Paragon Vanguard

If you don't care about the sets, AR/Dev works well without a nuke, as some have said. I don't consider full auto a nuke, but I suppose that is what was put in place as the "nuke". AR is an awesome sniper set, with putting range on slug , gives you two good hits to pull mobs into your mines, and mines relieve you of pesky minions and Lt's. The one that replaced time bomb (cant think of the name of it) now has a detonator and works superb in my opinion. Caltrops keep them guessing and not attacking, wash, rinse, and repeat. AoE damage, you can stay pretty safe, and clean up from a distance. I do it all the time but I use Full Auto as well. It would work without it. I have not built a pure sniper yet, but this thread has put it back into my thinking.

As the title stated. I have some very successful corrupters, not knocking the set at all, but sometimes I think I am missing the main reasoning behind choosing a corrupter outside of "secondary fits my concept". So, as the title states, what is YOUR reason for choosing corrupter over say blaster or some other archetype? Appreciate any serious reply. 🙂

The vast majority of my characters were created on paper a long.....long.......long time ago. I used to draw them and their stories when I was younger, even up into my 20's. I have been so pleased that CoH allows such a large diversity of appearance and mix match power sets. I have never used the random creator, because I have always had a specific toon in mind. I do have some that I have never drawn, but very few original to CoH. I love the idea of letting the random creator do it's thing, then tweaking it! In the end, I am a "Concept Player", in that I know what I want when I create the character, then match clothes and power sets to that toon.

Regen is alot of fun, but it requires paying attention and understanding the build. You should be willing to utilize revive as a weapon, as you revive immune to damage and debt. This does make it difficult to be a primary meat shield though. Get your resist up and maximize your damage output, and you have a fun toon. I love my regen scrappers, I need to make a regen brute. Regen is one of those concept powers, like MM, that you have to make work to what you are looking for, but I think in building it, as I do have 2 regen scrappers who work different, you need to figure out what you want to get out of it. Don't let people talk you out of trying to make it work. It isn't for everyone, and there are days I dont want to work as much. Those days you want to immerse yourself and be a bigger part of your play, it is sweet fun.

It is in no way flawed. You should give it a go and not listen to what "everyone else" says, especially in General Chat. My main tank has done and does very well with /SS. Rage is very useful with the cool down being of very little worry. If you haven't destroyed your mobs by cool down, it takes only a moment to pop back up, and you should be ready for another Rage with only two recharges slotted, and as said above you can double rage up if slotted more or/and with proper sets. The aesthetics are a must have for some concepts. While it is true that the fighting pool can enhance the set, it cannot replace it. Fighting Pool can enhance any set to be honest. So I dont feel that is a viable reason to not try it. I would adventure to say aesthetics and concept can be a big determination in your set up. I truly fail to see how the rage cool down can effect a toon enough to make it unusable. With Invuln/SS, Paragon Vanguard was fun to play from 1st level to Incarnate. Pick a set, and you will have negatives and naysayers. I HATE Unstoppable. I still like Invuln. Go figure. 🙂

I don't usually complain, in fact I like what the team has done up to this Issue. The mob revamp has turned incarnate into ..... well, nothing. Pretty much negates the fact that the toon is suppose to be very powerful compared to normal people/super people. Mobs.....not special named bosses, just regular ole mobs, now have an "equal" feel. That would be fine if we got something in return, besides debt. I don't mind the debt badges. I dont mind playing it on hard mode, but come on, sometimes you just want to relax with a minimal amount of worry. My shield brute, who I was just starting to get going, now gets pretty much executed walking into X8 mob (he is a low level incarnate). I see where he will do better in time, but you have to earn the xp and the cash to get there. Maybe if they could have tied the new mob powers to incarnate level shift? Or am I missing something? For the record my main invuln/ tank, Paragon Vanguard, is doing fine. He is pretty much incarnate max, set maxed, etc. But you gotta kill stuff to get there. It isn't just the mobs that made me not like this, but it is what effects me most. I give this patch a D, at this time. Maybe a D+. It could have been thought out better, it really feels forced, no matter how long it took. With that said, I have not played this Issue enough to really judge it, so that D may be too low. Edit Update: I tried other spawns and did much better with my /shield brute. Just fyi. I may give it a C but there are things to work out, like "TIP" "TIP" "TIP" constantly showing up. I know things can be buggy when first put out there. Still would like to see enhancing mobs a little more thought out. Still have other new content to try out that may negate all my negativity (which I dont like to be negative, especially toward this awesome team). Love you guys, and thank you for the hard work. I hesitated writing this, and in the end I may be in the vast minority on how I feel, and my feelings may change. I know nothing will be changed back, but in the future maybe take some of this into consideration, if it is even read. Thanks for reading! My 2 cents, not really worth a dime! 🙂

Sentinels were not made to be better or worse, they were put in to fill a Concept Void. From there the team found ways to make them more viable. I don't see sentinels as "blaster like" or "scrappper like", though they can be close to "blapper like" if you will. Think Iron Man, and that type of comic book character and you have what a sentinel is. Not Wolverine (scrapper) and not Cyclops (blaster). Sentinels were considered a bit meh at first, though I did defend them even then. They were worked on and made much better to my surprise! NOTHING is perfect, just check the forums on any AT and you will see people unhappy, but they do fit what they were meant to be. I have plenty of sentinels, and in fact fell too much in like with them that I made too many and had to trash some (I will claim it was only trial runs). As was said above, it may not be an AT for your play style if you can't seem to find joy in them, but I have concepts that I could not play as anything but a sentinel without losing something of them. My 2 cents, usually not worth a dime.

