Bork

GRAVEYARD SHIFT - A 24/7 HORROR QUEST

VOTING WILL CLOSE ON 19/5/2021, 12:00 PM EST.

GRAVEYARD SHIFT - A 24/7 HORROR QUEST

GRAVEYARD SHIFT - A 24/7 HORROR QUEST

GRAVEYARD SHIFT

---

[HALF MOON BAY - UNITED STATES OF AMERICA - 201X]

CONGRATULATIONS!

YOU'VE MANAGED TO RECENTLY ACCEPT THE LUCRATIVE POSITION OF BEING AN EMPLOYEE AT INNSMOUTH, A BURGEONING BRAND OF KONBINI STORES ON THE EAST COAST.

....BUT TROUBLE BREWS IN THIS CITY....

.....RUMORS HAVE SPREAD ABOUT ITS ECCENTRIC INHABITANTS, SOME INNOCUOUS, OTHERS MORE CONCERNING.....

.....ELDRITCH HORRORS PREY ON THE STREETS. MASKED FIGURES STALK IN THE NIGHT. UNEXPLAINABLE ANOMALIES PERMEATE THE LAND.....

.....THE MIRACLES OF THE 21ST CENTURY HAVE FOSTERED A WEB OF CONSPIRACY, CRIMINALITY AND CORRUPTION THAT THREATENS TO SPIRAL OUT OF CONTROL.....

.....IN THE MIDST OF THIS, VISITORS FROM THE COSMOS AND DESECRATED DEITIES FROM DESTITUTE DIMENSIONS BEGIN TO STIR......

.....WITH ONLY YOUR WITS AND GUTS, YOU MUST SURVIVE AND MANEUVER YOUR WAY AROUND IN THIS DOOMED CITY WHILST PRESERVING YOUR JOB......

.....YOUR NEW LIFE BEGINS NOW.....

---

8:00 PM

“ ….Local meteorologists are reporting highly unusual weather behaviour over Koreatown and advise residents in the affected area to stay indoors until further notice. In other news, we are awaiting confirmation of the capture of the wanted Belgrade Snatcher, a notorious serial killer who has been responsible for - FZZZZTTTT - spleen theft - FFFZZZTTZZZ - one thousand - FFFZZZTTTT - massa- FZRRZZTTTT“

The audio fizzles out at the last second of the broadcast much to your dismay. It’s the only thing that’s keeping you from nodding and dozing off. Your face resting against the counter in the crook of your arm, you reach out towards the radio and paw at the air lazily like an overfed cat. It’s surprising how much your first shift has sapped the will to move out of you. It doesn’t help that the night sky in Half Moon Bay is almost hypnotic, maroon cotton candy clouds soaked in the fathomless expanse of the glittering, dripping star-studded sky. It lulls you to sleep, alongside the croaking of the ACU unit outside and the melodic hum of the electric mosquito trapper above you.

The bell jingles. The sound makes you stand up straight at attention, spine straight like a ruler. Your eyes flit over to the security camera where most likely footage of your lapse in judgement was recorded. You then look over to your uniform, iron-pressed and scented fresh with cellophane wrapping. Signing at the error you notice, your fingers reach over and adjust the name-tag pinned to the left breast of your breast to be more straight.

You'll have to inform your manager about this tomorrow. It should be spelt……

---

POST YOUR CHOICE IN THE OOC

[X] - Zhang Hae-Sung (The Keyboard Wizard)

[X] - Ada Beaumont (The Part-Time Purifier)

[X] - Ola Christenoff (The Ex-Occult Cultist)

𝔽𝕦𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕪: 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥 𝔾𝕒𝕞𝕖 - Cyberpunk Political Intrigue Roleplay

“ Why did you lose?”

“ You got lucky.”

“ Luck is the eternal lie the modern man makes for his failings. I want to know the truth.”

“ My car failed.”

“ Wrong. You failed. That’s why I won. I won because I had the will. I won because I knew that I was meat, not a machine. I won because I realised that the car doesn’t make the racer. It’s merely a tool and the tool is nothing without its master. You are responsible for your legend. Make of that what you will.”

“ Is that supposed to scare or comfort me?”

The Car Czar paused, his back to me, dropping that god awful stinking myco-cig onto the floor and squishing it as if it was a goddamn bug. The fumes trailed out of his mouth as if he was breathing fire. He looked at me with contempt, smoke puffing out of his nostrils.

