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6 mos ago
Current 3 months? What about 13 years of posting pauses you big dork
6 mos ago
Wait are we fussin about face claims and image based character descriptions? I have a dog in this fight
7 mos ago
The word of today is Big Ouch, credits to a Pug.
10 mos ago
A vote for Drew is a vote for all RPG's resources poured into creating viable combat super robots. I'm unsure how much that would be, but it's better than anything else.
12 mos ago
I like all the final fantasy games. Well, except for like...XIII and XV.


My name is Drew. I am a person.

Most Recent Posts

Location: Rushford, Ohio -- O'Neal Family Tavern

“If the stove still works, we should try to cook something. Before we leave. It’d be an easier hike if our stomachs aren’t empty.”

Daniel dug through his bag, pulling out a few items. Jerky, chips, granola bars and bottled water. "Nothing really to cook here, unless someone found some food in the other rooms. But-" he tapped on a bag of jerky. "If we have any stock, vegetables and noodles, the jerky can rehydrate in a soup. It would make it a little less tough to eat at least," he said, looking to the others. "Or...if anyone else has anything before we make a break for it."

Location: Rushford, Ohio -- O'Neal Family Tavern

Daniel made himself busy by checking out the kitchen and backrooms. There wasn't much to find; cleaning supplies and a few items; a mop and some tools; nothing that would be a great upgrade to the steel pipe he'd been lugging around. He'd heard that you could create simplistic explosives with cleaning materials, but he was far from an anarchist to know any of that.

He checked in a cabinet and found paydirt: a plastic "first aid box" from a big-box store. They came packaged with gauze, bandages, antiseptic; usually enough to take care of cuts and scrapes along the way. He opened it and looked inside: a half-used bottle of iodine, some gauze strips, and bandages, as well as some over the counter pain and fever relief pills. "It's not perfect..." he muttered,"But it'll work for little wounds. I doubt it'd disinfect a bite from one of those...things." He stashed the medical supplies in his bag and grabbed a half-dull knife from the kitchen as well. It wouldn't work as a good weapon against one of those things, but it could cut a rope or string at least.

He returned to the main room with the others. "I found some medical supplies. It won't be enough to fix any big wounds, but it'll keep any scrapes or cuts we have treated. So we don't have to stress about infection...unless we really get hurt."Gauze and iodine wouldn't heal an internal wound, after all.

"Once we're done picking this place clean, I say we survey the area and make tracks. At least we can relocate somewhere safer on the way there; maybe with some food and supplies too."

Location: Rushford, Ohio -- O'Neal Family Tavern

Daniel Marlowe was tired. He’d spent the majority of the time since the first time he saw one of these...creatures running as fast as he could from them. He’d slept maybe three or four hours in days, and the toll was obvious in his face. He’d scavenged food and water, but he knew he couldn’t keep up the marathon forever: that’s when he found other survivors. A woman; specifically an agent of the FBI, a young man and a teacher. And here he was; probably the most useless of the group. For chrissakes, he didn’t even have a gun.

He listened intently as the agent began laying out the plans: this bar had no supplies to use and their best chance was heading down river to some summer camp. “Summer camp sounds like a good place to hold up, actually,” Daniel started as they were busy with their own business. “They’re usually far out from civilization, meaning we won’t deal with so many of those freaks like we have here in Rushford. Plus, camps tend to stock up for the summer with nonperishable foods, medical supplies and other tools. The only thing I feel we’ll be lacking there would be weaponry--” he stated, looking at both the agent and the teacher. “But honestly, guns are probably a bad idea unless there’s no other situation. Regardless of their mental acuity; we’ve seen how they react to sound--” he nodded at the cacophony of the speakers outside. “The less firing we do, the better. I’d assume, anyway.”

He moved through the bar looking for anything of use; wooden sticks, glass bottles, he was careful to examine everything he could possibly find. “A bottle of high proof liquor would be better put to use for medicine or for a firebomb,” he muttered, digging through shelves. “We can sanitize cuts and scrapes the same way we’d use medical alcohol, or we could use the flammability to ignite something. Hell, even those freaks outside burn.”

