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Author Topic: Barding; pieces of his mind [PLOTS + CHARACTERS INSIDE][updated 13/08/09]  (Read 5044 times)

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Offline BardingTopic starter


Stuff about ‘Barding’

  • He tends only to play males, however, the term male is used somewhat loosely in this sense. He prefers more slender, delicate and generally ‘prettier’ males over decidedly Conan-esque balls of muscle. In other words, his characters are not likely to be able to throw you over their shoulder and drag you back to their cave, let alone actually be inclined to.
  • He often sees actual quality of writing in an RP to be of paramount importance. However, this can encompass simple but beautiful writing. In other words, he loves imagery etc. more than he loves straight-up sex.
  • He can, despite his preference in terms of his characters’ nature and outward appearance, plays both dominant and submissive characters. However, he also enjoys playing the male half of a pair of characters that consider themselves to be generally equal. Power play can also be fun.
  • Generally he plays M/F RPs, however, he may, possibly, be interested in an F/F one if persuaded strongly enough with an adequate plot.
  • As a by-and-large rule he likes females, however, submissive TGs can be fun, if played well, i.e. free from usual clichés.
  • He prefers there to be some kind of mutual attraction present between characters, in other words, romance. However, he expands the word ‘love’ or ‘romance’ to have various meanings. For example, the psychological implications of obsessive love are great fun.
  • See the two links in the signature to learn more.

What he’s looking for in a co-writer

  • Preferably a female.
  • Decent length posts, in other words, four or five paragraphs, at least.
  • Friendliness OOC is, also, a bonus.
  • Look at his O/O’s.

Settings he lurves

[Many are explained...if a setting contains a link, it's a link to a Wikipedia article about the setting so that, if you so choose, you can familiarise yourself with its basics a little :)]
  • All White Wolf, Old World of Darkness settings.
  • Out of the new World of Darkness settings: Promethean, Vampire and Changeling. NOT Mage. They RAPED that game by NWoDing them, as far as he’s concerned.
  • Steampunk (in the Victoriana sense)
  • Realism and historical settings, including: The Victorian and Edwardian Eras; the ‘60s; the early to mid ‘90s; the ‘20s and the ‘30s (he has a BIG flapper fetish); WWI and WWII and the space in between; Classical Oriental settings; the Regency (i.e. home of the gothic, three volume novel and of the Period Drama); the Pre-French Revolution era, complete with Libertines and powdered wigs; the Tudor era; ancient Rome and Classical Greek eras. Slightly Fantastical twists on each of these realistic eras are more than welcome too!
  • Both Warhammer settings. (40K and Fantasy)
  • AD&D settings, to some extent. However, he prefers original twists on the classic, generic fantasy idea; for example steampunking them up. He happens to have conceived his own steampunk D&D setting…
  • The Mortal Engines Quartet setting (AKA the ‘Hungry Cities Quartet’ in the states.)
  • Post-Apocalyptic settings.
  • The Harry Potter world.
  • The world of His Dark Materials.
  • Some comic book worlds (ask, if you like)
  • Cyberpunk (think Blade Runner)
  • Dieselpunk and Biopunk!
  • Star Wars, all eras.
  • Darker Sci-Fi.
  • Dark Fairy Tales.
  • The Bartimaeus Trilogy (by Jonathan Stroud) setting - probably one of my favourite conceptions of both magic and British culture at the same time.
  • The Dead Space Setting, Solaris, Sunshine and other such sci-fi settings.
  • Hopefully more to come.

Current Cravings

  • Contemporary, realistic romances.
  • Original Roleplays, including realism. (Toss him your ideas; he’ll love it.)
  • Post-Apocalyptic Roleplays.
« Last Edit: August 13, 2009, 01:12:44 PM by Barding »

Offline BardingTopic starter

Craving of the Week

The Sky's The Limit [Revised]
Still Under Construction

[A post-apocalyptic, faintly steampunk/dieselpunk roleplay setting in which a story of
love found in the most unusual of places will occur. Can either be fun, high-flying, high-
adventure - almost whimsical by my standards - or, as I'd prefer, fairly gritty. Either way
there will be a strong vintage influence, as with most dieselpunk. Hurray, 1950s!
Contains a request for you to play as a Futa/Transgendered individual. Very little room for negotiation.
« Last Edit: August 13, 2009, 05:39:34 PM by Barding »

Offline BardingTopic starter

Other Plots

[Plot titles accompanied by '*'s are particularly large cravings. More '*'s denotes a greater craving; simple, right?]

Pursuit of Perfection or the Modern Day Galatea
A lonely young man, either a scientist or a sculptor or a doll maker, creates his ideal woman through one of a variety of possible media. In doing this he either commits himself so greatly to this one act of love that he undergoes an artistic rhapsody – thus creatively disabling him but giving his creation an entire semblance of life – or commits an aberration against nature and a Frankenstein-esque victory for science and grants his creation life.
However, this creation, while beautiful, at least in his eyes, might see herself as nature herself might see her and possess a distinctly self-destructive attitude, viewing herself as an offense against the natural order of things; something out of sync with the rest of the world. She may hate her creator for giving her this unnatural semblance of life while he loves her obsessively as one can only love perfection. Alternatively, she may love him and treat him with the adoration of both a daughter, a lover and a woman saved from a terrible fate, while he is disgusted with his creation.
Either way, this roleplay would concern themes of dysfunctional love and a coming-to-terms with one’s own nature on both sides. It would, in essence, involve moving towards an odd vision of a happily ever after. Whether it is ever reached or not is distinctly negotiable.
(This RP could base itself off of ideas from the ‘Promethean: the Created’ game)

East Hastings
[A Post-Apocalyptic, survival horror RP with an extensive setting. It will concern both human despair and panic and other such reactions - good and bad - when faced with horrific situations, while exploring the interaction of humans with one another under such circumstances, and how attachment can develop along the way.]
   The RP idea lies at the other side of this link...It was too long to put here.

Things that Blossom on a Dead World
(A Warhammer 40K RP)
Two travellers are stranded upon a world devoured and made barren and lifeless by one of the long past Tyranid hive fleets. The why and wherefore as to their being stranded is up to you and they would, most likely, be for separate reasons that are specific to each character.
On this essentially dead world there would, still, be traces of life aside from the two protagonists. Unfortunately various strains of the Tyranid genus have been left behind in small numbers, detached from the Hive Mind and abandoned to roam the ghost-town streets of empty and ruined cities or to stalk barren wastelands that cover the rest of the world’s surface. Needless to say they would be absolutely starving.
The first of these characters would be a comparatively young and inexperienced Eldar Ranger, the second would be a female of a race and general nature of your choosing. Once again you, as a potential co-writer, would have a pure Carte Blanche here, and would be free to play anything from a Dark Eldar to an Adepta Sororitas sister of battle.
These two characters would have to work together in order to survive in an essentially post-apocalyptic world, rife with remaining strains of the Tyranid genus. Through the varying crises these two somewhat low-powered characters would have gone through together and through their isolation from any other intelligent company they would, after the initial distrust and begrudgingness has died down, develop a strong and almost primally psychological sexual tension between them. God knows where this could lead.
In short, this would be a Warhammer 40K survival horror meets odd, post-apocalyptic, possibly forbidden romance RP with all sorts of fun fighty bits, if you, as a potential co-writer, so choose.

[A 'Dead Space' RP. Warning, contains futa, or transgendered characters, or whatever you wanna call 'em. Also contains survival horror and sci-fi themes.]
Fine the RP idea on the other side of this link.

