Thechosenone

What i appreciate most from the last piece is that it gives me a glimpse of the Earthside that Wyrd hasn't shown us yet. I like that. What i wish i could see would be mention of the war through the memories of Aries. I'd like for him to remember a few war machines, or magicks employed or dastardly foes that might serve the crown. Now i know how you see the history of Earthside but lets see how you envision its wars?

I'm a big fan of the Col. Aries sir and i'd enjoy seeing Vestige in there. I'd be curious if the writers have a vision for Earthside too?

Thank you so much sir. Anything in particular so i can build on that in the future. Also, i need to write another one of these. I still have to do the Lawyer, my guild hounds, Ryle, Student of Conflict and not sure what else. Could do something from my witch hunters, death marshals or Ortegas too. Any thoughts on what intro should be next?

thanks for the comment and i think doorman is a robot

All though here and now I'd like to pledge, and i hope others will with me, to respond with something every time we ready something in this section. Everybody who writes knows how good it feels to get responses. So for us to then not leave a response to something we read here is kinda lame of us. I will respond to everything I read. I hope everyone else joins me on that.

keep writing sir. responses are often slim but its getting read

Always appreciate a story. Thanks much sir.

Well, I think an Austringer shows up in every guild list, but at the least guild have a cohesive theme and fairly similar look. My friend plays a gunsmith and a soul stone miner with his show girls just to fill up points sometimes. Your point is pretty valid though. And one i hadn't thought about.

I love music with my games and love this thread. So thread... RISE FROM YOUR GRAVE [ame] [/ame] As a big fan of Somer'teeth i can't think of a better tune [ame] [/ame] I like to hear songs like this during the opening of most malifaux games. Its just the sort of tune that sets up a good game. [ame] [/ame] I've gotten cut up by Coryphee and Cassandra something fierce many times. This usually comes to mind when my Guild Guards are getting shredded. [ame] [/ame] I have this playing in my head when some of my more nefarious masters are on the verge of winning. Also; it backs up nicely as a theme for the Dreamer and Collodi to me. [ame] [/ame] This is the Hamelin theme to me. I guess it could work for others but Hamelin is my unspeakable horror. [ame] [/ame] Another something that makes me think Collodi. The music actually starts at 3 minutes and gets even crazier at 4 minutes and 5 minutes. [ame]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=15a-AXUyJ-Y[/ame] Perdita kills to Bible Study. [ame] [/ame] And she also kills to this..... [ame] [/ame] and this [ame] [/ame] Lady Justice's personal Theme Songs [ame] [/ame] [ame]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n8qlOH0jGeE&feature=related[/ame] and that is it for now

Thanks Hoyled. I'm pretty sure its a rule that every troupe of lovely young actresses needs an unnameable horror cloying at their sanity and preying upon their fears. I think... I think that's rule anyway. And yeah, as long as i got a showgirls player to play against than i'm sure Colette will be fine... although i do have an alternative plan in mind too. Anyway, to all that read it thanks and to all that actually drop a comment even more thank you so much! If you like it, read my other stuff in the battle reports or in the Writing Room. I have fun, non battle report stories, about my guild crews. Next time we throw up a Guild report. Probably a Lady J one or Sonnia.