He stopped for a moment, realizing he’d been talking for a minute now. “Sorry, I don’t mean to act like a know-it-all. I guess i’m just trying to recall my days in the scouts back in the 90s.”

"All my life I've wondered what it would be like to be a character in one of my stories. I’m starting to regret that little desire."
[ ❇ ] S Y N O P S I S
Daniel Marlowe



Grey’s Falls, IN

Former Life

[ ❇ ] C H A R A C T E R I Z A T I O N
Appearance Description
Daniel wears thin, wire frame glasses. To go without them would be dangerous, as he is painfully near-sighted. Daniel’s normal clothing consists of a smart button down collared shirt, khaki or slate-gray pants, and usually a thick coat, either tweed or leather. To say that he embraces the look of a nebbish man who tends to spend his hours typing away at a computer would be no lie.


Daniel Marlowe is not a household name, but to cult followers in horror novellas and terrifying published magazine tales, he has found his place in the world of the written word. Daniel’s entire life has always revolved around the written realm, which lead him to many sacrifices throughout his life: the comfort of steady pay, the free time to pursue relationships with others and the stability of a normal schedule. Daniel moved to Rushford three years ago after selling his parent’s house in Indiana. His agent, Franklin Picolla, said that the local publishing company in town, Deadwood Press, would love to have him work part time while he worked on his next project. That led to more hours taking phone calls and proof-reading other works than working on his own.

Daniel has no immediate family, having lost his mother to cancer four years ago. Since then, his only normal contacts were those at the Deadwood Press publisher and Franklin. Daniel has never been so isolated with such wondrous company.
It was during a meeting with Franklin over possibly selling his most well-known story, The Stranger at the Window, as a film treatment that he saw the true horror on what exactly was going on. The diner they met at had a man who was sick suddenly start attacking the staff. In trying to leave, Franklin was overwhelmed by the sick man and bitten. With his agent wounded, people freaking out and emergency services unavailable, Daniel ran.

He’s been running ever since.

[ ❇ ] M I S C E L L A N E O U S

•Messenger Bag: Daniel’s lucky messenger bag which contains his writing journal, several pens, and other items he needs throughout the day. Right now the contents alongside the journal and pen are bags of jerky and several water bottles, scrounged from gas stations. The bag remains in good condition and has been a source of luck and survival for him. At the very least, he can carry things.
•Cell Phone: Nearly dead, but works better as a flash light than anything else.
•Wristwatch: Great for telling the time in the undead apocalypse.
•Metal Pipe: A broken piece of pipe taken from the backroom of a store. Solid steel which has powerful bludgeoning power, but slow and unwieldy when used by such a weak man like Daniel.


•Puzzle Master: Daniel can easily work through puzzles and brainteasers, whether dealing with number problems, codes or literary hints. Useful if you’re traversing a dangerous mansion or nightmare realm; less useful when you’re running from the undead.
•Firearms Expertise (Specialized): Growing up in Grey’s Falls, Daniel had his hand in hunting ducks with his father. He’d comfortable with nearly all forms of shotguns and can easily fire one with little difficulty accounting for the recoil. His father also taught him a bit of shooting with a handgun, specifically a Smith & Wesson Model 37, which was the old man’s service pistol. Due to this specialized training in firearms, Daniel has no skill with magazine-fed firearms like a semi-automatic pistol (Glock, M1911, Sig) or magazine fed rifle.
•Creative Writing: Daniel is capable of crafting intricate stories, though most have a macabre bent to them.
•Eidetic Memory: Daniel possesses a photographic memory, and can remember things in vivid detail after seeing them for a short time. This includes maps, information, codes and other clues.
•Former Boy Scout: Though years out of practice, Daniel has skills in simple survival; from making a fire, fishing with a line, tying knots and practical first aid.

Daniel gets embarrassed if people recognize him from his work. He’s only done a handful of conventions and recognizes he has very few fans. .

