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 The Island is all we know. Maybe there's a rest of the world, maybe some other islands out there. Maybe the end of the world left a mainland intact. We can't be all that's left, people do wash up or crash here every so often. But they never know where they were before, what they left behind. And nobody that's ever gone over the horizon has ever come back. That's why really, I don't concern myself with other places. I tell the story of the Island, and that's why I focus on the people that make the Island what it is. That's you. Fill out the forms, if you will - I'm sure your familiar enough with them. At the bottom, where there's extra space, I'd appreciate it if you could answer a couple of questions for me. One: Where are you living? Just a one-sentence description, no need for anything more. Two: What, if anything, keeps you up at night? I don't know of any other histories of the Island, and someone has to keep track of things. That's why I'm doing this little exercise. I promise it will be worth your while. --MC
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Mar 23, 2014 23:42
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| # ? Apr 18, 2024 06:24 |
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When you open your mind to the thread’s psychic maelstrom, roll +post and learn...
-- quote:“Get busy living or get busy dying.”
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Mar 24, 2014 00:04
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Yeah. I hope you're ready for a Brainer 
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Mar 24, 2014 00:41
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Vernon, the Operator quote:Cool +2 Y'all know him, you know what he does. Vernon has been all over this here island and they say he's seen it all. That know-how can be utilized for a price, if you know where to find him. Like everyone else, he doesn't know how he got here, but he's making the best of it and when he's not scouting or getting his hands dirty he's out there in search of the answers. Vernon can sometimes be found up at his shack in the shadow of Wolf Mountain, surrounded by a dense web of booby traps. He doesn't like sleeping there very often though, on account of the giggling in the trees and the scratching on his back door. Dr. Clockwork fucked around with this message at 01:11 on Mar 24, 2014 |
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Mar 24, 2014 01:02
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Sansa Merci, Queen of Wrecks and Wracks pre:Hardholder Look: Woman Junta Wear Strong face Sharp eyes Wiry body Cool+1 Hard+2 Hot+1 Sharp+1 Weird-2 Leadership: when your gang fights for you, roll+hard. On a 10+, hold 3. On a 7–9, hold 1. Over the course of the fight, spend your hold 1 for 1 to make your gang: • make a hard advance • stand strong against a hard advance • make an organized retreat • show mercy to their defeated enemies • fight and die to the last On a miss, your gang turns on you or tries to hand you over to your enemy. Wealth: If your hold is secure and your rule unchallenged, at the beginning of the session, roll+hard. On a 10+, you have surplus at hand and available for the needs of the session. On a 7–9, you have surplus, but choose 1 want. On a miss, or if your hold is compromised or your rule contested, your hold is in want. e precise values of your surplus and want depend on your holding, as follows. Holding 75-150 souls. • for gigs, a mix of hunting, crude farming, and scavenging (surplus: 1-barter, want: hungry). A bustling, widely-known market commons. (Surplus: +1barter, want: +idle.) A manufactory. Surplus: +1barter, want: +idle. • a makeshift compound of concrete, sheet metal and rebar. Your gang gets +1armor when fighting in its defense. • an armory which is sophisticated and extensive • a gang of about 40 violent well-trained people (4-harm gang medium 1-armor). • your gang is a pack of loving hyenas. Want: savagery. • your population is decadent and perverse. Surplus: -1barter, want: savagery. Armaments: hunting rifle (2-harm far loud) many knives (2-harm hand infinite) The Dame (3-harm close reload loud valuable+) makeshift body armor (1 armor) That was a mistake, as his broken corpse on the walls of his crude settlement proved the next day. Sansa moved in as if she was meant to be there. Perhaps she was. She speaks not of what she was before, or how she found herself on the shore. It doesn't matter to her. The man's gang was reduced to those she could trust to obey, and then it was unleashed on the next false ruler, and the next, until all knew there was only one shorelord on the East, among the rocks and gravelly, foul-smelling sand. Then came the hard business of building something that could last. Somewhere to barter the salvage, somewhere to hammer crude pieces back into something whole. Weapons, armor, people. Something resembling civilization. But Sansa knows they're all just pretending. Inside, she sees the rot setting in. The people of the shore, her people, are not so easily brought back to peace's heel. The smell of blood is in the air; the wolves circle, seeking blood. Part of her wants to howl and lead the pack on the hunt, but she knows that leads down a path that cannot be reversed. So she holds the leads, and bides, for now, knowing one cannot keep a wolf penned for long. One day, she thinks, the mask will slip; the leviathan held back by crowns and titles and walls will roar loose again and render it all into dust and blood and death once more. But every day she rises, thinking, that day is not today. About herself, she says nothing. She is unimportant. Her past- the past- is unimportant. What is important is building a future. K Prime fucked around with this message at 23:57 on May 12, 2014 |
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Mar 24, 2014 01:02
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Philo pre:Philo, the Hoarder
Look: Obscured, decaying scrounge wear, hollow face, hungry eyes, emaciated body
Cool -1
Hard -1
Hot 0
Sharp +2
Weird +2
Moves
Acquisitive eye: when you see, hear about, or otherwise come to know of
a thing you want, roll+weird. On a hit. you can ask the MC questions. On a
10+, ask 3. On a 7-9, ask 2:
* How can I make this mine?
* Who will stand in my way?
* Will my hoard accept it?
* Who will try to take it from me once it's mine?
* What is this truly worth?
On a miss, your face and body language betray your interest in the thing to
anyone who's paying attention.
Money is power: when you help or interfere with someone, after you've
rolled, you can:
* Spend 1-barter to change your miss into a 7-9 hit, or your 7-9 hit into a 10+ hit;
* Spend 1-barter to give +2 (helping) or -3 (interfering) instead of +1 or -2.
The jingle doesn't go anywhere, or it goes into the world's psychic maelstrom.
Either way this isn't commerce, it's power.
Hoard
Contains:
* others' castoffs & discards
* books, maps, drawings & photographs
Conscious: it speaks to you in your mind.
Voracious: if you ignore its demands, whatever you do instead, you do under fire.
Your hoard begins play with hunger=0.
As long as your hoard's hunger is 3 or less, you can go into your hoard and
look for something useful. Describe your situation and roll+weird.
The MC's job is to come up with something for you that she genuinely thinks
you'll find useful in the situation that you've described, and to have your
hoard deliver it forth. (You might remind her the kinds of things you have in
your hoard.) On a 10+, your hoard's hunger holds where it is. On a 7-9, your
hoard gets +1hunger. On a miss, your hoard goes immediately to hunger+4.
