Author	Topic:   The Big Red Bust
Calysto	posted 8/16/06 3:45 PM     Johnson shifted uneasily and pulled his coat around him. It was the middle of summer but the warehouse was surprisingly chilly. He watched the dishevelled group of men hauling one of the massive crates towards to open doors and swore under his breath. "Where is that damned barge?" Turning his back on the beehive of hushed activity around the crates, he wandered out into the open air and stared at the river. The crew of the pick up barge were in for a long talk, the kind of long talk that involves lamp oil, fire and blunt instruments. In fairness, the river was unusually misty tonight and they weren't THAT late. But he was a Riverman and Rivermen do not like to be kept waiting. In Johnson's mind, glacial patience was a skill associated with Ghost Walkers or rocks, not gangs of pirates who were desperate to move their stolen cargo before the Homeguard found them. The waters stirred. It wasn't a particularly noticeable stirring, especially with all the mist, but Johnson noticed it and knew what it meant. Sure enough, a moment later the barge lumbered into view, its timbers creaking as it slid up to the dock. Johnson peered at the vessel, trying to locate the captain, but it was no good. The mist was especially thick now; it seemed to cling to the ship itself, hiding the deck from sight. For the hundredth time that night Johnson promised himself that he would never do a job this close to the student's quarter again. He'd seen his share of oddities in his time on the rivers, but the stuff that happed round here was something else!
Calysto	posted 8/16/06 3:46 PM     The Student's Quarter (as it was affectionately referred to by those who frequented it and not so affectionately referred to by those who lived near it) was not so much a quarter as a couple of streets. Situated on the very outskirts of town, the area had been adopted by some of the younger students of the Colleges of Magic. This was partly to do with it housing the Sailor's Retreat library and because it was close to the road that led to the College. But mainly it was because of the number of cheap bars with a lassie fair attitude to irresponsible magic use. It was to here that large numbers of budding mages would flee during their short summer break from studies. Once they arrived, the students would engage in 'further magical research', which generally involved drinking their bodyweight in cheap beer, shouting the first spell that came to mind and falling over. The inevitable fate of those students who chose to spend too much time in the area had earned it another (generally more popular) name, Flunk Street. Johnson cupped his hands to his mouth and called out to the barge. There was a pause long enough for his brain to say ‘They’ve been eaten, they’ve been turned into living corpses, shut up, everything’s fine,’ and a mooring line flew from the misty deck and landed on the dock. He signalled for his men to moor the boat up, which they reluctantly did. “Well then.” He said once the boat was secure. “No point standing and gawping at it. Brodall, you and Tamwyn go and have a look.” The two guards whom he had addressed looked at one another as if they’d just been asked to swallow a hand grenade taped to a pineapple. Johnson saw them weigh up the pros and cons of saying no then smiled as they drew their short swords and crept towards the barge. They were henchmen, but they weren’t stupid. Johnson wasn’t a cruel man by nature and it would be unfair to say that he had expected what came next to occur. That said, he wasn’t entirely surprised either. There was a scream, the sound of a sword striking a stone wall, a thud and then silence. A moment later Tamwyn came running out of the mist, his face a mask of terror and amazement. Johnson had time to think about shouting a warning to him, when a figure appeared from the mist over the fleeing man’s shoulder and grabbed him. The group on the dock saw, for a moment, the flash of expensive clothing as the arm gripped their comrade and then the mists rushed up around the gangplank and they were both gone.
