Another Role-playing Story, Perhaps?

surprise sounds fine to me, and I like the idea of the Dockers asking for a favour from the player.

Splendid! Once we get Rowan to ready-up, we should be set. For an added bonus, PM me something interesting, particularly concerning the Docks, about your character, and we can throw that in there as another surprise!

Well, I would truly be sad if this couldn’t take off. Granted, we haven’t really planned much, but I think the idea is too good to scrap. Would you two like to continue on, regardless of others? Or should we wait for more participation?

I’m game for it.

naturally, d*mn them if their too boring to take part. I’m assuming that you will take part as well Sherman.[li]
edited by Waylander on 5/29/2013

Well of course! Once I get back to the hotel, I’ll write up the intro!

Whether you had planned it or not, Fate would have it that a zailor would appear before your door this evening. &quotYou done us good 'efore, aven’t ya? We could use someones of your particular… talents.&quot And with that, he departs, leaving you with nothing but a yellowed piece of parchment, and a strange odor. The paper reads &quotThe Sorrowful Zailor&quot. Isn’t that the tavern by Wolfstack Docks? Perhaps you should see what the dockers want.
edited by Sherman Jones on 5/30/2013

((Also, we can use these to talk out-of-story. Something I forgot to mention, I personally don’t mind if you write for my character in more exciting situations. For example, if there was an explosion, saying that you “see Sherman leap for safety” is completely alright in my book. Hopefully we can get this thing rolling!))

“What’s all this, then?” he muses, turning the paper over. The man known only as the Player sits overlooking the bustle of the Bazaar, in a set of lonesome rooms. A Celebrated Artist’s Model should be back any time, now, but the dockers were never ones to dally about. Well, no matter.

He goes rummaging for some spare pages in a stack in his library, half-glimpsing Correspondence signs scribbled all over most of them. For later. Dashing out an apology and quick note to his wife, he folds it up, and dashes downstairs, grabbing his softest spidersilk shoes, a ratskin coat, a set of assorted sundry-odd kifers, and a black mask.

“Here, girl,” he says to Laila, the Winsome Orphan hanging about the back of his shop. “Close up, and if you would, get this letter to my love, and find her some honey from me.” He drops an echo in her hand. The urchin nods and bows, and dashes off into the Bazaar.

It’s enough of a stride off to the Docks, punctuated by a half-dozen murder attempts by slighted Great Gamers, that the Player is sufficiently irritated by the sudden nature of the request. Still, as he slips into The Sorrowful Zailor, he joins into a rouzing zong with some of the zailors there, enough to get him a free drink. Then he promptly doles out rostygold enough to buy a round of drinks for all, and slips back into the corner, musing and mulling.

((OOC: Yeah, I corrected the tavern name. ;) Also, don’t mind people putting my character in dangerous situations, either. Above all else, death is temporary…))

((Thanks for that correction, friend! The alliteration in the previous one must have distracted me.))

&quotCome, Sherman! That little gathering of yours starts soon!&quot. Jones’ catatonic state broken, he acknowledged his Devious Henchmen, Jasper, yelling at him. He put away his research, and began gathering his equipment. Even though the meeting was at the Docks, he refused to dress any less. His finest suit and top hat were chosen, with colors complementing the burnt patches in his mustache. Along with his usual other nic-knacks (radium goggles, magnifying glass, spirifing fork), he strapped an ancient hunting rifle across his back. It was the Docks, after all. With a goodbye to Jasper, Jones set out from his handsome townhouse into the night.

The Sorrowful Zailor. It did look a bit down on it’s luck. Nevertheless, Sherman strode confidentially through the front door. Inside, zailors shared their zee stories, and wasted away their pays. But where was the man who had sent for him? Nowhere in this tavern, at least. Oh, but what was this? In the corner, a rather sinister looking man sat. He looked like he could be interesting, to say the least. Grabbing a rather unclean mug of… something off of the bar, Sherman sat down across from the Player. &quotThe name is Sherman Jones. You haven’t happened to see a rather unpleasant smelling docker around here, have you? More odorous than most, mind you.&quot
edited by Sherman Jones on 5/30/2013

Waylander stared at the wall for longer than usual. Sometimes the dancing images he saw there gave him an inkling as to what to expect on his tasks, today the only image it produced was that of a dilapidated rotting wall paper. Perhaps it was because he was too concentrated on his current mission. Waylander hadn’t felt nerves like this since he had a soul. The task itself was simple enough, &quottrack two individuals as they met at the Sorrowful Zailor and follow them until their purpose becomes apparent.&quot Such an ambiguous mission was not unheard of, but it was the notoriety of his targets that worried him, both accomplished, both singular foes indeed.

He left through the window of his flit apartment and stalked the rooftops of Fallen London until he reached the salty scent of the docks. It would be too obvious to hide in the shadows around the pub. besides these two would be unlikely to fall for that, instead Waylander stabbed an unfortunate passing dock worker and took his uniform. A more subtle approach would be necessary this time.[li]
edited by Waylander on 5/30/2013[/li][li]
edited by Waylander on 5/30/2013

“Particular scents?” the Player asked in return. “A pair near the door smelling of pitch and Prisoner’s Honey, a wee cabin-girl smelling slightly of Starveling Cat, one in the corner with Oriental perfume over beeswax and the scent of decaying rat-tail, and there’s a poor soul doused in laudanum, slumped over at that table, with a touch of rose.”

He leaned forward, steepling index fingers together. This man didn’t belong here. “You’ve been summoned, haven’t you?”

(( I apologize for any glaring mistakes or formatting errors. The wi-fi at the hotel is dreadful, so I’m having to write from my phone.))

