2017-04-20: Noah Problem

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  • Log: Noah Problem
  • Cast:Morgan Newkirk, Noah Hawthorne, Vin Barrett
  • Where: Stafall Saloon
  • Date: 04 April 2017
  • Summary: Shortly after recovering something that belongs to him, Noah's pursuers follow him to Adelhyde. He happens to run into Morgan Newkirk, who volunteers* to help Noah evade capture. Meanwhile: Vin Barrett's legend continues to grow... (*is forced)


<Pose Tracker> Morgan Newkirk has posed.

The Starfall Saloon has seen much in its time. The smoke filled taproom smelling faintly of unwashed Drifter sits comfortably in its little nook near the Adventuer's Guild outpost. A building that has seen a suprising amount of reworking and additions of late. With the expansion the Saloon has gotten more than its fair share of patrons lately. Tonight is no exception as Drifters roll in from parts unknown to talk of their adventuers and try to impress each other with ever more elaborate lies.

...I mean stories.

Ok. Maybe its just pure bragging. Its hard to tell most nights.

Tonight there is a treet, the unloved harpsichord in the corner is actually being used. Which is both good and bad. Since the player is...well...drunk. Very drunk. And the device is far out of tuen. Its hard to say if the man has any professional training at all.

He's at least enthusiastic.

Thats something.

"So," At the bar one figure with a pair of tall sandy furred ears smirks at Honest Tom. "Does the beer come with earplugs tonight."

Tom just grunts as he goes back to shining a glass.

"Eloquent as ever you are, Tom." Drawls Morgan Newkirk as he turns away from the bar to lean against the edge of polished pine. Letting his eyes scan the growing crowd. The restlessly growing crowd.

Opinion is turning against the player rather quickly.


<Pose Tracker> Vin Barrett has posed.

...Ah, yes. Civilization. Well, such as it is!

For Vin Barrett, it's a rather nice change of pace. After all, he's been hiding out in the desert for a bit. It's a funny story, really...

Well, from an outside point of view. From Vin Barrett's point of view, it's been several weeks of paranoia and cat and mouse, hiding from very determined individuals, eluding them in the wilds outside of Adelhyde and living off the land.

Also, there were some very ornery folks who seemed to think he'd been involved with setting them on fire...or something. Which is weird, because Vin Barrett generally -remembers- when he sets someone on fire!

Still, since the heat's died down, the Baskar's slipped back into town for a nice drink that isn't a Shady Homemade Jar of Moonshine and Shady Baskar Recipes. He likes some good old fashioned terrible watered drinks, too!

The Baskar winces at the harpsichord, glancing at the other patrons and the crowd, then peering at his drink suspiciously. He sniffs it, then slams it back, pausing a moment...and then he sighs, slumping forwards at the bar. "Nope, not dulling the pain of that noise yet. Give me another, please!"


<Pose Tracker> Noah Hawthorne has posed.

For all that Adelhyde may be lusher than much of the continent it resides on, eastern Ignas still bakes in the late spring sun. The afternoon is growing long in the tooth and drowsy from the heat. Weary feet drag dust through the front doors of the saloon in search of a table to be propped upon while dry mouths are slaked with drink. The man on the harpsichord is playing with fire in the worst way: the dinner rush is coming, a long workday ending, and moods are brittle at best, not half as patient as they will be three hours from now when those dry mouths have been thoroughly soaked with alcohol.

Into this tenuous state of irritated peace, enter one Noah Hawthorne.

The doors burst open, slammed aside by a locked-front palm as his broad-shouldered silhouette twists through the gap of the frame, the door banging into the interior wall with a loud CRACK. Heads turn. Eyes swivel. He ignores the lot, stands at the threshold just long enough to take stock of the crowd, and on spying a familiar set of tawny ears a pale, hard crescent of a smile slashes its way into place. Quick bootfalls take him to the barside, where he claps Morgan on the back, leans into him, and pushes something into the man's hands: a box. "Newkirk! Good to see you! Been a while. How's the family? Families? It's like ten families now, right? Anyway, hold this for me for a minute, would you, and I'll be right back to get it, thanks!" The words spit out of him like the rapid-fire volley from a gatling gun, and that same momentum carries him away from the bar to disappear through the back door.

The moment the back door swings shut, the front door swings open, and three very angry men and one very angry woman appear in it in ominous silhouette. All of them are carrying drawn ARMs.