Calysto	posted 8/16/06 3:51 PM     “INSIDE!” screamed Johnson but the gang had already dropped whatever they were carrying and were barrelling towards the door of the warehouse. Johnson reached it just as they were hauling it shut and helped his men to heap crates in front of the entrance. Once the door was totally blocked up, the Rivermen leaned their backs on the crates and breathed deeply. “Don’t worry,” Johnson said reassuringly. “There’s no way anything’s coming through that door. We’re safe for now, eh?” It was then that he noticed his breath. As he spoke, little puffs of moisture vapour appeared from his lips and wafted away. He looked at his men and saw the same thing. Finally, the adrenalin ran out and his body informed his brain that the air was freezing. Little flecks of frost were beginning to form on the boxes and his fingers screamed with pain at the sudden drop in temperature. “What the hell’s going on?” He cried. “Over here John!” Cried one of the Rivermen, a lean looking fellow with an eye patch, “it’s warm over by this window.” Almost like the heat’s being sucked over to it.” Johnson had a feeling like a wale that’s just realised it’s on a plane to Japan. “Hold up! There’s someone on the other side of the…” The window exploded. The doomed man got a hand half way to his face before he was hit with a wall of white hot glass and fell screaming to the floor, clutching his ruined face. Flames rolled out from the shatter opening, making the whole wall look like some kind of terrible, fire belching creature. The panicked men pulled themselves to their feet and began to draw weapons as, a robed figure leaped, screaming, through the flaming hole. It hit the ground running (though to Johnson it looked as it the figure almost tripped on its cloak at least twice). The man was clad in red and brown robes of the kind that made it impossible to judge how large he actually was and his face was partially hidden by a red mask. All the heat in the room was being drawn to the figure, making the air around him hazy and hard to focus on. As Johnson looked on, one of the Rivermen ran to meet the charge, but before he got close, the aura of heat hit him, sapping the strength from the man’s sword arm and making the blow brush harmlessly off the robes. Without halting, the mage (Johnson assumed that’s what it was) reached into the folds of his cloak and produced a ball of fiery, orange light. With a scream of “Flare!” he swung his arm around and slammed the ball into the chest of his opponent. Johnson saw his unfortunate comrade lifted clean off the floor as the ball exploded against him. Without waiting to see if he was alive or dead, he turned tail and made for the back door. Over the screams of the first man, he heard two more River folk hit the ground, but he managed to make it to the door. In one movement, he pulled a key from his pocket, slid it into the lock, turned it and wrenched the door open. Then he swallowed.
Calysto	posted 8/16/06 3:54 PM     Standing in front of him, wearing what appeared to be a tartan kilt and matching hat, was a Linovel. “Hey Calysto!” The mountain man shrieked in a surprisingly un-barbarian like voice, “I think one o’ them’s tryin t’ leave the party!” Johnson screamed. This was too much! Sinister mist, flaming wizards and now squeaky voiced, ginger barbarians? To hell with the cargo, he just wanted to get out alive! Bellowing at the top of his lungs, he tore his sword from the scabbard on his back and brought it swinging around in wide arc. The ginger man muttered a few words under his breath and suddenly his whole body was encased in granite. Too late to stop, the sword slammed into the rocky form, jarring every bone in Johnson’s body. He had about three seconds to think about this before being hit full in the face with the hilt of a massive axe. As he landed heavily on the ground, the kilted man stepped over him, treating him to a view he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy. “Jaffa! Stop playing around and give me a hand!” It was the mage in the mask. By now the Rivermen had gotten over the initial shock and had managed to back the mage into a corner, while some of the more nimble members took swipes at his back whenever he turned it. None of the attacks seemed to be stopping the man in his tracks, but there was a look of pained concentration on his face and he was defiantly slowing. As he sent another Riverman sailing into the wall, a crossbow bolt slammed into his back, pitching him forwards into a pile of crates. The heat haze dimmed for a moment and Johnson screamed at his men through the blur of pain from his shattered nose. “Don’t let him rest! Take him now, while he’s down!” The man referred to as Jaffa was battering his way across the room like a gorilla in a banana shop, but he was a long way from his downed companion. Drawing daggers, the Rivermen moved in on the masked mage (who, to his credit, was already trying to get back to his feet). Then Johnson heard a footfall close to his face and felt the cold mist rush past him. For a moment the room filled to the rafters with grey swirling patterns, then they were gone and in the centre of the warehouse stood a finely dressed mage in a splendid metal breastplate and puffed collar. He had a scroll in one hand and was already chanting from it as the mist dropped away. Suddenly the ground beneath the fallen wizard exploded in a hail of rock and earth and broken floorboards. The Riverfolk staggered backwards as the rolls of earth unfolded over the man, hardening at once until all that was left was a magnificent pillar of stone. His companion safe, the newcomer put away his scroll and drew a bone-white sword, which seemed to glow from within. “Sight!” He cried, and suddenly turned to deflect the attack of a wiry man who had snuck up behind him. Johnson watched in amazement as the man went to work on the remaining guards, try as they might, not one of the Rivermen could land a blow on their attacker, it was as if he knew where the strikes would land before their owners did. It didn’t take long for the combination of this and the ginger man’s strength to begin to drop the River folk’s numbers drastically. Johnson waited quietly, playing dead until the last of his companions had hit the floor, and then he made his move. Leaving the floor like an Olympic sprinter, he cannoned across the warehouse to the stack of crates by the door and tore the nearest one open. He felt around inside for the hidden lever, found it and pulled for all he was worth. There was a clanking, whirring sound and the other crates began to open of their own accord. You didn’t go stealing things from a part of town this risky unless it was something very special you were stealing; something special and lethal. The two remaining mages turned to the door and watched in alarm as the crates fell away to reveal a bizarre spider like construct. It seemed to consist of a single large drum, from which sprouted eight arms, each of which held four armed crossbows. A College stamp was clearly visible on drum.
