Dervish

RPGN // Issue No.2 - July 2019

Current Discussion: Maintaining a Playerbase.

Alright, so I operate off a simple rule that the first three months of a roleplay are absolutely critical; as a GM, you need to be able to keep momentum going and set deadlines and stick to them. There's a lot of things that I think a lot of GMs do that contributes to games not making it out of the gate that they may not realize, and it goes back to even before the first IC post drops.

Make sure you vet your players and give feedback on reviews while sticking to your standards; all it takes if a few minutes of checking someone's posting history to make sure they stay with games and not drop most of them. Granted, we all have times where a game isn't for us, and that's fine. It's more the people who join a dozen roleplays at the same time and then commit to none of them; giving that player a character slot at the expense of someone who has proven to be someone who can stick things through slumps and slow downs is going to hurt in the long run. Likewise, review every character sheet that comes in and make sure it's up to your standard; have people revise them when you give feedback, and you can tell a lot about players for who are willing to make adjustments and those who butt heads with you. You want to make sure that your players who are accepted are roughly of similar expectations and skill level and generally have positive temperaments.

On that token, figure out how many players you're comfortable managing and stick with it! You don't want to have a story in mind where you have a half-dozen players and end up with a full-dozen or more if it is a bit too much for you to handle or doesn't work with your story. I myself prefer about 6-8, and as the game's established I don't mind picking up new blood, but my personal GMing style is trying to help players craft their own personal stories and incorporate parts of their character bios into the RP and it's a lot more meaningful and manageable if I only have a small portion of players compared to say an open sandbox with an always open tag.

The other major factor of player numbers is posting rotations; less players means faster turn around times, and one thing I notice GMs get caught up on all the time is that they wait for absolutely everyone to post before moving the plot along; oftentimes people lose interest in an RP if they have to wait weeks between GM move along posts because one or two people are dragging their heels. This is why setting deadlines is important! If I notice that the posting rate is slumping (or people don't have anything in the works), I basically say a week from that day, or as I usually do, next Monday-Wednesday, is my move along day and everyone should have their stuff in by then. I don't punish players for missing the deadlines, it just means they missed out on a chance to reply. The only time I really kick someone for being absentee is if it's been well over a month and they haven't contributed anything. I do give them a head's up and a deadline, but even that might be temporary.

Point is, you need to keep momentum going and as a GM, you should already know how your first quest/ mission is going to pan out, all the major NPCs already created and a story already in mind before the game even launches and then just fill in the blanks as you go. Players should never be forced to wait on their GM past a certain length of time; say "hey I'm moving the story along on Friday" and stick to it. Let players know that they're not waiting on a dead RP or a GM who has no time for them. Remember; players are trusting you as a GM to provide an experience for them, and by submitting a character to you and an interest to take part in your story, it's your responsibility to demonstrate to them that you aren't wasting their time. We have all joined an RP, spent hours on a character, and then find out that the GM lets the game slowly die before it even gets started. It's frustrating and demoralizing, and I think as GMs, we have an obligation to our players to respect their time and efforts.

Now for actually running the game, I have a simple rule; focus on the engaged players and don't worry about the not-engaged ones. What I mean is if people are constantly talking about the story and characters and are posting regularly, those are the players who are going to form your core group, whereas players who rarely post, don't talk OOC, and generally seem to be absentee in general are probably going to end up dropping and putting the entire game on hold to make sure they post is a major factor games on this site die. This is why I keep saying deadlines; tag everyone, let them know when they have to post by, and stick to it. Have your next GM post ready to go shortly after and keep going like that. If you notice players missing several deadlines, you probably should have a chat with them and see where they're at and ask if there's anything you can do to help their inspiration or alleviate their concerns, and sometimes it ends up being a positive experience. But you shouldn't sacrifice the enjoyment of an entire group over one or two players who seem very disinterested; if you put too much time and effort into those players at the expense of the 6 who are extremely motivated, you're going to end up bleeding those players because the game's stalling and not moving along.

On a more positive note, one thing that absolutely keeps players invested and feeling good is consistent positive feedback. Hit that like button when you read a post; it takes no time at all and lets people know that their hard work is being read and appreciated. When someone makes a post, compliment it and say what you liked about it! Talk about the characters and what happened a bit; if you do that kind of feedback, it starts to become a self-sustaining cycle where players all feel like they can participate and the more they put in, the more they get back. I've found it helps really develop characters OOC and helps flesh them out as people, and I've had some pretty awesome plots in roleplays that player characters had that largely spawned from OOC discussion and feedback.

