|
  The year is 2113. Fifty years ago the world was at war. Countries invaded each other; nukes were launched; super-powers crumbled. It looked like we were finally going to wipe ourselves out – then something weird happened... World leaders began dying off, not from assassination, but from sleep. Slowly but surely, the remaining governments of the world fell into total chaos as officials either went inexplicably insane, or were found in their beds, faces twisted into death-masks of absolute terror. Doctors were dumbfounded. Scientists were stumped. No one knew what was happening, but everyone had theories: Apocalypse Wow! posted:“We're regressing into a Primal State, maaaannn. We let our lizard brains take over!” But they weren't the Last Days. Not yet. However, soon enough there were no more regimes, royalty or democracies. Society imploded, and what hadn't been already burned to the ground by war was razed by the new world order: Anarchy. The cultures of the world dissolved into a distopic soup of post-everything. People followed their desires and huddled themselves together in like-minded tribes or factions. They built fortresses of steel and stone to keep the unwanted away; and for most people, being unwanted meant being dead. As primitive networks of communication began to form once more, the world discovered that the strange epidemic had stopped. Mostly. Every now and then someone would be found to have The Sickness, and they would be immediately put to death in a fashion similar to witches in the dark ages. Oh the irony. Little does the world know that the true Dark Age is just beginning. Well... you know anyways.  You are one of The Sick, or as you call yourselves, The Awakened. You know that there are actually Two Worlds now; and one of them is desperately trying to pull you in. As far as you can reckon, The Nightmare World is a bizarre, terrifying alternate dimension that permeates everything in existence. It comprises your worst fears and your darkest secrets. It preys on your madness and shows you things you know should be impossible, and yet you can see them, hear them, smell them, feel them, even taste them. You experience life in a constant duality of Hell and Purgatory; and the worst part is, its 24/7. You can't sleep, 'cause if you do, the Nightmare World awaits... and it doesn't like to let go. Don't lose hope, though! Maybe there's a Cure out there somewhere; or maybe you can find a way to make it stop, to save the world! There are others like you. You can feel them. More of them Awaken every day, and they need your help! Though it comes with a heavy price, the Madness gives you strength – you can take some of the impossible and bring it into reality. As an Awakened, you can sometimes accomplish feats that most would say are 'supernatural'. Maybe together you can find a way to survive... Just Don't Rest Your Head.  Welcome to my twisted little game! As noted, this is a mash-up of Apocalypse World and Don't Rest Your Head. I've taken elements from DRYH, tweaked them a bit and applied everything over the AW engine. Things will start out a bit differently from your standard AW game, and there will be a bit more structure than you're probably used to, but there will still be plenty of sandboxy elements as well. Hopefully everything will remain at least somewhat balanced, but if we break it, oh well. At least we'll have fun! Unless I also break the fun. We will start in the ruins of a very massive city next to the ocean with several large boroughs, some of which are separated by bridges. There are subways and airports (which obviously aren't operational and are mostly abandoned), parks and waterfronts, and just fucktons of abandoned buildings and complexes everywhere. I'm not gonna say it used to be NYC... Cuz I has girlbrains, and I hate having to be accurate with maps (though I'll probably be making a few, dammit  ).The city is home to all sorts of cutthroat gangs and tribes, as well as militant factions, savage cannibals, slave traders, creepy cults and just about anything awful you can think of. You all probably know each other, as most Awakened can sense others with Madness. Prospective players should:
 MADNESS Auto-Increased when you fail: "Read a Sitch", "Read a Person" or "Open Brain" If you witness another character's Nightmares, roll either +weird or +cool: 10+: You keep your head. 7-9 :You maintain, but take -1 on your next attempt. 1-6: Something snaps upstairs. Increase 1 Madness. Madness may be reset by:
Level 1 Madness: Weirdness may occur. +1 to a roll, your choice. (Max once per session) Level 2 Madness: Strange and hostile things may start to happen. +2 to a roll, your choice. (Max once per session) Level 3 Madness: They're coming to get you. You will be pursued by various Nightmares until Madness is reset. Add 1d4 to a roll, your choice. (Max once per session) -- EXHAUSTION Auto-Increased when you fail: "Go Aggro"; "Seize"or "Act Under Fire". Auto-Increased when you take harm (unless it's a 0 harm hit). If you hear the siren's call of sleep, roll +hard or +sharp. 10+: You fight off the urge. 7-9: You keep them eyes open, but take -1 on your next attempt. 1-6: You feel a wave of fatigue hit you like a ton of wet sand bags. Increase 1 Exhaustion. Exhaustion may be reset by:
Level 1 Exhaustion: Mild Fatigue. -1 to a roll. (MC checks each of your rolls with a raw 2d6. Failed check triggers. Max once per session.) Level 2 Exhaustion: Serious Fatigue. -2 to a roll. (MC checks each of your rolls with a raw 2d6. Failed check triggers. Max once per session.) Level 3 Exhaustion: Sweet dreams, darling~ (You fall unconscious in the Normal World). You are trapped in the Nightmare World until woken up or you manage to wake yourself up. You can die here. All your rolls suffer a penalty of -2. (Hey, it's a nightmare, isn't it?) RANDOM RULEZ
 Finally, along with a background and character sheet, you must answer these questions: DRYH Specific Questions posted:
I may ask additional questions to help me narrow my options later. Stay tuned to this thread! (And for god sakes, keep your eyes open!) edit: Added extra bit about Angels in the "Random Rulez" section. 
hctibyllis fucked around with this message at 22:29 on Aug 5, 2013 |
#
?
Jul 21, 2013 03:49
|
|
|
|
| # ? Apr 27, 2024 02:29 |
|
|
Gotta draw up a character, just going over the changes before I do. Looks really interesting! 
|
|
#
?
Jul 22, 2013 05:47
|
|
|
Hah, if you're half as good a GM as you are a player this is gonna be great! Lemme draw up a Maestro D' here...he'll sell aromatherapy, coffees, and stimulants 
|
|
#
?
Jul 22, 2013 05:54
|
|
|
Kim the Angel pre:A lady wearing scrounge wear+utility, with a haggard face, quick eyes, and a sturdy body. Cool +1, Hard=0, Hot +1, Sharp +2, Weird -1 Moves: Healing Touch, if I touch someone, roll+weird. 10+, heal one segment, 7-9 heal one segment but acting under fire from the patient's brain, miss... bad stuff. Very bad stuff. I'm sure it won't come to that. Touched By Death When someone in my care dies, gain +1 weird, to a max of +3. Gear: Angel Kit, .38 revolver (2harm, close reload loud),oddments worth 1-barter. Under her scrounged-for clothing, Kim has layered her torso with many bandages to provide her with 1-armor. What's been keeping you awake? "I don't know if you've noticed, but there happen to be a lot of people out there who need help right now. I can barely get to a fraction of them when I am awake! Can you imagine how many people will die slow and painful deaths if I decide to take a break? If I slept, it would make me the equivalent of a mass-murderer. I... I just need to be alone for a while."- Kim, one day before the incident. What's on the surface? "Ah, yes, Kim... jittery gal, isn't she? She's got a lotta bulk, all things considered. Don't take me the wrong way, I simply mean that it's hard enough to find food these days, you know? But she's good at tending to people's wounds, and I'm not one to judge. She just seems so... on edge. Tends to flutter between keeping cool and flipping out, with all the grace of and poise of a steamroller." -Adam Jakoby, a scavenger and Kim's uncle, one week before the incident. What lies beneath? "Listen... in those ten seconds of silence, ten people could have just died. The powers I have... they were given to me for a reason, right? I need to stay awake. I need to keep healing people, by any means necessary. And if my body doesn't cooperate... well, you know better than anyone that there are ways to make it cooperate." I sigh as I roll up my sleeve, "Just... make sure to keep this discreet, alright?" The needle punctures my arm, and I smile. -Kim to an unknown merchant, two weeks before the incident. What's your path? "Whatever could make you think I'm not content putting the same bandages on the same wounds of the same twenty people?" I roll my eyes a little and whisper, "but in all seriousness, I am very thankful my uncle took me in to his little group. Truth be told, though, I want to get out there and find a Cure for this nightmare. I mean, if not me, then who else, right? Failing that, I want to get out there period. Get out there and help people. Get out there and heal!" -Kim, one month before the incident. What Just Happened to You? The day of the incident "drat it, uncle, breath!" I push down on his chest, hard. Nothing. Again. Nothing. I slap his motionless body's face. Nothing. I check his pulse. It's faint. Fainter. I look around wildly, see the syringe, and hesitate. Does he really need it? I shake my head, and jab the syringe into his neck. The response is nearly immediate. His entire body flops around wildly, and then... that's when it happens. It's like a horror movie. His heart beats loud, louder, it sounds like a goddamned war drum. Then, with one final thump, it stops... I can barely even describe what happens next. I am standing, stock still, covered in blood, staring at his open chest cavity. His mangled heart is leaking. I don't know how long I've been standing here, but it feels like years. Finally, as if in a dream, I pick up my tape recorder, press record, and begin speaking. "Time of death is 3:37 PM. Patient Adam Jakoby. Cause of death..." the shock begins to lessen, and I feel my brain getting dizzy. "Cause of death... oh my god. Uncle... I'm so sorry. I'm... I'm... forgive me. Please." I sink to my knees, "Please..." Tears pour from my eyes. Then, as if struck by lightning, I jump, I look around. I'm alone now, but outside the hospital, the others are waiting. Waiting for me to let them know that everything's alright. I look down. Covered in blood. I'll look like a murderer. No... no, I definitely can't go out there. I hear a strong clatter. Uncle's revolver has just fallen to the ground. I look up. The bright light coming in from the window looks so soft. So inviting. In that moment, I make my decision. Never look back. Forever forward. I grab the revolver, my kit, and the remainder of my stash. I look out the window. I can see it; the abandoned subway tunnel. It always looked so far away, but now? Now nowhere is too far. As soon as I hit pavement, I'm already running. Just Burgs fucked around with this message at 18:32 on Jul 23, 2013 |
|
#
?
Jul 22, 2013 07:14
|
|
|
Yes, this is in my interests. I'll see what I can come up with for this. One question though, and this is important. Is the Bizarre Bazaar going to be a thing?
|
|
#
?
Jul 22, 2013 08:16
|
|
|
Any limits on playbooks? I kind of want to work up something based on the Boy and His Dog playbook.
|
|
#
?