<Pose Tracker> Morgan Newkirk has posed.

The hair stands up on the back of Morgan's neck as a frown settles on his vulpine features. "...hey friend." He turns to the man near him. One Vin Barrett by name. Since he was also at the bar. "...did it just get chilly in here or is it just me?"

Since its near desert and the sun is still high in the sky it did not get chilly. But still the Fox feels as if something just walked over his grave. A storm is coming. A deadly. Dangerous storm. Something that spells a problem for him. Something that could be disaster for those around him.

The door flies open and his head snaps towards the sudden sound only to find a box shoved forcefully into his hands. "...wha?" Suprise writ wide across his face as he recieves the dubious gift. Sharp eyes snap up and then. "...Noah."

And before he can say anything else. He's gone again.

"I DON'T KNOW WHAT THIS IS ABOUT BUT I'M CHARGING YOU DOUBLE!" He shouts after him as he rises from his stool, the box under his arm.

Then the door slams open again and....

"TRIPPLE I'M CHARGING YOU TRIPPLE!" He roars as he slams back the remainder of his drink and then springs from his chair to start to shove his way towards the crowd.

Tom slowly narrows his eyes and points to the obvious 'NO GUNS' sign over the bar as he glowers at the people in the door.

...Morgan doesn't think thats gonna stop them. They look really angry.

MEANWHILE!! ACCROSS THE BAR!!

Three figures drink at a table, all of them looking tired. Warn out. Like they have been drug over the sharp side of someones tounge several times in the past few days. Which they have. Since they have not been able to find the elusive face of a specific novel series. All men, all surly looking. One with a fantastic ruddy mustache. Mustache is the one that looks up first at the beginning of the commotion.

"...huh. Are we looking for a guy named Noah or a guy named Vin?"

"I dunnno," A man with a big bushy black beared speaks up. His brow lowers as he tries to fix his memory on the question. "...arn't they the same?"

"Naw, one is different from the other! One is the story and one is the picture..."

"Yeah but which."

"...I can't remember."

"What good are ya then!"

"I'm yer brother!"

"My question stands!"

"...wait. Isn't that..."

And now Noah is running, drawing their attention as he dashes away from the bar.


<Pose Tracker> Vin Barrett has posed.

...Huh.

Vin just stoically nods in response to the fox-eared fellow's inquiry. He's had this feelin' before. This feelin' of danger! Of Impendin' trouble!

Of probably getting an angry letter from his Aunt.

"Huh. And there isn't even a blonde around this time."

Shaking his head, the Baskar calmly stands up, cheerfully leaving a couple of Gella on the bar as the door slams open and Angry ARMs-wielders storm in, a Mysterious Box is handed over, and Trouble begins to brew.

"Welp. Time to hit the ol' Dusty Trail!"

Whistling tunelessly, Vin tries to pull a fade, inching his way out of the line of fire and towards the nearest door or window.

...Despite being distinctively tall, a Baskar, wearing a rather flashy cloak embroidered with Baskar designs, and having had his face on the front of a popular one gella novella and circulating.

No, he doesn't really think he'll get out of this without trouble either, but dammit, he's going to hope for the best and plan for the worst! Which really does explain why he's subtly slid a hand up to grab the butt of longARM he's got tucked away and hidden under his dust-dulled cloak for a quickdraw.

Inch, inch, inch, inch...Allllmost there...c'moooon...almooooost there, Vin ol' Boy, and you can let all these troubles have NOTHING TO DO WITH YOU...


<Pose Tracker> Noah Hawthorne has posed.

Back doors: the sole salvation and occasionally only friend of scoundrels the world over. The floorboards at the threshold of the saloon's back door may be twice as worn as the ones in front, and they've certainly led more interesting little lives, privy to all manner of shady deal, clandestine rendezvous and last-minute escape. Certainly Noah slips through the Starfall's with all of the practiced swiftness of a man for whom the alternate route is usually less 'alternate' than the one he's supposed to have used, leaving behind a fellow guild-member with a box of mysteries and the sneaking suspicion that he's just been seriously inconvenienced.

Reaching it isn't going to be the problem for Morgan Newkirk, who has had, one imagines, his own fair share of retreats through rear entrances (and then some). No, he can get to the door just fine.

