Lo Pellegrino

Is RPGuild dying?

I just wanted to throw my lot in here with a bit of advice for everyone.

I'm seeing a lot of feedback from members old and new, long gone, and still quite present. Of all you who have chimed in to share your perspective, thank you. To grow we need feedback. That said, to those who have offered their thoughts with little in the form of a plan -- what exactly do you expect now? It's a simple truth that if you'd like something to change you must do more than ask. Create a plan. Get a few volunteers who know more than a penny's worth about coding and what not, and actually have something to present to Mahz and the Administration. Simply stating that change is needed is great, but we know there is an issue, now we need to engage it and move forward.

As I understand, amongst the Administrative team here there are a number of skills and perspectives. Namely, we have a few more than capable of creating content, though not necessarily integrating said content into the forum or website. So we do have the means at least for a visual overhaul -- not a huge improvement, but hey, a little change to what you see everyday can have a great effect. Do we have anyone else with special skills and a willingness to invest a bit of time (realistically) each week?

Personally, my day job is in Marketing and Public Relations. I'm familiar with Social Media Marketing, Community Development, and my hobbies lie in the visual and literary arts. The RPG Newsletter is very similar to two newsletters I run in my place of work as well. While I'm not volunteering to take that or anything else on all on my lonesome, at the least, I can provide a hand and offer some help structuring a sustainable model that allows regular content creation (like the Newsletter) without pulling too much on any individual. I am also willing to help invigorate RPG through Social Media if that's desired, if nothing else than to bring a little more attention to the forum.

New Apocalyptica

I'm here.

Tomás and his crew of 1007th Hunters were just ambushed just southwest of Salt Lake City. My next post will begin shortly after Tomás comes to, evaluating the new situation, and going deeper into the Oquirrh Mountains. Clearly, if Tomás and the others are alive and being held captive they would attempt to break free in whatever ways they can -- but perhaps this will bring them close to the city as well. Let me know if anyone is interested in being involved, but please, please, please don't steer the entire force to make a connection. If it isn't natural, it isn't worth it.

BTW: Should we re-open recruiting? Several people were initially accepted, but no offence to Prosser, few have followed through. If it were me I would not consider anyone who hasn't made an application and posted a member, and that puts us at just barely 4-5 people and not as much activity.

New Apocalyptica

Proser said
Hey guys, I'm working on my character's CS and I had a bit of an idea I brought up with Fallen, who said I should pitch it in here and see what people think. If anyone's read I was inspired a bit by the core idea of that book, which is a post-apocalypse where the survivors the story followed are artists trying to keep culture alive. In the book, there's a travelling group of survivors who travel the wastes performing music, theatre etc. to keep culture alive among what of humanity is left, and I was wondering what people would think of incorporating a similarly-themed group into my character's backstory, you know, travelling from settlement to settlement, entertaining survivors, lending some help with various tasks (maybe they've got medics to help with sick and injured, people good with weapons to hunt down zombies, etc.) to earn their keep where they put up their feet. Would it be workable, maybe with changing around a few things if needed? Sorry for the bother, just figured I should ask some opinions instead of just going for it.

Start with your character or a duo and work from there. Many of us introduce these groups and think the fun and unique nature of them will be clear and enticing to everyone else, but honestly, it's much easier for other characters to mesh into a couple personalities like this rather than a dozen travelling musicians. I do like the idea of people going about keeping culture alive, offering relaxation and calm as a service along the path.

New Apocalyptica

Along the foggy horizon appeared eleven glistening figures draped in formless, deep green cloaks, and the smallest one at point making do. Each step aligned as if set to a beat. Despite the dozen pairs of boots there was little sound besides the pitter-patter against their makeshift ponchos. The smallest, wrapped in a scavenged trash bag, sighed as the rain seeped through every tear. As time passed sighing turned to huffing, huffing to groaning. From those furthest back to the man behind point, the group shared sideways glances at the sorry display. After an hour straight the joke ran dry.

"Do you have something to say, Barkley?" the lieutenant conceded. In a few long strides she had passed Tomás and fell in line with the private.

Private Barkley glanced at his leader and retorted, "What was your--" and cleared his throat. Breathing through his nose was still just a memory, not to mention the bruises. "With your permission, ma'am."

"Granted."

