Twitter: https://twitter.com/WhistlerDM

Basics of the Metallic Arts: http://pastebin.com/gja6K6xy

Chapter 1: http://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive/979396

Write-ins are always welcome and feel free to ask questions.

> Be responsible, check on the farms.

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Fortunately for your liver, the nagging wins. You shift off the step, back protesting, and start stumbling down the dusty streets of Bumfuck Nowhere, or as the locals call it, Crowther. A few people who you dimly recognize give a wave as you pass, and you throw a half-hearted one back.
You suppose that Crowther was a pretty nice place to live, all things considered. The people were pretty friendly once they saw you stay around for a few months, and most of the work was honest and fulfilling. The General Store where you ‘work’ a few hours a day to stay under the radar of the conners is run by a pretty nice couple who seem to actually love each other and their jobs. You thought maybe they were faking it but eventually even you had to admit people just weren’t as cynical here as in the city.

They were as boring as a dock, though, and getting drunk was about the only entertainment you could find that wouldn’t get you locked up for a night.

You arrive at the squat building, crammed in-between a bunch of homes that were built basically on top of one another. You still don’t really get the Rough’s concept of ownership, but you’ve been assured by Two that no one living in the area will be a problem. You note the window of one of the homes has a red scrap of cloth hanging outside of it and go to its neighbor on the left. You knock on the door, five raps, a pause, and then two more, and wait for an answer.

A man you don’t recognize cracks the door open, only letting his crooked nose and bad teeth show a thick chain hanging between them like a metal mustache.

“What do you want, sir?”

You forgot that you needed passphrases to get in anywhere Two thinks is important. The good news is that she only changes them weekly. The bad news is that the last time you were here was two weeks ago. You don’t have to burn steel to know he’s probably got a gun pointed at you behind the door, though that doesn’t really worry you. You finger a metal vial in your pocket and consider downing it.

>Go with the old passphrase. Maybe Two was lazy once in her life. (Roll 1d100)
>Tell him you’re much more important than him and bully your way inside
>Guess a new pass phrase (Roll 1d100)
>Write-in
30 stored charges of Fortune. Currently storing 30 charges of Fortune.

Fortune will work as follows. Every roll will have an associated roll under number with it. For example, 50. If you roll under 50 a positive outcome will occur. If you roll over a negative outcome will occur. If you are storing Fortune you get an automatic reduction of the necessary number. So if you are storing 30 charges of Fortune in this example you would have to roll 20 or under to get a positive result. You can ‘tap’ stored charges to increase your chance of success in a similar way. You cannot tap more charges than you currently have stored.

You are limited to storing up to 50 charges per update, and depending on how much you store or burn there may be subtle effects throughout the updates.

We’ll see how this works and make adjustments as needed.

Rolled 21 (1d100)

>>1047458
>Go with the old passphrase. Maybe Two was lazy once in her life. (Roll 1d100)

Well, let's test the mechanic then.

You lean against the door and fake a coughing fit, downing the small vial of steel in a very smooth performance of sleight of hand, in your opinion. You burn a bit and blue lines sprout from your chest to every metal source near you. You are surprised you don’t catch any thick lines behind the door.

“He was stabbed three times, for poverty, slavery, and uh… corruption by a bum, a worker and a… prince?” You’re pretty sure that’s the gist of it. You’ve never understood Two’s obsession with old testimonials, but she’s probably the most devout criminal alive.

“That’s last week’s password, mostly. I need the new one.” He mutters.

Balls.

>Tell him you’re much more important than him and bully your way inside
>Guess a new pass phrase (Roll 1d100)
>Just blow off work again
>Write-in

>>1049010
>Tell him you're much more important than him and bully your way inside.

We're not drunk enough for this shit.

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“Listen, I’m Six. I’m basically your boss. Open up the damn door.”

He narrows his eyes. “Don’t care if you’re number One. You ain’t getting in without the proper password.”