Opening it though, that one's a non-starter. The moment he tries, it'll rattle very slightly in the frame and refuse the request. On the opposite side, a broomstick jammed between the outer handle and a pair of hooks bolted to either side of the door barricades the thing tightly closed, swiftly threaded into place by a man perfectly aware that he's being followed by people who would like to exchange words with him. Where 'words' are actually 'bullets.'

"HAWTHORNE, GET YOUR LILY-WHITE HINDQUARTERS OUT HERE AND TAKE WHAT'S COMING TO YOU LIKE A MAN," bellows one of the men in the doorway, thumb passing restlessly over the hammer of his revolver. If he noticed Tom's silent warning, he certainly doesn't seem interested in showing any sign.

The woman beside him is quieter, her dark eyes sharper: they sweep through the patronage, searching. "Oh, yes. Because that always works, Kissinger. Yelling halt! at people when you've got your sidearm drawn. They'll fall all over themselves to stop so you can shoot them in the back." Butter would not melt in her mouth.

OUTSIDE:

Why, Noah is thinking to himself, as he hauls himself up the alley-facing backside of the saloon's outer wall and up toward the roof, does everything always involve so much CLIMBING? His calf is still aching, perforated by a misadventure in the ruined remnants of sinking riverboat casino not more than two days prior, when a Mercy Killer had stuck a knife into Noah's boot to revenge his own impending demise.

There had been a lot of climbing that day, too.

Gaining the rooftop, he spots the chimney of the now-dormant fireplace and begins to creep his way toward it across cracked, loose, and sun-bleached shingles.



<Pose Tracker> Morgan Newkirk has posed.


Rattle. Rattlerattlerattle. RATTLERATTLERATTLERATTLE.

"DAMMIT HAWTHORNE!" He shout muffled by the door. "This is Port Timmery all over again!" A beatpause. "I AM NOT GETTING SHOT IN THE ASS FOR YOU AGAIN!"

Clearing his throat the fox turns towards the quartet at the front door. "Gentlemen." His grin ticks up a touch at the woman with dark eyes and he reaches up to tug on the brim of his hat. "Miss."

Then in one smooth move there is a small pouch of gella flung towards the bar as Morgan spins back towards the door and slams one foot against the frame by the lock.

Now Beastmen were strong fellows in general, and Morgan was stronger than most. The sound of splintering wood echoes down the ally as the abused improptu bar shatters under the heafty assault. So does a good portion of the lock and the doorframe.

Though the now open portal dashes Morgan as he spins to look around the alleyway.

He has no idea what this is about, but that group looks like they would happily shoot anyone involved in this. And he doesn't like getting shot.

"The hell he go?!" He mutters to himself as he ducks out of line of fire.

Just in case.

At least the door's open now for Vin! Morgan is helping.

INSIDE:

"Hey!" Mustache glowers at the group in the door. "Are they after our guy too?"

"...he must have pissed a lot of people off."

"Yup. Must have."

"Think the'll pay us more for him than the Boss?"

"Think the'll set us on fire?"

"You're argument has merrit."

"I kno--wait..." Now Beard's two beady little eyes have caught the flashing Beskar cloak of one Vin. Who is slowly trying to inch his way out of the bar. In his flashy outfit and massive size. "Waaaaait..." A longer pause. "...you got that picture?"

Out is fished a pin-up. One of the irredeamable Vin Barrett. The trio look at the picture. Then at Vin. Back to the picture. Sloooowly all three of their heads come up from behind the parchment again as they peer at the Beskar.

Just when one of the saloon girls bounces up to him. Eyes wide. Cheeks red. Egged on by a gaggle of other girls at the edge of the bar. In her hands is clutched one of those novels that has been plastered with his picture. All over town. "A-autograph? Can I have one?"

The trios eyes slooowly narrow as they reach under suspiciously large ponchos.

DOES ANYONE ACTUALLY ABIDE BY THE NO GUNS RULE?!


<Pose Tracker> Vin Barrett has posed.

... ... ...

Vin's shoulders slump slightly. Oh, hello, trouble. You've come to play again, I see.

He puts a small smile on, forcibly hiding an eyetwitch as he glances down at the eager saloon girl holding one of Those Books. Uuuuuugh. DAMN YOU, CHIVALRY! WHY DO YOU EXIST?!

"Sure thing, miss."

