[[ On a Remote Jungle Island . . . Somewhere in Shadow, Between Sukho and Cibola! ]]

It's a dreadful place with ruined structures dressed up with the bones of creatures - humanoid and otherwise - as well as an ominous tropical treeline where there is entirely more shadow than strictly necessary. . .


The procession of enormous polynesian war canoes winds its way ever closer to shore.  Of course, they're probably not the most aptly named vessels.  At least not for -this- kind of work: carrying refugees -out- of a war zone.  But calling them "Peace Canoes" somehow just doesn't sit right.  Who says that?  Well, no one.  That's who.  Obviously. That's not at all scary or intimidating at all. %RThe smallish jungle island coming into view is the first sight of land they have seen in days.  Dense, lush vegetation extends down to the beaches . . . ominous hissings and rattlings and 'caw'-ing escape from the jungle in snippets and bursts.  We . . . wouldn't say that the jungle is "not at all scary or intimidating at all."  No, we won't say that.  But, hey, it has -food-.  And that will be a concern in due course.  You can't just live in canoes, like, forever.  That would be quite limiting.  Also confining.  Which is unpleasant.  This island seems the only option for miles and miles and miles around.  So here it is that the refugees head to, in search of fresh water, provisions, and rest!

--[ Well ]-----------------------------------------------------[ idle 9s ]----
Obscured in a cloak that covers everything but the face, this six foot human is rather mundane. Her face is pale and her tangled hair is raven black. Green unblinking eyes typically look out upon the world with flat interest. A faint rustling comes from beneath the robe when movement is necessary. Her hands are slim but with fingers that are on the long side of the spectrum.
-----------------------------------------------------[ female no-chatter ]----

Little do the refugees know, but elsewhere on the island treks a band of Cibolan slavers, led here by their terrible gods to conduct a slave raid. A strange confluence of fate that led both parties here at the same time, and the refugees are certainly able to end up on the docket for the Cibolan raiders. They move silently through the jungle, more afraid of their gods than anything that would haunt this place. Sacrifices /must/ be made.


--[ Wort ]-----------------------------------------------------[ idle 3m ]----

A powerful, massive, misshapen 'person'. His hunched form bears long arms with thickly corded muscle, a barrel chest, and bowed legs. There is incongruity in his form; one arm is somewhat longer and larger than the other, and his overall musculature is asymmetrical. His hair is thick an voluminous, hanging to his knees and concealing beastial eyes and over-sized teeth.

---------------------------------[ male details no-chatter trouble-yay/5 ]----


RPG: Wort declares that he has the Hyde's Demon (EOC-HD) gift. Use '+gift EOC-HD' to view the gift description. Last edit: 8 months ago.
RPG: Wort used the following +declare targets: An Encounter with Slavers - Cibola
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Gift: EOC-HD - Hyde's Demon
Summary: Release your Id for power.
Cost: 5
Powerbits: bonus-token token-6 type-chaos type-magic
Prerequisite:
  BLK-MK TOKEN:EOC-HD
  SIGNREQ+1:EOC-HD.ALC-AL.ANI-MN.UP-BR/5.UP-CHAOS/5.UP-PHILO/5
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This character has willingly imbibed the Hyde Draught, which transforms them into a monstrous version of themselves. While so transformed, they enjoy the following benefits:
- They are not recognizable as themselves due to increased size, mass, a misshapen form, and dramatically changed voice.
- Enhanced speed, durability, and strength; they are able to consume the token for a bonus in any conflict where this matters, especially combat.
- Their Id has greater agency, freeing them of inhibitions and enhancing their baser instincts - especially violence. They may consume the token for a bonus in any conflict where can reasonably be useful.
- If the character also has BLK-SC, they can claim that gift's bonus in any conflict this token is used.
- The character bears a strong chaos taint.

