Mistiel

Words Are Oxygen [Hardcore]

In the city of Seattle in the year 2082, human beings are born without lungs. The only things that sustain your beating heart are food, drink, and silence. Over the course of your lifetime, you are only able to speak ten thousand words. Then that's it, you are dead. Game over.

Looking for someone to blame? Don't bother! No normal person in this society questions why they were born the way they were. Their lives are managed perfectly by The Progenitors, ruling from what used to be known as Columbia Tower in downtown Seattle but what is now known as the Black Spire, or just the Spire. The majority of the other skyscrapers have been torn down (some appear to have been destroyed by some unknown cataclysm) to make way for farms and ranches. The common folk, especially the lower class, live in the multi-level apartment complexes of the few skyscrapers that remain. The more well-to-do live out on the farms and ranches in beautiful homes with manicured green lawns and the best access to the finest technology the Progenitors provide. They do, after all, provide the city with food. Why shouldn't they be treated with favor?

There are a select few who make Vows of Silence. They have formed a coed monastery on the outskirts of town, a rarity to have such a big structure so far away from the Spire. Their order is known as the Tacuit Autem (Silent Ones). They are the chief producer of textiles for society. The Progenitors provide education through rigid classrooms, but they don't mention the Tacuit Autem beyond these few facts. To join the Tacuit Autem is considered by many to be a cowardly act, not living life to its fullest.

The city is surrounded by a glowing pink soundproof forcefield. "To keep the Loud Ones out," say the Progenitors. The Loud Ones are mutations, creatures whose sole purpose it is to hunt by emitting piercing sonic waves that can physically damage a human brain. Then, once you have been sufficiently rendered defenseless, they swoop in for the easy kill, clamping their jaws full of serrated teeth around your neck, severing you from this world.

Unfortunately, everyone in the bubble has been born with juvenile arthritis that has persisted since birth. Their hands are prone to paroxysms of intense pain if they try to use American sign language to communicate, or if they do anything with their hands beyond light gripping (i.e.: pulling, tugging, pushing, twisting). As a result, even the farmers and ranchers have to be provided with special machines from the Progenitors to help with harvesting, castration, and soil tilling among other related duties.

Think you can live forever? Nice try! The silence eventually drives those with low fortitude to commit suicide...or find a way outside the forcefield, which might as well be suicide given that the outside is surrounded by howlers. Sometimes, if you're lucky, a howler might just slip through.
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I'm thinking that one person (maybe two people but no more), likely co-GM(s), may have the privilege of RPing as a Progenitor due to the fact that they clearly have secrets they keep from the general populace. If anyone is interested or has any questions, feel free to reply below or PM me! If this thread garners a sufficient amount of interest, I'll post an OOC bit for it. Which section would y'all prefer I post this in? I am torn between Free and Advanced given the unique one-liner nature of the dialogue options.

A Loud One

GOAL: One overarching question your characters CAN ask themselves is "Why do the progenitors keep so many secrets? Are there any other cities like ours? Why do we have to live like this?" One way or another, at some point, they should discover (or it will be revealed to them) that breathing existed. Then the question becomes: "why did our ancestors do this to us?"

Ravnica: A Magic RP

I'm interested. I feel like the Selesnya faction would fit the charrie I have in mind perfectly. Curious question, but can my charrie have a weapon aside from her magic abilities? Also, I presume we would RP our charries actually USING a spell or SUMMONING a creature rather than using a card for it, yeah?

Unless all of us are basically Cana Alberona lol.

What Are You Listening To?

It's okay, I love the lag of so many embedded videos on one page. :)

Camp Castaway

Lin noticed that Ivy wasn't even paying attention to her or the robin egg whatsoever. Grunting, the older girl jogged, breathing a bit more heavily now, up in front of Ivy. "HEY! Ivy! We're supposed to go to the fire pit now, okay? You don't want to be late, do you?" Okay, I begin to see Kyle's point....but I refuse to become that bossy arse b!@$!... she thought darkly, still managing to plaster a pleasant toothy grin on her face. Lin hoped Kyle at least had the sense to mention to the instructors her and Ivy's situation. Whether or not the stuck-up punk would actually help her out like that remained to be seen.

Change A Single Word

alcoholic firebreather (xD)

Star Wars: Shadow Covenant

((Ignore this post. I glitched.))

Star Wars: Shadow Covenant

I'm going to try to not further the plot as much as possible. We're just going to simulate the Hammerhead cruiser going to Nar Shaddaa, the team landing via shuttlecraft, and starting to explore the city. Either that or we can just interact with each other while the cruiser is in hyperspace. Then we'll take a break and wait for Jago some more. Sound hunky-dory?