Pulling a pen out from under his cloak, Vin carefully signs the bodice ripper with a small flourish. Hey, at least -someone- should have a good day today, and at least this will make the pretty young lady smile a bit, so...why not?

Course, as he turns back, he notices the trio of Bewhiskered Brothers glowering at them, hands sliding under ponchos. As a connoisseur of fine, concealing garments such as ponchos, cloaks, and Baskar-made Poncho Cloaks, Vin's practiced eyes take in the data, add it up with his own expectation of Trouble Brewing (Because of That Smooth Talking Blonde Troublemaker) and gets Trout.

Obviously, these guys are jealous of Vin's semi-unwanted fame (Because, well, let's be honest. Fan Saloongirls. Not the worst perk, ohhoho!), and are thus ignoring Tom's ground rule of NO GUNS!

Seeing as how it'd be right rude, Vin just taps a finger to his brow, smiling at the young lady, showing some pearly white teeth. "Enjoy the autograph, miss. Now, if you'll pardon me..."

Annnnd that's when Vin legs it towards the back, cloak dramatically blowing around him just a bit...annnnd if he happens to shoulder barge one of the earlier gunmen chasing Morgan, well, WHOOPS! Better to deal with professional assassins than jealous fans who are not as fair of face, the Baskar skedaddling out the back!

MEANWHILE, IN THE CORNER OF THE BAR:

Atticus Teller has been a bit down on his luck lately. Sure, he had a really good score earlier last month, the cover art he sold to this publisher paying his bills...and then, a savage Cuccoo Literary Critic ate his previous work the other week while he was running for his life. So, he's been hanging out in the rough and tumble saloons those mysterious dashing Drifters hang out in, hoping to find a bit of inspiration to meet his deadline and continue being able to supply himself with food and drink for the next month.

Still, caught up in his misery, he doesn't notice the goings on until his request for a refill is ignored in favor of his waitress and her friends giggling, then sending someone over to get an...autograph?

He blinks, cleaning his glasses off on his sleeve, looking at the scene of the now-infamous Vin Barrett Bravely and Dramatically Fleeing Other Patrons!

His fingers itch, and he smiles, cheeks slightly flushed. Sure, it'll need some interpretation...

But that's his job!

His muse returned, unnoticed as the other patrons enjoy the current floorshow, he pulls out a pad of paper from his coat and a pencil, beginning to sketch another cover, mumbling under his breath. "Let's see...mmmf...keep the girl...change it to jumping out a window...add gunsmoke...Yes...Yesssssss! This will work!"


<Pose Tracker> Noah Hawthorne has posed.

One of the benefits of being on top of the roof of the saloon is that everything seems, for a handful of precious moments, almost peaceful. Almost.

That peace is shattered by the sound of the back door being mule-kicked open and an innocent cleaning implement's life being brought to a tragic, splintered end. The alleyway's accoustics funnel up to Noah's suddenly pricked ears -- that is figurative in his case, lacking Newkirk's bestial profile -- the sound of Morgan muttering, and the hard, cabled tension in his shoulders eases just a bit. If he's muttering and not yelling, that probably means he hasn't been spotted with the box, and thus there are probably still some moments left to do what he came up here to do, which is Irresponsibly Ignite Explosives.

...small ones.

Very small, actually, gunpowder wrapped up in tiny, colorful wrappers in carnival hues, their ends spangled with imitation gold leaf where each terminates in a little strand of string. He pulls these from the satchel at the nadir of the bandolier slung crosswise across his chest as he draws to a limber, kneeling crouch beside the cold chimney, and after a moment's questing of agile fingers in that same satchel he produces a metal flip-lighter.

INSIDE THE SALOON:

Four figures bristling with weaponry in the foyer tick their eyes toward the back door simultaneously, and all eight eyes narrow in remarkable unison. Where there's smoke there's usually fire, and where things are being noisily broken -- rear exits in particular, in light of who it is they've come to hunt down -- there's usually a guilty party on the move. That these four individuals do not recognize Morgan is no hindrance to their decision to thoroughly discover what he may or may not know about one Noah Hawthorne: for all they know, he's the person Noah had planted for the handoff to begin with. And it matters not at all that the door was barred against his exit: Hawthorne is absolutely the type to leave someone in the lurch to save his own hide, or so the rumors say.