Consuming the token for a bonus ensures the transformation will end by the conclusion of the scene, and afflict the character with extreme fatigue afterwards. This fatigue lasts 1 played scene for a 3 focus token, or 3 scenes for a 6 focus token. During this time, the character automatically loses any conflict requiring physical effort - especially combat - and they cannot claim any gifts or tokens of enhanced physicality including this one.

The character is responsible for their actions while transformed, both IC and OOC.

Further, a character with this gift can transform without a potion, without fatigue, and for any duration unless they consume a token for a bonus. While the transformation may hide their identity, it is explicitly discoverable as the physical transformation is consistent in its appearance. Finally, the character can be provoked into a transformation for good or for ill, as creative opponents may use it against them.
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CharGen Note
A Hyde Draught can be created, but ONLY by someone who meets the reqs to sign for someone to obtain this gift.
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Code Notes
See '+help Token Creation' (use +token/power).
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Well emerges from the canopy and rises on a thermal. The bird resembles a Philippine eagle with brown and white colored plumage, its shaggy crest flap-flapping as it climbs. A snake in its talons lashes as it experiences an agonizing death, albeit with an awesome view.



Sacrifices have been asked for. Sacrifices have been made. Everyone who's on these boats has given up a lot to get here. But, they're still alive! So far. Agonizing deaths have been averted, for them and for the time being. If just barely. And even if it's just by chance, Cale will take it. Life is life! But Cale is not a big believer in chance, when it comes right down to it. He prefers Fate. Much more reasonable. Yes. Yes, that.
Cale rests his slight and narrow frame upon the oar and exhales, slowly. His thin and spindly arms are quivering with the effort of rowing. For -days-. Maybe the people from Sukho are used to it. But, man, that is a -killer- workout. Also, the land seems to have gone all wibbly - wobbely since he last set foot on it. Oh yeah. "Sea legs." Made even worse by the fact that the 'boats' -- just big canoes, really, to be honest -- soar up and down on -every- wave. Plays havoc with the inner ear. Not to mention, with the stomach. Speaking of which . . . is there aught to eat here? Cale eyes available tropical fruits with a squinty look and a speculative eye. And Cale's -outer- ears are scanning the landscape, listening for animals. Both those that would be tasty, and well, those for whom -he'd- be a snack. It's that kind of world . . . With a sigh and a shrug and a stretch of his shoulders, Cale heads up the beach a bit, leaning on the oar for balance. Looking at this and looking at that. Hm! What a largish pile of bones . . . was Whatever-THAT-Was something good to eat? Erm. And, just out of curiosity: What -did- eat that? Something . . . bigger? Cale looks around, and Cale looks up. Cale looks for tracks, and Cale looks for monster poop. Just what kinds of critters live here?


This is where some dark god somewhere laughs. Sacrifice indeed. Poor widdle wefugees! No no darlings, that's not the kind of sacrifice that's suffices around here. The sort required HERE is the sort that means someone dies explicitly to feed some dark god's hunger. Slaves are pressed into servitude so their suffering further feeds those appetites, along with greasing the wheels of Cibola's economy.
Speaking of, those guys sent into the woods to gather food? It's been a while. A while longer than one would think necessary to scout for food.


The movement bobbing on the ocean has the eagle twisting so that it can circle like a vulture. The snake attempts some final bites at the leggy bits of the bird and then turns into a limp rubber band. The eagle shrieks out a peeling cry and twitches, suffering a twitch but remaining aloft. Sharp bird eyes flick amongst the moving water tacos and it drops the snake in favor of observing more. Sukhoti sounds like a more exotic menu selection than Cibolan. Stupid bird body trying to override not-bird brain. "Keeeeeeeeeee!"