And finally, last last big point; do not tolerate toxic behaviour. If someone's causing issues in your game, constantly argue with other players, insult players or characters, or otherwise turn the OOC into a toxic shitposting nightmare, get rid of them, no refund. The internet is full of holes for people with shitty personalities, your RP doesn't have to be one of them. You should always try to cultivate a positive and active atmosphere so people want to keep coming back and participating. If you don't, all it takes is a few shitty comments to start driving people away if an RP is still in its infancy. Personally, if I notice a Discord or OOC starts getting into uncomfortable or inflammatory rhetoric before characters even get accepted, I'm out. I only have so much free time, I'd rather spend it in good company.

Questions and things like that

@BrokenPromise and @Ammokkx basically covered the gist of it, but one thing that can help is spending time reading the posts of writers you like and paying attention to the details they put in; do things like engage the senses, think of body language or how a character would physically do an action; are they hurt or tired? What's their emotional state? Try to put yourself in the scene and imagine what it all looks like and feels like, what other small details exist that can help establish the scene. What kind of ambient sounds are in the area? Are there birds or other animals? Can you hear cars or water? There is so much you can do!

Alternatively, maybe try reading a novel or two and see how the author fills out a chapter. I would also strongly recommend collaborating with people in your roleplay! Open a gdoc and write a post together.

RPGN // Issue No.2 - July 2019

@RPGN Thank you for all your hard work! I look forward for these installments; I'll try to remember to fill out thr community question this time around.

The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

Please Comply

Greenie, Tricks and Dervs slam jam

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15th Sun’s Height - Morning

The Durehahdddach mountains…

---

A sharp elbow dug into Zaveed’s flank followed by a low Shhh, pulling the Cathay fully into consciousness. Whatever cocktail had been inside of the dart had begun to run its course and for a long while he had drifted in and out of consciousness. Even now, with his eyes finally electing to stay open, his limbs felt like dead weight and his breathing was laboured. What the hell had hit him?

Zaveed took a moment to get his orientation; the landmarks and region meant nothing to him, but they still appeared to be in the mountains, so that likely meant they hadn’t been taken far. It wasn’t easy to move two dead-weight prisoners around, so there was a good chance they were simply waiting for transportation. But who had taken him and Megana, he wondered. There were no fires, no lights, no sound. 

However, with his feline eyes, he could make out figures moving about the area and he caught the scent of prepared food. There were figures wearing long cloaks, foliage woven within the fabric for concealment, and mesh veils that covered their heads and features. The Dwemeri weapons they carried were scuffed and painted to reduce the sheen of the metal, foliage and netting wrapped about the barrels to conceal the profile. They were strange devices, unlike the weapons he was familiar with, these rifles had what looked like large pressure chambers on the side, and about the figures’ belts were several cylinders and vials. Perhaps the ammunition?

“Is that you, Megana?” Zaveed asked, his tone low that she’d strain to hear his words. He didn’t want to alert these figures he was awake.

"Aye," Meg replied, her own voice low enough that it was almost as if she had breathed the word out. It was really hard for her to decipher time and location while they had been travelling- she had forced herself to keep her eyes shut most of the forced journey so as not to levy any suspicion that she wasn't actually knocked out like Zaveed. After what had seemed almost an eternity to the Nord, the two were finally set on the ground. Even then Meg was much too cautious to simply begin her struggle to free herself. It had been dark, but that didn't mean her other senses weren't functioning. She could feel, she could smell, and most importantly, hear. She had waited until there was no nearby sound discernable before opening her eyes.

Her hands had been bound behind her back, but Meg had expected that even when she'd fallen in the forest, after which she'd plucked the elven dagger from Zaveed and stuffed it beneath the tightly cinched cloth sash she had wrapped around her waist. A little hand wriggling while on her side and she had managed to reach below the sash, feeling a slight sting as her finger was nicked by the sharp edge of the dagger's blade. The pain had caused her to smile... she had what she wanted.

It had taken a little patience and perseverance to slowly and carefully cut through the ropes without arousing suspicion, and more than once Meg had forced herself to pause, feeling her hand cramp up. Still, the joy she felt when the bonds around her wrists loosened was worth the pain.

"I'm free," she added, voice still remaining lower than ever, though she trusted Zaveed's sharp ears to catch her words more easily than she had caught his. "I got yer dagger on me..." She paused in her words, listening for footsteps before slowly shuffling a little closer to the Khajiit man. "Lemme cut those damn ropes off ya."

