1888
The Story of Hurston Macabre
Welcome to 1888, a guild wide cooperative story. This roleplay is a little different in that everyone plays the same character, a gunslinger living in a weird-western and horror fantasy world. Hurston is in a bad way, abandoned by his so-called friends to die. As the Narrator, I will post 'turn updates' describing the current scene and Hurston's status. The story is open ended and you may try different things to see what happens. NPCs and Locations Hurston can interact with will be in bold text. Read the rules, and jump in!
The Rules:
- Any member of the forum may give Hurston ONE complex action per post.
- This includes actions such as using a weapon, or any abilities Hurston acquires during the game.
- This includes dialogue. Try and limit questions to one at a time.
- Simple actions like opening an unlocked door, walking across the room etc. are free actions.
- No double posting.
- I am the narrator, so do not skip ahead in time, invent other characters etc.
- I'm also the GM, so I reserve the right to alter these rules at any time.
- All other guild rules apply.
Narration, Attributes, & Abilities:
Each narrator post (my posts) will have an inventory and a list of abilities. Abilities that are struck through have already been used. They may be used after they are cleared. He will also have some basic statistics to let you know how our friend is holding up. These stats may increase or decrease over time.
HP: Health Points, when they reach 0, Hurston is about to die.
Brawn: Physical strength.
Brains: Mental capacity, including intelligence and cognition.
Weird: Supernatural acumen. 'Magic' to the less informed.
This is based on a world I was going to use for another roleplay. Dig around the Polyvault in my sig, and you might find it. Thanks for reading.
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1888
The Story of Hurston Macabre
You are Hurston Macabre, a gunslinger for hire. Two days ago, in the town of Verdigris, you fell in with an outlaw named Grimjaw and his gang. For a pouch of silver, you agreed to help rob one of the Black Trains returning from the Easterly Arcologies, her belly full of gold, grain and black powder. The Black Trains run once a season, having carried coal or rich black oil to the Industrial Union for refining before returning to the Vile West with supplies to keep the mining towns operating. The schedule is kept a secret, and Grimjaw wouldn't give up his source. But the temptation of a few coins of silver was reason enough to join the gang, if only for this one job.
The ambush was set, the train in sight, chugging lazily along the long black iron scar that is the Eastern Railway. Grimjaw stood in the center of the tracks, holding a stick of dynamite. His ironjaw chewed a black mass of tobacco, and every once in a while he would spit a sizzling gob onto the dusty hardpan. The train did not slow, and grimjaw hurled the bomb at the iron beast when it was a half mile away. The tracks exploded. The train curled in on itself with a screeching scream of fire and metal. The engine dug into the dusty earth, slowed and stopped at Grimjaw's feet. You stood some distance back with the rest of the gang, staring in disbelief. Grimjaw's reputation as the baddest man in the Vile West was as solid as his rusty iron jaw.
Grimjaw and his crew tore through the fallen engine like carrion birds searching for the gold. It was mostly empty. There was a curious compartment. A sealed iron door inlaid with a clay tablet. On the tablet were weird runes, you had seen the like before. They were symbols from an older time, a long dead language usually found in ruins or caverns or tombs. It was a bit vexing how they ended up here, on the door of a Black Train. Even more vexing was when Grimjaw shot you in the back, just under the shoulder blade so it didn't shatter. A non-fatal wound. I guess he wanted the natural elements, the Vile West to take care of you for him. Why the hells did he shoot you? And what was that weird door?
The ambush was set, the train in sight, chugging lazily along the long black iron scar that is the Eastern Railway. Grimjaw stood in the center of the tracks, holding a stick of dynamite. His ironjaw chewed a black mass of tobacco, and every once in a while he would spit a sizzling gob onto the dusty hardpan. The train did not slow, and grimjaw hurled the bomb at the iron beast when it was a half mile away. The tracks exploded. The train curled in on itself with a screeching scream of fire and metal. The engine dug into the dusty earth, slowed and stopped at Grimjaw's feet. You stood some distance back with the rest of the gang, staring in disbelief. Grimjaw's reputation as the baddest man in the Vile West was as solid as his rusty iron jaw.
Grimjaw and his crew tore through the fallen engine like carrion birds searching for the gold. It was mostly empty. There was a curious compartment. A sealed iron door inlaid with a clay tablet. On the tablet were weird runes, you had seen the like before. They were symbols from an older time, a long dead language usually found in ruins or caverns or tombs. It was a bit vexing how they ended up here, on the door of a Black Train. Even more vexing was when Grimjaw shot you in the back, just under the shoulder blade so it didn't shatter. A non-fatal wound. I guess he wanted the natural elements, the Vile West to take care of you for him. Why the hells did he shoot you? And what was that weird door?
The IC is Now Open.
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A Dead Man's First Steps
Hurston's head was swimming, his body screaming pain. Spitting dust from his cracked lips as he gained his feet, the grizzled gunslinger stood, a man on the verge of death. He could remember the sound of the gunshot, the pain of the bullet as it cut through his back, and exited through his chest. Hurston tested the wound on his chest, which curiously refused to offer any more blood as he poked and prodded. Still hurt like hell, though.
A few hundred feet away, the wreckage of the Black Train lay like a slain beast. The fires long dwindled to nothing but black scorch marks on the ground. The tracks extended east towards the Industrial Union Arcologies, well out of range for a man on foot, and west towards Verdigris and the mining communities. Verdigris was about two days walk away. To the north, jagged mountains loomed.
The Vexing Mountains, thought Hurston. Thunder crackled just beyond the peaks, and black clouds gathered over the plain they encircled. If Hurston walked a steady pace, he could reach the hills footing the mountains by first light next day. To the south, easily within a days walk, vegetation clung to the dusty loam, brittle at first, but soon grew to a thick forest of black pines, blood vines and darker things still. Hurston knew beyond those woods was the Blood Confederacy, domain of the Cannibal King Tenuaxl.
He checked his gun, one in the chamber. Empty shells lay at his feet. Canteen was empty too. Despite this, Hurston felt an overwhelming urge to exact revenge on Grimjaw. But he would have to find some water first. The storm rolling down from the northern mountains seemed to be intensifying, and a cool wind graced the gunslingers bearded face and cracked, bleeding lips. He pulled his hat down tight on his head and pondered what to do.
A few hundred feet away, the wreckage of the Black Train lay like a slain beast. The fires long dwindled to nothing but black scorch marks on the ground. The tracks extended east towards the Industrial Union Arcologies, well out of range for a man on foot, and west towards Verdigris and the mining communities. Verdigris was about two days walk away. To the north, jagged mountains loomed.
The Vexing Mountains, thought Hurston. Thunder crackled just beyond the peaks, and black clouds gathered over the plain they encircled. If Hurston walked a steady pace, he could reach the hills footing the mountains by first light next day. To the south, easily within a days walk, vegetation clung to the dusty loam, brittle at first, but soon grew to a thick forest of black pines, blood vines and darker things still. Hurston knew beyond those woods was the Blood Confederacy, domain of the Cannibal King Tenuaxl.
He checked his gun, one in the chamber. Empty shells lay at his feet. Canteen was empty too. Despite this, Hurston felt an overwhelming urge to exact revenge on Grimjaw. But he would have to find some water first. The storm rolling down from the northern mountains seemed to be intensifying, and a cool wind graced the gunslingers bearded face and cracked, bleeding lips. He pulled his hat down tight on his head and pondered what to do.