Status

Recent Statuses

2 mos ago
Current Come forth my children, for I bringeth the Cyberpunk
4 likes
4 mos ago
"You are the chosen one. You have a moral obligation to keep Cyberpunk alive and proliferated on the Guild."
3 likes
6 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
7 mos ago
𝕀𝕥 𝔹𝕖𝕘𝕚𝕟𝕤 𝔸𝕘𝕒𝕚𝕟! 𝔽𝕦𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕪: 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥 𝔾𝕒𝕞𝕖: roleplayerguild.com/topics/…
11 mos 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

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. I should be able to respond to activity on a near daily basis, but my posts often come at much longer intervals. I suddenly enjoy GMing roleplays. I've started two larger collaborative worldbuilding RPs and I intend to create more in the future. 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

On the Frontier—Through the Ice
Tatiana Leviatan


Her movements had changed. Something about the way her arms twisted and her body shifted. Maybe she wasn’t as snappy as she used to be. These days, there was a malefic grace to the way Tatiana flicked her rifle between her hands. She smiled at its worn state. The firearm had seen plenty of battles, but most of the scratches and warps in the wood were certainly from misuse and regular drops from her idle hands. Every so often, Tatiana leaned forward on the stairs and peered around the Sword of Dawn. The ship—she had to contain laughter upon learning it was their choice scouting vessel—ran more smoothly than she thought. She remembered the snap it made,

And she thought about the Terviclops.

What did it mean? When could you say an inquisitor had fallen? Her warband had to know by now. Some of them had already drawn the line. The Black Shepherd was sure. Tatiana climbed her way up the stairwell to the upper deck and approached the racer’s side. Its lengthy viewport was already scarred by hoarfrost. She scratched at the foggy condensation over the window and peered down. An airy chuckle escaped her lips as she saw the warped metal socket. There had been an antenna there once. Strangely, no one seemed to notice its absence. Perhaps the racer missed any major inspections since it was Ilya’s personal vessel. Tatiana turned away before she distracted any chance onlookers.

Just a glance towards the racer’s pilot was all it took. It was almost as if Tatiana could still see her next to Mother Superior aboard the Karamzina, but she didn’t glare, or bare her teeth, or leap into some capran charge. No. Despite the differences, those blank eyes could conceal anything, always looking inward. Tatiana had plenty of things to worry about in the days prior to her warband’s casting into an icy exile—would it be forever?—but she wasn’t ignorant to the discord of their once autonomous union of condemned Seminary souls. She would have to adapt, she figured.

As Ragnar snapped at Galahad, Tatiana could only smile. Why? While both her warband brothers danced in dialogue, their listener leaned forward, engrossed. To see Ragnar’s frustration almost made her forget that she and Galahad were locked in some sort of game of evasion. One or the other was always on-duty, busy, or uninterested. Now, though, Tatiana was ready to parley again. Or, at least she had to prove that she could appear that way.

“I can keep this up and fight…”


“Everyone needs someone to protect them…”


“No singular piece can defeat an opponent’s king… Usually. It’s an effort of coordination,” Tatiana said, though she was quiet. “Except for the knight, of course. Smothered mate—the knight utilizes the enemy pieces to corner and overwhelm the enemy regardless of allied structures…” Rather than the usual attempt to jump herself into the conversation, the Black Shepherd was comfortable in her position on the periphery. Another twist of her wrist sent her rifle in another circle. She caught its center, around a length of white tape wound around a cracked forestock. Her smile remained, but Tatiana was careful to let her eyes linger on the floor so as to allow the two boys to continue.

Galahad’s words, however, were all it took to bring the Black Shepherd to attention.

“Squad Leader... ”


“Revelations...”


“Great Danger….”


“Protect Them All...”


“The thing…” Tatiana started, speaking not exactly to either of her comrades, but almost aloud to herself, “about that game is that the players often welcome gambits of both pawn and queen. That’s often all it takes to gain the positional advantage.” She jammed the rifle against the wall, its bayonet scraping the Sword of Dawn’s floor in the process.

“An army can coordinate their sacrifices and make their positional plays to corner the enemy king.”

"But only one piece delivers the checkmate."


Tatiana grimaced, and turned away to conceal her face. She was content to gaze unto the unending ice. She pressed a claw to the glass viewport, and wondered what it might take to escape to the other side.