“Wait.” Zaveed urged, shaking his head slowly. “My limbs still feel like weights and I cannot feel my feet. If they discover the bindings gone before I can move, we’re done for. Besides, we’re in a good spot to try and learn a few things, no?” he asked, letting out an inaudible sigh, blinking rapidly to try and clear the sleep out of his system. 

He looked around once more slowly, trying to regard some things that were harder to discern out of the corner of his eye; at night, paradoxically, it was easier to make sense of an object if you weren’t looking directly at it. He counted a dozen figures, although all of them had their features concealed beneath netting, except for the ones who were dining. There was something oddly efficient about them; much of this camp seemed temporary and exceptionally well-concealed. Unless someone happened upon it, they would have likely never spotted any of this at a distance. 

Even those who moved around seemed to be slow and methodical, careful with their footfalls to avoid disturbing anything like a twig or dried leaves that would make a sound. He smelled oil or some kind of lubricant; at least one of them had their weapon apart and was almost silently reassembling the device. Zaveed was good, but he realized that the soldiers or mercenaries who had captured Megana and himself were exceptionally well-trained in this environment and took great pains to be as silent as possible. 

Suddenly, the camp seemed to spring to attention, and the soldiers all stood vigilant. A torchlight approached, and Zaveed felt sorry for the poor bastard who was likely about to die without even having a chance to draw his sword. But none of the soldiers moved; instead they almost seemed to be standing at attention for a VIP. Zaveed rolled his jaw. This wasn’t likely to bode well for him or Megana.

“Looks like we’re about to be very popular.” He murmured. 

Two women approached the clearing, an escort of six heavily armoured soldiers who were at odds with the commandos that were within the camp. The first was a Dwemer woman with cold, calculating grey-blue eyes and a schoolmarm’s disposition and impossibly perfect posture. 

She dressed practically, blue trousers with red piping tucked neatly into knee-high boots with a pair of straps and buckles to secure them to her feet, and her torso was adorned with a brown thigh-length overcoat, fashioned with a red waist sash. The telltale bronze sheen of dwemeri metal shone through the opening around her collar, suggesting at least a mail or scale shirt of armour beneath the coat. 

Her grey-brown hair was short and loose, pinned back with decorative pins and stopping at the nape of her neck, and her face certainly did not have the same charm or youthful presence as Razlinc Rourken; crowsfeet were under the woman’s eyes, and her cheeks were gaunt, showing the impression of her skull beneath in some areas, giving her a particularly severe appearance under the torchlight. If any feature of her could have been considered cute or attractive, it was her pert and small nose that seemed to defy the almost Morrowind-like topography of her face. 

And she approached the two prisoners with a butcher’s gaze.

At her side was a small, by comparison, breton mage seemingly her robes weighed against her aging shoulders. Long wispy white hair neatly brushed into a bun at the base of her head, leaning against an oak staff for support. Her faintly yellow adept robes were covered in patches, burn marks and oil stains. A leather apron tied at her waist. Round cheeks with lines of wrinkles crinkling over softened dimples, a pair of brown eyes endlessly fuelled by curiosity, scanning over the pair of prisoners. Her hands were spotted with scars, while a distinctly familiar ruby red ring - polished and shiny, it was snug (refitted over the years) on her ring finger. By comparison once more, the breton looked as if she was pulled out elbow deep from a project by the Dwemer official to join them. 

“Caught us some rascals eh?” the mage commented, not without a playful air about her despite how serious the Dwemeri were around her, “I suppose it’s better you two are here than out there, the world’s a real mess.”

Squinting at their faces, studying them, “Now why am I being pulled away from the work? I was reaching a breakthrough, delicate pieces I’ve been working with as you know.” She said, scolding in tone but lacking in any real weight. The Dwemeri were not so likened to her attitude on good days.

The Dwemer didn’t react to the petulant protest, instead approaching Megana, taking her by the jaw to inspect either side of her face before doing the same for Zaveed. “Because, sweet Leonora, we are trying to finish the catalog. These two will do.” she announced definitively, waving one of her escorts over. “We will bring these two back to Markarth with us. The last batch was… defective. Perhaps you need to tone down your methods?” she asked her companion idly. 

The Dwemer resumed her rod-straight posture, looking down upon Megana like she was peering down from an imposing tower. “Perhaps you could enlighten us of what you two were doing in these woods, and so close to Markarth. Cooperate and your next few weeks will be decidedly more pleasant. Do not, and you will find my patience is very thin and I have other ways of extracting what I need. Understood?” Her tone suggested only the thinnest veil of malice; it was simply a statement of fact, not an idle threat. 

