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 Ya don't gotta stand up ta shoot. [Episode]

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Butch Castle

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TrackerBioFighting StyleEquipment

Name : Butch Castle
Epithet : No-Good
Age : 19
Race : Human
Faction : Bounty Hunter
Crew : N/A
Ship : Little Castle
Crew Position : N/A
Haoshoku : 0
Busoshoku | Kenbunshoku : 0
Attack (ATK) : 80
Defense (DEF) : 50
Reflex (RX) : 85
Willpower (WP) : 50
Level : 1
Experience Points : 100
Berries : 5,050,000

Posts : 78

PostSubject: Ya don't gotta stand up ta shoot. [Episode]   Thu Nov 30, 2017 10:09 am




E
AT LEAD, SUCKER!
THIS IS NO GOOD
WORDS 795 TAGS @Frenzy POST COUNT 1 ❚


Quest Information:
 

”Watch it, kid! I said wat--” A sharp creek and a teeth-grinding racket was a terrific welcome to a new town.

”Shoulda warned me sooner, ossan!” The youngster’s reprimanding tone was met with little tolerance. ”It’s your fault you don’t know how to sail your own damn boat, you no-good brat!”

The youngster frowned and resisted the devilish urge to whack the skinny old man (who was actually pretty muscular and not skinny at all; and definitely not quite as old as one might think) with the oar, his clutch nearly squeezing the shaft like a spoiled banana. But, after drawing a deep and calming breath—as he was taught to do when dealing with ungrateful bastards—he simply sighed and mumbled. ”Ya only paid me to ferry ya to port. I ain’t gotta deal with yer tired mouth anymore. I’m leavin’.”

The old man halted him with a palm on his shoulder and a nudge back towards his rickety (but faithful) sailboat. ”Take better care of your ship, you fool. You hurt her when you tried to dock.” The youngster’s voice failed to exit his quivering lips, and a stream of sweat rolled down his flushed, brown cheeks. ”FUCK! Little Castle! This is all yer fault, ossan!” The youngster, in his panic, groveled and slammed the bottoms of his fists onto the wooden platform, staring helplessly at the hideous crack that seemed to nearly split the boat in two.

The old man groaned in protest and turned the other way, walking a few steps before pausing. ”C’mon, you no-good punk. Let’s find the local shipwright. He’s an old acquaintance so I’ll introduce you. Consider it a bonus for getting me through that storm alive.”

The lad’s angry gaze mellowed as he stood, adjusting the tattered and dirty white cloak wrapped over his shoulders. He then followed after a brief reluctant pause. ”Ya say that, but it weren’t me who sailed us through that ploughin’ sea-tantrum. Ya did all the work while I flailed around tryin’ ta furl the sail.” A sly smile warped the skinny man’s stoic face into an awkward doodle. He really shouldn’t try ta smile. Creepy.

The docks of Beach Hope were unsurprisingly popular, what with the town being the center of trade amongst the neighbouring islands. The scattered crowd shifted almost as if it were a single beast, alive and angry—though the almost rhythmic and practiced shouting and quarreling of the many sailors might’ve been responsible for much of that.

The youngster identified many caravels, a few galleons, and even a colossal windjammer anchored nearby. And then there was Little Castle at this far-eastern dock, a baby compared to the rest; a very ugly baby too, but her owner would resent that observation and deny it like a mother would the unattractiveness of her child.

With the cuffs of his pants still wet from the shallow pool of water which refused to part from Little Castle, annoying clumps of sand now clung to him like leeches when they crossed the beach towards the shipyard. Their modest destination was close and also decorated with a convenient (and frankly-getting-old) anchor and wheel. Where’s the mystery and the sense of adventure these days? Do they gotta label everythin’?