“ They’re both the same thing, Demon. You just don’t see it yet.”

---

“ Just drive, driver!”

Keah never thought he needed an invitation. He pressed down on the throttle and drove wildly through the dank tunnels of the warehouse. His three tires screeched like a bat out of a hell everytime he oversteered, swerving into right angled turns that left swirling clouds of dust for the Heralds to bite on. The engine roared, the raw power oozing into his gloved hands through the hyperalloy frame. The speed was climbing higher and higher, Keah trying to wrestle every bit that the Jury Rigg could muster.

As much as he tried to deny it, the thrill of the chase - no, race - was getting to Keah. His heart beated to the same rhythm of distant gunfire, his veins popping from the adrenaline, his hands welded to the wheels, foot glued to the pedal, face forward, the dizzying turns -

His ears suddenly caught the hint of a sharp whistle passing by. A flash of bright orange light transforms his entire world into morning for a moment before his car lurches violently from the explosion. They really wanted Petrukov dead, didn’t they? He shifting the car to neutral to prevent his car from tumbling over. The Jury Rigg skates on the concrete, before Keah hit the ignition to flare the wheels up to full rotation again. Keah internally berated himself for becoming lost in the chaos, that inextricable lure of danger that he’d sought to escape long ago.

Focusing on getting Petrukov out of here was the priority.

Thankfully, the entrance of the warehouse was in sight. The decrepit chain linked gate was sent flying as his tires hit the sodden mud. It was lightly drizzling, puddles of stale gray water coalescing around him. He turned the wheel to the left towards I-403, the main highway that linked the South City to the outlying Reclaim Zone. The road was mostly empty, save for the few auto-trucks that trailed by past him at a mammoth’s speed, carrying a mountain of cargo that was in length of hundreds of meters. The odd driver or so gave him passing glances of curiosity but didn’t decide to act further on it. Bullet holes were a common facet of life in the Reclaim Zone and nobody was going to give him second looks for looking as though he’d arrived from a war zone.

It was only after 15 minutes of endless driving that he’d finally relax. The Heralds weren’t following them anymore. Hopefully. Mil-spec vehicles couldn’t hope to reach the speeds of luxury sport vehicles such as the Jury Rigg. Now, he was confronted with a new question. Where to go from here?

His helmet pinged with a new alert. A message.

> Pirate_Party: We need a sitrep now.

“ Deal went south.” He looked up at the rear view mirror to check Petrukov’s shaken face. “ VIP is uninjured. Everyone else is - “ The Bannerlord’s face flashed for a moment. “ - unaccounted for. “

Keah was grateful for the few seconds of peaceful silence he afforded with his reply. He didn’t relish whoever the operator was on the other side of the private com channel. Keeping his eye on the road and on Petrukov’s safety was helping him process the recent betrayal of the heralds. Petrukov’s lieutenants and lackeys, meanwhile, were most likely scrambling like headless chickens. Keah could only imagine the looks of terror on their faces. The future of their movement now was resting on his shoulders, a vagrant haole, and Perukov’s sycophantic bodyguard.

Maybe the Ark would finally accept him……

No, that was just a dream. They were determined to have him stay on his self-imposed path, no matter how many times he tried to convince them.

A new message pinged onto his helmet feed, scrolling upwards across his viewport as he turned onto the right lane onto a bypass that bridged over a river of tar black water, gutters and sewage tunnels pouring out the refuse of the factories and corps that fueled the Reclaim Zone.

> Pirate_Party: Understood. Get the VIP to the party safehouse now. Sending you coordinates.

A series of numbers unfolded onto the screen. The in-built GPS in his iconoclast charted a maze of possible paths to the location marked by the coordinates. 8.5 kilometers away, deep in the Reclaim Zone.

“ All right, change of plans, Petrukov. We’re - “

A dull thump on the Jury’s Rigg roof interrupted him. Keah barely had seconds to react as a mono-blade sprouted down from his headliner. He just barely moves his left arm fast enough for the tip to only graze him painlessly. It’s why every decent law abiding assassin owns them. A second late and it would have separated his forearm from his upper arm. It sunk back up like a shark’s fin. The blade came down again, this time slashing through the side window on his right and spraying glass all over him.

