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Date: Olarune the 2nd, 998YK

Location: Sharn

Dawn broke over the City of Towers, and Lysa ir'Macht barely noticed, lost in study in her lab.

It was situated down in the lower depths of the city, since official personhood to warforged only got them so far – beyond legal status there were all the small exceptions and biases of life. Every time someone out there looked at her now, there was that stiffening of the muscles and a quickening of their pace – at the best of times.

Still, it wasn't too long ago that people who looked like her and Ratchet were only seen with swords and crossbows in hand, sent in to do the bloodiest missions. Ratchet said, with that sad inflection to his older-generation vocal systems, that it cannot be helped, and that he was used to it.

She was wondering if she ever would be.

Since she didn't need to sleep any more, she was reviewing what scraps of schematics that she'd managed to recover from the lab, trying to reason her way closer to where her father had been when he designed the construct body, and the machine that would put a mortal mind inside of it. It occupied an increasing amount of her time, so much that her few friends were starting to get worried.

At the desk of her study, a private sending stone pulse with a soft light and a faint buzzing sound. She knew which one it was, and by extension, who owned the linked mate. It would be the reporter, Ezarion – maybe with a lead on what had happened to her, or maybe just to chat.

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I don't understand it at all. Warforged bodies are all so standardized...just pressed out from the Forges from a handful of schemas. Then, out of nowhere, something entirely new. I know father was brilliant, but this seems...could he have based this work on something else? Some schema no one's seen before? How else could...

Lysa's lightning train of thought was well and truly derailed by the insistent pulsing of the sending stone on her desk, and her quicksilver features twisted in a moment of displeasure. Her face...so unlike the chunky metal and wood of other warforged...looked much like her old face had, albeit from cast silvery metal that somehow moved almost as fluidly as her skin and muscle had. The rest of her body was similar, moving with only the barest hint of joints. Somehow the mithril itself was animated at crucial points, while losing none of its strength and durability.

It was fascinating and awe-striking and almost certainly more interesting than anything Ezri wanted to talk about. It wasn't that Lysa begrudged him...he'd come through for her when she'd had almost nothing, and asked for comparatively little in return.

But honestly, how many times did he want her to repeat what little she remembered of Cyre?

Maybe I could use a break anyway, she sighed to herself as she picked the amber lozenge up. Not needing sleep doesn't mean it's good to fixate too much. I guess.

A gentle squeeze, and an act of will was all it took to 'open' the stone and allow Ezarion's sending to come through.

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"Lysa, it's Ezarion. Ah…"

The tone of Ezri's voice got her attention immediately. Usually he was far happier to talk to her, or at least put on a front as he tried to ply her for information. Now he sounded genuinely distraught.

"It's about Ratchet. He's been in a fight. He's been banged up pretty badly. He's being repaired at a magewright friend of mine's but maybe you could come down to see him? He says he's fine but you know how he is, he'd say he was fine if he was down to one leg and no arms. Get in touch when you can, please."

The sending stone went dead, as the message finished itself.

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"Damn it...you can't just...tell me where you are!"  Lysa raged impotently at the stone...her angst fueled by concern for her friend. Ratchet was capable in a fight, but warforged weren't golems. They could be hurt, could be broken...could even feel pain, after a fashion.

Well. Most could.

She closed her silver-streaked fingers around the sending stone and concentrated. With luck, he'd be in a spot to take the message quickly. Otherwise, it was possible she'd be chasing her tail for awhile.

Your message didn't tell me where to come down to. I'm going to your place and then look around for a magewright nearby. Let me know an address when you get this please.

Then she tucked the sending stone into a pouch on a belt around her waist. On reflection, she decided to pull a dress on before heading out. Her body lacked any overt signals of her original gender, though its smoothness and sleekness still perhaps connoted the feminine, but she still felt weird going around outside her home without clothes on. Dress, then belt, then go.