𝔽𝕦𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕪: 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕒t 𝔾𝕒𝕞𝕖




“Every operator in the Reclaim ends up in their fair share of bouts against the GCZ. It’s like everyone’s got a hustle and that’s where they keep it—out of the sightlines and away from prying eyes.”

“Now that’s a place where the 𝔾𝕒𝕞𝕖’𝕤 players are made.”


ℍ𝕒𝕣𝕥 𝕄𝕖𝕕𝕚𝕒 ℂ𝕠𝕟𝕘𝕝𝕠𝕞𝕖𝕣𝕒𝕥𝕖
𝕋𝕨𝕚𝕟 ℂ𝕚𝕥𝕪 𝕊𝕡𝕣𝕒𝕨𝕝

>>> …
“Shit. Back up.”
“Is the camera off?”
“Does Valentine know we’re here? Does somebody know?”

“He sent us. Had to be for a reason. And he said not to turn it off.”

“Something’s not right.”
“They’re coming.”

“Turn it off!”




𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥𝕖𝕣 ℂ𝕠𝕣𝕡𝕠𝕣𝕒𝕥𝕖 ℤ𝕠𝕟𝕖 “ℕ𝟘 𝕄𝔸ℕ'𝕊 𝕃𝔸ℕ𝔻”
ℝ𝕖𝕔𝕝𝕒𝕚𝕞 ℤ𝕠𝕟𝕖, 𝕊𝕠𝕦𝕥𝕙 ℂ𝕚𝕥𝕪 𝕊𝕡𝕣𝕒𝕨𝕝
𝔸𝕡𝕣𝕚𝕝 𝟚𝕟𝕕, 𝟚𝟘𝟞𝟝 :: 𝕆𝕟𝕖 𝕕𝕒𝕪 𝕓𝕖𝕗𝕠𝕣𝕖 𝕥𝕙𝕖 ℝ𝕖𝕔𝕝𝕒𝕚𝕞 ℤ𝕠𝕟𝕖 𝕕𝕖𝕓𝕒𝕥𝕖
[𝕎𝕠𝕣𝕞𝕤] 𝕀𝕟𝕚𝕥𝕚𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕘...


“Calm down. Everybody just calm down. Calm down. We’ve all got to calm down.” Gatch was already calm, but he figured if he said it over and over again the bombardment of questions might stop. “Can somebody get me connected to APEX Twin City proper? You know what? No. Just… Someone connect and ask for Turkish. He’ll know what to do, or something.”

Gatch’s withering, bloodshot eyes never left the wall of displays. As his advisor marched out of the room, he collapsed back onto a couch that was worth more than monthly wages for anyone below the sixth floor. The crowd was too amorphous for him to really follow the man behind the megaphone. He didn’t have the attention span anyways. Lott stole it away. She did that a lot, but still she was one of the shills who did it the least. Busy with her own anxieties, the candidate figured.

“This is already the worst. I am the worst. APEX is the worst.” He clicked a switch on the side of the couch and its cupholder rose to meet his bronze hand. The sight caught him for a second. He still wasn’t used to the new color. Used to be slick silver, until—

So maybe the whole ordeal wasn’t THE worst.

“Schizophrenic woman? What? Did that actually— you know what I don’t care. We can pretend like it didn’t or someone can find her and—... Okay questions, yeah, shoot.”

For a moment, Lott continued to just stare at the interrupted camera feed. Her eyes were an unresponsive blue screen of death that reflected a black screen of death to come. Gatch’s proclamation that he was the worst had sent her mind spiraling. Lott had always assumed, regardless of who surrounded her, that she held the title for being the worst. It had been a comforting thought for the woman. She liked knowing exactly where she stood, even if that was at the bottom. However, if her boss—well, one of her bosses—said that he was the worst then she would still somehow manage to be beneath him. Yet what was worse than the worst?

Lott didn’t know, but she imagined hypotheticals would fall somewhere in that abyss of awfulness. She snapped herself out of the downward spiral, jerking her focus back up to reality that she almost gave her brain whiplash. The worst mayor had told the even worse publicist to start asking questions, and regardless of how embarrassingly terrible Lott was at playing her part the game still required her piece to be moved. She moved to the chair in front of him and sat down stiffly with crossed legs, her PDA balanced carefully on her knee.

