Snippet

This snippet of writing belongs at the point where the group first arrives at Kara's house, before the discussion of what to do, before James got bored and walked out back, and before the firefight that would eventually redecorate her house took place.  James uses Kara's old rotary phone to call his security specialist, Delia.

    I picked up the receiver of Kara's antique-looking rotary phone, smirking, and dialled Delia's number. Whiirr, click-click.  Whiiiirrrr, click-click-click.  Took me back to my childhood days for a moment.

    "Devereaux," said a confident female voice on the other end of the line.

    "Delia," I said without preamble, "I need you to go to a couple locations and scout them out for me."

    There was a shuffling sound as she got hold of a paper and pen.  "D'accord," she replied, "Quels addresses?"

    I gave her the two addresses.  "The first one is an apartment building that was burned down last night.  Just cruise on by and make note of whether there's activity there: fire, police, whatever.  The second one is the residence of a man who may be quite dangerous.  I want you to scope out the area, get the layout of the place.  Determine, if you can, if anybody's at home.  But don't let anybody see you, Del.  Stay out of sight."

    "Of course," she said petulantly, as if I were telling her that in order to avoid getting wet she shouldn't stand out in the pouring rain.

    "I'm serious, Del," I insisted, "this guy's reportedly as dangerous as I am.  Maybe more so.  I dunno; I ain't met 'im yet."

    Her musical chuckle drifted down the staticy old phone line to my ears.  "I will be careful, Zhames," she assured me.  "'Ow can I collect my paysheque if I am killed in ze line of duty, eh?"

    I smiled. "Just watch yer pretty ass, alright?  Oh, and you won't be able t'reach me at my usual number.  When I get a new number, later this morning, I'll phone you for a report."

    "D'accord."

    "Fais gaffe á toi," I told her.  "I don't wanna have t'go lookin' fer a new security specialist, now."

    "Toi aussi, Zhames," she returned.  "I don't want to need a new boss."  She paused, and I could hear her bright grin in the momentary silence.  "Or a new mec."

    "Feh, y'got enough, don't'cha?" I snorted.  Delia's other romantic partners were a source of friction between us.

    "None like you."

    "You'd be wise t'keep that in mind.  Now go do yer job."

    "Oui, monsieur," she said crisply, and hung up.

2010 notes dump

We're back at table playing Dresden again, and it seems I failed to convert the remainder of my notes to narrative.  In the interest of keeping the notes available for reference and perusal, I'm gonna drop them in here, straight out of my notebook.  Okay, with a little cleaning up for clarity.

12 June '10 (game date Sat 30 Oct '10)

BLACK creates a black tear in space -- it's unraveling.  This is happening behind James so he's not seeing it.  Tentacle grabs BLACK and pulls him into the rift.  Voice whispers, "Bring me the khatvanga ... and kill the wolf!"  Voice carries throughout warehouse.  Zombies come running out, we hear tribal drums coming out of the rift.  James makes it out (Fate Point for "New Leaf").  Trench Coat springs off loading dock; his coat splits into wings; he flies upward + away -- James sees his shadow.  Big wolf grabs the khatvanga from behind -- James shoots at him and misses.  Wolf runs around the corner, nodding to James to follow.  Gets into Mike's car, James follows.  Wolf changes to Gallatin.  Back to Mike's apartment.

-- new scene -- about 4 pm to Mike's

Discussion over destination of Khatvanga -- Gallatin: should be destroyed, but I need help to destroy the snake from the rift.  Gallatin doesn't want to give the khatvanga to his boss -- too dangerous.  Weres threatening...

James reveals his consequences and description of his client.  He's told he's made a bargain with a Faerie + has essentially sold his soul to her.

~ 9pm Alvin comes back, wrecks door, failsafe goes off - 90 seconds.  Alvin, Gallatin, Maeve, Kara through portal, James and Mike out front -- Mike drives off.  James jumps on car.  Building detonates.

------------
19 June '10 (GD Sat 30 Oct '10)

Mike and James head back to apartment site.  45 min -- find nothing.  Everyone probably atomised.  Get home @ 10:30, meeting Mike @ 12 midnight.


