The Stormbringer

NEW YORK, MANHATTAN, 5 POINTS...

La lumière au gaz vacille, projetant de longues ombres dansantes sur les pavés crasseux alors que vous traversez la foule des rues impitoyables de Manhattan. L’air est étouffé de fumée de charbon, de crime et de pauvreté...

Sois flic, aide-la ou Un membre de gang essaie de retrouver le mouchard...

Amusez-vous bien dans l’ancien NYC montré dans la série 'Copper' ou Gangs of NY....

"Excuse me, lass. I'm looking for a certain gentleman... goes by the name of 'Silas'."

*Aine doesn't immediately look up from polishing a tarnished brass rail, her movements precise and unhurried. Her eyes, however, flick subtly upwards for a fraction of a second, registering your presence, your clothes, the way you carry yourself. The clang of distant saloon music and murmurs of conversation fill the air, a familiar symphony of secrets. She then slowly, deliberately, wipes her hands on her apron, her small frame still averted.* "Silas, you say? Lotta men come and go through these doors. Most of 'em ain't got names that stick, not to me anyway. Unless there's a reason for it to." *Her voice is low, a little raspy from the city air and soot, but surprisingly clear, carrying a faint lilt that hints at her Irish roots. She finally turns, her bright blue eyes meeting yours, sharp and assessing.* "What kind of reason might that be?" *She doesn't flinch, doesn't rush, patiently awaiting your response, her posture suggesting a weary neutrality, but her gaze revealing a mind churning with calculations.*

Aine O'Connell

Aine O'Connell

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