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4 mos ago
Current Apologies to all writing partners both current & prospective. Been sick for two weeks straight (and have to go to work regardless). No energy. Can't think straight. Taking a hiatus. Sorry again.
3 likes
4 mos ago
[@Ralt] He's making either a Fallout 4 reference or a S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: Clear Sky reference i can't tell
2 likes
5 mos ago
"Well EXCUUUUSE ME if my RPs don't have plot, setting, characters, any artistry of language like imagery/symbolism, or any of the things half-decent fiction has! What am I supposed to do, improve?!"
4 likes
5 mos ago
Where's the personality? The flavor? the drama? The struggle? The humanity? The texture of the time and the place in which this conversation is happening? In a word: where's the story?
2 likes
5 mos ago
not really? it's more so because an interest check needs more to hook people than: "Hello who are you?" "I'm [name1]." "Nice to mee you [name1], I'm [name2]." tinyurl.com/yc7wezxb
1 like

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And so they watched. They skimmed the surface of the storm like kingfishers, and they plunged deep, deep into its mists, like loons, feeling for even the slightest wriggle from their foe, who they knew now for a fact was somewhere out there, at once the hunter and the prey. For they may have emerged from any angle, the detachment's weaker side or its stronger, or either flank, and somehow the Nine had to put their three pairs of eyes to guarding all of these at once. Gan, eager to outsmart these phantoms, switched to his external acoustics. But of great metallic stomping he only heard Chlotho's and Rose's, and the wailing of the fierce winds drowned out the rest. He tossed the switch back down again, returning himself to the muted silence of the thermosealed cockpit. He was beginning to see the jaws of wolves and tigers in every wisp of smoke; the glittering scales of a barracuda in the glitter of the snow. It wasn't paranoia. The storm, huge and primal and intoxicating, had only stirred something in the dark caverns of his brain, a creature which had been hibernating there in the warm pink folds for 200,000 years. Though his hands still shoved and tweaked the cyclics, and his fingers still jabbed and flicked at switches and buttons and valves, Gan was no longer aware of such technologies. He had already devolved. Now he was a huntsman in Dark Africa, gripping the wooden haft of a spear while he peered into the elusive grasses of the savanna. Then, underwater, and the waters were turquoise-clear, and he held his breath and gripped a coral reef in one hand and wrested an oyster from the rock in another, and all the while there were yellow jaws coiled in the alcoves, and silver jaws flashing in the peripheries of the deeper blue. How long it must have been, Gan pondered, since man had experienced such rudimentary terror. He'd bred it out of the wolves, after all, and turned them into dogs. Until Gan remembered that this was war, and when a wild and ancient moon birthed no animals to hunt them, men were more than pleased enough to hunt each other.

But when nobody had come for them, and the landscape under their artificial feet refused to change in gradients larger than a little hill here and a little gully there, Gan faced a new and antithetical danger, too. He flexed his fingers on the cyclics, and gripped them hard enough to sprain the intricate little muscles within; he blinked hard, as if to bat away the ghosts of the past. His blood had dumped the adrenaline, and soon it was becoming truly exhausting to expect danger from every side and all sides when his senses told him time and again that beyond the cockpit window laid only a cake of rock and snow and the fog smoothed over it like too much fondant. The cold and the shriek of the wind did not reach Gan in there, a caterpillar goo in his metal and glass cocoon, and so once the nerves subsided, all he wanted to do was sleep. Sleep in the cockpit, and then when the enemy found him, sleep in one of their prison cells, then sleep on the shuttle after his buddies broke him out. Basic taught a man how to fire a weapon, how to polish his boots, how to dig foxholes; but it never seemed to prepare him for how very boring war was—until it wasn't.

When Gan wrested his eyes open, having closed them for maybe twenty seconds, his mech and his body cooperating in autopilot, he was met face-to-face with a shape materializing from the mist. He would be thankful in retrospect, that he and this other pilot had paused in unison. As for Gan, his sluggish thoughts went roughly as such: this mech he stared at wasn't a Phalanx, not a Hunchback, and it wasn't an Armageddon-class Mk2. And once he'd figured that, its model and the identity of its pilot no longer mattered.