:hamelin The Indiscriminate Void Hamelin, Nix, two Rat catchers, two stolen and six Malifaux rats Strategy- Turf War Scheme- Kill Protégé (Cassandra) :colette The Showgirls Collette Du Bois, Cassandra, Two Performers with Mannequins and two Coryphee. Strategy- Treasure Hunt Schemes- Sabotage and Bodyguard Turn One and Two The Corypee see the world very differently than the living. With eyes of gristle and fluids the world is aan enigma cloaked in shades of colored light and material shapes. Living eyes never see the truth of a thing. They have to understand reality through a series of hints and clues. Blue, tall, heavy, far away, near, this shape or that. It never really gets to the heart of a thing’s true nature. The Coryphee see with aetheric eyes. They see the world on an entirely different level. The walls and floors of the old wood mill in the Chemaux district are grey nothings. They have no magick to them. The logic engines that used to control the machinery are hollow too, the soul stone energy that used to power them has long since depleted. The duet ignores the explosion that rocks the logic engine. Collette hoped the sabotage would buy them an escape from this place while they made off with the treasure they so desired, a cache of program cards that Doctor Ramos so desired. These were found deep within the bowls of the mill locked away by the Union bosses who once ran this place. But down there is the sewage flooded foundation they found something else. They found a conquering army that was spreading its territory, gaining ground and solidifying its hold on Chemaux… just not in the view of any living eyes. The blast of powder flashes across the Coryphee vision as an explosion of grey light. Behind them they can feel another magickal presence. Cassandra’s voice is commanding in the extreme. “It’s coming!” To Cassandra the mill is a dark place filled with shadows and the scamper of tiny unseen feet. To the Coryphee it is much more. They see veins of sickness spread across the walls the spider web cracks that splay across broken glass. Their sight cannot pull away from the hallway that the sickness creeps from. Cassandra can see enough. She can see a corpulent slime slither from the hall and standing amid that fester a man… One she’s seen before. One that sends chills down her spine. His voice is two voices, one an impassionate man’s spoken slow and purposeful. The other something else entirely, something echoing and otherworldly. Something truly wicked. “We are already here.” They speak. To the Coryphee, they see something else entirely. They see the source of the sickness. They see an all consuming void that howls like the depthless pits of a forgotten mine and hungers like the corpse of dead star. When it speaks they hear too voices to and they see two mouths. One; a terrified fading face that flails in the umbra, the other is the voice of nihilism, the words spoken by the scream of the endless hollow. Oblivion speaks with a voice like that. “Keep this place! We don’t want!” Cassandra screams to the man. She can see his skin is tight and beneath it things wriggle and slither. She watches a centipede drip from his eyelid like a tear and crawl back into his mouth. The skin shell speaks “Our goal then is similar Cassandra. We want only one thing here. You.” “Me?” “You and I spend too much time conversing in your nightmares girl. We should speak in a setting of flesh rather than fear. With us, there is no fear. With us even fear dies.” Hamelin has his answer. They flee and behind him his congregation claws their way in. Rats and children with vacant dead eyes. Outside one of the Star Theater’s performers paces. Everyone’s out now except Cassandra and the duet. She was the lookout tonight and Holly Riggs is an excellent lookout. She prides herself on her alertness. And through the fog the boils up through the sewers she sees something. A lecherous face illuminated by sewer gas and dying street lamps, his body rattles with the sound of metal and verminous squeaking. “Is someone there?” She feigns an innocent greeting. “Nobody. Nobody here Miss, nobody at all.” The rat catcher advances toward her step by step. Cassandra is pulled through the window by Collette who almost topples over when her apprentice pushes through. The two are kept upright with the help of mannequins who don’t mind the weight. “That boom had to be you right? Did it help? Are they still coming?” Collette demands. Cassandra nods. “Yes, that was us and yes they’re still coming. We got the cards too!” She turns to help the duet through but they don’t follow. She watches them walk toward Hamelin while he plays his pipes, the box of cards held limply in their hand. They’re about to do something when through the window a ghastly wicked glow startles both of them into a scream. Like an eager puppy the specter of that damn dog yelps and leaps for them. They can feel their emotions bottoming out as he approaches. Turn Three and Four The Corypee run into the depths of the mill, the alien emotion of despair eating away at their inside while visible taint infects their outer bodies. They flee the fight for the safety of the darkness. Hamelin stands amid the crumbling ruins of the mill playing his pipes while the rats burst from every bleak little crevasse in the building. One of the performers, Jilly Mae Banks, sizes up the situation. Holly and that Ratcatcher are at each other’s throat. Collette his trying to draw that infernal hound into her hat while it barks happily and chases after her. Cassandra is everywhere, trying to keep Collette safe, trying to manage the rats, trying everything. This is her chance to help. She runs into the building grabbing up the program box and turning toward the exit again but her feet won’t move. A melody fills the wooden casket of a building. “Go.. go… just move… please…move” She tries to will her feet but she realizes that it’s not her legs that rebel. It’s her heart. Tears roll down her cheeks while blackish veins spread over her paling flesh. “This world flickers like a flame Jillian Banks. No matter how bright, no matter how hot it burns, there is only so much wick. Do not side with the dying flame. It offers you only the false promises of brief sorrow filled years. Choose the eternal. Choose that which will never burn out. Choose the patient darkness around the candle.” The Coryphee, so far away, bleeding lubricant like tears over their faces, watch as the fading light of Jilly walks toward the hungry void. Embers of her light are drawn in at first and then she is falls in. Gone. Forever. Turn Five and Six Holly’s screams last long. Too long. Collette wishes she’d stop, she wishes Holly would just die already but she keeps screaming from under that pile of rats. She can barely move herself, the whispered sadness of one of Hamelin’s children claws at her mind. Cassandra, her heart already stricken with woe by that dog, begs for Collette to move. To run. To do anything at all. She doesn’t. The impetuous vermin swarm around her… over her… and Collette Du Bois vanishes beneath a greasy blanket like one of her illusions. This one has no rise of applause and no audience of patrons. Her last illusion is done to the chitter of teeth and Cassandra’s sobbing. The apprentice flees, hoping, praying that Collette survived. That in her despair she had one last trick up her sleeve. She hopes for many things but her mind will allow are failures and sorrow. She leaves Chemaux and doesn’t stop running till the entire district is miles behind her. Only then does she slide down into one of the deepest alleyways to wretch out the content of her stomach and to empty her tears into the sleeves of her blood stained dress. Outcome :hamelin Indiscriminate Void- 4VP for Turf War and 0VP for Kill Protégé The Showgirls- 0VP for Bodyguard, 0VP for Treasure Hunt and 2VP for Sabotage

Can you tell us a little bit about how you created the Dreamer bases and the neat details like the hand on Chompy-Bits base?