INFO from Reg:
Klaus Mannheim - German bounty hunter - French Foreign Legion and Afghanistan.  Reg says: he's in town, possibly with four others.  Landing at 11pm.  Using alias "Klaus Donner"

(summary of James' options)
* trade something for the boon I owe her
* trade something to someone she owes to something [should be owes something to?]
* join group who will vouch for him (from Accords) and bring a grievance - fight duel?
* misrepresentation - go on quest: succeed and go free

Mike found Swiss account (Zurich) and law firm that manages it.
6 month contract: consultation for security purposes - 25k over 6 months, 100k per security breach incident.  Mike hired!

weapon purchases, checked into hotel.  2 am - James goes home and sleeps.  6 hours, then meets Mike at a local diner. [This was the original plan, but:]

Actually... rest of party arrives at James' house just as he's getting ready for bed.

[Contents of briefcase?] fate rope, dragon blood, philosopher's stone, ambrosia - in case, ring -> luck: given to Kara

---------
26 Jun 2010 (GD 31 Oct 2010)

03:30: Leave msg for Mike -- Mike arrives without briefcase.  Someone offered him 5 million for case -- he'll sell it to us for 150K (from Kara).  James guarantees ayment, Mike brings briefcase. 

Kara and Maeve suggest we start with the ambrosia.  Who are we offering this to and where are they?    We don't know who James dealt with.

Mike's using James' computer to research Tony's "parlours".  He wants to disrupt Tony's business -- thinks his contact works for him.

Maeve's worried - Kara spread sand in a circle, whips out a knife -- asks for ring; James gives it to her -- she stabs herself in the hand and slams her hand down on the circle.  James watching astonished.  Kara's concentrating.  Something explodes outside.   Guy smashes in through Girard window (smashing on 28th St too).  Alvin runs to Girard window and smashes guy up against wall (KO'd).  Guy pokes around bedroom doorway with wand.  James grabs coffee table .45 and drops wand guy.  Sean heads for the bedrom.  Mike-cat heads out into hall/stairway.  Maeve tears into bedroom - fire in there now.  Also: weapons in closet.  Alvin jumps out window.  James runs into bedroom w/fire extinguisher and starts putting out fire.  Sean comes in and swings sword at guy.  Cat screams from hallway.  Gallatin comes smashing in through living room wall (street side).  Guy with fire SINGES me from kitchen.  I shoot him but he doesn't go down.  Maeve runs past with fire extinguisher.  I shout, "Grab the briefcase!" Cat runs by and grabs briefcease and leaps out hole in wall.  Gallatin offers to help, I give him ammo chest and we all exit.  Get out in time to see portal closing on Alvin's back -- he's lunging at an unseen someone.

Mike + Alvin come back out through portal.  Mave checks on bad guys and suddenly lunges at Alvin with her sword.  James grabs briefcase and makes for portal (Alvin opened again). 

James follows Maeve, Mike, Alvin through portal -- Mike chomps khatvanga, Alvin drops it when Maeve almost chops off his arm.  Gallatin brings ammo trunk.  Maeve comes in last.  Mike gives James the khatvanga.  Boss!
It's winter here.  No shirt, no shoes.

Scene break!

Events of Friday, 29 October 2010

From May 28th's session, actually detailling events that happened the following session. At some point I'll collect all this and put it the right order or something.

I paired up with Mike, the cat-person, and asked him to wake me in four hours. I wanted the second watch, so I could be up and at 'em, ready to hit the pavement as soon as it was light. Despite the bizarre incidents of the evening I managed to not shove my pistol in his face when he came to wake me.

In that dead quiet that falls in the few hours before dawn, I contemplated my situation. I was on the hook for this sceptre for my client, who had threatened to basically hand me over to a local bounty hunter if I failed to return the thing to her. Not for the first time, I regretted not showing her pretty ass out the door. She'd only made the threat after I'd agreed to find the sceptre, the bitch.