Jul 22, 2013 09:00
|
|
|
 Dietrich, the Hardholder Dietrich is the leader of The Anvil, one of the few decently civilized bastions of humanity in the boroughs. Raised by her father, she had a relatively normal childhood, all things considered. At fifteen, she took up a rifle and served with the guard in defending the hold. Most of the population was killed four years ago in a massive assault by the Rivets. The Rivets had been a constant menace, rampaging through the city in a blood fueled orgy of death and depravity. Eventually they set their sights on the Anvil. In the aftermath of their assault, the attack force was destroyed, and the Anvil's own survivors numbered no more than eighteen. As the highest ranking guard still alive, Dietrich took up the responsibility of rebuilding their home. In the years since, the Anvil's strength and population has been renewed, thanks in no small part to the greatly exaggerated stories of her own exploits against the Rivets. What’s been keeping you awake? "So Nails says to me, 'Word is the Rivets are hitting the Anvil. You're our best scout, go check it out.' Gee, thanks, rear end in a top hat. So I hustle through the borough and reached the Anvil around early evening. I knew I wasn't going to like what I saw. You could hear the screaming and the gunfire from miles off. Two days that fight went on. I mostly hid, since the Rivets kept sending in reinforcements to die at that goddamned wall and they weren't going to give a gently caress about any claims of being an impartial observer. Two days, scared to death of getting my head shot off when I took a piss. Then suddenly it got quiet which was reassuring and pants-shittingly scary at the same time. I crept up to take a look, and...christ. It was a war zone. There wasn't a single thing moving. Against all better judgement I headed onto the grounds. Looking back I wish I'd been more of a coward, because what I saw is going to stay with me for the rest of my life. Rivets and guards and civvies, everywhere. A lot of them in pieces. Some small fires smoldering and a lot of spent brass and blood just everywhere. I remember choking back a sob as I took it all in. It was the silence that really got to me. You could hear a loving pin drop. It's as if some god had personally cleared a space in the world. Marked out a box, vertical and horizontal, and decreed that everything inside that box was finished for all time. And I'm in it. And it's terrifying. That's when I see her. Single figure in the smoke, not moving. I feel like I'm in a dream or some poo poo, it's all so loving unreal, but my legs are moving me towards her and my voice is asking her if she's okay. Then I see her for real. She didn't exactly look at me. Hell, she probably didn't even know I existed. It was more like I just walked into her line of sight, and...gently caress, instantly wished I hadn't. She stood there with her armor falling off of her and the blood all over her and the wounds-I mean how she was standing at all, I do not know-and there's maybe twenty guys dead at her feet. And what I see in those eyes of hers makes me wonder if I'll be next. You've heard of a thousand-yard stare? This lady had a million mile one. She'd seen forever. She'd been somewhere else, and I don't know, sometimes I wonder if she'd maybe had a pretty good loving conversation with someone she met there. Out of nowhere, this voice asks if it's over yet, and the woman says 'Yeah' and collapses. Behind her was this young girl, eyes squeezed shut and her hands over her ears. So uh. Anyway. That's why there's no such thing as The Rivets anymore, and why people at the Anvil are kind of understanding when their boss doesn't sleep much." Dietrich has seen a lot of death in her time, friends and enemies alike. While she isn't precisely wracked with guilt, the horrors of battle have left their mark. Besides, what's a few sleepless nights compared to those two hellish days of nonstop fighting? That is a level of exhaustion your everyday bout of insomnia can never match. What’s on the surface? Dietrich is brusque and no-nonsense. She maintains iron discipline at all times, never permitting herself a moment of weakness. She treats the common citizens of the Anvil with polite disdain. She considers most of them to be weak and borderline useless, constantly relying on her and her troops to solve every little problem. Nevertheless, she is fair in her judgements when they are needed, and most people can at least appreciate that they have it better than most holdings. On the whole Dietrich is content to let them do as they please, so long as it doesn't threaten the hold itself. This has unfortunately led to a rise in recreational drug (ab)use and other questionable activities. Her troops, meanwhile, are intensely loyal. They and their families are well provided for, and Dietrich makes it a point to be open and available to their concerns, no matter how seemingly minor. Physically, Dietrich keeps herself in good shape. As the leader of the Anvil, she understands there are certain expectations of her. Consequently she puts a great deal of time aside to make sure she always looks good for the public. What's your path? Dietrich is concerned about one thing: Keeping her people alive. She is not out to change the world or bring back the so-called pre-Sickness golden age. She's had to make hard decisions, and she'll have to make plenty more, but in the end she will drag her followers through it - kicking and screaming if she has too. What lies beneath? Dietrich absolutely despises civilians. Her polite disdain is just a veneer hiding the fact that as far as she's concerned, they can gently caress off and die. They aren't soldiers, they don't know what it's like putting your life on the line for someone else. They just want to have their pleasant little diversions and will stab you in the back the second things get tough or money comes into the picture. When the Rivets attacked the Anvil, it was a couple of the civvies who were paid off that ensured the Rivets were able to breach the compound. Their windfall was short lived, as the Rivets killed them just as happily as everyone else. Should things come to it, Dietrich would not hesitate to put her metaphorical boot to their throats if they showed signs of betraying her. What Just Happened to You? "Spider tells me you signed up with her today." Spider was my right hand woman. We'd grown up together, and if she thought Half Pint could hack it, I'd trust her judgement. I looked over my desk at the young woman opposite me. She was nervous, but she looked me in the eyes. "Yes, mom...ma'am." I smirked. "I'm fifteen now. You joined up at the same age, right?" "You realize you aren't getting any easy assignments? You may be my daughter, but everyone pulls their weight around here. You're going to have to pull twice as hard." "Yes ma'am. No disrespect intended, but I don't plan on just being 'Dietrich's kid' the rest of my life." "Ha, good for you. Fine. Report to Sergeant Fluffy first thing in the morning. You'll be running patrol with him." "Yes ma'am!" She stood, hesitated, and gave me a salute. I returned it, and she let herself out of my office with a spring in her step. As the door clicked shut, I sighed. She'd come a long way from the bawling orphan I'd found wandering the city all those years ago. I drained my cup of coffee and grimaced. poo poo had been sitting at the bottom of the coffee urn all day. I sat back and fought the desire to let my eyes slip closed. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw it. The door was planted in the wall next to the window overlooking the yard. It hadn't been there before. I slowly reached for the gun lying on my desk, not taking me eyes from the door. If anyone else were able to see it, they would reasonably assume it led to an immediate twenty foot drop. I knew better...wherever it led, it was nowhere here. I could faintly hear scratching noises coming from the other side, or imagined I did. I flicked off the safety and leveled the gun barrel at the wooden interloper, silently praying for the door to stay shut. The scratching grew louder, the knob rattled violently, and suddenly ceased. I slowly let out my breath. Silence. A sudden bang erupted from it, making me jump, and I saw the door slowly swing open. Darkness spilled out from the crack in a horrible invitation for me to come inside. Really, it's fine. We have such sights to show you. Shardix fucked around with this message at 21:36 on Jul 23, 2013 |
|
#
?
Jul 22, 2013 10:06
|
|
|
e: nvm
zachol fucked around with this message at 11:23 on Jul 22, 2013 |
|
#
?
Jul 22, 2013 11:05
|
|
|
You may sub with any playbook, but I will be considering balance as a factor to help me determine which unlucky souls will get into the game, so try not to pick anything too overpowered. A Boy/Girl and his/her Dog should be fine. The Bazaar will be in the game... somewhere. You'll just have to find it! The question is: Will you be able to afford the risk? Also you may run into certain named NPCs from the DRYH book.
|
|
#
?
Jul 22, 2013 15:12
|
|
|
Taylor Thatcher (Brainer) (What's on the surface?) Twenty-something, short dark hair, short snappy temper, sarcastic, frothing hatred of violent idiots under a tight lid. Dark circles under eyes, the headache and narrowed eyebrows of a long-suffering doctor who's about to lose her patience. Wants to make the world a better place, but maybe just because she's fed up with it. quote:(Woman, clinical wear, pale face, deep eyes, awkward angular body) Dietrich Hx+3 Marcus Hx+2 Kusuri Hx+2 Bridget Hx+3 Jobs Hx+2 Walker Hx+3 // When civilization 'collapsed,' it didn't all go down at once. When the Sickness started cropping up, all federal employees with any know-how about neurology, biology, or sleep disorders got VIP tickets to a self-sufficient underground compound in a secure and classified location. Taylor's grandparents were both working for the CDC during the war, and that's where they met and fell in love. They bashed their heads against the Sickness for years, but never figured much out about it. Some bombs went off, some politicians went dark, and eventually, calls from upstairs asking for progress updates just stopped coming in. There were fifty-something people down there - doctors, researchers, security guards, a few ranking military guys and a political VIP or two. In the chaos of a nuclear war, they stayed the gently caress put, boarded up their doors, and kept on with their research. There were a lot of tense arguments and gun-point debates in the first years, but they came together like one big extended family. At the start, most of the crew was committed to saving the world. Finding a Cure, reversing all the damage that had been done. As the years rolled on and it became obvious that things would never go back, most of them made moral concessions to practicality. The Sickness seemed un-solvable. The military guys started expeditions to the outside, to scavenge resources and scout for new talents, and to make drat sure that the roaming apocalypse war bands didn't find the compound. The eggheads re-jiggered their incredibly advanced lab equipment to synthesize some more popular compounds, to trade for other bits they might need. A few of them had kids, they recruited a couple of talented outsiders. Most of them, tired and discouraged, gave up on the Cure and just lived. But a few people in the next generation carried that torch. Long story getting longer, sorry. Martin Thatcher, thirty-ish years after the bombs, had the bright idea of expanding their patrols, in man-power and in scope, hunting down and posting bounties for some of the Sickened. Martin was raised in an ivory bunker surrounded by a post-apocalyptic poo poo-hole, he was brilliant and arrogant and not bound by conventional scientific thought or morality, and his whole life he'd been hearing about people trying to fight some disease, so he went all Ahab on the Sickness. Taylor was raised in security, the spoiled child of second-generation shut-in nerds. She took after her dad in a lot of ways, but tried to buck some trends. She payed close attention to the half of the lessons that interested her, and hosed off from the other half to sneak outside and serve as a Spotter for some of the surface teams' hunting expeditions. She bought in to her dad's rhetoric of the Sickness as the ultimate evil bogeyman that destroyed the world - and to Cure it would be the ultimate act of heroism - but she came up late enough that she naturally accepted the post-downfall as the new normal, and was able to see some bright sides of life. She's endlessly curious and buys into the idea that there is a reasonable, empirically deducible answer to every question worth asking, even if the search for answers goes to some weird, dark, and unexpected places. She was fiercely loyal to her 'tribe' of CDC descendants, and couldn't help but see them as morally and intellectually superior to the savages outside. When your first view of the outside is through a night-vision scope, that'll happen. As she got older, and went a bit further abroad on expeditions, she recognized that as an institutional thing, e.g. better education and security that anyone could have benefited from. She felt for the outsiders, at least the ones who didn't try to shoot or axe first, and tried to share the prosperity in some small ways. If we're being honest here, it was half imperialist "we could take over and own this joint," and half genuinely sympathetic, "these poor fuckers would be better off if smart guys like us were running this joint." (Why are you awake?) She got Sick. She came forward with that voluntarily, willing to martyr herself as a cooperative research subject, hoping to help find a cure. They hooked her up to some sleep-study diodes and gave her some tea. Turned out to be the worst mistake ever. The next - week? Month? - was a living nightmare, chained to a bed, fed through a tube, yanked between drug-induced comatose states and sudden awakenings by electrocution. While she was out, they cut open her back and grafted some sensors to her spine and skull. Lots and lots and lots of questions - invasive, deeply personal poo poo - from sterile masked people holding scalpels, talking in the voices of her aunts and uncles, suddenly cold and emotionless. Blood and gunfire as the security team dealt with 'Intrusion Events.' The only time she could think clearly was on the other side, and that was horrible. But she learned that it's so much more than just a disease. There's a whole other side. Between breaths for air, she studied it. She stared back into that weird abyss, and learned something indescribable from it. She knows things that she has no way of knowing. And then - who the gently caress knows how? - she phased out of there and woke up somewhere far away. She wants to tap back into it, but on her own terms, not by falling asleep and putting herself at its mercy again. She deals with the fear by cold, hard rational dissociation, which only works until she conks out again. So... quite simply, fear. (What lies beneath) She's desperately hurt by the betrayal of her tribe and family. She blames herself for it, for being such a dumbass once she got sick. She deals with that confusion and rejection with aggression. Feeling that the world has spurned her, she would like to look into the nightmare world for an alternative - comfort, an escape route, a source of power so she could strike back at mortal assholes - except it's too drat horrifying for that to be easy. She yearns for a Faustian bargain with the nightmares. Has a bit of a death-wish, often thinks about going to sleep and never coming out, but too much of a coward to face that. (What's your path?) She wants to understand the other side, and she wants to pin some stability into the fractured world. Depending on what goes down with the nightmare world, she'll try to learn how it works, so that she can learn how to use it, and exploit it for influence over other people. Maybe find some way to strike a balance between worlds. The Nightmares are too fascinating to ignore, and impossible to run from, and she wants a way out that isn't just suffering through it. Suicide's not off the table. She wants to return home to the CDC compound, to see her family and friends again. She only wants to go back in a position of such power that they can't turn her away or study her further - like with an army, or with horrific nightmare powers, or with a Cure or Treatment so that further study won't be necessary. Has ambitions to become (or be the shadowed vizier behind) a ruthless and benevolent ruler, just the sort that this apocalypse world needs to start on the path back to peace and civilization. If somebody not terrible can reach out to her and make some kind of friendship connection, she might be open to the possibility of eating some humble pie, seeing herself as less detached from the world, coming to terms with the vulnerable nature of her own humanity, cooling down on the tyranny, and finding a milder way to establish a peaceful slice of civilization. No qualms about breaking some eggs to make that omelette, though. (What just happened?) Doc Thatcher was roaming the city, trying to follow an old gas-station pamphlet map to find a Library and check up on some research periodicals, with only a vague idea what she'd do with those if she found them. She roamed through the wrong neighborhood. There was a short and desperate chase, a lot of hooting and laughter as a gang corralled her into a dead end. In a stroke of brilliance amid pant-making GBS threads panic, she held up her hands and announced, "I can make meth!" Partially true, even. The CDC compound had the facilities to synthesize a huge variety of chemicals, and they had some smart guys who figured out what would barter at a premium. She'd never been allowed to try it (we only feed that toxic crap to outsiders) but she was almost sure she could replicate the process. One of the vultures, an older dude with an amazing beard and some flaming serpent tattoos named Jim, had tasted that particular nectar years in the past, and eagerly convinced his buddies to "let the science chick live. If she's on the level, you're going to love this poo poo." Taylor put together a shopping list, and spent the next few days sitting on a moldy sofa in an apartment at gun-point. She choked down her loathing, put on a smile, and tried to get friendly with her captors - of a gang about twenty strong, a few of them turned out to be potentially okay but driven to horrible things by horrible circumstances, most of them were assholes. A few of them, like Mark and Linda, maintained that she was just bullshitting them, but Jim kept them in check with promises of excellent drugs. There were a couple of children running around that were basically feral. She'd spend five or six hours at a stretch lying down and pretending to sleep, mind racing with anxious horror that she might actually drift off. Kept herself occupied by composing a novella in her head. There were some shenanigans, but eventually the guys came together by gathering a suitable restaurant kitchen, gas generator, and shopping cart full of drug store leavings. They made it pretty clear that, if Taylor turned out to have sent them all over the loving city looking for this stuff and couldn't deliver, she'd have a real bad day. She started cooking, and slipped some powdered receptivity drugs into the mix without raising an eyebrow. She was trembling and sweating bullets, but blamed it on the heat and crappy ventilation. Jim brought in a fan. The stuff came out cracked, cloudy, and weirdly colored compared to what the CDC made, but she was sincerely proud that she pulled it off. They made her try it first, of course. And goddamn it was amazing. It was seriously the best she had felt at any time since before getting Sick. She was laughs, face-splitting smiles, giddy high-fives and slaps on the back all around, and the rest of the gang picked up on the mirth as they went on to get high as poo poo. They decided to keep her around, hell yeah. She'd put the diodes back on her fingertips, wired to a central pad on her palm with another thicker wire going down her sleeve, up her shirt and around to the port on the back of her neck where her family had grafted some sleep sensors to her spine. In the celebration, she managed to tag each and every one of them with that violation glove. Taylor had a lot of pent-up spite underneath the just-starting-to-be-true veil of Stockholm Syndrome she was showing, plus she was hosed in head space by sleep deprivation and amphetamines when she passed out Command. Later, after the orgy of violence had finished and she came down from the meth high, she would be a bit horrified with herself. Serve me. Kill Mark. Kill Linda. Kill yourself. Keep snorting. Strip naked and run down the street 'til your legs give out. And so on. On cue, it got messy. Everyone had to choose between aneurysms or chaos, and there was no right answer. Taylor walked away from the screams and bloodshed trembling, with a plastic bag full of brain-receptive meth, a high that was quickly turning into a desperate low with a ruinous headache, and a weird mix of triumph and disgust. StringOfLetters fucked around with this message at 20:51 on Feb 6, 2014 |
|
#
?
