Hey Con, just realized I forgot to let you know I'm currently camping. Got a little signal and figured I'd let you know. Going to respond once I'm home on Sunday!
AtomicEmperor Member
Radioactive Frog
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Bio
Do you really think we've only been here 300,000 years? Construction doesn't last that long; concrete disintegrates, tar pavement erodes into the Earth from whence it came. Sapiens or Neanderthalensis, countless brother races of a genus leaving only us to carry on the legacy. We cannot disappoint them. We carry them through our blood and our souls, countless lives spanning across time in a way that we can't perceive from our physical coils. But we can't disappoint them.
Hello, hi and hey! I call myself Atom. Some call me Fen. Others call me Ego, blessing the journey of guiding the individual toward the inevitable endgame that is rejoining the flow of life. I try to keep identity suppressed as much as possible, but I'm not a fool; we're here to express our creative selves. I like to think that our love and desire for creativity carries over far beyond the personal and individual. It's a part of the music of Humanity, and I do love the dance we do.
So, creatively, who is this dork trying to kill his own ego? What's he like? Is he decent?
I'd like to think so. I'd like to think I at least know how to write technically. I'm almost always lacking motivation, but I've just been spoiled over the years. I've had a handful of teachers who have really changed the way I look at creativity and working with the individuals who I'm trying to be creative with. My biggest goal is to give that back to the people who I work with. I want to foster an environment, or at least an expectation that if we're writing together, you'll be writing with a professional.
Professional to me means courtesy and friendliness without ambiguity: A guarantee that one can always expect to be treated with the same values that I would want to be treated with.
So what do I do with my free time? A whole lot of struggling with myself for the willpower and discipline to muster the ultimate muse. So far I've managed to get strong inclination toward effort and motion again, but inclination isn't guaranteed. We've really gotta MOVE THOSE MUSCLES! That's what I'm here for! I want to talk to people about ideas and flesh scenarios out with people that I'm interested in, and I do hope to find others with the same strong sense of creativity that I have. I want to push and pull and stretch the dough of creativity, top it with the things we want to devour, and dive into the pizza we've made together with skill and love!
Lets make it happen together!
Hello, hi and hey! I call myself Atom. Some call me Fen. Others call me Ego, blessing the journey of guiding the individual toward the inevitable endgame that is rejoining the flow of life. I try to keep identity suppressed as much as possible, but I'm not a fool; we're here to express our creative selves. I like to think that our love and desire for creativity carries over far beyond the personal and individual. It's a part of the music of Humanity, and I do love the dance we do.
So, creatively, who is this dork trying to kill his own ego? What's he like? Is he decent?
I'd like to think so. I'd like to think I at least know how to write technically. I'm almost always lacking motivation, but I've just been spoiled over the years. I've had a handful of teachers who have really changed the way I look at creativity and working with the individuals who I'm trying to be creative with. My biggest goal is to give that back to the people who I work with. I want to foster an environment, or at least an expectation that if we're writing together, you'll be writing with a professional.
Professional to me means courtesy and friendliness without ambiguity: A guarantee that one can always expect to be treated with the same values that I would want to be treated with.
So what do I do with my free time? A whole lot of struggling with myself for the willpower and discipline to muster the ultimate muse. So far I've managed to get strong inclination toward effort and motion again, but inclination isn't guaranteed. We've really gotta MOVE THOSE MUSCLES! That's what I'm here for! I want to talk to people about ideas and flesh scenarios out with people that I'm interested in, and I do hope to find others with the same strong sense of creativity that I have. I want to push and pull and stretch the dough of creativity, top it with the things we want to devour, and dive into the pizza we've made together with skill and love!
Lets make it happen together!
Most Recent Posts
Locale: The Beach
There was a deep respect for the machine whenever Owl decided to cover up. It was a moment of intimacy, to look at the armor and the muted paint while the servo assistant draped the couple hundred pound thermal blanket over the majority of the machine. He clambered up the side to pull the hood over the sensors, giving the machine a gentle pat on its flat head. It was a friend and companion to him in the silent times when one could only give their thoughts to an intimate partner.
Never once had he thought to burden someone else with that; it wouldn't have been fair. But, a Man and his Shell could get to know one another. They were partners on a strange and unforgiving field, and even if it was only for a short time, the machine would never question your loyalty or waiver in its own faith. It was a rock solid kind of relationship.