Keah pressed on the brakes, jolting the Jury Rigg to a complete stop, and sending the assailant flying headfirst, rolling onto the syncrete. The mono-blade katana snapped in half as it clattered to the ground. The Herald was clutching his head, leg askew on one side, favoring his left foot. Keah didn’t give him time to recover as a half-ton of industrial-grade steel collided with the Herald’s body. He tumbled over the roof and landed on the ground with a bone snapping crunch, cybernetic hands twitching with nervous feedback.

Sparks then flew off the Jury Rigg as a fusillade of bullets buried themselves in his rear windshield in a diagonal line. Keah’s iconoclast adjusted, connecting with the cams hidden in the Jury Rigg’s rear lights. In the rainy horizon, there were 3 tiny figures zooming towards him at breakneck speeds. He could hear a high pitched electronic whine that made his skin prickle with goosebumps.

Hypercycles.

“ Shit.”



Fucking bozosoku scum. He ducked as one sped by in a blur, his submachine gun spattered a hail of bullets that left a trenched line of impacted glass from left to right. The motion radar in his helmet blinked, signalling a dot coming in fast from the right. With one hand gripping the wheel and his metal one on the gear shift, Keah turned the wheel up, shifting to the right lane in one fluid movement to collide with his pursuer head-on. The motorcycle came apart, wheel dislodged from the frame, whilst the driver tucked their body inwards to cushion themselves as they hit the road hard and rolling.

It went like that for a while. Him trying to sacrifice pieces of his machine to smash their bodies into the roving auto-tracks or turn them into roadkill. It was like trying to swat flies. They veered out at the last moment or simply tailed behind him, outmaneuvering his relatively bulky vehicle. They continued to follow him as he entered a bypass that sailed over a black river, sewage and detritus floating in the froth. Their headlights glimmered in the water, the moon shining over the chrome contours of the Reclaim Zone.

Unfortunately, traffic was heavy. The lanes were filled up to the brim with commuting midnight workers who were traversing back into the Reclaim Zone. The roads were tightening around him whilst it was easy for the Heralds to weave in and out with their miniscule hypercycles. Sweat beaded down his head as he watched the one on his right pull out a long tubular device from his back. A series of prongs snapped out from underneath the tube, connecting with the motorcycle. The Herald continued unfolding it until it looked to Keah what was a reasonable approximation of a gun. That was, if a gun was 99% composed of its barrel and the 1% was devoted to everything else. The moment the Herald pointed it at him, Keah immediately turned left, ducking his car down an underpass into a tunnel.

Keah always hated how eerily silent electromagnetic weapons were. Ballistic weapons were loud and predictable. He remembered footage from the 2035 riots where peacekeepers were given usage of prototype EMs to disperse crowds. Heads disappeared in clouds of blood, crowds were carved into mincemeat and limbs were blown off in perfect condition, all without making as much sound as a pin. Apparently, technology had advanced in the last 30 years as Keah’s ears rang, the very air itself seemed to shriek behind him. In a blink of an eye, a long furrow had been dug into the asphalt, molten red at the edge. Keah could see the exit as he passed under the end of the bypass into an underground tunnel, the size of a manhole.

Unfortunately, that didn’t get rid of his pursuers. In a moment, they were trailing behind him again. The one with the large rifle flipped open the breach, chucking out a large soda can-sized shell that clattered on the road, before shoving inside a new one and clicking it close. Keah hurriedly hit the accelerator and hid behind a nearby auto-truck. There was the same sound of the air being split asunder once more. The auto-truck’s front hood exploded, the chassis nearly split in half, as it careened over and grinded to a near halt, toppling onto its side.

Keah punched the wheel in frustration. He was fish in a barrel and he’d used up all available cover. The tunnel was hugging him from all sides and the Herald was taking his leisurely time reloading his hideous armament. All he could do was keep driving -

Wait.

They were expecting him to keep driving.

Keah drove in visible view in front of the two Heralds. He made sure he was aligned perfectly with them in a straight line. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for what he was about to do.

For the first time in his life, Keah slammed on the brakes in the middle of a race. The Jury Rigg stopped dead in its tracks in the center of the road. The Heralds were understandably confused. Was he trying to ram into them? The hyper cyclists simply swerved to the left and right of Keah’s car, dodging him by mere inches at their top speeds.

Unfortunately, for them, he’d opened the passenger doors at the last second.