https://youtu.be/h_XRbGUZbfk?t=12



Cale looks up and happily salutes the eagle flying overhead. Cool! This place has Awesome Birds! Cale waves and smiles to see such beauty and grace displayed upon the sky. And then his expression grows a little worried. Darker. It has been, hm, quite some time, since Kauri and Irawaru went off into the forest. A stream or lake or pond just can't be -that- far off, now can it? Or maybe the animals here don't gather, then, at the watering holes? Hm. Cale regards the jungle and thinks. It sure -does- look more dense than the ones on Sukho islands . . . maybe they just got lost? Cale sets about building a small fire out of sunbaked driftwood, and piles wet kelp on it to make smoke. There. At least, now, there's a marker and a reference point to guide them back to the ships and all. Cale nods a bit, reassuring himself. Those guys know what they are doing. Better than he does, in point of fact. They'll be back soon. . . probably . . . won't they? Meanwhile, he shouldn't be lazy and just wait. Cale starts gathering coconuts, and mangos and papayas and whatnot. Cale looks up at the skies again. Oh my goodness, such -perfect- blues.


Deceptive blues. Such a nice sky, and right under it an ominous jungle which devours people who dare encroach. Of course, we don't want it to be boring for dear ol Cale, do we? No no no! At this moment, when Cale is looking skyward to admire things, the treeline erupts with a mixture of beings. Men, dressed in a way that is rather cibolan. And tiny dwarves! Or rather, in this case they're pigmies and they have terribly oversized maws and more limbs than are strictly necessary. All these things come rushing from the treeline, set on capturing more slaves for Cibola! RAAAAAH!!


The bird actually does that wing-wave thing that some planes can manage to return the salute. Kind of. Or maybe its just coincidence. It comes circling around closer, arcing in shortening circles to spiral towards Cale. It loses some feathers at the sudden arrival of terror pygmies and flaps rapidly, talons clawing at the air as it seeks higher altitude. At the current altitude it is in danger of colliding with trees or peoples. Squawk squawk skreee. Damn this curious stomach, it's nothing but trouble!


Cale admires the eagle with joy.  Cale leans back on the rough - hewn oar, gazing up at the pure, cloudless sky.  Cale exhales, once, softy, completely, experiencing his first moment of true rest in days.  Such a beautiful clear blue sky.  Such a beautiful clear blue ocean.  Such a beautiful clear blue raaaah.  Hm.  Wait.  Hm.  What?  One of these things is -not- like the others.  Raaaah, what, huh, raaah?  Waht raaah, huh raaah?  Cale's brain struggles, in that awkward moment, just the way you might when shifting, not from first to second or third gear, but all the way up to fourth gear somehow.  Eyes blinking, mental gears grinding, sleepless consciousness grappling with the sudden sight of angry octodwarves, Cale waves the refugees back to the boats!  "Run!" he explains.  Although this is, surely, excessive exposition.  "Back to the boats!" he amends, at volume.  Well, of course, yes.  No one is really going to be running -into- the Jungle, now.  I mean, after this?  What? Run RAAAHwards?  No, and Nope, and Not - a - Great - Plan, that.  Even the Eagle has got the idea.


Of /course/ what follows is a hail of arrows and darts! All of them poisoned, all aimed not to kill but to injure and hobble. Meh. They have ways of making slaves useful even if they need to wait until they're mended... kinda. Behind the lot of them emerges a massive beast of a man, bellowing loudly, "YEEESSSSS! I feast well today lads! Attack! Catch them! Catch them all for our suppers!!!"


