ElRey814

Shadows in the Dread City- A Cyberpunk RolePlay

We have 11 character and 8 posts. 2 of which are Sierra's.

Where's everybody at?

The entity (post-apocalypse sci-fi)

The absence of sensation had been a steady companion. Unwelcome as it had been, the womb like embrace of the tempered glass tube seemed to have grown to be a part of him. Whatever aspect of who he had been before his unconscious body had been placed into stasis, it was a weak flicker in an ocean of numbing silence. Henry Clayton was accustomed to this existence, which is to say, barely one at all.

There was a pressure first, a dull push on his inner ear. The whirring and clicking of the CryoPod sputtering to life was like a distant dream, the damaged pneumatic tube system quickly overheating in its attempts to pump the rapidly defrosting liquid from the chamber. Clayton, the small part of him that had accepted his state sought to deny the waking nerve endings. His eyes fluttered as for the first time as his upper body was exposed to crisp fresh air. his limp carcass held aloft by sagging suspension wires.

Synthetic fingers twitched as the numerous IVs, long needles plugged in at strategic points throughout his torso all came sliding out in perfect synchronicity along with the thin hoses stuffed down his nose and throat. The sizzling crackle of electricity filled the air. The smooth opening motion of the door hiccuped as a small flood of the remaining CryoSleep liquid came spilling forth, along with his unprepared body.

His mind reeled, physical orientation all but forgotten, conscious thought crying out for a return to ‘normal,’ the essence of life forced back into a shell it thought lost. Heart and lung function burst back into rapid, throbbing rhythm as he was deposited roughly on the floor, a streak of blue bile erupting from the depths of his stomach.

Clayton’s lungs sucked in oxygen in long haggard rips, like a fish out of water, as he collapsed fully into the fresh blue stain. Awakened muscles pulsed and flexed against the wet floor they regained function. With great effort Henry clumsily managed to roll to his back, eyes clamped shut in anguish his body racked with throaty, burning coughs. Sparks shot in irregular clumps from the digital screen afixed to the side of his pod, dancing across his damp skin in angry hisses.

As his body struggled to adjust there was a part of him that recognized the sound of a human voice, it sounded nearby but the words didn’t register. Another flume of blue sprang from Clayton’s esophagus as he rolled to a seated position, spraying the frosty interior of what had been his home.

Groaning painfully Clayton slumped back to the floor, another fit of coughs catching in his lungs.

“Cr-Cry-C-C-CryoPod One. One. One. One…Dam-ma-mmamamage De-De-Detected.” The cheery automated voice stuttered from the speakers above him. Clayton’s piercing sapphires assessed the machine critically, a grimace plastered on his features.

“Re-Report To Clini-ni-ni-Clinic Sector Bravo.Vo.Vo. F-F-For Assessment.” The voice chirpped.

Recognition of his surroundings dawned slowly on the botanist, his head slowly turned toward the shattered window to the sprawling expanse of green ruin stretched endlessly past the horizon. Clayton's bearded jaw fell open.

“Where, Uhgf.” He coughed out another gelatinous chunk of blue slime. Clayton gazed at his trembling hands.

Who am I?
What is this place?

Black Powder Arcana

ALRIGHT! Final-ish Draft is Posted!

Once again thanks to @Hour Error cause I totally ripped off their layout.

A Dog and His Boy

Name : Samuel Gilead & Meru, The Coyote

Age : Sammy is in his late 20s, but he looks...weathered. Meru appears to be a young, virile Coyote.

Descriptor : Local and former neerdowell & his completely normal coyote companion.

Appearance : Sammy Gilead is looking a little worse for wear. Years of sleazy living have given him an appearance like the dead end of a deep canyon, all hard lines and deep shadows. His calloused, sore encrusted skin hangs loosely from thin bones, as if clinging on to his skeleton through sheer force of will. Flat watery eyes the color of fish scales peer from a gaunt face, nestled beneath long stringy clumps of unwashed hair. The dirty blonde coils of grease topped by a battered wide brim hat speckled with holes. An alcoholics nose, grown fat to resemble a prickly pear, hangs heavily above a stoutly mustachioed mouth filled with broken teeth, all stained shades of sour yellow and rot brown from years of tobacco and liquor.
Each day he is found lingering about the local saloon, wearing the same tired looking clothes, ratty threads of heavy leather, worn dull and soft from years of use and covered by a thick woven poncho that appears to have been eaten by moths.

