The Unmufflered Art

[Hitman Hard]

OOC: This is a player-administrated project, a goal we are working on together, to create a newspaper. All alignments are allowed. I would like to inform everyone who is involved in the project to show there is gathered interest, PM if you wish to join in the fun and collaborate. Patham (Co-editor; hired) Sorfeil (Reporter;hired), Arakes (Reporter about to be hired over the weekend), Lorelei Cross (Reporter; Undead Specialist about to be hired) SirGabrielK (Reporter). Feel free to participate in this thread or in-game. Thank you.

From The Creator Who Brought You The Invincible Mudraking...

The Unmufflered Art

Prologue: Interviews

Sun enters the bar, the sunlight sputtering out like sizzling bacon on the raging range; revealing Sun’s older-looking features. There is a scar on his face in the shape of a bee pincer... There is no censorship of the excitement on his face. However, he orders a drink with a strange combination of predation and casualness; extracting the glass and moving over by the fire thereafter. When he indulges a sip, his eyes undergo an obvious modification from the chemical change’s contribution. Every movement he takes is unfamiliar yet indicative of upped implications, his face is heavily-lined with intriguing purpose and there is no curtain masking the ambition surging within him. He then concentrates his raw energies in it’s entirety upon Patham.

It is apparent this is a creative man... he wants to seek out the creativity in the world... he wants to unleash it upon the masses. To manufacture the weaponization of the information age and embrace it like a beautiful contagion that cannot be stopped on it’s spreading seductive war path.

Patham: “Please, take a seat."
Charles Sun looks at the bench and then thuds down comfortably. “Certainly."
“I got your note, it's wonderful to finally meet you!"
“Likewise. I am Charles Sun."
“Patham Tane.” Patham He extends his hand towards Charles. I was a little confused at first.Damn didn't come with a map, you know.
He clasps the hand firmly and gives it a squeeze. “Right, cartography is an invaluable skill at times. So, I suppose we should begin the interview."
Patham nods in agreement. “I agree."
“Would you mind listing your reasons for wishing to join the newspaper? Listing them aloud, devoid of pen or paper."
“Ever since I was young I had a love for reading. Scrolls, novels, you name it. I figure this would be the perfect chance to write something and give to the world somethingI have always had a love for! If it influences the world we live in, that is even better. So a newpaper would be perfect."

Charles is Looking over at Pathan, in the same timid mild regard. “Great. It's very important to channel your early life experiences into something... we seek the appliances needed to spin the axis of the realm to a better place and for everyone to feel...fFeel the newspaper can be real.. horribly real for those picking up the paper."
“I like the sound of that. Horribly real.” Patham grins slightly.
Charles smiles accommodatingly at Patham. “Fantastic. And you did not specify what position you were striving for, when I received your letter.... May you please inform me, Patham."
“It was my understanding you have yet to find a co-editor, well I would like to fill that position.Also, I find myself as a slight comic.” He laughs slightly. “So if you need something written to keep your readers interested, I can do that too."
“I'd love for someone to foster a humorous element to the paper as well. Good idea."
“A humor-writer and co-editor. Do those sound like acceptable positions? We can work out the official title later." He chuckles slightly.

“Well... I would like to dive into questioning others to see what stories we need to focus on... I am aware there is one I'd much prefer for you to focus on personally."
“Oh? and what would that be?"
“Right... you might need more than one title as you grow in fame."
“So, this piece you would like me to focus on?"
“There is gnoll incursions according to merchants... the severity of it has led to a plummeting of resources."
“A plummeting of resources?” He laughs softly and to himself. “I haven't noticed that much of a difference. I can write a humour piece on that. Sure.
“Right, there might be... harder for the upper-echelon such as yourself..” Looks over his finery. To notice the impact it's steel claws have waged.Great.Tell you what..."
“Hm?"
“I might get someone to write a serious perspective of it.So we can have two! On the same story."
“Two, you say?Hm..."
“There will be other stories as well."
“How many articles are you thinking for your first issue?"
“I want to cover the undead happenings at Kheldrivver.. I also want to do a piece on anything Candlekeep-related."
He studies Charles face, “Oh... I see... Candlekeep." Clears his throat. “Ah, well what if i write about something else? If we have so two articles on the same topic people might be bored.What if I wrote about... I don't know... The amount of excessive nodding I find people do."

“True... well if you can be humorous and informative... At the same time! There will be no need for two articles... a replication of yours."
“How about I write two articles for you?"
“You can write as many as you want."
“Then perhaps I will do both.”
“I would like to impart the information.. you can have a total freedom on how many articles you wish to do. All I am looking for in genuine ambition to perform these tasks!"
“Well, consider me signed on!”
“Also, if you know anyone else out there ."He re-affixes his black leather gloves. “Then don't hesitate to say some forked tongue words to bring them into our project.. I need a name for the Paper... I was going to call it The Sun."