Jul 22, 2013 18:45
|
|
|
Give me a bit to work on a Touchstone, this sounds amazing.
|
|
#
?
Jul 22, 2013 18:47
|
|
|
I've taken my time a bit, but tonight I think I have a good concept to throw up. Now to find an aw class for it 
|
|
#
?
Jul 22, 2013 19:02
|
|
|
Reading up on DRYH, there's a gunlugger coming. Vague Amy, the Gunlugger You've all seen her around. Skulking at the edge of a crowd, stalking through empty streets at night, picking over a corpse in an alleyway, staring at you from a darkened window. That's right, she's seen you too. And you're not sure you're comfortable with that. If you want to talk to Amy, put the word out, and she'll find you. She's not comfortable being found herself, but she's always willing to talk. She's sure you can work something out. pre:A young woman in scrounged mismatched armor, with a scarred face, mad eyes, and a stringy body. Cool-1 Hard+3(2+1) Hot-2 Sharp+1 Weird+2 Battle-hardened: when you act under fire, roll+hard instead of roll+cool. gently caress this poo poo: name your escape route and roll+hard. On a 10+, sweet, you’re gone. On a 7–9, you can go or stay, but if you go it costs you: leave something behind, or take something with you, the MC will tell you what. On a miss, you’re caught vulnerable, half in and half out. Insano like Drano: you get +1hard (hard+3). Gear: silenced sniper rifle (3-harm far hi-tech), shotgun (3-harm close messy), grenade tube (4-harm close area reload messy), many knives (2-harm hand infinite), reinforced coat (2-armor), oddments worth 1-barter Fear. Paranoia. A desire to stay alive. Sleep means slowing down, lowering your guard. That's when they get you. Amy used to have a grandfather. (A man she thought of as her grandfather.) They were both Awakened. They helped each other. He got too slow. He's dead now. She's not. What’s on the Surface? Amy seems a lot older than her looks would indicate, but she gives every impression that she's content with the cards she was dealt. She extrudes an aura of confidence. Anything she does, it's because she felt like doing it, and any problem she has is because she hasn't bothered to deal with it yet. Amy is quite friendly, up to a point, as she tends to be evasive, and if anyone tries to push her too far, she's either gone or taking a swing at them. Her eye darts constantly from place to place, and her hands are never far from a weapon. She will ignore any mention of her missing eye. What Lies Beneath? When the things came for grandfather, she hid. She never saw them, but she heard them coming before he did, and there was no way out, and when they came upon him he screamed and screamed. As they tore him apart and ate him, she cowered and cried silently and prayed they would not find her. Eventually they left. Amy dreads the time when they will come for her, and she fears what her own reaction will be. Will she fight them? Will she hide again? Will she abandon those she tries desperately not to think of as friends? Or will she just give herself to them to end the uncertainty once and for all? What’s Your Path? What Amy really wants is a haven. A place where she doesn't have to worry about monsters, or slavers, or getting all this blood out of her clothes. She wants a place where she won't be killed if people find out what she is. She wants to be able to trust again. What Just Happened to You? Someone is waiting for me. Here. In my private space. My hidden, boarded up, blocked off, third floor apartment. During the month I've used it, I've never even seen anyone enter the building, and I'm pretty sure noone's seen me. Still, there's a light on, and has been for the last half hour. An invitation. Checking my knives, I approach the entrance. Sax Battler fucked around with this message at 19:15 on Jul 27, 2013 |
|
#
?
Jul 22, 2013 19:06
|
|
|
I'm interested in subbing a solace, if that's o.k. I'm subbing a solace in Foo's game, but its going to be a different character. I figure the more I write about the character the less he'll be like my other submission.
|
|
#
?
Jul 22, 2013 23:46
|
|
|
Sure go for it, Doc. By the way, I meant it when I said "take your time". I'm going to leave this open 'till at least sometime next week, as I'm still ironing out a few back-end things. Also: If you really don't wanna fill out the What Just Happened To You?, and would prefer to leave your precious characters in my hands for the opening scene, then just put: "SIHT SNWO HCTIBYLLIS" in that section. And I will 
|
|
#
?
Jul 23, 2013 00:40
|
|
|
Okay, this is a WIP still, but here I go! Kusuri, the Maestro D'  Ignore the pointed ears—the offered pipe, smoke, face paint, and mismatched clothing are more important to the character. Ah, Tolkachy! A new guest! Welcome, please, welcome. Take off your jacket and gas mask and have a seat, I'll light a candle for you shortly. Troubles? My dear, leave your troubles outside! You have no troubles in here. In fact let me tell you a secret. When you walked in the door, when you first sniffed my incense, the world outside was annihilated. Again. It no longer exists. Your troubles went with it. They no longer exist, either. There is only my Waking Dream left, and you and everyone are free to share in it. Payment? Oh, the first one is on me. Just drink in the atmosphere... and perhaps a little coffee. I ask merely that you don't be like Lamprey over there. Such a troublesome man, with such an appropriate name; he sucks and sucks and gives me nothing but troubles. Someday I shall find the mixture that shall calm his heart, but for now he gives poor Katel and Morrs no end of trouble when they throw him out. Why do I keep letting him back in? Oh, despite his nasty demeanor, his barter is still good...and plants are expensive nowadays, you understand. Why, yes, I do make these blends myself, thank you for noticing! If Camo were not such a dear, paying in new plants from far away, I should never be able to keep my den of Lethe open. What's that? You wish to hear more about the Waking Dream? Oh. There aren't many who care about such things; most people come in here to forget the past. No, I still remember, I'm just surprised. Hmm...well, you know, these sorts of things don't need abandoned roofs and armed staff. Those come later. First comes the material. And dear old Gams was one of the best at it. Gods, if he were here, I'd like to think I'd show him up at his own game! I'm sure he'd disagree, of course. He taught me everything I knew...at first. The waking dream would only be a daydream if he were not here. And then...Tolkachy and Tolkita...ah, two brothers, how could they be further apart? You met Tolkachy coming in, yes? He's just a doorman right now, but he would like to take over when I'm...gone. Hah! As if I'll ever be gone! And if I do, then my Dream dies with me! But he means well, and wishes to help, and so I let him. Tolkita, though...my, my, my, all this talk of scrounge and jingle, of how there are so much more...profitable things to traffic in. Guns...people...he can trip on his own gun for what I care! Oh, you meant the Dream itself? Curious, no one ever asks about that. My dear, the Waking Dream is whereever I say it is. Right now you see it in the lobby of a grand hotel from the distant past. Tomorrow it may be in the back of a hardholder's office, ever in session even she declares the law. The day after I might move it to that park where the sun rises so wonderfully, serving my fare in the glimmering light. And the day after? Who knows? And more importantly, who cares? I certainly don't! But I don't need to concern you with that. Just breathe and relax, for here may be the only place on this earth you still can... pre:Transgressing, display/vintage wear, porcelain face, mischievous eyes, lean body, precise hands Stats: Cool+1 Hard-1 Hot+2 Sharp=0 Weird+1 Moves: A devil with a blade: when you use a blade to go aggro or seize something by force, roll+hot instead of roll+hard. Everybody eats, even that guy: when you want to know something about someone important (your call), roll+hot. On a hit, you can ask the MC questions. On a 10+, ask 3. On a 7-9, ask 1: • how are they doing? what’s up with them? • what or who do they love best? • who do they know, like and/or trust? • when next should I expect to see them? • how could I get to them, physically or emotionally? Gear: • a wicked blade, like a kitchen knife or 12” razor-sharp scissors (2-harm hand) Gardening shears, usually used to harvest ingredients for drug cocktails. The spring is easy to subvert and the outside is sharpened. • oddments worth 1-barter Drug hits and needed paraphernalia • fashion suitable to your look, including at your option a piece worth 1-armor (you detail) Threadbare attempt at elaborate, multicolored robe and sash, sufficiently thick and layered to count as 1-armor Current Hx Dietrich, the Hardholder: Hx+1 Taylor Thatcher, the Brainer: Hx=0 Marcus Rojas, the Quarantine: Hx+2 Jobs, the Solace: Hx+3 Bridget, the Gunlugger: Hx+3 Establishment: Waking Dream Attractions: Drugs, (spiked) coffee (and tea), drinks Atmosphere: Smoke, Perfume, Spice, Forgetting Best Regular: Camo; pays in seeds and cuttings that make new drugs Worst Regular: Lamprey Wants in: Tolkachy Owe for it: Gams Wants it destroyed: Tolkita Security: Everybody’s packing: your cast & crew are a gang (2-harm gang small 0-armor); Secrecy, passwords, codes & signals, invites-only, vouching, etc. Cast and Crew: Katel--server, part time bouncer, was once a bandit that tried to steal from the Waking Dream Morrs--server, part time bouncer, young (14 or so), works for drug hits Tolkachy—greeter and “advertiser” for the den Sickness? Is that how they call it now? Well, you know, it's hardly up to others to decide whether we're ill or not! But if you mean...ah, yes, I see it under your eyes. You can't sleep either, hmm? They're quite deep, you haven't closed your eyes for a long, long time... And rightfully so! There are so many things under the sun to taste, to drink, to throw your head back and let overwhelm you as they curl and vaporize in a flame! Why, I can barely keep up with the whole of it as it is! I should never be able to satisfy my senses if I slept away half of my life! So much time wasted, pah! Let the dreary and banal sleep their lives away! And not because the last time I slept after a bad mixture, I saw a false hearted lover tear my beating heart from out of my chest and messily stuff it into himself, no, no, not at all! (translation: I'm hooked on drugs and novelty so hard I'd rather light my pipe and smoke something new than actually go to bed for rest) What just happened to you? Was Lester a regular at my den? Yes, after a fashion. Not as regular as most, but he seemed to particularly crave my brand of “aromatherapy”. Paid extra. Good man. Did I prepare his fare for him myself? Dear, I have a hand in everything served in the Waking Dream. And Lester seemed particularly pleased by my most recent gift to him. And why do you ask me this? Oh, he's gone? Dead gone, you mean? Oh, poor Lester, I knew some day his adipose nature would...poison, you say? And you believe...you imagine that I...? Oh, dear, dear, wherever did you get that idea? And why would you care for Lester anyway? And why are you brandishing...that...shotgun...? Ah, let me just push that nasty barrel end aside. Can we not be reasonable, hm...? What's on the Surface? A pale young man in makeup, with an omnipresent serene smile on his face. He carries a pipe everywhere he goes, occasionally filling the chamber, taking small draws and blowing smoke rings with it, and is happy to offer it to anybody who wants a try. His hands are a little dirty because of his gardening habit (also evidenced by the gardening shears he keeps in his sash), but that's probably why he keeps his nails painted. His voice is androgynous and a bit raspy, and tends towards an odd playfulness. Very close observers who can see through the smoke and affectation may notice that his makeup does a very good job hiding the signs of sleeplessness under his eyes. What Lies Beneath? Please...don't take my face...my world...I know what I am, and it's not enough to keep the nightmares away. I need this paint, I need this pipe. Because behind the smiles and serenity, there's nothing underneath. Nothing. The nightmares left their claws in me when they first came--they ripped out what was there and didn't leave anything to fill the space. If I couldn't pretend nothing was wrong, if I didn't have this Waking Dream...I'd just up and die. Or wander into the world of those things unwittingly. Don't ask me again, and don't breathe a word of this to anyone! Please...I need this illusion...it's what keeps me sane... You need more?! What more needs to be said?! I've never slept much—nobody does in this drat world—but the last time I slept, I...there was a thing, that almost looked like me, except it couldn't have been me, spread over me, and it tore at my chest with claws and teeth and...why are you making me remember this?! It ran off...no...no, I, I drove it off with the smoke, the blend, that particular blend that I smoke every day now, and which I put in the torches which mark off my Dream where ever I place it. It's a repellent, you see, it works! I know it works! And when I'm surrounded by smoke and fire, I don't need to worry about that thing coming back to finish the job. That's why I keep moving the Waking Dream all around the city, why I've got gardens set up in every place I can hang the pots, every square foot that will grow the flowers! That's why everybody who wishes to enter has to be vouched for, by Tolkachy or anybody else! Because even if I know I'm marked for death, I don't need to make it easy for them, do I?! The smoke probably doesn't work at all What's your path? Asking me about tomorrow, hah! You should spend more time enjoying today! But since you asked so nicely... This world is full of troubles. You know this, you brought some into my Waking Dream and nearly made a mess of things. Like bad shadows on sunny days. But don't you feel good in here, like you've dropped the millstones around your neck and...come home? I can see you smiling, don't try to hide it! Now, wouldn't it be great if I could spread that relief far beyond these walls? If I could take the smoke you're enjoying right now, pour it out wherever I walk, make the whole world smile and laugh with me...well, that would certainly be something, alright. Maybe it would keep those things from the door... Davin Valkri fucked around with this message at 05:29 on Jul 30, 2013 |
|
#
?
