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Found 6 results

  1. I'm still willing you know guys. Starting a PbP is always the hardest part. But once it gets going... ::laugh Cranky Dog
  2. Okay, I'm getting things started. This will be an initial encounter, a chance for the PCs to meet for the first time, interact some. Also has the convenient side benefit of letting you guys do most of the work for a bit. Who arrives at the conference room when is a matter of "first come, first serve." However, by the magic of Legend, you all will arrive in reasonably short order of each other, regardless of how you got to NYC ( airline tickets were provided with the orders for those lacking cars ). Feel free to narrate how you got to the city some.
  3. Any Scion who has lived the life understands that occasionally, they will receive the odd mysterious message. For Richard, it was an unlabeled envelope left upon his Impala, with no hint of anyone around save distant bird noises. For Serge, a courier showing certain military style identification code marking him as a cheval. For Amica, a cat literally plopping down next to her with a small bag in her mouth. And Nick? He simply got an email with the right encryption and attachments. In all cases, though, the meaning is the same: a 'request' ( order ) from on high. The destination, New York City, specifically, the Library Hotel, one of finest in the city. The provided room number not a bedroom, however, but a conference room. On openning the door to the conference room, each Scion finds a simple but elegant modern setup, with a large wooden table with numerous chairs at the center, and against one wall, a modern telecommunications array with a large screen monitor, currently turned off.
  4. Serge-Jean thought he was leading an interesting life. Just ask anyone who knows him. The day he met his father, he realized how mundane it was. It was late spring when it happened, at the Canadian Forces Base Valcartier just north of Quebec City, Serge-Jean just finished his shift and was about to hit the showers when he got the message he got a visitor in one of the officers’ meeting rooms that overlooks the woods. “Weird,” he thought to himself. “I’m not supposed to meet anybody today at this hour. Most of the staff personal is already off duty”. He went to the office building where he found it to be unsurprisingly quiet save for the secretary that was working overtime. “Sergeant-Major Sol-Hâteur reporting for a meeting” he said to her. “Good afternoon, sergeant-major, your visitor is awaiting you in room 312.” “Thank you. By the way, I haven’t been informed of who it is. Can you tell me please?” The simple question seemed to puzzle her. “I’m sorry sir, I do not have that information.” “Weird,” he thought to himself again. Then again, she didn’t look like the usual secretary, so she might be lost in the regular one’s notes. “Oh well. Who knows how important this must be since it’s all of a sudden” he said to her as he was reaching the staircase. “It’s been on the agenda for weeks sir, and approved by the base commander” She replied, making Serge-Jean pause in his step and looked back at her, himself with a puzzled look. He slowly turned back towards the staircase and went up. No sense in reproaching the lack of communication now. He’ll do it after his meeting. As re reached the third floor, he found it quieter than usual. Walking along the hallway, all of the office doors were open where he could see outside through the windows, yet no one was there. The only closed door was the meeting room at the other end. One thing that caught his attention was sweet smell of tobacco even before he reached the door, but not that of cigarette. Someone was recently smoking a pipe or a cigar. He knocked on the door “Sergeant-major Sol-Hâteur reporting.” “Enter,” said a heavily accented voice from the other side. As he opened the door, into what turned out to be an officer’s lounge instead of a boardroom, he saw its single occupant, a husky man of African descent with a darker skin than his own, probably in his late forties or early fifties and a few inches shorter than himself. He was dressed in a foreign dress uniform that he could not identify its origin, though he could easily identify that it was obviously representing a very high rank. On his head, he wore a decorated red and white kufi, a west-African cap. A cigar butt was in the ashtray, clearly his. “Sergeant-Major Serge-Jean Sol-Hâteur,” said the man with a wide smile. “Come in and sit.” Serge-Jean complied as the other man sat across the room from him. “You are a man with an interesting career path. But I would like you to tell me about it and yourself in your own words.” Serge-Jean noticed that the man hadn’t introduced himself yet. But he felt oddly at ease in front of this man and compelled to answer him. “Serge-Jean Sol-Hâteur, I’m 32 years old, I’ve been in with the army for the past ten years. My chief function is training the new recruits and making sure that everyone is at their best. I’ve toured in Afghanistan for thirty months in Kandahar, training the local forces and militia.” “Good,” answered the man. “But that information is easy to know. Tell me more about yourself personally.” Serge-Jean leaned back in his seat, letting himself become more casual. “I joined the army after graduating from college. I tried university, but just didn’t see myself doing a career in engineering, even though I may have a knack for it. Having a purely office job just wasn’t what I wanted. Though my mother would prefer to see me safely behind a desk.” The man cocked a half-smile when he mentioned his mother. “I wanted a career with more physical activity, but I wasn’t interested in simple labor work either. The army is always on campus at the beginning of each semester, so I easily got the information I needed, and since the base is right next to home, I knew I wouldn’t leave my mother very far behind. I’m an only child, and I know she’s always worrying about me.” “She’s a caring woman is she?” asked the man. “Quite,” replied Serge-Jean. “If it wasn’t for her perseverance, I’d probably be in jail, without an education or a