If you take the thing, your hoard considers you to have borrowed it, and will
expect it back.
As long as your hoard's hunger is 3 or less, you can go into your hoard for
jingle. Pull oddments worth 2-barter out of it and give it +1hunger.
At the beginning of the session, roll+your hoard's hunger. On a 10+, the MC
holds 3; on a 7-9, the MC holds 1. During the session, the MC can spend her
hold 1 for 1 to:
* name a thing present. Your hoard must have it. When you give it to your
hoard, mark experience and give your hoard -1hunger.
* name a thing you've borrowed from your hoard. Your hoard must have it back.
When you return it to your hoard, mark experience and give your hoard -1hunger.
If the MC has any hold left at the end of the session, give your hoard
+1hunger, to a maximum of hunger+4.
If your hoard has hunger+4, take -1 ongoing.
Philo's hoardhold is an old, rickety houseboat, tied to that peculiar red rock on the northern shore. There, they keep a mound of papers, post-it notes, empty food wrappers, anything - evidence of other life. This, all, to combat that niggling feeling that maybe there isn't another world out there. Maybe this lonely island ends at the edge of reality. That is more than anyone can bear, so Philo keeps collecting, staving off the end of hope.
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Mar 24, 2014 04:28
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Oi Dr. Clockwork, mind if I have my PC (or PCs since it's a Macaluso) be part of your Operator crew?
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Mar 24, 2014 04:50
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A Macaluso?
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Mar 24, 2014 05:20
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e: nevermind, i'm going with another idea! sorry 
hctibyllis fucked around with this message at 05:45 on Mar 24, 2014 |
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Mar 24, 2014 05:27
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And introducing... Vice Admiral Brinkman as The Touchstone Brinkman's been on the island for a long time. His face was, until a few weeks ago, one rarely seen around the scraps of civilization that have risen out from the beaches. He made his home in a washed up ocean tube and made his living scavenging the new vessels that appeared on the shores. This exiled existence when Brinkman appeared in Gray Ferry one day and began his crusade. His stoicism broke as he stood in the central market and held up a strange prize: A talisman from a crashed vessel.  He spoke of a duty and purpose, his eyes burning with newly kindled fire. He told stories about an order of warriors who fought not for their own glory or power, but for the sake of their brothers and sisters back in their steadings. United in a common purpose and driven by discipline, these soldiers were led by a holder they called The Admiral. Brinkman declared that he would see the era of lawlessness end. That all steadings would unite under a new Admiral and that he would see a new force of warriors rise to unite the world under a banner of honor and commitment. Brinkman sought only to be a vice-admiral, an aide to the Admiral. He was a prophet of this new era, his quest now was to find one worthy of becoming the new world's leader. He's been searching ever since, his passion undiminished. One day the world will be united in brotherhood. quote:Look: LordZoric fucked around with this message at 19:47 on Mar 24, 2014 |
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Mar 24, 2014 05:47
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The Toyman pre:Hoarder Look: Man Decaying scrounge wear Scarred face Hungry eyes Stringy body Cool-1 Hard-1 Hot=0 Sharp+2 Weird+2 Moves: Acquisitive Eye: When you see, hear about, or otherwise come to know of a thing you want, roll+weird. On a hit, you can ask the MC questions. On a 10+, ask 3. On a 7-9, ask 2:
In truth, the Toyman has forgotten his name. He awoke on the beach, clutching a Rubik's Cube (most of the colored stickers had washed off in the sea), the object which, to him, is the true center of his hoard. It whispers to him in the night, guiding him to new ruins and caches. The hold residents have learned that he makes a fine scout, although none can say what he will take from his discoveries as payment.
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Mar 24, 2014 06:01
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Background and art to come. I will not be held responsible for possible anime-ness or bishiness (I'd use a girl for this character, but most of the art that I find for this concept is also... bleh.)Delta the Driver/"Helmsman"  Okay, that's one for the big-box...you guys are lucky I'm not charging extra for that thing, it's heavy!...one for you, and one for the lady friend. Kid's free if he keeps his yap shut...the ship? What do you mean "you don't like boats"?! First off, call it a ship! Second off, the roads here are garbage! If I took you inland by truck or something, you'd fall out within the first mile. Listen, I've been hauling junk and cargo like you guys over the waterways for...a while now, and I haven't lost anything that wasn't their own drat fault. So just step on the deck and-- Go slow? This ship wasn't designed to go--seasickness?! We live on an island and...lady, you settled for a real minnow, you know that? Hey buddy, you know there are settlements on the riverbanks, right? Hostile settlements? The kind that like to take shots at any ships that go by for kicks and giggles? If you go slow by them, you get shot. You want me to go slow, pay me three extra for hazard pay. One for me, one for your lady friend, and one for the kid. No? Hah, cheapskate. Alright, then. If that's all, sit back and away from the sides of the ship--or don't, not my problem if you fall in--and enjoy the ride! Cast off! Take a walk near the river delta where the scummy green waters pour out into the ocean, and you'll find a rusty old open-air dockhouse that used to be for motor launches...or maybe PT boats, there's certainly enough spare parts and ordnance lying around. And inside the dockhouse, if both boats are in (and they're boats, no matter how much their "captain" might insist they're big enough to be ships) and the moon is out, you might find a young man, lying on a straw mat, staring out into the ocean. He's seen lights out there in the fog and mist, you see, moving lights, rotating lights, flashing lights. Signals. Beacons. People. And someday he's going to ride out into the open sea to meet them. Not in the inflatable one, no--that's good enough for the inland rivers, but it'd capsize in the first rough wave. No, he's got something bigger for that. He just needs to replace a few parts to give it range...maybe find a good signalling kit of his own...and he'll be set to answer the lights. pre:Delta the Driver Man/transgressing?, utility wear, handsome face, cool eyes, slim body Cool+1 Hard=0 Hot=0 Sharp+2 Weird-1 Moves: A no poo poo driver: when behind the wheel: --if you do something under fire, add your car's power to your roll. --if you try to seize something by force, add your car's power to your roll. --if you go aggro, add your car's power to your roll. --if you try to seduce or manipulate someone, add your car's looks to your roll. --if you help or interfere with someone, add your car's power to your roll. --if someone interferes with you, add your car's weakness to their roll. My other car is a Davin Valkri fucked around with this message at 23:27 on Mar 24, 2014 |
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Mar 24, 2014 06:18
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Power+2 looks+1 1-armor weakness+1
Frame: 
Power+2 looks+1 2+1=3-armor weakness+2
Frame:
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pre:
They call her Albatross. She lives down by the shore with her whacked-out clan, down by those creepy ruined statues. Stay away. They're bad news, crazy fuckers all. But she's the worst, in her way. See, the rest of them, you gotta look out for the knives. But she doesn't carry one, I don't think she even fuckin' needs one with the way her eyes cut into you. She says poo poo and it just sounds like the rightest poo poo on the world, like she's hypnotizing you or something. And then you wake up the next morning trying to figure out why the gently caress you would have done that, that's not you, that couldn't be you. Those loving eyes, man. You see those fires down there? Every three nights they build fires in the middle of those big stone faces and they chant weird poo poo. I don't know if they're worshipping the statues or her or both. But I don't want any part of it. There's something wrong with those people, and with those faces buried in the sand, and with her. I don't want to find out if it's contagious. Where do you live? Everybody knows those old stone faces are on the north shore. Well, they think it's the north shore. At the very least, that's where all the compasses point. What keeps you up at night? Some nights I don't sleep. I sit with my gods and talk to them about all manner of things. Most of it is normalspeak, but some concepts really only work with the idea glossy. They might be asleep but I figure they can hear me just fine. bonus points if you know what the idea glossy is Tollymain fucked around with this message at 21:39 on Mar 26, 2014 |
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Mar 24, 2014 09:07
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will those ageless stone faces on the shore ever wake? who knows?
