Medallions d20 Modern (Update Wednesday 09-20-06)
ledded
Herder of monkies
Here, here.
We were just getting to the part where Joe starts doing scary things, and Willie gets some voodoo and a 10 gauge shotgun ("Why does my shotgun have bad-mutha-***** engraved on the side? ALL my guns have bad-mutha-**** engraved on the side, man... that's so you knows who they all belong to").
So OldDrewId, I know you have that cool new job with all the free time, couldja take a break from wheelbarrow-ing all that extra cash home every day to cut us poor schlubs an update? C'mon, I *know* you want to.
Tell you what. You update yours, and then *I'll* even update mine (if it's still on these boards somewhere), and make sure that Frogbot does something really cool. Not that he'd need any help from me, mind you.
We were just getting to the part where Joe starts doing scary things, and Willie gets some voodoo and a 10 gauge shotgun ("Why does my shotgun have bad-mutha-***** engraved on the side? ALL my guns have bad-mutha-**** engraved on the side, man... that's so you knows who they all belong to").
So OldDrewId, I know you have that cool new job with all the free time, couldja take a break from wheelbarrow-ing all that extra cash home every day to cut us poor schlubs an update? C'mon, I *know* you want to.
Tell you what. You update yours, and then *I'll* even update mine (if it's still on these boards somewhere), and make sure that Frogbot does something really cool. Not that he'd need any help from me, mind you.
PallidPatience
First Post
*having recently bumped "We were like gods once", assumes that this piece of awesomeness is suffering from similar real-life problems, but bumps it anyway in the hopes that it will return updating to Drew's attention, should he get some time*
Old Drew Id
First Post
Episode II - Session II: Highway 31 North
Episode II - Session II: Highway 31 North
There was a small Baptist church in Carbon Hill that owned an even smaller AM radio station which Brother Cooper had once visited when he had first gotten started in broadcasting. They only broadcast during daylight hours, and even then the signal was so weak that reception faded in and out sporadically, even in good weather. But Brother Cooper was a long-time listener and a frequent caller, and had long ago built up the habit of dialing in 690 AM as soon as he drove across Red Mountain.
Today was a good day. The signal came in with minimal static, and a fiery old preacher was expounding on the message of Exodus. “See! Evil is clearly before your faces!” the radio quoted, and Brother Cooper nodded to the invisible preacher. Exodus chapter ten, and he was pretty sure it was verse nine or ten. Not the King James Version, but an acceptable translation, probably American Standard.
A suitable sermon for today, Guyzell mused. The unexpected violence of last night still haunted him. He had spent the morning trying to console the families of some of the victims and the fallen police officers, trying to make some sense out of the senseless. But the violence did have a sense to it after all. It was evil, with a capital E, and it was clearly in their faces. And only recently had he begun to see.
His faithful pick-up truck lumbered down Highway 31, and he turned off onto the Fourth Avenue South exit. In the daylight, it just didn’t seem possible that the city could house such evil. The evil wasn’t really in everyone’s face, then. For most people it was really invisible. But Brother Guyzell Cooper was not most people, and he knew that he had to start to see.
The radio preacher went on, outlining other types of evil in the world, describing what men could see or what they would choose not to see. Then he went on to the next verse. “Go now, you that are men, and serve the Lord.” Guyzell nodded again, and offered a solemn “Amen” in response. Not that only men were called to serve, he thought. Crystal had done well enough for herself to show that she was cut out for this sort of thing, but he couldn’t say the same for Taylor Chu.
It wasn’t about being a man, though, not really. At least, that wasn’t the message that Guyzell thought the Lord was trying to impart. The message he heard was about being a warrior. Being strong enough to serve the Lord.
He glanced over at the silenced walkie-talkie on his front seat, and beyond it to the cowboy hat covering his Colt revolver, resting just beside his beloved Bible. The tools of a warrior, he thought, the tools of a servant of the Lord.
A fat horsefly splattered on his windshield as he turned onto Second Avenue, and Guyzell absently flicked the windshield wiper switch to clear off the mess. The radio preached on.
“And when it was morning, the east wind brought the locusts…”
. . .
Joe-Grottu received reports of new motion from flying scouts on the edges of the hive. The nest of the soft-beasts to the north had a sudden opening, and the opening spit out two soft-beast warriors with abdomens of blue.
The hive had gathered strength now, and was prepared to act. From the smoking metal nest, Joe-Grottu issued the command to swarm.
The hive swarmed.
. . .
Willie wanted to check the shotgun to confirm that it held a non-lethal load, but with the punks still surrounding him and swinging every makeshift weapon imaginable, he couldn’t risk the distraction. He swung the gun like a club in front of him, connecting with the chain-wielding punk’s jaw and sending him reeling backwards. Willie closed the gap by staggering forward a few steps, drawing closer to Taylor.
