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2 yrs ago
Current Auld Lang Syne, everybody. roleplayerguild.com/topics/…
3 yrs ago
Vote in my new quest, Mirage, a RP quest set in the far, far future roleplayerguild.com/topics/…
3 yrs ago
Kink-Shaming. Kink-Shaming Never Changes.
3 likes
3 yrs ago
roleplayerguild.com/posts/5… Vote for Dead in Depression. The mechanics of the quest have now been posted!
3 yrs ago
Voting is open until the end of the week! Please come and vote! - roleplayerguild.com/topics/…
1 like

Bio





ROLEPLAY BUCKET LIST
- Walmart Apocalypse Roleplay
- Nightmare Gas Station
- Underrail/Fallout/Post Apocalyptic Roleplay. Codename: Clausterclysm
- Anthromorphic Grimdark Animal Fantasy Roleplay. Codename: Fallowbrook.
- Eldritch Abomination Garfield Roleplay. Codename: Lasagna.
- Infinite IKEA Roleplay. Codename: God Morgon
- Roleplayerguild High School RP. Codename: Highschool Roleplay
- Cyberpunk South East Asia RP. Codename: Straits of Malacca. [CURRENTLY HAPPENING]


CURRENT PROJECTS

- FRAYED TAPESTRY - AN EPIC FANTASY RP (WIP)
- THE LAST DEPRESSION - A RED MARKETS QUEST/PLAY BY POST RP (UNDECIDED)

Most Recent Posts

So, how many people would you want to have in this group? I can only imagine there's so many people working a graveyard shift


Interested for sure. Are we all part of this night shift? Like the guy above me said, in every continence store I’ve seen there’s only one or two poor bastards there.


There are essentially 4 or 5 specific jobs that I have in mind right now which means it's going to be a fairly small group. Instead of you deciding your own jobs, I'm essentially giving players specific jobs and duties during the shift.

<Snipped quote by Commander Lazer>

What is that strange creature standing in the shadows of pump #1?

What unholy force hath dimensionally-shifted all of the Mars bars?


1) A octanovore scout from the local celestial body of Segue 1.

2) Demonically cursed expiry dates.

Minimum Wage, Maximum Weird






GAS-WAY EXPRESS CO

The Right Way, the Gas Way


DAILY EMPLOYEE MEMO


SUBJECT: WELCOME NOTICE FROM MANAGEMENT

Welcome, new employee, to your first and last day on the job at Gas-Way Express. You've passed the reviews, you've passed the interviews, you've passed the exorcism and now you're ready to become an official member of the Gas-Way Express family, an multinational extra-dimensional enterprise! Here at the Nowhere Branch of Gas-Way Express, we distinguish ourselves from our competitors by being adaptable, innovative and focused on what we call a customer-first philosophy!

Throughout your journey, we'll help you to develop numerous life and death skills that'll help you forge new career paths and discover ones you didn't even know existed! By working together, you can ensure that your Gas-Way experience will be an unforgettable and traumatizing one!

Before we let you begin your first new exciting day, we just want to let you know that as part of the Gas-Way Express Co, your well-being and health are of the utmost priority to us other than the customers. If you experience any problems or have any complaints, simply contact us through our Employee Complaint Network! Otherwise, we look forward to working with you!





The question wasn't why your only choice of employment was a run down gas station in the middle of Nowhere but rather how you managed to get here in the first place. Bills to pay, student debt, loans, a lack of choice..... Whatever the case, your decisions led you here to a job that has large demands but pays little.

Situated in the middle of Nowhere, Oregon; this gas station's only companions are the endless doldrums of the desert expanse and a single, thin highway that slices through the heat. The nearest town is a little over a hundred miles away. A work bus is responsible for picking you up and drops you for your bi-weekly day and night shifts.

You notice something off, though. The station is ancient in the way temples or ruins are. You not only see its age in the weathered bricks and old moldy posters drooping off the walls but you can feel it. Something pervades this station; whether good or bad. As you enter the station, you barely have time to shake hands with your fellow employees before they brush past you in a hurry, tired, hungry looks on their faces.

You frown. They didn't look hungry or tired. They looked scared, haunted. Looking as if they'd walked out of a war-zone rather than a boring 24 hour job. They must have been guys from the last night shift.

How bad can one Night Shift be?




What's Night Shift about?