Outside, her wings unfurled. Or, more unfolded, really. They were a spread of metal vanes that extended from her back with a dragonshard glimmering between them at the base of her neck, folding over her back when stowed out of use. They didn't provide lift, like a bird's wings...they were far too small for that. Rather, they helped stabilize her in the air and gave her a way to control her direction and speed.

The lift came from some kind of magic force that came roaring from ports on her hips and the soles of her feet...she suspected it was related to the dragonshard, perhaps a caged air elemental as much as that pained her. But whatever her qualms about the mechanism of it, there was no arguing with the results.

Flying was just wonderful.

There was a hissing roar, like a gale through treetops, and in a flare of blue-white light Lysa took off for the sky. In midair, near the apex of her first arc, her wings snapped out wider and caught the whistling wind. Trails of electric blue twisted and crackled in her wake as she twisted hard to the right to avoid one of Sharn's towers as it emerged from the haze that choked its skyline. Higher up, it was easier to see, and she wove a tangled course as she headed towards the spot where Ezarion made his home.

From there she let herself fall a dizzying hundred feet or more...catching herself before she hit the ground and lowering herself on buzzing flaming footsteps to the cobblestones of the street. From here she'd be on foot. Flying was too fast, too furious, to find a specific business. She checked her sending stone, just in case, and headed out.

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"I'm an idiot. Sorry." Then the address for the magewright followed, a few levels higher than Lysa had expected. It was, however, a decent walk from Ezi's home, so she walked.

She drew stares from the flesh and blood races of Sharn, stares she hadn't quite gotten used to. She also drew stares, though less pointed, from the warforged. She heard one of them remark to their companion that they didn't understand the concept of clothing with no utilitarian purpose.

Lysa finally made her way to the magewright's shop, which was an open-air forge and workshop that was half-concealed by a pair of drapes. The shop looks like a toymaker's stall, tiny ever-spinning tops, toy soldiers (Brelish ones, naturally) and dolls all around, swept aside to make room for a makeshift infirmary for three warforged.

Rachet was at the very end of the line. He waved with his one good arm. "Greetings, Lysa. My light has not gone out. I still function."

Ezi waved Lysa over. "Sorry. Again. It just slipped my mind. This is an acquaintance of mine, Clarke Symsworth. He's a toymaker most of the time, but…"

At hearing his name, the toymaker hobbled out of the back, a loose warforged arm draped around his shoulders like a very offensive scarf. He was a gnome of middle age, and wore his years well. "But also I was a support magewright in the War. Fixed up my fair share of them, and I suppose that makes me a sympathizer. Not that Ezi knows any of that. Far as he's concerned, all he knows is that I make the best My Little Manticore dolls in all of Sharn, right?"

"Right," replied Ezi. "Anyways, he says Ratchet's lost some vitae, the support lubricant that 'forged use to keep extremities powered. He's short on vitae and it could take a while to get some mixed up, unless he has some help. Or a donor."

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"Of course," Lysa said automatically. "I'll give whatever he needs. Ratchet, what happened? Who did this to you?"

She went over to the gnome and leaned over a bit to offer a hand. "Pleased to meet you. Thank you for taking care of my friend."

Then something occurred to her and she looked over at Ezarion; her eyes gleaming with that disconcerting red light deep inside.

"How did you get involved in all this?"

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Clarke nodded at Lysa’s offer. “Just unscrew your hand at the standard interchangeable manipulator port. If you’ve ever attached an armblade or an integrated crossbow, that’s the port it plugs into. In most models there’s a junction from there to a vitae subline and that’s enough to extract some… hmmm.”

Clarke appraised Lysa, lost in thought. Ratchet broke the silence. “The answer to both questions is the same, Lysa. Ezi was reporting on a protest against integrating warforged into Sharn society.”

“There’s a lot, and I mean a lot, or resentment against them ‘taking jobs from normal people.’ Their words, not mine.” Ezi shook his head. “People are not reacting well to the declaration at Thronehold.”

“Ezi stated that counter-protests were protected expressions under the laws of the city of Sharn. So myself and several other units – apologies, several other members of my people staged a counter-protest. Violence broke out. One of them had a Cannith ZX-22 ‘Vindicator’ Force Missile wand.”