“As Mayor of the Reclaim Zone, you have been credited by multiple corporations for bolstering what had once been a fragile, risky market into one that is now considered a smart investment. However, many critics in the labor force claim that unemployment has grown despite the rampant relocation of many businesses to the Reclaim, and that the freedom given to corporations have only ratcheted up tensions back to the state that they were thirty years ago,” said Lott in a droning monotone, her eyes flicking up on occasion as she read from the prepared questions. “Is there anything you’d like to say to address these concerns? Likewise, would electing you for Councilman see the corporate deregulations practiced in the Reclaim Zone spread to the rest of the Twin City Sprawl?”

“Wait—are you actually asking me? Did somebody not write answers or something?” Gatch sighed and nearly collapsed back into the couch. There was a knock at the situation room door and the voice on the other side spoke without acknowledgement.

“Gatch, I got Turkish. He’s not in the GCZ…”

“…”

“I’ll get him here…”

Gatch shook himself and looked back to Lott, finally willing himself to play the Game. “The unemployment gauges utilized by journalists and fringe politicians don’t even scratch the surface of what the people in the Reclaim do to get by. There’s a way for everyone if they find it. That’s how things are in this zone. That’s how they’ve always been and that’s what the people want—to find their own way regardless of a dead man walking around with an inspector’s clipboard allocating jobs and funds and...”

“The deregulation of the Reclaim Zone just brought more of what the people were craving, and now whether you notice or not, we’re all thriving just as much as we planned to. Whether it’s me, or the Reavers, or factory workers slowly dismantling machines for their own benefit. Everyone—”

Gatch sat up and stared into the static beneath the TV’s LEDs. It was like Lott had evaporated from the room. Had he actually been talking for once?

“Everyone takes.”

“Come in members of the round table. I’m considering shooting a harpoon zipline into the R&D building and dangling precariously over the crowd for advanced reconnaissance.” The sound of the classic “old school” radio static played over Knights Enterprises satellite communicators as he finished. The crunch of static appeared again only a moment later, preemptively striking its opponents (other radios) before he came back in. “Advise.”

Another artificially added chunk of static.

Salt flicked the grappling gun in between his hands, inspecting the Knights’ newest piece while his digital display of infrared lasers traced over the crowd. The commando’s visor caught one face that didn’t belong in the crowd. A second glance would have been impossible as the radiating fires overloaded the goggles.

The molotovs had done their jobs, though the puddles of still flaring gasoline acted in part as a wall that APEX’s doormen could shield themselves behind. Olex could see the invisible lines drawn between its masses. Through the thickening smoke, certain parties exchanged glances and others maintained distance. The dangerous ones were more coordinated. Firebombs, though they tried to appear sporadic, could be tracked to a coordinating cluster of rioters that dispersed amongst the crowd to throw and then retreat soon after. The major attacks on the corp’s hired killers weren’t sustained. There were other plans, or the concealed crowd hadn’t brought enough firepower.


“An excellent motto, but I think the company would prefer if we go with a more marketable slogan for this election. Everyone Gives? I will workshop ideas with my team later,” said Lott, her focus more on the screen in her hand than the other person in the room as she made notes. She was thankful that the Mayor didn’t ask further as to why there weren’t already written answers for the questions. Lott still felt uncertain when it came to being a publicist, just like she felt uncertain when it came to being herself, but she imagined crafting answers would fall under her responsibility.

A notification blipped on her PDA, but Lott was able to hide the concern on her face like she was able to hide the fact that she’d been slipping in her duties. Lott shifted her legs and continued playing the moderator, “While the Bay has enjoyed a continual stability, South City and, more specifically, the Reclaim have endured more tumultuous times. Why, it was only yesterday that your offices were besieged by rioters. How do you plan to protect the Bay and stabilize South City when you cannot keep your own home office safe?”

Two men wrestled one another back and forth in the crowd out front until chance had it that they came too close to one of the mercs. The camera picked up a spray of blood that must have traveled 10 feet from the man’s skull. Gatch hardly reacted. “Looks safe to me,” he said. “But uhhh—...”