The Scotsman was conscious again, on his hands and knees staring at the ground, blood dripping slowly from a gash on the back of his head. His gun was on the ground beside his hand, but he seemed unaware of its presence. Flies swarmed around his head wound like a scene from a Sally Struthers commercial. Willie called out to him, “Taylor, get up! Get your gun!”
One of the punks on the other side of Taylor saw the gun and immediately bent down to pick it up. Willie couldn’t get a shot off at this angle without risking hitting Taylor. Willie yelled for him to look out, but Crystal was twice as fast.
As the punk reached down for the gun, Crystal gunned the engine on her Harley and rode right over him. The kid was thrown to the side, without the gun, and with a broken wrist thrown into the bargain. Crystal wheeled around again and pulled up next to Willie, as Taylor picked up the gun and weaved over to them.
Willie nodded grimly. The situation was looking better. There were still a half-dozen of these kids here, armed for a serious beating, but with Crystal and Taylor watching his back, the three of them could form a line and maybe hold their own.
Then the door to the warehouse opened and the cops came out.
In unison with Crystal and Taylor, Willie groaned, “Oh s*&#…”
What happened next seemed like a nightmare come to life. The first cop started to reach for his gun, but his hand never closed around the weapon.
The first wave of swarming insects swept over him, mostly wasps and bees. They didn’t just circle around his head and arms. They were focused, flying straight for his eyes, his fingers, and the palms of his hands. He tried to shut his eyes but his eyelids were too thin to keep out the stingers. He hand crunched down on the hilt of his service revolver, but closed only onto more poisonous barbs, crushing the insects who had filled his grip, but only driving the stingers deeper into his flesh.
If the cop had been in a trance like the punks before, he sure as hell broke out of it now, because he let out a howl of fear and pain like Willie had never heard. But things only got worse, because that’s when the second wave hit him, filling his now-open mouth with flying cockroaches and dragonflies and stuffing his nostrils and ears with gnats and flies. His sudden scream turned into a choking rasp as he collapsed to the ground.
In unison with Crystal and Taylor, Willie yelped, “OH S*&#!!”
. . .
The punks were undeterred by the horrific display, and threw themselves even more savagely into the fight. Through it all they maintained calm almost-bored expressions on their faces. But they were attacking wildly now, leaving themselves more open to counter-strikes in an effort to deal as much damage as possible.
A punk with a Louisville Slugger lunged forward with a wide overhead swing at Crystal, and she blocked him with the barrel of her shotgun raised up in both hands. The impact jarred her so hard that her teeth rattled.
She was still straddling the bike, and wasn’t sure whether or not to dismount. If she stayed on the bike, she could always use it to escape, but while she was sitting still, it served only to limit her movements. She didn’t want to waste her time mounting and dismounting the thing repeatedly in combat, so she just did her best to keep up her defenses.
The punk tried a roundhouse swing, and Crystal lay back on the bike to let the swing pass over her. Taylor circled around behind the kid and kicked him hard in the kidneys. The kid staggered forward onto his knees. Taylor started to swing again at the kid with the butt of his gun, but hesitated doing that much damage, and instead backhanding the punk across the jaw, sending him sprawling to the ground unmoving.
Crystal had only a half-second to breath before the next kid was on her, this time from the other side. The punk made a grab for her throat, and she countered with by spearing him in the solar plexus with the butt of her gun. He collapsed inward like an old pillow, and she decked him again with the gun just under his chin.
To Crystal’s right, Willie was in trouble. One kid had come in behind him and tried to garrote him with a length of bicycle chain. Another was in front of him, dodging Willie’s flailing legs and trying to grab for his gun. Crystal could see that Willie could have pulled the trigger, but he obviously didn’t want to kill anybody any more than she did, so he kept struggling and kicking.
Beyond Willie, Crystal spied another punk creeping forward with a knife. But rather than coming after the nearly overpowered black man, the kid was instead climbing into the passenger seat of Willie’s car, right next to Joe.
. . .
Joe-Grottu measured the swarm’s differing effectiveness with the two blue-bellied soft-beasts. The first seemed to be well contained and would soon be suitable for foraging. The second still struggled and was causing the destruction of numerous scouts.
Scouts reported a new threat, immediately apparent near the smoking metal nest and far too close to the hive king. The bulk of the swarm was too far away, too slow, and would be ineffective in eliminating the intruder.
Joe-Grottu reviewed all available defensive measures in the nest. The soft-beast egg sac of the king had no pincers and no poison, and the mandibles were ill suited for crushing the intruder. The soft-beast egg sac had one weapon, a soft-beast stinger. The soft-beast egg sac lifted the stinger.