Always lurking nearby, is Meru, The Coyote. Unassuming and silent as a ghost, the canid is the color of the moon’s flesh & wood ash. Wiry, long, and prone to skulking in the shadows, the young male coyote is surprisingly easy to miss, particularly when one is distracted by the ghoulish visage of Samuel Gilead. While during the day Meru moseys from shadow to shadow in a distinctly languid manner, he is typically found statuesque, silently judging the goings on of the town with an unsettling pair of eyes which seem to shimmer oddly in the dark. Though the appearance of a coyote is town is unusual and folks are wary, Meru has remained docile and has been allowed to stay, even following Samuel into The Leaky Pitcher on numerous occasions.

Biography : Sammy grew up around these parts. His upbringing is rather unremarkable, hard times making hard people in the little hamlet of Ulysses. His father, a widower in childbirth, had been a silver miner in Earlstead a few days ride from Ulysses, before it collapsed taking the best jobs and a handful of good men with it. With a source of income gone, Henry Gilead took to drinking himself to death, and spent the rest of his short years never more than arm’s reach from a bottle.

Left largely unattended, Samuel had a penchant even as a boy for ruffling feathers, often found stealing whiskey and goosing women beneath their petticoats in the local saloon and brothel, The Leaky Pitcher. The Sheriff did what he could, but in a town like Ulysses there was plenty else goings-on to keep his attention from raising the boy proper.
A troublesome boy became a troublesome man, growing only bolder with age, he began hustling cards, selling snake oil and occasionally taking what wasn’t his by force in the surrounding towns and settlements around Ulysses. Anything for a quick buck, which he would turn around and spend at The Leaky Pitcher when he returned home. It seemed Samuel was destined for little else than following his father's drunken staggers into an early grave.

Still, every frontier town has a morbid need for a neerdowell drunkard, and Samuel Gilead fit that bill. The sheriff sort of felt sorry for the kid, occasionally tossing him in a cell to dry out, several times assuring an angry mob that Sammy would be staying there for a “long time” only to release him again once things settled down.

However, one can only outrun their reputation for so long. Rumor has it that Samuel ran afoul of another sheriff, one Geoffry Lockehart, one who allied himself with The Bricktooth Brothers, a nasty gang of banditos that operated as a sort of additional ‘peacekeeping’ force in Quincy.
Word a year ago was that Geoffry had finally gotten his hands on Samuel, strung him up like a cheap whore and tossed him in a shallow pit somewhere out in the savage wastes of the Texas desert. Nobody seen or heard from Sammy in a time, and life went on, as it always does.

But that didn’t stop Samuel from showing up back in Ulysses a few moons ago after a week worth of rain. Looking as if he’d aged a lifetime with a Coyote the color of a week-old campfire treading quietly in his wake.

Not a soul in Ulysses is quite sure what to make of the duo. Seems every resident has a different version of the truth they’ve invented. Daily rumors are passed in whisper about what’s gotten into the Gilead boy, where Meru came from, or what exactly happened to Sammy out there in the desert.
It was clear to every resident of Ulysses who had known Sam that something had changed. He is now quieter, better behaved in a sense. He's helpful, respectful, and direct, all the things he once was not. Instead, it is now his words, rather than his actions, causing a commotion.

Samuel has claimed on more than one occasion that Meru was called to Ulysses across the sands. He insists to any that will listen that the people of Ulysses must 'be vigilant.' Recently causing more of a stir by interrupting a public execution to yell that both the Mayor and Father George were two vipers which shared a tail.

Such disquieting behavior would easier to dismiss were Samuel not stone sober. True or not, murmurs are spreading through the town. Though much of the attention he's attracting isn't good.

All the while the coyote is a second shadow to Gilead. Ears perked, eyes glimmering.

Coyotl - The Spirit Of The West: - Coyotl has been spoken of in the tales of native tribes for countless generations before Europeans ever arrived in what became considered ‘the new world.’
Coyotl is a reflection of our true selves, representing all the best and worst mankind has to offer. But Coyotl wears many faces, and Meru is but one such manifestation. A solitary filament in a tapestry woven from the feral energy of the American West, he exists among us, equal parts curious and capricious, holding minor domain in our realm.