Tony had given up the information on Augie far too readily, and without a flicker of surprise at the fact I was looking for some ancient bone stick thing. Of course, the assassins who'd come gunning for Augie had put a serious hurt on me as well. To a soldier, in a situation like that, a target's a target. Someone's in your way, you knock 'em down. Simple. It's business. But Tony had sent those thugs, and that was a bit more than just business. He'd known I was looking for the sceptre because I had come asking about it. I had my suspicions that he had arranged for the cute little 'drug bust' that had descended on us at Kara's flat like a flight of steel-clad vultures. Tony was definitely on my list of people to have a serious chat to once all this crazy shit settled out.

And the woman who was my client had been wrong in all kinds of ways. She'd never given me her name, nor a contact number. I mentally kicked myself for the umpteenth time for accepting this job. I'm not a private eye. I don't find things for a living. I kill things for a living, generally. Why had I gone so willingly into such a questionable contract?

I paused a moment to remember the sight of her as she flowed into my office that morning. Hell, had it only been that morning that this had all begun? She had an unearthly beauty that had seized my attention immediately. She was mesmerising. She was exotic. She was probably one of these crazy faery elf neverneverland bozos Kara and the others had been discussing. If they were even real. But that woman was unlike anything I'd ever seen before, and it's not as if I've not seen beautiful women before. I once had occasion to dance with a Russian princess at a gala fete in Rostock-- now there was a rare beauty. Gossamer white hair framing a heart-shaped face set with piercing ice-blue eyes, a gown the colour of the early morning frost clinging to blades of grass, and the subtlest of touches that could make a man --

I was getting off the track here. Whoever this woman was, she was odd. Beautiful no doubt, but not your average female type person. She was, I realised, merely the first in a long series of odd people I'd made the tentative acquaintance of today. Yesterday. Whatever.

And these people I was holing up with. It's not as if I've not hidden out with oddballs before, in the name of survival, but these -- well, I suppose an inventory is in order.

There's Mike, the tall kid who changes into a jaguar. He changes. Into a jaguar. No special effects. No lights, no sound tapes, just a fucking jaguar.

There's Alvin, the big cop. 'Big' is not a big enough word for Alvin; he's the largest man I have ever seen. Easily seven and a half feet tall and built like a fallout bunker, he's a fan of shooting first and making demands later. To call him a loose cannon does disservice to any of the loose cannons I've known over the years, and believe me, there've been more than a few. Despite this trait, he seems to be very dedicated to enforcing the law. I'll have to be careful not to act too much like a felon in front of him lest he decide it's prudent to remove my arms from their sockets and wave in the jets at the airport with them or something.

There's the weird fellow who must've put a bug on me or Kara's burnt-out flat, as he claimed to have heard, from the street, a conversation I had while I was inside said flat. He's still with the group, so as long as I can keep an eye on him I don't really have to worry about whether or not I'm personally bugged. I'll have Delia check me over when this mission is finished. That, at least, will be relaxing. And enjoyable.

Kara is the woman whose home we unintentionally redecorated whilst attempting to not get killed tonight. Her front room looks like a slaughterhouse. I personally decorated her grandfather clock with one of the thugs' brains. The killing of the thug was intentional - the fact his grey matter splattered on the clock was not. Honestly, I don't go out of my way to cause secondhand destruction. It just seems to work out that way. Anyhow, Kara, from what I'm being told, is someone around whom electronics tend to fail, and fail catastrophically. She has an old-fashioned rotary dial phone, and I didn't see a single piece of electronic equipment in the place. No stereo, no television, not even a digital alarm clock. I wonder if she's the reason my mobile has been on the fritz all night.

There's Maeve, a woman with a sword. And also Sean, a bloke with a sword. And guns. At least the bloke has guns. I feel like I'm in a travelling circus.

They were all yakking on this evening about how scary and evil this sceptre-thing is and how we have to keep this court or that court or these bad guys or Mickey bloody Mouse or whoever from getting their hands on it. It was more or less at that point that I decided to take a smoke break.