He paused, watched some more of the live action. The crowd had become a pot with a tight lid—98 degrees celsius. “APEX won’t fall. There’s plenty of Reclaim goons looking for jobs. Half of ‘em are even dumb enough to freelance gang work with a corporate name attached. Just give ‘em guns. It’s not the safety they want. Fiends. They want the violence. Watch...” The doormen barked orders that were amplified by their exosuits. The crowd yelled expletives that were amplified by the alcohol. Two opposing forces like a sliding fault line, but nothing came of it.


Stella was already catching onto the hustle. Each different gang and group in the crowd dealt with the strange, out-of-place, independent variable differently. Some avoided her, sent her looks. Others hassled her, but fielding them was as easy as fielding a Limbo’d patron into a pneum transport to their station quarters. The megaphoning had stopped alongside the greater assault. As the vial emerged from Stella’s console, she smiled, as her Clairvoyance Optics gave it the best scan they could without a live sample.

Analyzed. Fine.
But with too many missing variables.
Could that even happen?
A sliver of glass.
Half-full.
Half-absent.

Not empty, but unscanned.


The Ultrabartender flickered back to the club. Back there, frozen in time, the Mixologists were taught to embrace the confounding factors. Suspended in space that way, you knew they were there for a reason—pre-placed.

They were made.
By Agents.
Sh ado w d e mon s.
Chaos’s invocations.


The Mixologist’s right arm split apart in slivers of artificial flesh and metal to reveal a chamber whose hypodermic fed into the cyberware’s greater interworkings. Stella slipped the vial into place, punctured it, and just as quickly as it had opened up, the autonomous machinery sealed away, spewing new readouts were fed to the Ultrabartender’s optical implants.

It was hard not to get jostled in the crowd, but Olex hadn’t been bothered too much. In that sort of land, where violence ruled for those who so chose it, everyone else had other concerns. Just like the courier, each piece had their own intentions to disseminate among the masses. One such subject did collide with Olex, though the assailant hardly recognized the hefty shoulder check. He looked towards Olex from behind dark glasses. His face was that of a ghost—pale, gaunt, and forgettable. The dark-red and unkempt hair, however, were quite the sight.

“Excuse me,” he said before slipping by, careful not to knock his briefcase into any other passers by. Another wave of molotovs kept the flames fed. He disappeared into the smoke.

>>>𝟡𝟡 𝔻𝕖𝕘𝕣𝕖𝕖𝕤...

“Holy shit.” This time, the sound of static was overlaid with the sound of Salt stumbling back upright. “The infrared actually picked up one of the Reavers.” He leaned over the lip of the roof from the burnt out building where he was posted. The grappling gun, for better or worse, no longer stole away his attention.

“Class one operator, ‘Salt’, reporting to Reclaim Command. My team has spotted one of the Reavers… Older guy with a rough beard. Kind of looks homeless and definitely doesn’t look like he’s here to kill someone.” Salt paused and surveyed the thug’s proudly displayed jacket. He had all the marks of one of the Reavers, and by the looks of it he had little to fear in the heat and haze.

“One of their elder members?”

Is it possible that there’s essence to the emptiness?
Is my scanner blemished? Missing something? Seeing darkly?


That explained why the megaphone coordination had gone silent. The master of the masses draped in his green rags was fixing for a drink. He didn’t come alone though—had a whole entourage with him. They stayed in a tight circle. Not their first riot, it seemed.

Sell your soul to the Shadow Demons for a pair of Optics so fine that you look down and the countertop reshapes into 88 ivory keys with a looper pedal to add effect. You have everything you need. Play to your heart’s content. Let the dazed, hazy state determine the decisions to make.


When Stella looked back up, the drink was in her hand. She swirled the glass along the table. No ice. Not this time. The glass looked halfway like a test tube with metal columns reinforcing its sides. Stella had never seen such a vessel for her art. The B - A - R was even stocked with a spare few. Stella slid the drink across the bartop, but she didn’t release her hand from its brim. A thick hypodermic still extended from the base of her palm into the liquid. She stirred. The man in rags just stared her down. His associates had formed a tight semi-circle around the B - A - R and one of them held out a velvet sack for her. She took it in her offhand.

Fizzing.
A touch of green bioluminescence.
It was perfect for him.