“I didn’t think it would get this bad,” said Ezi, with regret in his voice.

“It was an anticipated outcome,” replied Ratchet.

“You’re a non-standard design,” pipped up Clarke. “Which production series were you? I thought I’d seen them all, but this one is news to me.”

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Lysa looked at her hand and started checking to see if it did indeed unscrew. After a moment she found it more folded sideways and tucked back along her arm, revealing the integration port without forcing its removal.

Ugh. Seeing her body distort that way...it didn't hurt, but it sent shivers down her spine as her mind expected it to feel the way it would have felt before.

Far worse though was how she felt on hearing what was happening.

She nodded at Clark and presented her modified arm to him. "As far as I know, I am unique. A prototype for a series that never went into production, maybe."

"The one that fired," Lysa said grimly, looking back at Ratchet and Ezi. "Has he been taken by the guard? Was anyone else hurt?"

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"A few, though they were patchkit injuries." Clarke delicately maneuvered the shunt into position inside of Lysa's arm. "As for the attacker, I'm not sure."

"I can check arrest records, if you'd like. "Ezi looked to Lysa, then to Ratchet. "Could you identify him if you saw him again?"

"Unsure. I express shame at the fact that reading flesh faces is difficult at the best of times for me. It was not considered a serious enough defect at activation and training for myself to be brought under consideration for decommissioning."

"What about the wand? You identified that right away."

"I did. I have seen many discharges from it. I had hoped to have seen my last one." Rachet looked noticeably stronger as the vitae flowed into him.

"Hmm. The ZX-22 was issued only to select forces in Breland's military. I could check those records as well. Which would you prefer I start with, Lysa?"

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  • 2 weeks later...

"Lets start with arrest records," Lysa decided. "Nevermind the face, we'll just look for anyone arrested who's served in the Brelish military. The hard part will be if there's no one like that. Then I guess we'll just have to find witnesses and see who saw it."

She paused and added, "I'm assuming firing a weapon like that in a public area is a crime even if it doesn't hit anyone, and a worse one if it does. I'm afraid I'm not too familiar with the laws around situations like that though."

The warforged looked at her arm again, then said, "Clarke, will you need me here much longer? I don't want to leave before I've helped all I can...but I'd like to help Ezi with this too."

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"Firing military weapons into a crowd is definitely illegal," said Ezi with a nod. "If we push hard enough, we can make assault against a 'forged stick – but I doubt the police will care enough to do a search, so we'll have to go it on our own."

Clarke shrugged a little at Lysa's question. "You can depart if you wish, but probably best to top off your friend here with a couple more drams of vitae, to be sure. Nothing lethal on your end, don't worry, but it will take about twenty minutes."

"Vitae transfers systems are inefficient," said Ratchet in his familiar odd syntax. "Snap-in external reservoir tanks would be a welcome innovation from House Cannith." He paused. "Which no longer creates us. Hmm."

"Lysa," said Clarke, leaning in to her a little closer. "While we're waiting, I am curious. Not only are you an unusual design of warforged, but you talk quite differently than the shortened military syntax most warforged are taught, that gets expanded out in strange ways – such as with your friend here. If you don't want me prying, I won't. But is there a story there?"

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Lysa's old face would have betrayed a quick reflexive clench of irritation...that she didn't now was a little useful, but still a loss. She'd never be able to communicate quite so effortlessly as she had. Of course, others had it worse. This warforged face was at least built in a way that gave her some ability to form expressions, even if they hadn't become automatic for her yet.

"The process that made me wasn't experimental just for my body," she said, "but for my mind as well. I'm sorry if I seem evasive, but the details of the process that made me are still unclear to me. The Mourning happened very quickly afterwards, and there were no answers past that. So is there a story? Yes, almost certainly. What is the story?"

She sighed, or made a sighing sound at least, "I'm still working on that."

"I'll stay until the transfer is complete, then we can head out."

