Wordslingin'

Time for a denouement! Or, as Georges the GM entitled the session, "Consequences." Because we've been paying off karma at a vastly accelerated rate lately.

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Koreshi Chronicles - Chapter VI: What Must Be Done

18 Summer, 1926

“You have to kill him.”

“I don’t have to do anything of the sort.”

Lyta held back a scowl. She’d suspected the Doc would be less than sympathetic to her petition. Still, he’d at least agreed to meet with her. She took a deep breath. “Look, if I’d had thirty more seconds back there before Delacroix grabbed him and drove off, Geddy would already be dead, and we wouldn’t need to have this conversation.”

The Doc steepled his hands over the small pile of papers on his desk. “But you didn’t, and so he is still alive. And in my custody.”

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Wordslingin'

Time for a daring rescue! When Lukas gets himself captured by some really nasty people, it's up to the rest of us to bring him back in one piece. Well, sort of one piece. It's kind of holey. But at least nothing's fallen off yet.

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Kain Delacroix - June 2013

Older, more scarred. Wiser?

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Koreshi Chronicles - Chapter VI: Cackle Bladder Cock-Up

22:30 hours, 18 summer 1926
Detention cell 3, Hotel Bravo
Southern District, KAD

18:45 hours, 18 summer 1926

InterWest leased warehouse

Western District, KAD

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Koreshi Chronicles - Chapter VI: Listening Ears

18 Summer, 1926

Kastin Hassan found her by practically tripping over her.

Lyta had been planning to go to the cafeteria after her conversation with Doc Chambers, to get an early breakfast and watch the sunrise from the oasis tower’s bay windows. That plan had broken down somewhere near the bottom of the staircase, and she’d sat with her head pressed up against the wall for the better part of an hour, her body hunched and her arms around her knees.

“Hey, watch where you’re—” Karin cut herself off mid-sentence as she saw what, or more precisely whom, she’d stumbled over. “Lyta,” she said softly.

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Koreshi Chronicles - Chapter VI: Who Cons the Con Men?

18 Summer, 1926

Lyta glared at the ceiling. Her head throbbed against the pillow, and the minimal light coming in through the windows hurt her eyes. But no matter how hard she tried to sleep, to shut out the world and everybody in it at least for a few hours, her mind refused to settle, and the ceiling taunted her by its continued presence.

She wanted to punch something. The ceiling seemed to be a canvas for the faces of everyone who’d wronged her recently: Kinross and Geddy and Jimmy and Virgil and all the rest of them. The adrenaline and the anger kept her awake, and her fists clenched and unclenched against the bedsheets. She almost welcomed the anger. If she was angry, she could forget that she was terrified.

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Wordslingin'

This week's session answered that age-old question: "Precisely how long does it take for a smooth job to turn sour?" And its ancillary, "How bad can it really yet?" Yeah... it was one of those sessions.

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