“A custom cocktail for the consumption of the coordinator.” She lifted her hand from the drink and her Clairvoyance Optics swarmed the bag to devour and digest its stimuli. “A man very down to Earth. All-natural. He who cultivates. On the come up...”

The man in rags pulled something from beneath his cloak. He screwed it onto the cocktail like a lid. Stella rarely did to-go orders. The Limbo was part of the experience. But the Limbo was everywhere. It was ubiquitous—floated through the air on unseen currents.

He screwed the lid on top. Looked like a sort of spray bottle. Then he addressed Stella: “Put it on.”

She spent a long moment just admiring the device’s clean hardware and design. The man in rags and his associates had already distributed and put on their own masks. It comfortably sealed against her face, and when she took her first breath through the rebreather, she could feel it whirring to life with its own internal machinery. The man in rags and his goons turned on heel and stamped off to their own designated spots. He must have done a lot to make them all feel like important pieces fielded.

Nothing bested pure oxygen to settle and focus the mind.


The Knights operatives had cycled on and off the radios about Reavers sighted, but Salt stayed on the older not-so-gentle man. Even locked in their sights, though, the Reavers couldn’t be stopped. Knights Enterprises had no men on the ground, so when it happened, it spanned only fractions of seconds. A ghost, obscured with dark sunglasses and a thick trench coat, stepped from the crowd with a timed step. He carried a briefcase. The elder Reaver was looking the other way when the ghost closed the distance. Half of the Knights Enterprises onlookers may not have even been able to see their encounter before the comm-line was filled with noise.

“He’s been—”

“Who is that guy?”


“Target’s down. Repeat. The target’s been…” Salt let his words trail off as he squinted into the infrared. It was one quick move. Behind his briefcase, the ghost had pulled a serrated blade that carved into the Reaver on a twisting chain. The elder fell to his knees.

“The target’s insides have become outsides.” The Reaver’s flesh still caught on the blade as the ghost started back into the crowd like nothing happened. Few of the rioting groups even reacted to his presence. They were all preoccupied, but those who felt the splatters of blood couldn’t ignore the sight.

“Keep eyes on the assailant. I—” Salt cut out abruptly. Just static. Then, silence.


Lott struck like a cobra, snatching her precious tablet from Gatch’s hands as it wobbled and pressing it against her chest like it was a crying child whose callus father had unintentionally hurt it, and then became a statue once again. The mayor seemed distracted, as if he’d never seen someone disemboweled before. If it interested him so much perhaps she should invite him out the next time the Koena Dome had a Saws & Dolls match. Then again, a subordinate inviting a superior out to anything would be unprofessional.

“Good,” said Lott. She actually smiled. It was discomforting. If it ended up being necessary, Turkish would also be gone soon—the blame for the security fiasco at the Swathe Street Commons pinned solely on his shoulders. A little explosion here and a bit of police brutality there was hardly something that raised an eyebrow in the Reclaim. However, if a minor fabrication happened to imply that his ineptitude wasn’t actually ineptitude but intentional malfeasance to create negative press for the Central Party then all the better for her. Her superiors would have someone to point the finger at, and she’d have a momentary relief from the stress that was turning her insides into one giant ulcer.

“There is one more thing we should prepare for,” she said, studying the Mayor. He seemed nervous. She figured that meant she should also be nervous, but she didn’t feel much aside from the chair below her and the nice breeze coming from the climate controlled vent shaft. Could someone who couldn’t manage a life-threatening riot raging just several dozen stories down below manage the day-to-day stresses of being a council member? Lott didn’t know the answer. Despite being infatuated with watching old vids of political assassinations, she never even considered that there could be any dangers in being a politician.

Maybe she would consider sticking with politics after the election.

“Joshua,” she said. Using her boss’s first name was a big deal, and maybe a risky step, but Lott figured it would have the head-turning impact akin to an angry mother using their child’s full name. “Did you knowingly use votes of the deceased to win the mayorship over the Reclaim Zone?”

For once, there was a sign of life in the way Lott glared at her boss. It wasn’t a question that would be asked by a moderator at the debate, nor was it something that APEX had tasked her with finding out. She asked simply because she had to know the truth. It kept her up at night, at least until the sleeping pills and vodka shots did their magic. If she was going to keep playing the Great Game honorably, Lott needed to know if the player her piece was supporting had cheated.