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“Hmmm. Possibly the last warforged. If I were a believer in the Prophecy I would claim there was meaning there, that you had the capacity for great things… but that would be a lie by insinuation, as if to say that no other warforged could soar so high.”

He tapped the transfer tube to get some latent action going and speed the transfer. “Most don’t want that from the warforged. They want them to labor in the dirt, or be buried underneath it. Most ‘forged themselves are trying to adapt to a world without orders or open warfare, but habits are habits and I fear that with what I hear out of the Mourning, about the warforged made out of all the swords of the fallen or something like that, that old habits may die hard. Warmblooded treating ‘forged like they are things. ‘Forged acting like they are.

“I believe in living by example so I want both of you – you, and your friend Ratchet here – to remember this always. You are not things. I know this is just some rambling toymaker saying this, but this rambling toymaker has seen a lot of warforged through here and has made up his mind that he is not one bit better than any of you. Everyone will tell you otherwise but remember: you are not things.

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Lysa put her hand on the rambling toymaker's shoulder and squeezed...oh so very carefully...to just add a little solidarity.

"I know I'm not a thing," she said, "But it makes a lot of difference to know other people do too. Thank you."

"As for the rest...it will come in time. And with some struggle, I expect. This body can do more things than most warforged, but if there's one 'great thing' I want to do that's mine, and not some feat of magical technology, it's to lead the way in that struggle. I'm not sure exactly how yet, but things like this are a start."


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Clarke nodded in mutual appreciation, and they made small talk while the transfer completed. Ratchet stood, unsteadily, on reconstructed legs, and flexed his new arm. “Functional and working well. Your repairs are appreciated.”

“Think nothing of it. Take care, both of you.”

Ratchet and Lysa spent the next hour making their way to the offices of the Sharn Inquisitve, which looked prestigious from the outside, but only the outside. Inside it was managed chaos, with reporters, researchers and editors running around, frantically scribbling notes, and requesting information from the archives.

They found Ezi at his desk, and when he saw them, he waved them over. “All right. Two things. First, I had a hard time finding an arrest record, because I started with Brelish veterans. I broadened it out, however, and – Ratchet, this man fits the description, yes?” Ezi held up an iconograph.


“All right. He’s not a veteran. That’s not even the odd thing. I haven’t had time to dig into the archives but something caught my eye, so I skimmed the crime section for the past few months. There was another incident with a Brelish-issued fire wand, also against a warforged, with no arrest even made - and when it happened our man wasn’t even living in Sharn.”

“Marking two incidents in Sharn of attacks against warforged using military weapons.”

Ezi nodded, grimly. “That we know of.” He gestured to the piles of paper on his desk. “There’s a lot more paper to go.”

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"Hm," Lysa mused. "Maybe we're going about this the wrong way. Instead of going after the people holding the weapons, lets see if we can find out who's supplying them. You said they're Brelish-issue. How many places in Sharn can someone get that sort of gear at, do you think? Is it even legal to acquire, or would this be more of a black market operation?"

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“On this scale, it would have to be black market. It’s legal to bear arms in Sharn, but there’s a sword and then there’s specialized wartime killing artifice. Lysa: you and Ratchet don’t need to sleep and you know more about artifice than I do. Will you help me research this? If there is a common source, we’d want it to be shut down, for the sake of all warforged.”

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"Right now I just need help going through all of this searching for anything that could lead to what we're looking for, so we can narrow it down further from there."

Assuming that Lysa is game, I'll need an Investigation roll. Higher means more information is revealed.

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Lysa nods at that and finds a spot to stand where she can have easy access to the various papers and documents that he was sifting through.

"Sounds good!"

[SalmonMax] 4:10 pm: Can't stay long...TONS to do...but I must roll a dice.
SalmonMax *rolls* 1d20: 7+10: 17


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The research was tedious, but Lysa was good at applying herself and with the other two, the work went well.

It still took some time, and it wasn’t until nightfall that the three of them had isolated a pattern; of the six incidents that could be linked to the pattern they’d uncovered, there were four “he was such a quiet man” blurb-like interviews from frequenters of the Rusty Wheel, a bar frequented by workers down in the Cogs, where the lower classes of Sharn resided.