future. She highly values education and we lived right next to where they built the big library downtown, the largest public library in the region, and she insisted we go there regularly when I was young.” His listener simply nodded. “Anyway, I didn’t spend much time there of my own free will,” he continued. “Like most kids, I spent my time watching TV, playing with my friends outside or with video games. I was lucky that even though I was practically the only black kid in the area, it was about as the same time that Micheal Jackson became a superstar. Because of that, I looked cool in the eyes of my friends. The downside of it all was that we lived in the Quartier St-Roch. It was a tough neighbourhood in those days. Lots of crime, drugs, abandoned buildings with squatters and other homeless people. So with my kind of friends, trouble was something we were all expert at.” “I guess I was lucky again that I never got caught doing anything stupid that would’ve put me in juvie. But I wasn’t going anywhere. I dropped out of high school and probably gave my mother more than a few wrinkles.” “Dropped out?” queried the man. “Yet you were to go to university weren’t you?” “I think I was 16, or maybe 17, when I stumbled upon some posters for an open-air African student talent show on campus. I’ve never really been on the campus grounds, even though it’s only 15 minutes from our home. I went there and it was the first time I saw, and I mean *really* saw some other black people like me but who were all very highly educated. Some were from Africa, others from Haiti or the Dominican Republic, a few from France. All of them smart and from very diverse backgrounds. Some were from very well off families with ties to their own governments. others were here on scholarships, getting educations that wouldn’t be possible from their home countries. And here I was, a local high school dropout that was just hanging out doing nothing productive from morning to evening.” He paused for a moment. “I don’t know exactly why, but it just suddenly clicked that I all of my time was being completely wasted.” “So you went back to school?” Interjected the man, with a smile expressing pride. “Yeah,” replied Serge-Jean. “I took some convincing the principal and school counsellors, but I went back. I sort of had a new drive to always be active. If I was tired of studying, I went to the gym or the sports arena. If I was tired of physical activities, I studied. I spent more time by myself at the library and spent less and less time with my street friends. In the end, the grade I got more than made up for the lousy ones I had in the past.” “From there, you graduated and became yourself an instructor in the army. That is correct?” said the man. “That’s basically it sir,” answered Serge-Jean. “I found that I like teaching people to use practical skills. Skills you can really use. Soldiers need to know their stuff and I’ve been told on several occasions that my cadets usually turn out to be above average once I’m done with them.” “What are your hobbies?” asked the man. “My… hobbies sir?” he replied. “Well, I like to keep fit, so I play sports a lot, mostly exterior sports. So in the winter I ski a lot a play hockey with colleagues.” “The cold does not bother you?” asked the man. “You get used to it pretty quick when winter comes. Especially if you’re active.” “I cannot say that I’ve ever been in this situation myself.” “Yes sir. My mother herself never really was a fan of winter.” “Continuing, I also keep up on science and technology literature and I like to spend time with the gear heads. But something else I do that you could call a hobby even though it’s part of my trainer duties is skydiving.” “Skydiving?” the man said, lifting an eyebrow. “Yes, I just love the feeling of it. The feeling of flying while hurtling at over a hundred kilometres per hour. I’ve done over 800 jumps since I joined.” “But you’re not a pilot.” “Have you ever been in the cockpit of a plane? It’s always cramped. You can’t feel the wind the same way you do when skydiving.” “You like the sensation of riding the wind.” “Love it. The only downside is that it’s never lasts long enough. We don’t need to go that high for training, but it’s never high enough for my personal tastes.” The man let out a laugh with a smile. “So you really like the feel of the wind.” Serge-Jean smiled back, feeling more and more familiar with the man. “I do. I’m not afraid of heights, and I’d probably do a lot of cliff jumping if we had any that were high enough. And I’d get in trouble jumping from the top of the Quebec Bridge,” he said laughing back. “Ah, Serge-Jean,” the man said slowly. “We are so alike, so alike.” He chuckled to himself. “You truly are worthy of being my son.” “Sir?” Serge-Jean stopped smiling and was quite confused. Was this man, who still hadn’t introduced himself, trying to adopt him or something? A strange African general trying to make him his heir? “I’m sorry Sir, I don’t think I follow your meaning.” “Serge-Jean, I am telling you that I am your father. Your real father.”
  5. Hmm, I'm not 100% sure how to start this, what with lots of posts in the earlier thread. So, I shall repeat the basic idea. The Titans broke out, just recently. In response to this, and the related outbreaks of titanspawn and other supernatural menaces roving about the World, the gods have generally gone on a "activate every viable Scion" spree, and tasked their youngest descendents with keeping order and peace in the world. This is not necessarily about altruism; the more active and more public the titanspawn become, the easier a time they and their bigger, meaner kin have at getting into the world. You ( and you, and you, and also you ) are one of these Scions. You just recently found out that yes, there be dragons. And guess who got recruited to fight them! *eg* So basically, take the standard Scion scenario, and mix in some Supernatural for flavor. A fair emphasis on "monster of the week", at least at first, with varying surroundings and circumstances. Of course, given the nature of Fate, just because you travel from New York to LA to London, doesn't mean you leave all your complications behind. . .