Leonora shrugged one shoulder, “As I said, delicate. They look like survivors, we will see when they’re on the table.” 

It was hard to erase the fear that build up in Meg, and she had to fight against all instincts so that she didn't cringe nor pull away when the dwemer woman held her face. Mind awhirl with all the various nefarious ends that could have possibly been planned for her and Zaveed, Meg found it rather difficult to even think of what exactly she could do to escape the precarious situation they found themselves in. She was also very afraid of what consequences might befall her if they discovered the ropes they had used to bind her hands with were cut.

Yet there was a sudden sense of indignation at the dwemer woman's words, and her pride flared up like kindling added to a dying fire, allowing her to put words together and finally speak up.

"I- I'mma Nord!" she spat out, her eyes narrowing as her hands clenched tightly behind her back. "This's m'home! I'm s'posed t'be roun' these parts, not you." So what if she wasn't actually from the Reach? She could go wherever she pleased in Skyrim, and this place was more hers than either of these two!

"Ah yes, senseless nationalism, a favourite of mine. It pairs well with racial supremacy and unchecked egotism." The Dwemer replied dryly. She crouched in front of Meg, regarding her with storm-coloured eyes. "My dear child, these lands you call Skyrim and Morrowind belonged to the Dwemer far before men crossed the Sea of Ghosts from Atmora and made a right mess of everything they touched.

"We predate Atmorans, Dunmer, Nords… you are but children in our eyes and to presume you have any claim to these forests, plains, and mountains is laughably inadequate. Our structures endured as monuments of our eternal presence, our beacons that would one day herald our return home." She said slowly, deliberately. The Dwemer's face shifted into a sneer.

"Imagine my disgust when vermin moved into my home when I was away. Imagine my disappointment when the streets of Markarth that I used to play in as a youth were overrun by uncultured brutes who cannot even begin to imagine the depths of the gifts we left behind." 

The Dwemer sighed, steepling her fingers delicately before her. "I am aware six hundred years is many lifetimes for something that lives as long as a dog lives for you, but we elves are blessed with a long life… and a longer memory. Accept we are reclaiming our homes and step aside of the march of progress, or feel free to be trampled underfoot. The choice is yours."

Meg's eyes remained narrowed with anger and frustration, but she stayed silent, listening to the Dwemer as the woman spoke, teeth grinding against each other so violently she was sure those present could hear it. When the woman quieted, Meg finally lifted her eyes to glare at the Dwemer, blatantly challenging her. "So wha'? Y'think y'can jus' come back an' take everythin', push people away jus' like tha' 'cause you went missin' for Mara knows how long? This’s our home too. Y’can’ just shove people away!" An angry huff of a breath escaped her, and her green eyes shifted between the elf and the Breton. It was so tempting to burst out that she had seen their handiwork, how the dwemer in Cyrodill were the real brutes with their wanton violence, how poor children like Zahir had their parents stolen from them...  

But she couldn't lose her temper, not now. Who knew what might happen to her and Zaveed? And what if they discovered there was a whole group of them out there? The last thing Meg wanted was for those she cared about to get her because of her carelessness.

More importantly, what in Oblivion were they planning on doing to the two of them?

"Why're y'takin' us t'Markarth?" she demanded. 

The Dwemer simply smiled ruefully back. "We cannot take our home back?" She asked, a mirthful tone to her voice. "We can. And we will. Your petty squabbling won't change what is an all but certain fact."

"I think she wants to teach us about how wonderful her culture is." Zaveed remarked dryly to Megana, his eyes narrowed into slits at this Dwemer.

"Oh, good. The beast talks." The Dwemer replied, suddenly grabbing Zaveed under the jaw with remarkable strength and with a flash, her other hand drove something into Zaveed's neck. A silver-coloured syringe was buried into Zaveed's neck, and she carefully extracted the sample before slapping a bandage pad over it.

Leonora pulled a face at her companion, thankfully distracted by the sample to notice her expression. 

She regarded the sample with curiosity, "Thank you for your contribution, Khajiit. It will prove invaluable for my research." The Dwemer said, carefully depositing the syringe into a leather pouch. "You may find it stings and impairs your ability to speak properly for a few hours, but I've little patience for those of your temperament."