"Lieutenant Gauss, I get that we're trackin'um and all, but I've been thinkin'. See, I'm from Utah, and sure as shit, we've made a pretty clear path right for Mormonland. These guys haven't just wandered yet, right? I'm thinkin' they're aim is Salt Lake City, and bettuh yet, I know howta get us there in a one day -- max," Barkley announced, bold enough to smile until the pain convinced him otherwise.

As if queued, the rain grew doubly worse. Gauss turned to the squad before looking back at Barkley and pursing her lips. They walked silently beside one another for a while before she finally nodded.

---

By evening the landscape changed. What was flat, yellow, and barren now sprouted thick conifers and aspens. The fiery sunset blazing from the lumpy horizon ahead cast a red, blinding light against the squad.
Holding a hand in front of his eyes, Tomás jogged ahead. “Barkley,” he whispered, slowing beside the private. “You’re sure about this path, right? If you’re trying to impress the lieutenant I understand, but guessing your way through might be digging your own grave.”
“Calm down, Gellemo. I lived here for half a decade. See those mountains? You know their name?” the private asked, nodding his chin east. “That’s the Traverse Range. We call it the Traverse. Little farther and the El-Tee won’t have no choice butta thank me.”
Tomás held his hand flat against his brow. Squinting, he looked ahead onto the ebb and flow of horizon. A few miles of uphill marching might slow their pace, but he estimated another two or three hours more at most. He nearly smiled. Pirate Crew or not, he looked forward to reaching another city. As beautiful as the open, untamed land may be, for every ounce of beauty there were two of danger. Sleeping one eye open took its toll. He imagined Salt Lake just a night’s march away. When he turned back to the rest of the squad, though, the group had slowed. Tomás looked back to Barkley to find the private setting a brisk pace. Between the glaring sun, the hard miles, and the incline – which only seemed to worsen – he withdrew his excitement. Tomás rushed to the crest of the hill behind Barkley.
Further past the hilltop hunched several figures in worn leather. Barkley had frozen, but Tomás slipped his rifle from his shoulder into his hands immediately. The others jeered him and shouted for a fight. Perhaps they saw the two men alone, assuming some unheard insult. Regardless, Tomás shouldered his weapon. Before he could fire Barkley lunged. The two men fell, tumbling down the hillside past the crouching group. Tomás saw a blur atop the hill and heard gunfire. His rifle escaped him, then a piece of his pack.
The world stopped suddenly only after a collision. Tomás curled around the thin base of a now bent sapling, and, shaking, reached for his sidearm. Barkley somehow managed into a crouch half way down the hill. Hands raised, the private began to shake his head. Seeing the gesture gave Tomás pause.
The pistol never left its holster and Tomás never saw the leathery figure behind him. He heard a meaty thunk then felt the cool earth against his cheek. His vision blurred and as the hilltop erupted in dozens of little flashes, his world slipped into darkness.

New Apocalyptica

Working on a post. Business has been hectic lately, can't believe how long this is taking me, but it'll happen!

Community Challenge #2

Sorry about not opening this myself, I only just got back into town yesterday evening after a few delays.

Wonderful work everyone! I'm loving the various mediums you all chose to express your takes on the theme. Now that we're here, I guess the only question left is who's next?

Community Challenge #2

4 Dayyyyyssssss....

New Apocalyptica

Doing well and set to make my second post tomorrow evening. For those who don't know, I am the marketing director of a recreational marijuana retailer in the PNW. Fun job, but demanding. I wanted to mention this anyway as I'll be out of state between Wednesday and Friday. If tomorrow's post takes a bit too long, y'all may be waiting a little while ;). I'll do my best though!

Life Continues

Sorry about the delay. I am going on a business trip to Las Vegas next week and have been busting out as much work as possible to prepare for the absence.

King, not to spoil anything, but Cormac has experience with battlefield wounds. In my mind he can stabilize Chessa. That said, it's unlikely she will survive unless some medical attention comes into play sooner rather than later. Should be interesting!

Life Continues

"You keep a bag of weapons buried in the park. Seriously?" Edmund laughed for the first time since his home. "Nice to see a bit of humour, but really, why'd you take the long way to the docks?"