Owl slipped downward as the servos connected the last loopholes around the anti thermal cloak, locking the hooks on his boot into a small footfall before swinging up into the open cockpit of the Shell. In this state, it was standing room only as the seat was practically trying to keep you out of the mouth-like opening. Only when he situated his right arm into the main ignition did the seating begin to slide back into the core of the Shell, tilting him until he was comfortable before the safety locks gripped into his armored pilot suit.
Barn was built to be quick and sturdy, packing weight behind a set of pistons rated for a sized up model. He'd learned over a sixty year career that there was value in speed and maneuverability over brute firepower, and that a surprise could trump them all. Owl had heard the orders from Birdwatcher, and the suggestion of an ambush. He began to fiddle with the audio board of Barn's personal console, locking into the latest batch of Old World he'd gotten rendered down from a server somewhere far away. He made sure to turn it up, but turned the notification and comm audio up even louder.
Until the hits were starting, he had to get in the zone. If you didn't stop living young, you'd never be old; a philosophy he held tight to his chest as the thrumming guitar started to fill out the audio ports of his cockpit. Sitting in the relative dark as the machine was loaded into its ejection port, it rattled slightly passing down the track until it locked in.
Barn Owl, engaged and dropping long. Low power running, aiming for the high ground for a scan.
Listening for feedback, he felt the difference in pressure as he left the barrel of the drop tube and immediately dumped a large portion of his generator reserves into an immediate forward thrust that sent him on a long forward arc through the air.
"Recommend fire support draw attention for the coup de grâce, Magpie. Lets not give them a chance to call backup."
Owl's thick Austrian accent sounded like a warm fire over the comms line, swimming through the airwaves as he let the Shell slowly descend down using only the bare minimum to keep it from turning into a pancake on the impact. His forward display projected a carefully calculated trajectory that he could adjust with his eyes and have the jets automatically compensate for the difference.
Mark eyed L'monte' as he peeked and peered around with the nods. He hadn't expected to be partnered with such a stylish agent. The locks, the nice clothes when they'd met for some pre-operation scouts; he'd picked himself up a nicer jacket over the internet and, for the first time in a long time, thought about how his outward image may be something worth curating in this line of work.
Well, part of it.
This? It was natural. Wetwork. The very word brought saliva from the corners of his gullet into a wash over his tongue. His eyes fell down to the similarly stylish carbine slung at his partner's side, and he admired the dark metal and polymer finish. The way something should look that's meant to kill. Austere, spartan, minimalist. Marketing campaigns flashed through his head of the billboards he saw in JAG territory of the Sicario Bosses and their guns plated with precious metals. Bloody rings and chains, displays of grand wealth... He supposed that they worked hard for their money, and flaunting it was part of the appeal. In the end, we're here to judge action, not character. His most recent mentor had hammered that lesson into his idealistic head, on and on about how important it was to keep that distinction in mind for the duration of his service at the OE.
But at least they seemed to share taste in their own implements of warfare. He let his broken hand relax out of the tension he'd placed on it, and the pain medication sifted through his blood like sludge to stifle the flames of agony. His right hand instinctively ran across the front of his own AR-10, the cousin weapons both primed and ready to protect their wielders like spears of wrath.
"No worse for wear, I bet. They build 'em different up here." he replied to his partner's question, pulling the cutters from their section on his pack and swinging them forward to begin snipping away at the fence.
"We should be alright back here then, but keep me covered. I'd rather the shooting start after we're on the other side."
Still, Mark couldn't help but look up in astounded indignance. The absolute nerve of some people. Not even bothering with camera systems, yet you're gonna hold up in here knowing that you've been a very bad boy? He couldn't stand people like that. The arrogant bastards.
Mark's mind wandered as he mumbled to himself.
"Fucking prick, son of a bitch-"
He was a markedly vulgar man in the same way that a Syndicate soldier from a similar background would be. He didn't try to hide it, nor did he try to hide that he wasn't a very charming man. He was a brute, and one well suited for the line of work the two of them were here to carry out. It hit his brain again, stopping the endless chain of rambling thoughts with its weight.
Wetwork.
Beneath the faceless visage of his balaclava, he smiled a toothy grin. He had to clench up on the bolt cutters every time he wanted to cut, trying to use everything but his broken hand to support the arms of the thing in order to put pressure down. After a minute or two, he gave up and started to use it, finding that the medicine was working its way in deeper and deeper. It was good to use these sorts of things sparingly, but a soldier that didn't feel pain was a soldier who was ready to go at any time. The drugs just made you stupid...
But link by link, Mark chopped through the fence between them and the target until a square was wide enough that they could climb through one at a time. Orders dictated they probably weren't leaving through the back here, so a simple one way entrance would suffice he guessed.