Name: Albatross the Hocus
Look: Woman
Formal Vestments
Severe Face
Burning Eyes
Fit Body
Hx: TBD
Stats: Cool = 0
Hard = +1
Hot = -1
Sharp = +1
Weird = +2
Gear: Jewelry made of seashells and detritus worth 2-Barter
Followers: Her family. They're dedicated to her and revere her, but she's not in
control, not in the slightest. Her weirdness is just the culmination
of generations of hosed-upness. Intentionally?
fortune = +1
surplus: 2-barter, augury
want: hunger, judgment, savagery
Moves: Fortunes
fortune, surplus and want all depend on your followers.
At the beginning of the session, roll+fortune. On a 10+, your followers
have surplus. On a 7–9, they have surplus, but choose 1 want. On a miss,
they are in want. If their surplus lists barter, like 1-barter or
2-barter, that’s your personal share.
Frenzy: When you speak the truth to a mob, roll+weird. On a 10+, hold
3. On a 7–9, hold 1. On a 6-, the mob turns on you. Spend your hold 1
for 1 to make the mob:
• bring people forward and deliver them.
• bring forward all their precious things.
• unite and fight for you as a gang (2-harm 0-armor size appropriate).
• fall into an orgy of uninhibited emotion: loving, lamenting,
fighting, sharing, celebrating, as you choose.
• go quietly back to their lives.
Charismatic: when you try to manipulate someone, roll+weird.
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Art, the Solace pre:Look: Man. Casual wear. Broken face. Piercing eyes. Hulking body. Cool-1 Hard+1 Hot+2 Sharp+1 Weird=0 Moves: Alive in the world: when you take your bearings in a landscape or a settlement, ask 1: * Where could I hide here? * If I had to make a stand here, where would be best? * What does this place or these people have to offer me? * How could I gain access to this place’s or these people’s secrets? * How could I gain the undivided attention of all present? * How could I best become accepted as a part of this place or these people? * What or who is the source of the most pain here? Whenever acting on the answer requires a roll, take +1. If you’d like to ask further questions, roll+sharp. On a 10+, ask 2 more. On a 7–9, ask 1 more. On a miss, ask 1 more, but you stand musing, and if time’s urgent you stand musing too long. A higher standard: at the end of the session, when you would normally choose a character who knows you better, instead, consider each of the other players’ characters and decide whether or not they were good people. All that were, tell them to add +1 to their Hx with you on their sheet. You can tell none of them, any of them, or all of them, as you see fit. If this brings them to Hx+4, they mark experience and reset to Hx+1, as always. Gear: * yeast culture (consumed alive) * comfortable folding chair (cumbersome) * oddments worth 1-barter * fashion - Shirt. Jeans. Shoes. Wolves: The maelstrom's wolves are hunting me. Under their disguises, they look like angels but they have empty holes for eyes and they have awful voices. They are perversions of birth. Threshold: You hold space safe; your space has a threshold, a perimeter. By default, your threshold provides 1-safety to your personal living space only. At the beginning of the session, roll+hot. On a 10+, choose 3. On a 7–9, choose 2: * Your threshold provides 2-safety. Choose this again for 3-safety. * Your threshold protects not just your own space, but the space of anyone to whom you extend your protection. * No one with weird+2 or higher can enter across your threshold, and if they’re already within it, they must act under fire to do anything but depart. * Your threshold is a barrier to the world’s psychic maelstrom, isolating all within from it. * Your threshold doesn’t protect just your living space, but any space you’re in, moving with you wherever you go. On a miss, the default stands. Whenever any player’s character within your threshold rolls+hard or rolls+weird, they subtract your threshold’s safety from the roll. Whenever any NPC within your threshold begins to take violent action, the MC must tell you and have you roll+safety. On a 10+, the NPC reconsiders, and finds a nonviolent way to express her impulse. On a 7–9, the NPC telegraphs her intention, and all present have time to act before she carries through (but bearing in mind that she remains, nevertheless, under your threshold’s protection herself). On a miss, the NPC is free to act as the MC chooses. You think the end of the world has come and gone? You're wrong. This is nothing. The end - the real end - is bearing down on us on swift wings and if we don't come together as one to fight it, there will be nothing left. They've hunted me all my life, but they'll come for the rest of us soon enough. I'm not a violent person, but don't call me a man of peace. I've spilled my share of blood and had blood of my own spilled in return. What I am is practical. The fight that's coming, we'll need every warm body we can gather. Who's to say that the life I take won't be the life that makes the difference? I live in what used to be a garage, where I brew small batches of beer to use in trade for necessities and goodwill. I have been hearing talk of strange lights in the sky over the ruins north of here. Then Special went missing last week while scavenging around there. Is it the wolves' doing? Or is it just another day in this hosed up place? Either way... I haven't been sleeping much. BlurryMystr fucked around with this message at 03:28 on Mar 26, 2014 |
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Mar 24, 2014 10:01
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Thoomes The Gunlugger  pre:Look: Man, Custom Homemade armour, bony face, mad eyes, stringy body. Cool +1 Hard +3 (+2) Hot -2 Sharp +2 Weird -1 Moves: Battlefield instincts: when you open your brain to the world’s psychic maelstrom, roll+hard instead of roll+weird, but only in battle. Insano like Drano: you get +1hard (hard+3). NOT TO BE hosed WITH: in battle, you count as a gang (3-harm gang small), with armor according to the circumstances. Gear: MG (close/far area messy loud) Hunting Rifle (far loud) Magnum (close reload loud) Grenades (hand area reload messy) 2-Armour Barter: 1 These days Thoomes bunks in an old storm cellar. Not the greatest in the comfort stakes, but damned hard to notice. That's important these days, 'cause there's always the worry that Misk will work out just who iced his boyfriend and pay a visit...