Jul 23, 2013 02:36
|
|
|
Walker, the Horseman ..and his Steed, the Pale Horse  pre:Looks: Man, cowboy wear, weathered face, eagle eyes, rangy body Heraldic Weapons: Pair of pistols (2-harm close loud), sniper rifle (3-harm far loud reload) Steed Stats: Power +2, Sight +1, Armor +2, Weakness +3 Steed Adjectives: Tough, Warhorse, Painted, Slow, Gluttonous, Temperamental Stats: Hard +1, Hot -2, Cool +1, Sharp +2, Weird 0 Moves: All Basic Moves Infernal Steed: When atop your steed... -if you act under fire, add your steed's +sight to your roll -if you seize by force, add your steed's +power to your roll -if you go aggro, add your steed's +power to your roll -if you open your mind to the psychic maelstrom, add your steed's +sight to the roll -if you help or interfere with someone, add your steed's +power to the roll -if someone interferes with you, add your steed's +weakness to their roll Come And See: When you attack a fortress or a building with people in it, you count as a gang (3-harm gang small) Sex Move: When you and another character have sex, they hold 1. You can spend their hold by: -fighting to protect them -giving them something they want They can spend their hold to have you show up where they are. Until they spend their hold, you can't interfere with them. Gear: 2 Heraldic Weapons 1 Infernal Steed Fashion Suitable To Your Look Worth 1-Armor (Bulletproof vest, Kevlar coat) Oddments Worth 1-Barter I'm gonna spare you the "sinners in the hands of an angry God" lecture. Y'aint gonna listen to that anyhow. But what I AM here to tell you, is that it ain't right to be so cruel in this here world. You're holdin' out things that the people out there need. And I'm here to tell you that that ain't gonna fly. And if you can't hear the message, well...Hell follows with me, boys. Hell follows with me. What’s Been Keeping You Awake? "I can't stop riding. Not now, not ever. Someone has to deliver the word, and someone has to bring death and hell to those what won't listen. Sometimes it's me. Sometimes it ain't. But I ain't sleepin'. Not till the End of Days comes, and we all go on. Besides...I got my debts. And ridin' pays them. So I'm ridin', till I drop dead or till my debts are paid." What Just Happened to You? SIHT SNWO HCTIBYLLIS What’s on the Surface? Walker looks every bit like the typical cowboy - flat-brimmed hat, longcoat, pair of engraved pistols worn openly on his hip and rifle slung across his back, dirty off-white bike puttering across the wastes as he delivers the word to the people. He speaks with a forceful, gruff inflection, and seems as though he's all business - unless you catch him on a good day, in which he'll soften up just slightly and might even sound something like what used to be called a "gentle man" or something like that. Although, don't call him gentle to his face - he'll just laugh at you. What Lies Beneath? Walker lost everything once - he used to be the head of a biker gang until they betrayed him, shooting him in the back, taking his woman, and leaving him for dead in the wastes. He's not sure what dragged him to his feet and gave him life again - hell, maybe it was his own ornery willpower that did it. And he doesn't know why he had a new bike when he came to - dirty and white, but a well-running, drat near indestructible one. And he knows that whatever dragged him back wants him to atone for all the things he did in his past - bad, worse, and downright unforgivable. So he rides the wastes, delivering the Good Word to those who want to hear it, and killing the ones that bring pain to the good ones. What’s Your Path? Walker has debts to pay. In addition to that, he just wants to spread the Good Word - not the word of Jesus or anything like that, even he thinks that's a load of poo poo. He's spreading the Gospel of "Be good to your fellow man, or eat .45ACP." And his goal is to bring peace to the End Times, to bring everyone to goodness by delivering the Word to everyone, and paying his debts by saving more souls than he damned. Or to die trying. Tempus Rimeblood fucked around with this message at 08:28 on Jul 23, 2013 |
|
#
?
Jul 23, 2013 08:22
|
|
|
For those that have finished their characters, I may have an additional question for you tonight, so stay tuned!
|
|
#
?
Jul 23, 2013 15:38
|
|
|
Marcus Rojas, The Quarantine  Musical Accompaniment Bio The Medical Lab lit up again for the time in years. How long had it been? No one could really tell. A cold computer tested the air and the outside determining if it was time. A set of rules given by people now long dead and much more a relic. It could not know the true danger, nor could anyone in the lab. They were from a time long lost and long forgotten, but not unmourned. The computer in its machinations determined that the world was ready for them to emerge again. They had survived at least most of them. The predetermined check was followed to the letter checking every and any issues that might have been caused by the hibernation. Finally, after hours of tests the infallible computer decided to send out the tester. The guinea pig. Corporal Marcus Rojas was an unusual choice for the assignment, but that had rarely stopped the brass from pressing humans into service as if they were machines. Unlike the machines that had kept him alive for so long, Marcus had dreamed. He had dreams beyond just the secret facility he was stationed at. His dream and his passion had always been to be a great writer. The computer couldn't calculate the effect of this nor could it know Marcus's link to his dreams would have the effect they did. Tumbling out of the hibernation pod it hit him almost instantly. Crouching down to his knees he held his head and calmed himself. With a great force of will and maybe a lot of luck, Marcus managed to keep himself together. He had seen the other side, the other world and knew what was there in that brief moment. The other world of twisted of perceptions and thoughts, where his imagination had always dwelt and grown. He hadn't always been a soldier, he had been a man, a poor man. A writer of his own time, a writer no one read. His novels existed more in that world they did in this one. Marcus tried to remember it more but it fade into the dreamless sleep of stasis. Marcus grabbed his tube and got to his feet finally dragging himself to his duties. He might have been writer in another life, another place, but here he was just another soldier. Another poor with no future trying to do his time to get into the big leagues like the rest of them. “Not much of a big league left, eh?” He says to the tube next to him as he pushes the combination to open the tube. She had been his friend for a quite a long time. Tammy was a friend he remembered, he couldn't remember beyond that at this time, but it would do. Sergeant Jackson had been his superior and was going to coordinate the operation to awaken the rest of the doctors and medical staff. They were going to work with the other bunkers the other mysterious bases to bring a return to society. A normalcy to the Apocalypse. To Marcus? She was just Tammy, they kept it informal. Marcus hadn't liked the formality of the military, but he did it when he had too. Tammy had gotten worse than Marcus could have imagined and he had watched her buckled over in pain with her thermal outfit clinging to her skin as she screamed in pain. She collapsed and was gone. The pain had taken over and all that was left was her hollow corpse in front of him. Marcus brushed her hair back slick with the stasis fluid and said a silent goodbye. A prayer in this time to a God that seemed to have forsaken the world. Marcus had seen what he had seen and unlike others, he hadn't let it overwhelm him, instead he had accepted it. His vivid imagine played and toyed with the idea more than others. He couldn't get sucked into the world like his friend and superior had been. How long had it been? He had no idea, there was no rhyme and reason to it all. The world had moved on without him, and the only thought that crossed his mind is the people he had left behind. Were they alive? Could they be out there in a ruined world? Images of of a woman flashed across his perception before he could force it back. That wasn't something he could allow himself to think about. That was a forbidden fruit, a monstrous possibly that he couldn't consider. He hadn't signed on to be the deathwatch of the apocalypse, but that had been the hand he had been dealt. “Not a drat thing I can do.” He said staring down at his dead superior. Despite all of the medical technology and futuristic equipment in the end it was down to the most primal aspect of humanity. A shovel and the last respects of a old friend. He left her crude cross in the dirt next to the heavily defended entrance. Mourning the dead would have to wait, he had to discover what happened to the world. It might not be his mission anymore in his mind, but his responsibility. Which dream would strike and pull him into death? He didn't know anymore, it was like some hosed up fairy tale or horror novel. The type you would pay a dollar for waiting for the airplane on a layover. Marcus, however, couldn't afford to just flip through it once in boredom and put it aside never to be read again. This was real, his partner in crime had died from it. Little did he know that he was one of the sick. The madness would start to consume him slowly, that the new world had rejected the old world insertion like a living thing. Slowly trying to kill the invader with dream antibodies. Crossing over into what passed for civilization had been another thing that he had not been prepared for. Passing through the thin film that had been the world he had left into the world as it was now, the people he found huddled among the ruins of the past. They didn't greet him with the enthusiasm he had come to know from the old world. What he expected beyond what his shattered memory could piece back together was almost ingrained of how it had been when he last been awake. He had expected the smile and a maybe a firm cold handshake at most, but in this type of world it was no expected or given. It was there he learned that he had was a sickness and a slow death that came at night. They had eyed him warily waiting and looking for the signs, but Marco had been in this position before. Already a half breed in his own time, he was guarded and careful not to give away anything that would give them a hint of the turmoil underneath. Being quiet and keeping his head down had become an personal past time and in this case it saved him. A dirty blonde haired woman was not as lucky or maybe her dreams had been noticed. She stood against the stake tied to it waiting for their examinations and determinations of sickness. She was the Sick, the new divisor of the world and a lethal one at that. Marcus' mind jumped to an image of another old fashioned woman burning in an old book. He couldn't piece together the actual parts of where it was from, but it had all happened before. Fear was an emotion he could understand completely, but he couldn't and didn't watch that. Marcus regretting walking back toward the bunker trudging along the broken buildings and burned dreams. He had always thought himself the the better person, the one who did the right thing. Now, standing outside of the small ruined village he made a choice. Marcus Rojas turned and started back toward the village. As he did, there was a pause in the air and time space to stop for that brief moment. His fractured memory still undiscovered from the week of walking revealed a hard memory. Another face feminine in detail and form formed into vision. She hung there looking omniscient with an elegance given to marble statues and goddesses of old. She had been important, but to his dismay or horror he couldn't remember her name. In the medical facility it had been her image that he had pushed back unconsciously, but Marcus was not one to dwell on the moment. As quick as it had come it was gone, he was standing there in rubble. There was a brief pause in the air before he heard the gunshot in the distance that cut the morning air. An echo crossed his ears as he went on, and his shoulders slunk. Marcus fought the dream world, he had seen it, but he would try to beat it. The best he could. Maybe his fragmented memory would be restored along the way, but the world had changed. He had changed he supposed, but he remembered vaguely things that seemed so important before. The imagination and drama that had held his mind in awe and forced him to create had been turned against him. “I'll figure this out. I just need to figure it out. It just like I'm novel, god drat it. I think I am in a horror story.” He sits down against concrete wall and puts his head in his hands. ------------------------------------------------------------------------- Questions What’s Been Keeping You Awake? I've been asleep longer than most people have been alive, but beyond that. I am haunted, I don't know how to explain it? Who could. I'm haunted by the things in my dreams plucked from my memories. A kind of prison were everything I was was trapped beyond a brick wall. It slowly is knocking down that barrier. Every time I drift to sleep, I see them and they mean nothing to me. I feel emotions my own, but they aren't there anymore. It is more like losing your favorite character in a book. You feel the emotions, but in the end you never had them. They were never with you, only in your mind. That is how it is like for everyone, I knew. Slowly the pieces are starting to fit together and they will be whole. They will be alive in my mind and dead in the outside world. They aren't ever going to come back. It is all because of me. I decided to leave and go to into the army, try to become famous and more than like something that I was. I was born down in the dirt I know that much, got enough memory to know that some people stay there. Some people rise up, but the cost is heavy. So heavy. I got more of a cost then most you know? I mean look at where I am at. This is a nightmare in itself. How could I go back to sleeping again, how much time will pass then? Who will assault me there. I just gotta keep going and try to block out the other place, man. Just gotta keep on pushing forward. What Just Happened to You? It must have been the armor. The white always draws attention too clean, too new. They had seen it, and they were coming after him this time. He hadn't wanted it to be this way, but he couldn't help it. He could understand the questions that peculated about their mind. There wasn't time to think or even try to argue the point or even lie about the Sickness. He had something they wanted, or maybe he just was an unknown enemy they could strike out against. Who the gently caress knew, and more importantly who the gently caress cared anymore. He jumped of rubble running toward the nearest cover. If it was one thing he had to give to the army, is that it had kept him in shape. These were amateurs compared to his built and preserved body. Crouching down and listening for them at this cover he gave a harsh chuckle, "They might call me a soldier popsicle if they knew the truth. Single serving!" He shook his head and started running again, the noises were going away. He might have actually escaped them this time! His thoughts were excited and rushed, this was something that had been stamped into him. At least his memories didn't be intact to do this. Jumping into a window, and felt the rush of his body long entropic sleep had been lifted and it could now breath and do what it was meant to do. The image of him running from his past crossed his mind and struck him like a cheesy pulp novel from the forties. His parents and life following him horrific caricature. The joke struck him as hilarious, but there wasn't time to laugh or breath just run. Going through the building the floor finally gave way, collapsing on him and burying into the world beneath the floorboard. Marcus had just disturbed their dinner. The family of three looked at them in passive glances, one of the woman clung to another as the little girl scamped behind them both. "Well gently caress. This isn't good. What if I'm still being followed." He thought as his mind raced. "Uh, Sorry. I mean, look I might be followed, we need to get out." "Already using we like he knew them, what a charmer." His mind thought sarcastically at the comment, "Okay just me, whatever, just people coming this way. You know torches, pitchforks?" He looked at them and saw the blank expression back. "poo poo." The one house he had to crash had never seen a movie in their life. What’s on the Surface? Marcus comes off a sociable kid, trying to wisecrack and make light of the situation when he can. He might not always succeed, but at least that is the first impression. He tries to put out a very pleasant kind person, at least friendly. He might come off as a bit sarcastic or a jester. As people come to know they will tend to feel for what he means within the jokes, or what he is actually saying, but for the most part he keeps it light and impersonal. He is athletic and handsome, but doesn't use that to its fullest advantage. Instead, he tries to focus on the moment with other people and not delve into more personal aspects about them or himself. Natural charm is debatable, but there is some there, and he does use that to its fullest. Even if it is selfish, he just naturally has a way of making people go along with him if he truly desires it. Despite all this he never was a philander nor a womanizer. He seems to be more preoccupied with his thoughts to truly focus on that. What Lies Beneath? Under all of the facade, Marcus is very away of his status and what he really is. A half Hispanic, and half African he grew up in a close knit community that required that he conform. Though he doesn't remember it fully he is built watching where he is and who he is with. He is subconsciously trying to not betray himself to them. His passions have not always aligned with what he was forced to do. His writing for example had to be done in secret and for most of his reading was done there as well. His real passions are romantic novels, something that most of where he is from is considered trash and without any worth. In fact, his goal was go to college to escape the lifestyle. His search for literature, and fiction drew him to seek more. His friends and family consider college a rich mans game, trying to rise above what they were. What they never realized is that he was. His enlistment landed his position in a medical laboratory because of his intelligence and drive. He wants to make something of his life much more than most would either let or expect of him. This passion and lust for life and knowledge has led him into his own imagination instead of giving into what the others thought and expected of him. The secret is that he has lived in his imagination so much, he relies on it. Now it as betrayed him and he doesn't know how to deal with it. He has lived in his imagination and dreams for so long it is like cutting a limb off to deny them like this. But the horrifying otherworld and his own guilt ahs forced him too. Beneath all of this beyond the passion, is that he has been seeking and searching for someone or some place to belong and be loved. What’s Your Path? Marcus wants to discover himself, he needs too. Rediscovering his memories aren't the end for him, they only will leave him with more answers to a person he is now. Without the isolation, the people that made him who is, now he only has himself to look too. To find a place to write and be with fellows and like minded people. To finally put down his guard and let life happen instead of creating it, and joking at it. The theme of his story is the discovery of oneself past the only person who can block that discovery, oneself. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Character Setting Stasis I emerged a few weeks ago Remaining in stasis is my unit and my superiors The stasis has deadly defenses Tammy Jackson suffered 2 ap harm and it killed her. Stasis Facilities Medlab - can work on someone like a savvy head to heal Character Sheet Name: Corporal Rojas, Marcus F. Look: Man, Ancient Fatigues/equipment, Young face, lost eyes, Athletic body Stats Cool 3 Hard -1 Hot 0 Sharp 2 Weird Nil Weird roll: http://invisiblecastle.com/roller/view/4143834/ Hx Bridget Hx-1 Kusuri Hx+1 Jobs Hx+0 Taylor Hx-2 Dietrich Hx-1 Basic Moves Combat veteran +1 Cool Eager to know Ask for and follow advice gives +1 Inspiring Helping me out with an Hx roll, gives 1 xp Gear an assault rifle (3-harm close loud autofire) a 9mm sidearm (2-harm close loud) military body armor (2-armor valuable hi-tech) your fatigues and scrounge XP: 0 Axe-man fucked around with this message at 05:25 on Jul 29, 2013 |
|
#
?
