlink, hoping to puzzle out some sort of caller ID function. The word "sorry" hadn't come up, but, then, it wasn't really an apology, was it?
There's a note of reproach in his deep voice, not threat or order but simple tactical sense. He gives Aero a nod and a pat on the shoulder, guiding him outside and double check with Claymore, then settles his own booted feet into the rubble and broken glass of the cafe. He casts a glance around the room, hoping to catch the eye of the dingy girl who'd been serving them soykaf moments earlier.
"What's left after my boys take their pick is yours. For repairs and your trouble. Guns, bikes, chrome. Whatever you want to take, whatever you want to sell." There's a matter-of-factness to his voice, a surety of tone that makes it clear this is simply the right thing to do. He couldn't, on a personal level, care less about some tusker and their beat-up coffee shop, but that's not what matters when you're looking at right versus wrong. "Just remember, it was Spikes that bombed the place, and Ancients that were doing nothing but sitting and talking. Their goods are yours by right."
He turns on one heel, glass crunching, and strides back outside. As he makes his way towards his waiting bike, he thumbs idly at the commlink, hoping to puzzle out some sort of caller ID function. The word "sorry" hadn't come up, but, then, it wasn't really an apology, was it?
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