Now, ordinarily, I'm on my guard when I step out of a building which backs onto a wood. Today being what it was, however, I was more concerned with finding and hotwiring one of the police cars we'd taken from the earlier scene and getting the hell away from these people. Not one of them was what you'd call normal, and they were all dangerous, even if only inasmuch as they were certifiably insane. Magic. Faeries. Pfeh.

So it took me completely by surprise when I heard the familiar 'crack!' of a high-powered rifle being fired from a distance and the experienced the distinctive but unpleasant feeling of a rifle round impacting my chest. A centimetre to the left and I'd be a dead man, shot straight through the heart. As it was I was certain I'd bruised a rib.

I noticed the tell-tale red dots of laser sights on my chest and dropped to the ground immediately. At the same time a deafening roar, similar to the one I'd heard earlier in the evening, rang out. I hoped it was Mike and that the smell of my blood hadn't made him hungry.

Session Four: The Warehouse

Thirty minutes before the appointed time, ten men in black BDUs and military gear entered through the front doors and the rear garage doors. They came in silently, professionally. They took up positions in much the same way as we had when we'd entered -- climbing the stacks of crates or hiding behind them in order to lay in wait, presumably for the buyer and/or seller. I studied them as they set up. They were carrying World War II-era rifles, probably M1s. That made no sense. Why would a well-equipped group like this -- they were wearing modern body armour and carrying modern gear -- tote fifty-plus year old weapons? Was anybody involved in this deal sane?

Twenty minutes later, three guys in black tees and green camo pants entered through the three windows at the top of the side wall. These guys, at least, came properly armed: each held a Kalashnikov rifle. They perched at the top of the wall and waited.

At precisely fifteen hundred hours, a man in a business suit and dark jacket came in the front doors. He had a briefcase in his hand and he walked to the center of the warehouse and stopped. Thirty seconds later a man in a trench coat stepped out from behind a stack of crates and moved to stand opposite him.

Where the hell had he come from? We were here two hours early and there was no one here when we arrived.

Trench Coat and the man with the briefcase, whom I suspected was none other than Frank Black, come to purchase his very expensive stick, exchanged some brief words on the subject of the sale. Black opened his briefcase to reveal a pack of cash and a few other items -- a ring, a few small bottles, some rope. Trench Coat seemed satisfied with the contents of the case. Weirdos. Sooner I got this sceptre to my client, the sooner I could wash my hands of the lot of them.

There was a deafening bang as Alvin ripped open the crate he and one of the others was hiding in. The hunk of metal, eight feet long and at least three feet wide, flew across the warehouse like a rectangular frisbee, missing Trench Coat, who didn't even flinch, and causing Black to step back to avoid being clipped by it.

"What's this all about?" asked Black, glaring past Trench Coat toward Alvin. Trench Coat was obviously the seller, so I trained my weapon on him.

On the ground, the other fellow in the crate stepped out, a pair of revolvers in his hands. He brought them to bear on Trench Coat. "Drop the sceptre!"

Trench Coat looked up at Alvin. "There's no need for violence, officer," he said calmly. Then he looked into the rafters, right at Maeve, who was hiding there and hadn't made a move nor a sound. "I don't have time to settle a family dispute right now. Come down or leave."

Family dispute? I didn't know much about the motives of most of these people, but if Maeve's family were selling the Khatvanga, maybe she knew more than she was letting on. Was there anybody in this group who hadn't lied to me?

Alvin grabbed Trench Coat by his collar and hoisted him effortlessly off the ground. "Drop the Khatvanga," he rumbled.

Trench Coat responded by giving the case with the sceptre a sharp flick. He tossed the case aside as the sceptre fell, plucking the Khatvanga from the air gracefully.

Several of us were jolted into action at the sight of that sceptre in Trench Coat's hand. Maeve dropped down from the rafters, sword in hand, and attempted to take Trench Coat's hand off at the wrist. He made a near-imperceptible movement and blocked the blow with the sceptre, which sparked as if it were made of metal. Alvin, apparently annoyed that his order hadn't been obeyed, used his other gartanguan hand to snap Trench Coat's right arm. I heard the sound from where I was hidden. Trench Coat maintained his grip on the sceptre, but he looked somewhat pained.