. . .
The punk had crept halfway into the car with Joe and was raising the knife when Joe shot him dead in the face. His brains splattered across the road, and his body tumbled backwards out of the car and lay on the ground at a contortionist’s angle. Crystal screamed, “JOE!!! NO!!!” but already knew that it was too late.
Willie wheeled around at the sound of the gun blast and shoved the kid behind him into a parked car. When he saw the body on the road he joined the outcry, “Joe! What the hell are you doing?!”
Joe lifted his eyes to survey the situation. He hadn’t even been looking at the kid when he shot him. He had a dazed thousand-yard stare that seemed to slowly fade into focus. He shook his head once and looked over at the kid’s body.
With a sudden gagging cough, he turned back to the steering wheel and started the engine up again.
At that precise moment, a pick-up truck appeared from around the corner, and Guyzell pulled up.
Episode II - Session II: Highway 31 North
There was a small Baptist church in Carbon Hill that owned an even smaller AM radio station which Brother Cooper had once visited when he had first gotten started in broadcasting. They only broadcast during daylight hours, and even then the signal was so weak that reception faded in and out sporadically, even in good weather. But Brother Cooper was a long-time listener and a frequent caller, and had long ago built up the habit of dialing in 690 AM as soon as he drove across Red Mountain.
Today was a good day. The signal came in with minimal static, and a fiery old preacher was expounding on the message of Exodus. “See! Evil is clearly before your faces!” the radio quoted, and Brother Cooper nodded to the invisible preacher. Exodus chapter ten, and he was pretty sure it was verse nine or ten. Not the King James Version, but an acceptable translation, probably American Standard.
A suitable sermon for today, Guyzell mused. The unexpected violence of last night still haunted him. He had spent the morning trying to console the families of some of the victims and the fallen police officers, trying to make some sense out of the senseless. But the violence did have a sense to it after all. It was evil, with a capital E, and it was clearly in their faces. And only recently had he begun to see.
His faithful pick-up truck lumbered down Highway 31, and he turned off onto the Fourth Avenue South exit. In the daylight, it just didn’t seem possible that the city could house such evil. The evil wasn’t really in everyone’s face, then. For most people it was really invisible. But Brother Guyzell Cooper was not most people, and he knew that he had to start to see.
The radio preacher went on, outlining other types of evil in the world, describing what men could see or what they would choose not to see. Then he went on to the next verse. “Go now, you that are men, and serve the Lord.” Guyzell nodded again, and offered a solemn “Amen” in response. Not that only men were called to serve, he thought. Crystal had done well enough for herself to show that she was cut out for this sort of thing, but he couldn’t say the same for Taylor Chu.
It wasn’t about being a man, though, not really. At least, that wasn’t the message that Guyzell thought the Lord was trying to impart. The message he heard was about being a warrior. Being strong enough to serve the Lord.
He glanced over at the silenced walkie-talkie on his front seat, and beyond it to the cowboy hat covering his Colt revolver, resting just beside his beloved Bible. The tools of a warrior, he thought, the tools of a servant of the Lord.
A fat horsefly splattered on his windshield as he turned onto Second Avenue, and Guyzell absently flicked the windshield wiper switch to clear off the mess. The radio preached on.
“And when it was morning, the east wind brought the locusts…”
. . .
Joe-Grottu received reports of new motion from flying scouts on the edges of the hive. The nest of the soft-beasts to the north had a sudden opening, and the opening spit out two soft-beast warriors with abdomens of blue.
The hive had gathered strength now, and was prepared to act. From the smoking metal nest, Joe-Grottu issued the command to swarm.
The hive swarmed.
. . .
Willie wanted to check the shotgun to confirm that it held a non-lethal load, but with the punks still surrounding him and swinging every makeshift weapon imaginable, he couldn’t risk the distraction. He swung the gun like a club in front of him, connecting with the chain-wielding punk’s jaw and sending him reeling backwards. Willie closed the gap by staggering forward a few steps, drawing closer to Taylor.
The Scotsman was conscious again, on his hands and knees staring at the ground, blood dripping slowly from a gash on the back of his head. His gun was on the ground beside his hand, but he seemed unaware of its presence. Flies swarmed around his head wound like a scene from a Sally Struthers commercial. Willie called out to him, “Taylor, get up! Get your gun!”
One of the punks on the other side of Taylor saw the gun and immediately bent down to pick it up. Willie couldn’t get a shot off at this angle without risking hitting Taylor. Willie yelled for him to look out, but Crystal was twice as fast.
As the punk reached down for the gun, Crystal gunned the engine on her Harley and rode right over him. The kid was thrown to the side, without the gun, and with a broken wrist thrown into the bargain. Crystal wheeled around again and pulled up next to Willie, as Taylor picked up the gun and weaved over to them.