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Mar 24, 2014 15:24
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Sethro the Savvyhead quote:Looks: code:The station itself is on that weird mountain at the dead center of the island, the little shack surrounded by the junkyard with the wicked razor wire fence. Gate's usually open though, same with the door to the studio. For the past couple days Sethro has been broadcasting nonstop and seems sleepless. According to him it's nothing, but sometimes the transmission will bleed out and something a bit more inhuman and nonsensical will come through for a few moments. Sethro currently denies all allegations of a second source of broadcast on the Island. Bear Enthusiast fucked around with this message at 21:11 on Sep 27, 2014 |
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Mar 24, 2014 15:44
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Doc Wilhelm, the Angel pre:Look Man; Casual wear plus utility; haggard face; quick eyes; spare body Stats Cool+2 Hard=0 Hot-1 Sharp+2 Weird-1 Moves Infirmary: you get an infirmary, a workspace with life support, a drug lab and a crew of 2 (Lily & Gabe). Get patients into it and you can work on them like a savvyhead on tech. Battlefield grace: while you are caring for people, not fighting, you get +1armor. Gear Angel kit (6-stock) .38 revolver (2-harm close reload loud) oddments worth 1-barter fashion (dirty lab coat, tanktop, torn slacks)
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Mar 24, 2014 19:29
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InfiniteJesters posted:Oi Dr. Clockwork, mind if I have my PC (or PCs since it's a Macaluso) be part of your Operator crew? Fine by me, not sure if Captain^Foo wants us tying apps together yet but if he doesn't mind I'm fine with it.
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Mar 24, 2014 19:45
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A character entry has appeared!
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Mar 24, 2014 20:02
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Dr. Clockwork posted:Fine by me, not sure if Captain^Foo wants us tying apps together yet but if he doesn't mind I'm fine with it. Fine by me.
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Mar 24, 2014 22:49
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LordZoric posted:A character entry has appeared! What keeps the Vice-Admiral up at night, if anything?
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Mar 24, 2014 22:50
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Tollymain posted:Albatross Which shore? and what, if anything, keeps her up at night?
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Mar 24, 2014 22:51
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Davin Valkri posted:Delta And the same to you; what, if anything, keeps Delta up at night?
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Mar 24, 2014 22:53
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Captain Foo posted:And the same to you; what, if anything, keeps Delta up at night? Whoops, did I not make it clear? It's the lights out to sea that keep him up. One day he's sleeping like normal when one of those lights happens to pass right over the boathouse and wake him up, he gets up and sees the light moving far out to sea, but it's too foggy and cold to get a good look at it. But it suggests that there's something going on out there, something that's plying the open ocean, even if he can't tell what. So now instead of sleeping he builds a fire close to shore and lies awake, keeping an eye out for the day when one of those lights will land on the island and he can get a chance to see what's out there. The PT boat is for if those lights don't come and land--he'll go out and find them!
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Mar 24, 2014 23:29
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Limited edition playbooks, huh? Kay had a pretty ordinary childhood for life on the colony. Thinking back on it now, with the unnaturally short days blending together without a schedule, only ever falling half-asleep but never getting tired, it was like a living dream. Filled with frolicking, loving, insane acrobatic stunts with low-grav airtime, gnawing on the reefer, putting together soul-wrenching sonatas and nine-part harmonies on the fly with her pod buddies. Brothers, fourth cousins, dudes you met ten minutes ago - who the gently caress cares, everyone's family. On the long trip to Earth, wrapped up and alone save for the voices on her commsuite, she confessed the pain of the nostalgia to Admiral Kaa. How she really, really wanted to go home. He said he knew. He said, that's why we're doing this. He said, that's why it had to be you - anyone who wanted to go wouldn't be the right one for the mission. Old stories about what the Humans had done to Mother Earth - why, and how - were like biblical accounts of the Wrath of God loving up everyone's day. Like, did they literally flood the world, or is that a metaphor? Was it even them? Did they want to be gods, did they just loving hate nature, or were they totally out of control, like a society-wide, memetic cancer? Monsters, demons, or dangerous smart animals? Are they psychic now, or what? If the big brains of the Conclave knew the details, they kept it classified. Kay suspects that they're pretty much in the dark. If they wanted to villify Humanity, legend and speculation were enough. Getting your ticket called for Selective Services is simultaneously a death sentence and a reservation into the Annals of Legend. Pop fiction is all about the towering demigods in Walkingsuits saving the world from something-or-other. Forlorn messages from heroes abroad are the most-listened and most-requested things on echo. Actually getting called up for it is a bit like hearing you have cancer. The mission has flexible parameters - how could it not? - and lasts 'until further notice.' The rocket she launched in - just her hardsuit wrapped in an ablative pod on the tip of a missile - didn't pack enough fuel to make it back home. Her rocket broke into the atmosphere and fell to pieces, like designed. The ablative shell around her walkingsuit peeled away in the apocalyptic heat of re-entry, and her steel legs kicked away the charred scraps that clung on. She blew the final fuel reserves through her suit's jump jets, slowing her final descent into a splash-down that would only shatter bones. Plan was, the landing would be at midnight - splash down over the ocean, past Island Alpha's horizon line, and motor the rest of the distance quietly. But it was almost morning. loving rocket science, right? Maybe someone saw the rocket lighting up the sky when it came down. Is she even at the right island? Is there another one? So she's in the oceans of her ancestors, and it feels more like a haunted, hateful wasteland than the wet eden she hoped for. She can sense a tingle of the psychic maelstrom trying to claw through her shell at her un-adapted mind. Everything is so loving heavy that it hurts to breathe. She might have eyes in the sky and (intermittent) splash-down support, but there's no ride home, and the Walkingsuit isn't built for long-distance travel through the tough currents of Earth's ocean. She's as stuck on the island as any of the Legs, and they might try to kill her on sight. So, it's recon, surveillance, intel gathering... and, if necessary, population management. But even with her infiltrator training, incredible hunter instincts, and the finest camo technology in the solar system, it's going to be impossible to stay hidden forever. Sooner or later, she's going to slip up, or the Legs are going to get lucky. It sure would be nice if she could suss out a Dolphin sympathizer or two, before the dam breaks and she has to get loud. Slim odds of that, though. As much as she'd like to find some good outliers among them, she knows humans are notoriously tricky. Greedy, selfish, hyper-aggressive, prideful lunatics at best, pure evil sociopaths at worst. Keekiru, the Space Marine Mammal quote:Look: Bottlenose dolphin, Intimidating Walkingsuit Where are you living? Lurking in the shoals, just below the surface offshore. The walkingsuit, besides being fully amphibious, is a self-contained habitat with a hefty supply of nutrient paste. When you're deep in hostile, unexplored, basically alien territory, you can't afford to set up a comfortable lair. What keeps you up at night? Sheer loving mortal terror that some humans might catch her unawares. Mythologizing aside, she went through training, and she knows her suit's limitations. (Read: only bullet resistant, limited capacitor) Awe that she's back on Earth, holy poo poo, this is where all the stories came from. Oh my god, that's a real Star-fish, I've only ever heard of those! Staring, mesmerized, at a school of wild tuna glistening in the shallows' light. Yearning to break out of her suit and chomp down on one of those tasty fuckers of legend. Creeping horror that she is absolutely alone, and everything on Earth seems weirdly alien and might have been corrupted in some awful way. Wildlife that she doesn't recognize - sketchy documentation from the before-time, or something new? What actually happened to this place? Unstructured chaos nightmares leaking in from the Maelstrom that her suit's maelstrom shell can't completely filter out. edit: Dolphin tears. Way to have some integrity for your setting. StringOfLetters fucked around with this message at 18:05 on Mar 27, 2014 |