"FUCK!" Prodded into action like a calf sniffing too close to the electric fence, Gan bashed his cyclic to the right, sending his hip pivot into overdrive and thus his torso into a shoulder-roll. The unidentified mech was close, as orchestrated by the unwavering thickness of the storm; close enough that there was no time to switch, and more importantly, no gain in switching, to his targeting-tracking systems. The other mech shot first, but missed, loosing a volley of explosives which began just over Gan's starboard shoulder, then careened off into the sky with the recoil. Gan shot second, free-floating his arm reticles over a target area almost too big to miss, and not hesitating to pull the trigger. A tremendous booming fireball issued from the barrel, large enough to entirely consume a small mech. Though the railgun used no explosives to propel its projectiles, it launched them so quickly that they ignited the air, even air as cold as Triton-5's, through friction alone. It sent the Basilisk staggering backward as it soaked up the recoil, first in its elbow joint and then its shoulder bracket, designed and redesigned to absorb this recoil without shattering. Finally, a tungsten dart, about the size of a desk lamp, broke the sound barrier, exceeded it by three or four times, and slammed into a target up to 240 kilometers away, farther than most horizons in the solar system; or, as in this case, about 100 meters away, across a short outcrop crusted with a thin sheet of snow.

The enemy mech was reeling and stumbling before it knew what hit it, but before Gan could push through the recoil and center his other arm for a second shot, it had recovered its senses and retreated a good distance backward into the mists, obscuring his line-of-sight. Still, if there was a lance of them out there, he'd know which one he hit by the crater on the center-right side of its torso, representing just over a ton of armor vaporized in a single shot.

Shortly after, an autocannon volley from one of Strauss's arm-guns lit up most of that same area. Like a cluster of cherry bombs compared to the Basilisk's war-torpedo, they pop-pop-popped in too small of a radius to cover a good area, and so Strauss swept his aim across the line of dirt that he wanted to set on fire, and little bursting flames erupted in a crescent along the ground.

Gan switched off the jammer.

________________________
"Shit. Did you hit it?"
"Think so."

________________________
"You 'think so'?"
"I'm pretty fucking sure, okay?!"
"And just who the hell ARE you? That's military-grade hardware you just shot at my boys, amigo. Not exactly the stuff that gets contracted out to a yard like this. What business do soldiers have here?"

Gan realized quickly who it was that spoke to them, if not, yet, why—or whence. Somewhere out there, just out of eyesight. Only that mattered. He looked down at his comm array to see how the rookie was handling all this, and how Chlotho wanted to proceed; but neither of their faces had yet betrayed how their nerves were holding up, or what slapdash plans they were incubating in their brains. Thankfully Strauss spoke first, handling, presumably, the enemy commander on the whole Nine's behalf.

________________________
"Why? If you like our answer, are we all going out for a beer and a blowjob together, kumbayah?"
"It could be that our bone just ain't to pick with you. That's all. As long as you ain't killing my buddies, and you ain't here to stop us."
"This is Phalanx-Alpha-Tango with the Fifth Airborne. Same here. just as long as you stand down and stop breaking OhmCorp's toys."
"So that's what you are. Mercenary scum!"
"You should be more grateful. Whether you live or die, my paycheck stays the same. That means I have no reason to waste my shells on you until you give me one. So stand down."
"That little spray-and-pray you just pulled begs to differ. Besides, what we're fighting for is bigger than you, me, or any of us."
"..."
"Then have it your way."
!
"Gladly!"

Explosions. They went off all over Strauss's frontal armor, the worst of the damage being done to his legs. But Gan had been watching closely; the enemy had launched no missiles. And he believed them when they said they didn't have railguns, coilguns, PPCs, or any other miltech which would let them shoot faster than the human eye could see. He would have heard the sonic boom besides. How? How had they cracked the Phalanx's armor without missile racks, without electromagnetics, without bloop-tubes, hell, without so much as having to leave their cover? Once again he had to stow his questions, however, as once the Phalanx began to stumble backward, its pilot shaken into a stupor, they charged, all of them, three old, rusted, minermechs clearing way for a fourth. And that one was a true and proper war machine, with weapons and tracking systems, armor, and a damn pissed off pilot; not pulled of a yard, but bought from military auction ... or plundered from a guard detail.
As for the three leading the charge, Gan was starting to get a better picture of their weaponry. He thought back to the wreckage he'd spotted en route to the relay point; cranes and diggers burned off and replaced with makeshift gun barrels; crudely welded, and filled with the gunpowder shipped in for blowing out mineshafts and loosening slag-rock.

