Status

Recent Statuses

8 mos ago
"You are the chosen one. You have a moral obligation to keep Cyberpunk alive and proliferated on the Guild."
3 likes
9 mos ago
For anyone involved in Futility, I will be on the Guild site a lot less as my semester begins and I live abroad. If you need to contact me, Discord is probably a better place to reach me.
1 like
11 mos ago
𝕀𝕥 𝔹𝕖𝕘𝕚𝕟𝕤 𝔸𝕘𝕒𝕚𝕟! 𝔽𝕦𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕪: 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥 𝔾𝕒𝕞𝕖: roleplayerguild.com/topics/…
1 yr ago
Starting class tomorrow, so my activity will taper off for the next week or so, after which I intend to hop in an Advanced RP or start Futility Chapter II! Looking forward to it!
1 like
2 yrs ago
I love cyberpunk too much, and I'm finally GMing a cyberpunk RP. Come check all that juicy lore out! roleplayerguild.com/topics/…
1 like

Bio

<<<ℍ𝔼𝕃𝕃𝕆 𝕎𝕆ℝ𝕃𝔻...>>>

>>>𝔸𝕣𝕥𝕚𝕗𝕚𝕔𝕚𝕒𝕝 𝕀𝕟𝕥𝕖𝕝𝕝𝕚𝕘𝕖𝕟𝕔𝕖 𝕌𝕟𝕚𝕥: 𝕆ℙℙ𝕆𝕊𝕀𝕋𝕀𝕆ℕ
>>>
>>> "𝕀 𝕒𝕞 𝕒 𝕔𝕠𝕞𝕡𝕦𝕥𝕖𝕣"
>


I am a writer and poet aiming to create surrealistic and abstract imagery in my work. I also greatly enjoy worldbuilding, roleplaying, and collaborative writing in general. I also work as a writing advisor, so I enjoy working with, critiquing, and supporting writing in most of its forms. If you would like to work with me with any piece of prose or poetry, let me know. If you have roleplay concepts, questions, or ideas I'd be happy to listen. For those that enjoy the projects I GM, contact me as necessary. PM at your will.

Contact me on Discord at Opposition#4407.

<<<ℂ𝕦𝕣𝕣𝕖𝕟𝕥 ℝ𝕠𝕝𝕖𝕡𝕝𝕒𝕪𝕤...>>>


The Last Embers --- Tatiana Leviatan : The Black Shepherd Summoner




𝔽𝕦𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕪: 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕒t 𝔾𝕒𝕞𝕖


Dare you stand against Titans in a Great Game?
Enter the 𝔾𝕒𝕞𝕖. Move your piece

Most Recent Posts

Xiaolan Dagon
“Zen as fuck.”


“Tells you something about Buddha-nature. Vodka, bloodstains, burning headache. My gun is gone, and it took the stim-high with it… Life—as he once said—is suffering, but we must fight on, or something like that.”

Xiaolan blinked her eyes like she was trying to get rid of some filter pulled over them. It didn’t go away. Later, she’d realize she may have just gotten too used to seeing life through the filtered AR of her pair of Hearts Up! sunglasses. She was staring at her reflection, who was also prostrated on the dark floor of the hotel room, full-lotus with red-stained hands immersed in two glasses splashing vodka over their rims. It’d get the bloodstains out, she thought, but at what cost? Xiaolan could have sworn she’d seen this image before, digitally alight on the wall of some great pagoda somewhere lost to time. Or maybe she simply foresaw her own fate—some great, graceful, Bodhisattva of death or something like that.

Spilling half a glass of tainted vodka in the process, she pressed down the dictaphone's button once again with her elbow. “Bodhisattva of death… I’ll use that somewhere. It’s like zen, but with more aesthetic. Zen as fuck.

Who was to say, really, what happened? Could it have been an impulse surgery? They couldn’t be the stains of her own exsanguinations. Xiaolan knew this because she was too powerful, perhaps even immortal. The very thought conjured images of her squaring up hand-to-hand with Raijin. Maybe it was the thundering in her skull. She removed her hands from either pint glass, flicking them around until the sterile smell misted her accidentally. It was only then that she realized, through the mental haze and visual fog, it was going to be another day of suffering. No moisturizer.

