Polyphemus Member
They/ Them
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- Old Guild Username: Vulture
- Joined: 12 yrs ago
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- Polyphemus 12 yrs ago
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In
Something quite different. (Worthy of tilted heads and begrudging interest,)
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12 yrs ago
Forum: Casual Interest Checks
Still here.
In
The League - First Blood (Persistent World Superhero Sci Fi and Fantasy, Always Open)
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12 yrs ago
Forum: Casual Roleplay
BlackSam3091 said
Like Poly I'm happy to Co-Gm. As for the character death part I'm all for it, but it would need to be regulated. I would think for major acts a player death would raise the stakes. Perhaps the GM could approach a player privately ahead of times to see if they'd be willing to 'sacrifice' a character as it were, so instead of a punishment its more like an extension of the story with a real emotional resonance for the characters, kind of like the death of Barry Allen in infinite crises.
Seconded. That's not to say we should have every death be a heroic, awe-inspiring sacrifice, though- there can be just as much drama in someone dying pointlessly.
In
The League - First Blood (Persistent World Superhero Sci Fi and Fantasy, Always Open)
→
12 yrs ago
Forum: Casual Roleplay
SIXGUN
"Tarnation!" Sixgun yelled involuntarily as the first shots rang out and the Korean gangster next to him flew back as though yanked on strings, a trail of airborne blood in his wake. Bullets were flying in earnest even as he drew his gun, and the summit degenerated into an insane free-for-all, everyone against everyone else.
Sides seemed to be emerging, though. The Maine family and Cartel seemed to have thrown in with the Outfit- while they weren't going out of their way to work together, they were pointedly refraining from shooting at one another. Better than nothing. Donovan had chosen discretion over valor, and the Iranians had gone kill-crazy. Various superpowered attacks were flying as well, not to mention that one guy spinning around up in the rafters under his own power, he was definitely flying.
Sixgun took in the situation, his superb reflexes allowing him to see that he had to make a split-second decision. There was the speedster charging along the surface of the table directly at Marconi, knife in his hand and murder in his eyes. And there the was the man with the lethal gaze, a second away from turning it on Argus. One was his link to the underworld, the other a potential link to Legion with his vast stores of knowledge on just about everything
Who to save?
He wasted a blink of an eye worrying about being recognized by El Rey or El Tecnico, both of them expert martial artists who knew everyone fought in their own distinctive way, unique as a fingerprint. But he saw El Rey emptying his machine pistol at gringos and El Tecnico busy with suplexing a gangbanger straight through a table, knew they were too distracted.
He went for Argus.
"Get to Marconi!" he instructed Wire, not looking to see if the man heard him or was even next to him, as he fired three .45 rounds at the man pouring energy out of his eyes. Ben couldn't take the chance the man with lethal eyes was wearing armor, so he aimed accordingly. Two bullets to the groin, a third to the head. Not looking to see what effect it had, hoping it at least took the meta's attention off Argus, he threw himself forwards.
To best protect the man, he had to be by his side. And the quickest way to reach Argus was to crawl beneath the dozens of tables pushed together in the center of the room. Revolver in hand, dust from the floor of the old building smudging his white suit jacket, he took the shortcut to where the man had taken cover, poking his head out from underneath where he was pretty sure he'd find Argus.
SONJA
This was solid gold, if it wasn't all a line of bullshit or an invitation to walk prettily into a trap. While she was wary, it was too good not to act upon. A raid on Desdemona might be in order. Savant, if she knew him, probably had a dozen sets of plans for a submarine or bathysphere, not to mention the new Atlantean fellow who had joined the team might be able to help attack the bottom of Lake Michigan. Dangerous but doable. Taking on Desdemona would require an orchestrated effort from both superhumans and magicians, but it'd be a massive blow to the organization. But they still had Polaris, Knightmare, Sanguine, so many others to fall back on.
"Alright, then. So what was the plan at the prison? One you broke out the high-risk prisoners, where were you supposed to take them?" She shifted in her seat. "And what even is your overall goal aside from just generally being terrible people?"
"Tarnation!" Sixgun yelled involuntarily as the first shots rang out and the Korean gangster next to him flew back as though yanked on strings, a trail of airborne blood in his wake. Bullets were flying in earnest even as he drew his gun, and the summit degenerated into an insane free-for-all, everyone against everyone else.
Sides seemed to be emerging, though. The Maine family and Cartel seemed to have thrown in with the Outfit- while they weren't going out of their way to work together, they were pointedly refraining from shooting at one another. Better than nothing. Donovan had chosen discretion over valor, and the Iranians had gone kill-crazy. Various superpowered attacks were flying as well, not to mention that one guy spinning around up in the rafters under his own power, he was definitely flying.