They begin to move that way. So does a barmaid, intercepting Vin Barrett in his own escape trajectory, and the pair of them clog up the route to the back door. Three pairs of eyes continue to coldly narrow; one pair widens, and then turns quickly away as the person they belong to blushes, recognizing that face from the cover of a very steamy printing presently tucked away in the bottom of their saddlebags.

Spoilers: they don't belong to the woman.

The one called Kissinger is just reaching out to tap on the barmaid's shoulder and as her to kindly get the hell out of his way, and the three whiskered figures in the corner are just beginning to draw, the whole atmosphere of the place taut as a drawn bowstring...when something softly strikes the interior of the fireplace.

Thirty firecrackers begin to go off at staggered intervals, filling the interior of the saloon with pops and bangs that sound very like the discharge of ARMs fire.


<Pose Tracker> Morgan Newkirk has posed.


They say it only takes a spark. A tiny thing. Almost insignificant in the grand scheme. The pressure cooker that this Saloon has become only needs that tiny catalyst to explode. The specific mix of adreneline, bravado, and fear of Honest Tom keep things in balance for the moment. The Whiskered Three don't want to get banned forever. Kissinger and his crew arn't quite sure who to shoot at yet. The rest of the Drifters around are just happy to watch the chaos unfold like a play on the stage.

Into that perfectly balanced mix comes the Small Thing. The tiny sticks of party favors. Hardly more than a pop. Just a little smoke to go along with it. In most situations enough to make someone jump, thats all.

In this situation however...

...with a yelp Black Whiskers pulls out a sawed off shotgun and fires. The accumliated buckshot flying up, up, up and punching a pair of sizeable holes in the roof. Right near the chimeny in fact. As the man tumbles over backwards. Mustache is the next one to react as he stands up to pull a pair of revolvers.

"GIT HIM!" He roars as he starts to leap towards the fleeing form of Vin.

Unfortunate chose of words.

The Drifers in residence have no idea which 'him' is. They all seem to have different ideas in fact. Weapons snap into hands as men and women leap at the chance of impending violence. Bottles and chairs are wielded as weapondry by those that actually abide by Honest Tom's law.

But of course not everyone does.

The barmaid, her wishes granted, clutches the book to her low-cut blouse for a moment. Stars in her eyes and her cheeks flushed.

...at least until she sees that look and blush on the face of the member of Kissinger's possee.

"YOU CAN'T HAVE MY BOOK!" She suddenly screams as she flies into a rage, leaping past Kissinger to assail his friend with said book. Apparently thinking they are here for her newly autographed copy.

The third of the Wiskered Trio, he's got a gotee, leaps up on his table to try for a flying leap towards Vin. Which may or may not work but looks perticularly dramatic.

Outside the building Morgan reflexivily ducks as the shooting starts. "Ah hellfire." A beatpause. "NOAH WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU THIS IS YOUR FAULT!" A slightly longer pause. "I didn't even get to flirt with the lady and thats a cryin' shame!" And he still has the box.

Which he has no idea what it is.

But he hopes its not explosive.

Since bullets are now coming though windows and walls as he dives for cover. At least before he notes the ladder on one side of the building.

Up is better than sideways in this situation.


<Pose Tracker> Vin Barrett has posed.


A true gentleman would probably step in and try to help the barmaid out once all tarnation breaks lose and everyone goes for everyone else. There's a few things stopping Vin from getting too involved helping out the lady, though.

One, she's a saloon girl at a Drifter Bar. She can handle herself.

Two, Vin just had to spin into the doorway, fussing up a storm of mighty strong language that would have his auntie cleaning his mouth out with soap to avoid some potential wild firin' from the idjit with the Mustache waving dual pistols about, tossing a sack of Shady Baskar Herbs and Spices (Hell Pepper: The Spiciest and Most Delicious Pain In the Badlands, The Ancient Baskar Recipe!) back at the Mercenary Trio who are watching the pair of fans engage in a murderous fanbrawl. It's probably a mite bit surprising! I mean, who the hell taught that girl how to headbutt like that?!

Three, that girl is -scary-.

Four, the LAST TIME he tried to help, he got into so much hassle.

Course, seein' as how he's not looking to be banned quite yet either, Vin instead improvises when Goatee comes charging in. "Pardon me, darlin'!"

Vin spins -out- of the doorway he was in, grabs the Lady Mercenary, and casually hurls her back THROUGH the doorway he had just dived through, hopefully tangling her up with her posse andor the charging Goatee.