My Body is a Birdcage
The gates of the abyss have weakened over time and the host of fallen angels, forsaken and condemned to a punishment worse than destruction by the Creator for disobeying his will, who play prisoners to this infinite cell have come to know it. Whether this weakening has occurred as a result of the Creator's own destruction or simply a lack of belief in Him by humanity - that which the Fallen swore to protect and love above all things and that which provides the Faith both the Creator and his angels, fallen and faithful, rely upon for their power - is not obvious. However, what has been made clear is that the edges of the abyss have begun to fray, small cracks appearing within. The less significant Fallen are metaphorically small enough to fit through these gaps in the abyss's skin and brave the storm outside, in order to return to a world they left long ago, only to find it changed beyond belief. In order to survive in the jagged toothed storm that is reality to beings composed only of the soul, the Fallen and all other spirits must anchor themselves either in flesh or in earth - creatures or objects.
   After an eternity of imprisonment by one's own creator, one is likely to be angered somewhat. As this is the case, the Fallen that have recently escaped would have been ready, upon escaping into reality, to tear down heaven's gates, if it has not already been done, and destroy all that is possible to destroy as a result of their infinite torment. However, many of the Fallen, upon anchoring themselves in human flesh to save themselves from being swept back into the abyss or destroyed, found themselves becoming far more human. While the minds of the humans they have possessed have been forced from their bodies, their personalities and their memories; their feelings and their attachments have meshed irreversibly with those of the Fallen, converting them from Demons to something close to human in mindset. Now they must exist in a strange new world with little to none of the sustenance - the faith from humanity - that once supported them and allowed them to move mountains with a thought to live upon, and they must continue to act as their hosts once did, learning to put up with these terrifying new desires.
   My idea for a plot in this setting involved one of the Fallen who, having just escaped from the abyss, is having to come to terms with the desires of his host body - most likely an artist of some kind - while existing in a world that confuses him and seems to hold very little food for his angelic soul. What will he do when forced to scrounge for faith to sustain him and compelled to pursue his host's own desires, especially when those desires include the returned affection of a girl he has loved to the exclusion of all else for years. In the meantime, this fallen angel has his own plans - he, himself, has a Fallen lover trapped within the abyss who he wishes to return to this infinitely preferable world of reality. Realising that his host's goals and his own can intercede, he moves to seduce the host's object affection and, in the process, prepare her for possession by his celestial lover so that they can, finally, be together. This preparation, would, no doubt, involve all sorts of things, most of which could be unpleasant and identity draining. Only one who no longer cares about their own body can be pushed from it and have their mind and soul replaced by that of another.
   I would play the first Fallen and you would play his host's love interest and, eventually, the male Fallen's lover, upon her being summoned into reality in a new body.

The Stars as our Witness
Inside every cat, there is the concept of a cat and it is these concepts; these deeper selves, that show more about a cat than any other facet of its behaviour possibly can. TS Eliot seemed to know far more about the antics of cats than any other human can claim to know, after all. In the streets and on the rooftops of Victorian London, cats will play.
In short, this roleplay would be a slightly strange one. It's an idea I've had knocking around my head for a little while now and, effectively, it's the first 'conceptual' roleplay I've ever seen played out. It works around a conditional premise in that it centers about a 'what if...'. What if the personalities of cats - the personalities that all who have owned or interacted with a cat over a prolonged course of time will have noticed - were truly stronger than we thought. What if cats did everything that humans did and more, in the process, putting their own unique spin on each act. Cats have their own dances, their own balls, their own songs and their own tales to tell - their own society; their own gentry and their own plebs.
EXPLANATION: Allow me to actually attempt to make some sense of my babble. Within this particular roleplay, the characters would be the 'concepts' of particular cats. Just picture a world in which, instead of cats, there are sleek bodied humanoid forms with particularly strong body language, wearing nothing but elaborate, theatrical, cat-like masks that correlate to the markings and appearance of the particular cat they represent. They show no regard for the cold of London's rooftops, despite their bare, slender forms and they show no regard for their own nakedness, save for the masks that they never remove. This is how cats really are, in this conceptual world, and yet humans have not the eyes to see it; they see only a cat - four legged and point eared - walking past them in the streets or mrowling upon a chimney stack, rather than the majestic and beautiful creature that this cat truly is.
In short, this roleplay would be a traditional love story between two of these conceptual cats. While most cats are promiscuous creatures and life for pleasure and fleeting passion alone, the two cats featured as Player Characters in this story would be two who fall in love. It would be a reverse relationship, probably starting with the sex and ending with the relationship and it would be one that flaunts the rules of the society to which they belong.
NOTE: the characters in this RP are -not- 'neko's, unless you'd really, really like them to be; they are people that appear to be simply cats to humans and display many of the antics of cats and the abilities of cats. They communicate through strong body language, as well as more verbal methods; they can scale fairly sheer surfaces; they can jump several times their height; and each of them has the grace and athletic ability of a ballerina. This is -not- bestiality or furry play, it is, instead simply an odd idea concerning humans...:S
I just hope someone takes me up on this idea and -doesn't- think I'm completely mad!

Damnation Becomes Her...
[A vampire-themed roleplay of dark desire and dysfunctional, destructive romance.]
This idea was long enough to warrant its own thread[/center]

To Write Perfection In Her Stitches
[An RP Based on White Wolf's Promethean: the Created - a game of immense tragedy and immense hope.]
This idea was long enough to warrant its own thread

Eden Leaking
This idea was large enough to warrant its own thread. Find it here.

More just keep on coming...

In the meantime, I'd love to hear your ideas too! If you think I'd be interested in any of them, or even conceive any ideas while reading this thread, do tell!

[Bare in mind that each of the females in these plots could, also, if you so desire, be interchanged for transgendered characters, as long as they remain distinctly female in terms of mindset. I’ll explain my outlook on that kind of thing if you enquire.]

I suppose the only thing that remains to be done now is to wait…Please, contact me either by PM or a reply here. A PM may be more welcome as it would probably allow you to explain yourself better. I’m also open to hearing your ideas, so do ask me if you think I’d be interested in anything that you haven’t seen here.

Thank you for your time.
« Last Edit: August 13, 2009, 12:37:22 PM by Barding »

Offline BardingTopic starter


Setting - Vampire: the Masquerade/Requiem

Alistair Taylor
Clan: Malkavian (in VtM), Daeva with inherited Malkavia (in VtR)
Apparent age: 28
Actual Age: 67

Mr. Taylor is a slight and, largely, unassuming man, both in mannerisms and physical appearance, with very little of significance attaching itself to him or his personage, but for a height that falls slightly above the line of best fit for a Caucasian male and a pair of eyes that seem to have grown larger than the norm, perhaps having been fed too much in the way of visions, both pleasant and, as the case may be, disturbing in nature. He casts a distinctly slender silhouette, as if the fates that crafted him were inclined towards using as little human fabric as possible in the construction of his outline. His limbs are long and faintly gangling, like those of a scarecrow, and his spine forms an elongated, swan-like curve while he assumes his usual standing posture.
   However, despite the apparent clumsiness one might expect from his unwieldy appendages and his attenuated body, Alistair Taylor moves with a grace that suggests but one cause; practice. His gait is far from ungainly and his movements are, for the most part, apparently calculated and precise; never quite exceeding exactly what is required. The way in which he moves when, for example, he paints is equally approximated, as if he has reduced the arts to some form of science. Occasionally, the alchemist’s cast to his features when creating falls to one of extreme boredom even, and his countenance grows cold. The results, however, are always exquisite if one is to look for likeness in a painting. Still, as might be expected, his work lacks something of passion.
   He wears his hair in a surprisingly unconventional manner that seems almost to belong to the crown of another more outwardly expressive man. It is oddly messy as an overall synopsis and yet the sides and back of his coiffure are both closely cut, trimmed almost to the skin of his scalp. The top of his hair cut is decidedly longer – there is more to touch and more to play with here – its chocolate brown locks falling over to the right side of his head in a subtle perversion of a traditional hair style, twisted, slightly waving tendrils of hair growing in unruly fashions both onto his forehead in a subtle, sideswept fringe and across his crown in wild, untamed undulations.
   His face itself is somewhat long, possessed of an almost unnatural smoothness and centring around the natural focal points of his large, almost owl-like eyes. They shimmer, large and greyish, slate blue in colour, set evenly in his angular features. However, they seem distinctly tired, although not in the same fashion as would indicate such a state in most men; there are no dark rings about his eyes and, for all intents and purposes, he seems healthy, but for being distinctly slender seeming – hungry looking, some might say. Instead, this lethargy is present within his eyes, rather than around them.
   Beneath his large, long lashed and faintly girlish eyes sit prominent but angled, rather than sleek cheekbones that serve to add to the strange quality of his face. It is exceptionally confusing to attempt to figure out whether one should find his features pleasing or otherwise. Unusual might be a better way to describe him when attempting to box his appearance into petty categorisations such as ‘attractive’ or ‘unattractive’.

  • He is largely a very still man, his movements seeming pregnant with purpose when they do occur.
  • Even his breathing seems deliberate. However, occasionally he can become forced towards states of far less significant calm and, in such situations, his teeth and tongue constantly worry his poor lips out of apparent anxiety or excitement.
  • He has particularly neat handwriting.
  • His speech often contains somewhat irregular patterns, augmented by what are, to the trained or familiar ear, London mannerisms, and yet the words he chooses to employ are, often enough, well chosen and apt, despite their occasional unconventionality. His general mannerisms indicate towards a fairly expensive education.
  • In terms of mood he ranges between fits of distinct animation and what can seem like excitement to lethargy and impassiveness. This translates both into his speech and facial expressions.
Joshua Steinman
Clan: Tzimisce (Independent)
Apparent age: 29
Actual Age: 107

Slight and slender, almost to the extent of being scarecrow-like, Dr. Steinman moves with an unusual grace for a man of his build. While he does not so much as come close to the lumbering movements of men of a bulkier design, his posture and mannerisms dwell in a place from the gangling clumsiness of the very thin in a similar way. However, despite this, his body is wiry and augmented with long, coat-hanger limbs. Ironically, his clothes seem to hang off him in such a manner as to reinforce this simile. Even with the input of his apparent inability to acquire clothes that fit as perfectly as they could on a man of his physique, Dr. Steinman does not appear scruffy at any points in time. If anything, he seems fastidiously dressed and put out, regardless of what he happens to be wearing at the time. These traits, when associated with a man in the surgical profession, may well prove comforting in theatre when the time comes to be right.