The de facto leader of the two-man parade walked awkwardly in the sand, his subtle limp more apparent now. With an uncharacteristic bout of curiosity, the youngster inquired with no particular conspicuous interest. ”Ya never did tell me why ya wanted ta come ta this sunny-sunshine town.” Without turning his head, the former passenger replied monotonously. ”I wouldn’t want a no-good rascal to poke his nose where it doesn’t belong.”

The juvenile held back a scowl and murmured an insensible complaint grumpily. It would’ve been counter-productive to argue now; he needed the mocking bastard on his side to hopefully get away with a cheap repair (which would still—without a doubt—bite away the lion’s share of the fee he charged to ferry the man in the first place). But, the day wasn’t done spilling milk just yet.

The entrance was battered, a very subtle trail of blood following the wooden path leading into town. The old man was overcome with worry and near-despair, prompting him to shuffle through the hanging splinters and rush into the receptional. The youngster followed without hesitation only to walk into a gruesome scene.

The place was a complete mess; overturned tables, broken counter, scattered tools and accessories, and blood—a shit-ton of blood. The cloaked no-good sailor looked towards his senior with concern he’d never admit to, only to find a face frozen in horror. Chasing the target of his horrified gaze, there was only a message to be found, painted on the wall in the crimson shade of blood. Thank you for the payment.



TRACKERS:
 
❚ Ayu of BTN

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Frenzy

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TrackerBioFighting StyleEquipment
Name : Papillon D. Fran
Epithet : Frenzy Eyes
Age : 19
Race : Human
Faction : Bounty Hunter
Haoshoku : 0
Busoshoku | Kenbunshoku : 0
Attack (ATK) : 70
Defense (DEF) : 50
Reflex (RX) : 70
Willpower (WP) : 45
Level : 1
Experience Points : 100
Berries : 50,000

Posts : 18

PostSubject: Re: Ya don't gotta stand up ta shoot. [Episode]   Mon Dec 04, 2017 4:13 am




 
...HOW FOOLISH.

NOT EVEN WORTH MY TIME.


 



PAPILLON D. FRAN
“Goodness me, that girl is such a workaholic,” sighed the captain of the marine ship anchored a short distance away from Baterilla, watching the small wooden rowboat slowly approach the docks. “It was so surprising when she said she wanted to come to Baterilla. I suppose even she needs a holiday every now and again.”

A lone woman occupied the rowboat, having refused assistance when offered it despite the inaccessibility of her legs, the only reason she offered being, “I can use my arms just fine.” Her electric wheelchair was across from her and when she reached the docks, the captain observed her through a pair of shiny binoculars, even though he refused to admit his distress for her safety.

“Captain Patch, will we be setting back for Centaurea soon?” asked a seaman.

“Yes, yes, soon,” mumbled the captain absentmindedly, before suddenly swinging the binoculars at him. “Are you crazy?! What if something happens to Fran?!”

“Y-yessir!” stammered the seaman, tears falling from his eyes while he clutched his head in pain. “But...sir, she said she wanted to be left alone and to come back tomorrow evening. Won't she be mad if she finds out we stayed?”

His crew had mostly gotten used to the captain’s fatherly protective nature over his protege, but there were times they couldn’t help feeling sympathetic for him, given that she seemed intent in ditching him whenever possible. But attempt after attempt had failed and this might have largely been owing to the fact that her first major disappearance had made the old man quite paranoid.

“What she doesn’t know, won’t hurt her,” replied Patch with a rebellious huff, before donning the binoculars again. “Damn...she’s already gone.”

***

Fran sighed, wheeling herself down the bustling streets of Baterilla. The contrast between the decrepit state of her own hometown was so jarring, she couldn’t exactly bring herself to relax despite the atmosphere. But she was in desperate need to get away from the suffocating presence of her adoptive father, so desperate she was that she was willing to give the thing called a “holiday” a try. Whatever that meant.

As she made her way through the street of Beach Hope—its popularity among tourists clear with the number of people—she heard a mutter from one of the pedestrians above her, “Out of the way, cripple.” A shadow passed over her features and a vein twitched on her forehead.