Zaveed pressed at his neck by burying it into his shoulder, wheezing from the sudden sharp pain of the invasive hole in his neck and windpipe, as well as the crushing sensation of her hand on his jaw. No more defiant words managed to escape from his mouth.

Glancing at Megana she said, "I am not one to explain the minutiae of my thoughts to strangers, let alone subjects. If you require a further demonstration, by all means." She said, standing and idly dusting her hands off. "I reiterate; cooperate and you may have a place in our society. Show defiance and know that you are utterly expendable. Do I make myself understood?"

It irked Meg to no degree that her khajiit companion was called a 'beast', and the need to do something, perhaps involving a sharp blade, boiled within her, tempered only by the stinging she felt as the nails of her clenched fists dug into her palms. Her eyes swerved to look at Zaveed, and the boiling rage lowered to a simmer, unwilling to risk their lives. 

She said nothing, lips tight and eyes dark with withheld tears, but there was a visible nod to be seen.

“I certainly do not mind explaining the whys and hows.” Leonora spoke up, “Look, there’s something bigger going on here with the Dwemer return than just invasion. We’ve got a future to look forward to with the Elves from the Deep, the more open we are to examine the things that make us different,” Brushing down the length of her apron, idly lifting the metal shavings and oils from it with a flick of her wrist - precise magicka control to telepathically remove project crumbs as she had come to affectionately refer to it as, “And the things that make us the same, we’ve got a chance. Sometimes, you gotta kidnap an odd pair like yourselves to get things done.”

Hoping to smooth over the menace of her companion, Leonora felt herself to be like a bridge between Tameriel and the Dwemer, a much needed familiar face to help the subjects relax, “The world is a terrible place out there, here we’re building the future. You’re apart of that now.” Clapping her hands together the project crumbs sprinkled at her feet, “You can trust me to monitor your conditions closely, since my arrival to the project subjects have been far more comfortable and their rate of survival has been boosted.”

The breton mage spoke with conviction, but she winked at their expressions, “I may not be a restoration mage but checking vitals with the magicka equivalent of life sign’s spyglass warrants a gentler approach.”

“Please keep the bigger picture in mind; this is not to be taken personally.” the Breton concluded thoughtfully, as if her earlier threats if harm never occurred.

Meg didn't quite know what to make of what the Breton woman was saying. She certainly seemed a little less hostile than the Dwemer, showing an affable expression as she spoke, but even so her words were flying up above Meg's head like birds in the sky. Frowning, she forced herself to analyze what she said in the light of recent events. Necromancy maybe? She knew that was something the Dwemer took part in as well after the episode in Gilane. But this woman seemed anything but... then again, who suspected Gregor until it was out in the open. 

Meg knew she herself was a terrible judge of people- her feelings for J'raij and then Jaraleet had proved that.

Her eyes shifted momentarily to Zaveed before returning to the Breton. How she wished he could speak! He knew how to talk and what words to say so much better than she did.

"So wha'... yer gonna cut us open or somethin'?" she wondered, bringing up the worst possible idea up front. She had seen abandoned necromancer lairs previously, though now she did recall Jaraleet mentioning the dwemer he'd seen in the Gilane prison was much... cleaner or something. 

“That depends on you.” The Dwemer said bluntly. “Be useful to us, and we will be useful to you. It is a simple transaction, but make no mistake; you are at our mercy… and our curiosity. Sergeant,” she said, turning to one of her attendants. “Go see to it the transportation is prepared. I want these two ready to depart in ten minutes.” she glanced at Zaveed pressing his throat, blood dripping from his lips. “Hmm. Perhaps fifteen. It’s a burden when one of your quarry has a difficult time breathing.” 

“Right away, Head Researcher Nhelzis.” the Dwemer said, hurrying off.

“Now, you two behave, or this will be the longest time in your life… and the shortest.” she said darkly, turning on her heel and walking away with her hand at the small of her back. Faintly, someone offered her a cup of cold tea, which she waved off.

Leonora looked down to the small puddle of blood with resignation, she sighed through her nose following behind Nhelzis. There would be plenty of time spent with the new subjects soon enough.

Zaveed coughed and spat up bloody spittle. “Oh, she’s fun.” he croaked, the effort to speak barely audible. When the guards seemed to be out of earshot, he nudged Megana. “When I said wait, I was…” he coughed; more red saliva flung from his lips. He grunted, more annoyed than anything. “Okay. We go. Please.”