To put it simply, Night Shift is a roleplay where you are an ordinary schlub working as a gas station attendant out in the middle of Nowhere, Oregon. During the day, everything runs as normally as you would expect. During your night shifts, things become strange to say the least. As an employee, you must complete all your tasks and ensure the gas station remains in operational capacity whilst contending with the weird and awful from possessed soda machines to versions of yourself from an alternate reality. The possibilities are freaky and endless out in the Night.

Where's the lore?

There is no lore! There is no unifying concept of world-building in the RP nor any aspect of sanity other than the fact your character is living in a world similar to our own reality and that the gas station is a nexus for eldritch and anomalous behavior.

What's the rules?

The standards of most RPGO roleplays apply here which means no god-modding, no power-gaming etc. This will be expanded on in the OOC thread but guys, c'mon, is this really the RP to post your NSFW writing in?

Where's the character sheets?

To be posted in the OOC once I have gathered enough interest.

What if I have more questions?

Simply post them in this interest check so I can rectify them.

Anyway, I'll leave this here for now. Please let me know whether or not you are interested.
In Forsaken 5 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Seeing the glass explode in the Genasi’s hands wasn’t the kobold’s usual idea of an answer. The lizardkin appeared to shrink further and further as the venom of the Genasi’s sarcastic retorts sunk in. Lak Lok meekly raised his stubby little hands apologetically in response to the Genasi’s anger. He’d misunderstood the situation entirely. How could he have been so foolish to force his assumptions?

They weren’t fiances.

They were exes.

“ My mistake, madam.” Lak Lok coughed, scooting as best as he could away from the firey demon woman. The temperature around her was beginning to grow sweltering hot, even by the standards of lizardfolk. Returning to sip on his spring water, Lak Lok decided to keep his revelation to himself for the time being, lest he was incinerated by a fireball. Luckily, the rest of the group came to join them, sitting next to each other on the bar stand. He scooted away from the Genasi to join the rest of the company. Listening to the conversation, Lak Lok rubbed his scaly chin, mulling over the proposed plans of the ginger haired human. This web of mysteries was like trying to crack open a boiled cave crab. Clawing for those last pockets of meat, tucked away in the shell whilst contending with the hideous architecture of crustacean physiology.

The first and second plans weren’t his forte. Socialising was not one of Lak Lok’s strengths unless someone counted eviscerating amateur cooks verbally as evidence. But they did provide safety in lieu of the third plan. Venturing out in the wilderness on some gamble had its own risks in the form of getting mauled by a 9 foot tall unicorn bull.

Decisions, decisions. Yet, it was ultimately up to Garrakg. Grasping his book, Lak Lok prayed hard to himself, whispering forgotten canticles and prayers in honour of Garrakg, for an answer, a sign for which path he should follow.
Lord Garrakg, would it be right for me to beseech Mr Garrick’s bethr-

There was a shout to Lak Lok’s right as the steamed eel began writhing on the plate before exploding in a dwarven couple’s face.

Then, perhaps, going to the authorities would be best -

A strangled noise of tangled air erupted behind Lak Lok. As he turned around, he saw a minotaur writhing and gasping on the floor, choking on what appeared to be an owlbear sausage.

Then, it would be venturing out into the wilderness, my lord?

He waited for any response. None. Lak Lok then spoke up.

” I volunteer to go out into the wilderness, madam.” He then coughed. “ I agree with the human’s proposition. Dividing tasks amongst ourselves will be faster - “

A familiar reedy voice then interrupted Lak Lok in the midst of his speech. It was that filthy half-elf waiter again.

“ Y-your m-meal, sir.”

Lak Lok looked at the freshly steaming descaled hydra flank served in front of him. It was garnished with wild beets and a particularly pungent beer butter. The kobold's forked tongue flickered out, tasting the scents that arose from the beat before cutting off a portion of the hydra flank. Chewing it slowly, there was no discernible reaction on the kobold's face. The half-elf waiter then spoke up.

“ Is this meal to your satisfaction, sir?”

Grabbing the half-elf waiter’s ponytail, Lak Lok pulled him down and lowered him to observe the cut flank of hydra.

“ Medium, sir. ” The half-elf said, unsure of himself.

Again, with almost demonic strength, Lak Lok began throttling the half-elf waiter whilst shouting into his ear.

“ IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE MEDIUM RARE ,YOU INCOMPETENT DUNG HERDER!”

“ I will forgive you for your insolence one time. Be certain of this. If I come to this establishment again and misinterpretation of my meal occurs again…” From out of the satchel hung around his back, Lak Lok pulled out an oversized rifle, the bore of which almost enveloped the waiter’s head. “ I will make you my next meal.”