Jul 23, 2013 20:41
|
|
|
Jobs the Brewer (Solace), the short back ground. "If there is no beer, then there is no civilization." Jobs father happened to be a home brewer, meaning he brewed beer in his home. After civilization collapsed, Jobs' father realized that his best chance to survive would be to use his brewing skills. The brewing and distilling skills he used to earn a living were passed down to his son, Jobs. Years later Jobs' father succumbed to pneumonia and died. As the only son Jobs inherited his father's books and journals as well as his father's best beer making yeast. Jobs left the town where he grew up to find a new place for himself. He found a large city that was largely abandoned, but still had plenty of people in it. Seeing an opportunity for himself Jobs found a warehouse building to set his operation up. The warehouse had plenty of room for storage and a basement that seemed well insulated against the heat. The place seemed to be perfect for a brewery, except for one detail. The rats. The warehouse had rats in it. In his youth a rat bit Jobs causing him to be sick for a week. Ever since that time, Jobs had a deep hatred for rats. Whenever he found one, he'd kill it. If rat meat happened to be the only protein he could find, he decided he'd rather starve. Sometimes he would think he heard rats scurrying around and when that happened he'd hunt them down through out the night. Even though the place has rats, Jobs managed to set up his brewing operation. He's been able to brew some beer and sell it to the locals. Most times they come in, trade for some beer and leave. Other times they'll stay for a while and have some beer in sectioned off part of the warehouse. When people hang around Jobs becomes something of a bartender, in more ways then one. He does serve beer, but he also listens to people's problems like a good bartender will do. Unlike a bartender, he prefers to involve himself with his customers. When trouble arises Jobs tries to find solutions to people's problems. On occasion, he's even known to stop fights. He's beginning to gain a reputation of a peacemaker as well as brewer. What’s Been Keeping You Awake? The war against the rats never seems to end. I brew during the day, and spend my nights hunting down and killing rats. Spent a whole lotta nights patrolling the warehouse and basement looking for rats. Along with the lantern I carry, I also have a metal pipe that I use as a club and a large hunting knife. One way or another I'll kill the little fuckers. I just need to find where they're lurking. I can hear them a lot, but I don't always see them. I can't sleep too well if I think there's rats in my place. Gotta hunt them down. (Since Jobs works by himself most times, its hard to judge if the rats are real or just imagined. His rat hunting might also mask other problems that he doesn't want to deal with as well (father's death or legacy, wolves, or something else).) What Just Happened to You? While pursuing rats in the basement, I happened to find that one of the grates in the floor loose. I didn't know if rats could squeeze through the iron bars, but I couldn't take a chance. I lifted up the grate and went down. Climbing down a ladder, I found that the grate covered an entrance to the old city's sewer system. In the distance I could hear rats and I followed the noise. Into the sewer I go. What’s on the Surface? Jobs is a hard worker. His face and hands are proof of that. What people notice first though is his height. Jobs stands five feet four inches. Relatively short for a man. People forget about that after they start talking to him. He has a very warm and welcoming personality. People tend to feel at ease with him as though they don't have to protect themselves from him. He tends to be more of a listener then a talker, letting people say what they want before he'll speak up. When talking about himself, he tends to stay humble. He tells people that he's nothing special, just a man. Its hard to tell if this is an act or if he's actually this way. People sometimes pick up a vibe off of him that there's more to him then just a brewer, but Jobs only shrugs when asked about this. What Lies Beneath? Jobs is humble. That's who he is. He doesn't feel that he's anything special in the grand scheme of things. Jobs is very open about most of his life, but he does have some secrets. Jobs big secret is that he has a duty to preserve civilization against the wolves. His father and other relatives upon seeing the collapse of society decided to do what they could to preserve the remains of civilization. They undertake this duty in different ways. Some are builders, while others offer medical services. Jobs father used his brewing skills to help create new social bonds. The creation of beer can only be done when there is a civilization to produce the ingredients. So beer became an inducement to maintain society. The noble goal of saving society has an enemy, The wolves. No one knows where they came from, but their purpose is clear. They are rapacious, nihilistic agents of chaos. To realize this goal, the wolves seek to undermine any attempts to rebuild civilization. Sometimes this means hunting down those who would restore society. His hatred of rats offers a glimpse into what the wolves look like to Jobs. When the wolves remove their false faces, they human sized bipedal rats. They seem to show up and disappear magically and when they speak their voices are a high pitched piercing sound that grates on the ears (In Playbook terms: Under their disguises, they look like Beasts (rats). But they have awful voices and they come and go impossibly.) He hasn't bought into the idea that its his mission to save civilization. If asked, he'd say its some silliness his family clings to. He feels that he's just a brewer who's a people person. Nothing more then that. His threshold, his safe space is a small apartment a previous owner of the warehouse built. The apartment is only a couple rooms large and hidden from casual view. The apartment is located next to the second floor cat walk. Its in this space that Jobs keeps his prized possessions. It is in here that he can find refuge from the rats. Also while Jobs hatred of rats isn't a secret, he tries to avoid talking about it to other people. Part of it is so people won't think his beer is contaminated by rats as well as his shame over his obsession about rats. What’s Your Path? He thinks of his personal goal as ridding the brewery of rats and to turn his brewery into a larger operation. Maybe even open up a bar. However this might not be his real goal. There are issues that lurk in his subconscious that need to be resolved before he can reach his other goals. Character Sheet Name: Jobs the Brewer Playbook: The Solace Look: Man, Calm face, Warm eyes, Small body, Utility wear Stats Cool +1 Hard 0 Hot +2 Sharp +1 Weird -1 Basic Moves Solace Moves: Disarming presence: when you want to disarm a charged situation, start speaking or singing and roll+hot. On a hit, no one present can commit violence while they can see you or hear your voice. On a 10+, furthermore, if any of your fellow players’ characters leave the situation peacefully, they mark experience as well. On a miss, no one present can commit violence against anyone but you. Cooperative: when you help someone who’s making a roll, add +2 to their roll instead of +1. When someone helps you when you’re making a roll, they add +2 to your roll instead of +1. Solace Special: If you and another character have sex, you decide whether the other character’s sex move happens as usual, or doesn’t happen at all. Gear * 2 impractical belongings: Small collection of books (cumbersome valuable) Cook books, journals, and brewing books; Yeast culture (consumed alive) feed it regularly with water & starch, use it to make bread or beer. * oddments worth 1-barter * fashion suitable to your look (jeans patched up repeatedly, well worn boots, heavy button down work shirt with various spots on it and a patch from a company that no longer exists.) DocBubonic fucked around with this message at 19:23 on Aug 22, 2013 |
|
#
?
Jul 23, 2013 23:23
|
|
|
Kim: That protege of yours, you know the one your uncle's group rescued from the burned out high school? How did she discover you were Sick, and how do you think she'll react now that you're on the run? Dietrich: You really trust Half Pint to keep her nose clean (literally) around Fluffy's crew? What about their little drug problem? I mean, what with the Dead Hyenas constantly tearing at your gates lately, you can kinda understand how the watch would be on edge. Those bikers are loving animals. Walker: That's a mighty tough name to live up to, but you reckon you got the huevos to fit the bill. After all, it takes an extraordinary feller to put the spurs to all the swine sprawlin' around in their own filth out there. People have been gabbin' about what you did to that skinhead gang at the old refinery – that was one hell of a throw-down. It didn't go down as planned though, did it? Sometimes there's a good apple that gets thrown out with the bad. There was one body you left there that you didn't mean to, wasn't there? Marcus: Already on the run, are we? You haven't had a whole lot of time to slow down, but when you have a moment, does the paper call your name? It whispers to you, doesn't it? Every time you try to write, no matter what you focus on, the words spell out the same story. It's always about the Dolls. drat creepy things. Why can't you get them out of your head? Do they remind you of anything? Do you think they're trying to tell you something? Jobs: If hope is a drug, then you're definitely one of the dealers. Some people find it at the bottom of one of your mugs, and some people find it in the promise of salvation. You've seen the members of the White Temple around town, though none of them ever come through your doors. None except Julia that is. She's a sad looking young woman, hardly ever says a word. You get the feeling she's hiding something, just like you. Those cultists, they burned a Sick man on a cross just last week, right in front of that big church they all worship in. You know, the other place that's crawling with rats? What did Julia mention to you the other day that makes you think she might be next? Taylor, Amy, Kusuri: Let me know when you've finished your apps and I'll have questions for you as well. Remember, you can opt to have me decide what just happened to you if you like. hctibyllis fucked around with this message at 06:06 on Jul 24, 2013 |
|
#
?
Jul 24, 2013 04:30
|
|
|
Going to try and get a Feral Child app sometime in during the day tomorrow.
|
|
#
?
Jul 24, 2013 04:57
|
|
|
Killerman Tack, the Faceless The Nightmares are strange creatures, with such baleful needs. Through their broken dream logic they seep into the world in familiar symbols, acting out their desires. Sometimes, these Nightmares just want to play a game. One such Nightmare was The Operator, and one day it went into the world to claim the pieces for its board. One unfortunate man in the wastes became one of the pieces. The Operator found him and took away his face and his name. It took the blank slate of a man and stuffed him in a costume, having the identity of Killerman Tack grafted to him. He was then inducted into The Game, a strange and byzantine series of massacres and assassinations all orchestrated by The Operator. All he has to do is answer the phone when he's called, go where he's told, and take care of whoever he's told to. At least, that's what The Operator's plan for the Game was. The trouble with that, is that sometimes the pieces decide to make their own moves. Tack awoke to find himself wanting, longing for what was so cruelly taken from him. He saw the blood of those he has slain on his hands, and in it he saw the one who moved him so. He had been robbed. However, he was not left empty handed. He had a gun, a mask, an identity, and now a true goal. He will end the one who stole from him, and he shall leave a trail of bodies in his wake. So watch out for the Killerman Tack, because in his search, he might just find you. What's Been Keeping You Awake? I'm not going to let the Operator get me. I don't dream anymore, but I used to once. I remember that much. It doesn't matter, there's no reason to dream now. It's not like I can anyways. I'm always on call, my ears strain for the ringing of that god drat phone. It's wormed it's way into my brain. But the one time I dreamed, I remember seeing The Operator. I know he's waiting for me, just waiting. It's fine though. If it wasn't the ringing, it'd be the night life, the constant adrenaline rush, the faces of my victims shortly before I blow them off. But poo poo, that's half the bastards in this screwed up little world. It's a nice little cycle; there's bastards to kill, I kill them, the memories of killing them keep me up at night, I get more time to kill more bastards. It's vicious, it's cruel, and it fits oh so perfectly. But you know the worst part? The emptiness. I'm a person without a face, a man whose identity has been ripped from the front of their skull. I can feel that hole and it bugs me. It claws at me, that feeling of exposure, the hollowness in my eyes. No matter what I do, that feeling carries with me. It doesn't matter. It just means I got all the time I need to get back what's rightfully mine. What Just Happened To You? It was another job. The ringing drilled a phone into existence, and Tack once more picked it up and held it to the helmet's ear. The Operator wanted to make another move, and the piece to be knocked off was the owner of a bar called "Disco Never Dies". Tack knew it wasn't going to be just another job, but he didn't have a choice. Once you dial the Operator, you don't just hang up. At least, you don't in this position. But the Operator is neither blind, deaf, nor dumb. Its attention tightened around Tack when he began his violent journey in search of his face. As a result of this attention, the Operator commissioned another of its strangely suited pawns to hunt Tack down. The pawn was dubbed Killerman Hound, the mutant with a sense of hearing and smell for blood. Naturally, Tack was informed of this just before the line cut off. There was nothing Tack could do but grab his shotgun and get ready to clean house. He managed to avoid Hound long enough to appear in front of the disco rave. Tack approached the building, shotgun in hand, ready to clean house. Then some fuckhead ran him over in the blasted parking lot. Jackass didn't take too well to Tack surviving the hit with little fanfare. Dude pulled a machete, Tack swung around the shotgun. With hardly a thought, the shotgun splattered the driver all over the vehicle. The thundering boom of the shot, the smell of gunpowder, and the clatter of the shell on the asphalt all told Tack just how screwed he was now. Tack knew that the one after his head heard and smelled the shot. He had to think fast. The Hound could be just behind him any minute now, but Tack couldn't just run, could he? After all, when you let yourself dial the Operator, you don't just hang up... What's On The Surface? An average, if well built man dressed in a suit that probably belonged to a villain on one of those TV shows with the martial artists in brightly colored spandex. A futuristic style suit of armor made of plastic, LEDs and iron is topped with a somewhat bulbous helmet, visor closed and clamped down tightly. On the helmet is painted a crude approximation of eyes and a mouth, like a kid's drawing of a monster. Tack has developed a reputation of being a ticking time bomb, a force of nature to be avoided. It doesn't help that it's hard to tell what's going on beneath that helmet. When a call isn't being made, Tack tries to live his life with some semblance of normalcy, even wearing some clothes over his strange Killerman suit. When he speaks, it tends to filter through what sounds like a tinny vocoder. To most, he seems prone to violence. When a target is established, Tack keeps after it until the job is done. What Lies Beneath? A vague, stripped down chassis of a man. No hair, no pupils or sclera, no nose or defining facial features, no pigmentation in the slightest. There's nothing there but smoothed skin and holes. Strip away the suit and Tack is bare, a shell and a wreck. To Tack, this whole thing is just one giant, hosed up nightmare. The world seems too surreal otherwise, compared to the memories rattling around inside his brain. In his head he remembers visions of an idyllic world, filled with green grass and fresh homes all in a row. Yet still, he is surrounded by gray and blood. Every day Tack worries that he's slipping, that he's becoming too immersed in this dream. One day, he fears that he'll become too tied to this world. Of course, even he realizes that his sanity is uncertain. Who is to say that it's not some trick of the dreams? What's Your Path? Get his face back, break the Game, and put back (or find a replacement for) the pieces of him that the Operator stole. Maybe then he can wake up from this nightmare. quote:The Faceless
|
|
#
?
Jul 24, 2013 08:24
|
|
|
hctibyllis posted:Marcus: Forbidden whispers that kiss me on the cheek like a teasing fey, unattainable and far away. The blank paper was like a caress from a lover long gone, that first love that you lost. Maybe you tried to get them, but they changed, they moved from what you remembered into another person. Still that caress was like a forbidden pleasure that could not be ignored or forgotten. That taste of long lost love was strong and temptation was unpredictable and overpowering. It as always flowed from his pen and his mind like a river pouring down a waterfall, the story taking control of his mind and body. It was a living thing that had to be free, it had to be told. The paper was coated with words, words that might have been his own, but it was hard to tell. They all centered around one thing. The white doll with a missing eye and brown hair. The dolls petticoat was the same between iterations and attempts to clear out the story from his head. The blue petticoat covered the white stockings and hands, topped with black shoes with belts. It seemed to make no sense to him at first, the doll began to gain a meta symbol that meant something that Marcus couldn't understand. Was he the doll? No that made no sense, why the missing the eye? To show off the hollow head? His head felt filled with ideas and constrained imagination, not empty. Try as he might he couldn't figure it out. He would stare into that dead empty hole were an eye would be in his minds eye trying to read it, trying to see into it. It took a few stories before it started to slowly jive, who held the doll. The little girl with the blue petticoat doll smiled up at him with bright white teeth. Her dark skin made her face and black hair more stunning to him. She was his sister, but the doll wasn't broken in her hands at all. She hadn't been able to take the easy route, there was no hiding her birthright like he had. Marcus had been able to deny, to hide from it, but not her. She held it with a strength and grace that he envied. Innocence cut through the stares and dirty looks more than any popular or classic move that he had attempted. He couldn't remember her name, but the image in his head faded and settled on the doll again, much more dirtied, its eyeless socket staring at him accusingly. It was merciless. Marcus went on in his story about the one eyed doll. It didn't dream, it didn't sleep and it never ever did anything other than be what it was created to be. He envied the characters that wove their lives around the doll. Though it was the point of view of the story, it was not the dolls story. He didn't know whose story it was anymore. Not at all.
|
|
#
?
Jul 24, 2013 08:38
|
|
|
Alright yay, we ain't from around here. Ain't been in town long, it's the true. What gave us away? My accent? Yeah, for true we's from out west. Far west, mayhap 3 months on foot? For true. Spooner 'an me travel around lots. Ain't like to stay in one spot for long, general, although seems more peaceful like round here than we's used to. Ain't like that on The Plains. You got hardholds and empty space betwixt, only whats fillin' that empty space is dangerbeasts an' splattergangers. From one o' those hardholds, savvy? Know it for true what it's like, an' that's like bein' in'a cage watchin' the sharks circle you. Gotta keep eyes tied back all times lest the Howlers come in the night an' rundoff with one of your kids, for true. That's what I did, tell it true. Sentry. Actually helped me a fair share on the road, come to think. I'm a good shot an' I ain't need much sleep. Ain't all that sad to be quit of home, I tell you for true. Wasn't 'xactly my decision, savvy, but that's what we do with The Sick where I'm from. Less need to kill 'em when you got all that empty space and them critters to do it, for true. Think most just starve or get eaten a'fore they get too far. Not me though. I got Pa's huntin' rifle. He didn't need to give it to me, but I guess he 'an Ma felt guilty. Don't know why. Weren't their fault, really. I got my smarts. I got my dog. For true I ain't make it this far if it ain't for him. Oh, yeah, he named Spooner. Had him since we was both pups, for true. Funny though, he died once, when I was 8. Howlers got him. That's why I was so surprised when I come up on him, first day outside the walls. I thought I was hallucinatin' it again. But there he was. He look a bit different after all those years, but it was the same old Spooner, sure as shootin'. He run up to me and he give me a big ol' sloppy lick, just like old times. For true. I figure he musta rundoff instead o' the Howlers get him. We never did find a body, just lots o' blood. T'aint that unusual for Howlers attacks. What’s Been Keeping You Awake? Life, mostly. When you is on the road you gotta keep eyes tied back pretty much 24/7, so it's easier than you'd think. Every time you lay you down you might not get up again, for true. An' that ain't even accountin' for the Nightmare World. When the tired gets bad I eat a Moda Pill. Spooner's good at sniffin' 'em out. Got a good nose for drugs, that dog. It's been... lemmee think. Five days. Since right a'fore we crossed over in'ta this town. May it be the last, even though I know it ain't. For true. What Just Happened to You? Ah man. poo poo. Got somethin' chasin us, an' I don't 'xactly know what it is, for true. Ain't a Howlers, they don't got em' in this city. Nah. It's something real quiet and real slow, only see it out of the corner o' my eye. Don't seem to move none, but it's followin' us ever since we get outta that warehouse. For true. First we sees it up the block from us, sittin under a lamplight, not movin' none. Couldn't make it out. Black. Big. Fuzzy like, hurt to look direct, and sometimes you look direct an' it ain't there no more. It's getting closer every time we catch sight'a it. For true that thing's bad news. Runnin' now. Hope we finds someone what can help us deal with that thing, or else... What's On The Surface? Thin, foreign kid who just recently blew into town. Wears an old military great coat and fatigues he probably scavenged from a surplus store somewhere, carries a pretty nice rifle and a seemingly endless assortment of knives – some bartered for or found, but most whittled from glass or scrap metal in his downtime. He says whittling keeps his hands busy, helps keep him awake, and he seems to like knives. Nobody knows where he sleeps, but he's been earning his living by prospecting in abandoned buildings around town. Pretty good at it, near as anyone can tell. He's found some caches others passed over. Seems to be a friendly sort. Very talkative, always blabbing away to anyone that'll listen in that strange accent of his. Not sure if it's his upbringing or the fact that he's popping speed on the regular. He favors the stuff that doesn't give him the jitters, but it seems like he'll take any old sort if its on offer. He traded Polo a working radio for a full pack of expired Moda Pills. Wasn't nearly a fair trade, but he did it gladly. Said he was running out. That dog though... not friendly. It's a big black mastiff of some sort, black like someone cut a dog-shaped hole in the world and filled it with shadows. Growls if anyone gets within 8 feet, looks fit to tear someone's throat out even when the boy says they're okay. Probably could, too. Scarbarough said he saw it tangle with one of those leopards that escaped from the zoo. Said the dog tossed it around like it was a loving kitten, bit clear through one of its legs. I wouldn't gently caress with that dog. Dog loves that kid, though. He lets it lick his face. What Lies Beneath? Look, uh, people think me an' Spooner is a team, an' that's the true. But it like, ain't the whole true. See, people thinks I'm the leader, but it ain't really like that. Spooner, he listen to me some, he follow me around, but he do what he want most the time. Specially when it come to killin' stuff. Spooner love killin' stuff. Don't pay me no nevermind if I tell him otherwise, and that's the true. Try not to let him around stuff I don't want killed, for that reason. An' the other thing. He lead me as much as I lead him. Sometime he talk to me, tell me to do stuff. I don't mean he like TALK talk, that'd be silly. But he has this way... you just know what he's thinkin' sometime, what he want done. I do it too. I'm a bit feared 'o what he might do if I didn't. Like, he might rundoff, and then I'd be in trouble, for true. Don't know what I do without Spooner. Or he might... well. I don't wanna think 'bout that. See, there's somethin' that's botherin' me since I met Spooner again. I mean, I don't like to think 'bout it much, but your mind goes places you don't want on long nights, sometime. Overall, I trust Spooner. That's the true. Don't say that's not the true. We's been through a lot together. But still this thing, you know, I can't get it out my head. 'Afore Spooner died, or 'afore he rundoff or whatever, he didn't look like he do now. Not at all. Maybe I'm just missrememberin', and I know I do that, what with the lack o' sleep and the hallucinations and the Nightmare World and all. Like, Spooner's Spooner. I know that. But I remember when I was a kid, Spooner was a Jack Russel Terrier. Weird, ain't it? What’s Your Path? Well, shoot. Don't rightly know. For true, I guess I might want to settle down somewhere. Travellin's alright, but it ain't exactly the life we choose, me and Spooner. Needed to on The Plains, cause if'n you settle anyplace that ain't a fort longer than a couple days the Howlers or the gangers'd find you, and then you ain't got nothin' to drive'em off. Here, I dunno. Heard things was a bit easier in the big city, more salvage to go around an' less people 'cause they all killed each other off durin' the Bad Times. Seems true, although for trade seems like the Nightmare World is a LOT closer here. Lots a buildin's nobody else see, creepy stuff crawlin' in basements, that sort of thing. So I guess if I was to settle anywhere I'd have to take care of The Sickness 'afore it happened. Fat chance of that. For true. quote:A Boy and His Dog
|
|
#
?