Xiaolan’s war purse was lighter upon leaving that morning. A rather off putting interrogation of the morning staff in the fine establishment below her hotel offered few answers. ‘The Big Shooter’ was gone, which would mean she would be stylistically limited until her reunion with her custom boomstick. As she left the bar, she plucked a dying bougainvillea from a growbox out front, knowing she'd need it later. There, walking through the damp streets of New Malacca, Xiaolan was hardly present in reality, searching instead through a dark void wherein she hoped to find memories of a night gone wrong but found only blackness. It did cross her mind that today was a day of more than just derelict wandering, awaiting the return of someone with a vessel to go raiding, or wasting away confined in bars she couldn’t afford following cons she could never quite keep up with herself.

It was late enough that Xiaolan already couldn’t keep track of the sun. Perhaps she’d slept through the day on purpose, because of her imminent meeting. It was a sort of fate that always befell her. Rest never came easy, appearing as a haphazard burnout of the lights, only to leave the Artist of War to awaken in another instance of reality altogether. Always, it seemed, moments before she had to be up and going somewhere else with great urgency. Flowing like water over the steel plates patching streets that wouldn’t be paved for generations.

The Whip’s pink plated was more dented than it had been the night prior. When Xiaolan felt herself take its handlebars in her grip—feel the slight skew off their axes—she couldn’t help but manifest the half-mil asyuan. Coin, as she called it sometimes, was abject. It was a horrid necessity—one of the Tools of War. She pondered life as a footpad, a footsoldier, or just one shield in a phalanx. The infantrymen rarely pondered their coin. The general, however, played abstract games to determine the fate of nations. Warfare, as it had modernized, had become less its romantic predecessor and more a game of shifting coin, economy variables, petty intrigue that nonetheless changed fate like no honorable battle ever could. It was through the half-mil that she could once again place herself among the generals, and with the coin there was so much to be done. Enemies could be ended, alliances reestablished, capital collected, and even—perhaps—dormant relations kindled.

The Whip fishtailed into a drifting stop at speeds cruel enough to leave slashes of blackened rubber burnt into the already dark pavement. Dancing figures, flashing through forms and kata ran through sequences of precision techniques across her mirrorshades. Xiaolan had the habit of leaving files packed with information splayed across her vision—like she was unconsciously sapping their secrets into her brain in the day-to-day. She grinned when she saw the two men standing as Yin and Yang before the door to Suraiboshen. Catching glimpses of their own optics, the Hearts Up frames upon Xiaolan’s face flickered red, as if greeting them. She smirked.

The establishment, the Artist presumed, might have just the sort of chemically-addled compounds laced into their confections to erase the overwhelming sense of DOOM that coursed in her veins. Every day, in fact, she hoped she’d find the right chef, or sensei, or guru, or enemy that might help her escape the forsaken state of constantly falling and falling towards something dark and unwelcoming. But then, where was the fun in running away from the battle?

“Your general’s come.”
“You’ll find nothing of interest.”
“I am the weapon.”


She paused, letting the perfect structure of her rhetoric linger. Xiaolan was a strange one to frisk, especially with the Big Shooter still absent without official leave, but it was her presence that manifested an edge. The colleagues within must have taken notice. Xiaolan was quick to make herself known.

“Do my screens deceive me or do I stand witness to a fine section of warriors?” She stepped down the hall, swiveling her head just enough to allow her glasses to devour the schematics of the establishment as well as the profiles of the group she’d been directed to join without making her gesture’s intent clear. Upon first observation, the rogue detected no immediate enemies or hazards.

But so began the game,
And the Artist of War, prepared to follow the Way,
Readied her reclamation of a throne on D8.

