Friday, 2 December 2011

Bark to the Future

After the explosion, Scraps dug a hole through the rubble to get Jackie (and a bunch of gear) out. Then we blew another hole ... in the wall, leading to the outside. Equipped with some kind of flying belt, we made our way up to the top of the mountain. Where we encountered Stone. That's right, the original harrowed himself.

AND WE PWNED HIM!

Yeah, suck on that for a bit! Okay, so Slick's Manitou took over, twice, first dropping Jackie off the edge - but luckily, he came to his senses at the last minute and rescued her. In the end, when Stone had melted through the floor - muttering something about we might have won this time, but like the Terminator, he'd be back - he did a similar thing to Reynard. Reynard answered by barbecuing him with a flamethrower on the way down, thus putting a crispy end to our trecherous friend, the homicidal alchemist.

Reynard then turned on the force field, bounced unharmed on the ground, picked up the strangely unharmed belt, which he then tried to argue with the GM about until the rest of us shouted to him to just roll with it. When the GM hands you a flight belt so you can fly back up the mountain unharmed and join your friends and live happily ever after (or die trying), you sure as hell don't argue the slight implausibility of the belt's working condition!

But yeah, we saved the day. Scraps ran toward the stone, Mary shot it away from the portal thingy it was in, Scraps picked it up by swallowing it, and ran toward her. She grabbed him and together, they flew back down to the portal room and headed to the future, closely joined by Jackie and Reynard. On the other side, the portal was sealed off, and everyone left with the conundrum of how to get the Heart of Darkness out of Scraps's belly without hurting him.

And that's all folks, thus concludes our story. The Posse is now stuck 200 years into the future. Here's how we got there:

Courtesy of Tuesday 29 November 2011's 1st Edition Deadlands adventure at Chimera.


“We failed our stealth check when blowing stuff up.”
“Fancy that. I mean, normally, you are so subtle.”

“It’s probably telling that we have to work out which alien I’m eating.”

“It’s the last session, you can’t NOT draw a legend chip!”

GM (to Slick): “18+ it’s a cucumber sandwich.”

“Can’t we just feed him all the sandwiches until he hits people?”

GM: “Thankfully the rigor mortis has given it the properties of a wooden leg.”
Reynard: “Awesome!”

Slick: “I think Jackie’s dead.”
Jackie (through the other side of rubble): “Hello! I’m stuck!”
Slick: “I think Jackie’s alive.”

Scraps: “I actually have d4 Deftness.”
GM: “I actually don’t remember what I gave you.”
Scraps: “Okay! 2d12 it is, then!”

Reynard: “Scraps?”
Scraps: “Konnichiwa!!”

“Were you talking ACTUAL healing potions or just false hope?”

Scraps: “I’m a dog, I have to make sure I don’t play fetch.”

Player: “God, time stuff.”
Scraps: “I’m glad I’m a dog; I don’t even have a concept of tomorrow.”

Slick: “I’m the goddamn Flash of zombies.”

Slick: “Well, that DID pan out.”

Scraps (loud): “We’re the brains of this group!”
Jackie (hushed): “Don’t say it that loud, they’ll hear us.”
Scraps (loud): “I can’t lower my voice, I have no volume control!”

“Is this some kind of mating display?”

“I’m learning how to fly on the ground. Science will reward me for this someday … somehow!”

“You know that extended flight testing scene in Iron Man? That’s basically what we’re doing.”

“The game is now rated 18!”

“If it’s a bat out of hell, it will be gone by the morning.”

“I don’t think he’s doing this right, it sounds weirder than Enochian.”

Mary: “My dice were obviously blessed.”
GM: “Or cursed, from my point of view.”

“We’re so stealthy our dice are hiding.”

“I wish I was a cat! I wish I was a cat! I wish I was a cat!”

“I was expecting a head shot, personally.”
“What can I say? I’m classy.”

“And then I destroyed the world by sticking things in my ear.”

Slick (after regaining control of his body): “Sorry about that, brief Reckoning interlude. I’ll give you a discount.”

GM: “You don’t have any more potions left.”
Slick: “That’s discouraging.”

“I love you, probability curve! …This week.”

“We’re gonna make you bend over and take it, Stone!”

“I feel like I’ve crapped my pants or something. That uuuuurhhhh feeling.”

“What? That’s like a cheap cowboy film.”
“Dude, look at what genre we’re in.”

GM: “Stone’s gun reloads in his holsters.”
Reynard: “I’m havin’ that.”

Player: “I’ve got 10!”
GM: “You’re irrelevant.”
Player: “…Thanks.”

Slick (to Stone): “I wouldn’t use you in gumbo even if you were chargrilled! Even I wouldn’t eat you! Do you know what that means?!”

GM: “You see Stone basically fade and melt through the floor.”
Player: “Time to take credit!”

“Why?”
“Look at the player!”

Player: “At least there’s not gonna be a dime novel about this one.”
Mary: (looks around, guiltily)
Player: “Dog passes stone.”

“And that’s why they call me Lucky!”

“He’s been a good friend; at least leave $10 on the corpse!”

Scraps: “What do you need the stone for?”
NPC: “The dog can talk?!”
Scraps: “…Woof?”

Player: “What does a dog think of?”
Scraps: “Right now? ‘Please oh please don’t cut me up!’ Woof.”

Scraps: “Woof, bitch.”
Player: “Does he mean literally?”

“If you eat stew, you might be eating Stu…art.”

“Haunted by Slick: 12 point Hindrance.”

“Slick’s still here … on 88 to 91 FM.”

“I have a few plans. All insane, actually.”

(to Slick) “Your character is the transgender of ethics.”

Yeah, Slick died again - this time, quite rightly so. Mary is sitting in a corner somewhere in the future refusing to write another obituary about him, because he tried killing her friends. Well, anyway, this was the last Deadlands session, and we're still debating what we're going to replace it with - no, not Deadlands: Hell on Earth, although we might decide to play it in the future. Next week, we're either going to have a general planning session or start up the next Changeling: The Dreaming adventure. As I'm not going to be present, next week's quotes are probably going to be from this weekend's ChimeraCon.

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