“Hold it, punk,” she snarled, snatching his wrist as he passed, her sensitive ears at least able enough to pick out the exact “punk” she was after without mistaking him for another. “Care to repeat yourself?”

The boy she had caught only appeared around fourteen and was what she could only identify as a wannabe “surfer boy” with tanned, orange skin and bleached blonde hair. She didn’t care enough to take in any other features besides this point, only noting with distaste that his flower print shirt was left slovenly open to reveal his stomach.

“Let go, cripple,” snapped the boy. “I have places to be-OW!”

It was like the blow had come from nowhere, from an impossible angle if it had been the disabled woman who had conked him over the head.

“Who was that?” he cried angrily, twisting and turning his bruised head in search for the offender.

“Down here, idiot,” she replied cooly, bringing his attention back down to her.

Hidden in her hand with the spacious sleeves of her kimono was the pile of coins she had used to initiate the blow. With a well-versed flick of her thumb, she could shoot a coin from her hand in the same manner a bullet would be fired from a gun. A second coin was fired to serve as the platform for the first coin coin to use to ricochet off, allowing her to make an invisible attack from an angle that was seemingly impossible for her to make.

“You?!” the boy’s eyes widened with disbelief, ogling the disabled woman he had just moments ago insulted. His eyes fell down to her legs and another blow landed on his forehead.

“Eyes up here,” she grunted, her patience having run dry. “My, who taught you your manners? I wouldn’t mind a word.”

She tilted her head to the side expectantly, her scarlet eyes peering a scorching hole into the boy. He gulped.

“Well, lead the way?” she suggested with no shortage of intimidation and he relented with a humiliated sigh.

“Yes, ma’am,” he mumbled, turning away and trudging through the crowd with Fran tailing him, expertly avoiding the stampede. “You gonna tell me who you are?”

“No,” she said bluntly.

“I’m Yoon,” he said with a hint of hope in his voice.

“I’m still none of your business,” she replied and he sighed dejectedly.

As they neared their destination, what was wrong was made increasingly clear. They passed a trail of blood and when Yoon traced it to its origin, he let out a fearful gasp and immediately took off, leaving the disabled woman behind. She clicked her tongue, perhaps disapproving his impatience before making her way steadily after him. By the time Fran had arrived at the place with the anchor and wheel, he had already long since disappeared into it. But as she entered, Yoon was making a dash back out and nearly toppled over her.

“I-I,” he stammered, fearfully steadying her chair, his voice trembling.

His fright was enough for even Fran to excuse him for nearly pushing her over and she merely  maneuvered the boy out of her way to peer behind him at the carnage. Her eyes swept over the ruins before stopping and narrowing suspiciously at the black-haired boy, who appeared to be around her own age, and the elderly man beside him.

Cautiously, she dipped her hand into the compartment on the side of her wheelchair. So much for her holiday. Whatever that was.





BY RIMY ♥ OF BTN


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Butch Castle

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TrackerBioFighting StyleEquipment

Name : Butch Castle
Epithet : No-Good
Age : 19
Race : Human
Faction : Bounty Hunter
Crew : N/A
Ship : Little Castle
Crew Position : N/A
Haoshoku : 0
Busoshoku | Kenbunshoku : 0
Attack (ATK) : 80
Defense (DEF) : 50
Reflex (RX) : 85
Willpower (WP) : 50
Level : 1
Experience Points : 100
Berries : 5,050,000

Posts : 78

PostSubject: Re: Ya don't gotta stand up ta shoot. [Episode]   Wed Dec 06, 2017 8:50 pm




E
AT LEAD, SUCKER!
THIS IS NO GOOD
WORDS 765 TAGS @Frenzy POST COUNT 3 ❚


The crippled old man hastily approached the expertly illustrated carnage. The implied victim of the supposed crime scene was nowhere to be found. The youngster’s look of concern was still more on behalf of the living than the dead, for the old man’s pulsating veins were on the verge of bursting. Without a word of instruction, the older man set to tearing the place apart in his distraught investigation.