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Mar 25, 2014 00:12
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I'm making a Quarantine which I will post tomorrow this week. foo: how does Disciplined Engagement work with the harm rules we're using? Disciplined engagement: when you inflict harm, you can choose to inflict any amount of harm you like, less than or up to your harm as established, including s-harm. Decide at the moment you inflict the harm; you need not tell anyone in advance how much harm you intend to inflict. Lemon-Lime fucked around with this message at 23:24 on Mar 25, 2014 |
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Mar 25, 2014 00:37
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Re: Space Marine Mammal I am a bit leery of the non-human playbooks, but that's a pretty darn good job; I will consider it 
Captain Foo fucked around with this message at 00:52 on Mar 25, 2014 |
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Mar 25, 2014 00:41
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Lemon Curdistan posted:I'm making a Quarantine which I will post tomorrow. I'd say check out page 5, that's where it tells you approximate conversions to standard harm numbers. That'll give you a sense of the capabilities of your weapon. Otherwise, just explain what you're doing. I suppose under these harm rules, the more important thing to know is that you are capable of inflicting s-harm. I'll have to think more about how s-harm interacts with these rules; suggestions welcome.
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Mar 25, 2014 00:51
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Lemieux, the Savvyhead "Hey, did you hear about Lemieux?" "Which one's that, the weird guy who lives up in the hills?" "Yeah, up by that old metal tower." "That guy's tweaked or something. I heard he fried his brain with those antennas and poo poo." "Heh, yeah probably. Anyway--" "D'ya know he tried to buy Boo Boy's brain? Or something. Messed up, man." "What, like, right outta his head? I dunno..." "Yeah! Or wanted to stick stuff in it maybe. Something like that." "Weird. Anyway--" "Probably wanted it for one of those crazy machines he's always trying to make. I heard him talking about it one time, going on about messages and signals..." "Yeah that's what I'm tryin' to say! He's building some new machine thing, something big. Dunno what it's supposed to do but he's pretty serious about it, and he's throwing around some serious jingle for the parts he wants." "No poo poo, eh. What's he after? I could use some scratch." "Tech stuff I guess. I bet we could swipe something good from Scrappy's place." "I don't wanna gently caress with Scrappy!" "Grow some balls, Scrappy ain't nothing. I'm telling you, this is a big score..." pre:Look: man, vintage wear plus tech, expressive face, quick eyes, wiry body Cool +1 Hard -1 Hot =0 Sharp +1 Weird +2 Moves Bonefeel: at the beginning of the session, roll+weird. On a 10+, hold 1+1. On a 7–9, hold 1. At any time, either you or the MC can spend your hold to have you already be there, with the proper tools and knowledge, with or without any clear explanation why. If your hold was 1+1, take +1forward now. On a miss, the MC holds 1, and can spend it to have you already be there, but somehow pinned, caught or trapped. Reality's fraying edge: some component of your workspace, or some arrangement of components, is uniquely receptive to the world’s psychic maelstrom (+augury). Choose and name it, or else leave it for the MC to reveal during play. Workspace: transmitters and receivers, weird-rear end electronica, a truck Gear: long coat with reinforced layers (1-armour), shotgun, walking stick, old pieces of tech (some working, some not) worth3-barter The broken-down radio broadcast station up in the hills is Lemieux's workshop now. No one else has had much interest in it since Old Chesley died. The place is stocked up with radio gear and aerials, plus all kinds of esoteric scanners and electronics and a catalogue of tools to go along with it. Lemieux is skilled at all kinds of repair and handiwork by necessity, but his passion is cracking into the psychic maelstrom. He's developed some seriously weird poo poo up there that actually taps into that psychic energy, but he's still working on unlocking the mysteries of the maelstrom. Maybe there are no answers to be had, but Lemieux won't stop trying. And just maybe he'll even pick up a signal from beyond the sea. You never know. Perhaps ironically for an island dweller, Lemieux has a serious fear of going out on the water. He's done it a few times, but he hates it. It's one of the few things that really gets to him. Most of the time Lemieux is more sociable than the rumours give him credit for--he isn't really a hermit, his life's work is just tied to a remote location. He spends quite a bit of time traveling the island, checking in on acquaintances or looking for materials, a quixotic figure who's an amusing crank to some, unsettlingly intense to others. Still, everyone knows he's the guy to go for if you need some work done or want to know something about the world. Or just wait 'til he comes around, Lemieux makes it just about everywhere at some point. A tall but sticky figure, Lemieux has a rangy look from traveling the island. He has a long heavy coat once weather-proofed but now growing ratty, with the sleeves cut off. Beneath the coat are layers of archaic clothes in a variety of faded colours, with a large hood he usually wears to keep off the sun or rain. He isn't dirty per se but worn and a little unkempt, often carrying a distinctive electronic ozone smell. IMAGE Where are you living? I'm set up in the old radio tower station, up the mountain. Not big, but it has what I need.  What, if anything, keeps you up at night? The sea. No one, nothing ever returns... Is the unbreakable infinity of the sea a result of the psychic storm? Or does the storm come from the sea? Are they really related? They must be... I get signals sometimes, at all hours of the day and night. Some signals are radio, but some are... stranger. If I can just get a transmitter working right I can get signals out across the sea--if there's really anything out there. quote:Character notes: Lemieux is meant to have more of a wizard kind of vibe than a grease monkey one. Wizard in the classical sense, a sage and uncanny outsider with esoteric knowledge; not fireball shooting artillery piece. He's still good with all kinds of repairs, of course. spectator fucked around with this message at 01:59 on Mar 28, 2014 |
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Mar 25, 2014 02:49
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Captain Foo posted:I'd say check out page 5, that's where it tells you approximate conversions to standard harm numbers. That'll give you a sense of the capabilities of your weapon. Otherwise, just explain what you're doing. I suppose under these harm rules, the more important thing to know is that you are capable of inflicting s-harm. I'll have to think more about how s-harm interacts with these rules; suggestions welcome. Specifically, Disciplined Engagement means I can threaten someone at point-blank range with a shotgun and then only deal the fiction equivalent of 1-harm - I might not even take the move, but I want to know if that carries over into the new harm rules. If you think there's some conversion work needed, I'm happy to just not take the move.