That said, he sprints out the door, diving to the side as soon as he clears, skidding to duck down an alleyway as soon as he can, yanking his Fennec R66 LongARM off his back once he's out the door.

He's not -in- the bar at that point, after all!


<Pose Tracker> Noah Hawthorne has posed.

Believe it or not, this is exactly what Noah wanted.

It's probably easier for some to believe than others. Morgan, for instance, will not have any difficulty believing that this whole debacle is working as intended. The people who were chasing him are now involved in a firefight with people who have nothing to do with him whatsoever, none of whom are actually Morgan, who has the box, containing the thing, which -- really, it's probably a good idea to at least wonder what's in it, though there are strong reasons for and against the prospect of opening it to find out. Where Morgan Newkirk falls on that sliding scale of 'do I dare' is an open question at this juncture.

Meanwhile, there are some side-effects that Noah wasn't counting on. When you start a firefight in a saloon that you're not in at the time it kicks off, what you expect is for the people inside to start shooting at one another. You don't expect them to, say, unload a shotgun into the ceiling, which also happens to be another word for roof. A hole blasts through a space alarmingly close to Noah's own personal body, of which he has one, and he takes immediate exception to this, so incensed by how unbelievably bad that aim was -- gawking, open-mouthed and knit-browed, down at the ragged hole between his knees -- that he utterly ruins everything about his escape plan for the satisfaction of leaning down, putting his head in the hole and yelling, "SAINTS OF SWEET-ARSED AQUVY, WHO TAUGHT YOU HOW TO SHOOT A GUN? I'VE TAKEN DUMPS WITH MORE SURGICAL PRECISION THAN THAT."

Sitting back, he lets the warm glow of satisfaction spool through him like golden thread, then sighs. "Well, shit."

Back to running, then.

He spins around and slides down toward the eave of the roof and the sound of Morgan's hollering, a lithe twist from a powerful torso rolling him over in time to catch the end of it with his hands. There he dangles, prepared to join Newkirk on the ground, when he looks to the side and notes the ladder, and Newkirk roughly parallel with him on it. "Oh, hey," he says, as though they were encountering one another on the street on any old afternoon. "I wouldn't go up there. Bad aim." And with that said, he releases the roof with one of his hands so he can face the ladder, brace a boot sole on the interior side of it, and kick it away from its lean against the roof. It wobbles, then tilts over backward in a plummet that seems destined to spill the beastman onto the ground...

Only to be stopped by the roof of the next building over, on the opposite side of the alley. Of course, Morgan is hanging from the underside, but these are small details.

Two overhand shimmies later, he's hanging over the slant of the ladder and lets go, dropping onto the angled rungs. His weight heavily bounces the ladder's length, but it doesn't break.

Then he catches sight of a man sprinting into the alley with a firearm drawn -- a Fennec, in fact -- and poor Morgan will have to cling to the ladder for dear life as Noah sprints fleet-footed up the angle of it and onto the next roof, the ladder jouncing like a bed in a brothel.

"JustholdontotheboxalittlelongerI'llgetitbackIpromisenobigdealseeyousoon!"


<Pose Tracker> Morgan Newkirk has posed.

The responce is as fast as it is predictable.

Five pairs of eyes rotate up to look at the hole in the ceiling and the shouting man framed there.

"I think he's insultin' yer aim, brother."

"I don't think I much appriciate that."

"Well then..."

"Right."

The exchange of words is short the responce is violent. Several shotgun blasts and dozens of revolver rounds punch though the roof, hot on his heels as he makes for the ladder.

At the door, Goatee and The Lady have managed to tangle each other up as the bairmaid has lept on the back of the other poor Vin Fan and is busy slaming the bodice ripper into the top of his skull.

Vin is right. She is kinda scary.

Mustache at least picks himself up and points right at the fleeing form of Vin. "THAT ONE! GET THAT ONE!"

At least he was more specific this time.

Poor Vin. Right at this moment it might just look to Kissinger and company that he is a friend of the notorious pair of Newkirk and Hawthorne. He's just getting so many cases of mistaken idenity now.

Morgan on the other hand is in a different kind of trouble. One that involves his old nemisis gravity. As Noah shoves the ladder off to offer him his own escape route the fox finds himself clinging onto the rickety wooden structure like a rat to the last piece of flotsom. One arm wraps around a rung when his other hand clutches onto the side of the ladder for deal life as he feels gravity give way to an uncomfortably familiar falling sensation.