  6. “Push, Eve!” Bobby said. With another pain-filled moan, she squeezed her husband’s hand as she bore down again. The middle-aged man between her legs nodded, rinsing off a washcloth and wiping away more fluid. “Almost there,” he encouraged gruffly. “Almost there, Eve, take a deep breath than do it again.” Zach, her husband, rubbed her arm with his free hand, then glanced across the room at their daughter as the lights flickered. His full attention turned back to his wife as she let out another pain-filled moan. “Something’s wrong,” she gasped. With a grunt, she bore down again, squeezing on the baby. “I can see the head,” Bobby said. “C’mon, one more time.” He pushed away the dirty pot filled with bloody water, pulling over the last one. A sudden gust of wind howled around the house, and dust drifted down from the basement ceiling. Cursing, Bobby tossed the cloth over the pot until the dust finished falling, then pulled a clean one off the shrinking pile. The head of the baby started emerging from her straining hips as Evelynn let out a scream, and Bobby’s hands were there to catch it and guide it into the world. “Well?” Zach asked, looking up from his wife’s sweat-drenched face. “Is it … what’s wrong, uncle Rob?” The wind died for a moment, and the silence was ominous. A tear rolled down the older man’s face as he closed his eyes. Fighting back the rush of emotion, he gently unwound the umbilical cord from the child’s throat. “I’m sorry, boy,” he choked out, “I’m so sorry, there was nothing I could do.” With a shriek, Evelynn sat up halfway, pushing herself up from the folded quilts where she lay, reaching out for the body of her stillborn son. For a moment, Bobby held it out of her reach, then slowly eased it into her arms as she sobbed over it. Over in the corner, the toddler stirred restlessly, then settled back into sleep as her mother’s cries faded into quiet, mewling noises. Bobby turned away, wiping his hands with the wet cloth before dropping it back into the pot. He was no doctor, but with the tornado warning holding down half of Nebraska, there was no way for them to reach a hospital. His experience at birthing horses and cattle was close enough he thought he could help his nephew and niece-in-law through it. He glanced up the narrow flight of stairs at the closed storm door to the kitchen, then cursed under his breath. Screw the damn tornados, he wanted a beer. No, needed a beer was more like it. He crept up the steps, not wanting to disturb their mourning any more than was necessary. The door opened, and the house was quiet. Quiet enough that either the wind storms had passed, or they were in the eye of a tornado and about to get ripped to pieces. Either way, Bobby was going to have him a beer. Moving across the kitchen, he pulled open the fridge and snaked his hand out for a beer. “You might want to stay clear-headed for a bit,” came a voice from behind him. Whirling around, Bobby’s other hand had an aged firearm, one of the first Winchester revolvers, pointed straight at the left eye of the white-haired man standing in the doorway to the dining room. “And keep the noise down,” he said, teeth glinting in the faint light from the fridge, “you might wake up my son.” Glancing pointedly at the gun, he raised an eyebrow. “I’d hate to have to do something appropriately violent to you.” Narrowly glancing at the man, Bobby held the gun pointed a moment later, then lowered it to his side. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were at Aes. One away from his post, at that.” Broadly displaying a mouthful of golden teeth, the man chuckled. “Call me Rig,” he said, and winked. “I’m here because I need a favor, Bobby Tomlinson.” The baby in his arms fussed, and Rig glanced down for a moment, gently rocking the babe back and forth with one arm. Fitting the pieces together rather quickly, Bobby raised the gun again. “You conveniently arranged for my nephew’s baby to be stillborn so that I could pull a changeling swap for you?” Rig looked up quickly, surprise and dismay on his face. “A swap? No, no, my intent was to have them raised together as twins.” He glanced at the door to the basement and tilted his head slightly, listening. “Odin’s beard,” he swore, then turned back. “I brought my son here, to place into your family, for you to watch over and instruct my son as he grows. And to help him learn the skills he may need in the times ahead.” Bobby considered this for a moment before holstering the gun. “And what about my debt?” He bit off the last word bitterly. “If my son reaches maturity, then your debt to me will be paid in full.” Stepping forward, he carefully handed the sleeping child to Bobby. “But if anything happens to him before he can claim his birthright, you’ll owe me another debt.” Snorting, Bobby nodded. “Double or nothing it is.” He walked slowly over to the basement door, pausing with his free hand on the doorknob. “What about my nephew’s son?” Rig considered it for a moment, then pulled a toy bugle from his pocket, blowing a mournful tone. In a blaze of light, an armored Valkyrie appeared in the middle of the worn linoleum floor. Nodding grimly, Bobby led the warrior woman down the steps. “Eve,” he murmured, kneeling down next to his niece. “Eve, look at me,” he said more forcefully. As the grieving couple looked up at him, Bobby spoke a word of power, hypnotizing them in place. Gently, the Valkyrie reached out, taking the small body from the mother. Without a word, she vanished in another wash of light. Bobby settled the newborn boy in Evelynn’s arms, then spoke another word of power. Their faces animated, blinking as the last few minutes faded suddenly from their memory. “You have a boy,” he said quietly, and watched the subtle happiness bloom on their faces.
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