Go concept thinking. Who is this character? You will be surprised how much fun it can be to try and make them work. The only thing I have yet to really make work, and I am not done yet, is a no pet MM. I wanted the whip for the concept, and it has been utterly challenging, but doable. I say not work because I am not ready to do +4 x 8 solo, and doubt I ever will. I have considered giving in and getting the demons, but no...... I WILL MAKE THIS WORK!

I think you need to let the builds come together. There is no perfect build for everyone, but there are ways to make every build perfect for what you need. I do concept builds, meaning, I think of what I want the "character" to do then set about making it do just that. I am by far NOT an expert on builds, but I think what you want is out there if you let the build come together correctly.

Ward Mitchum stood a few yards away from the congregating mass, under the canopy of trees that blocked the drizzle of rain falling on this grey day. He couldn't see much, just a bunch of black umbrellas with their own canopies blocking the rain. She was loved, it was not in doubt by anyone, except maybe her. The pastor preached his sermon of love and forgiveness and a place for all of us, but Ward wasn't so sure there was a place for him. He could hear the blubber of heartache from the nearest the grave, but it didn't stir much in him. Nothing stirred much in him right now. This wasn't how it was suppose to end. "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust," the preacher said, and this time cries of anguish. "It's 1992 Ward! You need to live a little," she said, slapping his face lightly. His features were still smooth back then, but her features were excellent. Her blond hair blew in the wind as she hung it out of the passenger side of his grey Mustang. The yellow sundress she wore popped in the wind. Her 19 year old body still firm and strong. "I am already doing 85, and we if we get stopped we may not get into the Police Academy," he said, glancing over to her, but only a glance. "Well, do 92," she said with a laughter. He pushed it to 92 mph, unable to say no to her. "Now we lay her down, but she is not forgotten," the preacher droned on, with other words that one said at a funeral. He was hardly listening. The man went on to say something about her trials were over and whatever else to make one feel good. He had been to too many funerals as a PPD officer to even really listen to it anymore. He was sure they got it all from the same book of funerals that they probably got online at a discount bulk price to pass about to each other. "It's almost 2000," she said, smiling up at him, her blond bangs playing as if they were about to go into her eyes, but never dared to. "Yeah,' he said, a deep frown on his face. He wasn't happy since he and Rebecca broke up. She said he was too serious, too engrossed in his job, and that she could not take waiting around for him anymore. "Well, Donald is overseas, his choice, and you are single now, so you have to kiss me," she said, putting her drink down and grabbing his hand. She lead him to the dance floor where they would finish the millennium together, ending with one friendly kiss and a gorgeous smile, a smile that only she could deliver. The crowd lined up and tossed dirt on the casket, though Ward was not sure how much of it was still dirt. The rain was turning everything to mud now, but at least the grave site was covered by a large canopy provided by the PPD. It was the least they could do. She had given years of her life to them, always with a smile it seemed. Always eager to give more. Some officers gave a glance his way, and nodded. Most others had no idea what sentimental interest he had in this congregation. No idea how close he was to her. "It's okay, Ward, you didn't take advantage of me. If anything, I took advantage of you," she said, as he looked out the window of the small 3rd floor apartment, the smell of too much alcohol still permeating the room. "You still love me?" Of course he did. Both smiled, then laughed. Ward rolled his eyes at her attempt to entice him. Her fiance had sent her an email saying how he was not coming back to Paragon City, that he met a French lady and was in love. Donald apparently had trouble remembering that he had asked her to marry him. She asked him to go out that night to forget, and talked him into more drinking than he was used to. She could not bear to go home alone to a lonely apartment and that he could sleep on the couch, but it didn't happen exactly like that. "Then come back to bed, it's all okay," she said with a big smile on her lips. "Friends with benefits?" They were not really compatible, but he did love her, even with her long pretty locks now very short. The Office played on the television as Ward went back to bed. The