Said bar used to be a popular meeting spot for the various adventuring groups that traded services during the Last War, so it had a reputation for shady characters pulling shady deals. Ezi felt it was the best place to start. Ratchet was curious what the purpose of a bar was, but deferred to Ezi and Lysa’s expertise on human recharge rituals.

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"it seems like someone like me might be a bit...conspicuous in a place like that," Lysa pointed out to Ezi. "What's our best approach to this? I have literally no idea how these kinds of things work."

"I could wait just outside, ready to come in if you need help...but I'm still worried someone might be able to shut you up too fast to shout if they take you by surprise."

"What do you think?"

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“It’s a risk I’m willing to take. It’s your people – I mean, warforged – that are on the line here. I’ll pull out, where do I have it…”

Ezi rummaged through his desk, searching for something, tossing out scraps of parchment and paper and a My Little Manticore doll before pulling out a small stick. “Aha, there it is. Break it and it makes a loud noise. You hear it, that means I need help. And yes, I think waiting outside may be a better idea if they’re as hostile towards warforged as we think they are.”

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Lysa nodded.

"All right. I'll wait on a nearby roof and listen for that sound. If I hear it, I will come in, grab you, and haul you out. So don't trigger it unless that's what you want to happen."

Her metal lips moved along their tiny joints into a smile-like expression.

"Thanks for helping me with this. Want a lift there?"

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“Sure! I’ll absolutely take a lift there.”

The ride was uneventful, although by the time they’d landed, Ezi had to deliberately force his hands to unlock from a death-grip like claw formed from hanging on out of anxiety. “I know, I know. You’ve never dropped someone. Still.”

He straightened up, and after checking to see if the stick was still in place, he headed in to the Rusty Wheel.

Lysa stayed perched outside the bar for the time it took, staying out of sight on the roof. No longer needing sleep had given her a great deal of practice with what to do to keep her mind occupied, but still, she found herself growing impatient. The Cogs were a far cry from her study. Everything about it seemed to make the soul ache.

Amazingly, however, Ezi walked out without incident, though he also seemed a little lighter on his feet. After disappearing down an alleyway a few stops down the street, he relayed the good news.

“So it only took three shots of something called ‘bubble water’ to get them to loosen up enough, and they’re going to set up a preliminary meet. How do you want to handle it? Take them on at the meet, which is going down in a few hours, or you can follow them back from the rooftops and the air and see where they’re based? I’d make my own mind up but I’m a little drunk. Actually I’m a five foot ten drunk, ha.”

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Lysa considered, then said, "Lets keep you out of it from now on. I'll go to where they're meeting you. You can head back home. After they know you're not coming I expect they'll head off...and I can follow them from the air. If it looks like they're not going back to wherever they're organizing from, I can land and have a chat with them."

She sighed...the noise had nothing to do with air, but it still felt right to make it. "I don't really want to get in a fight. That's just going to make them seem like they're right. When I find out where they are, then what do you suggest? Notify the guard? Or...I suppose it would be better if I got in and made sure what they're up to is illegal before that."

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Ezi frowned. "You'd need proof. The guards are difficult to persuade. They will take the side of someone with blood in their veins than someone with vitae. So yes. Make sure what they're doing actually is illegal first. And I won't say that I'm relieved to be avoiding the weapons-pointed-at-me part, but... yeah."

Ezi departed. Lysa flew to where the meet was scheduled, and waited. After a few hours, they did indeed show - four men and women, one of them carrying a suitcase that was probably not storing a bardic lute. They waited, then decided that the buyer was a no-show, and left.

Tailing them was easy - no one every had a reason to look up in the sky, this deep in Sharn. So she stayed out of sight, following a block or two behind, as they returned to what looked to be an abandoned flophouse. The sign over the door indicated that it was a charity for veterans - a defunct one, from the looks of it.

The four men and women knocked on the door, one of them giving a secret password. To get in close enough to hear, Lysa would have to risk being seen.