He wears his hair combed back for the sake of practicality the majority of the time and yet, occasionally, either when situation forces his dark locks out of place or uncharacteristically energetic movement and a similarly unlikely lack of time come into play. In such cases, his hair may take to more undefined styles, revealing itself to be of a slightly wilder nature than one might usually surmise; unexpected kinks and the like abound if one is to look hard enough under such conditions.

His skin itself is pale, smooth and unblemished but for a small triangle of shining scar tissue hiding at the corner of his mouth’s leftmost corner. The face in which this scar has set itself is thin and bears the precise, closely trimmed nature present in his silhouette with a dry and, usually, unmoved expression. His eyes are large and round, grey being the colour of primary dominance in their irises. They seem always to be awake to an almost painful extent and yet are never bloodshot or ringed by darkness. Such eyes might, if looked upon in the right way, suggest in the viewer that Dr. Steinman has been working the graveyard shift for slightly too long and yet he has never, in the history of the clinic, been comfortable or felt he was applying himself correctly in the event of anything else. The rest of his features are straight and symmetrical; a strange, faintly androgyne mixture of swooping curves that cling to his high cheekbones like drowning men and sharp angles that situate themselves around the corners of his thin, neutrally pink lips.

  • Dr. Steinman washes his hands twice upon visiting any kind of restroom; once upon entering and once upon leaving. Of course, biologically, there is very little reason for him to do so, for those who know him and his nature particularly well.
  • This sense of fastidious hygiene and cleanliness extends into the majority of his existence’s aspects. For example, his apartment is minimalist to the point at which it comes dangerously close to leaving the realm of fashion and falling into that of simple, anal retentiveness.
  • He says he was born in New England. However, his accent proves to be almost more British than is entirely common even in such areas of the United States.
  • Occasionally, he claims that he can conduct particular operations alone, rather than with help from an anaesthetist or a second surgeon. These claims have, however, never been disputed as, often enough, such cases return even more perfect results than he is normally prone to creating.
  • The patients from these particular, solitary sessions in theatre always seem to return for further cosmetic adjustments.
  • His voice is quiet, as if he were always determined to use only the required amount of force and volume in his mannerisms and never anything more. He does not tend towards raising his voice.
  • He has a tendency towards chewing his lips almost violently when forced to concentrate.

Setting - Mage: the Ascension

Jackson Rowe
Traditon: Virtual Adepts
Age: 26

Jackson was a living embodiment of what happens when Irish-come-Romani Gypsies go static. His Gypsy mother and his Irish father had come to some manner of compromise, by way of which the female portion of the two-sided equation would agree to leave her travelling troupe and settled down with the male portion…All on account of the fact that she was pregnant.
   Jackson’s parents were never married and, from a young age, had drummed ideas of the stagnancy of such social conservativisms as marriage into his mind. He grew up with an outlook on life, love and everything in between that differed drastically from the outlooks of his peers both in school and in the society that surrounds him.
   It was, appropriately, a search online for anyone who shared his radically liberal views that had brought him, first and foremost, into the fold of the Virtual Adepts. The anarchic faction known as the Cypherpunks took him under their wing as something of an armchair revolutionary – one that they hoped they could mould into something a little more active and a little more useful.

His silhouette is, generally, a rather striking but dangerously fragile one. His frame has gone beyond slender and slipped into the vicinity of ‘skeletal’ becoming a better descriptor, whether due to a natural frailty or simple forgetting or choosing not to eat. The fit of his clothes often only serve to accentuate this worrying slenderness; tightly fitted jeans or trousers, ankle high Chelsea boots and a mishmash of eclectic fashion statements, no doubt left over from music college, often in black only serving to emphasise his significant height and his insignificant build.
   A wild shock of almost tendril-like black hair frames his face and distorts his silhouette somewhat. It seems to be rather lopsidedly cut, no two layers ever being quite the same. The only obvious sign of any manner of design rather than simple random chance being present within his wild halo is the significant lopsidedness of his hair-cut, the majority of it falling in twisting layers towards his head’s right side. A slight fringe falls toward his eyebrows, but for one long lock that seems almost naturally to form a spiralled curl towards his right eye in a manner somewhat reminiscent of Liza Minelli’s cabaret appearance.
   His face and its bone structure are very much in keeping with his otherwise unusual appearance. There is enough of a hint of girlishness in his appearance to make him unusual looking, almost ethereal, but not quite enough to make him truly pretty. Nevertheless, he is blessed with high cheek-bones, large, grey eyes and a slightly pointed chin, giving his face a vaguely heart-shaped appearance. It seems almost as though the colour of his irises has been sucked out of them by over-exposure to computer displays.
   His eclectic taste in clothes seems to be the most obvious source of remembrance of his days at musical college. Black is a common theme, as is the specific fit of the majority of his clothes…Thrift seems to be another well-used outlet for his taste. However, unlike the majority of his peers at musical college, he was never quite so flamboyant, instead of the usual exoticism they practised, in all but his hair his taste was rather clean-cut and ordinary. A black, V-neck sweater here; a pair of slenderly fitted, dark jeans our trousers there; that omnipresent pair of black Chelsea boots; a crisp, white shirt would be common enough. However, nowadays his looks have fallen into disrepair and his clothes are adorned with holes that could be seen as fashionable accessorisation or simple disregard. The occasional stitch haphazardly darts across his clothing in random colourations of thread; whether this is for the sake of artifice or simply a measure put in place to fix old clothes is unclear.
   These days, when in company that he trusts or, more often than not, when alone, a pair of large, bulky and generally dark-lensed goggles are either strapped firmly across his eyes, allowing him to ignore reality and slip into something more poignant, or are pushed back, adorning his forehead and holding his unruly hair in place. Their rims are curved and white, their lenses normally dark, they sit, adorned with a couple of smooth screws or buttons or switches that seem almost to exist more for dramatic effect than for any particular purpose. Only he really knows.
   He is rarely seen without a messenger bag containing a sleek, black laptop of indeterminate design or prevalence – neither apple-mac, nor PC. It also contains a selection of wires, headphone jacks, sensory hard-wiring and little hands-free devices to plug either into his goggles for greater sensory output and input or to plug into his laptop. At times both man and device seem to be one and the same.
   In the Virtual Reality Net, he is somewhat more ethereal in appearance and in movements, his eyes larger to the extent of evoking a sense of cuteness that permeates the rest of his features equally. A smooth, black body-suit covers him up to the collar-bones and yet carries the same warmth and sensations as flesh. His body itself is more smooth and sleek, the angles that would, in reality, have made him seem desperately unhealthy, having disappeared into clean-cut, androgyne beauty. A pair of larger but sleeker and better made goggles are almost always seated across his eyes, leaving his hair to writhe freely about him like an angry, black halo.