The junior of the duo already had his theories as to what might have transpired; not a one ended pretty for the victim. He busied himself searching through various rooms, clutching at his two holsters all the while, expecting to walk into trouble hungry for a meal of lead.

Of the three rooms he searched, the first two seemed to be inconsequential—used simply for storage of lumber and metal. The last was an untidy office. Half the room was decorated with scattered paper, and the other half with disheveled cabinets and drawers. The square desk against the wall was overturned, and ink still trailed down from the spilled ink pot, tracing the shallow cracks of the wooden floor.


A thick metal safe sat open and empty in the far corner of the office, with no hint of what treasures may have been its previous occupants. This ain’t my business. I ain’t gettin’ paid for this. These were the first thoughts to cross his mind. And yet, his body failed to acknowledge the sensible argument and dared on to do its own thing.

Shifting through the hundreds of scattered, crumpled documents, the detective-of-circumstance came upon an open ledger. The book was well-kept, despite its bindings being improvised with two leather squares and some twine. He skimmed through the written pages of the book only to stop near halfway through. A smudged streak of blue had crossed out a name beyond readability, leaving the entry of that account essentially erased. Whichever fella’s name’s crossed out here’s gotta be the bastard who did ‘im in.” Didn’t seem to be a far-fetched leap, for a gentle wipe across the ink left a faint smear on his fingertips. Fresh.

A few turns of the pages led to the exact same set of entries, with one of them crossed out once more. And again every few pages. With no other obvious items of interest left to scour further, the pseudo-sleuth returned to the main foyer, calling out conspicuously to his partner. ”Oiii, ossan! Get over here! I got somethin’ ta show ya.”

A moment of unsettling silence passed before he heard the steps of his lame former passenger descending the ladder leading to the attic. His frown was no less pronounced, despite the victim’s body still gone with the wind. As they say - “No body, no crime”.

”What is it?! Did you find him?! Where’s the body?” The short young man rolled his eyes, holding up the ledger and slapping it with the back of his hand. ”Calm the fuck down, ossan. Ya ain’t even told me who it is we’re lookin’ for. And I ain’t found nothin’ that flashy. But, I reckoned I might be able ta guess what’s goin’ on after seein’ this.”

The old man impatiently plucked the accounts out of his carefree grip and scanned through them, taking note of the very same unbelonging markings. ”Bad debt? But, it’s impossible to tell who this was owed to.”

The junior clicked his tongue and let slip a snide chuckle. ”Yer a fool, just like the fools who’d done in this frienda yers. They didn’t bother ta erase the dates and the amount. As ya might notice if ya look with them half-blind peepers harder, it’s the same few people yer chum traded with on those days. The others oughta have some idea who this fella might be.”

The ossan seemed mildly impressed, his grey hues sparkling with vengeful determination. ”You might not be a no good loafer, but at least you can use that head of yours when it counts. We should get out of here before the authorities show up. I don’t trust the lawmakers enough to get involved with them.” Despite his grievances over using his hard-to-come-by deductions for free, he had no arguments against leaving this disturbing scene.  

But, before they could turn to escape the unamusing enterprise, a startling ruckus triggered the black-haired delinquent. In a split second, the barrels of his twin revolvers peered back at the entrance in all their steely ferocity, a bloodthirsty gaze glowering from behind them. ”Don’tcha fuckin’ move, Deadhead and Wheelie, or I’ll fill ya fulla gutless holes.”