By the way, please don't address Tomar and/or Mace directly with more than REALLY simply questions. Mace is pretty safe since he's canon, but I'd rather avoid forcing Tomar to say anything else since he's Jago's creation.

Star Wars: Shadow Covenant

@Dauthis @Jago @Cara @Mistiel

Prologue

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away....

STAR WARS: The Shadow Covenant

Grand Senate Hall, Coruscant

The vast Senate chamber on Coruscant was renowned for its magnificent size and stark beauty. The disk-shaped black pods, each and every one of them outlined with sky blue neon light, spiraled in tiers around the central dais. Upon that central dais stood an elderly Ithorian, supported by a human aide on one side and a younger Ithorian on the other. As Supreme Chancellor Wherd Trasso addressed his people through the Senate body, he looked up toward the highest tiers of seating near the roof.

It seemed as if the Senate, and the Republic, were shrinking with each passing day, every passing moment. Though it was not yet visible to most of the general galactic populace, the Republic was beginning to weaken. Years of peace had begun to stagnate the political and economic waters. It was only a matter of time before ordinary citizens, or even an external source, took it into their own hands to flip the galaxy on its head once more.

"Chancellor? Chancellor are you listening to us?" barked the senator from Anzat, his pod parked in midair just meters in front of the Supreme Chancellor's dais. The old Ithorian blinked his milky eyes, an acknowledgement. His wheezy voice rang out over the Senate intercom. "I heard you, Senator. Yes I am well aware that tensions are high in Hutt Space. What we need to do is wait and..."

He was interrupted as another pod swung down from a middling tier of seats. "With all due respect Chancellor, all you want to do IS wait! All you EVER want to do is WAIT! We need to act!" The brutish, vaguely canine Klatooinian senator smiled wolfishly as the chamber erupted in cheers. The old Ithorian merely held up a hand for silence. He did what he did best and waited for the silence to die down. "Are you done?" he asked tiredly, glancing in the Klatoonian pod's direction.

When no response was forthcoming and the Klatooinian's pod withdrew, the Supreme Chancellor of the Republic continued. "I said we need to wait...for the Jedi strike team I authorized two weeks ago to garner results." A hush fell over the entire Senate chamber. This was unprecedented.

In his long career, the Chancellor was known for strict adherence to policy. The Jedi were no more a part of the government than any of these politicians were Force users. Trasso himself excluded of course. He had been informed at a young age that he could have become a Jedi, but he had declined and never looked back. He didn't need to use the Force to gauge the waves of disapproval radiating back at him from nearly all the Senate pods. The Zeltron, Naboo and Alderaanian pods all pleasantly smiled back at him. He wasn't surprised given their species penchants for political subterfuge. They probably thought his actions smart and prudent. A pity the rest of the chamber was in uproar. The galaxy had stagnated, and Chancellor Trasso had tried to make the first move, to dictate the direction it would move, but the galaxy could not be manipulated so easily.

For the next two hours, he had to calm several angry senators down, explaining to them why he did what he did, all the while praying to whatever Force gods existed that his team could uncover what the Hutt Cartel was truly up to. If they were still alive that is....

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Two Weeks Earlier, Aboard the Hammerhead Cruiser, Dominant

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Jedi Master Sa Tomar stood before his honored guests, his dark-skinned, smooth-shaven Padawan, Mace Windu, at his side. Unlike Sa Tomar's defensive folded arm, feet spread posture, Mace stood feet together, hands folded in front of him, eyes watching the proceedings intently. Whereas Master Tomar's gaze left emotional scorch marks wherever it fell, Mace's gaze was one of cool neutrality.

Among the beings arranged in front of the renowned duo stood another Master-Padawan team. At the forefront of the group stood the tall, silent, somewhat imposing figure of Menn Lutaro. His Zabrak horns gleamed in the light of the stark white shipboard glowpanels. Next to him, a young human girl, Menn's apprentice Sia Awen. To Menn's other (left) side stood a menacing combat droid holding what appeared to be its primary weapon.

Sa wished there were more, but the strike team assembled before him would have to do. He uncrossed his arms, stepping out a little ways in front of his apprentice. Mace's eyes only flickered to him for a microsecond, then resumed their patrol of the room and its other occupants. "As you all know, we're here to investigate - and possibly engage - a rogue group of Dark Jedi hiding out in Hutt space. Many of our Order have fallen to temptating before, so it's impossible for the Council to speculate as to who this group is comprised of, but rest assured, that is what we shall discover!" He paced in front of the makeshift line of his team. The starboard lounge that they currently occupied was empty save for these four beings and one droid.