The Jury Rigg’s doors were ripped off their hinges like wings on a fly as both Heralds collided into them. They were sent flying off their bikes, bodies smashing onto the road, and then, lying motionless, either knocked out or unconscious. One had smashed face first into the window, his body trapped underneath the door, whilst the helmet of another had come clean off, revealing a head, inlaid with circuitry, sitting on a growing pool.

“ We’re safe. ” He breathed out towards the pair in his back, the pirate queen and her sycophantic bodyguard. The engine vibrated reassuringly in his rigid fingers. “ We’re safe.”

He then pressed on the accelerator and drove away, leaving the two corpses to slowly cool off.

---

The Jury Rigg was coughing and wheezing by the time he made it to the safehouse. He shut off the engine, silent for a moment. He looked at both Johnny and Petrukov, his helmeted face expressionless aside from the long grooved crack that he’d sustained from the chase. He sighed and nodded towards the abandoned building, windows glued up with paper and plank wood whilst a large holo-sign was built in front of the sliding door entrance which read “NO TRESPASSERS. ZONE HAS BEEN CHOSEN FOR INFRASTRUCTURAL REDEVELOPMENT.”

“ They’re in there.” He rasped out. He looked down at both of his hands, his left organic one still whilst his metal one was shaking. He seized control, breathing deeply, before continuing. “ I now need some time alone to perform repairs. Leave me be.”

This isn't working out: Part 2

Matthew Reilly.

Holy fucking shit, where do I even begin with motherfucking Matthew 'Jumped The Shark And Makes Kojima Look Intelligent' Reilly. He's if you locked a 10 year old in a room with a six pack of Red Bull spiked with LSD, a typewriter, a 40 inch plasma screen TV that broadcasted Ancient Aliens 24/7, a tack-board of post-it notes scribbled with mad conspiracy theories and every Tom Clancy novel published in existence.

Now, you might be asking yourself, who in the goddamn hell is Matthew Reilly? For those of you who were fortunate enough not to hear of his name, this is what Goodreads has to say about the man himself.

Born in Sydney in 1974, Matthew Reilly was not always a big fan of reading. It was only after he read To Kill A Mockingbird and Lord of the Flies in Year 10 that he realised reading could transport you to another world. Following this revelation, Matthew soon began creating stories of his own and set about writing his first novel, Contest, at the age of 19 while still at university studying law.

Following rejections from all the major publishers, Matthew self-published Contest in 1996, printing 1000 copies. He produced a big-budget-looking novel which he sold into bookshops throughout Sydney, one shop at a time.

In January 1997, a Commissioning Editor for Pan Macmillan Australia walked into Angus & Robertson's Pitt Street Mall store and bought a copy of Contest. The editor tracked Matthew down through his contact details in the front of the book. Interestingly, those original self-published editions of Contest have now become much sought after collectors' items. One recently sold on eBay for $1200!

Matthew Reilly is now the internationally bestselling author of the Scarecrow novels: Ice Station, Area 7, Scarecrow, Scarecrow and the Army of Thieves and the novella Hell Island; the Jack West novels: Seven Ancient Wonders, The Six Sacred Stones, The Five Greatest Warriors, The Four Legendary Kingdoms, and The Three Secret Cities; and the standalone novels Contest, Temple, Hover Car Racer, The Tournament, Troll Mountain, The Great Zoo of China and The Secret Runners of New York.

His books are published in over 20 languages with worldwide sales of over 7 million copies.

Since Seven Ancient Wonders in 2005, Matthew's novels have been the biggest selling new fiction title released in Australia for that year.

Matthew has also written several short stories, including Roger Ascham and the King's Lost Girl, a special free prequel to The Tournament which is available online. Other short stories include Time Tours, The Mine and the hyper-adrenalised romp, Altitude Rush.

He owns and drives a DeLorean DMC-12, the car made famous in the Back to the Future movies. He also has a life-sized Han Solo in carbonite hanging on the wall of his office! When not writing or penning a film script, Matthew can be found on the golf course.

Matthew Reilly is currently living in Los Angeles.

Other than proving that any author who drives a DeLorean should not be taken seriously (Looking at you, Ernest Cline), Matthew Reilly is the type of guy who makes amateur Australian writers wonder whether luck was his dump stat during character creation. Here's a cold hard fact. Modern action thrillers sell particularly well, have massive broad appeal, so much so, that you can find them virtually anywhere. They all feature the same archetypes, a predictable by-the-beats narrative and a consistent ability to value narrative set pieces and action scenes over characterization or thematic consistency. There is no shame in liking an action thriller.