TRACKERS:
 
❚ Ayu of BTN
Butch colour: #fcc16a
Friendly NPC colour: #82ff82

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Frenzy

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TrackerBioFighting StyleEquipment
Name : Papillon D. Fran
Epithet : Frenzy Eyes
Age : 19
Race : Human
Faction : Bounty Hunter
Haoshoku : 0
Busoshoku | Kenbunshoku : 0
Attack (ATK) : 70
Defense (DEF) : 50
Reflex (RX) : 70
Willpower (WP) : 45
Level : 1
Experience Points : 100
Berries : 50,000

Posts : 18

PostSubject: Re: Ya don't gotta stand up ta shoot. [Episode]   Sat Dec 09, 2017 12:27 am




 
...HOW FOOLISH.

NOT EVEN WORTH MY TIME.

 




PAPILLON D. FRAN

Of the long list of original nicknames aimed to demean Fran for her disability—“cripple” being one of the more popular choices—she couldn’t say she was particularly impressed with “Wheelie”. She was, however, slightly more impressed with the revolvers directed at her and despite her initial cautiousness, she had her own set of pistols aiming steadily back without missing a beat.

“I don’t believe you’re in any position to be making threats,”
she responded, her expression unchanging despite the new—albeit expected—development.

In contrast, the boy she had picked up in town was hardly keeping his cool. His wide blue eyes darted nervously between the two gun-wielding youths, his slackened jaw dangling loosely in amazement. Several uncomfortable seconds passed, until Yoon finally managed to grasp the danger of the situation and he let out a contorted sound that was somewhere between a shrill scream and a fish gasping for air.

Fran winced, but she kept her eyes and pistols trained ahead. “Shut it, kid!” she snapped impatiently. “You don’t want your blood painting those walls too, do you?”

“W-Wait!” he stammered, his tongue too heavy with fear and shock to clearly produce a sentence. “Th-These guys a-aren’t the ones who took my g-grandpa! M-Miss, you seem strong so I want you to h-help me...”

When only silence responded to his words, he swallowed bravely and threw his body between the line of fire. “Listen to me!!” he shouted, his voice finally clear despite the knocking of his knees.

The perpetual furrow between the young hunter’s brows deepened a fraction in response to the boy’s unexpected movement. “Idiot,” she growled, the weapon in her right hand dropping into her lap as she grabbed the boy by the collar and throwing him out of harm’s way.

“Ow!” he gasped as he hit the floor.

With the weapon in her main hand still trained on the hooligan, Fran turned her crimson glare to Yoon as though to warn him against attempting such recklessness again. His body froze as though petrified and trail of cold sweat fell down his cheek, but he stared bravely back. After a moment, Fran sighed and lowered her weapon. She swivelled her chair to leave the unpleasant scene, uncaring for the revolvers still pointing at her back.

“Whatever, let’s go,” she grumbled under her breath, deciding to ignore the “danger” altogether.

If the delinquent wasn’t the culprit for the bloodshed and horror, then she had no interest in him. Wasting her bullets here would be a waste of time, effort and most importantly, money. She was not so charitable as to pump precious metal into such a menial chore.

The boy’s disposition immediately brightened and he scrambled clumsily to his feet. He paused at the doorway, glancing back at the two figures and the scene of ruin that was his home. It appeared nothing of the sort anymore and he could only identify artifacts of the place where he and his grandfather had lived.

Unlike Fran, Yoon had been unable to identify the two individuals with shadows shrouding their features and his hesitation was in part curiosity of their identity and in part speculation to the purpose of their visit.

“Um, sorry if you wanted a ship repaired,” he mumbled cautiously. “Maybe come back...another time?”

Fran scoffed at his words, but despite her disdain, she waited patiently for him to catch up. His face reddened with embarrassment and he ducked his head, hurrying past her. The hunter was silent, her eyes peering into the darkness of the venue at the black-haired boy for a moment longer, waiting to see how he would respond to their abrupt departure, but turning away to follow Yoon if he decided against it.