Sixgun took in the situation, his superb reflexes allowing him to see that he had to make a split-second decision. There was the speedster charging along the surface of the table directly at Marconi, knife in his hand and murder in his eyes. And there the was the man with the lethal gaze, a second away from turning it on Argus. One was his link to the underworld, the other a potential link to Legion with his vast stores of knowledge on just about everything
Who to save?
He wasted a blink of an eye worrying about being recognized by El Rey or El Tecnico, both of them expert martial artists who knew everyone fought in their own distinctive way, unique as a fingerprint. But he saw El Rey emptying his machine pistol at gringos and El Tecnico busy with suplexing a gangbanger straight through a table, knew they were too distracted.
He went for Argus.
"Get to Marconi!" he instructed Wire, not looking to see if the man heard him or was even next to him, as he fired three .45 rounds at the man pouring energy out of his eyes. Ben couldn't take the chance the man with lethal eyes was wearing armor, so he aimed accordingly. Two bullets to the groin, a third to the head. Not looking to see what effect it had, hoping it at least took the meta's attention off Argus, he threw himself forwards.
To best protect the man, he had to be by his side. And the quickest way to reach Argus was to crawl beneath the dozens of tables pushed together in the center of the room. Revolver in hand, dust from the floor of the old building smudging his white suit jacket, he took the shortcut to where the man had taken cover, poking his head out from underneath where he was pretty sure he'd find Argus.
SONJA
This was solid gold, if it wasn't all a line of bullshit or an invitation to walk prettily into a trap. While she was wary, it was too good not to act upon. A raid on Desdemona might be in order. Savant, if she knew him, probably had a dozen sets of plans for a submarine or bathysphere, not to mention the new Atlantean fellow who had joined the team might be able to help attack the bottom of Lake Michigan. Dangerous but doable. Taking on Desdemona would require an orchestrated effort from both superhumans and magicians, but it'd be a massive blow to the organization. But they still had Polaris, Knightmare, Sanguine, so many others to fall back on.
"Alright, then. So what was the plan at the prison? One you broke out the high-risk prisoners, where were you supposed to take them?" She shifted in her seat. "And what even is your overall goal aside from just generally being terrible people?"
Pascal blinked as he was unexpectedly hit by a drive-by nicknaming. He supposed he was supposed to be "Quiet Quincy." Well, he had been called worse things. "Asshole," for one. That had come from an exhausted miner on the Dark Side camp. "Fucking pussy," had come about five minutes later, from one of the other guards, once he had finished beating the miner's head in. Pascal hadn't responded to the insult, but the other guard certainly had.
He tried to push the violent memories, the abuses he had witnessed, out of his head. He didn't really know how the psyche thing worked, but he had jealously guarded his thoughts when he knew himself to be the presence of one, and he understood this ship had two. Fantastic. It didn't really seem like Pascal could control his thoughts, though, ever other signal to cross his synapses was something along the lines of "you asshole" or "you fucking pussy", directed as ever at himself.
The rest of the crew seemed boisterous, back-slapping gung-ho types ready for thrills and chills in the deepest regions of space. He had been like that once, what seemed like ages ago. Those days were gone. He didn't think they'd return.
As much as he tried to be recalcitrant with his thoughts, he thought of the bottle of pastis in his bag. Cool, sweet relief, at list for a little while. As soon as he was settled in, he would get a drink. He had earned it just for getting this far. A nice glass of the anise liquor to take the edge off. That was what he needed. Pascal's mouth began to water just thinking of the nice soothing buzz it would give him.
He tried to push the violent memories, the abuses he had witnessed, out of his head. He didn't really know how the psyche thing worked, but he had jealously guarded his thoughts when he knew himself to be the presence of one, and he understood this ship had two. Fantastic. It didn't really seem like Pascal could control his thoughts, though, ever other signal to cross his synapses was something along the lines of "you asshole" or "you fucking pussy", directed as ever at himself.
The rest of the crew seemed boisterous, back-slapping gung-ho types ready for thrills and chills in the deepest regions of space. He had been like that once, what seemed like ages ago. Those days were gone. He didn't think they'd return.
As much as he tried to be recalcitrant with his thoughts, he thought of the bottle of pastis in his bag. Cool, sweet relief, at list for a little while. As soon as he was settled in, he would get a drink. He had earned it just for getting this far. A nice glass of the anise liquor to take the edge off. That was what he needed. Pascal's mouth began to water just thinking of the nice soothing buzz it would give him.
