“I swear to God, Slate. If this one is anything like the Ghost Diver, you can find yourself another Tempest.”
Ariel was again dressed as a civilian, though she had been requested to ‘doll up for this one’. Men. Honestly.
The offending Agent Slate was seated next to her, and they were both getting chauffeured by Agent McGuinty, whose own comment on her appearance had earned him a quick slap to the face. The Irishman had simply chuckled in response. They were rolling down a glitzy drag in Illinois, looking for a nightclub which had recently advertized a night of boxing and entertainment for its patrons. Continue reading →
“You can’t go in there, Steven.”
Agent Slate turned. Shamus had a pistol leveled at him.
“You can’t go in there anymore. The power’s gone, Steven. She’s gone. You go in there, and it’s a paradox. No-one knows what will happen. You said it yourself. Step away.”
Slate turned back. He was staring at the green door. He had to have passed three layers of security to get here. How did he do that? Continue reading →
Shamus turned down another suburban road. The rows upon rows of identical housing, interspersed with development projects to create yet more identical housing were loathsomely boring, and the Irishman was quick to take note of this. His breath smelled of the whiskey that he occasionally weaned from his flask as he allowed the long tank of a car to slowly glide down the streets.
“I’m telling you, lad. Were I this Tempest lass, I’d knock down a tree or two just to give this place some semblance of excitement. Can you imagine living out here? The silence would drive me to the bottle.” He took another sip of his beverage. Continue reading →
It was a mild summer’s day in Washington as Agent Slate pulled into S.P.L.I.C.E. (Society for Persons Licensed to Investigate and Contain Extra-humans) with his partner, Shamus McGraidy. The top level organization was a relatively recent creation, but had proven to be an utterly necessary arm of the Pentagon. They dealt with the superhuman problem so that the average patriotic American could sleep at night. Continue reading →
Henry was dead. Dead as a doornail. He, like Charles Dickens (who is standing just at my shoulder, I’m sure, tut-tutting) was soon spinning in his grave while the characters in turn tried to puzzle out what exactly had happened.
Sure Zaav wanted his brother dead, but he wanted it done, if not honorably, then at least in a public manner that would cast the least suspicion on himself. He had nothing to do with the tampering of the trigger mechanism in the gun. Now, it seemed that someone else was actually after his head…and if he was after Henry’s head, who’s to say that he wasn’t after Zaav’s? Continue reading →
When last we left Heinrick, the poor sod had fallen victim to a severe case of getting slapped in the face by reality. Angry and ashamed, he soon had another quality that began consuming him: revenge.
The exact chronology of those first few sessions of this campaign is difficult to pinpoint…I feel like we only had two sessions before the Targaryens joined the fold, but I’m fairly sure the events I am about to detail occurred either just before or just after Henry’s death, and included the brief appearance of another player during what I feel was a separate, if brief, session. Either way, I feel more comfortable detailing the events now and letting the when slide. Continue reading →