The driver simply looked ahead into the dark before them. Since escaping the bustling streets he insisted on following only the city's light. Occasional street lights and a few close calls with stumbling drunks did little to deter him too -- much to Edmund's dismay. Despite claiming ownership and a rather sad attempt at a threat, nothing Edmund said made it through. He just continued on until finally Edmund agreed to the docks. Now this business about the some subterranean arms to ward off martial law. For a while it seemed the accident had put Edmund in this man's debt, but now, Edmund could only wonder just how dangerous a man so deranged may be.

When the Prius slowed to a halt beside the park entrance Edmund's jaw fell. "You weren't kidding. Just who are you exactly?"

"Not too important now, eh? Fine. My name is Cormac. I've a tad bit of experience with slaves of the Union Jack -- or rather, the Red, White, and Blue I suppose," Sean groaned as if the brief introduction proved too dull a chore. With that, Cormac shut off the ignition and tossed the keys to Edmund. He said nothing else before stepping out into the rain.

Between the rain and low settling the fog, the forest appeared nothing less than ominous. As Cormac made his way into the obscured wood his unwitting companion delayed. Edmund ducked into the back seat and, for a moment, looked blankly over the mess of his belongings. Finally, he pulled out a plump leather backpack. Glancing toward Cormac, who had nearly disappeared into the fog by now, Edmund unzipped the bag and reached inside. Simply feeling the grooved rubber proved a comfort.

...

After twenty minutes of the slow whiner, you consider murder. Not seriously though -- well, not really. True the rain has changed things and hidden a few of your markers. The city is still somewhat new to you and having to avoid too much exposure with the authorities isn't exactly the recipe for a well acclimated fugitive. That's when you see a glimmer through the haze of rain and fog. You squint and begin to jog forward. Edmund says something, but you neither can nor wish to hear. You slide onto your knees at the base of a tree marked with a blazing orange x at eye level. In little time you've pushed three inches of loosely packed earth and moss aside to two foot long wooden trunk. You take a deep breath, feel yourself smiling, and lift the lid.

"Holy shit," Edmund gasps. He falls onto his knees now too, then reaches inside. You snap the back of his hand with your knuckle before he can touch anything.

Silently, you retrieve two old friends: a nearly twenty year old Uzi with its well cared for wooden stock, and your beloved .45 calibre Smith & Wesson. Beneath the recently reunited, you find your old bug out bag, and sling it onto your back. This all feels rehearsed after so many years. Before the thought can progress, you feel the a cold metal mouth press against your cheek.

"Who the fuck are you? You're some kind of terrorist, aren't you? This is all about you!" Edmund shouts, his voice breaking between words.

You remain still. Thus far the whiner hadn't been a threat, so you'd placed your Smith & Wesson in the holster strapped to the side of your bag. Despite years of experience with your Uzi, the wooden stock makes it too unwieldy for a violent move. No guarantee of success. Not even a fair chance. Instead you just sit a moment and collect your thoughts. Taking in the feel of the barrel's mouth, you decide Edmund is holding a some sort of small revolver. Probably a low calibre handgun bought by a man otherwise without any means to protect himself. The barrel is relatively steady, but you feel some movement behind it. He's shaking. This wasn't you how you saw things going. You don't see any other choices though and if this is your out, so be it.

...

A gunshot rang out. Edmund fell back, dropping his revolver, as Cormac spun on a knee to face him. Three figures stood silhouetted by a tall park light. While Edmund squirmed on his back and checked himself for wounds, the man he'd so briefly held hostage shouldered their Uzi and fired. Cormac pulled the trigger for less than a second. The high pitched burp scared off two of the figures and fell the last.

Cormac stood with his weapon still shouldered. Approaching his target, he ordered in a low voice, "Off your arse, Eddo. Those men just tried to kill us, maybe if you back me up we can live to settle things, yeah?"

Shaken, Edmund arose and grabbed the revolver. He aimed at Cormac's back as the man sped toward the whimpering assailant, then promptly lowered the weapon. Without another thought the two made their way to the body. Like some action movie hero, Cormac kicked whatever the gun from the lying man's hand with his Uzi trained on their head. The man lay gurgling and grasping at the bullet wounds climbing from his naval to his throat. Unlike so many others he'd seen dying, Cormac noticed the man seemed to be pointing away from his own wounds.

"Cormac, there's somebody down the way. I think they're hurt!"