Jackson sees the majority of the physical, ‘real’ world as a representation of the data stored in an overlapping realm known as the Virtual Web. As a result, just as information can be changed and altered, so too can the aspects of reality that this information represents. In order to work his will on reality spontaneously Jackson makes use of its subjectivity and dives head-long into the Virtual Web in order to change the necessary code in the case of sudden effects without prepared rotes. He is generally reliant on rotes when he does not have the time required to create a whole new and untested effect. When performing rotes, however, he is able to use his computer (the focus for the majority of his effects and the conduit through which he accesses the Web – his paradigm) from any point in the world through use of an electrically wired glove (and correspondence effects), simply commanding his computer to run a rote or ‘prog’ from a distance. However, in most cases, he is content to use his computer directly. He prefers to keep his effects coincidental and subtle where possible.
For various sensory effects he also uses a large, bulky pair of goggles to enhance his senses. These goggles may look strange but are either remotely or directly wired into his computer’s systems and, therefore, allow him to work his effects.
Dylan Collette
Tradition: Orphan (prospective Hollow One)
Age: 24

Born to a Northern Irish mother and an English father, Dylan Collette’s life was made somewhat difficult from an early age due to growing hostility between the two neighboring nations. While both countries were, officially, unified through the medium of the United Kingdoms, there had, for a long time before Dylan’s birth, been tension stretched tight in amongst the states that comprised the United Kingdoms.
   While the Romeo and Juliet nature of his parents’ romance and lifestyle permeated his childhood, Dylan learnt from it only discontent with what he had been offered. The typically bourgeois, suburban childhood he underwent did little but reinforce this concept of being unsatisfied with the life the fates had chosen for him. However, this manner of upbringing did serve to educate a largely hard working young Dylan well beyond a High School level and keep him sequestered off from unpleasantness of most kinds – his parents had always been loving both to one another and to him and, as an only child, Dylan was showered with affectionate attention.
   It was the generally uneventful nature of the lad’s childhood that urged him towards an escapist mindset. This manifested physically through denying the wishes of his well-meaning parents and studying English Literature rather than Law at Belfast’s Queens University. This choice of course and higher education pushed Dylan further away from his father and, to some extent, from his still sympathetic mother and pulled him closer to the lower elements of Belfast society.
   In true middle class style, he proceeded to taint his own background with the influence of the lower echelons, freely bringing himself towards acceptance as one of their own. Struggling poets, writers, publishers…All flew under the mothering wings of Queens University and Dylan was but one among their number – a largely aimless writer with a shy but loud attitude and a quickly developing heroine problem.
   It was the latter issue that, in Dylan’s second year of university, condemned him to the fate he had succeeded in attaining for himself. When political unrest between Northern and Southern Ireland mounted and, finally, built into a crescendo of a fever pitch, Dylan suffered an overdose which kicked him into a month long coma of wild dreams and tangible thoughts. The dreams became steadily more lucid, more controllable over time. They featured feverish imaginings of the current whereabouts and states of his friends and enemies – those he had met – at first, only to gradually slip into the lives of others; strangers also. He could dream about whoever and whatever he liked, crafting entertainment and dreamy sustenance from the fabric of his own psyche on a whim. Reality was painted in shades of pale and grey by comparison.
   After the month ended, Dylan awoke, all the more emaciated than his habit had left him – all the more discontent with the general nature of the world in which he lived. Dylan could never accept what the world and its denizens had given him and now he had found both a crutch to replace his heroine habit and an alternative to reality.
   During the conflict between Northern and Southern forces in Belfast, Dylan spent his time slipping voluntarily in and out of consciousness, barely eating, barely drinking, all for the sake of living in a more vivid and more beautiful world of lucid dreams.
   This, little did he know, was his own Awakening from a sleep he had been engaged in all his life.

His silhouette is, generally, a rather striking but dangerously fragile one. His frame has gone beyond slender and slipped into the vicinity of ‘skeletal’ becoming a better descriptor, whether due to a natural frailty or simple forgetting or choosing not to eat. The fit of his clothes often only serve to accentuate this worrying slenderness; tightly fitted jeans or trousers, ankle high Chelsea boots and a mishmash of eclectic fashion statements, often in black only serving to emphasise his significant height and his insignificant build.
   His soft seeming, light red hair forms an angry looking halo about his otherwise pale, heart-shaped face; tendrils of that subtle crimson flailing about his pointed features. A twist-locked, badly cut fringe falls to just below his brows, obscuring his forehead entirely under usual circumstances. The general feel of his haircut is that of a randomly chopped shock of the stuff, curling into his face from above and from the sides. The entire affair just about falls to below his ear-lobes, lying slightly lower at the back of his head.
   His face itself and its bone structure are very much in keeping with his otherwise unusual appearance. There is enough of a hint of girlishness in his appearance to make him unusual looking, almost ethereal, but not quite enough to make him truly pretty. Nevertheless, he is blessed with high cheek-bones, large, chocolate brown eyes and a pointed chin and nose. Some might call him elfin, or pixie-like were he not quite so tall. His eyes either move lethargically and gradually in the manner of one who has just been woken up or quickly and almost desperately, darting about in a wild dance of activity.

Dylan manipulates reality through slipping into the dreams of the aspect he wishes to alter. That is the basic premise behind his particular taste of Magick. For now he finds it impossible to do anything but perceive any aspects of reality aside from the Minds of living creatures.
   He can use dreams to perform all manner of sensory Magick and yet can only actually manipulate the workings of minds and psyches. He does this through entering their dreams at first as a spectator and, afterward, actually altering their dreams, slipping them suggestions or downright mental impulses according to his own whims.
   He sees this art of Oneiromancy as something of a recreational activity, almost a drug, and he is, as a result, addicted to the vivid and beautiful or terrifying realities away from reality he can find within his own dreams and those of others.

Setting - Realism and Historical Realism

James “Jimmy” Colt
Era: 1960s
Age: 21

A shock of slightly wind-swept seeming flitting tendrils of hair form a roughly hewn halo about his heart-shaped, somewhat girlish face. His hair and eyes match in the manner that opposites attract – hair being the colour of chocolate so dark it’s almost agonizing to eat more than a mouthful, eyes being the colour of the milky chocolate that there’s just never enough of; a smooth, golden brown. There is a vaguely exotic look to him but it is somehow difficult to place in terms of nationality; he is generally Caucasian seeming and, but for his almost gypsy-chiqued hair, not even an English nationalist would discern him as any different from a full-blooded English male.
   His clothes often center around the bohemian, ‘head’-esque image with loosely fitting, hemp or linen tops that could look equally at home on a Buddhist monk or a catwalk model…or on a hanger in a charity shop. These tops are chased off by slenderly fitted trousers, whether they manifest in the form of jeans or dress trousers. Shoe styles are equally eclectic. However, the one uniting factor is their impracticality – winklepickers in black leathers and tan or black, leather Chelsea boots are the norm. These aspects of his dress sense are finished by a fine smattering of pseudo-philosophical-come-religious memorabilia. Most of it seems of eastern origin, Buddhist prayer beads being a common example.
   Despite all his spiritual finery and ‘head’ inspired aesthetics, he seems still to be somehow clinging to days gone by. The overall impression given by his appearance is one of a lad stuck between flower power and mod rule – city slicker and rural eco-fiend.
   These eclectic outfits often hang off and cling onto his slender figure in a mish-mash of sizes, whether by design or by accident.
Personality: He is largely a shy eccentric type, flicking in an almost bipolar manner between bouts of noisy and surreal humour to long stints of seemingly melancholic passiveness; remaining still and silent throughout.
   It is a well-kept secret of his that half of his eccentricity is, in fact, put on for the sake of social situations and fashion. His views on philosophy and politics are equally convincingly faked. At times he may seem to have even fooled himself into thinking that he believes in karma. At the end of the day he is rather selfish in all but his need to entertain and please others – a living contradiction, in essence.
   If the last two years of his life and now this falling into student life have taught him anything it is a strong distrust of those in power; a dislike for those possessed of stuffy, conservative opinions and; and to bow to those whom he sees as above him in this newly forged hierarchy of ‘cool’. He is very conscious of the comparatively small collection of years under his belt.

Setting - Skewed/Alternative Realism and Historical Realism

Dylan Culp
Era (and changes thereto): Later 1950s/Early 1960's, as seen in 'Bioshock'
Age: 27