limousines and black rentals and police cars began to pull off, one by one. Not the long line that brought her and her casket here, instead a look of it's all over, so it's time to leave. Some of the PPD upper brass still stood around talking, their umbrellas appearing almost intertwined from where he was. He saw the Police Chief glance to him time to time, but he did not make any gestures. Ward would not have responded anyway. It wasn't long before the rain was driving them to their own cars. Still Ward looked on, as the cold drops began to beat on him even through the canopy of leaves they had to filter through. His uniform was protection enough. "It's an honor you dummy," she said, tickled by how he was always solemn about even the best of things. She had already married and divorced by 2012, long having forgotten or cared about Donald. "It's more Academy and I have to finish getting my degree," he told her, bringing a shake of her head. The bangs were longer now, and her hair was a little past her ears. Her blue eyes accented every highlight, or did the highlights accent her blue eyes? He sat at her kitchen table as she fixed some coffee for him, black with no sugar. The house was huge, something she got in the divorce. The windows were big, and the morning sun shown through bright and warm. She was unable to have kids, but she wasn't sure she ever wanted kids. Ward wondered if that may have been part of the problems with her ex-husband. "Magistrates hunh?" She asked. She was part of the coroners office now, having furthered her own education. She wasn't rich, but she was secure, something Ward was pleased about since she lived alone. She said lived free, and he believed that was exactly how she felt about it. "You will do it, so stop pretending its something to bounce around in your mind," she said, smiling as she put the coffee in front of him. It was Saturday and she was still in her Wreck-it Ralph pajamas. Too old to be a kid, but still too young to be old. Ward finally made his way to the grave. He would not come here again. It was a show of respect, but he knew she was not there. It was just a body now, cold and stiff and not her. The cemetery worker stood back and gave him his moment. The uniform he wore was known. He was a Magistrate. Judge, jury, and sometimes executioner if needed. People always gave them space. They didn't speak that day, but he saw her in the crowd, clapping at the new PPD Magistrates. It was much harder to pass than the Academy, but he had made it through. She waved at him and gave him a wink, her blond hair now partially streaked with grey. It didn't change how pretty she was, in fact if she had ever decided to dye her hair, no one would know she was in her 40's. Of course she would not dye her hair. Ward chuckled as she gave a "woof woof" gesture with her fist, and held his diploma up to her, before turning and locking eyes with his wife, who also smiled broad. The two stood together, friends until the end. Ward felt the hand on the crook of his arm. She was crying silently, not blubbering like some. She had given him his space, Linda always knowing when to back off and when to come close. She leaned her head on his arm, and some would think it was him comforting her, but it was not. She was comforting him the only way he would allow. "Cate was a good friend, to both of us," she finally said, trying to shield Ward from the rain with her umbrella, having to reach high to cover his head. Linda was a few years younger than Ward. She had met Cate working at the coroner's office, and the two became friends before Cate introduced Ward to her. Cate "just knew" the two would hit it off, and they did. The three spent 2019 in Cancun, a place Cate wanted to go at least one more time. It was fun, but Cate left the two lovers to enjoy it as many times as she accompanied them. "I am happy on the beach you two, now get out of here," she had said, waving them off. Cate was diagnosed with cancer not long after. He always suspected she knew before. She was "going to beat it", she had said with confidence, and Ward was sure she would. With the way she faced it, Ward was still sure she did. "Dying isn't losing Ward," she had said only a few weeks ago. Her hair was gone, and she looked tired, but Ward could see only how beautiful she was. She died on Monday, and was buried on this cold rainy Wednesday. Monday's child is fair of face, Tuesday's child is full of grace. Wednesday's child is full of woe Ward just nodded, looking at Linda and offering a consoling smile. With a slight shrug of acceptance, Magistrate 310 lead his wife away from the grave. Hey, hey, hey-ey-ey Come on try a little Nothing is forever There's got to be something better than in the middle Me and Cinderella We put it all together We can drive it home With one headlight -Jakob Dylan