Cale's brain sends a quick memo to the other part of Cale's brain, saying: "Dear Brain: We kindly write to inform you that "now" would be a -most- appropriate and opportune moment to put into action the next stage of our overarching strategy for the third quarter. Namely: flee. Yes, more of the same! Onwards and upwards! Also: running. So please kindly now do that whole running away and fleeing thing, yes. You know the thing that you just made sure that everyone else was safely doing? That one. Please. And 'Now' would be good." The other part of Cale's brain finally gets the message, rapidly decodes it, and leaps, forthwith, into immediately action! Fortunately for Cale, this other part of Cale's brain is the part that has got the cerebellum in it, together with the other handy "make the body do stuff" bits. Yay!
Thereafter, therefore, therein, and thereby, there are a large number of things there which happen quite quickly:
The first of which is that Cale shouts out a fearsome "Aiiiiieeeee!" Quite loudly, with gusto. Tenor. C minor. Capably pitched; quite deftly on-key. You know how some folks scream out fearsome War Cries, just before they charge into battle? Yeah? Well, Cale doesn't. So this is not that. It's more of a cry of "Oh crap, -more- bad stuff, and so now we have to GTFO. (Again.)" Cale runs back up the beach, post - haste, dodging arrows and paddling dwarves. "Shoo. NO! Git. Argh! Stoppit! Get away! Grrrdmm't." Cale explains to the mutant pygmies, frenetically shoveling them back on toward the treeline with the flat of the oar, as he splishingly stumbles and wades toward the boats!


...wazzat? Screaming (un)heroically! Oh /baby/, that is the sweet sweet nectar to the big man's ears! "MAH PRIZE!" he bellows, and leaps and bounds over others there to go straight after Cale. "Oy lad, won't you make quite the treat!" says Wort in that deep rumbly voice of his that might invoke images of prison scenarios for those so inclined.
Meanwhile, chaos (pardon the pun) ensues all over the waterline. People punctured with the poisoned projectiles (and some not) are being drug off after getting felled by the attackers, and the rest are being pelted with blow-darts by the pygmies who cannot exactly follow into the waters very far. Those who get away... Eh, the gods haven't willed it.


The first part of Cale's brain cheerily hums selected musics from the soundtrack to 'Dunkirk.' Hans Zimmer! You Madman! What marvelous tunes!
"Not helpful; -Not- helping!" opines the other part of Cale's own brain. Meanwhile, Cale's body is playing percussion. Buuuuut, not with his favored twin drumsticks, quite sadly. He just has . . . well, . . . . he has: . . . a boat oar. Rather a crude and unfortunate instrument. But Cale does his best to fend off the madness, swatting at arrows and thwacking at dwarves. "Fuuuuaaaak this ****,**** hero 8#!!-$#!7!" Cale's second-brain grouses, steering his limbs. "We -could- have just kept on _surfing_ at Sukho. Buuuuut nooooooo . . . 'we's haz gots to saves all the peoplez.' Moron. Retard. Just -look- at this mess. Now, we're probably all going to get -eaten.-" And, oh crap, what's this? A bonus monster? A . . . 'Bubba - the - beach - bum' prison - rapist? WtF, it must be Tuesday.
Cale sighs. Grits his teeth. And does his level best to get all of the innocents back to the boats, delaying the monster(s) as best as he can!

<OOC> Wort dies laughing.

*SPLOOSH* A mighty leap, and there Wort is, face to face with Cale as the big Bubba stretches himself out to his full - rather impressive unless you're a giant blooded thing - height. "Why hello." he says in his best sultry come hither voice. "Pleased to meet you; I'm Mister Wort, and I'll be beating you into submission now." Then comes the deluge of fists and such, entirely wild and unpredictable in a manner that... well, seems to work for this guy.