Not posting it in the character sheet until someone says it's good enough to go. I sorta threw this together with shoe string

Smith's Rest | HQ Tram Station
January 16th, 2677

I suppose it’s not very different from places like Blackstone Harbor or Dead Springs. A place that has survived on the skin of its teeth and only one or two NC pilots for the last few decades.

Graham’s voice seemed to echo around in his head in his mind, and he realized why the man had used both those specific examples. The girl who’d spoken up, Ryn, was someone he knew all too well. He’d already been worried of her walking over and punching him in the face on the tram; but he’d survived unscathed so far. But Blackstone; that was where Ryn was from. She’d talked about it from time to time during missions. Never really opening up, but simple information like that was simply candidly handed off when he’d talked about his own home.

Dead Springs was an example of a town’s plans gone awry. He’d only been 15 when he’d tested for neural compatibility, and they’d thrown together a group of NCs ready to work for the town by protecting it and doing jobs for it not too long afterwards. It’s how he’d gotten the Wolf; which at the time was barely scraped together with scrap and maintenance parts. It’d taken missions, a lot of learning and his own grit to make his NC an actual fighting machine, but they’d become reliable in no time.

Reliable enough that Dead Springs wanted to go indie. And that was enough to get the attention of raiders. Thing was, Alan had fought his fair share of raiders, and raiders didn’t pilot shiny new corporate mechs, nor did they fight with military-led precision, backed by some bastard in a shiny gold machine.

”Let’s hope we’re not trying to be like those places. With the pilots you’ve gathered up here, I'd expect you want us to go bigger, stronger. No chance of getting wiped off the map.”
Well aren't you interesting
Oooh, nothing more badass than the Imperial Guard. Average men and women wielding las-weaponry against everything evil in the galaxy and sometimes pulling through.

What's the year this would take place? Just trying to think of the fall of Cadia, rise of ol Robby G being alive again and all that crazy lore stuff I skim over every so often.

Smith's Rest | Transit Station
January 16th, 2677

You want to get yourself killed quick, walk into a job without any information. Those words stuck with Alan when the tram slowed to a crawl at the station. He stuck to the middle of the pack, letting the excited young pilots hop out and kiss all the ass they wanted. He had a reputation for being pleasant but he was not a saluting, ass-kissing, step in line kind of person. He was used to those kinds of pilots trying to work their way up to some kind of corporate position. Going from indies to corporate wasn’t unheard of, but it wasn’t exactly common either. It had been somewhere in his fifth year piloting that he got a letter of recommendation from one of the job contacts in Denver, offering him an interview with the brass at one of the Northern Bases.

Alan had declined.

Now here he was in the middle of the frozen north, having already signed the preliminary documents, to do what exactly? Play soldier for, who? This man? He’d seen a picture of Graham-not a great quality one-but enough that he knew exactly who the man was, standing in his stoic pose as he greeted the new pilots. Alan was busy eyeing up the others coming in and where they fell in with him; there were the foreigner pilots: twins and the woman with the thick accent.

He eyed some of those walking with the other man, Alvarez. Desk jockeys and people probably at a higher pay-grade than his; but one particular character piqued Alan’s interest. He’d seen the man’s face before; somewhere in some news article on the net. He turned to see another figure to join the pilots, and that gave him the biggest shock of all: an older woman, grandmotherly in her stature. The fact that he could eye her neural connector on her neck scared him. Was she some old codger who got tested? Or was she a vet? He didn’t know which idea messed with him more.

"It’s a job down south, near Lonestar. Just a simple caravan job. But it’s in a town called Serath. Don’t know if you’ve heard of it before.”

"It’s the retirement community for pilots, right?”

That’s what he’d thought. A place for old vets to settle down and relax in their twilight years. Folks had murmured about it before, but he’d never thought to travel there himself. Maybe he’d see what a possible future for him would be.

When he got there, he saw what it really was. Men too feeble-minded to walk. The smell of piss permeating the rooms. It wasn’t a retirement home, it was more of a hospital for the insane. Not everyone’s like this, he remembered someone, an aide or a nurse telling him, but the effects of Polaris Shift still aren’t too understood. The fact that any of them live into their 40s is a miracle. The oldest guy there looked like he was an elder. But how old was he? 50? Being a pilot did not promise an easy life. No, being a pilot meant you threw your future away.