Everlasting is the rp dominant server.

I did a little digging through the night, entered a few back doors and listened to the illegal card game talks. I have a knack for them not knowing when I am there, and some inner knowledge of how to stay there with them not knowing I am there. Not much was happening at the first few card games. Normal underground mook talk to be honest. 'This chick is easy, that broad is classy'. It depended on what game I was listening to as to who was classy and who was easy. It wasn't until 2am that I came across the two men in the alley talking about the boss from New Orleans. They weren't debating hooking up with her sexually, but instead they were debating hooking up with her criminally. Batts was not pulling my leg when he said she was neck deep in the underground of New Orleans. He may have mislead me on why she was tracking him though. He didn't steal her money, according to these two family members, he stole her heart. He stole her heart and she wanted him dead now. Still, that seemed too simple for such a complicated bunch. I was betting Tony the Bat was not hiding from her, as he said he was. He was looking for her, and figured to use me to find her. I am guessing the winner of this one would be whoever found whoever first. The loser would be dead. My next thing was to find out why Tony wanted her dead. I don't know the exacts of Amede's motives yet, but I could find Tony easier.

The black hat sat low, the glasses with the red lenses not only covered my eyes but also assisted in seeing in the dark. It wasn't magic, it just took whatever light there was and evenly dispersed it. The black trench coat I wore was not seasonal, as it was a hot summer night, but no one really saw me. I learned how to stay out of sight in the military, but that is another story I may never tell. I wore a grey shirt, a nice shirt really, cotton and soft and helped to keep me cooler, but for the coat. The trench coat was sleeveless, so that also helped. The pants were thick dark jean and tucked into boots. The boots were very utilitarian, high and also black. I was no longer the private detective Daryl Drudge. I didn't speak some code word or magic name or anything as some of these heroes speak. I am not super. If I did have a super power it would be my inquisitive nature. It would be that I had an uncanny need to dig into other people's business. No, when I say I become someone else, it simply means I am now the Kibitzer. It is an alter ego that merely keeps people from knowing who I am. I could easily just as well been John Doe. Kibitzer fits who I am though. Kibitzer, someone who imparts unwanted advice, but it is also synonymous with a busybody, a buttinski. It all fits me. It is what makes me a good detective. I needed to find out more of Amede, and according to Batts, she was neck deep in the underground of New Orleans, and actually had some connections to Paragon City. He didn't know that when he decided to rob her poker games in New Orleans. He knew that now, and now he was laying low. Lucky for him most people wont talk to some prostitute from New Orleans. They didn't really have that much respect for what many called the swamp mafia. Not their real name, it was derogatory. I don't know if they have some kind of name, like The Family or The Mooks even. Not even now. I just knew Amede had tried to play me for a fool. She was probably playing others for a fool as well. Daryl Drudge alone can only get so much information. However, the Kibitzer has a way of finding things out that few others can.

Anthony "The Bat" Batts entered my office carefully, almost as if he figured it was a trap. True to his name, he had a well used bat over his shoulder. His eyes scanned my room quickly, and then fell on me. "You been asking about me, so why not ask me," he said. My hand stayed close to the revolver, but I relaxed a bit. He was not here for hostile reasons, and I could see it in his face. The truth was he looked more like a cornered rat, though a large dangerous cornered rat. "I suppose Jonny couldn't wait to tell you I was asking about you," I said. "Jonny knows what's good for Jonny, and you asking about me aint good for Jonny," he said. I motioned for him to take a seat in the chair across from my desk, and to my surprise he took it. He leaned the bat on the chair by him, and sat back. He wasn't relaxed, not really, but he was more relaxed than he had been when he came in. It was almost as if he was thinking there would be more folks in here waiting on him. "I know you aren't telling me that you hurt Jonny," I questioned, and I really wanted that answer. Jonny was a low life, but he was an informant, and when your informants start getting hurt it makes others not want to inform. "Naw, he aint hurt. He did what he was suppose to do," he said. "Mr. Anthony," I began. "Call me Tony," he said, cutting me off quick. "We aint doing business, we just talking." Tony was dressed like a button man, his suit was very nice, nicer than my suits. He didn't wear the hat, but his hair was slicked back and very black. He did look part Italian, but something about him said he was not full Italian. I could not put my finger on it, but chances were he had to deal with that all his life. "Tony it is. I was asking about you because I have a client that is trying to find her sister. She feels you may know something about it." I put it on the table. If he was here, he knew what the deal was already. He would play his cards, I would play mine, and we would see who busted. It was obvious by his face that he was a card player, because poker face was definitely his game. "Amede hired you," he said, and that caused my own brow to furl. My poker game was not to his level for sure. "It is Amede I am looking for," I said, and there was a very slight hint of confusion on his own face. Maybe we weren't playing the same game. Both of our faces then dropped all pretense and we knew we definitely needed to have a discussion. "Amede don't have no sister," he said, the wheels in his head obviously turning now. We were both wondering what we had gotten ourselves into.

"It's cause you don't know nothing about your client," Mrs. Wendy said matter of fact like. I just looked at my secretary a moment as I poured some bourbon over a couple of ice cubes in my drinking glass. She frowned, as she does when I drink, but it was late enough in the day to not be ashamed of a drink. She knew I hated when she told me something I really should have thought of on my own. "If your hitting the street tonight don't drink more than one," she admonished, though she didn't even want me drinking the one. I would have a second before she got off at 5 o'clock, but she was right. I was hitting the streets. Or more importantly, the Kibitzer was hitting the streets. Yes, she suspected, though she did not know for sure that I put on the mask. It was not something I wished made privy to anyone. One part embarrassing that I dressed up as some Halloween clown so no one knew who I was, another part for their safety. I didn't want every crook I fingered coming banging on my not so well secured door. Some of them don't need to use a door, for that matter. I clinked the ice cubes around as I swirled the bourbon, purposefully making the noise when she popped her head in to say she was leaving. She's a good secretary, and a great woman, and her husband was a very lucky man. No, I didn't have any romantic feelings towards her. I have known her for so long it would be like having romantic feelings for your sister, or cousin, or some such. Wendy was pretty and classy in her own way though. The put on frown she showed at my show of defiance made me smile. "No more," she said, then offered her own smile as she closed the door. I heard her go down the stairs and the bell ring behind her as she left. I don't know my client, not well enough. And I wasn't travelling down to Gretna Louisiana to find out about her. No, that wasn't what I needed to do. I probably needed to have another discussion with her, and get to know her some better. Maybe a drink or two in Atlas, away from the docks and the Italian gangs. Tony Batts was a good start, but I hate going into any conversation without the full story, and right now I didn't have the full story. I was thinking on this when I heard the bell ring over the door down below. I knew Wendy did not come back, she rode the rail and if she forgot anything she would just pick it up tomorrow. I put my hand on my Smith and Wesson .357 that I kept in a holster attached under my desk. It was small protection against supes, but supes weren't really my business. No I had a feeling who this was. By the broad shouldered shadow I saw on the wall as he crossed through Wendy's office, it could only be one man. "Come on in Mr. Batts," I said.