I had Trench Coat in my sights. He was distracted, and he still held the sceptre. Though I wasn't a sniper, per se, I had taken shots like these dozens of times before. My crosshairs held steady over Trench Coat's heart. I took in a slow breath, held it, then released it as I depressed the trigger on my rifle. It was a center-of-mass strike, a dead-on hit. It was a hit that would have dropped just about anybody. Well, maybe anybody but Alvin. But Trench Coat didn't drop. Even wearing body armour, he ought to have felt that. If he did, he gave little outward sign. He didn't even look up at me.

Frank Black, probably annoyed that he wasn't the center of attention, and wasn't getting the goods he'd expected, shouted, "I'm getting tired of this." He waved his hand in a 'move forward' gesture. "KILL THEM!"

Gunfire erupted from every direction. I saw the fellow who'd been with Alvin in the crate try to smash Black over the head with one of his revolvers. Who taught these people how to fight, anyway? To my surprise, the gun deflected loudly off ... the air, it seemed, in front of Black. It looked as if he were standing out in the heat in the middle of summer -- the air shimmered in front of him, but only in front.

A couple of bullets cracked into the crate I was perched on, and I rolled aside just in time to avoid being hit. Alvin, still holding Trench Coat, took a couple rounds and, releasing his grip, toppled over backward like a felled tree. I anticipated the vibration and sound of his impact, but he seemed to fall through the floor and vanish. Bloody weirdos. I had too much on my mind to worry about it at the time. Survive first, succeed second, worry about the damned nutjobs later.

A huge wolf leaped in from somewhere -- I certainly hadn't seen it enter -- and clamped its jaws onto Trench Coat's right arm. The gigantic head thrashed back and forth in a savage attempt to rip the limb from its socket. Trench Coat wriggled free somehow, but in the process the sceptre flew from his grasp and went skittering across the warehouse floor.

If I went down there I'd be cut to pieces. There were thirteen soldiers I knew about hiding amongst the crates, three with Kalashnikovs. Everyone's focus was on that damned stick. But if I didn't fulfil my contract...

I slung my rifle over my shoulder and bounded down from my perch on top of the crates. I rolled as I landed on the concrete floor, came up in a crouch, and scooped up the sceptre, changing course immediately to head for the front doors at a dead run. That's a poor choice of phrase, James.

As luck would have it, not everyone in the warehouse immediately opened fire on me. I think a few of them had more important matters to deal with, such as being eaten by a giant wolf or a hungry-looking panther. All the same, I did my best evasive maneuvers dance -- zigging and zagging and trying to keep my head down as much as I could to prevent it from being untimely blown off. I didn't know what was so goddamned special about this bone bloody sceptre, but I had it. I had it in my hot little hand and wasn't nobody gonna take it off me now.

I distinctly heard the sound of metal scraping, and it occurred to me that Trench Coat had had an odd-looking lump on his back, beneath his coat. Normally I don't pay much heed to wackos who tote swords around, but there had been more of them in my vicinity in the last twenty-four hours than I was used to. Two of the weirdos in this little impromptu unit carried them, and while that doesn't necessarily make them anything other than two more wackos with swords, it had made me pay more attention to such things as deadly weapons.

Anybody can swing a sword or knife around, but it takes some skill to do serious, precise, life-threatening harm with one. I'd seen evidence that our sword-toters had done such damage, back in Kara's house. Beheadings are things I don't see every day. They stick in my mind. The glazed eyes of the severed head, staring out at nothing from a face frozen in fear or anger or some other emotion. My grandmother used to say if you pull a face too often it'll stick that way. This was something rather different. I didn't want my final expression frozen, etched permanently onto my features as my disconnected head rolled off into a dusty warehouse corner.

