Session 2 Recap

“That’s him there.” the barmaid had said to you, pointing at the short stocky man in suspenders and a bowler hat. His sleeves were rolled up to his forearms and a stubby cigar absently hung from the corner of his mouth. He leaned over the table, lining his cue up behind the white ball. Looking up at his companions, he closed his eye and boasted “Well that’s a wrap lads” as he sent the white ball shooting down the table to smash into the red and yellow balls sending them flying off in different directions to drop into separate pockets. He dropped the cue to the table and clapped his hands together as if brushing the dust away. “Looks like you’re done son! Pay up!” he said smirking at a man standing nearby, obviously his opponent. The man looked to the other larger men standing to the sides and nervously tugged at his collar. 

Just then a raucous of some kind had come from the street outside. Chanting? All eyes in the room had turned to look at the doors as they burst open and a mob of men poured in chanting ‘Rethel! Rethel!’ As they surged in, a huge figure of a man emerged, easily 7 feet tall. He was shirtless, and had arms like tree trunks that ended in fists the size of large hams. He surveyed the room, settling eyes on Samael Kent, the man you’d also come to find. The tall man grunted, then thrust both arms into the air, which was accompanied by an explosions of cheers. 

In response, Kent slowly took the cigar from his mouth, dropped it to the ground, and snuffed it out with a booted foot. He picked up a nearby tumbler full of a deep amber liquid, raised it to his nose as if to savor the smell, and then downed it in one go. The crowd had grown silent, waiting in anticipation. Kent rolled his neck around, twisted back and forth at the waist, and then cracked his knuckles. He looked around the room, then with a huge grin roared out “We’re going to have a party tonight fellas!” tearing off his own shirt and throwing a few jabs in the air. The room reverberated with cheers as groups of men alternated shouts of ‘Rethel!’ with that of ‘Thyne!’ or ‘Sam the Man!’ Men and women had began shoving to descend the two sets of stairs leading down to a lower floor. 

Not sure what was happening, you had followed. The floor below turned out to be one big open hall with a large open circle at the center. The serving women looked to be taking bets, and the two contenders stood at opposite ends of the circle, the large man hurling insults, and Samuel Kent strutting, blowing kisses to his fans and taunting his opponent. 

“Sam’s never lost” an older woman said as you moved in amongst the crowd. “Put my last fiver on him I did!”  

The call had gone out for the last bets, and though you were tempted, you had little money to spare. The two men had moved into the ring. One of the barmaids stood to the side with a white kerchief held high and the crowd had gone silent. The kerchief dropped, the two men moved into the ring, bobbing and weaving. Kent moved and danced like an expert boxer, while the larger man stalked after him. Kent smiled and looked confident as he juked and feinted. The larger man seemed unimpressed, and when an opening came, he took it. The uppercut took Kent squarely in the jaw, lifting him up into the air as it connected. He fell limp to the ground, knocked out cold. Stunned, the room was momentarily silent as the two opposing forces stared in disbelief before everything exploded into cacophony and chaos. Men surged at each other, fists flying, while others sought to escape the madness, fleeing for the stairs. 

Stuck in that throng  of brawlers, you had done your best to look to your own safety. But then you saw something: [Mark’s character] had moved up next to Kent. A dagger flashed, and blood began pouring from the downed man’s neck to pool in the middle of the floor. Had that truly just happened?

“Come on, let’s go!” [Marc’s character] said as he grabbed you by the arm, pulling you up the stairs. The flight back to Hightown was a blur. The streets of the Warrens all looked the same to you, and you were sure there must have been men after you. But  in the end, you’d made it here, back to Uptown and the supposed safety of Ringo Jak’s inn. Jak himself was onstage, happily playing his banjo. The rest of you sat here with Martha Oakley, the woman who’d suggested that ‘something’ be done about Kent. 

“So…” She starts slowly. “The word from Lowtown,” she paused again. “Is that a certain gangster has,” she looks up at [Marc’s character] ‘fallen on hard times.’ Her slow way of speaking is somewhat irritating, but looking into her shrewd eyes, recognize the calculation and cunning. She is middle-aged, heavyset with an ample bosom draped with expensive-looking jewels. Her face is framed with graying, auburn hair and she has perhaps the largest nose you’ve ever seen. 

“This city is at war. Oh of course there are the conflicts without. But I am talking about our war within. It’s important to pick a side.” 

The song on stage ends, which results in applauds and cheers. Oakley sits up in her chair to clap,  shifting forward as if in preparation to stand. Sitting on the edge of her seats, she fishes around in her cleavage and pull out a small bag, setting it on the table.
“You all have shown yourself to be..capable. Come find me tomorrow if you feel like picking your side.” She blows a kiss to Ringo and walks away. 

Opening the sack you find 25g, and a note saying “Looks like Kent made good on his fee for the five of you after all.”