The half-elf waiter immediately ran off. Lak Lok stuffed the rifle back into his satchel and continued talking to the group as if nothing had happened.

“ I am sorry. As much as I would like to contribute more to this discussion, I must decline at this moment. However, in order for me to function at the best of my abilities, my patron demands that I must fully enjoy, savor and digest this meal. Excuse me while I pray to Garrakg for our safety throughout our quest.”

Lak Lok then returned to his meal, fully focused on devouring and consuming his lunch in honour of his god, with teeth crunching gusto, not paying much mind to the discussions of the group.


The drive was chaotic, dizzying and headache inducing, a maze of abandoned infrastructure projects and syncrete rivers. Urban planning was the absolute last priority into the Twin City Sprawl as structures melded into each other haphazardly and a criss cross of empty overpasses jutted out like the branches of an overgrown bonsai.

Keah wouldn’t have it any other way. The serenity of disorder, of imperfection. However, he had to restrain himself from shifting the gear stick or pressing down on the accelerator further this time. He looked up at his rear view mirror. The Pirate Queen herself longued in the backseat of his vehicle along with a few guards wielding bulky gats in shoulder and hip holsters. The route to her destination could have been shortened by at least ten minutes had they given him a chance to use some shortcuts. Unfortunately, he couldn’t argue with campaign

He cut left into a market district, the conga line of roadside vendors and hawkers haggling with the few Zoners that weren’t paying to the election. The sudden jerk in momentum sent a jolt of pain through his lower abdomen, knocking him off his game for a moment before he returned back to his senses.

Still hurting. Just a little bit less than before, though.




“ You know that your contract does not come with a life insurance package, Islander.“

A map of purple blotches covered his torso. The few cuts he sustained during the bar brawl just needed a simple kera-patch. The others needed the hands of an experienced ripper-doc. Or a former Biotechnica genetic analyst. His chest was rising and falling oddly like a punctured balloon. The bitter taste of iron flooded his tongue, Keah half-gagging half-coughing as the Iron Itamae reached into one of his cuts and twisted.

“ Cut my pay. Then - “ Keah hissed as his skin was sewn back together like a patchwork doll “ Then, we can talk more about my contract.”





He’d remembered when he’d first arrived on the outskirts of the Reclaim Zone, entering through the ruins of the Greater Corporate Zone. Driving through the husks and decaying wrecks of defunct and bankrupt corporations into the lair where the newest heirs roamed like lions, feasting upon the remnants of the old. How long was it going to be until they were usurped?

Like the OverDriver.

The rest of the journey from there on was smooth. There were only a few stops every now and then, just to let an auto-track skirt by or give berth to a roving band of Tinmen in their heavily armored APC. When they had finally arrived, Keah took a second glance at the coordinates and then, at the garbage dump in front of him. Was this it? Keah stopped and parked his car in front of the squat grey complex, just beside the teetering wreckage of an abandoned shipping container. He simply adjusts the rear view mirror and gives a simple nod to the Pirate Queen’s reflection.

“ We’re here.”

As he watches her saunter out of the Jury Rigg and walk into the entrance of the meeting area, Keah makes a final check on whether or not his parking is secure. Just as he crouches downwards to perform a bug inspection, he exerts too much pressure on his abdomen and the pain returns, an head-splitting agony that tears his mind in two. A needle of bubbling liquid drops out from his pocket and his hand scrambles towards it.




The pain subsides to a dull throbbing. The Iron Itamae sealed a loop around the last stitch, leaving Keah struggling to lean up on the gurney. The squeaky sound of taps turning and water gushing could be heard past the pounding in his head. The man responsible for saving Keah's life from a drawn out fate of internal bleeding and broken ribs resumes business as normal, dipping his hands into a bucket of water and taking out writhing scaled quicksilver.

"Thanks," Keah grunted out, reaching for his bomber jacket that hung on top of a stool. The Iron Itamae doesn't reply. He zips up the jacket and begins to walk towards the exit, wincing with every moment. Just as his hand reaches towards the door, the imperial voice of the Iron Itamae rings out in a calm monotone.

“ The Zone is not like the other parts of the States, Demon. Your tantrum at the Duat has more consequences than you realise. “The Iron Itamae tutted like a father patronising an unruly child. “If a Scrapteam were to arrive on my establishment because of your actions…..” “ Should I be expecting any more emergencies in the future?”

“ I’ll be more cautious.”

