Status

Recent Statuses

2 yrs ago
bringing an old RP back from the dead...
3 likes
3 yrs ago
feels the need to POST!!
1 like
3 yrs ago
When I was young I was invincible, I found myself not thinking twice, I never thought about no future, It's just the roll of the dice.
1 like
3 yrs ago
Undead hordes.

Bio

Howdy. I'm Dan. Been tabletop RP'ing since '90 (D&D 2, 3, 3.5, Rifts, Palladium, D20, Pathfinder, Shadowrun) and writing collaborative fiction for nearly ten years (JvS, represent!) In my day-to-day existence, I'm a theatre technician, a Daddy, I tend to work too much -- and writing is my escape. I take it pretty seriously.

I'm a pretty big fan of Sci-Fi (but I'm pretty selective about what I read,) Post Apocalyptica, certain Fantasy works (though I prefer my sword-and-sorcery via tabletop...) and Zombies. Used to watch a lot of movies, and read a lot, but having a three-year-old stymies that quite a bit.

Some character inspirations: Harry Callahan, Max Rockatansky, William Munny, Snake Plissken, Tyler Durden, Cpl. Hudson (RIP,) Severen (RIP,) Peter Venkman, Malcolm Reynolds, Han Solo (to be continued...)

I tend to look for small groups of dedicated, talented writers who post regularly and love the unknown of spontaneous or semi-planned RP. Hit me up with ideas!

Most Recent Posts

Bumper.
Hi there. I'm d.g. Been doing this online writing / RP thing for about ten years, and tabletop for far longer. Far above and beyond any other, PA is my favourite genre. I'm open to discussing what form of PA we choose to play in, but at heart, I tend toward the gritty realism of 'The Road,' etc. though I have a soft spot for Mad Max.

PA can adopt (and should IMO) bits and pieces of Westerns, Sci-fi, Medieval, SoL, Military and just about anything else you care to mention. It's stripped down, lean and mean. Forget the nuts and bolts of 'civilized' life. PA is all about survival at all costs.

I am calling this 18+, for many reasons. I also placed my IC in 1X1, because in my mind a PA RP can't be about a whole big group of survivors. Two friends? Two people thrust together to make ends meet? Lovers? Would-be lovers? I'm not married to any particular pairing, though romantically, I prefer M x F.

But if anyone decided this might be fun, I am up for just about anything in that genre. If it turned romantic, even better. I don't fade to black. I also don't shy away from other potentially 18+ themes. The world after the fall is a grisly, hard, cold place not for the faint of heart.

Let me know if you have any plot ideas. I'll do the same. Let's decide together how we want the world to end.

Oh -- as for expectations -- I think it's rather narrow to say I expect X number of paragraphs etc. Have a good grasp of English. And then be in command of that tool to the point where you know when to ignore the rules. Sometimes a one-sentence post is absolutely warranted. Sometimes, 800+ words of description and dialogue are needed. I can bring both in equal measure.

Try not to Ghost. That sucks. If you aren't feeling it, talk to me about it, and let's try and fix it.

See you out in the wastes.

-d.g.
Hello Rosalind.

Some of your original ideas pique my interest. I must admit, I am not overly familiar with your fandom requests. Let's talk about this.

d.g.
In The End. 2 yrs ago Forum: 1x1 Roleplay
color me interested... if only to hear what your idea is!
The blasted chem storm lasted for what seemed like an eternity, the wind, the cursed W... ripping at his eardrums until all was white-noise, every hair standing on-end as heat and lightning, ozone and toxins that would rend flesh from bone and bleach skin as white as the salt, assaulted his senses. He got maybe an hours' sleep before the storm came upon him, full-bore. And after that, there was no rest. No real sleep. Only silent prayer to whatever passed for a God in this living hell. Prayer and curses, curses and prayer that he'd live on. Why? Best not to venture too far down that road, friends. Suffice it to say that some are merely too stubborn to lay down, when the other option -- placing one weary foot in front of the other, dogged determination in the face of never-ending nothingness -- seems somehow the right choice to make. Wrong, certainly. But who remains to remind those who plod on, that death is the better choice in a world with nothing left to give, but pain?