A sniffle escaped Meg- she was finding it hard not to feel terrible at the state her companion was in- and then she nodded, brow furrowing as she too looked at their surroundings, reaching back and pulling out the hidden dagger. She winced, her arms stiff and a little aching from being tense while she had forced herself to look bound while the Dwemer and mage were there. 

"Righ'," she muttered under her breath, ignoring her feeble pain as she shifted closer to Zaveed. Once more she cast covert glances to see if there was anyone looking in there direction. Perhaps Stendarr was paying attention to her silent pleas, because for the time being there seemed to be no intrusion coming her way. Without further ado Meg sliced at the ropes binding his hands together, careful not to knick the Khajiit in the process.

As it turned out, Megana was handy with a knife. “You hold knife. Can’t fight.” Zaveed uttered, quickly rubbing his wrists. “Lead away. I follow.” he said, testing his movement carefully, not wishing to betray movement. His head still throbbed, but he had sensation in his limbs, so it was good enough. He stepped carefully away from where they had been bound, slinking into the brush before anyone noticed.

Meg blinked at Zaveed for a second before giving him a quick nod, realizing indecision at this point was terrible. Gripping the dagger tightly, she peeked in the direction of the guards once more before quickly making her way out of the open and into the coverage of the foliage. Fear was replaced with a rush, a sense of victory even. They thought they'd had her and Zaveed, but they were wrong. 

Chewing on her lip in concentration, Meg hurriedly attempted to figure out the direction in which they had been brought before deciding that was stupid. The Dwemer woman would expect that, and Meg didn't want her friends hurt, no matter how badly she wanted to be by their side again. Besides, it was much too dark for her to see precisely where she was going, and she didn't want to give Zaveed the task of looking out when he was already in pain. In her opinion, it was best to simply get the fuck away from this camp and settle down until she could see properly once more.

Pleased and relieved that most of her apparel helped her blend in quite nicely among the leaves, Meg looked to Zaveed and gave him a small nod. "A'righ', follow me."

Nhelzis returned a few minutes later, regarding the pile of cut ropes with a mixture of mild amusement and disdain. The captain was sputtering some excuse as to why the prisoners weren’t been more closely watched, but it hardly mattered. There was no shortage of Nords in these lands, and even the small amount of blood and tissue she had extracted from the Khajiit would prove to be useful. This was but one of several stops the Head Researcher had to make this evening; her commandos had snared four other groups of prisoners this evening, and who was to say they wouldn’t also prove to be of use? She turned back to the captain, “Warm up the tea for me, would you?” she asked.

“What of the prisoners? I can send out the hunter teams to track them down.” the Dwemer officer pressed urgently. Nhelzis waved him off.

“A hunter doesn’t chase his prey through the woods when it’s wounded; it just runs harder. Let them tire, think they’re safe. The sense of fear that we could be anywhere will keep them modest, and if they have friends, perhaps they’ll expose them, too." Nhelzis instructed evenly, glancing at the captain with cool eyes. "Resume your duties as ghosts, captain; if you’re expected, you aren’t doing your jobs properly. Now, tell me where our next destination is.” she said, regarding the ropes with the faintest of smiles before turning her back on them. She was never one to linger on lost opportunities; the world was an abundant resource of new ones, after all.

Note from the newest Admin.

Congrats on the admin position! I know we're all in good hands.

RPGN // Issue No.1 - July 2019

RPGN always is a community treasure. Thank you Wraith and Hank for the shoutouts! It's always humbling to know I had an influence on people and hopefully it's helped people in the GM arena.

That maybe possibly TES persistent world idea caught my eye! I would very much be interested in helping that come to life if the guild decided it wanted to give it a go.

Halo: Age of Reformation

Quoth the Obi-wan,

Hello there.

Delta Green: Whispers in the Darkness

She's my waifu from another laifu.

We were talking today so I sent her the lonk because this is exactly her kinda jam and her writing is stellar. ;D

Delta Green: Whispers in the Darkness

Jaime WIP

Name: Jaime “James” Alvarez

Age: 36

Gender: Male

Appearance:

Height, build, facial structure. Voice and mannerisms, even. A picture may be attached, but oh, so help me if it's anime.

Agency/Organization: Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives (ATF) Special Agent.