I felt more than heard Trench Coat moving up behind me. I was twenty yards from him, at least, and he closed the distance in an instant. The situation had just gone from 'oh shit' to 'get me the fuck out of Dodge'. I threw myself to one side, twisting on my heel just enough so I could see Trench Coat's sword slice down through the space where my head had just been. I felt the breeze as it moved, distinctly heard the near-silent 'snick' as the top millimetre or two of the hair on the back of my head was shorn clear. I didn't have a level between 'get me the fuck out of Dodge' and 'you're a dead man'. I hoped there was one.

I continued to pound on toward the door, which I swear was closer before the maniac with the sword started chasing me. There was a brief rending sound which I imagined was Mike the cat, hopefully taking a chunk out of Trench Coat. But I could still feel the guy behind me. You're on your own, Sterling, the remembered voice of my Commandant from the Foreign Legion ground out in my head. You're a Legionnaire. You're the best of the best. Major Pressman from the Special Air Service chimed in, Who Dares Wins, Sterling. Yeah, yeah, I know. Sirs, if you could kindly get out of my head for just a goddamned minute, I'm trying to not die here. Thank you and merci.

Behind me, I heard muttered words. They were too far away to be Trench Coat, who was right on top of me. There was a kind of a rushing sound that filled my ears for a moment, though I wasn't sure I was actually hearing it. I had the distinct sensation that a thunderclap had just occurred, but again, I didn't really hear it so much as ... sense it had happened. Why can't people just be normal, anyway?

Session Two

A bit later...

I stepped out of the flat, my hands in my jacket pockets, and started walking down the street. I had two more addresses to check out, but it was getting late. Might be best to call it a night and try again in the morning.

A tall fellow I'd not noticed before approached me as I came out of the building. “I heard you talking about Augie up there,” he said. “What's going on?”

I scowled at him. “Who the hell're you?” I demanded. I'm not used to complete strangers striding up and talking to me like we're neighbours or something.

He didn't answer, but pressed on with more questions. “Are you looking for the khatvanga too?”

I hadn't mentioned the sceptre's strange name to Kara up in the flat building. “You were out here in the street while I was up there,” I pointed behind me, “in the flat?” He nodded. “An' you heard me talking.” Another nod. “From here.”

“Yeah,” he said. He didn't seem to think it was at all odd.

“Nobody can hear that far away, through a bloody building,” I informed him, moving away. Unless he'd put a bug on me somehow, or someone else had.

The big cop came over to me. He looked a little less close to death, but he still sported a grisly wound across his abdomen. “What's this about the sceptre?” he boomed. “Who else is looking for this thing?” He eyed me with open suspicion. “What's your part in all this?”

The tall guy had followed me and now I was sandwiched between nosy stranger and never-die cop. “It's none of your concern, mate,” I told him, flicking a glance behind me to the other fellow, so he knew he was included in the statement. “It's my business. Now if you'll excuse me.” I made to move past the cop.

I didn't hear anything that sounded like a threat, nor the sound of a weapon being readied, so I tuned him out. Mostly. He made some sort of derogatory remark about Australians, and while I'm not usually so thin-skinned as to respond to something so generic, for some reason this was just too much. I was tired of being hounded, being grilled and given the third degree by total strangers. Who the hell did they think they were, anyway? I reached out to give him a shove with my hand. I should have calculated this move based on several facts which I was all too ready to ignore: one, the cop was about seven and a half feet tall, built like a rugby player. A shove wasn't going to do anything but annoy him. Two, he had taken a wound which would kill any other man, and here he was in my face. But I was in that particular headspace, the one which has helped me get my ass handed to me on more than one occasion. Older, now, but not wiser.

The cop seized my wrist and effortlessly, almost fluidly, twisted my arm, turning me around in a classic maneuver. It didn't exactly hurt, somehow, but it wasn't comfortable. He made a mention of my sidearm, hanging under my arm in my shoulder holster, which he could now clearly see beneath my unzipped jacket.

“Alright, alright,” I conceded, realising I'd walked into a situation I couldn't talk my way out of. “I give. Lemme go.”

He released me and I took a step back from him. “Take out the gun,” he ordered tersely, “with two fingers, and put it on the ground.”

