old man moomba

Rydin sighed and began to mess with his Stand Knife. "Careful." Three cautioned, "I don't wanted to be Requiem'd just yet." "Yeah, I know, I know." Rydin muttered, "Go turn some people into stone, why dont you."

The sound of vehicles parking echoed from outside. Dapper shook his head, "Oh no..." The doors burst open and a molty procession of people entered. Among them, Dapper spotted Doc and Jamie, both Rydins with Aben loping just behind them, Quinn and Tina, who were speaking quietly, Malone, The Avenue Men, and finally Ciera, who jogged over to Dwig and Dapper. Dapper grimaced at Ciera and gestured to the group, most of whom were going to check out the body. "Dwig called you?" he asked, exasperated "Whoever he could remember of the top of his head." Ciera responded, cocking her head, "That's what he told me, at least."

Quinn placed another shot glass into the grid. He was trying to make a pyramid, but he hadn't taken nearly enough shots for that. He drowned another shot and tried to set the glass on top of the grid to start a new layer, but the glass slipped out of his hands. The thud of the glpass hitting the bar jarred him out of his stupor. "Hey buddy." a voice cut though the funk, "You ok?" it was the barkeep. He sounded concerned. Quinn shook himself, trying to get the fog out of his head. "Yeah, yeah." he mumbled, "Just... gimme a sec." he tapped a smidgen of gold and sobriety hit him like a sack of wet concrete. "Gimme a few more shots, good man!" Quinn called, quickly fixing his pyramid.

Quinn stared glumly at his glass of beer, watching a bead of condensation slowly bumble its way down the side. Finally, he picked up the glass and took a drink. He wasn't leagally allowed to drink yet, but at the pubs he frequented, age wasn't an issue. He sighed audibly, setting the glass back down on the bar, attracting the attention of his 'guide', a huge man with spiky oramge hair who insisted everyone call him 'Big Brother'. Quinn had asked the man if he'd ever read 1984 and had been met with an enthusiastic no. Most of the other mobsters they'd spoken to in London had called him 'Big' or 'Bug', as they pronounced the word. Quinn himself had quickly adopted the moniker, since saying 'Big Brother' was both long winded and stupid. Big clapped him on the shoulder, nearly dislocating it. "London got you down again?" the man rumbled, "I've got just the place-" "Will you shut up about that damnation disco!" Quinn exploded. Big had mentioned his favorite disco no less than seven times since they'd got to the pub. "I'm not going! Not to drink, not to dance!" "But-" Big got out, before Quinn silenced him with a withering glare. He drown his glass of beer and slammed it on the table. "Gimme a shot of scotch." he muttered sourly to the chuckling barkeep. The man, still smiling, poured Quinn a shot, which he drowned. "Right. What were we talking about?" "The... uh... disco I wanted to take you to?" Big offered meekly. Quinn frowned at the large man, realizing that he would continue to plug the venue until Quinn actually went there. "Ok, ok. If I go to this disco that you enjoy so much, will you stop offering it as a solution to my every problem?" Big shrugged. "Sure. We're probably leaving town tomorrow anyway." "Fine." Quinn said, still annoyed at Big. "You pay the tab, here and there." Big shrugged, which Quinn interpreted as a 'yes'. Quinn slid of his stool and walked out into the cool night, spinning his car keys around one finger. His car sat parked in an alley about a block away. He began to walk briskly to the car, whisling 'The Court of the Crimson King' under his breath. His whistle changed to a hum as he unlocked the door and hopped in. Quinn pulled out, barely missing a taxi, and drove back to the pub to pick up Big. The orange-haired man grinned at Quinn and waved as if they hadn't seen eachother literally two minutes ago. Quinn popped the door and motioned for Big to get in. The man slid into the Rebel's passenger seat and began giving directions before Quinn had even said anything. Quinn drove, resigned to his fate, as Big interspersed directions with random anecdotes which had no relation to their current situation. After what seemed like a three hour jaunt though the poorly lit streets of London, they finally pulled up in front of the disco. The neon glow of the sign grated on Quinn's eyeballs as he parked the Rebel. Big vaulted out the car and nearly tripped trying to open the driver's side door. Quinn opened the door himself and shoved the Irishman out of the way. He walked to the doors with a deliberate saunter and dramtatically yanked them open before striding inside like he owned the place.

@John Flamesinger

Location: Morioh Town, Japan. A car screeched to a halt outside of a quaint looking vila on the edge of town. Two men hopped out and made their way to the door. The first man was tall and brawny with shoulder-length straight black hair. He wore a duster coat over a suit vest and a white shirt with jeans. The second man was pale and gaunt, with slicked back hair and a sharply tailored suit. The pair stepped up to the door. The first man glared at his pale companion, "Don't try anying funny." he said cooly, "Because you're only here since the boss requested you. We can send you back to that hellhole you were locked up in quicker than you can say 'Avenue'" The second man smiled and nodded. "Whatever you say, boss." The duster clad man sighed and pounded on the door a few times. The sound of several locks being undone and a fair amount of cursing could be heard before a short man opened the door. "The rusted chains of the prison moon are shattered by the sun." he said quietly. "I walk a road, horizons change, the tournament's begun." the first man replied smoothly. The doorman nodded and stepped aside, closing and locking the door after the pair had entered. "Boss is on the balcony." the short man offered, gesturing towards a sliding glass door. The pale man grinned in a predatory way and eagerly moved to the door and wrenched it open. The duster clad man sighed and followed. "I always wonder if I based my organization in Morioh because of the Stand users, or the Stand users came here because of me." the man standing on the balcony mused. "I guess it's something of a chicken-egg situation. Hello to you both, by the way." the man continued, "Glad to see you got Avenue Man out of prison alright, Kvasir." The duster clad man nodded, "Not too hard, though Avenue kept complaining." "I trust he's cooperating now?" the man asked "Yes, I am. Personally, I want to go find the guy so I can go home. Can we get going?" The man turned, grinning wildly. "Of course, I'll send you to him now. The man, who called himself Bon Scott, summoned his Stand. Closing his eyes, he channeled a tiny bit of the Stand's power at the pair standing before him. They both poofed away into mist, heading to rescue a one Rydin Caranda.

No.

Luna was content to remain in the clearing, making a large bonfire and eating some of the dried food from her pack.

BSS for short. I'll start with some references: Callandor, Anubis, Luck&Pluck, and Justice for book and show references. Next onto the music references: Jailbreak, Bohemian Rapsody, Black Betty, Thunderstruck, Epitaph, Love Train, Holy Roller, and High Voltage. No points for originality here. Finally on to some that I came up with myself: Moonsliver, Virtue, Hellclaw, Dawnbreaker, Starsilver and Plainskiller.

He said, using the incorrect spelling of boy in this situation.

Huh? What? Oh. I subbmitted a fixed version of the chart a while back, but I can grade it. You'll need to define the actual power level as a number so I can line it up with the chart. IIRC the wiki has a list of people with specific power levels, so look there if you need a frame of reference. (I should really make a better system) Also, I'm pretty sure the One Power is genetic, so a Sleepless having it implausible, to say the least. Also also, we've not finished with deciding the fate of the points system, so I'd wait to submit a character until we figure that stuff out.

"Imagine sitting on a throne" I scoff, sitting on an uncomfortable-looking wooden stool, "What a commoner you must have to be."

I draw some complex diagrams which seemingly indicate that since this party is neither infinitely short nor set with a predefined end point, it must continue infinitely. I write these data in the suposedly-infinite-but-unobservable-space-at-the-bottom-of-the-peanut-butter-jar etc etc.

Me and the boys in our Shardplate.