>>>When a pot boils over, you can see the signs early on bubbling up, but the physical change takes place in an instant. Ninety-nine to one-hundred.


It was almost undetectable. The untrained laymen would surely have seen Gatch in just another zombified moment, but Lott saw him when he froze. The mental calculations dissipated as a new problem perplexed his brain, right when she said his name. He sat up a bit and spent a long moment staring straight forward. Then, in an instant, he looked into Lott’s eyes for perhaps the very first time—really meeting her gaze, which transposed into its biting glare.

He let a touch of perplexion waver his expression as if he was searching for a name. Gatch felt it was only justified to play the 𝔾𝕒𝕞𝕖, use its tricks when Lott thought it was time to question him. He’d bet his money on how easy it was to get to her. Yes…”

Gatch stood up and moved to the table at the center of the conference room. Embedded at its head was a console, and with a few somatic commands, the array of display screens lurched backwards in time. A few of the displays combined and zoomed into the smoke.

“Look at those people—‘at us’ if you prefer. The constituents, the people, you and I...”

The ghost flashed across the screens. One panel to the next. The cycling chain on his blade met the Reaver’s stomach again. Time, in the digital depiction, slowed.

“What do they all want? Your next job is to tally up all their votes. To really make change, we can find all their problems, come up with a holistic solution. The monks, that’s what they’re telling you. They’re going to be the guys that invade the lower bureaucracy, thinking they can change the whole Game from the ground up. Should we do that too?”

“You can see the people on the screens, Ramana. They can only see themselves from inside the smoke. Don’t waste the blessing. Use the information available...”

The displays evaporated back into static. The live feed of the building’s surroundings started to play, looping between side alleys and central coverage of the riot.

“What do they want? What do they really want?”

“That’s the thing. None of those people throwing stones want a unified system where votes get tallied up. They want to spill each other’s blood and get away with it. They want to deface and destroy a corporate faction because it makes them feel powerful. They live all their lives—like us—giving into desires. The desires are just different.”

“And what happens to the desires of a dead man? His influence remains in the Reclaim in the stones he’s kicked and bricks he’s lifted, but his opinion evaporates? If there were someone—by pure chance—that could go through the system and allow the Reclaim to live on, and its chaos to reign. Sometimes we focus too much on changing the Constant, that we can’t change a thing.”

“Who dares to tell the man whose guts were shredded that he’s no longer a part of any of this when his signature is imprinted on the asphalt of the Reclaim?”

“Is it you?”



For the first time since his speech, the man in rags dared to enter the crowd rather than lurk at its edges. Stella caught him in glimpses, weaving in between a hive-like beast of a thousand different misaligned goals. Each arm of any anarchic hecatoncheires was marred by its own mental shadow demons. He flowed through them like he was sympathetic, the bottle in his hand.

Surely, one could conjure up allusions to holy water.
Dusting denizens and derelicts and devotees and dead-men-walking like they were all part of one unified Gaia in the biosphere.
Everyone, after all, is equal in their carbon components.


In the heat of the moment—there, up close to the flames, in the frying pan—those passing by could hardly notice what the man in rags was doing. He kept the bottle close to his waist, loosely flicking and flittering it back and forth in his hand in time with his hurried pace. But occasionally, it would rise. He would depress the trigger, nozzle facing out towards someone caught in the action, distracted, but maybe catching just a sliver of the rags tinted like shadowed grass as he disappeared back into the madness.


“Who, then, speaks for the dead men who lived in the chaos? Who can speak for the Constant?”


“Outpost three. There’s signs my perimeter’s been breached…” The Knights Satellite line cut off.

“. . .”

“Outpost three?”

The upheaval came quick, and this time, there were no more molotovs. It started with one or two cases, looking like the riot was no different as shoving matches began and fists were thrown. Soon the doormen braced themselves to confront what lay beyond the dying flames, and it did come. Two men charged through the dying flames. It couldn’t have been more than 15 feet from the courier caught in the crowd; one of the Reavers lurking in the smoke grabbed the collar of the nearest protestor and crossed his hands, locking the leather around his victim’s throat. From behind, the shrill cries of a young man cracked through the air. The bottle fell from his hand and flame enveloped him.