As a general synopsis, Mr Culp seems to be something of a slight man, both in mannerisms and in appearance. He casts a subtle silhouette; trimmed, as if for some odd kind of penny pushing practice, like the fates were insistent on using as little fabric as possible in composing his shadow. He is not, by any means, agonisingly rake-like, and yet there is something difficult to place that makes him seem as if he doesn’t quite eat enough. Moving his long limbs in something of a clumsy way, Dylan Culp makes his way through the world with what seems like a small but significant degree of difficulty; as if he constantly has to be conscious of where exactly his extremities have placed themselves in case they deign to conduct some manner of mischief outside of his notice.
   However, he is, by classification, an action painter and such awkwardness would have no place in his work. He is a perfectionist and, it seems, he has beaten this particular lack of physical symphony from his own psyche and physiology while he paints. As he does so, he tends toward almost dancing over the large scale canvases he favours as he lays them across the floor, dashing paint across them in what seems to be an almost arbitrary manner. Either way, whether by design or happenstance, the process is inspiring and unsettling to behold.
   His messy but, generally, closely cut, brownish russet-gold hair perches itself atop his head in an almost precarious manner. It is cut in such a way that, while the sides and back are shaved short – almost to the point of being cropped about his ears and neck, for example – the top is decidedly longer and yet not to the point of being impractical or in such a way as to flout tradition and masculine values particularly openly. This odd but generally subtle unconventionality in his coiffure often refuses to show itself in all its slightly odd glory as, for the majority of the time, Mr Culp wears it combed back, perhaps treated with some subtle tincture – genetically engineered or otherwise –  to give it a natural shine and the hold necessary to keep it stroking its way to the rear of his head, rather than falling into his eyes constantly. Were he ever to be away from situations that call for such barbers’ trinkets, however, his odd but fitting and seemingly trendy head of hair would, most likely, become impractical or unnecessarily dramatic.
   His face itself centres around the natural focal point of his large, almost owl-like eyes, their round, golden brownness seeming either to stare at everything or nothing; perceiving all or taking in very little. In a similar fashion, they seem to carry an air of either being extremely tired and ringed subtly by a darkness that matches his covertly long, dusky eyelashes or being fresh and very, very alert, almost to the point of being jumpy and somewhat hair triggered. These large, long lashed eyes sit upon prominent, rather than smooth cheek bones in an angled but unsculpted face. He seems almost abstract in appearance with his oddly mismatched features and yet some of them, in isolation, could be seen to be very attractive. As a synthesis of concepts and facial features, however, it is exceptionally confusing to attempt to analyse whether the collection as a whole is pleasing or otherwise. Unusual might be a better way to describe it than boxing his appearance into categorisations such as ‘attractive’ or ‘unattractive’.
   When out of evening wear – dark suits that are, often enough, fairly ill fitting; either too tight around the legs or too sack-like around the torso – Mr Culp favours drainpiped slacks, often in dark colours or earth tones, for freedom of movement, coupled with collarless, white shirts, regularly made of linen or cotton or some other suitably liberal feeling substance. Occasionally, this amalgam is finished by a waist coat, buttons undone, naturally, in a similar colour to the slacks, suggesting the two belong, or once belonged, to some three piece suit now lost to the sands of time or the depths of his wardrobe. He is, after all, a distinctly disorganised man. His apartment is beyond fashionably deshabille and yet avoids being ‘dirty’. It is instead simply cluttered. His more casual clothes, similarly, often show signs of spattered paint – war wounds gained on an infinitely expressive battlefield.

  • He was born and grew up in Boston, Massachusetts, only to move to New York to study theories of fine art that he soon entirely disregarded in favour of techniques that not even Paris or Vienna had seen. It was these innovations, and their not altogether positive reception from New York’s critics, that attracted the notice of those who possessed the keys to a developing city.
  • It was mentioned first to him as ‘a place where the artist need not fear the critic’. Naturally, he jumped at the opportunity and has, thus far, made a comparatively more lucrative living off Rapture’s more accepting and discerning clientele.
  • He is somewhat sexually insecure. This translates into being very much unsure of his own prowess in such areas and not really endeavouring to make much of an impact with women. He certainly is not much of a ‘go-getter’. While he is not outwardly shy a certain shyness is evident in his inability to flirt and the uncomfortableness that follows his being flirted with.
  • His voice is velvety but, often enough, prone to breaking into something quieter. His manner of speaking could, actually, be compared to how he moves when not painting. If one ignores his irregular speaking patterns, however, the words he uses are apt and well ordered, suggesting a somewhat expensive education.
  • He is not overly fond of needles and yet this has taken something of a backseat after having lived in Rapture for some time.
  • He is highly disorganised and yet still adheres to clinical values in terms of his own personal hygiene and that of his personal space. He disdains dirt and yet is a close friend of well-checked mess.
  • He washes his hands twice upon visiting the restroom; once when entering and once when leaving.
  • He dislikes the idea of biology and so prefers not to know how plasmids and ADAM-based engineering functions. Instead, he desires to stay somewhat in the dark and forget what he knows about the physical tenets of the human condition, deeming them to be, often times, a little too animalistic and unpleasant.

Setting - Skewed/Alternative Fantasy

Mr. Tristin Isdie
Specific setting: Homebrew Steampunk-tinged, Victoriana influenced Fantasy
Age: 89
Apparent Age: 24

The result of an unexpected pregnancy among the ‘working girls’ of the District, Tristin Isdie grew up among these women; he himself the fruit of a long love affair with a handsome human lad or just another human customer…Either way, his elven mother could never remember which. His fairytale father changed each time his mother recounted to him the story of his conception as he grew up, weaving a glamour of confusion and mystery around this unknown figure. However, as he reached adolescence, these fantastical fantasies that he had once dreamt up for his own benefit, built around his absent father figure, gradually declined in both quality and quantity until the matriarchal society within the moon elven ghettoes of the District utterly stamped out any kind of need for such a figure. Eventually, his mother began to refuse to tell him the old stories any more. The first time she did this marked a new phase in his life, so it seemed.
   While aging a little slower than most and faster than others he always found it a little difficult to keep friends for long; the endless cavalcade of non-blood-related aunts his mother constantly introduced him to were, at this point, his only source of social distinction and operation aside from short lived and far from meaningful friendships.
   Having grown up in the bustling environment that was the District and, eventually, learning to keep up with the banter of his mother and ‘aunts’ he is no stranger to social interaction and any kind of witty exchange and yet, oddly enough, given his chosen profession, persists in being somewhat shy in front of crowds and around pretty girls.
   The state in which, by our story’s reckoning, is the present day, finds him to have only very recently left home and having been living in whatever forms of meagre accommodation he was able to find for himself within his price range. He has attempted to make his living as a pianist and violinist, playing at the District’s backwater inns and brothels – the latter still make him somewhat nervous. Each new career and place of rest tossed him a few more coins but each little piece of silver or copper drained away from his purse all too quickly.

  • An unruly shock of hair the colour of very dark chocolate sits upon his head, or, more apparently, attempts to escape from it. While he is by no means balding and will not be for the forseeable future, Tristin's faintly lopsided hairstyle still seems desperate to avoid his scalp at all costs. In short, its mid-length, wild locks wave and twist madly about his head, never laying flat but always falling upward or downward, no doubt according to some odd physical law not yet discovered by scientists, in semi-backcombed or teased but lustrous seeming locks. The upthrust is broken only by a slight but unruly fringe that occasionally becomes so bold as to impinge upon his eyes when it sees fit.
  • Creeping out from beneath his wild coiffure are a pair of carefully trimmed side-burns that aspire towards his high, smoothly planed cheek bones. While the side-burns are a common fashion amongst discerning Imperial* gentlemen, the more exotic features of his face are not. This bone structure, couple with the large and subtly slanted nature of his eyes, hint toward a half-elven heritage, his pale and vaguely luminescent skin pointing definitively at Moon Elf branches to his family tree.
  • There is a somewhat feminine cast to his features. While he is not classically handsome in many senses of the word, he is not overly displeasing to look upon and far, far away from being so much as threatening as more rough men can be and often are.
  • His clothes hang off a slender, delicate but tall and long limbed frame in haphazardly debonair waves, largely adhering to Imperial* conventional fashion but occasionally thrown off by unusual touches: an ill-fitting item here, or an exotic touch there. His trousers are slender legged and black, hiding an equally darkly hued pair of faintly scuffed Chelsea Boots. A variety of ill-fitting jackets, mostly black and tailed for fashion rather than occasion, dress his torso from day to day, covering clean but crinkled white, linen shirts in the wing-collar style beneath either a black or pinstriped waistcoat, trailing chains for pocket watches that, no doubt, do not tell the correct time.
  • These signposts towards his living an alternative lifestyle, as suggested by his attire and appearance and the establishments he frequents, are completed and chased by the addition of a pair of leather bound, brass, round lensed goggles with a variety of differing auspices and small, brassy gadgets that normally either hang about his neck or remain pushed onto his forehead, holding back his unruly hair with their presence when they are not standing at attention upon his eyes.
  • Overall, his general attire seems to meet somewhere in the no-man’s land between a fashionable gentleman and an impoverished artist, sometimes, one archetype showing through a little more than the other, whether by choice or chance.
  • The perceptive observer would most likely see that he has a propensity for wearing oddly matched socks beneath his boots.
  • He is rarely seen without a small, solid looking, black instrumental case that looks fit to hold a violin or viola of some kind. In times of need he also tends towards carrying a small, leather satchel that hangs, haphazardly about his shoulders; colliding periodically with his rump as he runs or walks.

* - The Empire mentioned relates to an establishment
in Tristin's setting of origin. In short, it is an organisation based
roughly around human superiority that bears much in resemblance
to the Victorian British Empire. Through an ecclesiarchy and a highly
regimented system of religion it claims reason to believe in the more
exotic races with which it shares the continent it calls its empire are
secondary citizens. Hence, most of them live in certain parts of town.
The Empire concerns itself largely with science, rather than magic,
although such things do not run on steam but on the souls of dead
 Imperial citizens. All Imperial citizens are consigned from birth to be
incorporated into the Empire's greater good upon their deaths, etc.
etc. For all intents and purposes, it looks similar to steam technology
though, albeit, occasionally, sickly green glows may be incorporated
into the workings of such science.