• Pray For Rain - Meru is able to call to the rain, influencing storm clouds to form. While not capable of causing a torrential downpour or tempest winds, there are benefits to such power. Any good tracker knows mud holds prints better than dust.
• Shadow Walker - The Coyote’s yowling at the moon is a familiar staple in the American West. Due to the kinship Meru shares with Sister Moon, he is able to travel short distances via shadows cast by her light. This ability can give one the impression that Meru is everywhere at once, a maddening trick used for both escape and pursuit in the crisp desert night.
• Pulling On The Strings - At one time, man and Coyotl would converse and sing together, but long gone have those days been. Though the shared tongue is largely forgotten, it is said that when the stillness of death approaches, Coyotl is always there, his language whispered on the wind.
  The Spirit of The West is drawn by those who linger in suffering in the wild wastes. Coyotl typically offers a parting gift, a quick death, to end needless agony. But sometimes, when it suites him, he offers more. Those that learn Coyotl's tongue & agree to terms before their life-force fades are said to be able to skirt the grasp of death itself, until their deal is seen through. And in doing so, grant Coyotl a puppet to influence the world of men.

Notable Objects:

• Iron Trinket - Tied to the Meru’s neck, virtually hidden amidst the tufts of fur is a thick cord of rope, affixed with a small trinket curled in a spiral around a strange, metallic stone. There are glinting, deep indigo veins cutting through the polished stone, giving it the appearance of movement, as if its surface were made of liquid.
• Rusted Revolver - Samuel Gilead carries a muddy and rusted firearm. The engraved handle is caked with dirt, but reads "Lockehart." Before he disappeared, Samuel had been a capable and self-sufficient frontier highwayman, but the gun he carries now can’t rotate the chamber or fire a bullet. Nonetheless it remains loaded and tucked in his holster. The boys in the saloon regularly mock him for it since his return.

The entity (post-apocalypse sci-fi)

Photo On File

Name: Dr. Henry Clayton

Age: April, 1st 2072 (41 Years At Time of CryoSleep)

Occupation: Botanist & Entomologist

Appearance: Dr. Clayton is a touch under 6'1, with a solid 200 pound build. As most draftees into the Freeze Our Future (F.o.F.) Program of 2113, Henry was mandated to meet a litany of health & conditioning benchmarks before being induced into CryoSleep. Despite this he is beginning to show his age in his face, particularly with weathered crow's feet forming around his distant blue eyes and his disheveled hair and beard which grows a little more salt than pepper each day.

Personality: Henry Clayton is a practical man. Stout of mind, slow to anger and quick to act, he was born with an adventurer's heart beating in his chest. However, damage to his CryoPod has left him waking drained and foggy headed, with massive gaps in his memory.

Bio: Henry grew up in the Orbital colonies, but from a very young age he was fascinated by all things Earth. The plants, the animals, the concept of ‘fresh’ air. 2072 was a turning point in how humans interacted with their home planet, The dawn of what was thought to be a glorious new golden era for humanity at large. Henry was talented, and more importantly, lucky; the boom of civilization and alleviation of previous societal pressures fueling the precocious boy through welcoming and well-funded educational systems.

Cataloging and conservation became forefront priorities as humans sought to find balance in a world they had almost destroyed. He would meet and marry a colleague named Sarah, start a family, become a prominent field botanist leading expeditions to remote, protected stretches of wilderness on the Earth’s surface, eventually becoming best known for his work synthesizing a special hybrid vine which increased the efficiency and health of the orbital biospheres he once grew up it.

But it would not last. As things fell apart, Henry’s natural passion for flora and fauna would become an obsession. Even as funding dwindled and dangers grew, he was found trying to fix things, save endangered species and give humanity it’s best chance to salvage what they could from the impending ruin.

Upon implementation of the F.o.F. Program of 2113, Clayton was on a short list of individuals labeled as “Critically Important” to the chances of its success. Henry participated, until he learned their true intentions to leave him in deep freeze for several centuries, with no friends or family to wake up with, only the mega-rich or those designated "Important" to the mission's success.
He quickly soured on the idea, telling them in no uncertain terms he had no interest in going, in leaving his family, or his work, but it wasn’t an offer to be refused. Upon receiving his refusal Henry was kidnapped by G-Men, drugged and thrown in a CryoPod to be awoken when the time came to help save our species, and our planet.

Other:

• Damage to CryoChamber - The Facility in which Henry had been stored flooded by a series of massive hurricanes, resulting in damages to the subsystem in charge of his pod. While this water and electrical damage ended the lives of a number of the accompanying members of the F.o.F. Program, it has manifested instead as brain damage in Henry. Amnesia with regards to places, people and events, small ticks and tremors in his hands and face, and an artificial arm which works in spurts and gasps.
• Can I Give You a Hand? - Dr. Clayton’s aforementioned left forearm is robotic. His organic arm was surgically removed just beneath the elbow after a brutal fall from a cliff in Borneo during an expedition shortly before the F.o.F. program was initiated. The replacement is fully articulated & made of durable high-grade material. This was thought to be more than capable of making up for any liability it might otherwise cause, however, because of the flood damage, the neural connection has atrophied at an accelerated rate. It cannot maintain proper power sustainability, and will blink in and out of function during extended or high-impact use. It must be fixed if Henry hopes to survive.
• Who Am I? - The coupled trauma of the powerful sedative administered before deep freeze and the damage to the CryoPod have left Clayton a shadow of his former self. Upon awakening, he can scarcely remember his own name, let alone his purpose for having been frozen or where his arm went.