I found Jonny where I always find Jonny Johny, by Exarch Industries. Their slogo is "For All Your Component Needs", but it may as well say "Serving Crey Industries Since..." To each their own I suppose. Crey doesn't factor into much of what I do, and I try not to factor into much of what they do. Crooked security guards if you ask me. Jonny was there, selling to the working class. He has his stand, and no it was not a real stand just a saying, set right up on Liberty Quay where all the gang members and all of the dock workers can have complete access to his ill gotten, albeit quite cheap, cigarettes. Far enough off the PPD path to not get noticed, small enough that supes don't give him a second look, but right smack down in the middle of happenings. Well, Independence Port dock happenings. I reminded Jonny of our little talks, and how I could include others in our little conversations, at least make them privy, if he didn't talk with me. Jonny is not a tough guy, so threatening me was not his way. I know many that would have. They would have tried to scare me with who they are, who they work for, and what they would do to me if I caused them any troubles. Jonny was not built like that, and he knew I was not the kind of guy that could be easily intimidated. Oh, he didn't know I could defend myself pretty well. I preferred to keep that to myself, and keep that to my other business. No, Jonny just wasn't a violent man like what folks think of when they think of gang members. "You wouldn't," he said, but his eyes told the story. He knew I would. After threatening him with that, I would have to. I would have to go through with it because if I did not then others would not believe me when I said something. Jonny knew this of me. I did not even have to answer him. "Ok, ok. Yes, I know of one that has been going back and forth to New Orleans," he said, looking around nervously. "I was told his name is Antonio Salvator," I said, offering Jonny a cigar. He was being helpful, and he deserved something. These weren't blunts, they were true expensive cigars. He smiled big seeing it, I mean a man dealing in tobacco would know what he was looking at. I personally seldom smoked, but for cases like this, well, you offer the whip or the carrot. Or in my case usually both. "Antonio Salvator," he said, low, thinking that over. I was ready to go back to threats if he pretended to not know. If he said something like " I will find out", well, we would have to have another tough discussion of what could happen to him. "Tony, Tony Batts," he said, as if a light bulb popped over his head. "Tony Batts goes by Salvator at times, wishing that was his name, but it aint. He is probably Italian, but he don't have no family. He was an orphan with no one knowing his family. Tony Batts, or Tony the Bat as they call him at times, was said to be going down into Louisiana. I heard tell around Shreveport, north Louisiana, far from New Orleans, but that dont mean that is where he went. It may be enough to throw folks off, you know, stop in up north then head down and do business down south." "Is he into flesh," I asked, meaning prostitution. He shook his head before I could finish. "Batts don't do that, not at all. He is a player in the card games more than anything else. Kind of a hard man, a heavy hand if need be, but he likes to keep the cool type of rep. He rips games from other gangs, but no one goes against him. His capos dont mess with him, they get paid no matter if he deals the game or rips the game," Jonny said. Rip the game meant he robbed illegal gambling places. It may well be that he was in New Orleans to steal from the criminal elements there. If that was the case, though, why would he kidnap my client's sister, or anyone else. He would go in, do what he had to do, and leave. He would not want to leave any around to know he was even there. A thought crossed my mind then. Maybe Amede was a witness. Maybe he could not leave her there. Jonny said he was not violent, not for violence sake, but that does not mean that this man, called Tony the Bat, did not have to get rid of Amede. I tried to push that from my mind. It was too easy, and too easy was what most cases turned out to be in the end, but I liked to push out the obvious until it became the actual. People too often decide on something, anything, and then they make it their truth and it is hard to convince them of anything else. A detective can do the same thing if he isn't careful. No, I never just went with the easy, it was always better to make sure. Push it as if its a hard case. As if maybe there was something else, besides the beautiful Stella Marie Baptiste's sister being dead. "Thank you Jonny," I said, patting him on the shoulder as if we were ole friends, and walked away with this new information playing at my brains. As obvious as it seemed, that maybe something bad had happened to Amede, still there it was. There was that something in the roof of my mouth. Something that I could not quite grasp yet. Something I should do, but was not sure what it was I should do.

I don't just go around knocking heads, I am getting to old for that. I try first with more subtle tactics. Jonny Johny, and yes that is his real name, is a low level cigarette vendor from the streets. He isn't exactly Italian, but he sure looks it. Maybe he just doesn't come from any of the Family's family. He isn't a Mook either. He has connections though. Saying low level cigarette vendor doesn't mean he doesn't have his hands on other things, and prostitution and human trafficking is something these low lifers surely will deal with. The top dogs are busy dealing with the heroes of Paragon City, so they use people like Jonny so their hands aren't that dirty when they get caught. For the record, I do not believe Jonny Johny has anything to do with this missing person. No, I am pretty sure he does not. I do believe he can put me on the right track. A trip from Rhode Island to New Orleans is a big trip to "hire" new girls to work the street, and its a step into other gang territories. Something like that would get around, even as a rumor. I do fear that my client's sister has been pushed into flesh trade, willing or not willing. It's an old story. The quiet ones get their freedom and they go wild, but when they run into the wrong person, bad things happen. Lucky for me Jonny owes me, and he was going to have to pay big. I got him out of trouble with some Mooks, trouble that would have had him floating in Liberty Harbor. Or concrete shoed to the bottom of it. If he didn't feel like paying me, well, I have a friend I can send to talk to him. My friend isn't quite as nice as me. You don't need to owe my friend anything, when he wants information, he will just get it. The Kibitzer, however, was going to stay hanging up in the back of my closet for now. Jonny would talk.