The box slips from his hands only to be caught with his feet as he captures it between them. Dangling there as Noah pounds up the ladder at an angle his own responce has a subtle vibration to it.

"They have shotguns how is this no big deal?!" His voice echoing as he tries to slowly grab said box again, at least enough to get him moving again. But really. He's not quite posessed of that amount of dexterity.

"Hell with this..." He mutters as he raises his arm towards the roof that Noah just launched too. The blue-white beam of energy that functions as his grapling hook catches on the edge as he swings to pull himself up, grappling with the box as he pulls himself up onto the ledge to flop onto the top of the roof.

"WHAT EVEN IS THIS THING?!"


<Pose Tracker> Vin Barrett has posed.

Vin cheerily adds to the ruckus by pumping the lower barrel of his crazy double-barrelled longARM, a burst of buckshot half-blind fired at the doorway, convincing one of the Bewhiskered Brotherly Banditos to pause before further chasing of Vin. The Baskar huffs, calling around the alleyway he's taken temporary cover in. "Oy! You lot leave me the hell alone, I don't even have a thing to do with any of this stupidity!" He'd have kept openly fleeing, but, well, he doesn't want to get shot in the back, either!

Another burst of buckshot announces his attempt to fall back further down the street, diving from cover to cover.

As for his fangirl, well, the Other Fan is screaming now, as she's wrapped around his back like a limpet, biting him, trying to throttle him with her beloved book. Said mercenary is staggering around the bar, slamming into other brawling patrons, screaming like the damned. "OH GOD HER TEETH ARE IN MY SKULL HER TEETH ARE IN MY SKULL GET HER OFF ME! GET HER OFF!"

At that point, a female Drifter slugs him in the face for being Lewd, breaking his nose. It's really not his day.

Meanwhile, Atticus Teller, Freelance Artist has been sitting under his table, notebook on his lap, pencil working furiously as he sketches the chaotic brawl in front of him. He pauses at the sight of the Fan Barmaid and her actions, tapping it against his lips. "Hmmm...Crimson Noble...Yeah, that might be worth next month's try. Maybe make it a little less painful looking and it'd probably sell like griddlecakes!"

Still, there is a problem for Atticus Teller, FREELANCE ARTIST! Namely, his subject matter (AKA, that Baskar and the accosters) are hard to see now, as they're all trying to get out the back or engaging in gun fights -at- the back. Humming, the artist, who, it must be noted, has had a -decent- amount of liquor and beer tonight, calmly stands up from under the table he'd been sheltering that. In a kind of Drunken Artist Zen, he weaves his way effortlessly through the bar, dodge Honest Tom's rifle-grade glare, and undoes a window, climbing out of it. Semi-staggering across the street, the Freelance Artist shimmies up a nearby drain pipe, hiccuping slightly, pulling his notebook back out and resuming sketching from the new view point, drunkenly calm even when a stray bullet smacks off the chimney he's now leaning against as a back rest.

Such minor concerns are nothing to worry about when it is TIME FOR ART MAKING. After all, where would they get their covers if ATTICUS TELLER, FREELANCE ARTIST wasn't around to take care of things for the One Gella Novel Market?!


<Pose Tracker> Noah Hawthorne has posed.

It should be noted in the interests of narrative integrity that Kissinger and the woman in his party with the dark eyes and auburn hair -- Marza -- have made themselves scarce as things devolved beyond the point of usefulness. They have a specific objective, and though it revolves around Noah Hawthorne and a certain item they've been trying to recover since he fled June City in the Badlands a full eight days earlier, there are additional conditions to that objective that require that they not be shot or arrested, and that they recover Noah alive.

Their instructions said nothing about uninjured, a nuance that brings them a great deal of comfort in moments like this -- of which there have been far, far too many for what has amounted to only a week of trying to lay their hands on him.

Regardless, the situation has spun well out of control now, and there are individuals now invested in chasing Noah and his apparent comrades -- Vin drafted by circumstance -- who have no such rules about whether or not to kill him where he stands. If asked if it had been worth it, provoking a saloon full of angry, armed men by insulting their aim, he would probably...

...he would definitely say 'yes.' And probably do it a second time.