“A name for the paper? Hm."
“But that might be too arrogant...since my last name is Sun.”
He laughs slightly. “I could see that.The Tribune, or The Tribunal?”
Charles Sun looks into Pathan's weather-beaten face. “The Tribune sounds good enough to me.”
He orders a glass of wine.. for both of them... Sun then raises his glass in the air a wee. “To the Newspaper's success and the many audiences we shall ...."
Patham cringes slightly, but then raises his glass up high.
“Radiate to it's repetitively rambunctious rolling humor and ravaging remarks against the road-burned rich!"
He smiles wide. “To The Tribune!

Grins, clinks his glass with Patham, and takes a long, embellished drink.
He watches Sun drink his glass, waits a moment and takes a small sip of the wine his friend has bought for him.He takes another small sip of his wine before handing it to Sun. “Now then, I must really be off!"
His brow slicked in thought, his expression earnest and fevorous... he flashes a consorting grin* “Very well. You have the job, evidently."
“Oh wonderful! I will contact you about my articles soon.”
“You look like a literary practitioner.of greatness to me."
“I dress the part I suppose.”
“I look forwards to it."
“Now then, let's make an excellent paper, shall we? I would love to meet the rest of the gang!”

[Hitman Hard]

A Call To War

The paper is awesomely composed of the sturdiest filaments. He stares at it (inside the dimly-lit tavern) like it has a life of it's own.. like he can see the pumping capillaries inside the paper. And he begins to write with the direst concentration (like a renegade spider scuttling across a beam; dropping gold)... showing no care for beneficence or the many shallow enemies of shallow creativity he has amassed and grow in number. Their keening requisitions for his death... is nothing more than a receding ridiculous whistling of a bolt arbitrarily firing in the distance. His fiery ambition was morphing to a masterful pitch; stimulating an inevitable reinforcement of richly-written information. He had just finished delivering a letter to his Co-Editor... and had several interviews lined up.

Sun chuckles with not a small measure of bitterness, as his old plans are still in align with his new ones and they shall be seen to. The window was open and he heard the steady slush of warm weather engaging the atmosphere. He fell into the almost musical rhythm... tearing loose the ideal motivation to channel the hypnotic spell of the art he was so carefully optimizing, with an infinitude of joy.

The regained vigor accompanying him as he disembarked on interviews; talking to people; scheduling interview for more real bells of journalism who would irrevocably tip the laws (towards chaos) and circumstances of genial events into much more breathtaking one's....telling the facts and naming the names had never been more powerful than it was now.

He would seek out the ignored and embittered who'd been trodden and spat upon... the one's who possessed the efficient qualities of writing and aggressive artistry but had somehow been denied by the curse of the light... and coerce them with logic, if they tried hard enough no amount of righteous storm could suppress their revitalization of the media age. (Some ambitions you never get over.)

The immense acknowledgement they'd receive for such a overflow of effort...

He labored under the twist of the pen... his forehead shone with sweat... his face appearing to be experiencing the whistling pains of enervation... his expression contorted and inflamed before he let out an inappropriate gust of breath. The humming in his head subsiding.

(If he lets go of the pen now, he'd fall into another bout of disappearance)

He raised the paper, and his robust, roaringly muscled near-flawless frame levered himself up from his desk.... looking at the genuinely amazing breakthrough before him that had taken magical shape on the media parchment. His filmy blue eyes circuiting with a consolidated, envisioned excitement... although a chaos lurked there just below the pitch-black stalagmites.

The lovers of the media needed only to answer his chaotic calling, which he will put on an untiring thought-provoking loop for the multiverse to treasure or demonize...

The choice is in their hands...

[Hitman Hard]

The Struggle

The black-bearded man with the black top-knot styled hair (faking it hard as he could) limped up the hill, the firelight counting the shortcomings eating at his face. Despite the progress (a woman named Arianna seemed enthusiastic enough and a woman named Isabella seemed right riveted by everything planar focused... had quite a slap of knowledge on spells and metaphysics) he still had a pain in his arse... there was still much much to do. Birds flying lazily over the water, and he took a long despairing splutter of a chuckle (more madness than joy in it) before pressing on, that menacing scraping digging behind his eyes again. The hissing not letting go behind his head. Just like the past, there was too much to not let go...

The unenviable migraine... the thousandth reminder of the task he had taken on. A crushing hardness to it. No need to swap his mind for a less grim prospect for comfort now though... things are as they are and to tip anything you need to take a little more grit.

He was welcome to criticism if one would only provide it. And he knew what he still needed (he just couldn’t get that niggling thought out of his mind... that it felt like it was him having to do all the work and administrating... perhaps it was vanity.. perhaps there was some truth to it)... a reporter with an satirical edge; a bit how he planned to be, and a bit not.

But where to find this definition of his own hero. A beetle latched it’s pincers along his leg and began to chomp... like it was gaining strength off mocking his lies.