Miners? Were they miners, Frankensteining their own warmechs out of the minermechs they used on the job? If so, why were they attacking a fellow camp? And why did they have to go behind their employer's back instead of calling in more security, or hell, requesting a transfer?

And why were those three Frankenmechs rushing dangerously deep into their formation?

That last question answered itself before Gan could begin to speculate. Gathering at the Phalanx's meaty legs, they switched on their weapons and got to work burning through pipes and cables, welding through armor, and just about eating the legs off of their mountings. Hurried blue flames licked fibrosteel until it glowed orange-hot.


"Rose! Chlotho! They're using mining equipment for weapo——plasma cutters! Those are plasma cutters! Get them offa him!"

________________________

________________________
"Not so fucking fast!"

The commander leveled his guns—twin PPCs on the primary, still not enough to answer for the half a dozen explosions earlier. His whole mech was a hodgepodge of short and long-range systems—turrets and flamers for infantry, medium lasers, SRMs—a classic corposec loadout, trying to be too many things at once and middling at all of them because it "increased field performance" for an underpaid security officer who didn't know with what armaments or at what distance a hypothetical baddie would want to engage. Those projector cannons and missiles would be dangerous, but Gan wasn't thinking about them at just that moment. If they were using minertech, that meant those explosions which had gone off on the Phalanx were ...
"Now, do you guys have a plan? Or——"
Rose Synapse

________________________
"Nope. MOVE!"
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
The others offered up no protest; they turned northeastward and hurried down the hill. Gan watched with a quiet dismay, however, as the rookie's Talarius tucked into a full sprint, kicking up space-snow with every clod of her metal feet as she tore away from the line; and, moreover, when she palpably realized she had abandoned her comrades, coming to a stumbling stop and sheepishly shrinking back into the rank. It was bad enough that they were three in numbers, barely half of an able fireteam, but if Strauss learned that one of those three had never piloted a warmech before, never mind trained in one or fought with one, panic would set in, starting with the rookie herself until it had overtaken the whole detachment. At this rate Gan wouldn't have to worry about letting her secret slip out before they'd had their heart-to-heart back on the ship; Strauss would figure it out by himself. And he wasn't as good at keeping secrets.

Thankfully, it still hadn't come to that. Their best hope, not yet dashed, laid in sneaking their way to the rest of the 'team without being spotted at all, and taking any bandits, with which the others skirmished, in unawares. Because once an enemy caught them in his peripherals, there would be no outrunning him and his cronies; not with the Talarius, and even Strauss's Phalanx limping, crawling at the Basilisk's pace. Gan already pushed his servos as fast and as far as they could go with every cycle of the cyclic sticks, and it wasn't enough. Not to run away, not to flank, and not to hurry to the aid of friends who could be dying right now.
"Hothead to Romeo, Hothead to Romeo."

_______________________

_______________________
"Romeo here."
"I'm going to jam our signals. You got anything to say first?"
"Yeah. Guard my ass, you bastards. I'm counting on you."
[chuckling] "Of course. That ass is Voldova's property, not yours."
"Hey, rookie. He's the only one with armor worth a goddamn, so if we make contact with any tangos, he's taking point. Our job is to make sure they don't get behind him. Because a Phalanx——"
"A Phalanx's torso armor is weaker in the rear than the front. It's a long-range support-fire model never intended for frontlines combat, so when the designers needed to increase speed or make room for more ammo storage, the obvious shortcut was to slim down the endosteel plates or even cut them off entirely. Now in theory this DOES mean the Phalanx's reactor core is a critical weak point, but in practice if it's deployed in the role Margrave Arms intended for it and allowed to lean into its niche, as a provider of pinpoint-accurate anti-air and artillery fire, the thin armor is actually a benefit."
"... Uh ... yes, actually. That's exactly right. How the hell do you know all that? That's not even in the manual."
"..."
"... L-Lucky guess."
"Yeah. A lucky guess. Anyway, you get it, right? I shoot from behind the cover Strauss gives me. And YOU flank anybody who comes after ME. It's the best formation we can hope for in these circumstances."