If you want to get close enough to overhear, give me a Stealth roll. Otherwise, it's up to you how to proceed.

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Perched on high on a ledge, Lysa realized she couldn't hear them well enough to hear the password. Damn! That could be very useful information though...it was worth a little risk to try to get.

She dropped off the ledge, leaving her wings folded to freefall for a few seconds, then opened them and swooped to a lower vantage point.

Unfortunately she didn't notice that the lower vantage had a metal sheath...a sort of structural reinforcement of some kind. Metal hit metal then, with a memorable CLANG.

Lysa closed her luminous red eyes in consternation. Having a hide of metal had its perks, but it could be pretty inconvenient sometimes too.

(OOC - SalmonMax *rolls* 1d20: 3+3: 6
[SalmonMax] 10:05 am: Hahaha...and it turns out warforged are not stealthy.    )

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As one, the four of them turned to look at Lysa. They stared for a long moment. Then one of them shouted, "it's a clanker! I - if it sees - just shoot it!"

The one holding the case fumbled with the clasps to get at whatever was inside. The other three drew a sword, and two crossbows, respectively. One of them fired, and the bolt spent itself upon Lysa's body without even a scratch.

It'll take a turn or two for them to ready the one weapon they have that has a hope in hell of penetrating Impervious 6 Toughness. You've got your choice of options - lethal force, knocking them out, talking to them.

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"Agh!" Lysa instinctively shielded her face with her forearm, though it wouldn't have mattered. "Would you stop that?!"

She didn't like the look of the case...at the very least she'd like them not to have another crossbow to shoot at her...but given the nature of what she'd come here to investigate it seemed very possible they had one of the weapons. So she started advancing on the one who had that case.

"Look, I'm not here for a fight. I'm here to STOP fights, if that makes any sense. If you'd stop shooting and LISTEN for a second, maybe we could actually get somewhere!"

One hand stretched out to take hold of the case, the other still cupped around her eyes to block incoming bolts, she went to disarm the case and try to end this before it escalated.

(OOC - Once she gets to melee range, she'll make a Disarm attempt on the case. Lysa has the Improved Disarm advantage to assist in this action.)

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Arms dealer Strength resistance check: 1D20+3 = [4]+3 = 7

That is an automatic fail against a +10, so the adversary is disarmed.

Lysa plucked the case from her attacker’s fumbling fingers. It tumbled open, and she caught the weapon as it fell out – and it was, indeed, a military grade ZX-42 Vindicator Force Missile Wand, though a more accurate description would be a force missile staff. Lysa didn’t know if this could put a dent in her, but she also wasn’t eager to find out.

The one Lysa disarmed shouted, “there’s a clanker here! We’re spotted!” As another struck Lysa harmlessly with her sword, Lysa could hear movement from inside the abandoned flophouse…

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Lysa realized with growing dismay that she wasn't sure what to do. She could leave now, with the weapon...she'd certainly witnessed enough to be certain they were up to no good. But was it good enough for the guard? It might be. But she also had a feeling if she left now, by the time the guards showed up they'd find an empty building.

But if she kept pressing forward, was she stirring the hornet's nest even more? Making more hate?

They're trying to murder warforged on the street as they walk along. How can they hate MORE?

Lysa grabbed the missile staff but didn't wield it...she simply wanted to keep it out of their hands. "Excuse me," she said numbly...feeling foolish. "I'm not done here yet." It was more for herself than them.

She strode towards the flophouse doors, yanking them open as she got there so she could get inside and see what was going on before they could finish.

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The doors ripped off the hinges. The man stationed at the door took two hesitant steps back, and Lysa looked around.

There were a dozen men and women at workbenches, or at a card table playing Three Dragon Ante. There were crates, and a few racks of carefully maintained weapons, and more, there were dragonshards - mystically charged ones, from the looks of them. Lysa saw them, and put it together - the shards were being used to power the weapons so that people could use them without mystical training.