"It's actually -Wednesday-!" Cale's firstbrain reminds, brightly and with exuberance. It chidingly continuing the commentary: "Tuesday was -yesterday- . . . not -nearly- this thrilling! Mostly, we just sat. On a boat. Watching ... water."
"Shut up shut up shuddup, brain!" Cale manages, panting, while wading through dwarves. He's got to -Focus-. -NO- time for soundtracks. Cale hears a "*SPLOOSH*." Oh good heavens. What, pray tell, fresh hell is this? Cale looks up from his oar drum solo to behold a massive hairy kneecap that must belong to . . . someone enormous. Cale's eyes travel upwards. And upwards. Annnd upwards. Oh. -There's- the face. Huh. Waaay up there. -Not- an improvement. The kneecap might've been prettier? Time skips a beat. "Tsk tsk" comments firstbrain, saying: "You're -late- on the tempo!" Cale's secondbrain can't really think to reply. It -would- have said: "Sorry Venkman -- I'm terrified beyond the capacity for rational thought." But that quote is taken. And Cale is no plagiarist! Original Art Only, yessir. Cale struggles to =not= compose a "brownpants as performance art" piece. "Oh no! Oh Sh!t!" agree both of Cale's brainparts, each in their own particular discourse, . . . literal or metaphorical by turn. And then the rain of fists and elbows, knees and all the rest descends. And it had been such a sunny day!
Now, Cale is not a 'large' person. In fact, it's generous to call him 'scrawny.' And a boat oar is not really a "parrying dagger." So Cale absorbs a solid metric crapton of pugilistic abuse, all the while screaming "GOOOOOOOOO!" in hopes that the boat crews get the message. They do. I mean: They aren't heroes. All of their heroes died in the War.

Bah, the toy stopped all its squealing and now it's just encouraging people to run off. This is not the big guy's idea of fun, apparently, and instead of continuing the pummeling he seeks to end it quickly; namely, by trying to grab Cale and toss him to the pygmies so their darts can finish him off. So he'll try this, so he can move on to someone who screams more for his entertainment.

The captured are being corralled, the poisoned drug to a central area, while the escaping people are allowed to leave after a certain point because... Well, they don't care if they catch everyone. Only that they get 'enough'. The gods Will what they will or something like that.


Cale cares. Cale cares very much so, in point of fact. Demonstrably. Cale cares enough to make sure that folks get away, that he's more than willing to take an awful punching on account of ensuring that. Well, at least half of Cale's brain is. The other half is waffling somewhere between "less than willing" and "right against it." With enthusiasm dwindling with each successive hurty impact. Buuuuut, both brains -are- sure: -Not- a grab. No, no, nope, and Not - a - great - plan. A grabby - grab - grab might well lead to Things Quite Dearly Most Unpleasant. . . . if this monster's vibe is accurate. Either way, the 'payoff' for sticking around to find out is zero, now that the canoes are safely away.

<OOC> Cale says, "<<PAUSE for potential resolution via System>>"

You paged Wort with 'Do you want to +compare for the grab? Basically, Cale is not interested in hurting Wort, so it's not -quite- combat. But Cale is also not interested in being Grabbed!'.
Wort pages: Sure. :)


Cale closes his eyes. Which is, granted, pleasant in that he no longer needs to look at the scary monster or the scary rain of scary fists. But unpleasant in that they'll -hit- more. Still, that's not the goal to this action. Sometimes, in situations of extreme stress, a memory leaps out - of - time. 'Adab' -- the thought unbidden, unseen, from thoughts - before. Precognition, of the moment. The moment of . . . NOW. The rain of fists stops. Cale -knows- that the grab is coming, what after. He's seen such moments in his nightmares. The moment is now, and Cale makes his bid!
<OOC> Cale says, "basically, trick Wort into grabbing the oar (instead of Cale's arm ... and thereby escaping to flee to the forest?)"

RPG: Wort chooses Force and the gift BLK-SC. He expends token G5J. The dice favor Cale. Wort is at a moderate disadvantage to Cale, and should take 1 consequence.


<OOC> Cale says, "I think we've talked out the aftermath pretty well? Anything else you'd want to see?"
<OOC> Wort says, "Nah. :)"
<OOC> Cale says, "I mean it looks like you can add cool special effects with BLK-SC too!"
<OOC> Wort is about to pose that. :)
<OOC> Cale says, "oh dear."