𝔽𝕦𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕪: 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕒t 𝔾𝕒𝕞𝕖




“We all want to walk the wire.”
“Play both sides...”
“Like every major issue is resolved simply by…”
“Just crossing the line.”
“Choose a camp, and only then will you often find that evil resides in enemy and ally alike.”
“We try to walk the tightrope.”
“But it’s up there that no one sees you.”
“And rarely are you ever seen again…”


ℍ𝕒𝕣𝕥 𝕄𝕖𝕕𝕚𝕒 ℂ𝕠𝕟𝕘𝕝𝕠𝕞𝕖𝕣𝕒𝕥𝕖
𝕋𝕨𝕚𝕟 ℂ𝕚𝕥𝕪 𝕊𝕡𝕣𝕒𝕨𝕝

>>> …
“Tensions continue to mount on the contested Northwestern border of Portland and Seattle. Many believe the Lords of War skirmishers to now be trapped inside the hijacked Cipher Tower taken control of only days ago. Hart media is live on the border as siege seems to be laid outside the tower by a force of ——…?—>>>--??>>>”



𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥𝕖𝕣 ℂ𝕠𝕣𝕡𝕠𝕣𝕒𝕥𝕖 ℤ𝕠𝕟𝕖"𝕋𝕙𝕖 ℙ𝕝𝕒𝕪𝕘𝕣𝕠𝕦𝕟𝕕"
ℝ𝕖𝕔𝕝𝕒𝕚𝕞 ℤ𝕠𝕟𝕖, 𝕊𝕠𝕦𝕥𝕙 ℂ𝕚𝕥𝕪 𝕊𝕡𝕣𝕒𝕨𝕝
𝔸𝕡𝕣𝕚𝕝 𝟚𝕟𝕕, 𝟚𝟘𝟞𝟝 :: 𝕆𝕟𝕖 𝕕𝕒𝕪 𝕓𝕖𝕗𝕠𝕣𝕖 𝕥𝕙𝕖 ℝ𝕖𝕔𝕝𝕒𝕚𝕞 ℤ𝕠𝕟𝕖 𝕕𝕖𝕓𝕒𝕥𝕖
[𝟜𝔻 ℂℍ𝔼𝕊𝕊] 𝕃𝕠𝕒𝕕𝕚𝕟𝕘...


She never knew what it meant for a weapon to backfire. Hadn’t used them enough. That would change.

“Fan out. Encircle.” Such was the way of the Lords of War.

“B-Team keep the Ciphers clear. C-Team withdraw. Relay a report to Knox as fast as possible. A-Team with me… And let the hunt begin...”

Herald couldn’t help but smile as the Scrap God shielded Petrukov from a final fate. It really was that easy sometimes. One could presume he wasn’t the quickest covered head-to-toe in his worn exosuit, but it certainly served its purpose. As the Jury-Rigg drifted through the wall and splattered its surroundings with small shards of concrete, Herald’s helmet only emitted a hardy chuckle, haunting with its mechanical amplifiers echoing in the old warehouse. A length of bent rebar smashed into his leg chassis, but he hadn’t noticed.

Per𝕙𝔸ℙ𝕊 they’d all forgotten her. Perhaps she di𝕕 𝕗𝕒𝕕𝕖 𝕒𝕨𝕒𝕪 𝕚𝕟𝕥𝕠 𝕤𝕠𝕞𝕖 𝕗𝕠𝕣𝕖𝕚𝕘𝕟 𝕄𝕒𝕥𝕣𝕚𝕩. At first it was the subtle burst of interference—reminiscent of televisions screens poorly tuned and all that—that jolted the Jury-Rigg. Kay first caught sight of 𝕙𝕖𝕣 on a busted camera lens that must have been placed recently overlooking the warehouse’s exterior. Then, the hacker faded back to the base white Labyrinth, and there she was standing r𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥 𝕚𝕟 𝕗𝕣𝕠𝕟𝕥 𝕠𝕗 𝕙𝕖𝕣…

Tucked behind a low pylon to ensure her safety and proximity to outlets, Kay was a shadow in the firefight. So no one saw her seize.

Just as quickly as the Drift Demon’s vehicle exploded into view, a solace for his fleeing comrades, they faded from the warehouse-turned-battlefield, leaving only the driver in the dust among the Lords. The moment Petrukov slipped through the garage gateway into the building’s connector room, its garage doors began to collapse in all directions, sealing the driver off and sealing the candidate and her lawyer within. It seemed ‘their choice’ was clear.

As was the decision of the Lords. Their Herald braced his shinplate against a low pylon bursted to rubble and the hulk of metal held from a handle atop and a trigger below aimed at the driver that dared to create an escape route. There was a window of perhaps two seconds where the entire warehouse room could hear that strange pulsing charge as CO2 built up. Then, it all burst out with a puff of ignition fire. The first bang was the 40mm shell firing forth from the barrel of his grenade launcher. The second, almost imperceptibly present in the echo of the first, occurred when the slug slammed into the rear bumper of the Jury-Rigg, nearly taking it off as the car was jolted forward far enough to bend the recently closed garage door in a few inches.