Setting - Warhammer Fantasy

Talhril Helvieth
Race: Druchii (AKA ‘Dark Elves’)
Age: 114
Apparent Age: 25

Talhril stands tall and yet he does not tower with the practiced inelegance of a warrior. Rather, his form is stretched to a rail-like sleekness; an attenuation that soars towards almost inhuman perfection, his limbs devoid of unsightly muscle and held, gracefully, against his slender body. His silhouette is dark and wiry, moving with the precision of one with far too much time on their hands; all angles and sharpnesses and points of brightest brilliance. His skin is freakish, luminescent moonlight and his hair inky with saturated darkness, while his torso is slight and his neck long and elegant, his spine contains the only true curve in his body: a flattened elliptical thing that sweeps, like the concave of a spoon, and offers his standing a definite feminine quality.
   His hair is best described as a shock; something oddly styled and glossily black, hanging upon his finely featured skull like a hole in his surroundings. Falling down, just to about his sleek jaw-line on his rightmost side in a wild sprig of darkness, but being scraped behind his daintily pointed ear on his skull’s left. At his crown and on the longer, rightmost side of his face, his hair is gifted with greater freedom, chopped, as if with a knife blade, into elaborate but effortlessly twisting, mad layers and forming an occasionally unruly side-fringe that violates and obscures half his porcelain-hued face in moments where he finds himself unable to brush it aside. On the leftmost side, his hair is cut shorter and elaborately braided to his scalp, sweeping back towards the rear of his skull, letting pale skin show through in between the braids, letting his hair become, overall, a hybrid beast: half shaggy halo and half cultured, controlled, braided tension.
   The face framed by these jauntily cut, hybrid locks is a sharp one, but in a way that is far from unpleasant. Rather, it is possessed of the visceral beauty of a knife’s blade – all shine and sparkle and potential. His eyes are large and catlike in shape; almonds of snowy white, curtained by long, girlish lashes of the same svelte darkness of his hair, slit by wide, wintery violet spheres – his irises; all prettiness and piercing, childlike beauty. His cheek bones are delicate and noble and his jaw sleek, feminine and sharp, all at once but his lips have a strange cast to them that might almost suggest an uncontrolled cruelty, barely suppressed, lying behind them like a barbed hydra’s tongue.
   Talhril compliments his fashionable attenuation in his dress. His trousers are, more often than not, sewn of the softest possible leathers; the skins of conquered men, tanned to a dark hue, belts veritably hang off his sharp hip bones, often heavy or, at least, adorned with his two weapons of the moment and barbed, sharp elven runes, wrought in fine silver. In situations unrequirest of formality, he adorns his torso with the thinnest of opaque, black cottons, long-sleeved and clinging to his skin with a shameless eagerness, tracing up to the middle of his neck in a long, high collar. Often, dark azure scarves cover his neck and shoulders similarly, jackets in the style of the matador bulking his shoulders and his arms toward his slim wrists with its dark fabrics and subtly azure jewelled and inscribed surface.

  • He seems only to have very recently passed from what is, to the Druchii, considered adolescence and into their idea of adulthood. What awful rites he underwent to pass into such a phase of his existence, however, do not bear thinking about.
  • He bears the symbolic mark of a High Borne of the Druchii; the right to carry two weapons, although circumstance demands the nature of these weapons to vary. The awkwardness with which his fingers occasionally glance towards them, however, belies the slightest lack of confidence or acquaintance with their leather-wrapped grips. Their nature ranges from a small, barbed, offhand hook and what appears to be a long, sharp needle to two silvery, barbed Druchii longswords.
  • On Fridays, flesh hooks are woven into his long hair; hang off his sleeves and the tips of his long fingers – a symbolic mark of respect to Khaine on his holy day. This shows him to be, at least publicly, loyal to the ‘true faith’ of the Druchii.

Setting - Promethean: the Created

Jones, AKA ‘West Pier Tom’, AKA ‘Steel Bridge Tom’, AKA ‘Slideaway Jones’, AKA ‘Mr. Jones’.
Concept: a recently converted Aurum, attempting to find his humanity through people watching and, ultimately, human emotion, most notably love.
Virtue: Fortitude – against the majority of odds, Jones stands against diversity, not driven towards his goal and the conclusion of his Pilgrimage by a sense of hope but by a sense of relative meaninglessness. It is this search for meaning in his life that gives his life definition and causes him to let his existence in the life of another amount to something almost entire. In short, he creates another of his kind, determined to weather all opposition if it means unearthing love.
Vice: Gluttony – one might call Jones a distinctively addictive personality. He finds it difficult to focus on something and not finish it; indulging in it until done to death. Stumbling across a selection of paperback novels, Jones would almost be likely to do little else but read them until every last page had borne the weight of his gaze. The creation of his progeny and his hope to grant her all that his own creator neglected to grant him in the hurry towards her own redemption has become his newest obsession. His newest and most prominent addiction has manifested in the form of his beautiful progeny.
Lineage: Frankenstein
Refinement: Aurum

Description: ‘Scarecrow’ could well be the first word that springs, unbidden, to mind at observing Jones from a distance. While he lacks the crucified diligence in his posture that a scarecrow might have, his limbs are long and gangling, seeming almost too long for his body, yet remaining oddly in synchronisation with the emaciated nature of his body. ‘Slender’ would be too light a word. It would almost imply some degree of attractiveness; an impression of delicacy. Rather, Jones is closer to brittle than delicate, like some wicker man, amalgamated by the collection of twigs, subverted into some strange whole. His legs are long and thin with sharp knees and, beneath his clothes, hip bones that could cut through flesh. His arms are almost equally long, attenuated like a Giacometti sculpture, bent on bladelike hinges of elbows and ending in fingers like spiders’ legs. Beneath his ragged, linen shirt, his stomach is a shallow cave and his ribs are like something caged, trying to escape through the pale, waxy translucency of his skin. Even with this pallor to his seemingly thin flesh, it retains none of the luminescence normally associated with such pale skin. Instead it is dull; more like the smooth surface of a new candle than the surface of the moon.
   Just as the fat that, by all rights, should pad his body at least a little seems to have been left out of the plans of whatever hurried God created his image, Jones’s hair seems equally unfinished. It takes on the appearance of an incomplete haircut, as if the barber were attempting to give the man a complete buzz cut and yet paused when he reached Jones’s crown. As a result, the back and sides of Jones’s skull are cut down to a prickly barley texture, while, on the top of his head, his hair remains a longer shock of dark brown hair, wild like the wind and coloured like pavements after a storm. This shock of isolated hair that remains on his head, uncontrolled, normally opts towards falling over toward the right side of his head and forming a twisted, thin fringe that bothers his eyebrows except in strong winds.
   The face that clings to his head is angular and possessed of a strange melancholy. Large, golden brown eyes look out of sadly sunken pits in his face, their honeyed colour’s sweetness contrasting with the bitter slant to the rest of his features. His cheek bones are high and well attached and his skin is, for the most part, smooth, at least, above the line of where his jaw begins in proper. Whether by some odd manner of budding five o’clock shadow on his jaw line or something else entirely, it seems rougher than the rest of his face, and his chin is sharp; his nose, similarly so. His eyes are watery, his brows and lips thin, as if starved, and his cheeks are possessed of a fragile hollowness. Still, his face is, largely, far from disagreeable. Just odd.
   For the most part, Jones’s most commonly worn item of clothing is a large, dully grey-brown coloured fishtail parka coat that hangs off his skeletal body in its attempts towards bulking it out somewhat. Instead, it only succeeds in making his long but thin legs appear all the more brittle, as if they would snap in executing an act as simple as walking. The trousers he wears are almost always too small, either exposing ankles or hanging loosely off the shallow cage of his hip bones. As a result of this, the sheer rawbonedness of his legs has little as far as drapery is concerned to hide behind. The knees and hems of these trousers are often ripped, suggesting either wear and tear or thriftiness as far as their acquisition is concerned. At the ends of his legs’ attenuations, however, he walks on a surprisingly large pair of black, possibly military style ankle boots that look to have seen a variety of far better days. Nevertheless they are, for the most part, clean, although could certainly do with a good shine.