"Amede is what we call a home body, someone that doesn't really get out much. When she does, she is quiet, seems shy, and doesn't really socialize much. As I said, she took care of momma more than anyone. More than me. I focused on the shop, and told myself that we needed the income so that was what I needed to do. I don't think I was purposefully pushing this off on Amede, but maybe subconsciously I just did not have what it took to stay at home and watch momma die. And she did die., Amede was very sorrowful, and cried alot leading up to the funeral and after. It was a terrible time for her, as her and mother were very close. I loved momma, but she did not see eye to eye with my life style. She wanted me to be more like Amede, who seldom went on dates, seldom left the house in fact unless it was to run an errand or some such. That was until mother died. A few weeks, maybe a month, of proper mourning, and she was out on the town far more than I ever was. Mr. Drudge, I longed for the weekends but my sister, well, she did not care what night it was. I suddenly became the responsible one, and she was just, just wild." I nodded, taking it all in. I offered that it was normal for this to occur after a death, especially a parent, especially with the person that was the care giver. She was polite and nodded to that, but I could see she did not believe what I was saying. I was interested in her take on it. "Well this is where Paragon City comes in and why I am here. She began to take up with a man, a well dressed man with a northern accent. He had money and was very charismatic. Always in suits, always the life of the party. He bought her clothes, and jewels and told her stories of this place. He said Paragon City made New Orleans look like a backwater shambles. He tried to charm me but I was not buying any of it. I told my sister to leave him alone, that he was bad news. I think that pushed her closer to him. She said I did not like that she was considered the pretty one now, the one that men wanted to be with. I didn't understand any of it, or where this was coming from. I wondered how long she felt this way about me. I never thought I was prettier or better than she. I always admired her responsible nature. One day though, she was gone. She left a note, apologizing for our fighting, and said she was coming here." "What is the man's name that she took up with," I asked, as she had not mentioned it yet. "His name is Antonio Salvator, but I have not been able to locate him. I don't know if that is his real name. He is Italian, though probably second or third generation. His accent was there, but not very strong. I have met some Italians with a much stronger accent. He promised her a glamourous life here in Paragon City, with him. He promised her alot of things, but Mr. Drudge, I know he never intended to deliver. I know that type. You stay away from them. My sister would not listen though." I nodded, even as I began to consider who he was, or who he was attached to. I did not recognize the name other than it is a common name like Joe Smith. May well not even be his real name, if he was acting in any way nefarious. Still, it was a start, and it got my intuition kicking in. My intuition. I have to say, there was something about all of this, all of her story, that ate at me. It was like something stuck to the roof of your mouth and you can't quite get it off no matter how hard you lick at it. No, I was going to have to reach in, and dig for this. She may not be lying to me, but I have a feeling this is not the whole truth.

"The file says she lived with you and your mother, in Gretna? I am not sure where that is," I said, but I had an idea where it was. I was pretty sure it was near New Orleans. It wasn't information on where she lived that I was truly after, I simply wanted her to start talking. Always start with easy and simple questions. "Yes, that is right. It's in Jefferson Parish, right by Orleans Parish," she said in her wonderful accent, and for the first time offered a slight smile. "We took care of mother, as her health was declining. If I were to be honest, Amede, my sister, took care of her more than I did. I worked in New Orleans at a shop we owned." "You owned? All of you? It was a family business?" "Yes, a family business for generations. Amede did not care to run the shop. It is in the French Quarter, on Conti Street," she said, and I could tell by slight tones and facial motions that this was a sore spot for her. "What kind of shop," I asked, and she looked down at her hands a moment, before looking back up at me. This was also a sore spot it seemed. "It is such a cliché now, but it is a Voodoo shop. Baptiste House of Magic is what it is called, though it had been through different names in the past. No offense Mr. Drudge, but I do not think this has anything to do with my sister, as she had nothing to do with the shop. Or Voodoo." "Mrs. Baptiste," I started. "You can call me Marie," she said, but not the way I would have said it. It was Mah-Ree, and it sounded so different in her accent as she slightly rolled the R. "Marie," I acknowledged, attempting to repeat the way she said it. This brought a slight smile to her pretty face, and it seemed impossible, but it made her even prettier. "Close enough," she said, and this made me smile. "In my profession, everything has do with everything. It is why people come to me who need answers, because, and I apologize for sounding so arrogant, because I am that good. I am that good because I want to know everything, and then I decide what is important and what is not." She looked my face over for a moment, and in that moment, and I stress it was only a mere second, she let her southern charm drop. She studied me, even as I was studying her. I do not know exactly what she saw, but she relaxed and sat back in the chair. Just slightly more. I have to add here that there was something gnawing at me, and I did not know what. It was as a shadow that you see out of the corner of your eye, but when you look, it's gone. Then when you look away, there it is again. That was how this felt, even at the beginning of our conversation. I knew she was not lying to me, not yet anyway, yet there was something here already that was important. Something she did not even know. Something I did not grasp yet. "Tell me about your sister and how she went missing," I said, and sat back all the way into my chair, causing it to creak ever slightly.