Yelping like a thing stricken out of a somber. Sun gave a profoundly fierce deep-sounding growl and snorted up another strange shuddersome chuckle before curving his evilly sharp long-sword into the beetle... scattering it’s flesh apart like warped timber right as the horizon bled a pink cunning light. He didn’t have much time for violence these days. His breath was steaming, another grubby, groveling day... but if it got him a little closer to his goal he couldn’t act like he had a bucket of worry splashed on him too much. The sun was unremittingly beating down on Sun, you’d think with his pseudo surname being Sun and all it’s be a little less mean. But it wasn’t. There was just effort and agony and a unrestrained defiance against everything in his way. The righteous... the unrighteous... it was a croaking whatever at this moment. Almost, at least.

There was nothing to boast about, just had to keep trying, and find himself the hero he needed so bad in a cloud of disappointment and aching nothingness. The hint of lumpy, gnarled mountains in the distance looking ready to give someone a lashing. The sweat dripped in copious drops from his creasing and uncreasing brow. His face a mask of furious determination... something impress me. Uplift me.

[Hitman Hard]

Damn Ambition

There was still much to do. Even with James Wilcox (who seemed intriguing enough but also quite malady-ridden in the mind) joining the newspaper it was still an upheaval of a battle and the certainty that it really grinded his own gears having to be boss. The perpetuity of the eon-seeming question circuited through his mind, as an expression of pride eclipsed from his face. The mapped expanse of his face renewed with one of finest dread. Why do I attribute my time to do this? Administrating amongst the unorganized... rallying those of varied talents and encouraging them to their own route of creative freedom... it was bloody grueling. Why?

Nevertheless he needed to schedule a meeting for all of them to amass in one long-awaited meeting room. As his Co-editor had so wisely advised. He wondered if he’d have to resort to scheming in the trenches for well, a eon.

His boot-steps thumping up the East Gate Distirct as he had a beleaguered (the truth) look jeeringly jetting through his weather-beaten face accompanied by a militaristic-regimented limping march (the lie). It took a lot to not let the chaos blaringly disrupt through... pervaded by his usual sleek, shadowy steps and the sureness of his vampirous energies
predicating his insatiable thirst for the ambition he should of captured long before if fate hadn't decided to be such an arrogant anti-thesis to the premise of a well-orchestrated media age.

He suffered the sight of the temple of Ilmater winking in the distance and it took even greater effort to not clench his fist. He recounted his priorities, looking at the leaves outliving the gust of the spring wind. The sun slowly (melodramatically) tilting over the hellaciously hot horizon as it ascended the reverberating truth for once in his evil bastard of an existence. Omitting nothing else but the barreling observation lurking beneath it.

Freck them all. I just have to look out for me and my team.

His stomach practically slithered over in newly-campaigned dread. Sure is a grinding of the gears having to be boss. He looked through the crowed hopefully for someone to take his place but that irrationality fled soon as it had unfurled over him.

[Hitman Hard]

Questions Answered; Questions Unanswered

(Nothing about me was sorry. I set a time-bomb on things--just to put life back into the cliche of the ever-enervated beams breaking apart, so you notice I ripped a thing's soul-stuff to bits and pieces before? Well, who said I can't do it again. It's a beautiful process, but the joy I shouldn't enjoy doesn't last. It never does. I know I'm an ugly nihilistic thing, but at least I admit it unlike some people.)

I had my unpitying gaze on the Flaming Fist Headquarters like the un-dead... the next calculations already assembling in my mind (and boy has it been efficiently strained and tested and pushed to the brink these last few days) and ready for action (a mere day or two away now). I then traveled back to the East Gate District.

Another gust of gritty salt wind assailing the overpopulated square of Baldur's gate, glasses being clinked together celebratory nearby, the sun is a sorrowful ragged blue line, destructively chaotic voices raising in volume before muffling... like the engorging waves of a vicious storm going through the fluctuations of a Machiavellian pattern.

My face is tight; accentuating hollow glooms. My determination was redoubling with that familiar unshakable velocity once more. It strangely made me feel better to know I was fighting for a cause that wasn't completely malevolent. That the goodies arrayed against me were not that good... not that full... not that long-lasting in their resolve.

Their idealizations (hypocritically-conceived) surrounded every crook, crevice, and edifice around Baldur's Gate. But I reject the odds against me. Now, that I had allocated allies on a legitimized media-level...another hard-fought step towards creating a radical transformation within Baldur's Gate.

(These days the world is small; hard to find someone different.)

Surely, this next move would send the righteous (who would grind their own teeth the minute they heard news of it) staggering over in a soreness like the proverbial degenerate gambler on the side of the road. Only a day or two, he repeated. Though it may lead to some bloke in jail (oh well, he did the crime anyways), and if it didn't... well it'd still make a sensationalized story.

(So you think you can punish me for my -one- mistake. I will use a saying that has endured it's hard use, and sayings are inept. What goes around... comes around)

Thank you for this day, Bane. Though I am autonomous and one hundred percent against your Sword Coast regime being bastardized by the likes of a professionally inept leader I shall remain positive in the face of adversaries. Adversaries who really aren't that sanctified inside.

(I can't tell you how long it's been since my blood wasn't cold. But back to ambition. The torments of a torturer's ambition--you held your breath and prayed for the wind to smile back at you, for once. I have a picture in my mind; could become reality. Could not. Isn't it beautiful?)