Jul 24, 2013 10:51
|
|
|
hctibyllis posted:Kim: I wince. poo poo. A loose end. "Letting Gabriel find out was a mistake. Being the only two members of the medical team, Uncle thought it would make sense to have us share a room near the med lab. This made slipping out at night significantly more difficult. Oh, it was easy for a while; encouraging/enduring the sly winks and churning out bullshit 'saucy details'. But eventually, I guess it just became suspicious. I switched up my tactics, just staying in the infirmary under the pretense of 'paperwork' and 'working late'. She starting calling me on that poo poo pretty quickly. I guess the final straw was that damned scouting mission, though. We were on a little hunt for more medical supplies. Armed with Uncle Jakoby's latest prize finds, a pair of pristine assault rifles, we wandered the broken highway until we struck gold. An ambulance. An actual, honest-to-God ambulance. Its well-stocked interior clearly visible through the windows. Problem was, this thing was sealed tight. Bulletproof windows, strong doors, the works. Finally, after taking way too long to try opening the damnable thing, I... let the Madness get the better of me, and the next thing I knew, I was ripping off the steel doors with my bare hands. I couldn't help it! I- We needed those supplies! The next sound I heard was Gabriel clicking off the safety on her rifle. I didn't need to turn around to know where she was pointing it. There, at gunpoint, I confessed everything. She could have killed me then and there. I don't know why she didn't. I have to give Gabriel some credit. She could have done a lot worse. She didn't threaten me, or blackmail me, or anything like that. She made only two requests: 1. I sign off on a request authorizing her promotion to a full doctor, and 2. I stay away from her patients. It was more than fair. What will she do now? I wish I knew. A day doesn't go by that I don't regret what happened between us. We could have been good friends, if it wasn't for, well, being Awake. I can only hope she keeps her silence. Hope's all I got at this point." Just Burgs fucked around with this message at 21:48 on Jul 24, 2013 |
|
#
?
Jul 24, 2013 16:11
|
|
|
Late submission, but here is my Feral Kid, Rubble.pre:The Feral Kid
What's been keeping you awake? Rubble used to live among a group of scavengers that took up refuge under a collapsed super highway. He, of course, already lived in that area by himself, uncertain of where his next meal would come from, hunting what he could, learning how to survive on his own, but when the others came his wariness was cast aside for the first time in his life and he found "momma". A woman who took care of him and sheltered him. Maybe it was fate that brought him a mother, a caretaker in a barren world gone mad, but what was it that took her away? How could that thing exist, that small wiry abomination that stretched to impossible proportions? What was it that contorted through the night and made "momma" vanish? Rubble saw, rubble always sees these things, he has no one to look out for him but himself, so he has to see. This was true before "momma" came, and especially true now, but... what was it that he saw that night? He tried to explain to the others, but they didn't listen to him. They acted as if nothing was wrong. As if "momma" was never there to begin with, but Rubble saw, and now he can't stop seeing it. The visions of that everchanging form keep him awake at night, as if it would come claim him too if he ever got too comfortable, if he ever lost his nerve, especially if he slept. What just happened to you? Rubble was forced to leave the highway a few days after "momma" vanished. He lashed out at the denizens of the makeshift community in his hysteria after "momma" was taken. It didn't help that no one seemed to care or that no one even noticed anything off or wrong. In his manic state, he created quite the commotion and found himself beaten and exiled from the community, but not before leaving nasty bite wounds on arms and open gashes on legs from his knived gloves. Walking through the ruins of society aimlessly and unable to sleep, Rubble finds himself in quite a troubled position. What's on the Surface? A dirty looking wild child with paranoid reactions to people and that which lurks in the shadows. He is reluctant to engage with others and speaks very little of any language. He does manage to use phrases to communicate his base needs and emotions, but mainly his actions and expressions are his means of communication. What lies beneath? Abject terror and confusion. Each night since "momma" disappeared, that creature, that man extends from the shadows until he is upon Rubble, breathing down his neck, mocking him, awaiting the moment that his little psyche would break so that he would be his... or at least, this is what Rubble imagines. He also wonders, though he tries to push the thought away, if "momma" was ever even there. Or worse, if HE took "momma" away, perhaps worst of all, if there was no creature in the dark... if "momma" just left. The questions are numerous and undeveloped, but they are there and they eat at the child, feeding his paranoia. What's your path? Finding "momma". She didn't die, she was taken and when the morning came, no one seemed to remember her or know what Rubble was talking about. Rubble's immediate is survival, it's always been that, but the only person he ever trusted vanished into the night and he was set to get her back, at any cost. I'll make necessary edits and proof it again, let me know if I should use a different playbook or anything.
|
|
#
?
Jul 24, 2013 16:35
|
|
Name: Rubble
Gender: Male
Age: 8
Look: A young boy in clothed in strange furs,
scavenged metals and plastic, he is dirty all
over and has a feral looking face with nervous
eyes.
Stats: Cool+2, Hard=0, Hot-1, Sharp+1, Weird+1
Feral Kid Moves:
...All the basic moves.
...Little: When you squirm through a tiny space,
roll+Cool. On 10+, you can get in and/or out
of some place without being seen. On a 7-9,
choose 2:
|
Thatcher updated with a 'what just happened?' story at the bottom of that post. edit: ask me things StringOfLetters fucked around with this message at 18:55 on Jul 24, 2013 |
|
#
?
Jul 24, 2013 17:10
|
|
|
Dr.Idle, that skin is fine. I'll have more questions up tonight for those that are due. It's looking like this Sunday I'll close recruitment, so make any changes or  before then, please. 
|
|
#
?
Jul 24, 2013 18:37
|
|
|
 What’s Been Keeping You Awake? My sister. I'm all she has left, and if I sleep then who will protect her? I can't leave her alone, not in this world. It wasn't always like this you know. We used to live in this old garage, just south of Main Street. It was a good life, well as good as life can be anyways. We worked as scavengers for the Band of Brothers, this chopper gang that owned that area, though I think they're gone now. They were good people, always giving us food and things to do. I don't know why we had to leave. It's been so long I can't really remember. Sis got a bad feeling one day, so we had to pack up everything. Her feelings have never been wrong before, I just wish we could have told them. We've kinda drifted since then. She hasn't felt good about any of our new homes, but I'm sure we'll find somewhere. Until then I have to be vigilant. I have to keep her safe. What’s on the Surface? I'm pretty big I guess. My sis is always mentioning how I'm bigger and stronger than all the bad guys. That I'm like one of those heroes she read about in the books, the brave knight safeguarding the princess or something. I try to keep a smile up in front of her. No use looking grim and making her sad. I keep us pretty well stocked on equipment most of the time. Working as a scavenger all that while ago helps I guess. She doesn't like to carry anything, and I can't blame her. She's so tiny and frail, so I shoulder everything we own. She's a much better talker than me though, so I usually let her handle any bartering we happen to do. What Lies Beneath? Oh god, get her out of me! She's not my sister. She's not anything. I try to sleep but she whispers in my ear that I don't belong. She doesn't belong! I was here first, but then I get to thinking that maybe she's right. Was she here first? Oh god I can't remember. She wants me out, wants me to take the backseat and let her drive now. I'll sit up screaming at her and then I'll forget why. The others can't see her, can't hear her, but I can. She's leading me somewhere I don't want to go and nobody is helping me. Please, someone? Anyone!? GET HER OUT OF ME! What’s Your Path? We have to find a home. Away from the maniacs and murderers. Away from the monsters and terror. A place where Sis will feel right. There has to be a haven in this city, isn't that how the old stories go? The lost little people wander, finding friends and adventures along the way, overcoming adversity and finding true happiness at the end of the road. My, no, our happiness is out there in this den of misery somewhere and we are going to find it. Maybe then I can take a nap and let Sis keep watch? pre:Bridget the Gunlugger Look: Woman Scrounged Mismatched Armor Worn Face Sad Eyes Huge Body Stats: Cool+1 Hard+2 Hot-1 Sharp+1 Weird=0 Gear: MG (3-harm close/far area messy) SMG (2-harm close area loud) Magnum (3-harm close reload loud) Big-rear end Knife (2-harm hand) 2-armor: A grimy leather jacket and pants, with scrap plates attached. 1 oddment worth of barter Moves: gently caress this poo poo: name your escape route and roll+hard. On a 10+, sweet, you’re gone. On a 7–9, you can go or stay, but if you go it costs you: leave something behind, or take something with you, the MC will tell you what. On a miss, you’re caught vulnerable, half in and half out. Battlefield Instincts: when you open your brain to the world’s psychic maelstrom, roll+hard instead of roll+weird, but only in battle. Bloodcrazed: whenever you inflict harm, inflict +1harm. HX: Marcus+2 Dietrich=0 Jobs-1 Kusuri+1 Taylor-1 SIHT SNWO HCTIBYLLIS. Lay it on me. Brainamp fucked around with this message at 04:42 on Aug 29, 2013 |
|
#
?
Jul 24, 2013 20:54
|
|
|
You really trust Half Pint to keep her nose clean (literally) around Fluffy's crew? What about their little drug problem? I mean, what with the Dead Hyenas constantly tearing at your gates lately, you can kinda understand how the watch would be on edge. Those bikers are loving animals. I trust her to be smart about it. This whole place is a pressure cooker, and I have to allow for ways to vent or it will blow up in my face. Fluffy and his crew like their blow, and as long as it doesn't interfere with their duties I let it slide. If they do let the coke cause problems, they know the hammer is gonna drop and none of them are getting out unscathed. Best case scenario would be three months labor on the farm, in the laundry, or whitewashing the wall. That's for something minor like theft or destruction of property. They would also be on restricted privileges for the next six months. That means no more blow, and anyone caught providing them contraband will share their punishment. For guards, breaking probation is also immediate and permanent dismissal from service. Murder, willful destruction of materials critical to the Anvil's continued operation, sex crimes, or assault against an on-duty guard is exile. You get a days rations, a brand on your shoulder preventing you from ever returning, and the clothes on your back. Personal property is handed over to the aggrieved party as reparations and you get shown the door. All this sounds harsh, I know, but bear in mind. There is no death penalty here, no torture, no mutilation, no slavery. So. Keep your wits about you and your habits under control, and I will never have cause to sit you down in my office for a chat.
|
|
#
?
Jul 24, 2013 21:39
|
|
|
hctibyllis posted:
Man does not live on beer alone. My dad used to say that. The yeast I have isn't just for beer, I've managed to use it to make bread too. That's what got Julia's attention. Most of those White Temple seem to have a bug up their rear end about alcohol. Or maybe its just me they don't like. White Temple does have some very particular ideas and I'm not too big on them. Still I think they're what were called teetotalers back in the day. Something about people who don't drink bothers me. Haven't been able to put my finger on it yet, but its like they don't drink because they're worried about what they would do if they're drunk. Its as if they think not drinking is like a dam holding back every insane animalistic urge. Have one drink and the dam would burst. Perhaps there's some other reason, but no doubt its something crazy. But Julia, yeah I was talking about her, Julia doesn't seem to be like the others. The others wouldn't even think of talking to me. Julia though caught a whiff of some bread I was making and followed the smell into my kitchen here in the warehouse. When I first saw her barging into my kitchen, I was about to tell her to get the hell out (on account of her not even knocking), but I saw that look in her eyes. That said more then words could at that moment. I knew I had to give her some of the bread. Its hard for me to articulate why I felt this was needed, but I just knew it in my gut. When I pulled the bread out of the oven, I cut off her a large piece of bread and cut off one for me. Walking over to a cabinet where I keep some bottles of beer, I looked over at her to ask her if she wanted one. She picked up real quick what I was going to ask and shook her head. I just pulled one out for myself. I went to the icebox I have to get some butter and when I returned to the table, Julia started eating her bread as is. Well I sat down and ate some bread myself. After she ate half the loaf, she finally got around to introducing herself. She knew who I was, so there wasn't no reason to introduce myself. We struck up a bit of friendship after that. She ate a lot of my bread, but I didn't mind. I enjoyed sharing my dinner with someone. I feel almost ashamed to admit that I found her attractive too. She didn't talk much, but I noticed what she didn't say and how she acted. It wasn't just fresh bread she was after when she came over, she wanted to be with someone not in that cult. I guess she enjoyed being around me because I wasn't judgmental about her actions or her life. She had a lot of issues. Didn't take a lot of talking to figure that out. She had a tough life and ended up joining the White Church because they offered her a home. I'm sure it looked real inviting at first. Until they got their claws into her. Now she began to feel just as miserable as she did before. I once offered her a place to live if she wanted to quit that cult, but she turned me down. The cult had their hooks deep into her and there might not be any way of pulling her out. Seeing as this was the case, I let her live her life the way she wanted and I'd keep being there for her when she needed me. Just recently the cult started to get a inkling to burn those they feel are accursed or sick. Something about purifying them with fire. Pure bullshit if you ask me. The church leader is doing it to focus attention away from other problems. If all her cult followers are busy rooting out the sick, they won't think about how she's taking advantage of them. As if burning poor innocent people wasn't barbaric enough, they target the Awakened. Now not only do I have to endure this horrible practice, I have to keep on my guard against those cultists. So far they only go after people in their cult, but its just a matter of time before they decide to cleanse the whole city. That's probably not going to happen for a while, since they still are routing out the sickness in their midst, which leads me to a very vexing problem. I'm starting to think Julia is Awakened. Some of the things she's said to me, only someone who is awakened should know some of the details she's talked about. I could be wrong about her. No telling if it might be something else. Still, it worries me. The cult leader might get wind of some of the stuff Julia says and accuse her of being sick. And the rats over there? Hell, don't get me started on those. loving place should be burned down.
|
|
#
?