So Wort attempts to make the grabbing, but this doesn't quite work out like he'd planned. He grabs, finds himself in possession of the oar while his prey gets away. The pygmies and Cibolans have enough going on that, well... they don't get to spend a lot of time shooting at Cale while the man makes his get-away, and Wort... just loses his shit. He screams in a fit of rage, and grabs a syringe of something black and horrible looking and... stabs himself.
There's a moment where nothing happens except the big man looks horrible and intimidating, then... horror. He bulks up more, as if that were somehow the impossible made possible. The already dark blood vessel start to bulge and throb, while his visage grows even more feral - demonic even! There's a howl, entirely unnatural, and he bounds off after Cale like a rabid hound in pursuit.
Everyone else kind of looks around like... 'Oh shit'.


Cale waits, and waits, absorbing punches.  Cale waits and waits, and then, in a blinding half - fractional second, hits Wort with the oar in the palm of Wort's outstretched and grabbing hand, the impact on the webbing between thumb and forefinger causing Wort's hand to close reflexively . . . grabbing the oar.  And not Cale's arm.  Because, well, That Would Have Been Bad.  Cale ducks down low and rolls to the side that Wort can't grab him on now, thereby racing behind Wort and on into the concealing forest.  %R"Don't look back, Don't look back, Don't look back, Don't look back, Don't Look, Don't Look, Don't Look, DON'T LOOK!" screams part of Cale's brain to the rest of Cale's brain.  Cale looks back.  %RBecause.  Of course.  After Cale sees what's chasing him, his footsteps become more . . . '-motivated-'.  Cale puts on a burst of speed and dives into, and through, and beyond the smallest openings in the trees he can find.  He doesn't slow down . . . for quite a while.   Until he's perched way up in a tree, in the heights of the triple canopy jungle.  Now what?  Well, first things first.  Cale finishes bleeding.  That's been going on a while, and it's 'bout time to wrap that up.


Unable to locate Cale, Wort rages about the forest for a bit, then just.. quits. He goes back to the beach where he can gather his followers and their slaves and prepare to leave. Probably, if Cale isn't too bad off, takes long enough that he can find a way to follow them through shadow if he's so inclined.



RPG: Wort has chosen to use the gift BLK-SC (Strength of Corruption) in this conflict:
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You can tap the raw power of the black road to enhance your strength and speed. So long as you are on the black road (or in a similar place) you receive a substantial bonus speed, strength and combat ability. This effect is quite visible, as the character physically takes on the taint of the road, and this makes the character's black mark very evident. This means that when using this gift in a conflict, the character cannot hide their allegiance to the Road or the depths of their corruption.
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RPG: Wort has chosen to consume token G5J in this conflict:
-------------------------------------------------------------------[ G5J ]----
Author:    Wort                             Held By:  Wort
Date:      Sat Jun  1 15:05:20 2019         Focus:    3
Title:     Minor Hyde Draught
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Created via Hyde's Demon (EOC-HD): bonus-token token-6 type-chaos type-magic
Gift description:
This character has willingly imbibed the Hyde Draught, which transforms them into a monstrous version of themselves. While so transformed, they enjoy the following benefits:
- They are not recognizable as themselves due to increased size, mass, a misshapen form, and dramatically changed voice.
- Enhanced speed, durability, and strength; they are able to consume the token for a bonus in any conflict where this matters, especially combat.
- Their Id has greater agency, freeing them of inhibitions and enhancing their baser instincts - especially violence. They may consume the token for a bonus in any conflict where can reasonably be useful.
- If the character also has BLK-SC, they can claim that gift's bonus in any conflict this token is used.
- The character bears a strong chaos taint.

Consuming the token for a bonus ensures the transformation will end by the conclusion of the scene, and afflict the character with extreme fatigue afterwards. This fatigue lasts 1 played scene for a 3 focus token, or 3 scenes for a 6 focus token. During this time, the character automatically loses any conflict requiring physical effort - especially combat - and they cannot claim any gifts or tokens of enhanced physicality including this one.

The character is responsible for their actions while transformed, both IC and OOC.
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Token Description
A small vial of viscous black burbling liquid.
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