(For those that enjoy it i present the Guild Captain and Drill Sergeant) The lightening and storm winds continue. Rain hammers the concrete yards below while the scream of an unnatural gale assails the city. The Courtyard outside the Pinnacle is more alive than the building itself. Pale skinned sunken eyed Guardsmen run drills with blade and bullet, their faux enemy are cutouts made to resemble Arcanist Terrorists, Ressurectionist lawbreakers and insidious beasts from outside the city. Their Peacebringer pistols strike with critical accuracy leaving only shreds of the targets behind. Others pair off and practice swordplay. They do nothing to hold back the lethality of the blades. Teale takes note of their skills. Considerable by his assessment and made even more so by the masterfully made swords they attack with but there is something offputting about the Guardsmen as well. He watches one of them swing hard, his blow parried by the edge of his opponent. The second Guardmen swipes his sword wide and opens a wound across his enemy’s forearm. Thick, slow red blood hits the paved courtyard. The wounded Guardman howls with feral intensity and lashes out with his hands as if to rip open his opponent’s throat. Teale can see a lack of humanity in the eyes of these Guardsmen. They look human enough but so much of what makes up their psyche has been replaced with an eagerness for violence. The Chamberlain Galen Klypse leads them through the crowds. First they pass a class of swordsmen all learning advanced techniques under the tutelage of young Latino man wielding a Dueling Sword of Malifaux make personalized with the symbol of Ram’s head on its hilt. His combinations of attacks form a furious remise that no Guardsmen present seems capable of duplicating. He disarms and incapacitates every Guardsmen used to demonstrate on. Sitting off to the side of the demonstration beneath a weather beaten canopy is a skinny man of similar ethnicity. He wears heavy framed sun glasses despite the lack of sunlight. He meticulously polishes a long barreled chain gun while whistling a tune. He walks them across the water slicked grounds toward a stout Spartan looking building. They pass a trio of men who all stand motionless under the rain. Isabella analyzes them men immediately. They have long coats like a guardsman and the same wide brimmed hats but everything they wear is black and each of them holds a position beside a casket that steams with grave fog. She can see soaked stringy hair hanging from under the hats and a few patches of deathly white skin. The constant fall of rain is hard to see through so she dismisses the last observation outright… that she can’t see them breathing. The Chamberlain shows them into the little building. It’s warmer but only slightly and very clammy. It’s lit by a few lanterns only, enough to see holding cells, a few desks and racks of weapons. There’s a smell too, tobacco and rotten meat. “What have we here Chamberlain? New recruits?” The voice is cruel, brackish and loud. It echoes around the small room for far too long. The speaker is a man in a Guardsman’s coat but lacking the trademark hat to hide his scarred face and buzzed hair. He’s older than most people the trio has seen here so far, probably closing in on his sixties. Rather than a sword they note his nightstick and his medals are proudly displayed on his lapel. The Chamberlain introduces him as Sergeant Jasper Bilsen. “No Mr. Bilsen these three are already miles ahead of your regular stock and store. They are specialists whom have been inducted into the Secretary’s Elite Division and will be working with you.” Bilsen frowns. The Earthsiders can all see an ugly scar on his lips that forces a particularly strange twist when he shows his displeasure. “That so… These are the Earthsiders you mentioned huh? They’re… a little pink for my liking. Few years under the broken skies here should give you a proper Malifaux tan.” There is a machine gun laughter from the dark; rapid, guttural and self indulgent. A man steps into the light of the lanterns, his girth bushing chairs and trash cans out of the way as he forces himself forward. He barely fits into the dark clothes that contain him. His gut, stretched and sweaty, hangs heavy out of his shirt. His face is chalk colored and vein crossed and with the only hair being his wild eyebrows. A fat cigar occupies his blistered lips and laughter drips from his fat mouth. “Malifaux tan… that’s funny Jasper. Malifaux tan.” He laughs again, seemingly enjoying his own amusement and their uncomfortable faces as much as Bilsen’s comment. “So what happened to the last Elites you’d call what… a Malifaux retirement party?” Klypse points to the behemoth “This is one of the Captains of the Guards, Mr. Bennet Creedy. A martial genius and a man of some considerable tactical acumen.” Porter sizes him up. He’s none of the things Klypse just said. What the Chamberlain calls martial genius Craven sees more accurately as thuggish brutality. Tactical acumen is an insult to military men back home. People like Creedy are not tactical, they’re just direct, violent and never tire till they get the blood they wanted. Isabella shakes their hands. She notes that Creedy smells like something fried and then dipped in sweat and that he s not shy about leering at her curves. Bilsen’s shake is overly aggressive and hard. Creedy sits down on the desk, his breathing heavy and his every movement emphasized with a groan. “So welcome to the team. What we do is pretty simple and actually a lot of fun. See, our fair city is plagued by crimes and by people that want to hurt the Trade. Regular old Guardsmen deal with that. But what they can’t handle… you know… the gristly stuff that happens in the dead of night, that’s what the Elite Division is for. We hit the Arcanist Terrorists where it hurts. We bash up the necrophiles little sewing circles and we go on safari outside the city too. Life is good and so is the coin.” Bilsen leans on the table to meet Isabella’s eyes “You won’t know what it is to be alive till you stare down the rampage of a Neverborn monstrosity and while every fiber of your being says run… live… you instead hold your ground, raise your pistol and fire.” “Truly?” She questions. “That what you like most Captain?” Craven asks the man. Creedy takes a long drag from his cigar and smiles. “Oh… I like Safari as much as the next guy but if you must know Porter…” Creedy points his cigar at the man; reveling in some wonderful thought that invokes more of his jiggling laughter. “I love Arcanists. God damn do I love ‘em. Cause when you plug a Neverborn you can’t really see it. And when you crack a Resser’s skull you can’t really see it either.” “See what?” Teale asks Creedy is more than happy to answer. “When you get your hands round the throat of an Arcanist and you squeeze and squeeze and squeeze… you see it. When they’re standing there chokin’ and doing the little gaspy dance and they know it was all made possible by something real sweet like a betrayal by their own… oh boy do you see it right there in the eyes. Right before they go all limp. That’s it. That, right there… that’s it.” Klypse nods in agreement. The others aren’t sure what to say. Bilsen drinks in their disgust. They all start off the same these Earthsiders but they all turn out one of two ways, dead or twisted just like everyone else in the service of The Pinnacle. He draws his baton and throws the door open to the courtyard. He’s had his fill of the Elite Division’s new replacements. They’ll do fine or they’ll be a tallymark on some terrorist’s killboard. Either way it doesn’t matter to him. “Alright you stone sucking maggots! Let’s see if you’ve managed to do anything other than waste my valuable time!” The courtyard erupts as the Guardmen answer back their taskmaster. “Live for the Trade! Die for the Trade.” Creedy’s laugh draws them back in. He chomps on his cigar while smoke fumes from his mouth and nose. “Malifaux is an acquired taste but I think you’ll like it. Lord knows I can’t get enough!”

Big sigh.... i ALSO have unopened flayed ones. I have no choice but to do this too.

