pugbutter

Cyaиide Suиs

@Xandrya He's at work right now. I have his phone # so I'll send him a text for ya.

Got A Weapon or Armor Question?

Dark Ages through Renaissance guy standing by

Scare Me With Your Experiences

Me and a bunch of others decided that, he must have. Motherfucking. Narcissist disorder or something. He fitted it to a tee. It was unnerving.

@ScreenAcne

That's why we decided it was probably psychopathy. He fit eight or nine of the ten traits once we started doing research on it. (I don't think he ever really "spoke poetically" (#8).)

I've got some stories about another one like this, also on LOTRO, but I'll save her for another day.

Scare Me With Your Experiences

@ScreenAcne Was the dwarf named Gimbe by chance?

I've never played WoW but we met this guy on RuneScape RP, and later he followed us to LotRO too. He was obsessed with two things predominantly: cybersex, especially with veins of a racemixing fetish thrown in (his dwarvish character apparently had a dungeon filled with elvish sex slaves in RS, and apparently at least 2/3 of those elves were actual players, not NPCs), and politics/world conquest.

Learning he had a WoW account was an incredible experience since he treated people over there the exact way he treated us on our MMOs:

• enter a community as a right-eyed newcomer eager to learn the ropes
• become buddy-buddy with whoever is the most powerful person in the community (powerful IC as in monarch characters, or OOC as in force of personality, didn't matter, metagaming wasn't beneath him)
• try to become powerful by proxy, manipulating those powerful people and convincing them to give him special privileges and authority etc.
• do something with this newfound power to piss people off; often trying to force ERP/smut on female players, or conquering other players' lands/castles
• receive huge backlash from the community, because yeah, conquering lands is fine IC when your character is a greedy cunt, whatever, except he would always do it through sleazy means including metagaming and godmoding
• cry and whine about how "attacked" he feels, express remorse and a desire to change so this won't happen again
• be cool for about a week
• do it again
• get kicked out of a community?
• find a new one; rinse and repeat

Learning that he'd been doing this literally for years was the final proof we needed. We chalked it up to psychopathy and cut ties pretty soon after that.

us.battle.net/forums/en/wow/topic/1708..

E:\cyberpunk\the_deadliest_question.exe

"Good morning, Ms. Ví. He's ready if you are. Go on in."

Oozing with a great smugness, almost to the degree of flippancy, the secretary's eyes slid from her lap to her desk's computer screen, and then from that place into Ona's face, cavernous with makeup which dried and peeled in layers like sedimentary rock; ancient, geological, as measured in the calendar of the workplace, where a proper woman would rather arrive in a toga and laurel wreath than in yesterday's belt-dress (that dreaded modifier, yesterday, indicating a fashion too stale to be new and exciting, but still too young for quaintness and historicity). Between her minimal makeup, her squared, boyish clothing, and the fickleness with which her creamy locks of brown hair could not decide whether they wanted to stay in the bun or fall playfully to curtain her face, the girl-woman's aesthetic screamed mousey and meek and girl-next-door, and undoubtedly her handler devoured this ploy with gluttony gleaming at his teeth. Ona knew better. She knew that even though, when she passed the desk, she saw that the girl's lap was empty, and her computer screen was set to the snowy glare of calendars and spreadsheets, the secretary spent most her day cackling at her "friends'" fashion mistakes on social media, staving her boredom away with her favorite pastime, schadenfreude. Further, she knew this girl flung at her perhaps the most vicious, venomous insult she as a modern woman could conceive: pretending not to notice the many flaws in her grooming.

Skovgard, too, carried plastic airs about him. But his, somehow, had a penetrative quality, gentle and frictionless as they slithered through Ona's mental blockades. For one, he was perhaps the last man on civilized earth who still wore glasses, rather than plastiglass retinas, or even the contact lenses which themselves were much outdated, but which at least bestowed the invaluable gift of modesty. The feebleness of his eyes was something he felt no great urge to conceal, not when they had withered away in fleeing from the wrinkles which conquered his face, and the grey which commandeered the fine, wispy hairs both on his scalp and his silky chin. His suit, like the rest of him, was old-fashioned and stuffy, but it only augmented the grandfather’s woolly must which he wore like a cologne, a subtle change in the hues of his atmosphere.