“ Caution? When are you going to stop deluding yourself, Islander?” The Iron Itamae set down the bloodied scalpel next to the sink. “ You don’t fear danger. You crave its embrace. Its warmth. You are addicted to it. You claim to be above your baser instincts but the only comfort you find yourself nowadays is when your hand grips the wheel." The chef leans his head upwards, plucking out the razor thin bones from the fish and looks at Keah, dissapointed. “ I have considered what you have told me.”

“ And?” Keah said, annoyed.

“ Corporate espionage is a time honored tradition in this era. Amalgamation having its hands dirty with the polynesians isn’t that surprising. Your personal enmity with this so called….What was his name again?”

“ The OverDriver.”

“ Ah, you street racers and your ridiculous pseudonyms.” The Itamae began slicing the bream from its nape, working around its gills. “ Your past with him is part of something greater, I assure you, but he is nothing in the face of the election. “

“ He knows where my people are.” Keah begged out. " I can't just....I have to find him."

“ So, what do you plan to do about it?” His knife came down and the Itamae began seperating the pectoral fin from the body “ You’re not a paramilitary assassin. You’re not some Matrix hacker. You are just a simple racer. No one." In a single stroke, the Iron Itamae split the fish down into two fillets, tossing the carcass into a bin. " Instead of trying to hunt him down, I suggest that you do not distance yourself from the few allies you have left. Remember it was I who gave you the contact of the fixer in the first place. It was I who contacted the Ark about the potential opportunities in the Reclaim Zone. I am one of your only allies, and in this world, allies are necessary. ”





The Pirate Queen wasn’t eccentric. No, eccentric was an understatement. Insane was a term used by those who were small-minded and strange was too benign a word. Chaotic was the more appropriate term. Keah trailed behind closely in her shadow, a part of her Party but distancing himself from the dogmatic who held the Pirate's doctrine as divine truth. Petrukov was situated in the center of the room, surveying the meeting place and biding her time for the other party to arrive in the negotiations. Whoever they were. Mercs? Political rivals? Slicers? Fixers? Anything was possible.

Keah slowly walked up to her side and gave a small cough to attract her attention. He briefly wondered whether to tip his hand on Amalgmation's dealings but decided against it. He would decide that after this deal had concluded.

“ Is there anything I should be worried about during this deal, maám?" He shrugged his shoulders. "Just curious. I'm being hired to know when I need to drive you away and when I don't.”


Greater good, lesser evil, light side, dark side. No matter how carefully or consciously you step, you always get bantha fodder on yér boots at the end.


Name: Ortos Viell

Occupation and Affiliation: Civil Contractor / Former Bounty Hunter of the Rim Consulate

Description: The least everyone expects when they meet the famed Ortos Viell for the first time is a curmudgeonly geriatric Rodian. Ortos Viell is old, weary and beaten but not broken. Far past his prime and well into his twilight years, Ortos glum wrinkled features almost make him look like a mummified frog and the poster child for a Republic retirement center. However, his physically unassuming nature hides a stout and weathered build capable of surprising a Trandoshan.

Behind Ortos's dead eyed demeanor lies the calculating mind of a once infamous bounty hunter and a will like durasteel to see his plans through. Although he's left his days of tracking and wanton assassination behind, he still keeps an ancient Drearia 98-Prime on hand as a holdout blaster along with his old hunting helmet as a keepsake. After all, who needs them when you're a refueling station attendant? Nowadays, Ortos keeps them hidden in favor of more subtle and diplomatic ways to end conflict such as citing universal Galactic Hyperlane Laws to unruly customers, calling security and threatening to beat you until your legs stop working.

Background:

Born on one of the multiple trading posts in the Outer Rim planet of Savareen, Ortos, unlike other Rodians, was content to live a simple honorable life, away from law-breaking ventures and towards more modest legal opportunities. After the reestablishment of the New Republic and the eventual feuds over trading territories and hyperlane ownership rights, Savareen fostered as a haven for all criminal elements wanted from both the remnants of the First Order and the Resistance.

Once he hit his 16th birthday, Ortos landed a gig working in a starship salvage crew. Unfortunately, he found out soon that the salvage crew he was working for sold parts to the Crimson Dusk. When he tried to report this wrongdoing to the authorities, he found out that the Republic Lawkeepers he reported the incident to were corrupt and in bed with local criminal elements. It was at that point that Ortos accepted what life was telling him to do and became a bounty hunter.