Then something hit her shin, and she looked down, at a warforged's head. It was long dead, with no life in its eyes, and the scuff marks and the worn feeling it had stirred something inside of her. She traced the path of its trajectory to a pair of men in the open space, both of which were staring at her, and she understood, from their shoes, why it had hit her in the shin.

They'd been using the head as a kickball.

Then she locked eyes with a human in the back that she knew, instinctively, to be the ringleader, because his one good eye simmered with hate upon seeing her.

"Keep that thing busy!" he shouted. He disappeared through a door in the back, while everyone present either drew those swords she knew would be ineffectual, or - in two cases - readied dragonshard weapons that may or may not have been loaded...

However, Lysa has the drop on them. She has a surprise action she can undertake.

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Oh no you don't!

There was no time to try to deal with the crowd...especially since she didn't really want to cause injury to them. Not so much out of personal consideration, but rather awareness that bursting in and rampaging around would probably make some folk wonder if these weren't onto something.

But Lysa had no intention of just letting someone crucial slip away either.

White light lanced from her heels as she triggered her propulsion magic, but without opening her wings...launching her in a kind of powered leap over the heads of the tight ranks that had sought to hem her in and letting her land on the far side with a loud crashing noise that cracked floorboards and reverberated like a drumhead.

Without looking back she pelted for the door that man had run through...heedless of the possibility of magical attack.

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Lysa rounded a corner, and caught sight of the man just as he made it down a hatch. Another leap bore her forward, and then –

Then there was an explosion of dust, splinters and sawdust. None of it hurt her, but it blinded her for a moment, and when it cleared, she looked up at the ten foot tall figure in front of her.

In the center of it was the one-eyed man, and he was encased in some kind of giant armor – warplate, it was nicknamed, a kind of armored suit that was notoriously expensive to produce and therefore not widely used in the war. In private service, it was a different story.

Behind reinforced crystal, the man locked eyes to eye with her.

“A new clanker model. They never stopped figuring out different ways to put your kind together, did they?

Twin dragonshard-powered force staves, mounted on each arm, locked into position, humming to life.

“I never ran out of ways to tear you apart, either.”

Initiative check!

Exosuit Initiative: 1D20+4 = [11]+4 = 15

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Lysa drew up short, taken aback.

"I...okay," she stammered. "I was not expecting that. That...is unexpected."

There was a weapon built into her body, a magical focusing of intense light that she called the 'star cannon.' Partly because it was, you know, light. And partly because it kind of looked like that when it fired.

Her metal 'wings' snapped out again, and rivers of blue light began snaking up the vanes, tracing intricate and strange patterns as they went. The light changed colors towards the ends as well...shading from blue to yellow and finally to a bright white at the very tip of each one. Those tips then flared brightly, and spears of intense radiance shot out, meeting at a point a few feet ahead of Lysa, then seemed to add to one another to create a single thick beam that carved a seared path across the wall as it tracked towards the warsuit!



[SalmonMax] 1:15 pm: Also, for Justice League! Some dice!
SalmonMax *rolls* 1d20: 8+3: 11
[SalmonMax] 1:15 pm: So the space marine gets to go first...

Starcannon attack!

[SalmonMax] 1:24 pm: Okay, and now attack
SalmonMax *rolls* 1d20: 5+7: 12
[SalmonMax] 1:24 pm: Hoo, that's a bad roll.
[SalmonMax] 1:24 pm: And I don't have a hero point to reroll it...
[SalmonMax] 1:24 pm: So...there we go. Hee.)

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Troy Attack (Ranged) (DC23 Toughness): 1D20+8 = [6]+8 = 14

The attack misses! So does Steel Falcon's attack.

Force missiles and the Starcannon exchanged blasts, and the man in the exosuit looked as surprised as Lysa did.

"Mister Troy! Sir! People will hear - "

"Start packing up. I'll deal with this overwound toy."

As the others in the flophouse ran around, Troy eschewed ranged weaponry and closed to melee range.

Troy Melee Attack (DC 23 Toughness): 1D20+8 = [13]+8 = 21

That exceeds Lysa's Parry score of 19, so she has to make a Toughness save.