The sand had mercifully covered him in the night, sheltering him from the worst of the storm. A hand emerged. Then an arm. Soon the torso burst free of the freshly-dug and self-imposed tomb. The air tasted of copper and salt, and it was already hot, near forty degrees centigrade, if Rig had to guess. It took him a few minutes to unearth the bike, and a further several minutes to uncork her precious air cleaners and knock the sand out of the carbs. All-told, he sat, exposed, for far longer than he'd like, but there was no getting around a chem storm. Either you had shelter (if you were very, very lucky) or you made do. Or you died. There weren't too many more options. Anyone in his position (and he knew there were other unlucky sods out there) would be doing the same.

He was as safe as could be, given the circumstances in the moment. Before firing off the bike, he scanned the horizon with his binoc. There. About five kliks to the East. Smoke. Enough of it to be a camp, or a convoy. Not a ville. Big enough that Rig should've wanted to avoid it. He shook the tank on his bike, peering into the filler neck. Maybe an eighth of a tank. Funny how some things are absolutes. Sometimes, a body's mind gets made up without much in the way of choice. Whether he wanted to avoid it or not, seemed he was going toward the smoke.

He cranked the bike over. Once. Twice. It caught on the third, but something was off. He shut it down, and checked her over once more. Dammit all... fouled plug. He drew his dust mask around his mouth and nose, and pulled his hood up, wiping the worst of the sand away from his shoulders, and checked the load in his sidearm. The day wasn't great. And chances are it wasn't going to get any better. But if he got a tankful of juice, or a plug... he'd call it even.

Flipping up the kickstand, he began walking his bike toward the smoke...
Nobody asks permission to join the apocalypse. You just do.
There was no riding in a storm like this. Not without air filters, and not without a greater touch of the crazy than Rig had been cursed with. No, he'd dug in and then tarped his prone form a stone's throw from the bike, with every intention of waiting out the rad-blasted chem-storm like all the others before it, and the many yet to come. He'd left the bike looking abandoned and wrecked, but that ruse was likely unnecessary, since even before he covered himself with the makeshift tent, the bike was half-buried in drifted sand. His burrow wasn't comfortable, it wasn't truly safe (what was?) but once the ever-shifting sand had buried the tarp, it was as close to full concealment as you could get in the Empty.

There was no food. There was very little water. He'd ration that for the morning. There was no need for light. His hands played over his weapons, checking their readiness over and over. The storm raged mere inches from his face, the smell of ozone and the roar of the winds assaulting his senses. But it was all white noise as he let himself sleep. This too, would pass....
I'm late. Still time to play?
Checkout Counter #6, Walmart, Framingham, Mass.

She was close. Close enough that he could smell her. (Degree Antiperspirant, $3.99, aisle 3A.) Wait. Was that her? Blood on the floor. His. Grant-package's. (Band-Aid brand plastic coated self-adhesive bandages, box of 50, $5.99, aisle 3B.) No. Nonononononono... Not her. Something else, smelly. His focus was on them, on her... but his ears were elsewhere. (St. Elsewhere, box-set, season one, $29.99, aisle 28) **quietly, almost hissing** "not NOW, dammit..." He could pinpoint a sound now. It was in women's underthings, just inside the main entrance. **still very, very quietly** "Your fault. Your fault. Your. Fault. Yours. Bad. Yourfault. You and Grant-package. 'least two of them. Stinkers in the naughty garments. Leaker needs new hosiery... cleanup, aisle 2 please..." Very, very slowly, with his off-hand, Ryan reached into a coat pocket and withdrew a set of dikes (Milwaukee, $11.99, aisle 17, Automotive) and as he swivelled the wavering gun barrel toward the ladies' naughty garment section, held them out for the woman to take. Held them as if touching her or touching them while she touched them would mean certain transmission of cootiees. "Cut him out. There'll be more coming. Always more. Always when there's fresh meat. Aisle 10. Delicatessen / Butcher..."

@The DudeMan @Lady of Lore
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