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/tg/ - Traditional Games

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Hi folks after a week’s hiatus we’re back so let hit the ground running with the next instalment.
The pastebin: http://pastebin.com/nBfpprPT

You wake from a dream of still images depicting scenes of all kinds, pastoral childhood proceeds violent crime which proceeds fine art. You have the funkiest dreams.

The day greats you with blazing sunshine streaming though the single crack in your curtains that manages to find its way right onto your eyeballs. Unpleasant awakening aside you have a pretty good morning, having the first cold glass of morning milk you’ve had in three years. You had forgotten how useful magic was.

{Ability unlocked: You can slightly lower the temperature of anything you are in contact with without the need for a channelling roll, to produce a ray will require a roll.}

The kaffa bag’s running low and you’ll have to re-fill it soon, you’d be upset but your payment from Miss Zod should arrive sometime today. Pull a seat to the window you take a moment to admire the view of Bricksmen Street in the sunrise and take a breath. You’ve not stopped moving for the past month looking for work and then the madness last night. You’d forgotten how nice it was just to take a second and admire the world, even Miss Glossgin throwing her husband out a window down in number 83 shouting about bread can’t spoil it.

Which is of course why the great gods of The City decided they’d have to take more direct measures to ruin your morning

“Open up in the name of the family Zod!” A loud squeaky voice screeched from your door accompanied by what sounded like a full body assault on the poor thing, the door that is.

Rolling your eyes in frustration you pull yourself out of your chair, jump into some shorts and rush to the door before the frame gives way. It open to the smallest, roundest and angriest man you had ever seen. Dressed in purple and sliver robes, the colours of the Zod, family that seemed two sizes too large a fact he appeared to be aware of by the way he constantly pulled them up before talking. With a bald head that shined disputed there being almost no light in the hallway and little beady eyes that seemed to channel far too much loathing and disgust for their surface area, he was the most disgusting creature you and ever seen; and you’d watched goblins give birth.

“Missster Trashy I presume?” His word waving about like grass in the wind
“Yeah, how can I help you, Mr?” You get the feeling that you’re not going to enjoy this.
“I am the honourable Wizzical Borden, servant of the Zod family and graduate of the Dor Plaza Law School. You may call me Borden. I have been sent with your deed of payment and a letter from Miss Zod.”

Borden produced an elaborately decorated envelope, laced in swirling silver wind patterns and baring the stylised Z of the family Zod. Taking the fat wrap of papers from him you toss them on to your kitchen table with a thud that makes Bordens shoulders tense and his eyes narrow even further.

“Is there anything you require of me before I leave this den of poverty Mr Trashy? I do have pressing matters to attend to.”
Nope. Your free to go. Be sure to tell The Lady Zod should ever need my services again, she knows how to contact me

Man capcha sucks lately

Lovely biscuits, I'll get on that.

Is it those grainy pictures of people's door numbers?
Yep. None of them seemed to work. I would have posted earlier, but I got so frustrated after so many. Luckily I seem have got words back, finally

I just sat down to dinner might be a little while.

“Oh I do hope not Mr Trashy, if she must I hope I find you in a nicer part of town, good day.”

With that Borden waddles off down the hallway gaining very little speed despite the furious movement of his stumpy legs. Feeling only vaguely offended you shut the door in sit down with the letter. It’s almost upsetting to take it apart, what with it being so lovingly crafted and all, and the idea of read all the legal documentation is depressing.

Regardless when you get into it it’s not too bad, the vast majority is very skimable. Apparently Vela Zod has opened you a bank account with the Independent Bank of Orca, an asset of another friendly merchant family. Keeping money out of Orzhov coffers is common merchant practice, the powerful gateless don’t like trusting the guilds with their money as a rule. With four thousand eight hundred denner in the bank you’re doing quite well for yourself, considering your previous financial state at any rate. You don’t know too much their inner workings manly because you never expected to have one, the account itself is almost as valuable as your payment. If you didn’t know better you’d think Miss Zod was trying to be generous, more likely she’s just trying to keep an eye on you and make future employment easier.

At the bottom of the stack there’s a personal letter from Vela Zod.
Dear Mr Trashy

I write to thank you for your services in the matter of my medallion and going beyond the call of contract in your protection of my dear friend, Emarea. I congratulate you on your discretion…

And so on and so forth until the end where something interesting is buried.

Finally I invite you to attend the event you helped make possible as my guest, be a dear and bring me something on the ruffian who how made a mess of Emarea’s room and I may find reason to employ you again soon.

Kindist regards,
Vela P. Zod

The last paragraph tonal shift suggests it was the only one she actually wrote or at least the only one she cared about. It strikes you then that you have nothing to wear for the evening, if indeed you go at all. The party’s in five days so you’ve got some time at least.

You can think about this latter, you’ve got shopping to do []
Well back to work []
Do nothing for the day, you lazy gobo []
I forget, how long till the event?