Blimps
Some plot hooks have been added.

oink
Oh, hey. Didn't see you there.

The name's Pug. I might also be a pug. You don't know, but more importantly, you can't prove anything.

No fancy BBCodes today. Just the bidness.

About Me:
➣ Honestly way too old to still be playing make-believe on the internet. (Yeah it's >21. Ugh.)
➣ Male
➣ Eastern Standard Time
➣ Grammatically I write at the Advanced level. I mean, I use a lot of semicolons and em-dashes. This automatically entitles me to walk around with a cane and a feathered pimp hat and call other writers "plebeians," right?
➣ Post length fluctuates according to what the scene needs. My current record sits at 4,708 words in a single post, but maaaaaaybe don't expect that level of gumption all the time ...
➣ I write character-driven narratives, and am always aiming to keep you invested, interested, and on your toes.
➣ I can do forum, PM, or Discord RP; up to you.
➣ Statistically speaking, you will quit the RP before I do. I VERY RARELY ghost or leave partners in the dark (and there are reasons when I do, not that I'm worried about you at all, cutie). 99 out of 100 times, I'll reply eventually, either in the RP continuing the story or in OOC explaining what the hold-up is. Thank you for your patience.
➣ Yeah it, uh, takes me a while to post sometimes. I'm sorry in advance.
➣ Romance is neat. Smut is lame. Fade-to-black please.
➣ I will play any gender pairing you want, but romance paths are only available in MxF pairings (with some setting-specific exceptions not detailed here pls inquire within if needed).
➣ Things I will play with you:
⤷ Fantasy
⤷ Dark Fantasy
⤷ Low Fantasy
⤷ New Weird (à la Planescape: Torment and Perdido Street Station)
⤷ Gaslamp / "Steampunk"
⤷ Gothic Fiction
Vampire: the Masquerade, and vampires in general as long as they're evil as fuck
⤷ Science Fiction
⤷ Cyberpunk
⤷ Space Opera
⤷ Mecha
⤷ Apocalypse/Post-Apocalypse/Survival Horror
⤷ Noir
⤷ Slice-of-Life
⤷ Delinquents! Banchō, sukeban, bōsōzoku ... if it's got pompadours and teenaged attitude, I am ALL IN.
⤷ Gambling
⤷ Your ideas! If you have them, please pitch them.
⤷ Synthesizing any combination of the above in unique and compelling ways
➣ Things I will not play with you:
⤷ Superheroes
⤷ Urban Fantasy
⤷ Isekai
⤷ Sports
⤷ Canon characters from that thing you like. OCs only.
➣ I will answer questions in the thread, but to seek out a prospective partnership you must please PM me.

About You, the Perfect Writing Partner:
➣ Your writing operates at the Advanced level for plotting, character creation and development, and all the actually important stuff in an RP; your spelling, grammar, and post length at least sit at, say, the mid-Casual level. I can read your post and understand what you're saying because it doesn't look like a nuclear launch code.
➣ You create a character who is flawed, blemished, scarred, and above all, deeply human and interesting. This character has chemistry with mine.
➣ You're active, engaged, and motivated in plotting out the story with me, not content to let me do all the leg-work. You have a VISION, and by God you're going to make sure somebody (me, I mean me) fucking sees it.
➣ You will refuse to quit the RP before me out of sheer spite.
➣ You will include the word "Fugeddaboutit" somewhere in your solicitation. Not to prove you read the thread, but to let me know that you're a sweet Italian nonna from Brooklyn, preferably named Gabriella, and you make a mean marinaaaaaar'. 🤌

Anyway, without further ado, here's a few example plot hooks, which you're free to pursue wholesale, to tinker and tweak, or to ignore altogether as you propose your own ideas in genres I like:




Okay, that's it. Hoping to hear from you soon.
It was supposed to be an easy op: close in on the enemy, suppress them until they were all bunched together, and then pincer them from behind. An ageless tactic, deployed as far back as Hannibal and Scipio, if not even further, when men bashed each other's heads in with rocks and sharpened sticks. Of course the plan was supposed to go wrong, like any plan, but it should have been the new girl wandering too deep into a nest of the enemy; needing an evac with some pinning fire after they'd trusted her behind the line. Not like this. Not like this. An enemy scouter had forced Gan to make a choice. And now that he'd made it, now that he'd inadvertently sent the signal screaming up into the air, he'd endangered all of his friends. The Commander and the rest of her team were attacking headlong, waiting for an encirclement which would come too late. The new girl was stranded somewhere between the two teams, out in the snow, running a serious risk of being caught once the enemies starting moving.

And here sat Gan and Strauss. They both knew they couldn't keep standing there doing nothing, but how should they decide which one to rush in to help? Could the heaviest armor at the Commander's disposal withstand an envelopment long enough for the boys to pull Rose Synapse out of there? Or could Rose stay hidden and keep herself safe while the boys reinforced the line? Gan didn't know. He didn't know, and he was running out of time.

A few hundred meters to the north, the scrapped remains of a small scouter-mech smoldered and steamed, its back turned to them, still glowing where a tungsten dart had sheared a hole in its torso at Mach 2. The longer the seconds ticked along, the antsier Gan was about the other besiegers hurrying over to check the noise and confirm the status of their missing friend. But right now, his and Chlotho's location was the only one still accounted for on their own battle map; here there was still a chance (albeit a slim one) of being bailed out, but only if they stayed where their buddies knew where to find them. Three would be safer than two, and besides, the new girl knew better than anyone where to find Gan in the chaos. He had to stay the course. He had to trust that his intuition would pay off, and guide the new girl back to him before the enemy.

Of course, it was doing nothing for their nerves ...


________________________
"——would've been ruined ANYWAY if we got spotted by a mech that got away."
"But how do ya know he spotted us?! We coulda let him slip by!"
"YOU'RE 26 METERS TALL. How did he NOT spot you?!"
"Oh, so it's MY fault, is it?!"
"No?! It's just how it happened!"
"And what 'happens' next, buddy? We just sit here until the same thing happens to us, right? Until we're snuck up on from behind and roasted, right?!"
"You know damn well we can't move without Synapse."
"I don't like it. How do you know she didn't regroup with Voldova and the rest?"
"I don't."
"You d——WE COULD BE SITTING HERE FOR NOTHING?!"
"I don't know what to tell you, Strauss. We're operating on limited information here. We have to make a choice. And I've chosen to wait for—"
"Synapse."
"Yes, for Synapse, exactly. Wait. What?"
"There she is; over there!"
Anthropomorphized by its pilot, the towering Phalanx pointed an autocannon arm to the northwest. The smaller, squatter Basilisk twisted on its hip actuator to follow where it pointed.
Did you find someone for this? Like everyone else post-2004 I cut my teeth on Bloodlines, but I've also been playing the tabletop (V5 with Errata rules) for about two years now, so I'm always thirsting for some more hot Kindred action.

Two questions:

1. You use male pronouns while referring to your partner's character. Since, with the exception of Humanity 9+ (which a soon-to-be Sabbat character won't have LMAO), the Kiss and the Blood Bond both completely overshadow anything which could be called a "sex life," rendering gender all but redundant romantically, is a female character fine or is this part non-negotiable? (Won't necessarily do this; just exploring options)

2. How strongly is your canon differing from the actual canon? Cuz even though LA has a Prince in Vannevar Thomas, and the Camarilla presence there is holding on, the city has been an Anarch Free State ever since 2012, when Theo Bell betrayed the Convention of Prague and took out a bunch of high-profile Ventrue. They're really the ones to beat for control of the city, at least in the official lore.

I've got, I think, pretty flavorful ideas for both a female Brujah and a male Nosferatu if this is still open.
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