He tries to shut the door but you block it with your foot. The crunch you feel instead of hear will probably come back to bite you later, but you’re too annoyed right now. You burn steel and tug on the line connected to the chain, lightly at first so it whips in the man’s face and he can move out the way. Once he’s flinched back you push on the wall it and it rips out of the wall, whipping the chain around the door out of sight.

You push open the door and see the lily-liver managed to dodge the swinging chain, which is good. He doesn’t even bother to throw a punch at you, though, which is bad. It occurs to you that the fact that you were able to break in so easily reflects badly on you as the security of the farms is technically one of your responsibilities. You file that under Future Lee’s problems though and stroll through the house, furnishings still up to keep the illusion of a family there. You head straight towards the kitchen.

Crooked Nose- you should probably get his name- is following you, keeping his voice down but also babbling something you’re not really listening to. You flip the carpet in the corner and reveal the trapdoor to the farm. Something new is there, though. A big iron lock.

>Ask for Crooks name
>Ask Crook for the key (Roll 1d100)
>Steelpush the lock open, definitely breaking it in the process.
>Write-in

>>1049223
>Ask for Crooks name

You drape an arm around Crooks shoulders, ignoring his cringing away from you.

“Look, what’s your name, kid?” The man is in at least his forties, but you figure flattery never hurts.

“My name is Fring, and listen miss, you-“

“Fring? That’s a terrible name.”

Offense flashes across his face for some reason. “You have to leave miss. This is a private domicile and I will alert the deputies if you don’t leave!”

>Call his bluff
>Threaten him
>Look for the key yourself (Roll 1d100, -30 currently being stored.)
>Write-in

Rolled 25 (1d100)

> Ask the Crook for the Key first.

> Call Bluff

>>1050524
>Call his bluff

"Look , whether you believe me or not I am Number 6 and to illustrate just how I got such a pretty and low number put on my title let's go through step by step all the ways that alerting the authorities can go wrong for you."

You sigh. With the noise you made barging in if anyone was on this floor they probably would have come running. If you break the lock than Two will be on your ass for days for ruining equipment. At least the door chain will only take a couple of nails to fix.

“Look, Crook. I’m Six. Luckshot. You had to have heard of me through the grapevine. You’re not going to call the conners because we, the Sevens, are running an ash farm down there.” You stomp your foot a few time for emphasis and try your best not to wince because you use your injured foot. “I know about the farm down there and I just want to check that everything is running smoothly. I’m not the person you’re supposed to keep out.”

He stutters a bit, but you cut him off before he tries any more excuses.

“Tell you what, Crook. We’ll forget all about this if you just hand me the key so I can get to my job and you can get back to yours. That way your boss, which once again, is me, won’t string you up later.”

A minute later the lock is open and you are down the ladder, leaving Crook to ineffectually guard the place. The dank basement is lit softly by a weird moss that you’ve never learned the name of. It’s basically just a big hole in the ground, propped up by plywood. The Sevens had already excavated it, with a bunch of pewter metalborns no doubt, before you joined up. You see a few hallways, most of which lead to the ash farms, packing rooms, and you think a tunnel used for smuggling the drug outside. There is a short one next to you that leads to what counts as your ‘office when you’re here, a small room with and only a desk and chair last you saw.

>Check the ‘office’
>Check the farm itself
>Try and find the smuggling tunnel
>Write-in?

>>1051680
>Check the ‘office’

You head towards the office. You walk down the tunnel, loamy soil squelching under your boots. The smell is comforting but strange. Almost like it’s too natural for your nose. You figure you’ll just throw your feet up and kill a few hours, and Two can’t complain about you ‘shirking your responsibilities’ if you’re actually present.

Your plan would have worked well if Two wasn’t in your chair. She’s taken over the office, which in her case means spreading papers and maps all over the desk and floor, with a tarp over the exposed patches of ground to keep them dirt free. Small lanterns, pepper the room, making you squint after the low light of the moss guided you here. The short woman has her nose deep in a book, probably some Survivorist text, and is so engrossed she hasn’t noticed you yet.