For anyone that follows my paint log i just got in a good game yesterday at like midnight with a good friend of mine. The Narrative Battle Rep can be found here. http://wyrd-games.net/forum/showthread.php?p=314801#post314801

A Perdita/Lucius Versus Showgirls narrative Battle Rep This is complied as best as possible from my memory of a game that took place around midnight yesterday so somethings are a bit hazy but that's taken care of with creative licence. Enjoy! :lucius:perdita Lucius (as Henchmen not Master) Sam Hopkins Austringer Perdita Papa Loco Student of Conflict Watcher Drill Sergeant Claim Jump Raid :colette Colette Cassandra 2 Coryphee 2 Performers Sabotage Bodyguard Plant Evidence. Turn one and two Lucius uses the tip of his cane to nudge open the filthy metal door of the condemned refinery. The Governor’s Secretary surveys the dark inside with inhuman eyes. Shadows part for gaze and through the murk he can see entropy at full effect. This place rots on the inside as much as on the outside. Dried viscera coats the eye slits of the Secretary’s face plate and stains the once shining surface into something of a filthy death mask. With his dirty opera gloves he preens some loose debris from his jacket. The steady decay that tie leaves on his form is somehow welcome but the filth that world leaves on him is abhorrent. Arcanist terrorists are here, he knows that. One of their greatest flaws is the misguided belief that there is loyalty among their ranks. Guild Script is the only thing a man’s heart serves without question. Everything else is for sale. Tonight the terrorists are here in this building, for what he does not know. But he knows why he’s here. To stake a claim to this lawless neighborhood in the Iron Twist District by stringing up a few dissenters for all the warehouse scum to see. Word travels fast among the wretches and the price for sending a message is cheap. Just a few lives ended in the most brutal of fashion. He strides in with the confidence of an immortal before stopping within the center of the largest empty room. Lucius taps his cane twice signaling for his reinforcements. Papa Ortega creeps through the shadows, his face twisted into a sick grin and illuminated by the flare of a lit stick of Dynamite. Perdita moves through the dark silently with pistol drawn. She flashes a brief smile to the Secretary before slipping out one of the breeches in the walls. Lucius detests everything about her aside her fair looks. She’s cavalier, brash and difficult to control. She’s one of the few things to come through the Breech and remain untwisted by the taint of Malifaux. That is the only fascination which has kept the Secretary from disposing of the gunslinger. Perdita listens to the dark. Through its impossible quiet she picks up on small things. The scurry of rats and the chewing jaws of insects. She hears wind blowing through fissures in the walls and the groan of old metal begging to die. But she hears something else… the chatter of terrorists. She moves through the shadows of the plant without making a sound. Her every sense leads her without error to the targets. Women all dressed in evening finery and accompanied by animated constructs pretending to be beautiful dancers. She shakes her head. It’s a waste of a construct that’s for sure. If it isn’t bristling with guns and piston like fists than to her she can’t fathom a point for their existence. Perdita kneels down and waits. She knows the signal for this to begin. It’s always the same. A few quiet moments pass before the well dressed terrorists are thrown through the air. The silence dies a very violent and sudden death. Papa’s explosion rocks the old plant with fire and thunder. She can see the remains of a Mannequin scatter across the old concrete. The terrorists rush out trying understand if they are under attack, if the plant is falling apart out of age or if one of the unnatural disasters that plague Malifaux is underway. They have their answer fast enough in the form of Guild Trained Raptors swooping in to rip at them with beak and claw. “Keep those pigeons in line Mr. Ukridge! I wanna see blood and barrettes fly!” Drill Sergeant Jasper Bilsen shouts to the ghoulish Austringer his desire to see the ladies ripped apart. Lucius listens to the panicked scream of the women as they stumble through smoke, flame and screeching Raptors. “Excellent work Mr. Ukridge. I can hear them appreciating your masterful training skills now.” Perdita watches one of the women emerge from the fire. She’s beautiful and made even more so by her tight evening wear and innocent face. Both of them lock eyes. The Performer, Aileen Prescott, knows exactly who the young woman standing less than twenty feet from her is. She’s seen posters flaunting the most recent Neverborn carcasses brought in by Perdita Ortega. Aileen reaches into her purse and pulls out a handful of shimmering reddish dust that she blows into the air. It will make the gunslinger dull witted and she’ll stumble toward her drunk on the powder’s magick and Aileen’s good looks and from there she can end her. Perdita lets the dust wash over her face. She breathes it in willing, her face lights up with a beautiful smile. But her feet don’t move as Aileen expected; her arm does. It shoots up and fires a Peacebringer shot that rips into Aileen. Shock and pain force the Performer back into cover screaming. “That smells real nice. Where’d ya get that?” Perdita asks sincerely. She tries hard to be more lady like all the time but the lure of guns and chaos is too strong. Being pretty always takes a back seat to being a problem for the Guild’s enemies. She’s decided the best strategy is to