Calysto	posted 8/16/06 3:54 PM     “Drop your weapons and scrolls!” Cried Johnson triumphantly. “Bet you didn’t think I’d know how to work this did you! Well I do, so if you wouldn’t mind exploding into tiny pieces for me then it’d save me the bother of pulling the firing lever. But first, perhaps you’d like to beg for your lives. Who knows, I might be gracious.” It sounded hammy, but Johnson was pissed and he wanted them to know it before he turned them into piles of magically awakened jelly. Unfortunately, the mages didn’t seem all that worried. The well dressed one spoke a couple of words and the pillar of stone fractured and collapsed to reveal the masked mage totally unharmed. His robes were in bad shape and the mask itself was broken, revealing part of his face, Johnson was surprised at how young he looked. What was more concerning however was that the heat haze was defiantly back, and the air began to smell of sulphur as he climbed out of the rubble and rejoined his two companions in the middle of the room. He and the ginger mage placed their hands on the third one’s shoulders who, in turn pulled another scroll from its case and began to read. Johnson wanted to act, to do something, but for some reason his mind felt groggy and unfocused. Everything was swirling and he found it hard to remember where he was or what he was supposed to be doing. The room went very cold. Johnson felt the breath taken out of him as all the heat in the room rushed to masked mage. For a moment the mans eyes burned like exploding suns, then he exhaled and the energy passed along his arm and into his companion who began to crackle with stored up power. Johnson’s mind came rushing back to him. He screamed a curse with as much venom and hate as his lungs would allow and yanked on the lever. “DIEEEE!” A cloud of crossbow bolts erupted from all around him and hurtled at the three mages. They didn’t even get half way. Johnson saw the centre mage open his eyes and the swarm of white hot energy bolts that poured out like a nest of angry wasps. He saw the crossbow bolts reduced to ash by the onslaught, saw the parts of the machine in front of him explode, saw the bolts rushing towards him. And then there was a stab of pain in every inch of his body and the world went dark.
Calysto	posted 8/16/06 3:54 PM     Johnson came to his senses. He wasn’t dead, he was pretty sure of that, though he wasn’t sure how. He seemed to be lying on a hard mattress with a sheet partly covering him. Not daring to open his eyes, he tried to move and pain jolted through him. “Easy there.” Came a voice. “You’ve been pretty badly hurt. We’re doing what we can, but you might want to take it easy for a while.” Johnson cracked a painful smile. By some miracle he was alive, not only that but he was safe. Safe from ginger mountain men, from mad fire throwing wizards and certainly from sinister mist people. The fools, what were they thinking leaving him alive? He would repay whoever had rescued him, recruit a new crew and then he was going to skin all three of them alive. Chuckling to himself, he called out to his mysterious saviour. “Tell me everything.” He said. “Where am I? Who are you? How long until I can resume my operation?” “Well.” The voice replied calmly. “You are in the Sailor’s Retreat infirmary. My name is Angelo Vitale and I imagine you should be back on the street and ready to go in 20-30 years.” Johnson’s eyes shot open. Standing over him was a man in a Homeguard uniform with deadlocks and a scruffy beard. Behind him stood the three mages from the warehouse. “You’re under arrest.” Said the man. Johnson tried to sit up, but found he was tied to the bed. Rand Tandil, Calysto Calystese and McJaffa smiled. “Owned.” Said Rand.

Sanctuary Larp Home  | Post New Topic