Ugh. I could replace the gun – it was a pricey European model secured in Brussels years ago – but I liked it. After a while you just get used to a particular gun; how it feels, how it fits your palm, its heft, its balance. I sighed and did as the cop said, shoving it closer to him with my foot. He let his own gargantuan foot settle over it and I must have cringed at the idea of that appendage flattening a loaded – and expensive – weapon.

“I'll just keep it safe here for you,” he said, smirking.

It was then that we heard the sirens. I figured it was the fleet of ambulances I'd requested to take the run-through cop to hospital. But I was wrong. Every police car in Philadelphia roared up to the scene, emerging from alleyways, driving up onto the sidewalk, surrounding us.

There were about six people, all total, in the area by this time, including the woman with the sword and the tall guy and the monster cop. The cops poured out of their cars and started accosting people. “Get down on the ground!” they screamed, sidearms and assault rifles levelled at us.

Now here was a situation both novel and familiar – surrounded by bad guys with big guns with no clear escape route. But this wasn't Europe, and I wasn't a Legionnaire anymore. And my only weapon, a measly forty-five, was under the big man's foot.

I hadn't done anything wrong, but that's not worth arguing when a fleet of police with high-powered weapons are screaming at you. So I put up my hands, got down on my knees. Immediately a cop came rushing over to handcuff me.

The monster cop looked puzzled, and that intrigued me. He looked even bigger from on my knees; a towering mass of muscle, blood from his belly wound staining the lower half of his uniform shirt. “What's this about?” he asked.

Narrative from Session One

Hi, guys. I keep falling behind on trying to convert my notes into story. It takes a lot longer than the old journal style I used to use and I end up doing a lot of narrative summary. I hope to expand a lot of that in rewrites.

"This guy can't keep himself outta trouble," I muttered, snapping off a few quick shots. I swore as my bullets ricocheted off the armour and off into the night. Those aren't costumes, I thought, they're real metal suits of armour! Some people will go to any lengths to impress their weird friends at Halloween.

By this time there was a small crowd approaching the cop and the knights. Most people had backed off -- run screaming, most of 'em -- but three or four people were cautiously making their way over. One woman, carrying a sword, oddly enough, was holding it out crosswise in front of her like a barrier. There was a knight standing in front of her, as if in conversation with her. I ignored them and kept firing.

The cop suddenly started to lose his balance -- he staggered and toppled as if there were an earthquake nearby. The knight nearest to him took full advantage of his disorientation and ran him through.

"Well, shit," I thought, nevertheless firing off another few rounds. "He's had it."

To my amazement, the huge cop stayed on his feet. He'd clearly been eviscerated; the sword had gone clean through his abdomen and his internals were not so internal any more. This blow had got his attention at last, though he didn't release the pistol, made to look like a child's toy in his meaty paw.

I did stare for a moment. I've seen a lot of things in my time – battlefield experience covers a lot of turf – but this was new. To see a man – a mountain of a man but still a man – run through with a sword and not crumple into a heap was not only novel but damn near impossible, to my way of thinking. Instinct guided my hand, and though my mind was reeling with sick fascination over the cop's grisly wound, my trigger finger remembered to pull and my arms made the slightest adjustment, allowing the slug to find its way between the knight's helmet and shoulder armour and bury itself in his neck. A moment later the cop punched him and he collapsed to the pavement.

This is a test of the Emergency OMG IT'S A WEREWOLF System

This is only a test.

However, there needs to be some extra text here, in order to see what things look like. So I'll go on to point out that the Dresden Files RPG is a really nifty game that is trying to take over my life. I mean, it's fun to play. That's what I meant. Ahem.

And the requisite formatting tests:

1. List
2. Items

• Other
• List
• Items

Did you know that this is a blockquote?  I'm picky about the blockquoting setup, so I test it out and stuff.

Now, the trouble is that in order to allow my gaming buddies to make their own posts in here, they have to have Google accounts.  I don't know how many of them have them or, of those who are interested in posting to here, would be willing to create one.  Hm.