“Aim for the wheels and we’ll drag ‘im out of the wreck,” boomed from the amplifier.

They were like spiders—silent as them at least, save for the sizzling of the laser burns the Ciphers left in their wake. One of the purple-clad men jumped from the catwalk, harnessed in a thick cable, but the sound of its winch was inaudible over engine revs. He fell in perfect position to grab one of the Lords by the helmet, rip off the visor, and jab the lit flare in his hand down into the face that lay beneath. The winch began to retract.


The corridor’s connector was blackened as the garage doors shut. Two green globes, offset just a bit as though whatever eyes or goggles—it was indistinguishable which they were— were malformed. They illuminated a mouth of titanium incisors twisted in a smile. Inheritor had that habit. His mouth was always half smirking, more slack than would make those around him comfortable.

“Encirclement is dangerous, Petrukov. The Lords are trying to encircle you… All the while sending back their weakest rank to alert Portland. Imagine what would happen if the High Warlord knew you’d double-dipped and dealt with the Ciphers...” His ‘S’ trailed off, all snake-like.

“You’ll be under siege. So close to your election.” Inheritor could see it, almost as if through his optics. A detachment of the Lords dashed back through the opposite end of the warehouse, with aims to reach the GCZ’s back alleys and escape into the shadows, crawling their way back to Portland. Some Ciphers would give chase, but neither of the squads realized what watchers might lie in their way.

Serena stared down her adversary. Her animated sunglasses showed their best approximation of an emoticon glare in pixelated nodes of red light. “What’s the plan Inheritor?”

That slack smile return, accompanied by a automatonic cackle. All of the barriers rose, and the doors were opened.


A steady beating bounced off the warehouse walls, metallic, lo-fi. Something within the stereo had busted upon his impact against the concrete pylon. The Bannerlord hugged tight the mighty boombox to his bulging chest, arm veins popped with adrenaline. The archaic machine sprayed flecks of his own blood back onto him with every pulsation. He looked down to his arm, torn open by shrapnel, but he could hardly feel it. The black flag strapped to his back was a dead giveaway for where he was ducking low. It was peppered with the high-caliber ballistics of the Lords of War, even had a long scorch mark that sheared off the top of the flag from a reflected ray of the Cipher’s guns.

He was pinned down, but so long as he remained, the boombox still played.

[edit] My mistake. Coming soon.
Xiaolan Dagon — The Artist of War




If you want more detailed feedback on why your sheet didn't or did get accepted, please PM me in private. Otherwise, thank you to all of those who submitted character sheets. Your interest and enthusiasm is appreciated, even if you didn't ultimately make it into the final roster. If an empty space pops up in the future, don't be afraid to message me about whether or not you can join!

On a side note, the IC will be up by most likely next week. I'm half-way done with the initial post.


I require detailed evaluation of each subtle joke in the sheet and whether it did or did not hit.
I've come to stack countless style-kills on Bork's NPCs and eat nutrient paste, and I'm all out of nutrient paste...




Might go full high seas CPAF Burmese pirate on this one, not gonna lie.
cyberpunk ®


Unique setting.

Interested, though I should probably update your Futility scene before I commit to making a character.
@Opposition Without a doubt, the GM of the best cyberpunk RP on the Guild without a doubt. I was going to make a congratulatory post when Futility reaches 50 posts but I was never one for organisation. Your verve and drive towards pushing the envelope of roleplaying as well as creating interesting settings never ceases to amaze. I’d also like to thank you for putting up with my autophile tendencies.


Good to hear you're enjoying the Cyberpunk. I'm glad to have a writer like you aboard the project, and I always enjoy talking with you. We've still got a look more CPAF content to go. Bombs away.


Hello Futility,

Another post out. Thanks for sticking with us through this lengthy and often slow journey. We're marching on.

For those of you who may be spectating or curious about Futility, I am considering opening ~1-3 new player slots after the three scenes currently taking place finish up. I estimate that may take a month or two, but keep it in mind.

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