The entity (post-apocalypse sci-fi)

Great! Does that mean I should move him over to characters too?

The entity (post-apocalypse sci-fi)

Photo On File

Name: Dr. Henry Clayton

Age: April, 1st 2072 (41 Years At Time of CryoSleep)

Occupation: Botanist & Entomologist

Appearance: Dr. Clayton is a touch under 6'1, with a solid 200 pound build. As most draftees into the Freeze Our Future (F.o.F.) Program of 2113, Henry was mandated to meet a litany of health & conditioning benchmarks before being induced into CryoSleep. Despite this he is beginning to show his age in his face, particularly with weathered crow's feet forming around his distant blue eyes and his disheveled hair and beard which grows a little more salt than pepper each day.

Personality: Henry Clayton is a practical man. Stout of mind, slow to anger and quick to act, he was born with an adventurer's heart beating in his chest. However, damage to his CryoPod has left him waking drained and foggy headed, with massive gaps in his memory.

Bio: Henry grew up in the Orbital colonies, but from a very young age he was fascinated by all things Earth. The plants, the animals, the concept of ‘fresh’ air. 2072 was a turning point in how humans interacted with their home planet, The dawn of what was thought to be a glorious new golden era for humanity at large. Henry was talented, and more importantly, lucky; the boom of civilization and alleviation of previous societal pressures fueling the precocious boy through welcoming and well-funded educational systems.

Cataloging and conservation became forefront priorities as humans sought to find balance in a world they had almost destroyed. He would meet and marry a colleague named Sarah, start a family, become a prominent field botanist leading expeditions to remote, protected stretches of wilderness on the Earth’s surface, eventually becoming best known for his work synthesizing a special hybrid vine which increased the efficiency and health of the orbital biospheres he once grew up it.

But it would not last. As things fell apart, Henry’s natural passion for flora and fauna would become an obsession. Even as funding dwindled and dangers grew, he was found trying to fix things, save endangered species and give humanity it’s best chance to salvage what they could from the impending ruin.

Upon implementation of the F.o.F. Program of 2113, Clayton was on a short list of individuals labeled as “Critically Important” to the chances of its success. Henry participated, until he learned their true intentions to leave him in deep freeze for several centuries, with no friends or family to wake up with, only the mega-rich or those designated "Important" to the mission's success.
He quickly soured on the idea, telling them in no uncertain terms he had no interest in going, in leaving his family, or his work, but it wasn’t an offer to be refused. Upon receiving his refusal Henry was kidnapped by G-Men, drugged and thrown in a CryoPod to be awoken when the time came to help save our species, and our planet.

Other:

• Damage to CryoChamber - The Facility in which Henry had been stored flooded by a series of massive hurricanes, resulting in damages to the subsystem in charge of his pod. While this water and electrical damage ended the lives of a number of the accompanying members of the F.o.F. Program, it has manifested instead as brain damage in Henry. Amnesia with regards to places, people and events, small ticks and tremors in his hands and face, and an artificial arm which works in spurts and gasps.
• Can I Give You a Hand? - Dr. Clayton’s aforementioned left forearm is robotic. His organic arm was surgically removed just beneath the elbow after a brutal fall from a cliff in Borneo during an expedition shortly before the F.o.F. program was initiated. The replacement is fully articulated & made of durable high-grade material. This was thought to be more than capable of making up for any liability it might otherwise cause, however, because of the flood damage, the neural connection has atrophied at an accelerated rate. It cannot maintain proper power sustainability, and will blink in and out of function during extended or high-impact use. It must be fixed if Henry hopes to survive.
• Who Am I? - The coupled trauma of the powerful sedative administered before deep freeze and the damage to the CryoPod have left Clayton a shadow of his former self. Upon awakening, he can scarcely remember his own name, let alone his purpose for having been frozen or where his arm went.

STAR WARS - DARK ERA

Sounds pretty cool.

The entity (post-apocalypse sci-fi)

I'm working on a sheet currently. I should have time to finish it tomorrow.