It was a warm day. It seemed every day was a warm day this year. I had the window open to my upstairs office off of the docks, listening to the seagulls call out and the boats horn as distant voices wafted through the Independence Port air. I had my fan blowing, and of course I had a window unit pushing as much cold air as it's ancient coils could muster, but by god I wanted that window open, and no heat was going to stop it. It was me against the heat, or at least my ole mind was seeing it that way. Addled is what my secretary would call me, an old man facing off against Mother Nature herself. I wasn't that old. My early 50's, which puts me middle age. Middle age if I lived to be 108. Not out of the question with all the supplements being sold on the street corners of Paragon City. Just a few blocks outside my door actually. No, old just didn't fit me yet, but then no old man ever thinks it does. "Your two o'clock is here," Miss Wendy said, poking her head in through the door. She made a face, and I was assuming at how hot it was in the office. She disapproved of me keeping the window open with the air-conditioning begging the utilities for a little more power just to lower the temperature a degree more. Wendy had to make sure the bills were paid when I was paid, and right now, payday took a bit of a vacation. It was too hot for people to even cheat on one another it seemed. Or too hot for the jilted party to even care. Unfortunately that was the kind of investigations that paid the bills. "Remind me," I said, sipping my coke, that was now completely depleted of ice. "Stella Marie Baptiste," she said, looking at the name on the file as she put it on my desk. I liked to look the files over in front of the customer, so I can ask right away what my brain wanted to know. It was a trick I picked up as a detective with the PPD. 'Her sister is missing and she thinks she is here in Paragon," Wendy informed me. Wendy always read the files, through and through. She was more than a secretary, though that was her official title for payroll and tax purposes. She was more of a colleague, a sleuth in her way. Not the go out and knock on doors and pound an informant over the head for information kind, but in her gentle 'I know what a computer is and am not scared to use it' way. Very different from me. I nodded for her to bring the client in, and got up and closed the window. I know it isn't possible, but I was sure that the air-conditioner gave a sigh of relief as I did so. Rhode Island is not suppose to be this hot. Something the air-conditioner and I agreed on. "Mr. Drudge," she gently called in a southern accent, as she entered the room. I was now looking at the file, and merely motioned for her to sit in the almost leather chair across the desk from me. I put the file down to offer a smile to her, but the smile got caught and came out more as an awe. I could tell she was used to men looking at her like that, though it still seemed to bring some discomfort to her as if she did not seem to feel she deserved it. She was beautiful, and if her name had not given up her ancestry, her dark skin and high set cheek bones did. She was Creole, and judging by her accent, from New Orleans or round about. "I am here about my missing sister," she offered, as I must of took too long to acknowledge her. "Of course," I managed to say, and forced my eyes back to her file. She had a problem, a missing sister that she wished found, and she did not need some old man staring at her to add to her discomfort. Yes, suddenly, I felt very old.

Daryl Drudge walked slowly along the docks, his hat pulled low and the collar to his long trench coat popped up. It wasn't cold, but he did not wish the gangsters or the Crey security officers notice that he was walking along their turf. He wasn't scared of them, he could easily talk his way out of any problem, and he was not incapable of fighting if he had to. No, he had an appointment with a possible new client soon. Not so soon that he had to rush, but soon enough that he did not wish any confrontation. The docks smelled of fish and diesel, but he did not find that unpleasant. In fact, it was a familiar smell to him. Daryl Dredge had lived in Independence Port for some time now, carving out his life in this small part of Paragon City. "You know the price, and you know you want it, so just settle down and let's do business," the half metal Freakshow gang member said. The woman he was talking to was shaking, but it wasn't from fear. It was from need. She needed something that the low level drug pusher had. Judging from her attire she probably worked these docks herself. Her trade was big after hours. Daryl did not get involved. It wasn't his business. In his younger days he would run them off, but the pusher would still push his chemicals, and the user would still score elsewhere. Besides, if Crey officers saw the gang member, he may not make it out of this part of the city. They fired first and asked questions later. It had nothing to do with law and order, they weren't much better than the gangs. Daryl was in his early 50's, but he did not feel his age. Despite his looks, he was in pretty good shape still. He learned to handle himself in the military, then as a PPD officer. While both proved useful, he did not like how tied his hands were. He then tried reporting, thinking that would loosen his hands to report the truth about, well, anything. That turned out not to be truth, and many of his attempts to help out the city and it's people turned into a tongue lashing from the Editor in Chief, and a lesson on how the city worked. He needed to just fall in line. Daryl Drudge did not fall in line. Instead, he became a private detective, a gum shoe. He became a voice for the lower city dwellers, and as the Kibitzer, he became their justice. This is not his story. This is their story. A story some will never be able to tell.