try both at the same time. She hopes enough the sweet smelling dust hit her to last a while. Another of the Performers comes out of nowhere. Perdita credits her for being quiet enough to get this close. This one, just as pretty as the first, attempts to steal some of Perdita’s Soulstones with mind dulling perfumes and sleight of hand. “God damn, you girls really look good. Love yer’s make-up.” She says shortly before blowing a hole through the Performer’s face. Blood and bone scatter across dusty concrete. “Nobody touch these girls’ purses. I’m confiscatin’ em.” She watches the other Showgirls make a mad dash for the deeper workings of the facility, they drop papers as they run for their lives. She whistles for a Raptor to take one of the papers back with it. Ukridge plucks the paper from his Raptor’s claw and rewards the creature with a festering eyeball from his feed pouch. The raptor chokes it down eagerly. Lucius takes the paper and reviews it. Beneath his mask there is a face few have ever seen and few could stand to look upon. Right now that face tightens; rancid gore coats the interior as he hisses. The papers are copies of Soulstone supply wagons’ cargo hauls from the mines. They prove that the supplies being taken out are far in abundance of what is being put into circulation. It proves the Guild is manipulating the Soulstone trade in their favor and willfully gouging the market by faking a shortage. “This is problematic.” “You want I should take care of it fer ya?” The raspy cruel voice belongs to The Guild’s most talented Witch Hunter, Samuel Hopkins. Beneath his wide brimmed hat is a man of vampiric paleness with stringy hair and filthy features. His tiny eyes stare into the mask of the Secretary waiting, waiting like an eager dog to be set loose. “Yes Mr. Hopkins. Feel free to indulge in your specialty.” “Live fer the trade, die fer the trade Mr. Secretary.” Hopkins intones with only most religious respect. Lucius directs him through a small access in the wall and into the room where the terrorists are pasting up evidence and scrambling for their lives. “Hello ladies!” All of them scream at the sudden appearance of beast. One of them, a gorgeous red haired woman in short skirt tips her hat off and shouts a few panicked incantations. Hopkins vanishes into her hat hollering a few curses on the way. “There, that wasn’t so bad was it?” Colette tries to reassure the others. Her winning smile doesn’t last. Another explosion rips through the walls and throws them all to the ground. Bullets bit into the walls and into the flesh of showgirls. Perdita walks through the debris shooting everything that moves. Everyone runs deeper into the facility. Colette stops for a moment to deposit Hopkins a safe distance away. Turn three and four Colette shouts for the girls to place their evidence in the most visible spots possible but she can barely be heard over the sound of the Raptor’s screech. It darts through the area impossibly fast and with no hope of stopping. Colette watches the balcony above. The Governor’s Secretary stands there motionless while one his Drill Sergeant’s bellows orders to the Austringer. The bird is commanded over and over again by the Austringer’s urging and Lucius’ unspoken demand. Colette is struck over and over again by the aerial blade. There is nothing left she can do. Her Soulstones are spent and her body aches with injury. She casts a final illusion and vanishes from the facility altogether. Cassandra turns to her Coryphee who are now the target of the angry raptor’s attention. They sabotage the inner workings of the facilities drain system. It will flood with waste and draw the attention of all the passing crowds. Their evidence will be seen. “We’ve done the best we can. Let’s go before…” “Sing me a song pretty girl…” Sameal Hopkins steps from the shadows and fires. The bullet strikes Cassandra and her entire body engulfs in flames. Pain. Completely all encompassing pain seizes her. Her suffering echoes through the refinery and into the night. The screaming woman slams into walls and pillars as she leaps from the window. The Duet catch the next rounds, their metal limps giving way under the heat and their soft outer layers combusting. He watches them crumble to ash while trying to escape. Perdita, with confiscated purses in hand, joyfully steps up the steps of the scaffolding and stops beside The Secretary. Her winning smile plastered over her perfect face. Her skin shimmers with red dust and the aroma of perfume. She leans over surveying the damage and fishing for Lucius to same something. He says nothing. “So, I smell nice huh?” She asks while tryingto draw attention to her lips. They too have a fresh application of some of the treasures she’s looted from the Performers. For a moment the only sound is Ukridge’s favorite Raptor Skyclaw ripping at some burnt flesh that it brought back to the metal deck. “You smell like a latrine.” Lucius finally answers, still without looking at her. “Fetch the headless corpse and the incapacitated straggler. Hang them from the lamp posts outside.” Perdita mocks his assessment of her perfumes as she heads down to the Refinery floor to prepare the gristly reminders of the Guild’s Supremacy. Turn five and six Lucius taps his cane on the scaffolding. “Secure this building. I want work teams in here to scour away every shred of evidence. Corden it off for blocks and pull every shred of evidence you find.” He rubs at his temples and sighs. “This is very aggravating.” Results Guild completes Raid and Stake a claim for six points total Showgirls complete sabotage and plant evidence for six points DRAW GAME :tea::perdita:colette:lucius:tea:

Thanks Stern. Appreciate the comments a lot.

(My Guild Guards meeting their boss for the first time. Enjoy) The Pinnacle. Isabella Flood takes it all in at once, her eyes analyze every stone and groove for clues as to its construction and origin. She scans the floor and its tarnished dust covered marble for signs of traffic. The long unused candelabra hold ashes and little else. Above her the chandelier light flickers as soulstone energy trickles along frayed wires and into the bulbs. Slowly the device stabilizes and casts its light through dingy glass on the interior of Pinnacle. She sees it now in all its gothic glory. The Pinnacle’s interior is majestic, almost cathedral like in a way but more than anything else it reminds her of a crypt. Finery left unused and splendors at the mercy of time and elements. It’s not entirely what she expected. “Does anyone else work here?” Andrew Teale asks the Pinnacle’s Chamberlain Galen Klypse. Klypse is a short man fond of heavy robes the color of rancid blood. His pallor, like that of all of the city’s long term citizens, is waxen and languid. Beady eyes with a glossy sheen admire the healthy color of Teale’s flesh. His bloated lips puff and pucker at the thought of his vitality, his health, squeezed out and rendered down into Soulstone energy. He hasn’t tasted the lifelight of a healthy man in some years. The idea of it is intoxicating. Galen Klypse smiles “Mr. Teale I assure you the Pinnacle is filled with the most loyal of staff who answer the call of his most beneficent Governor-General with haste and fervor. He is not lacking in bodies to call upon.” He gestures to the long dark halls and spiraling staircases of the Pinnacle’s interior. “These halls hold your co-workers and contemporaries. Guild Guard barracks are found outside of the Pinnacle in Ram’s Rule but here you’ll are all the most precious servants of the Governor. This place…” Klypse seems to breath in the moment as if assessing the aroma of fine spirits “is the heart of Malifaux. It beats with the soul of dedicated minds and relentless efforts.” Porter Craven shakes rain from his coat while searching for his lighter and cigars. He takes a moment to light it while his eyes fix on the little troll of a man before them. He’s spoiled, inside and out. That’s Craven’s assessment. “We have an appointment. You mind seein’ that we make it on time?” “Of course Mr. Craven. Punctuality is one of Lord Matheson’s favored qualities. Please follow me and do not wander.” Klypse waves to the staircase. The others follow the little imp as he ascends the stairs and boldly steps into the darkness waiting there. Isabella runs her hand over the wooden banisters. They’re polished and free of nicks but she can’t place exactly what type of tree they belonged to. She notes the gilded décor and the paintings of beautiful courtly, pale looking women that stare at her through cobwebs and dust. “And this ugly little trinket?” Andrew Teale pauses a moment to admire a hideous little statue on a ledge. It’s Egyptian, like a tiny Pharaoh carved from ebony and veined with jade. Its hands are skeletal and limbs thin. It sits enthroned upon a dais of skulls staring at them through a smooth blank death mask with not a feature on it. The Chamberlain stops, suppressing the agitation caused by this delay. He turns to them “That is an effigy a figure known only as The Black Pharaoh. The cult like figure from the Old Kingdom period whom worshipped a Faceless God that dwelled in the darkness between worlds… or so it is said. He and his followers were all burnt to death by Pharaoh’s sorcerers for heresy and rebellion. The Governor’s Secretary appreciates the statue. He enjoys the Black Pharaoh’s sense of vision and ambition. I guess you can say he likes his work. Please, do hurry.” Porter Craven falls behind a bit to look over the statue. He meets the gaze of the tiny figure’s alien stare. Two specks of something sickening and yellow form the eyes behind the mask. They bleed a wickedness that Craven never thought possible for a piece of stone. Finally he breaks away from its stare and rejoins the others. They walk the halls of the upper levels of the Pinnacle till they stop before a set of doors. Heavy dark wood with coiling sinister spirals etched into the grain. Their eyes wander the interweaving paths instinctively searching for an end to the maze work. There is no end; they only sink deeper and deeper into the designs. Their minds are saved only by the shake of the doors as the Chamberlain opens them wide and gestures inside. Teale’s seen the personal quarters of many wealthy men. Many. But this is very different and yet very familiar. The walls are painted a bone color and lined with book shelves each packed with tomes of considerable age. Hanging above is another chandelier and this one’s energy is stable but dim. Much dimmer than in the entranceway. The embers of light reflect off old suits of armor from across the continents of Earth. Beams dance over swords and master works of musket and rifle. There are works of art that belong in museums and more odd little idols here and there. Teale observes that along with art and relics there are mirrors. Many of them and all fine art in their own right. He wonders about the vanity of their employer. Isabella notes as many of the ugly crafts as possible. A faceless winged Sphinx, a figure clad in yellow vestments with gnarled crown and pallid mask, and then there are things she can’t put words to. Things that her language doesn’t have the capacity invoke verbally but whose existence poisons the mind as it searches for answers. Craven looks to the back balcony as unnatural lightening illuminates the room and bleak winds blast the crimson curtains inward like flutters of viscera bleeding into the room. Between the curtains is a desk of dark almost black wood. Its top is decorated in orderly fashion with ink wells, parchment, a hand mirror with golden framing and a small lamp. The chair, high backed and immaculate, is empty. Teale gestures with a nod to something on the balcony in the dark and obscured by currents of red cloth. The shape holds something in its hand, a shape that it stares down at. Its head swivels to take in the storm. The Watchers flock outside the window and fall upon the city below. The figures presses the shape in its hands to its face before stepping past the red billows and into the room. The Chamberlain smiles a wide sickening grin. Isabella looks at the grotesque happiness spilling over Klypse’s fat face and wonders how it’s possible for a man’s lips to stretch so wide without ripping. “The Governor’s Secretary, the honorable and beneficent Lucius Matheson of Malifaux.” The trio stares at a figure standing stiff against the breeze. They stare into the eyes of tarnished mask who’s only detail are eye slits. The only part of his face is horrible eyes that no healthy human should possess. His boots click on the marble floor as he takes perfect graceful steps toward them. His jacket is fastened tight and immune to the buffets of wind that the storm throws in. His cane taps the floor forcing a halt to his stride. Space and silence separate the earth siders from the Governor’s Secretary. “Wine, Chocolate?” The voice from behind the mask has a whisper like quality to it but spoken at full volume. Its soft, cultured, deliberate. Those two words are not at all what the trio expected and their minds race to catch up. Klypse’s lips pucker into a frown at the sudden quiet from the nearly arrived. “His Lordship’s collection of spirits and confectionaries are the best Malifaux has to offer and they contain seasonings that are absent Earthside.” Though all the ingredients here have a comparable flavor to something found back home, save for one… Soulstone. Klypse loves the way it flavors his foods. It adds the warmth of cinnamon to the tongue and a tingle like electricity courses down the throat. Isabella and Teale politely decline. Craven ignores the offer. “So you’re the one who offered us the job? Why don’t you tell us about that if you don’t mind?” Lucius hands Porter a brass ash tray from his desk. Porter notes the man’s hands are hidden by dingy white gloves that run up his sleeves. Craven takes the man in and marvels at the strange inconsistencies. He seems concerned with debris and dirt but not those caused by age, only by the living. “Yes… the offer of employment.” Lucius savors the request. “The offer is simple Mr. Craven. My Elite Division needs men and women such as yourselves. Inquisitive, courageous and bold. We need fresh blood. Each of your reputations precedes you. With my Elite Division you will be joining locals from Malifaux and from the Guild Guard to pursue the enemies of the Soulstone trade and persecute them to the fullest extent of your ability and my… creativity. In my service you will be made wealthy, powerful and you will be feared.” “So, we’ll be police?” Teale questions. Isabella corrects him “More like investigators and problem solvers it would seem.” “Indeed Ms. Flood. You will be your own masters beholden only to me and I assure you I offer a very long leash. The Governor’s city is filled with dissidents, madmen and terrorists all of whom disrupt the trade of Soulstone which both my city and Earth have grown very accustomed to having. In my service you become heroes to two worlds. The fate of nations rests in your hands. Earthside has never offered such a sweet opportunity has it?” Craven shakes his head, his voice as stern as possible “And how can we refuse?” Though it doesn’t sound like much of a question at all. Lucius glares into the eyes of Craven and his companions. Lord Matheson’s eyes have a way of slithering into their souls and worming about. Nothing about his eyes is pleasant. “Yes… how can you refuse.” The secretary’s words cannot be mistaken as a question. “This truly is a unique opportunity Mr. Craven.” Teale says with great excitement “I do not intend on passing it up. Care to embrace the best that destiny has to offer Isabella?” She nods in agreement. “Please Lord Matheson, sign us up.” Klypse takes out two legal documents from a ledger near one of the bookcases. “Shall I bring a third Mr. Craven?” “Hell, why not? I don’t have much to lose do I?” “Excellent Mr. Craven. We are blessed to have you on board.” Lucius says as he begins back toward the balcony. Behind his mask he smiles at Craven’s ignorant statement. “Mr. Klypse please take care of the contracts and then bring our agents to meet their team.” “I live for the Trade Lord Matheson.” Teale recites back the salutatory phrase for the first time. Lucius pauses at the edge of the balcony entrance. “Yes Mr. Teale… Live for the Trade.” He steps forth into the raging tempest outside and embraces the chaos. “Die for the Trade.” His words swallowed by the storm.