Education: University of Miami, Bachelor’s Degree in Criminology, minor in anthropology
Criminal Investigators Training Program (CITP)
Special Agent Basic Training (SABT)
ATF Industry Operations Investigator Basic Training

Background:
Born in Little Havana, Miami, Florida, Alvarez is the son of Doctor Miguel Alvarez, a 3rd generation Mexican American family doctor with a practice in Little Havana, and Isabella Alvarez, a Cuban refugee who fled the Castro regime in 1975 when she was 22-years-old by bribing a smuggler to bring her and 13 other refugee hopefuls to Miami, Florida, where she claimed refugee status after her parents were prosecuted by G2, the Cuban secret police, for accusations of espionage when her father was apprehended taking photographs near a military installation. Despite his protests that he was simply a nature photographer Isabella’s father was apprehended and her mother shortly after according to Isabella’s testimony. Fearing for her safety, Isabella petitioned extended family for help, and she was soon on a boat towards the United States. She would never learn of her parents’ fate.
Soon after her refugee claim was accepted, Isabella became a custodian at a Little Havana fitness center where she met Miguel, an American with deep ties to family on both sides of the American and Mexican border, who was at the time working towards his medical doctorate at the University of Miami. The two remained friends for a few years until they began dating and eventually married in 1981, where Jaime was born on October 17th, 1983.
Jaime’s childhood was unremarkable, unlike his mother’s journey; he attended Citrus Grove Elementary School as a straight A student who was likeable, if shy and reserved. Later, he would attend Green Springs High School where he excelled at the sciences and mathematics, and it seemed all but certain that he would follow in his father’s footsteps in the field of medicine. He was in grade 10 when news of his uncle Hernandez Alvarez passing away from cocaine overdose, striking Jaime with grief and a sense of injustice as he witnessed his father openly sob for the first time in his life; Hernandez had been close with his brother and was a large part of the family, but debt and a rocky marriage had made him make regrettable decisions that would ultimately cost him his life.
Jaime then decided that he needed to take matters into his own hands and pursue a career in law enforcement or criminal justice; he began to focus on psychology and criminology, and well as anthropology for insights into addictions and the drug trade that had claimed his uncle.

Jaime graduated from High School and was immediately enrolled in the University of Miami under scholarship for a major in criminology in 1996, where he spent the next four years applying himself with a sense of drive that eluded many of his fellow students, even going so far as keeping a framed portrait of Hernandez in his dormitory desk to remind him of what he had set out to do.

Not everything was all strictly business during his university years. Jaime had informally introduced himself to other students as James, going so far as to use that name when submitting reports to avoid frequent corrections of people mispronouncing his name, a habit that would carry onto his future employment. He was a prolific reader, made a pair of girlfriends, one of whom, Gabby Clifford, remained with him well into his employment with the ATF, going so far as to rent a high rise condo after his employment.
Jaime kept close with his father and mother, who at this time had left her custodial job to focus on her love of music, where she got her start playing guitar in bars and street festivals. Both helped Jaime financially as he expressed interest in joining a sailing club and a college baseball team, of which he would remain a lifetime Miami Marlins fan. Through this clubs he became close friends with Nick Clemons, a grandson of Haitian immigrants who had legally changed their surname within a year of arrival Stateside. The two were largely inseparable, despite a distinctly different career path; Jaime was determined to join the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives, and Nick had his sights on the coastguard if his promising talents in baseball didn’t get him scouted first.
He graduated in 2000 with honors and applied to the ATF almost immediately, getting hired on several months after his application was submitted, his physical and background check conducted, and his references cleared. Early 2001, he began his career by starting in the Criminal Investigators Training Program up in Glynco, Georgia where he studied everything ranging from tactical driving, firearms handling (something his father was not too keen on, despite Jaime purchasing a personal Glock 17 after graduation), crime scene management, and other aspects of police investigations and forensics. Due to much of this program being quite a departure from his academic background, he struggled with the more confrontational aspects such as interviewing and handcuffing procedures, as well as his firearms proficiency given his inexperience with them, but his hard work ethic paid off and he graduated in the top third of the 12 week program, moving onto the Special Agent Basic Training program.
SABT made the difficulties Jaime experienced in CITP exasperated given its much more physically rigorous training process, which involved hand-to-hand fighting techniques, hard physical training, and advanced firearms and tactical training. While he worked at becoming passable in those fields, and eventually quite competent, he excelled at writing reports and identifying illicit substances, firearms, and the other academic fields. Thanks to his own personal handgun and practicing on his own time at the range, Jaime became a very proficient shot with a handgun and other weapons, such as pump-action shotguns and M4 carbines, came much easier afterwards and he was able to begin to excel at the tactical training and shooting training, reaching the peak physical condition of his life and finding a degree of confidence he’d been lacking in the more dangerous and demanding aspects of his career.