Because he's quick, Noah, as he vaults up onto the roof and begins to pelt across it toward the far side. He stops only when he hears Morgan's exasperated outcry from the rooftop, realizing that the man with the furry ears isn't escaping in some other direction, but instead following along in his wake like a meteor caught in the gravitational pull of a planet, hurtling along in its wake, likely to be smashed to pieces by other flotsam doing much the same.

He hesitates, heaves a theatrical sigh, and then returns, agile bootfalls bringing him back to Morgan's side. To help him up, one assumes. To get him to his feet, dust him off, formulate some sort of plan. To stand back to back with him and bravely -- stupidly, but also bravely -- fight off any and all aggressors who dare to poke their heads up over the top of that ladder.

...Nah, that's not why at all. He comes back to answer the question he was asked, skidding to a halt on the flat roof and leaning to pluck up the box. As Newkirk sits up, Noah pulls the halves of the box apart, and the contents topple out and into his lap, which is, it should be said, an extremely unfortunate place for the object to land, as it rather looks like it belongs there to begin with. Ceramic, oblong and slightly curved, one end affixed with spherical ornaments and the other shaped --

It's flesh-colored. Slightly rosy. It is in full view of Atticus Teller, freelance artist and singlehanded (hah!) savior of the bodice-ripper in the modern age.

Unnecessarily, Noah says, "It's a d--"

The sentence is drowned out by the roar of a firearm, buckshot spraying upward and taking off a sizable chunk of the roof's edge.

And with that, Noah's off to the races again.


<Pose Tracker> Morgan Newkirk has posed.

Morgan was just starting to sit up when Noah returned from his flight. A quirked eyebrow is given to the thief. This is a suprise. Is he coming to help? That is entirely unlike Noah. Entirely suprising. Morgan is almost...almost...impressed...

...but then he realises its too much to hope for as he simply undoes the box and lets its singular object fall into Morgan's lap.

Where he stares at it for about a half-second.

"I can see its a d--"

Again a blash of a shotgun from the Saloon drowns out the word.

"Why the hell are they chasing you for a goddamn fake c---?!"

...and this time is screaming. Girlish screaming. Something about teath in a skull or something.

But then Noah is fleeing again, and Morgan is rolling away to dodge gunfire aimed at the roof. And the mighty ceramic Rod of Power is sent spiraling into the air. It arcs gracefully as gravity takes over and it begins its decent.

"...I hate you so much right now." This aimed at Noah before he shoots out one hand to catch it with half of that mysterious box. The lid slapped on before he even stops moving.

"You better show up later and take this thing!" He shouts at Noah before he leaps off the roof, drops a story and a half, and lands right near Vin.

Then he's running for it. Because people are still after...well...everyone.

Mustache has just reached the roof to fire off several rounds in persuit of Noah in point of fact. And Goatee is after Vin with a knife. He lost his gun somewhere...

...that ARM of Vin's though? That gets him to dive though a nearby window with a crash of shattering glass.


<Pose Tracker> Vin Barrett has posed.

Vin really does adore his ARM. It's a rifle! It's a shotgun! It's a club! It's all in one! In this case, that makes it great for discouraging idiots with knives! There's a loud report, and then a quiet 'Oops...'. Vin pauses, scratching his chin.

"...Does shooting buckshot pellets -into- the saloon violate No Guns? Hmmm."

Regardless, once Goatee has proven to have a poor abilty to hang onto his weaponry, diving through a window and landing on a table, prompting a quiet 'Owwwwwwww...'.

Regardless, Vin sprints off, slinging his ARM as soon as he has a clear moment to do so, the fleet-footed Baskar quickly vanishing down twisty back alleys and fleeing away from the scene of the impending interest by the Authorties.

After all, with Drifters, it's only a matter of time before things Escalate!

As for ATTICUS TELLER, FREELANCE ARTIST, he remains on his perch, drawing, drinking from a hip flask full of something potent. The proof of the proof?

Well...His current subject bears a -strong-, recognizable resemblance to the fox-eared mercenary...Although, his actual hair isn't that long, silky, or sparkly,his eyes are a little smaller, his jaw isn't that soft, and he isn't that slender...but it's still pretty recognizable, that Morgan Newkirk, even in a rather odd style, holding a giant pink stave of some sort...

...Okay, so, yeah, Atticus Teller, FREELANCE WRITER, is like...-hella- drunk right now...