In any case, let's get some work in. No reason to flaunt our new wealth so soon

No rest for the wicked it would seem, you’ve got to catch the case while it’s hot and sadly that means manoeuvring around the Azors and Boros flunkies that’ll be milling about. Getting your shirt and hat on and stowing your letters at the bottom of the kaffa bag you get ready to head out. First order of business will be… STORY POINT ACTIVATE!

[] The press, the editor of The Professional Muckraker is a personal friend
[] The Azors, your old buddy Jack should be past arresting drunks by now
[] The Boros, cousin Barma was always one to know, what’s he up to nowadays?
[] The Boros, cousin Barma was always one to know, what’s he up to nowadays?
Yeah Barma seems just like the goblin for the job, you remember doing some jobs with him in the past. Grey market, stuff that walked that fine line between being legal copies and quite illegal fakes and Barma know how to make something sound legal to clients. Shame when his market got raided by the Boros and he got picked up. He was sentenced to rehabilitation work in a Boros clean up squad and he’d never left claiming he’d turned a corner and started working up the Wojek ranks since.

You didn’t believe it for a second and suspect he just found Boros were easier to fool then underground deals and a little less likely to bash your head in if they found you out. A quick visit to your local precinct and chatting the officer on desk duty revels he’s actually on the Spire Case, convenient. Getting a hold of him proves a bit more challenging as he’s apparently hard at work with his team but a few choice words getting you into the back where you find junior scribes and detectives busy at work. The desk officer leads you past all this to the officer door of a Detective B. B. Blaskov, which take you a moment to realise is in fact Barma though you were sure he never had a middle name.

The officer doesn’t knock, he just swings the door open a touch and intones “Someone to see you Detective, he claims to be a cousin of yours.” The reply from inside is snappy with a familiar friendly ring to it. “Well that narrows it down to about three-hundred goblins Cristov so open the door and let me see him, eh?”

With a sigh and a little grin Cristov opens the door all the way to reveal an immaculately keep office, with wall-full of certificates hanging on the wall behind the desk. The room is lit by the sunlight coming through the slightly turned shades on the left side, and desk has only a few personal items. Barma himself is recognisable but so different at the same time, wearing down an almost archaic white robe of office and cultivating a little goatee that wasn’t there before he’s the idealised vision of a successful goblin.

He raises an eyebrow at you as you enter but otherwise seems very clam and even pleased to see you.

“Cousin!” he exclaims as he throws his hands into the air and gives you a crushing hug “Cristov, this Dick Trashy the greatest street artist this side of The City and a good friend to boot, you ever see him again don’t hold him up alright.”
Giving a small nod Cristov intones a polite “Yes, sir. I’ll be getting back to work then sir?”
Giving him a little flick of the finger Barma says “Yes you schmoozing little snake, go do some filing or something.” Sharing a laugh at some private joke Cristov leaves closing the door behind him.

Ushering you down into a seat opposite his desk Barma goes into a drawer at the bottom of his desk and produces two glasses and bottle of brandy, poring a little in each in spite of some weak protestations on your part.

Clapping his hands together he says, “Now Cousin, I’m not daft I don’t take it this is a personal call after three years. So to what do I own the visit of my saviour?”

[] Saviour?
[] I need a favour
[] I just wanted to see how you were

Barma still thinks you’re doing pavement drawings, say how much of your game you want to give away.
[] Saviour?

You offer Barma a confused stare as you sip the brandy, the sickly sweet alcohol almost catching in your dry throat. “Saviour?” you ask quizzically.
“Yes indeed,” he replies “Didn’t you know, this is all thanks to you? If it wasn’t for your mistake losing that letter of payment, we never would have gotten raid and I would have this lovely office I do today.”
You find yourself sweeting slightly as you cut in.
“Now see here Barma, I didn’t mean for that to happen you gotta understand. Is this the part where you beat the shit out of me?” With a degree of trepidation. In response Barma locks eyes with you for a moment his gaze steely before raising his hand causing you to flinch before you realise he’s holding your brandy glass to your lips.
“Drink you idiot,” He chuckles before continuing, “I’m serious that was a turning point in my life, learned what is was like to help people, I learned a fast tongue and skill with fists doesn’t have to work against the law and without your fuckup I never would have got the chance, so relay thank you. Now what are you here for?”

Fuck me sideways, this might just be the worst thread yet. I don’t know what happened, well I do actually. I disappeared for over a week and move at glacier pace. I don’t even know if it’s worth continuing.

Does anyone know what is exactly wrong though? Is my demographic net to small or is the writing just crap? What’s Wrong?
Well, I don't think it's really anything that be your fault. I think your writing is fine. Plus I've seen others who type slow and still have posters.

I think it's just a case of it didn't get that attention it needed early on. Don't blame yourself. This type of thing happens from time to time. I think you should say give it one more thread. Just to make sure. If the same thing happens, then maybe you either reboot it at a later date when perhaps it can get that new quest audience, or simply find another idea you want to run

Yeah maybe.

In that case, I've been Captain Carthage thank you all for playing and I'll see you all on Sunday for what will hopefully not be our last thread in this great mistake of mine.

If it doesn't work out I'll just have to try something totally different.

So watch your backs P.I.s and I'll see you next Time!

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