Upon graduation, Jaime was posted in Tampa, Florida, where he broke off the relationship with Gabby due to her not being able to relocate because of her own educational and career aspirations, although Nick came with him to Tampa to find work after his own graduation and the two young men split costs to make the fairly pricy gulf city more affordable. Jaime’s posting


Personality: Try to get detailed with this. You'll want to know how they'll react if they ever come across a drug-fueled sacrificial blood orgy to Nyarlathotep.

Family, Friends, and Associates:
Miguel Alvarez, father
Isabella Alvarez, mother
Hernandez Alvarez, uncle (deceased)
Gabby Clifford, ex-girlfriend
Nick Clemons, best friend

Likes:
-Baseball
-Fishing
-Farmers Markets
-Reading
-Sailing
-Hiking

Dislikes:
-Crowds and loud places
-Sensationalist news
-Cults
-Arrogance
-Places that are assuredly haunted

Fears: Ever since Alvarez’s encounter with the Día de Muertos spirit cult he has been haunted by frequent sightings of spirits and ghosts, and although most are benign in nature, he has seen full well that malicious ones are capable of possession and what that does to a person; the very concept terrifies him and if he senses something very dark and wrong, fear grips him and he will insist on leaving immediately.
For this reason, Alvarez is much more at ease in remote locations and quiet areas that haven’t been the location of mass death and violence; many dark spirits and ghosts linger in such places and the likelihood of encountering one that wishes you harm increases exponentially. Bullets cannot harm the intangible, and talismans only do so much to ward off malice.

Skills:
Gifted: Awareness, Forensics
Adept: Criminology, Persuade, Law
Average: Marksmanship; handguns, Tactical Driving, First Aid
Novice: Subterfuge, Psychology, Marksmanship; long guns, Anthropology

Weaknesses:
Alvarez isn’t exactly in peak physical condition; years of methodically scouring crime scenes, analyzing evidence in a lab, communing with the dead, and writing up reports along with the inability to resist great smelling food have left him with a physique that can generously be described as just above average; he works out every other day for an hour to an hour and a half and he drinks a lot of water, but most of the team on Delta Green can literally run laps around him. However, he exceeds the bare minimum for the fitness tests and has passible strength and endurance; he just has more cerebral pursuits in mind.

Sleep isn’t something that comes easily to Alvarez, especially if he’s put up in a hotel in a city; the dead are everywhere and they have a habit of having a presence that can pull even the deepest sleeper wide awake. Energy drinks and coffee do the bare minimum to keep him alert at the worst of times, and if an area is particularly heavy in spectral presence, it becomes increasingly difficult to differentiate what’s real and what’s the spirits; it affects his judgement and mental acuity. To compensate for this, he often takes quick naps when things are calm and has been found with his head down on his desk from time to time; it’s not often he gets more than 5 or 6 hours of sleep on a good night, and the others know he often uses the times he is forced awake to work.

Off-Duty Clothing/Equipment:
Clothing:
Often jeans or Carharts workpants with side pockets, t-shirts, button up shirts, hiking boots. Tends to stick with shades of browns and greens; he doesn’t like to stand out.

Weapons:
Conceal Carry: Gen 4 Glock 27 .40 S&W, usually kept in a jacket pocket or a waist holster.


Tools/Equipment: A tape recorder, a digital camera, a portable forensics kit including swabs, vials, gloves, a black light, a tape measure, numbers markers etc., a Gerber multitool, mini maglight

Operational Clothing/Equipment: Nothing that would remove all doubt that you are part of the US military/are American. NATO weaponry is fine, but not required.
Clothing: Typical BDU pants with regional appropriate colour (tan or olive), hiking boots, fingerless gloves British commando-style sweater (black or olive) or flannel shirt and t-shirt depending on temperatures, level II vest with magazine pouches, first aid kit, camelback, and usual equipment across various tac pouches. Radio has a headset, wears an olive “patrol” cap.

References

Weapons:
Open Carry: Heckler & Koch MP7 4.6x30mm Personal Defense Weapon, kept on a special open leg holster for quick deployment, equipped with a flashlight

MP7

Tools/Equipment:
Maglight, glowsticks, Gerber multitool, emergency first aid kit, radio with headset, authorized tablet, digital camera, voice recorder, forensics kit, SOG Seal Pup fixed blade knife

Delta Green: Whispers in the Darkness

I'm gonna be screwing together an ATF agent who cut his teeth on drug cartels and encountered some sp00py shit.