You commence with the sick chase sequence. Past the shocked baker, into the streets, over and under a pair of unfortunate hansoms, narrowly avoiding the inconveniently located pane of glass. You're slowed down by most of your fur matting together -- curse that terrible muck-- but the creature's hurt leg slows it down in turn. What a creature it is, all thin and green and scaly! Definitely a grell of some sort, but none that you've seen before. Even with the terrible gashes all over its body, it makes a fearsome impression. It's truly awesome, and the chase is awesome, and if this were another adventure with a similar format, you would be treated to a SICK FLASH. But it isn't, so you don't.
After 5 minutes of hard-boiled chasing action, the creature finds a sewer hole while you're caught in a pile of barrels, cursing that cardboard boxes haven't been invented yet. It hoists the cover up and slips inside before you catch it. Onlookers nonetheless compliment you on the awesomeness of your chasing.
You consider it, and then decide not to do so. After all, you still don't know if that greycloak survived. Unmitigated tromperie is never welcomed after a death.
You open the cover and peek into the drain. The sunlight and your nose reveals its a sewage canal. You can make a guess at which way he went -- if he went upstream, there'd be blood in the water--but there's no way you can squeeze your body through that manhole. Besides, you've subjected your fur to enough muck today.
You head back to the bakery. The head sewer worker's in a corner with one of his subordinates. Lucy, you think. Mink's on the floor next to a puddle of...He's on the floor next to a puddle, and another greycloak's attending to him. He nods solemnly as you come in.
"Name's Art, Stitcher for the Greycloaks. I won't waste your time. Lucy had a few scratches and Ross broke a rib, nothing too serious, but Mink's out for at least a month, and he'll be gimped for a while after that. If he doesn't drop in his sleep, that is. Practically had to bring him back to life, the poor bastard." He doesn't look at you as he re-checks Mink's vitals, but there's a touch of anger in his voice.
Art sticks a scalpel in your face as you breathe in. "Keep your homemade cures away from my patient." he grunts with a scowl. "Don't you have anyone else to bother?" he says. You realize that you do.
As you approach, they lower their voices. "Oy, Bear," says Ross. "Do you mind? We're having a conversation here!"
(Your GREYCLOAK REPUTATION has changed to DISTRUSTED)
You wait patiently outside while the Grey cloaks finish their business. The other businessmen on the street come by to talk a bit with the baker and complain about the plumbing. Your earlier valor reflects well on them, and they give you a few presents.
You receive 1x LEG OF LAMB, 2x BOTTLES OF HECTOR'S TEARS, 11x ASSORTED PASTRIES.
As they return to their establishments and the baker returns inside, you hear a ringing. The phone from your office seems to have found its way to your feet.
You do so. The voice on the other end responds with a high-pitched giggle. "Well, it sounds like you've had a rough day, Guy."
That's the voice of the Senior Ombudsman, a mysterious agent who only communicates through couriers and telephone lines. It's said that they've been on the staff longer than anybody else, and nobody knows their true identity, species or gender. They are also your direct superiors.
"So. what's shaking, bear bacon. Heard about the chase. Very awesome. Also heard complaints from the Greycloaks. Very not awesome. And what's the deal with not picking up on me before?"
"Oh, Guuuy, you know that just because you can't talk back doesn't mean I don't need that silly thing to tell you how you're doing. You're not avoiding me, are you? Seeing another Senior Ombudsman behind my back? Ohoho, of course you're not! Now! You've done something fancy with that chase, but everybody's going to ask about the next scene in your crazy bard's tale. You can try and beg the smellycloaks for a bit of cruft, but there are others with their ears to the ground and thereby the pipes. Make use of that."
"And find a slosher or something! You look like some sorta weird albino fruit." They hang up the phone.
You've discovered that the discrepancies in the sewer system are due to a unfamiliar type of grell. You've proven yourselves to the hoi polloi at the cost of estranging the people in charge of the sewer system. You're also in dire need of a wash.
You have a report that immigration is being held up for some reason.
You have a note from the Ratholes written in unusually nice penmanship.
You ask around. While the public is very fond of you right now, not everybody has the facilities to bathe a 500-pound bear.
Fortunately, there's a chandler a few streets over who used to study water magic. Pretty common for anybody who flunks out of the typical schools. He hoses you down for free.
After a brief shake-off, you head over to the gold district. Along the way, you pick up the IMMIGRATION CASE NOTES from your office.
Kifungu, unlike most of the city-states in Regea, has its own immigration agency. As the capital of Regea, the majority of the high government resides there, along with a number of high-ranking nobles and tradesmen. Immigration keeps out anybody who would be particularly dangerous to these people out of the city. In addition, it controls the movement of people in the city, issuing passes that dictate where you can and can't go. There have been complaints that they've been particularly zealous with keeping people away from the Gold District, where most of the nobility and richer tradesmen stay when they're in town.
You finish reviewing the case as you get to Immigration's main offices. A couple of young lads in decent dress are lounging outside the entrance.
You have never had a boy named Ezekiel or his beautiful bald head. The GM recognizes the reference but notes that there'd have to be two bears and you'd have to be a woman for it to fit.
You do, however, walk up to the lads and backhand one across the mouth. The others smile and nod at each other as they pull out knives.
You are facing 5x DISGUISED ROUSTABOUTS. What do you do?
Your claws are, by definition, always extended. Regardless, you plow into the group of knife-wielders. Most of them skip out of the way, slashing your arms as they run, but you catch one and claw him across the chest.
You and them stop for a moment and size each other up. You're bigger and stronger than any two of them combined, but they're quick on their feet and those knives are pretty long. The cuts you just got were superficial, but they could have been much worse.
At the very least, they look a bit less nonchalant now that one of their number is bleeding out on the floor.
Claws out (well, they're already out, but whatever), teeth bared, you wade blindly into the fray.
By the time you come back to your senses, four of them have fleed the scene. You're also bleeding heavily and breathing ragged. Two of the remaining lads are losing blood fast, but the remaining three are practically unharmed. And you think you see your Bearetta in the hands of the tall one. Did you remember to load that thing? You hope you didn't.
Training? You essentially got dropped into the position without a moment's notice, just playing things by ear and being lucky enough to get most of it right. You should write a guide about ombudsmanship before you retire. The first rule being "do not get forced into the ombudsmanship business"
The tall lad comes forward, cradling the gun in his arms. You feel like he's not used to firearms. "Ey, Bear" he says. "Yer bleeding, and I'm not looking forward to dragging more of my colleagues back home. We can end this all easy-like. Just do us both a favor and back off the case."
His reflexes are quick, but your paw's quicker. You knock the gun out of his hand, along with a few fingers and a good chunk of skin. He backs away, horrified.
"Damn you! The Tapir doesn't pay us enough for this!" He and his friends run off.
You stagger into the office, panting heavily, the stench of street battle on you.
Nobody's at the front desk. In fact, as far as your ears can tell, the place seems to be empty, though the smell of humans doesn't seem old. Looks like the fight was a distraction as well as a bloody fight to the death. Typical.
While a couple of bookcases and desks appear to have been hurrily emptied, most of the office seems relatively untouched. So, you have a half-dozen desks, some closets and bookcases, and whatever's on the second floor. What first?
Comments
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
You receive 1x LEG OF LAMB, 2x BOTTLES OF HECTOR'S TEARS, 11x ASSORTED PASTRIES.
As they return to their establishments and the baker returns inside, you hear a ringing. The phone from your office seems to have found its way to your feet.
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
You don't want manslaughter charges on top of everything else.
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
let's kick their asses
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
Don't be nice about this, rip off his arm if you have to.
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead