Utterly Mad
The Pit => Rec Room => Topic started by: Forrest on February 15, 2016, 10:40:08 pm
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Humans take so many things for granted. Fresh air. Clean water. Food that isn't raw meat freshly cut from a bloodied corpse. Well, we did take these things for granted. Before the bombs, and the gas, and the war drove us down. Before the sky was venom and the ground was hot and acidic. Now, it's the opposite. We don't take these things for granted, we lie, steal, and kill for them. For the smallest commodity, the largest of sins. Funny how the world works. Some kinda ironic justice for destroying it, maybe? As they say, karma's a bitch.
But enough with the deep stuff, you probably wanna remember what's going on. Well, all those wars in the olden days (around 2030-something) really took a toll on this earth.....especially after the mass gassing and nuclear cluster bombing. In fact, those things decimated it. You're going topside? Unless you have a mask, and are covered head to toe in something thick, either your lungs melt, or your skin and anything external first. Doesn't really matter which, you still die.
People do anything to survive in the tunnels. Foraging the strange new plants, hunting the awful creatures birthed in these events, or selling anything they can make, like weapons, armor, food, even drugs. Others....well, others take these things. By force, or just plain being sneaky. That's been getting more and more popular the more desperate people down here get, it's sad to say. That's why people these days band into little communities. Protection, force in numbers, all that.
So, here you are. Shitty little station by the tracks, getting by on trading anything you can to passing mercs and caravans. Not a glamorous life, but not the worst either. You're lucky, at least. But things have been getting worse. People on the outskirts going missing, hogs and chickens stolen, yadda yadda, bad news all around. Something big's happening soon, for better or for worse, and you have a feeling you're gonna be part of it, whether you like it or not.
So, an improved version of my previous RP, Beneath the Crust, almost, with a bit less Metro and a bit more something else that I dunno. I'm getting better with GMing and scheduling, if I do say so myself, and have a bit more faith in this one.
Sheet
[b]Name:[/b]
[b]Race:[/b] (Mutants are a thing. Just specify what type you are, if any.)
[b]Age:[/b]
[b]Gender:[/b]
[b]Appearance:[/b]
[b]Clothing/Armor:[/b] (No full body Kevlar or scrap plate mail yet, just basic things.)
[b]Weapons:[/b] (Maximum of one ranged and one melee. Firearms are always improvised/homemade, no brands here.)
[b]Other Items:[/b]
[b]Occupation:[/b] (Gives me an idea of what your character is good at)
[b]Skills:[/b] [] [] []
[b]Traits:[/b] [color=green] [] [] [/color] [color=red] [] [] [/color]
[b]Brief Backstory:[/b] (Just a general idea of what has happened to them.)
Please paste this sheet onto your post to get it started.
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Name: Wolfgang
Race: Human
Age: 20
Gender: Male
Appearance:
Clothing/Armor: Leather Boots, Cargo Pants with extra pockets, Leather Gloves, Ski Goggles, Eye Patch (Right), Dust Mask
Weapons: Spiked Pipe/Crossbow
Other Items: Side Bag of Droogz, Half bottle of Whiskey
Occupation: Spooking about, find shit, and making sweet love.
Skills: [Cheeki Breeki] [Look, something shiny!] [Can't touch this, bitch.]
Traits: [Fast] [] [Weak Frame] []
Brief Backstory: Known to be slightly on the edge, his only anchor is a younger woman who he sneaks behind his lovers father to see. He spends his time having a good time if he isn't finding the next loot to fuel his life style.
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Name: Artyom Stronkinski
Race: Human
Age: 32
Gender: Male
Appearance: Beautiful Slavic man, brown hair that's cut short, a rough scraggly beard that covers his jawline and chin. Green eyes.
Clothing/Armor: He wears nice bright blue tracksuit that has been faded and weathered through many treks in the tunnels, nice hiking boots, bright orange duffle bag that has been faded and weathered, and some sleeveless hoodie he wears over his track suit.
Weapons:Two-shot break action o/u pipeshotgun made from wood and rusted pipes, reinforced with rope and signs, rusty shank made from train parts with a cloth grip.
Other Items: Vodka, homemade stew he made, fungus.
Occupation: Scavenger, literally what other job that lets me have some form of combat capability would there be?
Skills: [Crafting] [Searching] [Cooking]
Traits: [Quick-witted] [Frugal (uses less parts in crafting)] [Drunkard] [Kleptomaniac]
Brief Backstory: Lived a normal life, learned how to cook from his chef parents, and learned how to sneak around and loot from his uncle.
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So, once Wilson makes his sheet, we'll start up.
Anyone else is free to join. I'll actually update once in a while.
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Name: Funky
Race: Human
Age: 24
Gender: Male
Appearance: Tall and strong man, black hair and brown eyes.
Clothing/Armor: white T-Shirt, black jeans.
Weapons: Axe, crosbow
Other Items: Talisman for luck
Occupation: Woodcutter. Cuts not only wood, but heads too.
Skills: [Beating up people] [Crafting] [Works with wood]
Traits: [Charismatic] [Strong] [Naive] [Dumb]
Brief Backstory: Worked hard before, works hard now.
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Name: Gavin Frost
Race: Mutant - Cat
Age: 20's
Gender: Male
Appearance: 5'7, pink fur, yellow eyes, white fur on hands, feet and tip of his tail.
Clothing/Armor: Faded jeans, red and white baseball cap, blue backpack, pink and white sneakers.
Weapons: Spear made from a pipe, sharpened at one end, pipe pistol
Other Items:
Occupation: Bar bouncer/Scavver
Skills: [Climbing] [Blunt weaponry] [Dodging]
Traits: [Low-light vision] [Claws] [Hydrophobic] [Bad with money]
Brief Backstory: How do I backstory tho
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Name: Graham Mattack
Race: Mutant- Kind of shark-ish
Age: 25
Gender: Male
Appearance: A 6,9 male with grey eyes and pale somewhat scarred skin, they look like chemical burns. His teeth are sharp and somewhat layered, they're fucking crooked and dirty though.
Clothing/Armor: A pair of patched jeans, a pair of boots, an undershirt, a plaid button up, a pair of leather gloves, a M20 gasmask that's on his belt when not in use, a dust mask worn when gas mask not in use, a leather belt with loops and pouched sewn to it, and a leather sling bag. His armor includes a shoulder pad made from scrap on his right arm, a reinforced hooded leather vest with extra sewn pouches, and knee pads.
Weapons: A cleaver, and a makeshift pipe shotgun made from an old water pipe, wood, and screws. It has a leather shoulder strap and makeshift iron sights.
Other Items: Smaller butcher's tools, an old bottle of whiskey, a pouch with shotgun shells, there's around 17 shells in them. A notebook with doodles of the creatures in the tunnels, a bottle of thickening agent for alcohol or kerosene, some rags, and descriptions of what they are and what they do. It's labeled "Field Guide"
Occupation: Butcher
Skills: [Cutting things] [Cooking things] [Shooting things]
Traits: [Threatening] [Strong] ['e's p' uggos] [Thearening]
Brief Backstory: He's the butcher, you don't exactly ask about his life story.
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Wolfgang, Artyom, and Gavin
Being the three fun-loving gents you are, you three are situated at, lucky guess here, the bar. It's the local drag, not too shabby, but not really anything special as far as establishments down here go. There's no name for the place, it's just "the bar," and nobody's really had a problem with that in the past. The single-room building isn't all that big, with four tables and the main bar-counter itself. It's choked with tobacco smoke, with no real ventilation to filter it out, and the only items to order are locally-produced beers and vodkas. The man behind the counter is the enormous owner; he's at least seven feet tall, equal parts muscle and fat, with a bald head and a seemingly Asian lineage. You think his name is Roach. A few strangers are scattered about here and there, none really striking you as interesting, save for a twitchy guy in a brown suede coat near the corner. He's flanked by two beefy guards, and it looks like he's waiting for someone.
Wolfgang: You've recently arrived back from a solo expedition, which, honestly, was kind of a bust. A few scraps of okay loot here and there, but nothing special, and you've already blown most of it on these pills and whiskey. You're near the front, up by the counter, having been there for a good half hour doing nothing but popping pills and sipping your hooch. Probably high-time you either get back out there or find something to do, you wager.
Artyom: Whelp, it's about that time again. You're on your third cup of vodka, sipping away, when you realize, as you often have before, that you're broke. Well, shit. Part of you wants to sit there and order as many as you can before Roach can notice, but the other part is being at least partially reasonable and knows you oughta do something about that. You don't know if there are any teams heading out now, and it's dangerous to go alone, but it's also dangerous not to pay your seven-foot-tall debatably-psychotic bartender. Better find some quick cash, and soon!
Gavin: It's your third day on the job as the bouncer of Roach's joint, and so far, your only thought is: this is fucking boring. Really, really boring. You don't get any discounts, and all the patrons are scared stiff enough by the massive proprietor that there's not really even a purpose for you. The pay's okay, you guess, but not great, and there's probably all sorts of other things you could do around the station for just as much. Your choice, really, but as you of all people know, cat mutants need a lot of excitement in their lives to get by.
Graham and Funky
You're both situated in the small marketplace of this nameless little station, idly peddling your goods as you are wont to do. The main market commons is a large cement room, around the size of an auditorium, with multiple stalls or corrugated metal and plywood set up by all sorts of traders and salesmen. Today's an okay day crowd-wise, with ragged citizens of the station itself intermingled with caravaners and mercenaries stocking up for their journeys. Nobody strikes you as particularly interesting compared to the usual crowd, except for a particularly outlandish traveler from outside of the station, dressed in heavy, somewhat fancy fur apparel. He seems to be leading some men, presumably in a caravan, and he's been speeding from stall to stall, purchasing goods like there's no tomorrow. Seemingly in a rush to get somewhere special, you'd wager.
Graham: You've had an okay day, peddling meat to laborers from the station and mercs traveling through who're sick of the trail food. By the end, you've earned five extra shotgun shells and a pouch of (useless to you) .22 bullets. However, you're outta meat, and, by extension, out of income. Time to get some more, or maybe find alternative ways of making cash, if it pleases you.
Funky: Being underground and all, there's kind of a lack of trees, so being a woodcutter isn't the most profitable business. You make due, however, going out into the tunnels and chopping apart old pieces of furniture and scrap wood to peddle to station denizens who need to heat their stoves and warm their families. Today, you made a deal with a skittish young woman: most of the wood in your stockpile for a bag of 9mm bullets. They'll fetch an okay price in barter, but for the time being, you're out of wood to sell, and it's probably a good idea to find a way to make some more soon.
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Graham closes up shop for the day, he looks around for another food peddler to get some more rations so he could head out to hunt for some more meat, he has a pouch of .22 and no use for it.
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"Sweet Jesus on ice skates this is boooring. Thanks Roach; Bye Roach!" Wolfgang said as he took another pill from his bag of goodies and headed out the door. Before he was going anywhere, he would have to go talk to his girl first at the clinic. She was a nurse there afterall, working under his old man who was luckily too busy most of the time to see him sneak in.
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Graham: You head over to another nearby stand, run by a long-surviving member of the station, Maude. She's an older woman, stocky and tough, with many scars, few words, and fewer teeth. Dropping your .22s on the table before her, you give her a moment to silently appraise the goods before she deems them acceptable with a curt nod. Reaching behind her in a practiced manner, she grabs a burlap sack without needing to see where it is and drops it down next to the .22s. "Meat. Salted. Fresh from a 'hound." She states, pulling the .22 pouch closer to her. Tunnelhound meat isn't the best, but it'll do.
Wolfgang: Roach flashes you a silent peace sign, his gold front tooth glinting in the dim light of the bar next to the smoldering kretek he was busy puffing away at. You pass the usual sights and sounds waltzing through the station; people huddled up against walls, begging for food or items of barter, tired laborers heading back from reinforcing the outer walls, orphaned children running to and fro without a care in the tunnels, and the like. Finally, you come up to the Clinic. It's a medium shack, walls of ancient reclaimed wood, with a big red cross painted above the shabby, pockmarked metal door. You seemingly came just in time: Mia's on her way out, her father probably still stitching up some poor bastard who got caught on the wrong side of the tunnels. She hasn't noticed you, and is currently walking the other way down the crowded path.
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"Surprise." Wolfgang says as he attempts to get next to her while shes walking down the tunnel.
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Graham nods, and puts it in his bag. He heads towards the exit of the station. He makes sure his shotgun is loaded before heading out, if it's not loaded he'll load a shell in and head out. He'll stay quiet and listen carefully for the animals of the tunnels.
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Wolfgang: You sneekily breekily head up behind Mia, before peeking your head over her shoulder and surprising her. She backs up a bit, startled, before giggling and giving you a light side-hug, barely being able to rest her head on your shoulder. "Heya, Wolfy! What's up?" She asks in her usual upbeat tone, hands clasped around the straps of her father's borrowed backpack.
Graham: Your usual route will probably remain effective for this little trip, so you head right towards the main exit of the station. You pass by Maude's son, Fritz, on the way. He's stocky, like his mother, all coiled muscle, and his face bears the scars of many scraps. Being your main competition as a hunter around these parts, you give each other a simultaneous competitive glare as you pass by. A few moments after the small encounter, you pass by the guard's shack marking the exit of the station, leading you into a narrow subway tunnel. Continuing out a short ways, you don't quite run into anything yet. You'll probably have to go a little further for game today...
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"Oh well, you know... the usual. I just wanted to drop by and see you before I left again. Last time didn't pan out so well." He said as he quietly tucked his hands into his pockets.
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Wolfgang: "Aw, well that's.....sorry to hear." Mia mumbles, giving you another affectionate bump and looking down at the ground as she walks. Something seems a little.....off. You're not even a people's person, and you can still tell something's wrong with her mood at the moment.
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"Hey, what's up Mia? You're not bouncing about and trying to eat my face." He said as he tried to comfort her. He's not too good at this "people" thing yet but he's trying.
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Wolfgang: "Oh, that obvious, huh? Well....yeah. We're in a bit of trouble. My dad and I, I mean....the Clinic. As you know, Alexandria Station's put some kind of....embargo, on trade with our station, and, well, it's been hard to get medicine in. So we tried.....outsourcing. Some guy at Roach's promised us the pills we need for our patients, and we paid him a lot, but...they haven't arrived yet. It's been a week." Mia blows a few strands of hair out of her face, obviously a little down in the dumps. She really cares about the patients in the Clinic, and it's sad to see her like this, unable to get them the help they need.
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"They... what now?" Wolf said as he just stops in his tracks. He gently puts his hands on her shoulder reassuringly and then says,
"Mia, I'll look into this. Go home and wait for me to come through your window."
With that, impulsive Wolfgang begins to make his way to the bar to go talk to that fucker in a suede coat. Suede coats are evil so it makes sense!
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Wolfgang: You storm back along the path you just took, ignoring all passerby. The crowd almost seems to part around you, most of the people you're walking towards instantly veering away as they sense the anger radiating from you. Arriving at the shabby old bar and swinging the door wide open, you stomp right up to the trio of men in the corner. The two meaty guards stand right up in their seats, staring you down immediately. They're in cheap plastic anoraks, green fingerless gloves, and industrial respirators, with matching shades blocking out their eyes. What kinda douche wears shades underground?
Before any words can be exchanged, the man in the suede coat, still seated, pipes up. "Boys, boys! Calm down! We have ourselves a potential customer!" He grins at you, locks of matted brown hair covering most of his face. "What can Khan do for you, stranger?"
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"Where are the drugs you promised to my girl and her Dad for the Clinic? You're not playing her, are you?" He says loud enough for other to hear him as he grabs a handful of his own drugs from his pouch and scarfs them down.
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Wolfgang: The guards exchange glances, and Khan stays silent for a moment, seemingly choosing words, before speaking again. "There's been a complication. Alexandria Station patrols are up, and they don't appreciate....procurers of medication, like myself, so...we had our runner try an alternate route. He hasn't shown up." Khan explains swiftly, shrugging. "There's not much I can personally do about it. If the girl needs her drugs so bad, she can go ahead and find 'em in the tunnels. Be my guest. I warned them about complications."
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"Complications? You know what's complicated? Sewing forehead skin back to a face. I heard it never sews on just right." Wolf said as he smashed his spiked club down on one of the guards sitting down and then pushing Khan onto the other guard to buy some time for his next move.
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Wolfgang: Taking the initiative and attempting to take on three opponents, you lash out with your spiked club in an attempt to hit the guard on the right! You hit, but not as hard as you would've hoped, mostly ripping his anorak and scraping his side, sending the man off balance. He shouts and backs up, stumbling on a chair, as you successfully shove the other guard into the still-sitting Khan, whose chair tips over from the weight and sends the two sprawling over.
(Gonna wait for others to post before updating Wolfgang anymore, FYI.)
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Gavin sighs. The job was nowhere as good as he had hoped, but he could hardly quit on day three. After his shift ends, he decides to go out on a scav run. Scavving was a fun pastime.
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Graham heads deeper in, he turns the safety off on his gun.
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(Updates tomorrow! I'm having a busy night.)
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"I'M GONNA RIP OUT YOUR PROSTATE AND EAT YOUR FACE!" Wolf yells as he Spartan kicks over the guard still standing and then hops onto the table. He'll then swing his spikey mace of death at the other guard.
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(Updates postponed one more night due to the loss of a family member.)
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Gavin: Sighing after a long and uneventful-besides the four guys attempting to kill each other-day, you nod your head to Roach and head on out, grabbing your pre-prepared daily pay of 10 10mm bullets; the kind for your pipe pistol, cool enough. Taking a little stroll out into the station and seeing the usual sights of poverty and decay, you think it wise to head off on a little solo scav run. There's only one exit to the little station, past the solitary guard shack, and that's where you head, the dark, damp aura of the tunnels washing over you. Up ahead, you see that hunter bloke, Graham, or something, stalking forward with his shotgun. You could head next to him, or try and find a different way.
Graham: You turn the nonexistent safety off on your improvised waterpipe shotty, keeping a brisk, though quiet, pace as you stalk forward into the tunnels. Near stations like this one, the prey isn't usually too dangerous, thankfully, but could still probably kill you if you let your guard down. Your eyes adjust easily enough, and the flickering, barely-functioning lights kept on by the guys at Alexandria Station help just a bit. Up ahead, you hear....noises, of a sort you can't place at first. That is, until the noises reveal themselves far faster than you'd have hoped.
Before you, slumped out on the floor, is the corpse of an unidentifiable-at-this-point animal. Hunched over it is a rotund, disgusting shape, covered in matted, sickly feathers and dried blood. A curved beak pecks messily at the little meat left on the dead body, and the creature lets out awful avian groans here and there between the clacking of its beak.
Encounter: Carrion
Wolfgang: You Spartan kick the standing guard as desired, knocking him on his ass with a grunt, before hopping up on the table and swinging your mace at the other! He blocks like a champion, however, catching the blow with a blackjack hastily pulled from his anorak! He and Khan begin to make moves to stand, as the guard still on the floor does the same, a matching blackjack finding its way into his hand as well.
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"Dance fuckers, DANCE!" Wolfgang yells as he swings his spikey pipe of doom at one guard and then kicks the other guy in the face with his old boot.
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Graham aims toward the carrion and fires, after he fires he readies his cleaver.
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Gavin decides to head away from Graham. Probably a bad idea though.
(oh god i seriouly can't think of anything to post other than this)