The problem is that Matthew Reilly represents the worst aspects of this genre and then, some. His writing style is despicably basic. His idea of maintaining tension and pace within an action thriller consists mostly of italicization, exclamation points and a horrifying blend of run-on and short sentences that make me want to cringe. His characters are concept first, characterization last which leads to some of the most superficial, shallow character arcs that I have ever seen in a novel. His villains are always James Bond mustache twirling psychopaths with little to no interesting features to them. Don't even get me started on his endless capacity to insert pop-culture references (Fuck, I think I remember one time where the villain referenced the Devil From South Park in the most corny way possible) and the worldbuilding.

Holy shit, the worldbuilding.

Remember when I said Ancient Aliens and Tom Clancy? I'm a big fan of inane concepts but somehow, Matthew Reilly manages to make the concept of an intergalactic tournament that determines the fate of Earth, biological species of traditional Chinese dragons, a military plot to melt the polar ice caps with fictional radioactive isotopes and an ancient conspiracy involving duels to the death between every culture on Earth boring. Reilly throws more new elements and retcons in each of his novels than Charlie Sheen does cocaine.

Perhaps, I'm too harsh on the poor guy. There's gotta be something that he's good at, right?

I'll say his best strength is his consistency.

His consistency to deliver the same shit forgettable plot points that are delivered in an infantile writing style and structure in every single novel.

So, please, the next time you find yourself bored in an airport, do not ever touch a single Matthew Reilly novel you find in a bookstore.

Bork Lazer's Storage Bunker

GRAVEYARD SHIFT

---

[HALF MOON BAY - UNITED STATES OF AMERICA - 201X]

CONGRATULATIONS!

YOU'VE MANAGED TO RECENTLY ACCEPT THE LUCRATIVE POSITION OF BEING AN EMPLOYEE AT INNSMOUTH, A BURGEONING BRAND OF KONBINI STORES ON THE EAST COAST.

....BUT TROUBLE BREWS IN THIS CITY....

.....RUMORS HAVE SPREAD ABOUT ITS ECCENTRIC INHABITANTS, SOME INNOCUOUS, OTHERS MORE CONCERNING.....

.....ELDRITCH HORRORS PREY ON THE STREETS. MASKED FIGURES STALK IN THE NIGHT. UNEXPLAINABLE ANOMALIES PERMEATE THE LAND.....

.....THE MIRACLES OF THE 21ST CENTURY HAVE FOSTERED A WEB OF CONSPIRACY, CRIMINALITY AND CORRUPTION THAT THREATENS TO SPIRAL OUT OF CONTROL.....

.....IN THE MIDST OF THIS, VISITORS FROM THE COSMOS AND DESECRATED DEITIES FROM DESTITUTE DIMENSIONS BEGIN TO STIR......

.....WITH ONLY YOUR WITS AND GUTS, YOU MUST SURVIVE AND MANEUVER YOUR WAY AROUND IN THIS DOOMED CITY WHILST PRESERVING YOUR JOB......

.....YOUR NEW LIFE BEGINS NOW.....

---

8:00 PM

“ ….Local meteorologists are reporting highly unusual weather behaviour over Koreatown and advise residents in the affected area to stay indoors until further notice. In other news, we are awaiting confirmation of the capture of the wanted Belgrade Snatcher, a notorious serial killer who has been responsible for - FZZZZTTTT - organ theft - FFFZZZTTZZZ - one thousand - FFFZZZTTTT - massa- FZRRZZTTTT“

The audio fizzles out at the last second of the broadcast much to your dismay. It’s the only thing that’s keeping you from nodding and dozing off. Your face resting against the counter in the crook of your arm, you reach out towards the radio and paw at the air lazily like an overfed cat. It’s surprising how much your first shift has sapped the will to move out of you. It doesn’t help that the night sky in Half Moon Bay is almost hypnotic, maroon cotton candy clouds soaked in the fathomless expanse of the glittering, dripping star-studded sky. It lulls you to sleep, alongside the croaking of the ACU unit outside and the melodic hum of the electric mosquito trapper above you.