Frenzy in Death.
Assimilation or Rejection.


Left and right, front and back, one after another more vicious combats broke out among groups. Some of the protestors battled back their own. A ganger fell back into the flames. A journalist’s ribcage crunched against the pavement. At the gates of APEX’s stronghold, the tense men raised their weapons with fingers hovering over triggers, and lashed out with metallic boots. The ghost was gone. The man in rags was gone.

“Outpost One to Command Post. Three of my operatives at their outposts are reporting unknown parties have entered the abandoned complexes surrounding the APEX facility. One Knights operative not responding...” Salt had already packed up all his gear strewn about the rooftop. The zipline gun, it seemed, would have to wait for another day. He honed his infrared headset in on the only other outpost in his sightline. Another block of protestors flooded its entrance and began fanning out on lower floors.

“Outpost two. Come in, Glory. You’re getting swarmed. Stay on guard—uh...” Salt paused, slapping his hand hard against a busted coolant unit. He surveyed his gear once again. “Units reroute. Pull out if necessary. Mobilize towards those that need extraction, and find out what the hell they’re doing in there...” For the first time in many weeks, all the play melted away from the Operator’s tone.

The uproar had been more than enough to distract most of the chaotic crowd from the abrupt arrival of two open-top armored trucks that drifted into stops only meters from the APEX facility. The closest civilian rioter that stepped towards the vehicles lost the mounted plasma-laser lottery and the upper-half of his head began to liquefy. An old man appeared from the passenger side and nodded towards his companion manning the turret. Unlike the others, he wore no more armor than a muscle shirt that exposed his arm’s interworked machinery and old cargo pants. He puffed a cigar and stared directly into the nearest security camera.

“Someone get after Gatch,” he said whilst waving his arms to get as much attention as he could from the inanimate building. He raised his voice, so the thick Irish accent would pick up over the raucous crowd. “Cleaning crew’s here, isn’t it?”

In the street, Olex could see the people of the Reclaim as the newly arrived variables divided them from one another, from their own plans, from any order that had emerged. Those who stood against the paramilitary metal titans lost eyes or broke bones. Those who sank back into the crowd found other rioters, gangers, and civilians turning on them. Even still, as smoke gave way to stampedes obscuring vision, the APEX megalith came alive with light. The old man coordinating the GCZ shock squad strolled through a lifting garage door that opened into the east alley along the compound’s block.

As if moving harmoniously, one superorganism, the west side of the crowd also split away. At the head of the tight cluster of rioters, the man in rags arrived just in time after a dose of thermite pulsed with heat and light from within an abandoned husk adjacent to the west alley. When the man in rags was ushered inside, some of his collective fragmented off to watch the alleyway.


“Bossman.” Gatch’s advisor flung both doors to the meeting room open and the facility manager followed. The candidate flashed Lott a final look, before fixing up his posture. “You’ve got a video call from HQ—and you’re gonna want to take this one.”

“The integrated security field alerted us to a breach in the east and west alleys of this column.” The facility manager stepped in before the situation room’s occupants could respond. “It must be—”

“Turkish. Yes. We called. He likely wants more info about what’s happening, and a drink or something.” By the time he looked back towards Lott, Gatch was already letting the double doors careen shut behind him with his advisor leading the way. “Publicist. This is the perfect time for you to get acquainted. He’s probably still down on the factory level. Take over while I answer HQ. Ask your questions or—...”

“You know.” Gatch shrugged his shoulders and the doors swung shut.

The facility manager remained squinting at the array of screens. With her mouth agape, she fervently interacted with the switchboard on the table. “There was another breach, too. I’m sure of it. West end of this column…” The displays zoomed in on the west alley. There was nothing but smoke. Dark shapes.


Is conscious absence possible?
Or are we just oft caught up—
Lost in the chaos.


The Mixologist really couldn’t resist. As the world tore open its chest with wicked claws of shadow and bared its fleshy core, she was gifted the position of dousing dangers in drink. The B - A - R was beyond stocked. Ingredients, reagents, tinctures, and toxins of the sort Stella hadn’t seen since she admired the wide selection of Limbo’s storage. She was inspecting a variety of the glass reagent containers, idly tossing them into the air, when a nondescript, unmarked drone dove through the crowd and halted to hover just in front of the B - A - R. The Mixologist stared into its singular camera eye. It stared back. She hardly noticed the violence—rising—too enraptured by the captivating gaze of the black-glass scanner. She wondered how it saw her.