BY RIMY ♥ OF BTN


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Butch Castle

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TrackerBioFighting StyleEquipment

Name : Butch Castle
Epithet : No-Good
Age : 19
Race : Human
Faction : Bounty Hunter
Crew : N/A
Ship : Little Castle
Crew Position : N/A
Haoshoku : 0
Busoshoku | Kenbunshoku : 0
Attack (ATK) : 80
Defense (DEF) : 50
Reflex (RX) : 85
Willpower (WP) : 50
Level : 1
Experience Points : 100
Berries : 5,050,000

Posts : 78

PostSubject: Re: Ya don't gotta stand up ta shoot. [Episode]   Sat Dec 09, 2017 5:41 pm




E
AT LEAD, SUCKER!
THIS IS NO GOOD
WORDS 617 TAGS @Frenzy POST COUNT 5 ❚


Testy digits needed little cause to cock the firm hammer back and squeeze the smooth metal curve of the trigger. But, contrary to appearances, the cloaked gunslinger had a respectable amount of self-control. And so, he held his stance when the panicked blond boy scattered around the adamant young lady—who glared back at them with matching intensity.

It was preposterous to think that either of those two new intruders had any part to play in this incidental massacre. More likely they happened to be just another two visitors like themselves who happened to find the shop in this deplorable state. And yet, that sinister stare and those weapons trained towards him ticked him off.

Just as he was about to threaten the newcomers again—ignoring the raven-haired girl’s warning—the youngest of them all spoke in the first wave’s defense. Grandpa? It seemed his guess wasn’t too far off. The wimp maybe had the right to be disturbed by this scene more than all of them. And when the suspicious girl lowered her well-kept weapons, the black-haired youngster sighed and holstered his also.

Still keeping the fussy entrants within his peripheral vision, his eyes momentarily tracked the old man. It seemed the limping bastard had been readier than him to retaliate against any ill-wishing trespassers. Why didn’t I hear the glass shatter? The man was gripping a broken whiskey bottle with a hawkish bearing, at least until he had a chance to come to his senses. And when he did, his furrowed brows parted and melted in sympathy.

A featherbrained comment about “returning tomorrow”, and the two turned to leave already. But the old fart stepped forward into the light before the two left the view of the door frame, calling out to the little punk with an amiable voice. ”Wait!” He tossed the half-bottle aside, holding up his palms meekly to show peaceful intentions.

”Are you little Yoon? Don’t you remember me? My name is Basileus! I used to visit you and your grandfather all the time when you were a child!” If the two young ones would stop and turn, he would go on to explain himself further, approaching the entrance gradually so as to not set off the volatile wheelchaired woman.

”It’s a horrible shame we had to meet again like this. I was bringing this No-Good Butch here to get his boat repaired, but we walked into a crime scene with your grandpa missing. The building was empty when we got here. That young lady there looks like she’s got some firepower with her. Do you know who did this? Or did you walk--” “No-Good” Butch had strolled up close behind him, and with a heavy “tch” he interrupted the suddenly talkative croaker.

”Ya gonna keep talkin’ or ya gonna let 'em talk back? That Whirly-Eyes looks like she might shoot ya for yammerin’.” Butch eyed the ghostly pale woman, his sharp brown features, wild grey eyes, and snarky white grin now lit up by the almost-divine beam falling through the skylight. The brown jacket he wore under the dusty cloth for a cloak fluttered along from a soft breeze peeking through the gaps in the door, dragging in grains of sand to sloppily disguise the blood trails.

The girl’s fuck-you demeanour suggested she’d dealt with useless scum too much. He might’ve mistaken her for a pampered rich kid if it were not for her vacant stare and the swiftness of her draw. No spoiled princess could’ve looked down the barrel of a gun with such determination. Regardless of what her reasons were, Butch’s tolerance of belligerence was never something to write home about. Imagine if he ever had to deal with himself, for once.


TRACKERS:
 
❚ Ayu of BTN
Butch colour: #fcc16a
Friendly NPC colour: #82ff82

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Ya don't gotta stand up ta shoot. [Episode]
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