Whisky Nocturne

[Siиdяed]

WHISKY NOCTURNE And thus another doomed ship departs. Mm. The writing bug has me again. And as it began to itch no-Name suggested something that might appease it, in a somewhat serendipitous manner. Another play at ANTI-HEROES. Which is a fucking stupid idea. But with a rebranded new name and look because it'd be nice to see new faces playing. But I'm willing to play it out again until I get bored. The Rules Spoiler for The Rules: Those who played the original game ought remember them. There were variants in Helm, Dominion, House of Spades, UNFOUND, Singapore... The basic rules are best explained here, and if any confusion arises for newer players it can be discussed in this thread. The chapters of the game are being posted in the Whisky Nocturne - The Volumes thread, which should only have posts by myself that detail the events your characters are involved in. Keep conversation and discussion of the game here. Character Submission Spoiler for Character Submission: Once again, this ought to be familiar. To begin the game there will only be five players to ensure I don't get swamped early on (though this will inevitably occur), and preference will be given to players of games like the first Anti-Heroes, Helm, UNFOUND, Dominion, and all the other similiar doomed ventures. Newer players should still feel free to post a character sheet, as players may be revolved or supplemented later on. Character Name: The character name...obviously... Gender: I get confused easily. Age: ...obviously... Appearance: This is physical appearance, not clothes. Be modest. Favoured Weapons: Try to pick some that will fit in to a genericky faux-Wild West context, and remember these aren't necessarily the ones you'll end up with. Mostly this is whether you'd sooner fight with a rifle, pistol, gatling gun...or maybe even a more savage affair with a tomahawk or spear or lance or somesort. Talents: The skills your character has; not too many, ego-freaks. Persona: The attitudes, the mannerisms, the general personality of your character. Background and Premise This is the story Anti-Heroes Blond was going to be. Perhaps. With a variety of new ideas and the usual mish-mash-up of various cultural influences. Primarily it is the story of a maverick band of misfit army-convicts who are let loose in the warzone, trapped between the forces they once fought for and the enemy. There will be jungles, there will be savages, and they will be wildly, wildly Lovecraftian gods to combat. An old-school adventure story with plenty of ridiculously fantastical adversaries and mishaps for the intrepid players to overcome. This really marks the beginning of a shiny new era for Forum RP Games, along with - I hope - an array of sparkly other new games that I'm pushing people to do. Most crucially this game is about me proving to the staff that I can make what was Arcane Arena into an active, fun old joint with plenty of kooky cats having a pretty jive old time in as it should be, rather than the stagnant inactive wasteland it became. And of course, proving to the staff that I can do this marks Stage One of my inevitable rise to the position of Head Admin. Your joining up and participation with this game is a vote for me as GodKing of all DV. And if that isn't encouragement enough I don't know what is. So fill in a neat little character sheet from above and post it here, whether you're new to it all or not, and just watch as the fun unfolds. It's easier than my rambling makes it look. Easier for you. Not for me. I have to write fucktons. ._.

[Irken]

Character Name: Isaac D. Locke Gender: Male Age: 23 Appearance: Normal height 5'10", Thick blonde unkempt hair. Kept short above eye level. A lean build he doesn't look to be overpowering. Light blue eyes. Pale White skin. Favoured Weapons: Rifle, handgun, and knife. Talents: Crack shot, survivalist. Persona: Quiet, people often don't hear what he is saying. He is very tolerant but can snap if given the right provocation.

[Siиdяed]

Perfick.

[no-Name]

Character Name: Aaron Clark Gender: Male Age: 43 Appearance: African American, with a shaved head, thick strong legs with plenty of girth, and droopy dirt-brown eyes. Favoured Weapons: Shotguns. Bigger the better. Talents: Yelling, melee combat with a gun, and reading/writing. Yes, he's literate. Persona: Old and tired. Would rather knock out an opponent than kill them. Very stable and calm.

[Siиdяed]

Your character is essentially. Which is awesome.

[nina]

Character Name: Missy Stream Gender: female Age: 21 Appearance: 5'8" 125 lbs, well toned, athletic build, tanned skin, medium length dark brown hair that she often likes to hide behind, piercing green eyes, small but firm chest Favoured Weapons: best at throwing knives, but whatever she can grab; beer bottles, rope, boot spurs, playing cards, poker chips Talents: creating weapons out of normal everyday objects, lulling men into false sense of security, trick horse riding Persona: a real jack of all trades, prefers to spend time in her own twisted mind, but always loves a good fight, extremely loyal friend, doesn't always fight fair

[Kiza]

Name: Titties Manfuck Arthur Radley Gender: Male Age: 77 Appearance: Wiry, wrinkly, pale. Kind of looks like a goblin. Full head of hair. Eyepatch. Favoured Weapons: Rifle, shank, fists. All three at once. Talents: Ace shot with a rifle, or for that matter any kind of gun. Stabbin' shit. Complaining. Persona: Hates young people, old people, middle aged people. Likes himself and stabbin' shit. Very energetic when he feels like it.

[Xaqaria]

small but firm chest Important info.

[Siиdяed]

Actions in for April 2nd, if you please. :] Dohum. Is April 3rd now, true believers. And only no-Name and Irken have been good with their actions. Why the rest of you not send actions? Why?

[nina]

Missy will send her actions today. Sorry guise.

[nina]

This should be interesting.

[Siиdяed]

A STREET UNDER GREY MACHINATIONS Wesley Deighton, A Cellar Under London Flicking at a loose fold of a peeling weal in the crook of his nose, Wesley Deighton ran his stained fingers back and forth until the paper package came to shape. Licking and pinching closed, he fitted the roll-up to chapped lips and lit with a spluttering match-head between his nails. Slow inhale. Hold. Slow exhale. The cigarette grounds him in the damp cellar under the Dantalion Institute of Theopneustic Glossolalia, fixes him in time and space with something bitter, smoky, and tangibly quotidian. And time and space in the deep dark of the blackened brick cellar were fast becoming things of debatable qualification. Beyond the orange glow of the burning cigarette Deighton could see nothing of the cellar. He had conducted a warranted search in the daytime with the Institute's coolly indifferent caretaker and knew the measurements, proportions and inventory of the place ad verbatim. Iron ladder - early stages of rust visible, but still sturdy enough - leads down on the east wall from a wooden trapdoor in the central hall above. Each wall of brick, unusually darkened as though blasted by explosive or heavy industrial fumes. Cellar nine feet in height, nine feet across, and twelve feet long. Wooden crates near rotted, containing glass jars long smashed and emptied, save for the few in which long-dried insects appear to remain contained. Deighton suspected preserves in use. Someone preserving insects. And nothing more. Which made it strange then that now the cellar seemed as gaping and as endless as a cavern as he stood in the darkness, smoking a quiet cigarette and waiting for the rumbling to begin again. The shaking. The reason he had been assigned to stand in this lightless prison in the ground. A rumbling and a shaking and a roaring that rattled the cellar every night, from which howls and wails and all the curses of all the dead tongues could be heard. The reason the Institute's custodian had hired Deighton. Wesley Deighton. Fresh faced at fifteen and trying to earn a living as a private investigator on the streets of a careless London city. He stood in an oversized tan jacket with a blunt billy-club tucked in a sling under his arm-pit. The roaring started. Then the whistling then the shaking then the rumbling then the rattling and all the sounds of a furious hell shook the boy's lonely figure and extinguished his cigarette with a warm and laboured breath. Something wheezing and slavering and breathing hot stench over him. He kept his balance, and slowly waited out the raging of the thing until the cellar went calm and still enough for him to relight his smoke. He shook the match to nothing and tossed it over one shoulder. The bloated mess of an inverted blue-bottle fly flapped and flopped about in the darkness. It was all around him, unseen but there, tendrils and human-looking flesh and entrails all snaked and looped around him in all too tight loops, but all of it still a part of this hideous, monstrously sized wingless inverted blue-bottle. A protruding tongue licked the back of his hair, raising his greasy blond strands and plastering them down. He took it with a brief shake of his head, as though irritated by a breeze. -Wesley Deighton...you know me not of now but of jungle-time ahead, where all is savagery and undergrowth and canopy...but you WILL know me...and you will HURT me...and I name you cursed for it. Cursed now and cursed for all time hence...let your ruin come before our appointed meet and I will be sated and happy...if not let your ruin come after, and I will be venged...I name you cursed to imprisonment in the skin-taker's world...no other death will please me for you...when you meet with the Wendigo you will suffer and you will fall...slowly...nothing other... The cellar calmed. Deighton waited awhile more, and climbed the iron ladder, throwing back the wooden trapdoor. Nothing. The cellar had been empty. He had heard and seen nothing.

[Kiza]

Shit. Fuck. Sorry. Sending actions.

[Siиdяed]

You disappoint me, Kiza. Sometimes I sit up late. Just worrying about my Whisky players. I try hard to please you. To make you smile. To make you laugh. To give you something of an escape, however brief or artificial, from the everyday monotony of your quotidian existences. To let you soar as the rebellious Missy Stream, or the wild and dangerous Arthur Radley. And this is how you repay me.

[Grod]

Waiting for a confirmation, if not actions tonight yeah.

[Siиdяed]

Grod, Kiza and GestaltAlteration all have yet to send in actions. I'll wait til the 7th and then put up a chapter. If you three haven't sent actions in by then, I'll hazard a wild guess at what you'd do. Inactivity on the players' part really won't be what kills this game off.

[Siиdяed]

I'm being tardy. Busy time. Preparing to move back out to university living as the holidays draw to a close. Chapter ought to be written before Saturday and the move, though. Consider this a nice break. Or a chance for Gestalt to send his actions in. Either or. Or maybe a chance to check out Gaia's Folly. I heard it was like. Good. And maybe active. Meanwhiles, tappity this ant and read some classy old horror. About ants. By H.G. Wells. I mean. Fuck, convinced already much?

[GestaltAlteration]

You'll never get my actions. NEVER! (Just flip a coin. I'll send them in next chapter. :x)

[Siиdяed]

Coolio. I got distracted by the long haul back to uni. But it's a brisk early morning wake-up with a mild headache now and I feel like I can write anything. Chapter on tha way, true believers.

[nina]

Hurray

[Siиdяed]

Sorry about this bout of inactivity on my part. The game certainly isn't dead. Mostly that something came up uni-wise and is commandeering my attention and efforts. Will be back on track. Soon.

[GestaltAlteration]

Take your time. It's finals time here.

[Siиdяed]

Warming up. Break almost over. CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN - ALAS FOR THE SPLENDOUR OF THE PRINCE! HOW THAT TIME HAS PASSED AWAY! Aaron Clark and Arthur Radley and Isaac D. Locke and Jack Heflin and Orlando d'Ariel and Missy Stream and Paul Garcia and Wesley Deighton and Huitzilopochtli, The Highest Peak of the Wide Wasteland at the Edge of all Worlds Arthur spat, his one hand clutched to his gaping stomach and the other to his rifle, forcing his weight down against it and pushing himself into an upright crouch. The acidic juices were burning his hand, now, and he felt bile slip slick and thick through his fingers. "Not...not long left for me now, I guess," he paused to cough racously, his whole body shuddering as he choked up another mouthful of broken throat. Cartilage caught in his teeth. He swallowed it back, then spat. He heard the sound of the others' footsteps on the glassy rock peak behind him, wavering, then joining his side. "Not long left for any of us, old boy," Jack Heflin grinned, morosely. He lit the offered cigarette from Wesley Deighton, then smoked it in long, heavy drags. The cannon he lugged behind him on rope and wheels came to standstill, heavy and with dark, open maw. "Looks like here's a good enough place to make a last stand as any," Missy Stream said, simply. The two gatling guns tucked under each arm weighed on the mass of hacked flesh about her neck but she braced her face fast against the pain. The grimace seemed almost a death-mask. Rigid and expressionless. "I always knew it would come to us, a shitload of guns, and some dank dark horror from Below," Isaac shrugged. He spun the revolvers from holsters to hands, then cocked them. The sound echoed in the emptiness beyond them. "I might just be some faggot guard, but we overcame our differences and came to see the inner beauty in all of us," Paul Garcia said. "and now I'm honoured to be stood here with all of you at the end of it all." "We're not even player characters," Orlando d'Ariel and Wesley Deighton intoned, blank and devoid of life. And beyond them all the great swarming mass of Huitzilopochtli raged and grew, the tendrils and tentacles and thick hairy spider legs and skeletal arms and ugly amputee stumps and gun-metal girders and fluidic shifting no-mass reaching out, spreading and enclosing about our intrepid heroes. "To our deaths," they said. "and to his." And with that, they began to charge, opening fire as they came. And the highest peak of glassy rock at the edge of all worlds was filled with the sound and light of explosions and of bloodshed. And then they became the monster. Battle not with monsters lest ye become a monster and if you gaze into the abyss the abyss gazes into you.

[no-Name]

goddommot sinderd

[Siиdяed]

Aaaah. Looks like there may be a break in the game 'til next month. Have both a friend sleeping on my floor and exams. Not a good mix for writing role-playing goodness.