Did the scanner, then, see clearly into her mind murked by dancing shadows.
Did it see beyond motivations to mix and make merry?
Or did it see darkly?


Stella raised a glass to her lips and felt its cool contents spill over her, warded off by the oxygen mask.

Hey everyone,

Considering my own time constraints, I'm sorry to say that Doomsayer's is going to have to go on hold for the moment. I've not got the time to upkeep the RP to a satisfactory level, and I'd rather wait until I can tackle the project in full before moving on. Thanks to those of you who submitted apps. When Doomsayers comes back, you're welcome to pick up where you left off.

Thanks,
Opp
Thanks for all the applications so far. I've been a bit busy this past week, but I'll try to coordinate with all of you in the coming days.

In the meantime, we are still waiting on some other applicants. Doomsayers, alas, is coming soon.
We are currently in the rather thorough character creation process with most applicants. If there are any other interested parties still looking to apply, there's plenty of time to do so.

Feel free to contact me on discord or head over to the OOC.
As we begin to jump into the (rather intensive) character creation process, I'm going to be on standby for questions as needed. To provide better correspondence, the Doomsayers discord will now be live, but please note: the selection process is not finalized. We may not be able to accept everyone, so entrance into the discord is preliminary for character building.
If you'd like to be added to the Discord, hit me up. My tag is in the rules.

Also, we are still looking for any new interested parties that dare to tackle the whack Doomsayers character sheet. Throw a reply in the thread if you're interested and the other players and I can help you with any confusing aspects of the OOC.


TO BE ADDED:
-Specific locations in High John's House of Saints
-Core NPC in High John's House of Saints
-Specific locations in the Land of the Dead
OOC is live. Example character is live. Doomsayers begins. Make your way to the real thread:

roleplayerguild.com/topics/182741-dua…

“Chaos and Order."
"Harmony and Discord."
"Stasis and Flow."
"Balance; Counterbalance."
"The Right and the Left Hand Paths."

"It is the choice of the individual—Destruction or Creation.”



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Layer 02:::









Character Creation




The character creation process for Doomsayers is a bit intensive and abstract compared to the usual character sheet for Guild RPs. In a sense, you’ll be creating two entirely different sheets (don’t worry too much; both of them are short). One side of the major sheet involves outlining your character in reality while the other side describes the mysterious Doomsayer that your character will be uncovering right alongside you.

In the Land of the Dead, Doomsayers are one of the closest things to any sort of ‘magic’. Your Doomsayer will be able to employ a variety of mystic abilities that shape the world around them, but rather than specifically outlining your abilities, we will be relying on an abstract approach based on the concepts and themes of your Doomsayer. Thus, you’ll be able to employ this sort of ‘magic’ onto the world when it works well for the story, almost as if the Land of the Dead shapes to the Doomsayers rather than the Doomsayers exerting their influence on the world.

With that said, there will certainly be limits on what you can accomplish when inhabiting your Doomsayer. The thematic concepts that are at the center of the sheets (Virtue, Vice, Quest, Doomsayer Prophecy, etc) will determine what your Doomsayer is able to do. Keep that in mind as you write, as your limits and abilities will be bound to your creative ability rather than any arbitrary external factors. When writing these crucial elements of the sheet, particularly those detailing actual writing samples of your Doomsayer, you do not have to omit their mysticism entirely, but it shouldn’t be the central focus of any section. Explore as much as you’d like.

Creation Guidelines:::

Characters can be from anywhere in the world, though it would be nice if you all created people who spoke English for the sake of group communication and avoiding that sort of additional obstacle.

You can choose whether or not your character has any fragmented knowledge of their Doomsayer, though your Doomsayer and counterpart will (at the start of the RP) not know any concrete detail about one another. You may, however, have the off-sense that you’ve seen the Doomsayer in dreams, or in a slip of the imagination. Allow that to influence your character as you will.

There’s been a slight change to the sheet since the interest check. Doomsayer title is no longer the same thing as Doomsayer Paragon. Thus, you can call your Doomsayer something related, but independent of your Paragon.

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