In
The League - First Blood (Persistent World Superhero Sci Fi and Fantasy, Always Open)
→
12 yrs ago
Forum: Casual Roleplay
I'd be happy to co-GM on the condition that none of the regulars object.
In
The League - First Blood (Persistent World Superhero Sci Fi and Fantasy, Always Open)
→
12 yrs ago
Forum: Casual Roleplay
I think everyone has been waiting for MrD to move the plot forward.
Pascal did little more than arch a single eyebrow as the captain decided to stand next to him for his little speech. He knew he was going to have to get to know these people at some point, but he didn't care for being even next to the center of attention at this time. This was a hell of a step he was taking- impulsive, driven by liquor and desperation. Desperation to put something in his life, to distract himself from the thoughts that clawed at his skull every waking moment. To do something meaningful.
When the crew began to file out to the waiting ship, Souchon grabbed up his bag and his rifle case, and left without a word. There it was, the Medusa. A heap of junk, for sure. But a change. Maybe a change was all Pascal needed. He unzipped his bag, wanting to make a final check before approaching the ship. It wasn't as though there'd be a chance to grab anything he'd forgotten. Changes of clothes. Toiletries. A few novels he intended to read in his off hours. Some spices and seasoning to doctor the food. A bottle of pastis, naturally. It probably was a poor idea to bring alcohol, but he didn't relish the idea of a long trip without a drink. If he was Samson, this was his Delilah.
And of course, a photo of his family back home. Max and Marie.
He couldn't help looking, his blue eyes filled with sadness. Staring for far too long, his feet moving with no input from his mind as he looked down at the photograph.
He nearly bumped into one of the other crewmembers- the pilot, he thought, a young woman with an eye-catching shirt and spirited look. He smiled awkwardly and apologetically, quickly crammed the dog-eared picture back into his bag. "Sorry, mon petit cheri," he said with a broad toothy smile, hoping she hadn't noticed his distraction as he zipped the bag back up and slung it over his shoulder. He attempted to force levity and nonchalance into his voice, had a fair-to-middling amount of success. "My thoughts were elsewhere. Pascal Souchon," he said by way of introduction as he extended his hand to her. "You must be the excellent Caelum Jameson, n'est-ce pas? The honor is mine."
When the crew began to file out to the waiting ship, Souchon grabbed up his bag and his rifle case, and left without a word. There it was, the Medusa. A heap of junk, for sure. But a change. Maybe a change was all Pascal needed. He unzipped his bag, wanting to make a final check before approaching the ship. It wasn't as though there'd be a chance to grab anything he'd forgotten. Changes of clothes. Toiletries. A few novels he intended to read in his off hours. Some spices and seasoning to doctor the food. A bottle of pastis, naturally. It probably was a poor idea to bring alcohol, but he didn't relish the idea of a long trip without a drink. If he was Samson, this was his Delilah.
And of course, a photo of his family back home. Max and Marie.
He couldn't help looking, his blue eyes filled with sadness. Staring for far too long, his feet moving with no input from his mind as he looked down at the photograph.
He nearly bumped into one of the other crewmembers- the pilot, he thought, a young woman with an eye-catching shirt and spirited look. He smiled awkwardly and apologetically, quickly crammed the dog-eared picture back into his bag. "Sorry, mon petit cheri," he said with a broad toothy smile, hoping she hadn't noticed his distraction as he zipped the bag back up and slung it over his shoulder. He attempted to force levity and nonchalance into his voice, had a fair-to-middling amount of success. "My thoughts were elsewhere. Pascal Souchon," he said by way of introduction as he extended his hand to her. "You must be the excellent Caelum Jameson, n'est-ce pas? The honor is mine."
I really like the new pic for Tide, by the way.
Pascal, taciturn individual that he is, will likely just sit there until someone directly confronts him.
Pascal, taciturn individual that he is, will likely just sit there until someone directly confronts him.
In
Something quite different. (Worthy of tilted heads and begrudging interest,)
→
12 yrs ago
Forum: Casual Interest Checks
The idea of two parallel stories really intrigues me, especially if they're two different genres. I'd definitely be willing to throw my hat into the ring.
A thought I just had- what if your characters are all alternate universe equivalents of each other? Not that they all have the same careers or personalities or even names, but they're still basically the same person. Maybe that's a bit much, though.
A thought I just had- what if your characters are all alternate universe equivalents of each other? Not that they all have the same careers or personalities or even names, but they're still basically the same person. Maybe that's a bit much, though.
She's doing CPR wrong.
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