Willie nodded grimly. The situation was looking better. There were still a half-dozen of these kids here, armed for a serious beating, but with Crystal and Taylor watching his back, the three of them could form a line and maybe hold their own.
Then the door to the warehouse opened and the cops came out.
In unison with Crystal and Taylor, Willie groaned, “Oh s*&#…”
What happened next seemed like a nightmare come to life. The first cop started to reach for his gun, but his hand never closed around the weapon.
The first wave of swarming insects swept over him, mostly wasps and bees. They didn’t just circle around his head and arms. They were focused, flying straight for his eyes, his fingers, and the palms of his hands. He tried to shut his eyes but his eyelids were too thin to keep out the stingers. He hand crunched down on the hilt of his service revolver, but closed only onto more poisonous barbs, crushing the insects who had filled his grip, but only driving the stingers deeper into his flesh.
If the cop had been in a trance like the punks before, he sure as hell broke out of it now, because he let out a howl of fear and pain like Willie had never heard. But things only got worse, because that’s when the second wave hit him, filling his now-open mouth with flying cockroaches and dragonflies and stuffing his nostrils and ears with gnats and flies. His sudden scream turned into a choking rasp as he collapsed to the ground.
In unison with Crystal and Taylor, Willie yelped, “OH S*&#!!”
. . .
The punks were undeterred by the horrific display, and threw themselves even more savagely into the fight. Through it all they maintained calm almost-bored expressions on their faces. But they were attacking wildly now, leaving themselves more open to counter-strikes in an effort to deal as much damage as possible.
A punk with a Louisville Slugger lunged forward with a wide overhead swing at Crystal, and she blocked him with the barrel of her shotgun raised up in both hands. The impact jarred her so hard that her teeth rattled.
She was still straddling the bike, and wasn’t sure whether or not to dismount. If she stayed on the bike, she could always use it to escape, but while she was sitting still, it served only to limit her movements. She didn’t want to waste her time mounting and dismounting the thing repeatedly in combat, so she just did her best to keep up her defenses.
The punk tried a roundhouse swing, and Crystal lay back on the bike to let the swing pass over her. Taylor circled around behind the kid and kicked him hard in the kidneys. The kid staggered forward onto his knees. Taylor started to swing again at the kid with the butt of his gun, but hesitated doing that much damage, and instead backhanding the punk across the jaw, sending him sprawling to the ground unmoving.
Crystal had only a half-second to breath before the next kid was on her, this time from the other side. The punk made a grab for her throat, and she countered with by spearing him in the solar plexus with the butt of her gun. He collapsed inward like an old pillow, and she decked him again with the gun just under his chin.
To Crystal’s right, Willie was in trouble. One kid had come in behind him and tried to garrote him with a length of bicycle chain. Another was in front of him, dodging Willie’s flailing legs and trying to grab for his gun. Crystal could see that Willie could have pulled the trigger, but he obviously didn’t want to kill anybody any more than she did, so he kept struggling and kicking.
Beyond Willie, Crystal spied another punk creeping forward with a knife. But rather than coming after the nearly overpowered black man, the kid was instead climbing into the passenger seat of Willie’s car, right next to Joe.
. . .
Joe-Grottu measured the swarm’s differing effectiveness with the two blue-bellied soft-beasts. The first seemed to be well contained and would soon be suitable for foraging. The second still struggled and was causing the destruction of numerous scouts.
Scouts reported a new threat, immediately apparent near the smoking metal nest and far too close to the hive king. The bulk of the swarm was too far away, too slow, and would be ineffective in eliminating the intruder.
Joe-Grottu reviewed all available defensive measures in the nest. The soft-beast egg sac of the king had no pincers and no poison, and the mandibles were ill suited for crushing the intruder. The soft-beast egg sac had one weapon, a soft-beast stinger. The soft-beast egg sac lifted the stinger.
. . .
The punk had crept halfway into the car with Joe and was raising the knife when Joe shot him dead in the face. His brains splattered across the road, and his body tumbled backwards out of the car and lay on the ground at a contortionist’s angle. Crystal screamed, “JOE!!! NO!!!” but already knew that it was too late.
Willie wheeled around at the sound of the gun blast and shoved the kid behind him into a parked car. When he saw the body on the road he joined the outcry, “Joe! What the hell are you doing?!”
Joe lifted his eyes to survey the situation. He hadn’t even been looking at the kid when he shot him. He had a dazed thousand-yard stare that seemed to slowly fade into focus. He shook his head once and looked over at the kid’s body.
With a sudden gagging cough, he turned back to the steering wheel and started the engine up again.
At that precise moment, a pick-up truck appeared from around the corner, and Guyzell pulled up.