Sherman stared back at the man across from him, his face expressionless. However, within a few moment, a wide grin split his face. “Hah! You have a quick mind, it seems! Yes, I have been summoned by a certain Docker. Do you know an-” Sherman was cut off by a heavy THUD on the table.

A one-eyed docker stood before them, grimacing. “Ello, ‘ow are ya, and other such fings. Look, we ‘ont exactly ‘ave a lot ‘o time. I called both o’ you here to ‘elp with a problem the good people o’ the docks ‘ave been ‘aving. You two know about sorrow-spiders? Right, well someone as been usin’ ‘em. It started wif the normal eye-stealin’, and we ain’t suspectin’ a fing. Then the spiders were targetin’ whole folks, coverin’ entire houses in web n’ such, and even stealin’ things like regular thieves! They ain’t content wif eyes no more, and we fink a person be behind it. We ‘old the Constables, and even appealed to tha Masters, but nofin’. Somefing needs to be done. So, we good people of the Docks would like ta hire your services. We 'ave a fund collected already. We just need you’uns to find this bloke and bring 'em to justice.” With that, the Docker tossed down two rather hefty sacks of glim titled “Down Payment”, gave Sherman and the Player a sharp nod, and limped away.

“Well,” Sherman said to the Player, “What are we waiting on? Let’s find this miscreant!”

((sorry this took me so long!))

The laudanum soaked man raised his head from the bar as the pair made their way. so that was it then, sorrow-spiders had never played an important role in the game of Waylanders life, not that it mattered when a chase was involved. He had always fancied that in his past life he might have been an actor as the art of disguise cam so naturally to him. He swayed towards the door retching as he went and passed by Sherman.
“yer didn’t see were me mate went of to ave yer laddie? big stinky Docker, cant miss him.”
There would be no point to the hunt if his disguise couldn’t mask his menace, besides their reaction would be a good measure of character.

((No worries! I was just hoping to keep activity to at least a post a day so no one loses interest.))

Sherman glanced at the wretch speaking to him. God, the smell was awful. He seriously doubted a man like this had business with anyone but the owner of the gutter he slept in. Nevertheless, Sherman put on a smile and turned to fully face the tramp. In the back of his mind, something pestered at him. A sense of uneasiness, maybe. Jones quickly dismissed it. It was the Docks, after all, home of all of the worst rif-raf in London. It would be foolish not to be uneasy.

“Well, my friend, that is an intriguing question. I don’t feel I’m at liberty to simply reveal such pertinent information on a whim. Unless you can convince me or my purse thoroughly enough, that is.”

As he spoke, Sherman procured his Spirifing fork from one of his pockets, and idly picked his nails with it. The man before him had the look of one of the soulless, and Jones was morbidly interested in seeing his reaction to the fork. At the very least, he could extort the man for the little he was worth.

Most interesting. The Player observed closely, and sat back to see what was to transpire next. He further mused over the details that had been made available. Sorrow-spiders. My, but it has been a long time since the business with the Council. He covertly took his bag of glim, stashing it inside of his jacket, on a hook he commonly used for many such stashes. Best to get it out of view of would-be pinchers.

Ah. So that’s how it going to be. Waylander had long ago learnt to ignore threats, it was promises that worried him now.

&quotYou must be having laugh. Il find im me self, D*mn toffs, us lot don’t get no respect…&quot

That fork would have to go. extracting it wont be easy, but nothing ever seems to be. Waylander barged past Sherman and exited into the damp darkness of the Docks.
A small urchin was hiding outside the pub expertly in the shadows. &quotYou. Over here, now.&quot The boy took a moment to react not sure if the man was addressing him as he wasn’t looking in his direction. He then turned to look directly at him, pointing at the floor. The urchin braced him self for an escape, sure he could outrun this stinking dock worker.
In an instant Waylander had picked up the boy by his collar and firmly shoved something into his hands.

&quotI don’t have the patience to deal with you boy. I assume you know what a fork is, well a man in there has a very special one. I need you to get it and when you do bring it back to me, consider this a down payment, and trust me theres more where that came from.&quot He then released the boy along with the handful of amber and was gone.[li]
edited by Waylander on 6/6/2013

Sherman spared the tramp one last look as he left, and then turned to face the Player. &quotI suppose we should set out then, eh? Any ideas of where we should start this search? I imagine the people around here may know something, but these aren’t the most… talkative folks. Checking some of those houses that were overrun could be a good idea too. Ah, I’ll let you lead the way!&quot As Jones spoke, small trickles of blood seeped out of his eyes. Feeling this, he quickly took a flask of something that smelled suspiciously of absinthe and metal from his coat, took a long draft from it, and put it away. With a smile, he held his arm to the door, letting the Player take the lead.[li]
edited by Sherman Jones on 6/7/2013

((I know I’m late to the party, but I hope it’s OK for me to join in? I’ve never done anything like this before, but I’d love to give it a whirl. Do tell me if there are conventions I haven’t picked up on.))

Puckeridge was in pain. Not from this too-tight collar, nor the roughness of this &quotrespectable&quot workman’s twill. No, his head throbbed with a memory of the night before; and each shout, each grunt, each too-familiar song, stabbed like ravenglass into his weary soul.

But no matter. He’d lived through worse. And one didn’t decline such an urgent summons; not when it came from them.

He surveyed the crowd over the top of his tankard, sipping the murky dockyard porter that - despite everything - he still enjoyed. He’d spotted Sherman, of course, and his companion must be the Player. But the other? The one they called Waylander? That couldn’t be him. No, it surely couldn’t be him.

((Sorry, all. Been caught up with busy stuff. Getting something up soon, I think?))