Deformities: Upon the revelation of his Deformities, Jones seems all the taller, with limbs that are longer even than they once were, becoming more of a skeleton, strung up for use as a scarecrow, than an actual man. His face is still fresh and smooth seeming, revealing it to be that of a decidedly young and almost ‘pretty’ man, at least, until one looks to his jaw. Rough stitching from the corners of his thin, pink lips outward towards the edges of his face reveal the jaw to be from an entirely different corpse, its rougher textures revealing it as older. As a result of this stitching’s careless undertaking, his lips seem almost pulled too wide on a horizontal basis, in a manner that surely must be painful. His otherwise attractive face, even with the waxy, newly-made corpse dullness of his pale skin, is marred by this extended and poorly doctored ‘Glasgow smile’ and, as a side effect of this, the two rows of his teeth, when connected in a bite, do not quite match up.
   The sides and back of his head have been shaved, or so it appears, so as to reveal an appropriate point for the attachment of a roughly circular, metal terminal onto the leftmost side of his skull’s rear, a hole punched into his head before being filled with an indented metal cylinder, centred around another hole in the dull steel, small enough for a needle to fit through and enter straight into his brain. The hair around this terminal is patchy at best, albeit shaved almost to the quick. Similar terminals are located at two other points on his body. One lies at the base of his spine, boring into the small of his back, and another on the sole of his left foot.
   Beneath his parka, rough scars, stitches and sutures cover his body, his arms seeming to be divided at each possible joint – shoulders, elbows, wrists and some knuckles – the case being similar where his legs are concerned. Similarly, his torso is divided into three mismatched and irregular sections and, while all the skin of his body retains something of a corpse-like pallor, the hues of his skin, or skins, may be of the same colour, they are all by no means of the same tone, rendering him something of a patchwork creature.

Vitality - • Shoulders of Atlas (the Promethean can, temporarily, lift great weights)
Disquietism - • Scapegoat (makes another individual seem like the source of the Promethean’s Disquiet); •• Tension in the Air (the Promethean’s Disquiet is diffused causing anxiety and irritation without a discernible cause)
Deception - • Chameleon Skin (the Promethean changes the colour of her skin, allowing her to blend into the background)
« Last Edit: August 12, 2009, 04:22:53 PM by Barding »

Offline polaroids





« Last Edit: March 05, 2009, 12:39:42 AM by polaroids »

Offline Anastasia Lockhart

Craving a cyberpunk roleplay AND we share a bunch of interests and fetishes? I'd love to RP with you sometime!

Offline BardingTopic starter

Polaroids, I've PM'd you.  8)

Anastasia, I don't have a huge amount of time at the moment to check you out as a roleplayer to check the meshing of our interests and all, but I currently have a fair amount of faith in them. Now, uhm, could you please tell me, preferably by PM, if you had any cyberpunk ideas, incorporating our similarities? If not, then I'll PM you when I get back from class :)

Offline BardingTopic starter

« Last Edit: April 09, 2009, 09:14:49 AM by Barding »

Offline Shihong

Hello there Barding!  I finally had the time to take a look around here and noticed your topic.

I had seen your post regarding East Hastings back on Darknest, though at the time "The Sky's The Limit" had been of more immediate interest.  Thinking upon it further, I believe it could be an intensely interesting experience.  I thoroughly enjoyed both 28 Days Later and its immediate sequel, and the concept (if not the cause) is very similar.  Even more intriguing to me is the potential for ideological conflict inherent in the initial creation of "Students" for organ harvesting.  Though you described it as a very popular decision, I can't imagine it would have been universally accepted.

I suppose what I'm saying is, I would love to participate in this roleplay as well, if you'd have me!  I have a few character skeletons that I could dredge up and rework for this purpose, if given some basic guidelines.  In other words, any preferences you had in mind.

Something that also caught my eye was the mention of Dead Space under your Sci-Fi category up at the top.  That game is easily one of my favorites (In addition to Bioshock).  There is a roleplay occurring on Darknest for the former, but it has proven to be...less than satisfying.  I'm not suggesting starting one yourself, as East Hastings is obviously your primary interest, but the Dead Space setting has a great deal of potential.

Offline BardingTopic starter

Hmnn, good to see you here, Shi. Uhm, now, it's lovely to see that someone took an interest in the actual nuances of the setting I layed out for 'East Hastings'. The idea of the Students was one particularly close to my heart and I'm actually hoping to play a liberated Student who's unaware as to whether, having survived the period most Students undergo their Donations over, he could die or begin to waste away at any minute as a result of some built in genetic obsolescence within the Students' systems. But still, I'm not sure as to whether this friend of mine I generally thought up the plot for is going to take it up or not, so I can't give any definite places to co-writers for 'East Hastings' just yet. Still, garnering a list of who might be interested if my friend is to decline the offer would be very helpful anyway :)

As for the 'Dead Space'-esque idea, while I'm not sure how many more roleplays I can actually take part in without my writing in them all deteriorating, your interest has been duly noted :) In short, good luck with the process of getting accepted and, well, I must commend you on your taste in both game and roleplay settings (I love Dead Space AND Bioshock ;D).

Still, I'd be interested, just hypothetically, as to what kind of plot you'd be going for if you were to be starting up a Dead Space-themed RP?

Offline Shihong

Regretfully, actually creating a scenario in the Dead Space setting is a bit tricky.  Assuming it would take place aboard the USG Ishimura, which is essentially the only thing we're able to get much information about, it would need to take place "between the ticks", so to speak.  In other words, the characters would continually be missing Isaac Clarke as he attempts to fix the ship in their own efforts to find an escape or at least discover what has occurred.

There is the potential for setting the tale either on the mining colony before the events of Dead Space, or on the ship before and after the outbreak.  However, this too has also been done before; the former in a Wii-based addition to the vanilla game, and the latter in the comic and animated feature.

What I tentatively propose is a Nightmare Scenario, of sorts.  When the Aegis 7 marker was activated, it immediately caused madness amongst the excavation team.  Additionally, it somehow spontaneously began to manufacture the basic bacterial lifeform involved in the creation of Necromorphs.  Presumably the original Marker had to be some sort of weapon; when turned on it would cause enemy combatants to kill each other, providing the raw material for the contagion to "repurpose".

This original Marker is the key.  I suppose the Outbreak scenario has been used time and time again, with varying rates of success.  Heck, your primary interest falls under just such a category?  Still, there is plenty of potential for creativity here.  I assume you follow what I'm getting at:  What if the Marker back on Earth were to be activated?  Eventually the organic substances would overrun the testing facility and be spread into the outside world, perhaps even accidentally by way of stray microbes on a lab jacket, or even in the lungs of an unwitting scientist.

This provides some very interesting questions: how would the contagion adapt to non-human lifeforms?  The infection would start off terribly slowly at first, as the Marker's affects wouldn't extend very far past the facility in which it is contained (Another option here is playing things out -solely- within this facility).  It would have to latch onto whatever dead organic matter that was available, meaning roadkill and the like.  There is also the possibility that it could warp plant life as well, which could lead to some very intriguing results.  It seems as though the Leviathan was able to consume the contents of Food Storage.  As much of it looked to be vegetation, that may support this theory.

All in all, it would be a fantastic chance to make up all sorts of new beasties!  You'll find I'm very interested in that subject...

I suppose I should also mention my interest in Silent Hill, while we're on the subject of beasties.  I'm not sure if that setting is something you're into or not.  When it comes to -sexual- situations, well...  The place seems to -thrive- on that sort of thing, eh?

Offline BardingTopic starter

Updated my plots post and my 'Craving of the Week' post.

Admittedly, I'm not -definitely- looking for an RP at the moment, so please take stock of that. However, getting to know people who might be up for doing the RP at some point would be good either way!

Offline Moth

It should be first stated that I am a ridiculously obsessed Harley Quinn fan, to the point that I've played her along with other DC villainesses in several forum RPs. So naturally, my fantasies to see her draped on the Nolanized Mistah J were shattered when I saw the movie (which I still adored regardless). I would love to play out a sort of a Nolan version of "Mad Love" - at least the initial premise with Dr. Harlene Quinzell becoming fascinated with her patient. It would also be very fun to expand upon the character in a realistic and more complex fashion while still maintaining the bubbly charm of the original.

Even if you're not currently up for a game, it would be an exciting future possibility, if you're interested. Please just let me know, and I look forward to reading more of your story propositions.

Offline lacuna

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I see someone has already responded to the Dark Knight inspired game which is slightly disappointing, but if things don't work out on that alley, let me know. I'd be interested too.