>Leave to avoid the tongue-lashing (Go where?)
>Face the music
>Write-in?

>>1054884
>>Face the music

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You take a deep breath, hope the desk will keep you safe from any surprise head-butts, and walk in with your head held high stopping right before the desk. Then you cough. Then you cough louder. You kick the desk a little and she starts, glasses slightly askew from her little jump. This close you can see the deep blue cast of her skin that no amount of makeup could cover, shadowed in the uneven light. It marks her as a koloss-blood much better than her diminutive height, to her and everyone else’s eternal chagrin.

She adjusts her glasses and takes a good look at you as she closes her book, and surprise melts to anger quicker than a gunshot. Her face screws up and her button nose crinkles up in a way you know she hates. Then she closes her eyes and does one of her dumb breathing things. Good news is that means she’s going to try to be her idea of civilized and not punch you unless you do something really dumb, like call attention to her so-called ‘savage affliction’. Bad news is you’re still just drunk enough to think that poking the koloss would be funny.

>”Hey short stuff, the light really makes the blue pop.” (Roll 1d100, -30)
>Wait for her to get herself together
>Write-in?

> Call Attention to Affliction

What could possibly go wrong?

Rolled 10 (1d100)

Extra Dice Roll because I forgot how to do it.

Rolled 10. Needed 70-30=50. Success!

“You know, you might have some better luck if you used blue glass on the lanterns. You’d blend right in.”

Her breathing exercise stutters and the vein in her forehead pops out.

“Six, you-” She starts.

“Also they had these shoes back in Rashekin, short men used ‘em all the time to pretend they had some height on them. They might help your vertical challenges.”

Your poker face, terrible for actually playing poker, is straight as a lane. You hear a small crack of wood splintering under a worryingly strong grip.

“I once saw a man, burned so badly in an accident in one of the factories he was absolutely covered, head to toe, no lie, in bandages. Couldn’t see an inch of skin. If you want I could always-“

“Leave.” She hisses.

>Leave
>Apologize for slacking
>Apologize for the jokes
>Write-in?

> Flat-Out Apologize for Everything

You need your office back anyways.

You are, unfortunately, not drunk enough to avoid guilt. You’re pretty sure she’s not crying but the seething breathes she’s using to keep herself are sounding pretty moist. And it’s not like you actually hate Two, annoying as she can be. There are a lot worse people in your little gang of numbers.

Plus you just remembered that you left a bottle of whisky in the bottom drawer, and you’d hate to give that up.

“Alright, alright, I’m done joshing you. Have to learn how to take a joke, Two. Come on, take a shot at me. I’ve been told by many a man I’m handsomer than they are. Try the jaw, I’m sensitive about it.” You kid. She glares at you, but her breathing slows a bit. Progress.

“I am sorry Two. Honestly. I know I’ve been a bit… sluggish,” She gives a hard snort. “In my jobs around town, and I don’t have any real excuse. I get moods sometimes, I suppose. But I’ll make it up to you, I promise. Starting by sitting at that there desk and overseeing this whole enterprise. What do you say, you can go on up and get a drink, and I’ll pore over the papers a while.”

You think your apology might have touched whatever abacus Two has in place of a heart, because the veins gone and her breathings normal. She fidgets with some papers for a bit, probably trying to make you sweat, despite the coolness of the cave.

“Six,” She begin, in a voice just a tad too high to sound like a full grown woman. “One of the things you were hired to do was oversee the security of the Crowther farms. The fact that they are largely safe regardless does not excuse your negligence. Just what in the Survivors name were you doing instead?”

>Tell the truth
>Lie (What?)

>>1071835
>Tell the truth

>>1080733
I'm going to have to make a new thread for the continuation. Will announce when on twitter. Thanks to everyone for participating.