So rather terrible pictures of a Governor's Proxy. I like it, I wish you all could see it better. But he's grimy and pale and icky like the rest.

(Next installment for Get To Know My Guild Crews. Pleae, feel free to read up and drop a comment. If you like it, check out the others. This means i've completed Watcher, Three Guild Guards and an Austringer all set in my rather ghoulish hellscape vision of Malifaux. Enjoy) Storm wracked skies split as thunder breaks through the heavens and bleed strange lightening across the unnatural darkness. Rain falls hard and each icy droplet penetrates the skin of those on the water slicked streets below. Everything with nerves enough to feel flees for the cover of umbrella, awning or shelter. Hardware System functionality… optimal. Cogitator… optimal. Soulstone reserves… 88% Thoughts in the rain, cold thoughts concerned only with task and function. Thoughts programmed into a metal mind and fueled with the life light found inside the Soul Stones circulate despite the downpour. These thoughts have no flesh to feel with and no instinct telling them to seek the safety of a warm building or the cover provided by an overhang. These thoughts watch from the highest point in the city, The Pinnacle. They watch skin and bone below with a passionless eye and feel nothing for the scattering masses. Lightening unfolds overhead in a spider’s web of energy. It reflects off the Pinnacle’s spire and off the body that hosts these apathetic thoughts. Thick encarmine wings of reinforced canvas and steel connect to a brass body with crooked legs and spindly proportions. The maker’s aesthetic was avian but not artistically so but in function. This thing is made to be light weight, to be utilitarian and relentless. Beauty is never a consideration for the Guild’s Construct Quarry. From its thin neck a conical head hangs motionless while its blood red wings are folded to its side. It sits; bat like on its wings and tiny legs, looking down on the street leading into Ram’s Rule. Only a coach travels it now. Nothing else braves the rain and for good reason. With the rain comes the rats. Its single red eye lens focuses through the rain, switching through filter after filter till the best view is found. Through the windows of the coach it can see the occupants. Cogitator accessing Heliographic records… identities found. Isabella Flood Andrew Teale Porter Craven All expected. But those thoughts are not entirely without emotion. The machine is powered by soul energy and that has a way of seeping into the logic engines of a construct and tainting them. The Watcher is disappointed. It wanted to signal the Pinnacle’s cannons see the coach cratered into the streets or to send a message to the Guild Guard and watch an execution. The fuel that flows through its circuits and hoses has been processed and refined by the Guild’s best but no matter purified the stone is they just can’t manage to pull all the hate from it. Sometimes that becomes a problem. Resume Patrol It cranes its head to the left and then to the right. More Watchers on both sides. They cling to architecture and grip ledges of the Pinnacle. There are dozens of them cluttered up here. Countless red eyes staring into the storm. A murder of tiny intrusive hates that will exist as long as they have fuel and function. There is no escaping the eyes of the Guild. The command is passed on to every one of the mechanical creatures. They spread their wings and ignite their propulsion packs. Each one echoes the sentiment hammered into their cogitators by the craftsmen of the Quarry as they descend upon Malifaux. Live for the Trade, Die for the Trade

New addition to the guild and the first construct i've ever done.

A good bit of writing with an excellent repetitive element that drives home the point of the piece. My only criticism would be that it takes a number of lines to figure out who the speaker is. For a short story I prefer to know who the speaker is as soon as possible. I would start it by saying something along the lines of "This story begins with a girl, as most good stories do. I'm that girl and this story doesn't have a happy ending." and then follow with everything else. Otherwise i do like it a lot and i hope you get feedback from others. Its notoriously tough to get a lot of comments in this section of the forum. Believe me i know, my stuff has very little commentary.

Thank you sir, i appreciate that you read it and even more that you dropped a comment.

Thank you.