How would this old woman fare next to the others? How did she look so healthy? These were all questions haunting Alan as he did his best to keep his composure from the cold. Alan looked around the group of pilots, surprised at the number that had gathered. “Gee-zus,” he muttered to himself, visible air escaping his mouth, “are we startin’ a goddamn army?”

Smith's Rest | Tram
January 16th, 2677

The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones that never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.

Alan chuckled to himself reading the heady and verbose language on his datapad. He’d struggled to read Kerouac for years now, but at least he was finally making some headway. He remembered finding this particular holo-novel somewhere odd in the Southwest. Not all cities and settlements shared the same data, and some holo-novels (and even rarer, actual books) had been lost over the hundreds of years and the new corporate wars that were going on.

How many actual novels had he compiled now? Three hundred? Four hundred? His datapad’s memory was vast, and when he had the credits he tended to purchase as many novels as he could. He’d been teased for a long time about it; wasting money on a holo-novel when he could spend a few more credits on a vid. He’d spent many nights on the road with caravans trying to drown out the sound of adult holo-vids while he devoured chapter after chapter of Tennyson or Hemmingway. There was just something about the words and the image he could create in his own head that made holo-novels so enticing. He went back to the next passage and-

The eruption of music caused him to jolt up in his seat on the tram, and suddenly his senses kicked back into overdrive. The smell of dank piss, other bodies pushing against him, and now the jolt of music caused him to quickly shut off the holo-novel and take in his environment. And then came another racket: a female voice; with an accent, he just couldn’t place. She’s a foreigner, with an accent like that. And that kind of slang. Which means she’s got to be a pilot. But why the hell is someone from out of the states here? His attention switched to the murmuring twins, with their accents. Foreign pilots. What the hell kind of outfit was this Commander Graham putting together up here?

As the tobacco began to permeate throughout the tram, he grimaced but did not cough or lobby a complaint; he’d spent so many years in smokey and dingy places the smell of tobacco was a calming sensation in a way. He couldn’t stand the damn smell, but he’d been forced to get used to it, much like many things in his life. He tried to think about his situation in Alaska now, and what he could make of it. First off was the place: Smith’s Rest was independent. None of the big corporations had made a play for the area, and the main issue seemed raiders and the standard animal problems. Usually, that would call for your local NC pilots; settlement pilots driving scraped together NCs, helping protect the place. But here were pilots from all over, and the smoking woman had some years on her.

A veteran. Vets cost money. But beyond the pilots here was the commander himself: a DV vet who had made a name for himself in the past. Alan had talked to a few contacts in the Vegas area and had been a corporate boy until 3 years ago. It surprised Alan that he’d never crossed paths with the man, but the divide was a large area and he was personally happy he’d never met anyone that had climbed the corporate military ladder. But here he was, about to have to meet him.

It was the idea that a military commander leading a settlement’s barracks that unsettled Alan. He was used to the communal nature of so many settlements; everyone pitches in for the greater good. Military meant hierarchy, orders, training and never disobeying orders, regardless of how sick they made you. That last part worried him; he wasn’t a raider or a slaver. He wasn’t afraid of killing raiders for cash, but he wasn’t prepared to get involved in some kind of war.

And who else on the tram could be a pilot? He scanned the tram, squinting his eyes at some of the passengers. Too old. Too frail. No neural connector-oh no. The bright red shock of red pouring from a cap and the petite frame was indistinguishable; hell, he could probably pick her silhouette out in a crowd if it came to it. How long had it been since he'd walked out on her after that last mission outside Denver? He bit his lip and anguished over it all. She wasn't looking his way, but he had no idea if she hadn't noticed him or if she was giving him the cold shoulder. After all, she had the worst damn attitude of anyone he'd ever met.

The jolt of the tram brought him back from his thoughts, and he knew what was about to happen: It was about time to meet the new employer.
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