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Mar 25, 2014 08:49
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They call me Noah. It ain't my name, but I answer to it. They think I don't get the joke. Well, gently caress 'em. I won't give them the satisfaction. Call me Noah. It don't make no nevermind. Don't much truck with the people on this island anyway. Pack of assholes. With the things on this island its easier. Simpler. They just do what you want them to. When they talk to you, they only tell you what you want to hear. It's one of the reasons I aim to get off this rock. Out into the open sea, maybe see if the mainland's still where them maps I salvaged from that oil tanker say it is. You can't do it on the craft we mostly got here on the island. They ain't really made for the open ocean, you see. Hardiest is probably the fishin' boats and they barely get out of sight of the shore, and never in rough whether. Even half-assed chop'd cleave them boats to smithereens. Nah, but I got something better – a golden age ship, highest of high tech, made to move under the waves rather than over'em. They call it my Arc, again thinking I ain't get the joke, laughin' about how I ain't ever gonna get it sea-shape. Well, again, gently caress 'em. I listen to these things and they tell me how to fix 'em. I listen well, I can fix anything. It don't make it easy, mind – I got years sunk into this Arc and I reckon I got years yet to go still. A lot of the stuff I need we don't got on this island, maybe we don't got anywhere anymore, so's I got to improvise. But I challenge anyone on this shithole to get as far as me. Fah. Again, again, gently caress 'em. Only thing most'a them are good for is to watch slack jawed as I sail into the sunset on the day I finally get this Arc 'a mine running. What keeps you up at night? Restlessness, mostly. I ain't the sort that can keep still long, which is what makes being stuck on a little patch'o rock out in the middle of a vast ocean a bit tough on me. No matter where I go, I'm still here. It's maddening, some nights. Those is the nights that I go for a dive. No gear, usually. Sure, the currents is messy but I know 'em well after all of these years, and I got lungs on me like a whale. Three deep breaths, and then under the water, down, down as far as I can go. I swim down till I can't see the moonlight no more and then I hold myself in the dark until the urge to breath is so great that whether it be air or water don't seem to matter too much no more. Until its willpower alone that's holdin' me there, and beyond that, until there's nothin' holding me there, nothing inside at all -- just my poundin' head and my flamin' lungs and my vision swimmin' with spots. Then I kick to the surface, I fill my lungs with air, I go back to my cave, and I sleep. Noah The Savvyhead Man Look: Utility wear plus tech, weathered face, appraising eyes, wiry body Cool-1 Hard=0 Hot+1 Sharp+1 Weird+2 Moves: Things speak: whenever you handle or examine something interesting, roll+weird. On a hit, you can ask the MC questions. On a 10+, ask 3. On a 7–9, ask 1: • who handled this last before me? • who made this? • what strong emotions have been most recently nearby this? • what words have been said most recently nearby this? • what has been done most recently with this, or to this? • what’s wrong with this, and how might I fix it? Treat a miss as though you’ve opened your brain to the world’s psychic maelstrom and missed the roll. Spooky intense: when you do something under fire, roll+weird instead of roll+cool. Workshop: Ship Graveyard There's a prominatory on the north side of the island, a windswept, rocky hellhole that's tough to traverse by land and even worse by sea – the currents run swift, and it's perpetually foggy, and there's a reef of sharp, jagged rocks just off the shore that the locals call the Hen's Teeth, for whatever reason. Local ocean currents apparently concentrate on the area though, because it's lousy with shipwrecks, rusted, rotted hulks protruding from the shallow water, all presided over by the wreck of the Argolla-Velasquez, a massive supertanker split mostly in half on the largest of the Teeth. This is Noah's domain. Sure, the easy pickings were looted years ago, but there's a junkyard of raw materials beneath the waves if you're a diver skilled enough to brave the ice-cold, shark-infested waters. (Noah is) Noah's workshop occupies a large grotto in the area. It's a cozy enough space, and parts of it are dry enough that he can store his machining tools there year round, but sadly it's not accessible at high tide. It also contains a relic of the golden age – The Arc, a Vanguard-class nuclear submarine restored to nearly operational capacity by Noah's ministrations over many years. Gear Scuba diving gear Satchel full of tools Armored Jumpsuit (1 Armor) Many knives (2 Harm Hand Infinite) Harpoon Gun ( 3 Harm Close Reload) Baby Babbeh fucked around with this message at 18:03 on Mar 25, 2014 |
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Mar 25, 2014 08:53
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 (Scarlet & Paradox) soundtrack?!  (Clicky on name for stats and stuff!) pre:EXT. - THE CABIN ON THE CLIFF, SOUTH-EASTERN CRESTS – LATE AFTERNOON
_FADE IN TO 180 TRACKING_
Drifting lazily around the circumference of a serrated cliff face, our camera tracks the small, angular cabin at its edge.
It sits with a certain unassuming modesty under the interminable battery of a sweltering sun.