The bell jingles. The sound makes you stand up straight at attention, spine straight like a ruler. Your eyes flit over to the security camera where most likely footage of your lapse in judgement was recorded. You then look over to your uniform, iron-pressed and scented fresh with cellophane wrapping. Signing at the error you notice, your fingers reach over and adjust the name-tag pinned to the left breast of your breast to be more straight.

You'll have to inform your manager about this tomorrow. It should be spelt……

---

CHOOSE ONE

[X] - Zhang Hae-Sung (The Keyboard Wizard)

[X] - Ada Beaumont (The Janitorial Paladin)

[X] - Ola Christenoff (The Ex-Occult Cultist)

This isn't working out

<Snipped quote by Penny>

Instant nope.

---

If a person has anything by Jordan Peterson on their bookshelf.

@Rapid Reader

I should have thought of that one.

This isn't working out

Ready Player One or Ready Player Two.

Alternatively, The Turner Diaries and I really don't need to explain why.

The Elder Scrolls: Stormcrown Interregnum

The Elder Scrolls: Stormcrown Interregnum

The year is 4E15. In the early days of the Fourth Era, in the wake of Martin Septim’s heroic sacrifice to end the Oblivion Crisis, the Empire is in turmoil. The line of Talos has been broken and their reign has ended. Potentate Ocato has been assassinated by the Dark Brotherhood and the witch-warrior Thules the Gibbering, a madman unloved by the people, sits on the Ruby Throne. Morrowind has been ravaged by the Red Year, Black Marsh has seceded, and unrest is brewing in the Summerset Isles. The Legions are spread thin. Local rulers and warlords all over Tamriel, even in the Cyrodiilic Heartland, are establishing de facto independent city-states and territories. It is a time of war, of political intrigue, of coup d’etats and power changing hands.

In Cyrodiil, only the Imperial City is still firmly under the control of the Emperor and the Elder Council, fractured though it may be. Some of the rulers of the other cities and counties have seized control for themselves -- others have been overthrown, and their erstwhile territory is now ruled only by the right of the strong. The peasantry suffers. Mercenaries, arms dealers and assassins are making a killing. Bandits prowl the roads and the woods, and bands of deserted Legionnaires take what they want. The people cry out for heroes to stand up against cruelty and tyranny, but who will answer the call?

In all this chaos, a warrior-woman and a minotaur have escaped from the dungeons beneath Thules the Gibbering’s ghastly Arena; a place of bloodshed and death, where prisoners, slaves and beasts are forced to fight and kill for the cackling Emperor’s entertainment. Their wild flight has taken them from the Imperial City to the forests outside of Skingrad, where they had to fight against highwaymen and roving packs of wolves for survival. The local farmers and hunters were afraid of them at first, but the woman and her monstrous protector meant them no harm. Over time, they became local heroes for the resistance they showed to the corrupt and self-serving Count of Skingrad and his enforcers, who relentlessly ‘taxed’ the peasants for everything they had.
Besides, an escaped slave-girl and her man-bull companion… where had people heard that before?

Others joined them in their cause, and soon a resistance had formed. One by one, the warrior-woman, the minotaur and their ragtag crew of freedom fighters took down the Count’s lieutenants and freed the countryside surrounding Skingrad from his control. Now, allied with a citizen’s militia inspired by their actions, they gather round the fire on the eve of their final assault on the Count’s castle, the Emperor blind to the world in his White-Gold Tower, while another power gathers strength in the West...

Hello and welcome to The Elder Scrolls: Stormcrown Interregnum. In this RP, we will be playing the inner circle of the escaped slave and warrior-woman Isobel Aurelia, an incorrigible optimist with lofty dreams of a better future for the common people, as she takes the fight to the petty kings and warlords who have seized power in the Empire’s weakened state after the Oblivion Crisis. Beware that this RP takes place well before the events of Skyrim -- there is no Aldmeri Dominion, no Stormcloak Rebellion and certainly no dragons. This is a period of Tamriel’s history that has remained mostly undescribed, save for the Greg Keyes novels (which I haven’t read and have no real interest in), so we will be charting our own course and seeing where the story takes us!

This will be an RP about guerilla warfare, political intrigue, spycraft and power struggles, inspired by movies like Sicario, narratives like Game of Thrones (not S7 and S8) and real-world conflicts like the Nicaraguan Revolution and the Arab Spring.

I AM CYRODIIL COME

Flower Power! - A Plant-Inspired Superpowers RP

I am sad this is not what I thought it would be.