"Just a moment," he said in his accent, rich and thick like custard. He had cast his gaze sidelong, toward a sputtering machine near the far edge of his desk. "For all our technological prowess, we still haven't learned how to make our printers do what we want of them." Somehow the empty chair yearned for her even without his invitation to sit upon it. The machine meanwhile continued to wheeze and writhe as it tried to comprehend the electronic imprint of his iron fist.

E:\cyberpunk\the_deadliest_question.exe

"You must be Ms. Ví. If you’re ready then he'll see you right now."

Oozing with a great smugness, almost to the degree of flippancy, the secretary's eyes slid from her lap to her desk's computer screen, and then from that place into Ona's face, cavernous with makeup which dried and peeled in layers like sedimentary rock; ancient, geological, as measured in the calendar of the workplace, where a proper woman would rather arrive in a toga and laurel wreath than in yesterday's belt-dress (that dreaded modifier, yesterday, indicating a fashion too stale to be new and exciting, but still too young for quaintness and historicity). Between her minimal makeup, her squared, boyish clothing, and the fickleness with which her locks of hair could not decide whether they wanted to stay in the bun or fall playfully to curtain her face, the girl-woman's aesthetic screamed mousey and meek and girl-next-door, and undoubtedly her handler devoured this ploy with gluttony gleaming at his teeth. Ona knew better. She knew that even though, when she passed the desk, she saw that the girl's lap was empty, and her computer screen was set to the snowy glare of calendars and spreadsheets, the secretary spent most her day cackling at her "friends'" fashion mistakes on social media, staving her boredom away with her favorite pastime, schadenfreude. Further, she knew this girl flung at her perhaps the most vicious, venomous insult she as a modern woman could conceive: pretending not to notice the many flaws in her grooming.

Skovgard, too, carried plastic airs about him. But his, somehow, had a penetrative quality, gentle and frictionless as they slithered through Ona's mental blockades. For one, he was perhaps the last man on civilized earth who still wore glasses, rather than plastiglass retinas, or even the contact lenses which themselves were much outdated, but which at least bestowed the invaluable gift of modesty. The feebleness of his eyes was something he felt no great urge to conceal, not when they had withered away in fleeing from the wrinkles which conquered his face, and the grey which commandeered the fine, wispy hairs both on his scalp and his silky chin. His suit, like the rest of him, was old-fashioned and stuffy, but it only augmented the grandfather’s woolly must which he wore like a thin mask of cologne, a subtle change in the hues of his atmosphere.

"Just a moment," he said in his accent, rich and thick like custard. He had cast his gaze sidelong, toward a sputtering machine near the far edge of his desk. "For all our technological prowess, we still haven't learned how to make our printers do what we want of them." The machine wheezed and writhed as it tried to comprehend his orders.

Have you ever found yourself needing to describe emotions that don't have names?

There's nothing here for "irrational hatred of people with clean, white, two-story houses with well-kept front yards". But thanks anyways, this is actually really useful.

@Keyguyperson

Admitting that it's irrational is the first step in outgrowing the Communism fad.

Cyaиide Suиs

Cool!! Once you're outside of the farmhouse it'll be time for GM posts throwing the environment at you again. They're less important during conversation.

モバイルフレーム MOBILE FRAME - To the Stars!

Well, he's definitely stereotypical, and by design, too. I thought it was most obvious with the name; one which sounds ridiculously action-heroish in English subs/dubs but which Japanese people watching the original series (if this was a series) would have no problem with. Because lol gratuitous Engrish. Troy Bandit would be up there with the Rex Colts, Snake Pliskins, and Ash Williamses of the world, at least in terms of naming conventions.

The glasses were only because he has them in all the screenshots from the anime he's from, so I didn't really have a choice in eyewear or the lack thereof. As for the rest of it, yeah, the machismo is what makes 80s/90s anime great. Ain't no fucking skinny, shrimpy, otaku-self-insert-wish-fulfillment "black swordsmen" here!

モバイルフレーム MOBILE FRAME - To the Stars!

Plus Troy. So I'd say a perfectly suitable phrasing. xD

@Sanctus Spooki

If by which you mean he's a little dumb and he doesn't choose his diction carefully: yeah, pretty much.