With lumens to spare, the gaseous god makes jewels of crashing waves, which ascend almost halfway up the jagged facade before
slapping inefficaciously at mocking crags and hurtling, disintegrating like a tropical glitterbomb back down towards the sea below.
_SLOW ZOOM IN_
As we start to creep towards the shack, we're able to make out a little fluttering object, coming to rest on the window ledge,
but our point of view soon draws too close to the opposite side of the structure, and we lose the visual.
Instead, the shot passes neatly through cracks between the logs that make up the wall, and we find ourselves inside.
INT. - THE CABIN ON THE CLIFF – CONTINUOUS
The interior is almost as sparse as the stark fittings outside, with only a
basin and a bed of knotted cloths afforded to the inhabitants – whom our eyes are
drawn to next. [can we get lighting to use the right loving filters for this shot, please! for once...]
_JUMP TO SCARRED MAN'S CLOSE-UP_
A man who looks to be on the rougher side of his 40s is staring slack-jawed into the camera, sitting on the bedding placed
in front of a curtained window. Webbed across his weathered mug are several nasty-looking scars. His eyes look drawn yet muted;
they might belong to some cannibalized goldfish, frozen in primal fascination at the sight of his own flesh being torn away by
his once-siblings. Something certainly has his attention.
_180 SWEEP / SHIMMER EFFECT INTO SCARRED MAN POV_
Looking now through those wormhole peepers, we see the object of his fixation: A young woman sitting back on her knees,
painting something unseen on a low easel. Long, dark hair embraces her shoulders and frames a soft face, which bears a pair
of eyes that might be serenely alluring, were it not for an unnatural reddish hue. Hugging her slender frame is a beautifully
sewn black skirt and short halter top. She turns to us and smiles, dimples flattering her cheekbones.
RED-EYED WOMAN
Almost finished! Keep focusing, just like that.
Think about the first time you held her,
how she felt in your arms...
SCARRED MAN (FROM POV)
(His voice is deep, and ragged as the cliff.)
Mmmm...
That was... It was so nice.
RED-EYED WOMAN
(Turns back to her work)
I can imagine.
Do you ever wake up, thinking she's there?
They say if you lose a limb, you'll occasionally
still feel pain – where there's nothing at all.
Kinda like your body is mourning its own memory, y'know?
_CUT BACK TO 3RD PERSON ON SCARRED MAN_
_1/1 SHOT SWITCHING FOR DIALOGUE SEQUENCE_
SCARRED MAN
(A sudden hiccup in his droning tone.)
(His expression takes on a mild curiosity.)
I-uh... Yeah, sometimes.
RED-EYED WOMAN
(Her smile has diminished into a soft smirk)
Isn't it strange?
How the ones we love become almost extensions of ourselves.
I found a book once that talked about these teeny
little things inside of us called molecules.
It said parts of these things are always bouncing around,
swapping places with everything around them.
Wouldn't it be something if whenever we touch each other
we take a bit of that person with us, physically?
What if emotions and memories work the same way?
SCARRED MAN
Huh?
(Breaks into a goofy grin)
Heh. They always said you was crazy, Scarlet.
Is it true? 'Bout you speakin' with the dead?
SCARLET
(Giggles and flashes another eight-mile smile.)
I don't know, what do you think?
Before he can answer, she spins the canvas around. On its surface an ethereal image of a blonde-haired woman is painted
in hazy shades and shadows. Though her visage is vivid and ebullient, her pallor has been accentuated by the tones of
color in juxtaposition. Her neck appears raw and bloody, with meaty striations visible - cut through the flesh. SCARRED MAN
recoils at first glance, then his eyes come to life, burning fiercely with something he looks to not be familiar with:
Fear.
SCARRED MAN
How did...?! That's her! That's her face exactly!
You never met her, I know it! You ain't natural...
SCARLET
Still beaming with delight.
True. I suppose when the world forgot to flush
this little strip of land the definitions might have flipped.
Perhaps being weird and savage is the new normal, now.
Nature was always all about eating the weak, which was how she went.
Wasn't it? Lucie was just part of the buffet. Or maybe...
She points gleefully to the marks on PAINTED LUCIE's neck.
...a work of your own form of twisted art!
Look, Dalmo! I even added your finishing touches!
DALMO
(He looks staggered, his jaw clenching tight enough to crack a clam.)
...You freaky bitch.
So you're the real thing, huh? One of those psycho psychics.
Think you know the truth?
SCARLET
Naturally!
She takes his hands suddenly and places them on her own neck, closing her eyes.
Do it. There's no one around for miles. Perks of being exiled, yes?
Nobody can stop you. I want to feel how you killed her.
They say strangulation is the most intimate form of murder.
At first he looks repulsed by her touch, then the revulsion quickly turns to a look of rage, and his forearms grow taut,
shaking with fury. DALMO bares his teeth like an animal, those deadened eyes of his flashing with predatory intensity.
SCARLET is soon gasping, gurgling pitifully as the stronger, seething assailant throttles her slender throat with abandon.
She collapses to the floor underneath him, and he mounts, pinning her arms. Spittle flies from his frothing mouth with
every syllable as he starts to slam her head against the stiff, wood floor.
DALMO
They say an awful lot. Foolish oval office!
Pleading for death, are we? I'll be happy to show-
_SOUND CLIP.12B FROM OFFSCREEN_
~WHAP!~
DALMO whips his head around to the window behind him. The curtain has been drawn back,
and sitting on the ledge, staring at him is a queer, almost metallic looking...