The Runaway has a reputation for being a place to get a very cheap meal and watered down whisky. It’s also known as a place to go where no one will be looking. It’s a place to get lost in. Inside the dimly lit pub is a cascade of shadows with a rare few illuminations coming from candles on the tables. It’s a sizable place with only half a dozen patrons. The bar has is lined with stools, some wobbly and missing pieces of their frames. The bottles behind the bar are mostly empty and their labels peeling. The bartender is as deteriorated as his bottles, pale skinned, thinned hair and with scars crisscrossing his hands. A table of three occupies the west end of the Runaway. Nelly Dunn, a thin young woman with dark hair tied tightly behind her head. She wears the plainest clothes possible today, much more dower than her usual attire… a show girl’s dress. Jonas Tott is the most significant presence at the table. He’s a heavy man in earth stained clothes. His derby barley fits his fat head, his shoe seems strain, his jacket stitching fails. His a big man feared by most of the mine workers he’s in charge of. Tott knows a lot about the flow of Soul Stone, too much for a man with so many vices and so little cash. Professor Garret Hillard sits at the table with notebook open and pencil furiously scratching away Tott speaks. He misses none of Tott’s information, everything is absorbed and translated from word to written scribble, just as he does for Victor Ramos. He serves Doctor Ramos as a loyal and diligent aide and that includes today. To speak with this obese mess of a labor force leader who knows all the comings and goings of Guild Soulstone supply wagons. “Slow down, slow down Mr. Tott. You said pick up is what time on Wednesday and how many Guild men operate that wagon?” Tott sighs “Late. After ten and there’s usually seven guys. Big guys too cause the loads are heavy.” Tott says. Agitation is very clear in his mannerisms. He wants to be done with this and be on his way. He has money to spend. These Arcanist terrorist had script to spend and he’s trying to spill his secrets as fast as possible. The ladies of Silken Row are too tempting to leave alone and bars with better whisky are calling to him. Nelly smiles, trying to ease Tott’s agitation with a pretty face. She needs to keep him talking. The more he talks, the more successful their raids on Guild targets can be. Tott softens his tone and continues spilling secrets for a moment or so but all of them hush as a grating hiss and metallic click cut the silence. A table at the far end of their dining area churns with a wisps of smoke pierced by a little red glow. Someone’s there, a man in heavy black duster with wide brimmed hat hiding his face fills a chair. His body looms over the table; the size of it is dominating. The cigar in his mouth glows. He tucks away his silver lighter and soaks in the darkness. The moment passes and Tott continues with his information. The scratching of the Professor’s pencil takes over the quiet. Tott talks and talks with seemingly no end to what he knows. Nelly can’t believe how this simple mess of a human being can be so deep into the Guild Soulstone trade. Again the grating noise grips the room and a shiver runs down their spine. The man at the far side plays with his lighter again, the fire held close to his face. It shows a vein strangled face and yellowed eyes set in a blockish head. Half the face is pale and corpse like. The other half is slathered in thick crimson painted fashioned vaguely like a skull with white smears for teeth. The man at the far side laughs. Tott scratches his head “You two know this guys?” His question is answered when Nelly and Garret leap from their seats, both of them drawing pistols. “Hugo Black!” Garret screams as he grips the table edge and tips it for cover. Tott snaps his head back to the man at the far side. He’s stomping down the aisle with revolver’s raised. The one thing he didn’t expect is for the weapons to be pointed directly at him. “Wh… no! Why?” Tott scrambles out of his chair and to the ground. “The Guild says you’re fired Mr. Tott.” “No!” Tott’s chest is spattered by blood as two shots from the heavy guns rip him open. He slumps dead against the table. Nelly fires, her shots fly wide and dig into the wooden posts and chair backs to Black’s left. Garret takes a more careful aim and with steady grip he pulls the trigger. Black’s big frame jerks as a shot catches him in the chest but the small caliber weapon does little damage. Thick syrupy blood trickles down Hugo’s chest. He feels little pain. Malifaux has thoroughly infected this man through and through. “I get paid for Tott. Guild gets ya corpses fer free.” Hugo’s pistol flashes several times in the darkened bar. The sound of Black's guns is deafening. The only thing the Professor can liken they to is the mechanical click of machines in Ramos's lab and the backfire of his engines at the start up. Garrett hears a heavy thump long before his eyes catch up. Nelly stares at him from the floor, a hole carved through her face and chest. “Hugo!” Garret calls “Arcanist money is just as good as Guild script! We can pay you too! You’re not a guardsmen! You have no loyalty to the Governor. They locked you up remember! Work with us!” Black rushes up on the table and throws his boot into the side. The force of the blow sends Garret to his back with head spinning. The only thought on his mind is Doctor Ramos. He failed the Doctor. His hand scrambles for the gun that was dropped from his grip but he can’t find it. “Guild locked me up that’s true.” Garret looks up and his eyes lock with the dead orbits of Black. “But I ain’t sore about it. I love killin’ and I got lots o’ that done in the lock up. Now they want me ta kill fer on the streets. All you got ta offer is money.” The red skull leers down at him. “Don’t do this! We need this information!” Hugo Black’s laughter is slow and deliberate. He stands over the Professor with revolvers slowly rising. He relishes ever drop of fear in the man’s eyes. “I love the way you lookin at me.” Black smiles before shredding Garret with bullet fire. Black watches a blanket of red billow out around the Professor. He reaches down to pull out a blood soaked wallet. He pulls a wad of Guild script out and throws it over the bar counter on his way out. The money falls on the corpse of the bartender, a blade wound having nearly severed the man’s head from his neck. “Sorry fer the mess.” Hugo Black takes a moment to look at the Runaway. The place is filled with corpses now, each life ended quietly and quickly while he crept in on his primary target. He can’t help but love the idea of so much death having played out silently. It’s hilarious to him actually. He can’t hold back the laughter. “Live fer the trade! Die fer free!”