Jul 25, 2013 00:33
|
|
|
hctibyllis posted:Walker: The refinery was a helluva place. Helluva burn. Folks what already started callin' it the Scar after I left the wreckage. Anyhow, the skinheads what ran the ol' Skat-Hatch Refinery were real ornery bastards. Always goin' on about perfection, and master races, and a whole bunch of hateful bullshit what ain't right with the Good Word. An' the thing on top of that was they were slave traders. If you didn't meet their ideals of what a person should be, they'd sell you like an old gun. So I just got the call, you know? Felt like somethin' needed to be done out there. So I come on up to 'em, stop at the gates to their fortress refinery, and I tell 'em the Good Word. They can let the folks go, they can sell the oil they're pullin' up to the people around 'em for a better price, and they can stop all the hate. I tell you what, I may not be the sharpest knife in the fight, but even I know not to throw grenades at folks in a drat oil refinery. So, being an ornery sumbitch myself, I went in. And there was a whole lot of shootin' and a whole lot of dyin'. You don't need the details, they ain't fit to talk about in polite company anyhow. And as I'm in their big boss Dolfy's little shack, what folks back before the Dyin' Times called an arr-vee, we get to shootin' it out. And I emptied two clips into that sumbitch, one from each hand. And, see, the thing about .45ACP bullets is that they tend to go through people...and doors. And it weren't til Dolphy hit the ground and she slumped out the closet behind him that I realized what I'd did. She couldn'ta been more than eighteen. Real young. Must have been pretty once, even though she didn't meet their ideals. Maybe that's why she was tied up in the closet with her face all acid-burned, I dunno. But what was goin' on, was she was bleedin' all over that floor drat fast, and just cryin' for her ma. I didn't know what to do, so I just turned 'er over and held 'er, and I apologized over and over again as she passed. And then I saw the worst part - she was in a family way. I don't remember too much after that, but the refinery was still burning for days after I left. Explosions lit the night up clear as day, so I'm told. I put the gun in my mouth that night. I did. But I don't know if I pulled the trigger. Next thing I remember was the next mornin', I was on the Pale Horse and we was ridin' down the High Way, same as ever. I got more debts now, cause of that. I ain't ever gonna pay 'em off, I think sometimes, when the nights get long and the Horse and I are stopped on the roadside or in a hardhold. If this is too dark, let me know, hctibyllis! Tempus Rimeblood fucked around with this message at 02:16 on Jul 25, 2013 |
|
#
?
Jul 25, 2013 02:07
|
|
|
Done.
|
|
#
?
Jul 25, 2013 02:34
|
|
|
Kusuri is in a playable form now, I think. Tell me if the "What just happened?" isn't interesting.
|
|
#
?
Jul 25, 2013 02:54
|
|
|
Taylor: Not the most amiable house-guest, hmm? You know, the funny thing about Stockholm Syndrome, is the manner in which it alters one's perception; right down to the subconscious level. You don't even realize the irony, and often you're indelibly affected by the 'trappings' of your misplaced affections. Affected affections. It's a silly condition, isn't it? Of course, no one understands mental distortion quite like you. In fact, of all the Awakened in the city, you might have come the closest yet to reaching the rotten core of that other world. It was during one of your inductions. Can you remember? Being in a coma, instead of a natural sleep, usually meant you would only catch glimpses of the true Nightmares clawing their way through. But that one time... It looked like part of a city, but everything was moving in a jerky sort of synchronicity, like some kind of psychedelic automation. A huge clock tower set with thirteen hours. A young boy's screams cut suddenly short; perfectly in synch with the constant 'tick-tock'. Your hands covered in so much blood – too much to have come from one person. You didn't do this. It couldn't have been you... could it? Killerman Tack: Who knew those phone lines would ever work again? The city's got a barebones network at best; it only works in certain boroughs, the call quality is usually too poor to make out anything but a static gurgle and usually only the strongest holds have managed to work out a deal with the Electrolux folks in the fortress that was once a power plant. Nobody's figured out the cell-towers yet, though. Probably a lost cause there. To top it off, something weird is going on with the lines. Sometimes you get calls with IDs that look like jibberish, and the only thing that comes through is strange, scratchy old music; like 1930's crap that just loops endlessly. But one time you heard something else, didn't you? A tinny, high pitched, almost mechanical voice, singing along with the music. And the lyrics... they promised you something. What was it? Lukas & Spooner: You lost the Binoculars and Gasmask. Darn. And that hammer's head keeps coming off, would be pretty useless if you had to use it for anything other than whittling. Everything else is okay, though. Even with a companion like Spooner it can get pretty lonesome out there for a boy on his own, for true. Ya made at least one friend since coming to the city, however. Kris came into the picture just when ya thought ya got yerself into a pickle that even ole' Spoony wouldn't be able to snap his way out of. Weren't a bright idea to try and root around on the rooftops at night, were it? That gang of kids came out of nowhere. Swarmed all around ya like hornets, hootin' and hollerin', wavin' their daggers around. One of 'em had a skull tied around his neck. If it weren't for that (Guy, girl? Can't rightly savvy that) comin' along, ya might have ended up a piece of jewelry yerself. How did Kris save yer hide? Rubble: Nice gloves, kid. Didn't Mommy tell you not to run with sharp objects? I guess you don't have much of a choice, though – you're always running. They weren't easy to get either. In fact, you don't really like to think about where, or rather, what you got them from. You don't reckon you'll meet the same fate as their previous owner, do you? Who knows, maybe that thing is still out there. After all, you only found a severed pair of freakishly long and muscular arms. But then, the next day those were gone too. Oh dear. Do you think it's coming back for the gloves? Or for you? -- Kusuri and Amy, I'll have questions for you tomorrow~
|
|
#
?
Jul 25, 2013 03:14
|
|
|
Thatcherquote:Not the most amiable house-guest, hmm? You know, the funny thing about Stockholm Syndrome, is the manner in which it alters one's perception; right down to the subconscious level. You don't even realize the irony, and often you're indelibly affected by the 'trappings' of your misplaced affections. Affected affections. It's a silly condition, isn't it? Ear-buds in, she bobs her head along with every other beat. Starts mouthing the words along with the chorus by the second time it comes around. Then she notices she's being watched, yanks out the headphone nubs, and fumbles around with the little MP3 player to try to pause it without looking. The screen's long since gone black, and whoever loaded it up with music had taste that could politely be described as eclectic, so trying to land on a half-decent song is a total crap shoot. She scowls, and points a finger, "Hey. If our situations were reversed, or I didn't have anything they wanted, they'd have done a lot worse to me. I got a read on a few, and they had some sick, sick poo poo in mind. Fuckers deserved it," she spits, trying to convince herself, "Besides, the not-so-bad ones among them, like Jim, I left pantsless and unarmed but pretty much fine." There is a pause, where her expression turns slightly pained. "poo poo, I did spare a lot of them, didn't I? Fine, gently caress, you might have a point about that. The damndest thing about mental illness - or, whatever, psychological conditions - is that even if you know exactly what you have, you've studied precisely what effects it has on the brain, and you know you're hosed in the head, that doesn't stop it from affecting you." quote:Of course, no one understands mental distortion quite like you. In fact, of all the Awakened in the city, you might have come the closest yet to reaching the rotten core of that other world. It was during one of your inductions. Can you remember? Being in a coma, instead of a natural sleep, usually meant you would only catch glimpses of the true Nightmares clawing their way through. But that one time... It looked like part of a city, but everything was moving in a jerky sort of synchronicity, like some kind of psychedelic automation. A huge clock tower set with thirteen hours. A young boy's screams cut suddenly short; perfectly in synch with the constant 'tick-tock'. Your hands covered in so much blood – too much to have come from one person. You didn't do this. It couldn't have been you... could it? She adjusts her seating on the mouldy apocalypse sofa, leans forward and props her chin on her folded knuckles, elbows on her knees. A twinge of something unpleasant passes over her face, her voice wavers just a little. "Let's examine that first question first, hm? 'Can you remember?' I'm no expert, but it seems like the other side works differently. I mean, fundamentally differently - fuzzy dream logic, where you can't remember how you got somewhere but that doesn't matter, seems to be solid over there. Plus I was halfway into a goddamn coma, and it was a while ago, and I haven't got much sleep lately, and that was a really stressful time for me, so cut me a little slack if I get a little confused about what I actually remember and what I've pieced back together wrong, alright?!" She flares her nostrils, and just glowers for a few heartbeats before leaning back into the squishy sofa cushion. "That being said," she crosses her arms, "The question you're asking wouldn't mean the same thing under the rules over there. Causality works differently, as far as I can tell. If there's an underlying pattern behind it, I don't understand it yet. Like a dream, you can be in a place without ever having arrived, but as far as consequences go, you're still there. So, did I kill some kid? I don't remember doing that. But in hosed-up dream-world logic, 'me having killed a kid' might be canon, like part of my the terrain, even though I didn't do it. That make sense?" She shakes her head, "Of course it doesn't. I'd also put forth that running into a child in the loving nightmare realm does not have the same implications of innocence that finding a real-life kid would." She pauses. "I don't think, anyways. And if you're asking me, 'would you murder a child?' then my answer is a simple no." She glances upward and raises a palm, "Now if you're asking me, 'would you kill a lot of people?' then my answer is a qualified yes." She leans forward again, elbows on her knees, "Let's be honest, here. The world would be a better place without a lot of the assholes running around. I'm not, like, going to go on an rear end in a top hat genocide; just being an rear end in a top hat isn't enough for me to start plotting your death, and the fact that there are assholes in the world is one of those permanent, immutable, fact-of-life things that you've just got to learn to live with. But I'm not going to lose any sleep if some of them have to die for the sake of something good happening. Or if they bring it on themselves by starting some poo poo." She cracks a wry smile, "Heh. I'm going to lose a lot of sleep for my own reasons. But, uh, yeah, most people are awful, and I'm not above the circle of life. I'd like to talk things over instead of getting violent. There's usually some kind of mutually-beneficial compromise that you can scratch out. I'd like to just live and let live most of the time. But a lot of people aren't going to let that be an option, so gently caress them." StringOfLetters fucked around with this message at 19:19 on Jul 26, 2013 |
|
#
?
Jul 25, 2013 15:47
|
|
|
Rubble, the Feral Kid I kind of want to name him Bub' and channel a young Wolverine, but I'm going to refrain lol. Sitting on a pile of debris in a long abandoned, ransacked department store, Rubble stares curiously at the knived gauntlets he had found. Picking them up and holding them in the light, it's as if the shadows they cast hastily flee into the recesses of the gloves like a snail retracting into its shell. When Rubble first found them, they were lodged into the soil attached to impossibly elongated muscular arms and nothing more. The sight caused Rubble to recoil in horror, something about those arms stuck with him and until now, Rubble had never associated the gloves with the creature that took "momma". In the same manner that the arms vanished, so did she and the boy became terrified at the realization. Feelings of guilt begin to weigh on the child and for the first time since 'momma's' dissapearance, he felt responsible. His mind raced as he tried to make sense of it, but he only became angered. Wiping away tears of frustration, he picks up the gloves once more. Instead of casting them away however, he dons them, sliding them onto his scrawny wrists, fastening them with leather strips. If the creature wanted its hands back... it'd have to come get them he thought. The child began to rave in defiance at whatever unknown forces lurked beyond his perception before he crawled through a small gap in the wall leading to a partially collapsed room that he had taken as his own. Eating whatever insects he could find, Rubble splays out on a large piece of concrete from the collapsed roof and continues to stare at the gloves on his arms as the moon begins to rise into the nightsky. Rubble has decided that the creature wants the gloves back, and that this is potentially why his 'momma' got taken. Idle Amalgam fucked around with this message at 17:43 on Jul 25, 2013 |
|
#
?
Jul 25, 2013 17:39
|
|
|
Amy: Must've taken some serious effort to get as good as you are with a gun, despite having only one eye to work with. Though in this world of human wreckage, I'm sure you've had plenty of opportunity to practice. Yeah, it's a mess out there alright. As if the real world doesn't have enough monsters of its own, there's also the festering horror of that other place seeping into your psyche from all sides. You've managed to keep that one eye open against the fatigue that constantly creeps up on you; but the other eye... Sometimes it sees things. A vaguely familiar man with a face half-eaten by worms, maggots pouring out of his empty sockets, laughing manically, floating just out of reach like some sort of mirage. Haven't you seen him somewhere before? You followed the hallucination once into a dilapidated house. What happened, and how did you know they had been there? Kusuri: You've certainly mastered the art of indulgence. Who cares about the smoking heap of death and decay outside when its so cozy in here? Your clients usually come to agree with that sentiment, but there have been a few who ultimately rejected the philosophy of perpetual bliss. One of them even took things a bit further than that. He wanted to take you down with him; down into the savage filth of the ruined world and away from everything you've worked so hard to achieve. He said he loved you, but if that were true then why couldn't he understand you? That one tryst ended in a terrible mess. The pipe winds up in your hands pretty quickly whenever you recall what happened. But we're all friends here, right? You can tell me. Bridget: “Sister, it's okay. You don't always have to bear the burdens! Let me handle the load once in a while. Remember when we were little? We found that burned out bus at the old elementary school, and you worked so hard to fix it up into a clubhouse. Just for us! No BOYZ allowed! Then one day they came... They weren't boys though. Those men trapped us inside and tried to do terrible things, but you wouldn't let them near me! They laughed when you called my name, like you were crazy or something. That was when everything went black. Then the screams started, but they weren't yours or mine. Can you recall what happened, sis?” *** *** *** Remember, Sunday is the deadline! hctibyllis fucked around with this message at 03:06 on Jul 26, 2013 |
|
#
?
Jul 26, 2013 02:59
|
|
|
|
| # ? Apr 27, 2024 02:29 |
|
|
I love BOTH of these games, so how can I pass up an opportunity to play both? Creating character tonight.
|
|
#
?
Jul 26, 2013 03:40
|
|