Offline Marlow

I have to say, I <3 like all your ideas, but the following strike my interest most:

Riding on Starlight
(A Star Wars RP for any era)
Two smugglers, a Miraluka male and a female of as of yet undecided race and nature, have been working together for the majority of their eventful and misadventure filled careers. Traversing the trade routes of the known galaxy carrying all manner of things from Spice to illegal weaponry, the two form a mutually beneficial duo. The Miraluka being possessed of the natural Force-sensitivity of the majority of his race fulfills the role of a navigator and a healer, acting as a shaman of sorts. Cursed, also, with the blindness of his race, he uses the Force to see through the eyes of his traveling companion when necessary.
In short, this RP would involve a developing romantic attachment between the two characters - the second of which, you would play and would have creative freedom with regards to her conception - and a good deal of general Space Fantasy-based hijinks that come as default in the inter-system smuggling business.

An Education in Darkness
(A Star Wars RP for any era, although some may fit better than others)
There has been, for longer than recorded history tells, a labyrinthine structure both on and beneath the surface of Korriban, cleft and carved into the surface of the planet's dusty, once volcanic rock. The stories of those who have explored it and lived tell of tunnels that go on for miles and rooms with no doors to be seen. They tell of great subterranean chambers and shafts of twisting sunlight and great braziers running on tallow of questionable origin. They tell of both high technology and primal primitivism. The most informed of these stories claim that this maze of rough hewn and majestic rock either is or was an academy of sorts. Given that it is located on Korriban, tales spoken in shivering, shuddering voices attest that it was an academy that trained the young in arts that welled up from the darkness of the planet itself. It was once an academy for the Sith.
Now, this RP would probably be a BIG twist on your average high school-based game. Not only would each of the characters be Sith, whether teachers or students, they would each gradually descend into their own private darkness, their bodies deteriorating into morbidity while their minds sharpen and open their doors to horrifying powers or their forms twisting into ones of terrifying beauty while their minds spiral into insanity. Of course, classes in this academy would be different from those in an ordinary high school or university. However, the nature of this aspect of the academy can be altered to suit the needs of the game. The conception of such things would probably be very much a joint effort.
I had the idea of simply taking two Sith, either two students or a student and a teacher, and exploring a hedonistic and darkly romantic relationship between the two. While this may be a vague idea, its vagueness allows room for all manner of variation on the theme. Once again, creativity is paramount. This idea would constitute the framework for a One-on-One RP.

The Sky's the Limit (IT HAS SKY-PIRATES!) ****
[WARNING: contains anthro play and a request for the player to take the role of a 'futanari' or whatever you wanna call it...However, read the plot and if you object to both these requests then I'll be willing to do it as a human, heterosexual game in a similar context...The only bit of this you can't avoid is the Steampunk element.]
Setting fluff:
Several hundred years from the present, humanity grew too cocky and too unfriendly with regards to its neighbours. The Cold War paled in comparison with this nuclear stalemate. North America hated its southern relations, the United Kingdom found itself caught in the middle of this subtle conflict, the East hated the West and Russia hated everyone else. Over a comparatively short period of time, almost all international peace organisations broke apart and fearful panic alliances from smaller countries to their larger 'friends'. In the end, all was in vain as, within a period of time now known as the Sixty Minute War, nuclear deterrence fell to pieces and a holocaust of retaliation and return fire enveloped the globe.
   In the aftermath, the earth's surface was ripped to shreds. It was irradiated, dangerous to so much as have contact with, let alone live upon. From the ashes of the Sixty Minute War rose the practice of Municipal Darwinism and Urban Tractionism. No-one know how long it took or which city was first - it was all so long ago - but its effects can now be seen everywhere.
   Cities took up motion as their basic state of being, their populations riding along with them as they roll across the muddy, rutted plains that have become Europe and Northern Africa on impossibly gargantuan wheels. Many cities float as aquatic giants; often these are towns that were once ports or seaside resorts. Airships now rule the skies and have become the normal method of movement from town to town. To suit this particular development, there is even one city, the appropriately named Airhaven, that flies under the power of heated buoyancy gas. Lately, there have even been rumours of a city that crawls along the bottom of the ocean...However, none of these reports have been verified. This is Tractionism and hand in hand with it goes the practice of Municipal Darwinism.
   Darwin stated that the strongest survive and, now that, cities have become organisms too - moving and living - they have adopted the law of the jungle as their default state of operations. Affixed to the front of most cities there are a pair of gargantuan metal jaws, connected directly to the engine rooms; the appropriately named Gut of each of the cities. The cities continue to move under the power of their colossal engines and these engines are powered by the fuel that can be made from other cities. In short, cities eat one another - bolstering their fuel supplies and their populations through such acquisitions - and the bigger cities almost always win, unless the smaller town is faster, which they must all be. Small, slow towns were all eaten long ago. This is Natural Selection on a grand scale. Only Airhaven and a few trading settlements escape the jaws of the great predators by default. The others must learn to run and hide.
   Only the Anti-Traction League, located in the East, South America and South Africa, go against the seemingly natural practices of Municipal Darwinism and Urban Tractionism. The Anti-Traction League, disdainfully known as 'Mossies' by Tractionists everywhere, keep what they see as the old ways and what others see as dangerous barbarism alive - they still live off the earth, building their settlements with foundations and fortifications...and they always stay in one place. Tension has, once again, arisen between these two factions, as it always must somewhere...
Actual Roleplay Idea commences here:
   In short, allow me to explain a little. That's the setting that we'll be using in this roleplay. The only thing is that, for some reason, I've always equated this particular setting with being populated by various species of anthropomorphisized animals, rather than people. I don't know why. I can go against this idea if you so choose, however, I'd love if you were able to support it and play with it. There's no scientific idea, no genetic mutation, behind this particular state of affairs - it just is. I always prefer that in anthro-based settings.
   Anyway, down to the plot I had in mind; I'd play a russet furred wolfen/vulpine sky-privateer with delusions of his own gentlemanliness. He's pretty much a sophisticated, glorified pirate; an even more effeminate and ineffectual Jack Sparrow of the skies...with a bushy tail. He'd be looking for a navigator (or an engineer if that suits your taste in characters more) for his airship, the Virtue of the East. He'd put up advertisements while in port in Airhaven. In short, your character would be this extra crew member on his ship. As she'd be the only candidate, he'd have to take her, regardless of her experience or lack thereof aboard an airship...The plot would revolve around a relationship that develops after your character goes into heat aboard this airship, with naught to satisfy her but her captain...It would be something of an awkward, reverse relationship; starting with the sex and finishing with the romance.
   I have but one request to make with regards to this character. While it's not essential that you do so, I would love if she could be a hermaphrodite/futanari/shemale or whatever you wanna call it. She'd be naturally born as such and she'd see herself as female in every aspect and would desperately want to be treated as such. It's just that she'd have a particular secret in the way of this. As a result, she'd be hugely sexually inexperienced. I'll explain my reasoning behind my wanting to have her as such if you ask...But to be brief, I just think that it's romantic as an idea - the love that would slowly and awkwardly bud between the two of them would have this one obstruction to get past. I think that is cute. It's an interesting state of mind - she'd just want to be treated like a female and, well, the captain might just be unusual enough to treat her as such.
   Apart from that, you'd have total creative freedom with regards to the character...Although, if you're stuck for choice, I'd love it if she were a bunny anthro! Failing that though, I'd prefer her, at least, to be a mammal.
   Now, I hope this idea (a call for tasteful anthro play!? what!? :o) didn't revolt too many people. I hope someone might take me up on it.

Damnation Becomes Her (IT HAS VAMPIRES)*******
This idea was long enough to warrant its own thread

The only thing I'm iffy about is the what I perceive (from your description) as heavy anthro. I'm fine with light anthro (ears, tails, and light fur: akin to a Neko), but beyond that I'm not comfortable with. That being said, I'm fine with the futa, and your setting is really interesting. Only suggestions I can make are, instead of wheels, you have, perhaps, something like a hover boat. That way creatures couldn't climb up in to the city by the wheels, and that Humans also exist side by side with the anthros. This could lead to class/race struggles in the RP as well. I'll PM you as well, and elaborate on the Vampire setting of yours I find the most interesting.

Offline BardingTopic starter

Bump for a big update and a changed 'Craving of the Week'.

Offline BardingTopic starter

Bumpity bump, bumpity bump, bumpity bump.

Offline BardingTopic starter

Bump for an update and a change of the 'Craving of the Week'.

Offline BardingTopic starter


Kinda looking for new RPs now, albeit passively.
« Last Edit: August 13, 2009, 04:05:27 PM by Barding »

Offline BardingTopic starter

Also finished the 'Craving of the Week' section, and the thread on the other side of the link.

Offline polaroids



Offline kylie

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     Yeah, a little frustrated there myself...

     Do we perchance get a "coming of age" date somewhere?  Pillory?  (I looked but didn't find.)

Offline Trieste

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I put it up for you, Kylie.