I don't think the OP was either. It needs a little more work though before it can be made a sticky, maybe? I word wrong at times, and go back and notice how strong something sounds compared to how I intend. "Present" as opposed to "push" should have been the actual phrasing. I see no ill will or intent from the OP nor intended any toward. I appreciate you pointing that out, and giving me the ability to correct it. I would like to see, if this was made sticky, something saying there is no exact when it comes to your rp. While there are stated and unstated "rules" to rp (no metagaming, no harassing....etc), how you came to be has many many interpretations. Maybe The Well is simply a tool added for rp, not a border for rp. A very acceptable reason for god like powers that wont get you looked at as if you are crazy ("my hamster is Zues and he gave me the ability to feed off of ole tube television sets until I became Incarnate Person!"). It may be true, but most will doubt. The Well of Furies is an absolute that wouldn't take near as much convincing. Anyway...its all just discussion to me, with no ill will intended toward anyone. Thanks again! 🙂

This is a bad concept to push on people looking to rp. Incarnate should just be a part of game mechanics, not the god that runs this reality. The Well of Furies is a very good and well laid out idea for creating incarnates, but should not be the only idea of why someone is powerful. That interrupts and negates actual rp. There may be fiction behind the Well of Furies, but it should not be presented as an RP absolute that all with incarnate like powers must have somehow tapped into the well. Pulling the trigger of an advanced weapon does not need the power of the Well of Furies. Also, the Well of Furies does not control the player character. The slow path of gaining Incarnate powers from the Well is one where the user gradually gains power instead of being granted a large amount of power all at once. Individuals who take this path have no risk of being controlled by the Well, because the link to the Well itself is weaker. However, individuals taking this path may still be tempted by the power of the Well and swayed onto the fast path, tying their fate to that of the Well's. This is the path that players take when progressing through the Incarnate System. -Paragon Wiki As it stands there is no fast track to take. So no one can be held accountable by the well, as it does not have a strong connection, unless one wishes to rp that. Of course anyone can just ignore this, but new players should not be presented with this as an absolute. Like Elder Scrolls, there should be something of an unreliable narrator to this, and present this as a possibility of an rp path to follow. To the incarnate that chased down the Well of Furies and is constantly trying to get more out of it....well, this is absolute( I play those characters). To the incarnate who has a rifle and can pull its trigger while wearing body armor, well, it isn't their reality, it is technology, not magic, or gods or whatever. (I play those characters). "I control plant life through magic" Yep, Well of Furies "My body is mutated and I have accelerated healing" Yep, Well of Furies "I shoot a gun" Yep, Well of Furies "I trained my body since I was a child....." Yep, Well of Furies My point is that I would not like to see this idea forced on new rp people as an absolute. Those of us that been around understand we can ignore this, or join in on it, or do both. My 2 cents, not worth a dime. 🙂

Writer's Note: If you read this, thank you. If you only read some of it, I still thank you for giving it a shot. If you are reading this, then you fall into one of those categories, so THANK YOU! This was a story developing for decades in my head, as I have drawn these characters and their stories since I was a pre-teen, 40 years ago. CoH Homecoming provided the format. I am so grateful for them bringing City of Heroes back to us. Thank you Homecoming team!!!! All of these main characters, except Huven, are in game characters. Iron Hand and The Protectors were called just that by me 40 years ago, so they are not rip offs of a CoH story line. In fact I am pretty sure I had them created on the live game before they were actually a thing, or at the least before I knew of them. I played before there was a Rogue Islands or City of Villains. It's something of an honor that the names were used, even accidentally. This story scratched at my brain for some time, before I started writing it. Dark Mephitis, being the witch she is, swirled about in my head wreaking havoc until I wrote it. This is why I am so pleased to have finished it. Of course their stories all go on, but this long chapter is done. Thank you again for the responses, the likes, and the reads. 🙂

Epilogue Hannah woke up in her room in the Paragon Protectors base. She felt a bit cold and stiff, but she would be okay. Something warm was behind her, and it drew her closer. "Marshal," she said low. He grunted a reply, and pulled her closer to him, his own body warming hers now. She smiled and closed her eyes. Moments later her eyes opened, as she realized what her mother had said. A part of her wanted it to be "I love you" or even "I am sorry". Something to tell her that she meant something to her mother. Yet, she remembered. She remembered now. She understood now. Her mother did not say I love you or I am sorry or anything of the parental kind that a child desires. No, she did not say that. "It is beautiful," she had said, and everything she was, including the darkness surrounding her, entered the doorway, and was no more. If Hannah could have moved closer to Marshal she would have. His body was always warmer than most, the cosmic energy that flowed through him was warm and full of light. In the end the entity wanted to divide, and destroy, and bring nothing to all of them. In the end, she and Marshal could not be divided. "I love you," Marshal said, as if reading her mind in his sleep. She did not answer, he would not have heard her answer anyway. He was fast asleep, as she would be soon enough.