come and spend some time with mr. wrong

[theworstmagician]

Who: Marty, Will and OPEN
What: Mr. Hair tries to loot shops and fight monsters.
Where: Various places.
When: Any time over the course of the plot
Notes: This is a generic opening for Marty; you can assume he's doing this to several shops, so if you want to tag in, feel free to pick and choose what kind of shop you find him in.
Warnings: Violence, probably.

Some people never learn. Marty Williams is one of those people. In the past few days, he's used more magic than he had in weeks. This meant that it was bound to come crashing down on him somehow-- the fun was in finding out how and when. Hell, for all Marty knew, his magic didn't work the same in Baedal. Maybe it was easier to manage. Really, he wouldn't know unless he tried.

So, when he touches a doorknob and focuses his mind on disorder and disintegration, concentrates on shifting the smallest particles that made up the metal, tampering with the doorknob at its basest levels, he's really just testing the limits of his magic.

All things fall apart. He's just speeding up the process in three... two...

He jiggles the knob, smirking to himself when the door easily comes open. Sucks for the shopkeeper, whoever he is-- his lock's thoroughly broken now. 'Course, he probably has bigger things to worry about right now, like the bone dragon Marty saw flying around earlier.

Keeping a firm grip on his bloodied lead pipe, Marty enters the shop and begins looking around for valuables to loot.

He'd make a joke about being from New Orleans right now-- hey, this is how we roll in a post-Katrina world-- but the truth is: Marty's never looted anything before showing up in... what's this place called again? Beedle or something.

(Way to pay attention, Marty.)

Whatever, it's Monsterville now. And even though he's new to the whole "pillaging and plundering" business, Marty's finding that it comes surprisingly naturally to him. Maybe because this kind of thing's easy to do when the world's going to hell.

Comments

mog hill pharmacy?? also yell at me if the telepathy's not ok

[gramarye]

Wolfgang pauses just outside the threshold of the shop, having almost missed the fact that the door's lock is busted. Something is in there and he's not about to waltz blindly into a potentially dangerous enclosed area armed with a weapon that's not very familiar to him.

So he probes it first, like flexing a muscle he hasn't used in years. His psychic presence rolls through the building, the barest mental brush against whatever minds are contained therein. Surface thoughts are all he's listening for, which, well, that's all he can listen for. It's not a surefire recon method because many of the monsters infesting the city are psychic blind spots, but it's better than nothing. Whatever is in there is human and neither insane nor dying, so he walks in with only a moderate amount of caution instead of being at red alert.

There's blood in his hair and he's carrying a baseball bat with nails hammered into one end, but considering he's built like an eleven-year-old girl and about as strong as one, he is probably the least threatening person in the city right now. He is alone. He sees a man with a pipe who he doesn't recognise, and that's all; he relaxes.

"Find anything good?" he asks, dryly. It's not a condemnation -- he has no way of telling whether anyone is taking anything because they need it or just because they want it. He did see someone grabbing a bunch of antiques the other day, but whatever, he's not the police, he's not going to do anything about it.

God knows if the Militia are; he's staying out of their way as much as possible.

griss twist store, liquor.

[thethingsidoforlove]

The dull hilt of his knife soundlessly connects with the shop door, and Jaime tilts his head as he watches it swing open beneath minute pressure, whatever mechanism that had once kept it locked or even closed quite obviously... no longer doing so. He didn't exactly see what the young man had done, but he knows that this particular store has been closed for business since the queer storms began, although truly, what better time to open the doors for the purchase of home-brewed beers and spirits from other worlds? Bottles glisten on shelving and displays, but the expensive, dusty brews have been locked in closing cabinets, gates drawn across others.

Jaime isn't sure how he feels, about thieves. His sense of loyalty to the city is a lazy thing, as respectful as a cat that's been shut inside someone's home, and his sense of justice is, at best, somewhat lax. At least, when it applies to him.

But by the Seven, does he need something to do.

A glance back at the empty street confirms that no, the Militia are not marching down the cobblestone as Jaime thinks it over. He slips inside, paying tribute to caution by being quiet, but he's just a man, a rather large one by some standards, and eventually, someone is going to see the other. He wears leather, mainly, some cotton, in colours of browns, tans, and creams that, in some shades, make him seem golden all over, or faded. Nothing very official about his dress sense, antiquated as it is, and certainly nothing official about the fancy knife he carries. Looter, or enforcer of the law? To be honest, Jaime hasn't decided yet himself.

mog hill, idek what store

[charismatic]

Will's mostly lost track of the network, since the world went all to shit. He's spent most of his time running around the city, trying to help herd evacuees, and dealing with the occasional horrifying beast. It's frustrating – he'd be a lot more effective if he had one of the machines from home. Actually, he'd be fucking unstoppable with one of those, and maybe he should see if anyone around the Lot could reproduce one, however unlikely it is, because he's not really in his element with hand-to-hand combat. Well. He's not in anything remotely resembling his element at the moment.

Anyway.

The point is, he's been busy. He's only glanced at the network once or twice since all this started, and maybe he should have sent out hey-are-you-okay texts but he's been a bit preoccupied in general, anyway. And the only time he's bothered to poke at the network recently, just to make sure someone wasn't dead, he'd gotten hung up on.

Oh. Speaking of, there he is now. Rude Guy. Awesome. Will slows down to eye the small pile of goods accumulated beside Marty. “Really?” he says.