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Lysa is struck squarely by the immense mechanical fist! The force of the blow makes a titanic CLAANG that wobbles the looser wood paneling of the old building, and she is knocked back into a support beam that cracks with the impact, barely managing to stop her from continuing on through. But as she pulls herself free of the heavy wooden column, her armor is not so much as dented from the attack. She waggles her shoulders to clear off the splinters and shakes her head.

"All right then...I...I really wish I was better at coming up with snappy things to say at times like this."

And then the soles of her feet lit up with crackling light, similar to that which surrounded the lifting plates of a lightning rail car. She launched herself at the warsuit, leading with one adamantine fist!



[SalmonMax] 5:24 pm: Now, let us see how Lysa is faring in the Justice League...

[SalmonMax] 5:24 pm: DC 23 toughness save first! A punishing blow.
SalmonMax *rolls* 1d20: 20+10: 30
[SalmonMax] 5:24 pm: HAH!
[SalmonMax] 5:25 pm: Tis but a scratch!
[SalmonMax] 5:25 pm: Now to reply in kind.
SalmonMax *rolls* 1d20: 1+10: 11
[SalmonMax] 5:25 pm: lol
[SalmonMax] 5:25 pm: Lysa is not having the best of days.
[SalmonMax] 5:25 pm: I think I will hero point that, because goddamn.
SalmonMax *rolls* 1d20: 8+10: 18
[SalmonMax] 5:25 pm: ...better.

Note - I believe with hero points (and this is using the 1 point that I believe all characters start with? If that's in error, than the 1 stands), the minimum result of the reroll is considered to be 10? I will have to look that up. Anyway, if that hits the Toughness DC is 25.


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Troy Exosuit Toughness Save (DC23): 1D20+8 = [2]+8 = 10

Failed by 15, so: Lysa hits Troy SUPER hard. He is staggered (dazed and hindered, meaning he moves at half speed and can only take standard actions until recovered) at -1 to Toughness saves, and if he gets hit that hard again he's out!

"Imagine that. A clanker incapable of an original thought - "

Troy's eye widened as Lysa flew in, her feet trailing sparks, and the impact of her fist sent him through a wall. A huge dent appeared in his armor, and his crystal protective screen was cracked. He shook stars out of his head, pounding on his controls.

"Work, dammit, WORK, you've killed a dozen of those things, what is so special about this one - "

He managed to wrangle his force missile staves into position, and opened fire.

Troy Attack (Ranged) (DC23 Toughness): 1D20+8 = [14]+8 = 22

That is a hit!

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Emboldened by her success, Lysa underestimated the power of a force staff in close quarters. The burst of missiles released impacted in rapid sequence...and while the physical attack of his fist had failed to damage her, the magical attack of the staff was able to pierce her defenses. She yelped in pain; a sensation she'd become unaccustomed to, and twisted sideways as bolts of force nearly knocked her over!

The sudden realization that this was real...that this person was trying to kill her and might actually be able to do it kindled a sudden terror in her, and she grabbed the frame of the exosuit and started beating her other fist against it, not thinking, just trying to make it STOP!

Damage save first...I must remember to mention what I'm rolling for next time.


SalmonMax *rolls* 1d20: 5+10: 15
[Noir] 6:53 pm: wb
[SalmonMax] 6:53 pm: Doh!
[SalmonMax] 6:53 pm: So...that means I need to dig up the rules...lol
[Lobby]: Sailor OOC has entered at 6:54 pm
[SalmonMax] 6:55 pm: Heya
[Nina] 6:55 pm: hi max
[SalmonMax] 6:57 pm: Okay, kiss the dice. I roll!
SalmonMax *rolls* 1d20: 10+10: 20
[SalmonMax] 6:57 pm: ...that'll do.

Last one was her melee attack roll. Damage save DC is 25. Lysa is currently dazed from failing the toughness save by 7 (more than 5, less than 10). Future toughness saves are at -1 until she's had a chance to patch herself up.

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