Chaos Precip

The air is still and quiet. Business as usual is going on as usual, and then... there's a flash, and a soft pop, and a pink portal opens up in midair and a man comes falling through.

Bill is unceremoniously dumped on his ass, hitting the ground with a hard 'oof'.

He sits up and has a look around.

"... Clarice?"

Someone sneezed while she was teleporting them, and now Bill finds himself in a strange place without his ride to get back to where he was, or to get to where they were going.

Great.

Tandy whimpered and turned her head away. They'd gotten the camp set up, a fire started to keep the bugs away (and there were some really big bugs in this state), and finally she could peel her sleeve back and look at the damage. "It hurts." she hated how young her voice sounded, like she was a whimpering little child instead of a girl who'd taken on a slaver band earlier in the day...

...but that was the problem. Normally they were fine. Normally nothing could touch them, but sometimes there were just too many bullets flying and not even her speed or Tyrone's cloak could take care of them all. She hadn't seen the one that hit her arm, punching through the white leather easily and the flesh beneath even easier.

It hurt. A lot. But it hadn't hit the bone at least. She could move her arm. She just wasn't good with pain. "Please please please don't tell me the bullet's still in there?!" She was asking her partner of course, she wasn't looking. No, looking would just make it hurt more right?

Right.

She left New Orleans with her stash of books and poems, and a crate of wine designated two towns over. Most of it never made it past the next town. There she picked up a collection of beautifully crafted shirts; perfectly legal anywhere on her route, and a small box of hallucinogens.

The next town took wine and the shirts. She stayed there two weeks, getting this and that, trinkets and baubles, packages that weren't destined for the mail. After that she got rid of the drugs, picked up a crate of birds being sent to a distant farm, and after that she ran out of water.

"Damnfool move, Butterfly." she muttered to herself as she poured over the maps looking for a place she could get more.

Remy didn't often find himself with a free evening so to speak, being as how most the Thieves Guild were a nocturnal lot, but when he did find himself with time on his hands and no lady to help him spend it, well, he liked to play cards. A nice, friendly game of cards in the dim recesses of one of his favorite 'hole in the wall' bars. It was far enough from the water to avoid most of the 'tourist' trade, and patronized often enough by the Guild to carry a decent alcohol assortment.

They even had music most nights. Tonight there was a smokey, moody jazz band in the only well lit corner. Just the thing for a relaxing evening.

His table was mostly full and they were playing a high stakes game where cigarettes were the main betting tender. The group around the table wasn't even cheating much. Nothing like thieves on hand to keep men honest.

[Posted around New Orleans. Written in a neat architect's print but covered in splotches of salt water that make the ink ripple outward.]

JONES SHIPPING CO.
COVERING THE ENTIRE GULF OF MEXICO
FROM TEXAS TO FLORIDA
IF YOU NEED IT MOVED, WE CAN MOVE IT
NO QUESTIONS ASKED

FIND ME WHERE CANAL STREET MEETS THE RIVER
RATES NEGOTIABLE.