Markus slipped the bolt cutters back onto his pack and pushed the fence open for L'Monte' to climb through.
"Alright, age before beauty." he laughed, waving L'Monte' on before his hand moved up to position his rifle in the crook of his arm facing inside the complex. Covering someone else was always a great time.
Well, part of it.
This? It was natural. Wetwork. The very word brought saliva from the corners of his gullet into a wash over his tongue. His eyes fell down to the similarly stylish carbine slung at his partner's side, and he admired the dark metal and polymer finish. The way something should look that's meant to kill. Austere, spartan, minimalist. Marketing campaigns flashed through his head of the billboards he saw in JAG territory of the Sicario Bosses and their guns plated with precious metals. Bloody rings and chains, displays of grand wealth... He supposed that they worked hard for their money, and flaunting it was part of the appeal. In the end, we're here to judge action, not character. His most recent mentor had hammered that lesson into his idealistic head, on and on about how important it was to keep that distinction in mind for the duration of his service at the OE.
But at least they seemed to share taste in their own implements of warfare. He let his broken hand relax out of the tension he'd placed on it, and the pain medication sifted through his blood like sludge to stifle the flames of agony. His right hand instinctively ran across the front of his own AR-10, the cousin weapons both primed and ready to protect their wielders like spears of wrath.
"No worse for wear, I bet. They build 'em different up here." he replied to his partner's question, pulling the cutters from their section on his pack and swinging them forward to begin snipping away at the fence.
"We should be alright back here then, but keep me covered. I'd rather the shooting start after we're on the other side."
Still, Mark couldn't help but look up in astounded indignance. The absolute nerve of some people. Not even bothering with camera systems, yet you're gonna hold up in here knowing that you've been a very bad boy? He couldn't stand people like that. The arrogant bastards.
Mark's mind wandered as he mumbled to himself.
"Fucking prick, son of a bitch-"
He was a markedly vulgar man in the same way that a Syndicate soldier from a similar background would be. He didn't try to hide it, nor did he try to hide that he wasn't a very charming man. He was a brute, and one well suited for the line of work the two of them were here to carry out. It hit his brain again, stopping the endless chain of rambling thoughts with its weight.
Wetwork.
Beneath the faceless visage of his balaclava, he smiled a toothy grin. He had to clench up on the bolt cutters every time he wanted to cut, trying to use everything but his broken hand to support the arms of the thing in order to put pressure down. After a minute or two, he gave up and started to use it, finding that the medicine was working its way in deeper and deeper. It was good to use these sorts of things sparingly, but a soldier that didn't feel pain was a soldier who was ready to go at any time. The drugs just made you stupid...
But link by link, Mark chopped through the fence between them and the target until a square was wide enough that they could climb through one at a time. Orders dictated they probably weren't leaving through the back here, so a simple one way entrance would suffice he guessed.
Markus slipped the bolt cutters back onto his pack and pushed the fence open for L'Monte' to climb through.
"Alright, age before beauty." he laughed, waving L'Monte' on before his hand moved up to position his rifle in the crook of his arm facing inside the complex. Covering someone else was always a great time.
It was a great post. Love the insight about L'monte's home situation and what he's got to lose.
@Polaris North Howdy! Please feel free to join the discord link posted above.
If it helps you, the current group is gravitating toward European Legends. Very much a Round Table vibe so far.
If it helps you, the current group is gravitating toward European Legends. Very much a Round Table vibe so far.
@Lyla It's essentially your spirit. In context of the setting, the spiritual representation of the sword's past and legacy can be manifested however you'd like.
@Double@Lyla Do you guys have Discord to discuss things through? Or should I open another thread for an OOC that we can talk about things in?
@Double@Lyla Do you guys have Discord to discuss things through? Or should I open another thread for an OOC that we can talk about things in?
That sounds great. Dont be too worried about the pictures; I find it just helps to set a scene. If there's something in particular you want to highlight and you happen to have a picture for it, then by all means.
I'm already starting to formulate a picture in my head of a character and mecha inspired by the legend of Saint George and the Dragon.
Deep rooted connections to Human legends are encouraged. Channel Arthur, Morrigan, fucking... Paul Bunyon, anything. Maybe a good way to describe these things is sort of like Persona. These machines are built on Human memory, the deep genetic stuff that's engrained into who we are as a species.
Thus, I requested people stick to relatively human characters. It needs to be plausible that, even if you're not an alien or Earthling, that there's a human somewhere in your lineage.
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