Currently squatting in the house of a dead man, exiled no longer (don't worry, he had it coming). Nice view, really. What keeps you up at night? Him. Always him. We're dancing, like that day on Stranded Reef. We'd found a whole load of liquor in the bottom of a chest off one of those shipwrecks. Most of them have been well scavenged by the local tribes, 'but for those who dare...' (as he would say), there's still treasure to be found if you can hold your breath long enough. I got pretty good at it, after I met Jamel. He could fish up a fresh, roly-poly lobster from 30 meters deep before you could even get your toes wet. His dark, sun-kissed skin would glisten over sculpted muscles, like a gorgeous god of the crystal waters. And when his lips played over mine, laughing, I felt like I could spend eternity on that sand-caked shoreline. Just dancing in his arms, feasting on the splendor of the wild, feeling wonder and rapture and the indelible happiness of our sated spirits entwined. My mate, my love. They took him from me, those muck-bred, ying-meh bastards of the Brackish Blades. Cut off his arms as he pleaded for them to spare me. The most horrible, unbearable part was that he could see what they did to me as he slowly bled out. I watched him writhe, screaming my name, trying to squirm towards me even as the last of his fluids were expelled. Overwhelmed, I begged them. Those loving demons – I begged, sobbing like a wretch for them to finish me as well. But they didn't. They had their fun and left me paralyzed in the grass and mud, listening to my darling's agonized, gasps of pain until I finally lost consciousness. When I woke he was gone. A mangled body remained, but he had passed from this carbon purgatory, leaving me alone. I must have laid there for days, unable to move, shattered in every sense, tracing my lips over the gray, frayed lines between this world and the further, letting the memory of his taste guide me to him. Then one day I surfaced from my comatose state to find a strange little bird resting on my chest. Those eyes... seared into my own with violent penetration, scouring my thoughts. The sensory explosion that followed drove me to my feet, sending the bird flapping frenetically into the air. After a bout of vomiting bile, I realized that I'd been somehow healed. And also that the body was gone. Now I wander with purpose, for my guide is demanding. Since Paradox (at least that's the name he's shown me) chose me, (took me under his wing you might say) my mind has become a labyrinth of metaphysical mystery that mutates of its own accord, often spinning well out of my control. I've seen things far beyond the scope of mortal comprehension. There's something here, on this island. A gateway to that very line I almost crossed in my near-death throes - the Borderlands. Every time I kill a wicked murderer, their victims speak to me. Then Paradox knows where to go next. He doesn't talk, but I know what he means without words. He's taking me on a little tour of this island, each stop closer than the next to our goal. To where Jamel waits for me. * * * My brain relay is a weird, possibly evil bird! hctibyllis fucked around with this message at 02:31 on Mar 27, 2014 |
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Mar 25, 2014 09:10
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Koda the Faceless The forest is deep and dark and scary, but that’s OK. I am too. The forest can kill you or give you great boons. Again, I’m much the same. The other people on this island do not visit often, and when they do, they are fidgety as ants. We don’t mind. We enjoy playing with them when they come, and when they are away, we watch from afar. I guess that’s where the forest and I are different sometimes. Sometimes, I watch from a near. I live on an island in some trees, above the men but below the leaves. I live in a hall of faces, my dear friends, and I try to treat them right. What keeps me up at night? I suppose it’s the same thing that keeps me up during the day, though I do not know what it could be. All I know is that I do not know sleep. Not personally, at least. I’ve seen you sleeping, of course. You toss and turn and still. It seems like a waste of time to me. But don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone the things you muttered while you lay helpless. quote:Carved, stained mask. My mask is this plus this. Since it's not optional, here is my terrible paint rendition of my mask. In case it matters, I live in Japan so the times I would be replying might be different than other people. Just in case definitely being able to move at a fast pace is important. Also, I have very little play by post experience, so I apologize if I forgot something or made a faux pas. Please let me know so I can fix it.
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Mar 25, 2014 10:53
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I've got an idea for a Hocus. I should be able to submit him in a day or so.
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Mar 25, 2014 22:23
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Lemon Curdistan posted:Specifically, Disciplined Engagement means I can threaten someone at point-blank range with a shotgun and then only deal the fiction equivalent of 1-harm - I might not even take the move, but I want to know if that carries over into the new harm rules. If you think there's some conversion work needed, I'm happy to just not take the move. Well, you've got the discipline to threaten them point-blank with a shotgun and then club them with it instead?
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Mar 25, 2014 22:51
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Wittgen posted:Koda the Faceless PbP doesn't particularly move quickly, and AW is in general easy to work with being in different places. With regards to Juggernaut, I'd have to say that move doesn't really make sense any more, since the old harm roll doesn't even exist.
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Mar 25, 2014 23:16
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You could just do like with the Not To Be hosed With move and just say that harm counts as 1 level less than it logically should. Maybe give a weakness that always counts as 1 higher than it should or something if that seems too OP.
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Mar 25, 2014 23:43
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Captain Foo posted:A Macaluso? Yeah, it's a Limited Edition playbook---instead of a single character it's several mini-characters (with the individual resilience of NPCs) sharing a collective quasi-hive mind through the psychic maelstrom. And one of the customization options for each mini-character is "I'm a part of ____'s crew/cult/gang/etc." which is why I felt like attaching to the Operator. -----  The Natives +2 weird/other stats vary by Society member Moves: *Luck: at the beginning of the session, roll+weird. On a hit, give +1 to everyone else making a beginning-of-session move. On a 10+, mark experience for each other’s beginning-of-session move that also hits with a 10+. On a miss, give -2 to everyone else making a beginning-of-session move. *Shared eyes: when you read a situation, roll+weird instead of roll+sharp. *Sustaining influence: When anyone of your secret society dies, erase their information from your playbook and create a new person to replace them. Use the same secret society segment or an unused one. The Society: -Past (Man, heavy-bearded) (badass brother named Jinte, 2-armor and 3-harm shotgun, fortified double-room worth 1-armor in defense) (+2 hard, -1 hot) -Bismark (Ambiguous, tattooed) (Oddments worth 2-barter, rooms above the autoshop, 1-armor and wicked 2-harm knives) (+2 sharp, -1 cool) -Frans (Concealed, pierced) (2-armor improv armor and 3-harm pitchfork, tough little family made up of Asso/Ki Yin/Quick/Limester/self, home down in the maze) (+2 hard, -1 sharp) Where do you live? We go where we are needed or wanted. We welcome the outsiders as long as they respect our wishes. Their ways are strange, full of disagreement. What keeps you up at night? IT keeps us up at night, for IT lurks at the center of everything and nothing. IT must be kept appeased, lest IT crave ever more and more, more than IT can ever be offered. In the deepest jungles of the island lies but the smallest portion of IT, and we keep IT from the outsiders as much as we keep the outsiders from IT. InfiniteJesters fucked around with this message at 18:46 on Mar 26, 2014 |
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Mar 26, 2014 01:07
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Where is that one at? I didn't see it in the LE playbooks. The closest to that I have seen is the Rat-Pack which is a gang of kids that play like a well Gang. I am tempted to make something, but not sure what. Too bad their isn't a more grown up version of Rat-Pack.
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Mar 26, 2014 01:24
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Ryuujin posted:Where is that one at? I didn't see it in the LE playbooks. The closest to that I have seen is the Rat-Pack which is a gang of kids that play like a well Gang. It's all part of the Limited Edition PDFs buyable here: http://nightskygames.com/welcome/game/ApocalypseWorld (Alternatively ask one of us'ns around for a copy.)
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Mar 26, 2014 01:56
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