George's Territory
Bay City, Lowtown
Early Summer
Sundown

As the sun descended behind the city's skyline and the near-full pregnant moon rose, George set about patrolling his territory. He knew every crack in every sidewalk, the work schedule of every person who crossed his path and the opening closing hours of every business. Even though the Mundanes didn't know he was a Wolf, and didn't really know that this was his territory, all the same, his face and his name were known all across these city blocks. Thus far, this small crime-plagued corner of the city had been spared the worst of the consequences of the recent upheavals, and most people, even unconsciously, attributed that to George.

There was something odd in the air tonight. Not the mummy. George knew there was an ancient, immortal, powerful magical creature living somewhere in his territory, but thus far he's been unable to find it and it has no revealed itself.

No, there was something else. Something... arcane. There was the sharp, sulphur-tinge of human magic about it. But also the asphalt-on-summer-day smell of the restless dead. If he had to guess, he'd guess wards of some kind. Riling up the spirits.

But his ponderings along those lines might have to wait. As he completes his patrol, he hears the clear sound of a struggle: yelling, crying out, the sound of meat being pounded by blunt objects. Then the crackle of broken bones. And another cry.

Just down the street, in the parking lot of Marshall's 24-Hour Convenience, three large burly men dressed in heavy workboots and bomber jackets had pushed a skinny teenager up against the brightly-lit wall and were systematically beating him.

OOC: Hitting the Streets requires naming what you need, and naming who you're going to go in order to get it. That way, the success or failure is based on an NPC and Faction interaction, as opposed to a passive 'looking for info' kind of thing. It's cool, though, I'll factor the Miss into the scene.

OOC 2: Let's find a way to get George hooked up with everyone else. We may have to assume he has a cell phone, or some other means of communicating.
This message had punctuation tweaked by the GM at 15:38, Mon 21 June 2021.

The blood in the air lingered, bringing a growl to Wolf George's stomach.  The crack of bone and the yelp of pain were a meal unto itself.  The Wolf had no issue finding the source.  His eyes narrowed.  Violence that he had not condoned.  He did not know the aggressors.  He did not know the victim.  He only knew what would happen next.

From the shadows, a form of hair and spittle and rage unleashes.  It slams into the punks, rending and tearing.  The primal fury left little standing, as blood splattered across the vandalized wall of the convenience store.  Inside, the clerk would hear a noise and attribute it to gang violence, and tell the story to friends for comfort and possibly to get laid.  But the clerk would not dare look around the corner to see what transpired... no, they knew better in this neighborhood.

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20:46, Today: George Wolfe rolled 10 using 2d6+2.  Unleash and Attack (Roll+Blood).  Success plus inflict serious harm.  3 Harm.

OOC: Twiddle mentioned he would have given George a phone, albeit a simple one with a single phone number (Twiddles) and an app to track the Fae's phone.  I plan on moving in on Twiddle soon, as he seems to be the center of George's problems.

OOC: As for the Hit the Streets, I went with that only because it seemed like the most appropriate.  I'm happy calling it a non-advancing faction roll.  Let the game go on!
This message was last updated by the GM at 15:38, Mon 21 June 2021.

George struck the group of burly men like a freight train made of knives. He scattered the trio, and cut one open from throat to chest. That one fell to the ground spouting blood and spasming in pain and shock.

The skinny teenager, without hesitation, turns heel and runs full speed around the corner and vanishes into the streets.

One of remaining two men, on the ground, yells out "FREEZE! POLICE!"

The other, standing warily to the side, fumbles around inside his pocket and pulls out a leather case. It flips open and inside is a badge.

"Special Forces," snarls the one on the ground, "You stay right where you are. You're in the shit now fuckwad."

The other one pulls his pistol, still holding his badge, and walks carefully over to his fallen comrade.

OOC: Yeah, no big. Just remember for next time, you have to tell me who you're going to go see, and what you want from them. Just make that person up, give them a Faction and maybe a quick note on how you know them. Then it's all good.

Where a few hours ago George would have been able to control himself, the Wolf sees a challenge in its territory.  A territory it has fought tooth and nail to take and control.  Its bloodlust not yet sated, Wolf George leaps onto the armed officer, claws tearing the man in twain... but not quite fast enough.  The firearm in his hand cracks thunder in the night, and a flash of pain screams through the Wolf.

Wolf George stands before the final officer, letting out a howl that courses its way into the sky, and finding its way through the city.  Eyes slightly aglow look down at the human.  "Go.  Now.  Or die.  Like them."

The Wolf stands, muscles tight and coiled.  It is prepared to pounce, but seems to be allowing the human a single chance to leave with his life.  This will be a problem to deal with another time.  Another day.

For now, Wolf George needed to see Omar.

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14:01, Today: George Wolfe rolled 7 using 2d6+2.  Unleash an Attack (Roll+Blood).  Success plus inflict serious harm, but they inflict serious harm on me.  3 Harm.  1 Armor.

The final officer pulls his gun and starts walking backward. He keys his radio and says, voice remarkably calm, "Backup. Backup. Officer down."

Still walking backward, he says, "This isn't over, Wolf. You messed up. You messed up bad."

Like a thief in the night, George disappears into the shadows.  Even the crude mind of the Wolf understands that this night has brought nothing but problems, and his actions have not helped at all.  But one problem at a time.

The warm summer night sends a breeze to riffle through his hair.  He runs.  He searches for Omar, checking the being's usual haunts.  But the Fae is not at any of them.  Then, and only then, does he attempt the cell phone.  Hard plastic seems juxtaposed with the creature of raw nature, and the claws struggle to press synthetic keys.  Eventually it shows a small map, a red dot located deeper in the city.  Stowing the phone, he again runs.

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Let me know if I need to roll to escape the situation, given the officer has a gun drawn.