Shadows in the Dread City- A Cyberpunk RolePlay

Long feminine fingers flexed gently, the tendons of the disembodied arm pulsing slightly near the raw end of the elbow, a nasty mess of bone and electronics that resembled an old world car wreck. Reverent hands caressed the architecture of the woman’s arm; her flawless french tipped nails, untarnished in the ugliness that involved separating her from it, glittered darkly under the harsh infrared surgical light system rigged above the table. Lain open palm, the nano-carbon skeleton of the hand exposed, a maze of complex sensation circuitry, meticulously arranged sensors, chips and data cables running beneath the perfectly tanned skin. The hunched man at the table cast an aggressive shadow against the opposite wall, his eyes dancing across the delicate machinery.

Bits of information: serial numbers, parts manufacturers, warranty details. Text written in crisp white hovered above the relevant components, appearing and disappearing in the blink of a biological eye. There was a distinct gleam visible within the orbs as the synthetic optics focused in on specific areas, the data processed and stored faster than it could display.

“New model, top of the line.” He muttered aloud. It was a quality piece, not something he had expected to find in his latest shipment.

A steady finger lowered toward the artificial forearm, a narrow drillbit emerging from beneath it’s fingernail. Deft movements produced a handful of screws, hardly thicker than a human hair from the mechanism that ran down the synthetic structure of the radius & ulna.

“Power Cores are intact...Disruptor coils..?” There was a soft grumble spat from the figure. “Mm. Salvageable.”

Practiced fingers cautiously teased bright colored wires from their position lodged in the meat and sinew of the biological elbow they were attached to. There was a soft squishy sizzle as the forearm came free, clotted blood dribbling audibly on the metal surface of the table. As the final adapter was unlatched the artificial nerves tensed the woman’s severed hand into a tight fist, a final gasp of effort before its machine death. The hand went limp as the train screamed past outside.

Without looking up from his work, The Florist dropped the oozing elbow, landing it atop a bin to his side nearly overflowing with scraps and chunks of human flesh, the receptacle decorated by a worn biohazard symbol. With the train still rattling the walls of his cramped subterranean storefront Casio maintained blinding speed and laser-precise technique, the forearm completely disassembled in seconds. The outer coverings, chunks of RealSkin™, bearings, screws, corporate data chips, and hydraulics dispensed into organized piles of similar components.

Flores rolled his shoulders, out of habit more than anything else since he could scarcely remember the last time he felt sore, the glaring red hue of the room morphing to a soft white as the command passed through his Neural Lace. The angular, angry shadows shifted along with the color of the room, illuminating to reveal dozens of shelves packed with cryptically labeled boxes, long sequences of numbers and letters which indicated minute differences between virtually identical components.

The scientist busied himself distributing the deconstructed pieces into the appropriate receptacles, just as the Warp assimilated Digi-Comm© embedded in his arm lit up. He grimaced slightly, there was an extremely select list of people or organizations who had necessary firewall permissions to access his direct line, and he had a sneaking suspicion the news would not be good.

Casting a glare to his inner wrist to engage the line, the symbiotic processing of his heavily augmented body brought up a holographic display before his eyes. The shifting, swirling visage of a million faces trapped on a single silhouette gazed blankly back at him. The Mouth of The Iron Salamanders. Leader and speaker for the enigmatic group of hackers, though they themselves might better prefer the term 'Reality Manipulators.'

A mechanical chorus of a thousand simulated voices emanated from the amorphous image. “The flowers of fall don’t grow at all.”

“The birds of spring have no song to sing.” Flores replied flatly.

“Hello Florist.” The display purred.

“Mouth.”

“The Salamanders carry news.” The Iron Salamanders always did. It was their best quality. There was a pause. “The Queen has shifted the board.”

“Mm. As predicted?”

“We think you know the answer to that.”

“Mm. Present location?”

The churning maelstrom of faces distorted with momentary static. “Location Unknown.” It hummed.

“Survivors?”

A buzz echoed off the comm’s speaker, the broiling features expressionless as it transmuted into that of someone Casio had never seen before, Dack. “One.” Casio’s eyebrow arched skeptically. “Indeed. We know nothing of him.”

“Impossible.”

“The data has been encrypted. Buried. Black Brethren’s recent financial maneuverings suggest bribery to UEA Records Database AlphaVectorBravo. Triple Bypass clearance. Level Zero1Niner.”

“Reason to believe he’s being kept alive for a purpose?”

Dack’s face melted away, taking the hologram with it, the symphony of voices fading in pitch as it signed off. “We think you know the answer to that.”

Black Powder Arcana

@Hour Error world building, yeehaw!