Quickly rising up in notoriety and fame throughout the underworld, Ortos was known for his simplistic yet calculated manner of dealing with his bounties, whether it meant taking them in alive or dead. His experiences took him from the Deep Core to the far reaches of the Unknown Regions which quickly became more known by the day as more and more systems began looking outwards. Ortos's criminal career reached its peak and end when he became a member of the Rim Consulate, a bounty hunting guild. Coincidentally, it was also at this time that Ortos was considering retiring and settle down with a sileum farmer on Ryloth that he had encountered during one of his bounties. The Rim Consulate disagreed. Violently. Needless to say, Ortos went on a self-imposed retirement from the business. However, as the sileum farming business began to dry up on Ryloth, Ortos found himself and his family in desperate financial aid and decided to use the knowledge gathered up from decades of bounty hunting as a contractor of sorts, taking up jobs of all manner. It didn't matter what they were, as long as they weren't dirty and they paid well.

The mobile refueling port, Tyrtian Ambassador, has docked for maintenance repairs within the Daalang sector with a certain Ortos Viell being one of its hired attendants.


Greater good, lesser evil, light side, dark side. No matter how carefully or consciously you step, you always get bantha fodder on yér boots at the end.


Name: Ortos Viell

Occupation and Affiliation: Civil Contractor / Former Bounty Hunter of the Rim Consulate

Description: The least everyone expects when they meet the famed Ortos Viell for the first time is a curmudgeonly geriatric Rodian. Ortos Viell is old, weary and beaten but not broken. Far past his prime and well into his twilight years, Ortos glum wrinkled features almost make him look like a mummified frog and the poster child for a Republic retirement center. However, his physically unassuming nature hides a stout and weathered build capable of surprising a Trandoshan.

Behind Ortos's dead eyed demeanor lies the calculating mind of a once infamous bounty hunter and a will like durasteel to see his plans through. Although he's left his days of tracking and wanton assassination behind, he still keeps an ancient Drearia 98-Prime on hand as a holdout blaster along with his old hunting helmet as a keepsake. After all, who needs them when you're a refueling station attendant? Nowadays, Ortos keeps them hidden in favor of more subtle and diplomatic ways to end conflict such as citing universal Galactic Hyperlane Laws to unruly customers, calling security and threatening to beat you until your legs stop working.

Background:

Born on one of the multiple trading posts in the Outer Rim planet of Savareen, Ortos, unlike other Rodians, was content to live a simple honorable life, away from law-breaking ventures and towards more modest legal opportunities. After the reestablishment of the New Republic and the eventual feuds over trading territories and hyperlane ownership rights, Savareen fostered as a haven for all criminal elements wanted from both the remnants of the First Order and the Resistance.

Once he hit his 16th birthday, Ortos landed a gig working in a starship salvage crew. Unfortunately, he found out soon that the salvage crew he was working for sold parts to the Crimson Dusk. When he tried to report this wrongdoing to the authorities, he found out that the Republic Lawkeepers he reported the incident to were corrupt and in bed with local criminal elements. It was at that point that Ortos accepted what life was telling him to do and became a bounty hunter.

Quickly rising up in notoriety and fame throughout the underworld, Ortos was known for his simplistic yet calculated manner of dealing with his bounties, whether it meant taking them in alive or dead. His experiences took him from the Deep Core to the far reaches of the Unknown Regions which quickly became more known by the day as more and more systems began looking outwards. Ortos's criminal career reached its peak and end when he became a member of the Rim Consulate, a bounty hunting guild. Coincidentally, it was also at this time that Ortos was considering retiring and settle down with a sileum farmer on Ryloth that he had encountered during one of his bounties. The Rim Consulate disagreed. Violently. Needless to say, Ortos went on a self-imposed retirement from the business. However, as the sileum farming business began to dry up on Ryloth, Ortos found himself and his family in desperate financial aid and decided to use the knowledge gathered up from decades of bounty hunting as a contractor of sorts, taking up jobs of all manner. It didn't matter what they were, as long as they weren't dirty and they paid well.

The mobile refueling port, Tyrtian Ambassador, has docked for maintenance repairs within the Daalang sector with a certain Ortos Viell being one of its hired attendants.








Pssssstttt, pipeworker. I can see you're new around here, ain't ya? Don't got the stink of an Westerner on ya.

The Underrail chews, chews, chews and chews. It never spits you out. It keeps you under its grasp and never lets you.


The OP's title is a little dramatic. There is no lack of originality on RPG per se but rather, execution. The execution of a RP, for me, matters more than some nebulous concept of originality and how unique it is.

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