Menn Lutaro crossed his own arms, shooting Tomar a disapproving look. "Remember Master Tomar, we are going to assess the situation and report our findings to the Council. We do NOT yet have orders to ENGAGE." His right eyebrow began to lift up at Tomar's initial feline expression of disbelief and anger. Master Tomar's fur flattened almost instantly, though when he spoke his voice was calm, serene even. "Ah yes, Master Lutaro, of course we're going to just assess. However," he lifted a fur-covered finger, "if we are attacked, I intend to show our provokers no mercy."

Menn sighed. "Whatever you say, Master Tomar. As long as when we report any findings to the Council that I too am present." His small grin was far outshadowed by the positively sinister feral one thrown his way by Tomar. In his peripheral vision, Menn eyed his Padawan Sia for her reaction to this exchange. He was worried that by accepting this mission, Sia might learn a bit too much from Master Tomar's more....aggressive negotiating style. She was already enough of a handful for him.

He didn't even want to see Sia pick up on Tomar's aggressively different fashion choices. The navy Jedi robe instead of the traditional, simple, homespun brown that Menn himself wore spoke volumes about Tomar's state of mind. Menn attributed the aggression to the other's Cathar hunter-gatherer roots, but was left with a niggling feeling in the back of his mind that hoped Master Tomar wasn't on a slow path to the dark side.

Pathfinder Game on Discord

@BlazeGamma

Pathfinder game? *Googles furiously* O,o

Creative Short Stories

The Heist

Emilio Valdez pressed his back flat against the mansion's wall, low lamplight spilling from the open window next to him. The building, made of pink stucco with dark grayish-brown shingles, blended in well in the darkness of the Cuban night. Even as he watched, the lamplight winked out, leaving the surrounding buildings and the tiny ledge Emilio was on in total darkness. Emilio tried not to think about the thirty foot drop to cobblestones should he slip.

Now for the hard part, Emilio thought, as he slowly reached out with his left hand to grab onto the right window shutter that was hanging out over the precipice. His goal was to slide the big shutter over to his side and lay it flat against the wall so he could slip on by. In actuality, his hands were shaking so much that he ended up pushing the shutter closer into the window itself. Thankfully the governor's servants kept the window latches oiled, so this one was no exception as it swung noiselessly inward.

Emilio bit back a curse. Now the shutter hung inward at about a forty-five degree angle, still between him and the windowsill. Change of plans then, he would nearly shut that windowsill and try to slip in through the other open side, though it looked to be a very tight fit.

He froze as a guard down below shown a lantern all along the street just below him. Waiting until the light source and its owner had gone around the building, Emilio eased himself along the ledge, gently using his left hand to keep pushing the rebellious shutter further closed as he went. The moment of truth arrived far too quickly. Emilio pushed the shutter flush with its sill, then pivoted ever so slowly onto one foot, the other appendage hanging out over what seemed like a black abyss. He turned sideways, carefully fitting both feet on the tiny ledge beneath him. For a nanosecond, he felt like he was about to slip off and fall, but he managed to hop onto the windowsill with both feet at once. Unfortunately, while his landing was silent, he brushed against the shutter, closing it fully in his passing.

The resulting click made Emilio freeze for a full second. Idioso! he thought. If anyone looks at the window, they'll see me. With that in mind, he rolled off the windowsill into the room beyond....OOF! The drop was only about four feet but it did a number on the young teen's right shoulder. Something sharp bit into it upon landing and Emilio really did bite his lip this time, chomping back a cry of pain. In the darkness, he could just barely make out the offending item: a high-heeled stiletto, overturned casually like someone had taken it off and thrown it willy-nilly. Puta rica! he thought, viciously, holding his shoulder. His hand came away dry so the stiletto hadn't caused more than just a simple flesh wound. It shouldn't affect his mission any.

Slowly, after listening for signs that someone had been alerted to his unauthorized entry, Emilio worked his way to his feet, avoiding the vague hazy moonlight coming from the half open window. He had done it! Not thirty feet away to his right was a giant four-poster canopy bed, two forms draped over each other, barely visible: the governor and his puta wife who Emilio guessed had been her stiletto that now had his shoulder aching.

He made his way across the room, crouched low, to the strongbox parked next to an armoire made of fine dark wood. Producing a set of lockpicks from his pants pocket, Emilio looked behind him at the sleeping couple. Three failed attempts later and two sweat and anxiety filled minutes later, Emilio almost crowed his exultation as the fourth pick fit the lock. He deftly found the right tension and raking angles and had the box lid open in no time. He rested back against the wall, making sure it couldn't fall back, or forward, under its own weight (for the box was quite heavy even without the massive load of gold and jewels it contained therein).

As quickly as possible, Emilio lined his pockets with as much of the jewelry and gold nuggets he could fit in them. There were several gold bars underneath that Emilio didn't dare filch. The Cuban government had long since started stamping gold bars during the smelting process so that they were easily traceable.

Forty minutes later, Emilio crawled out of the governor's doggy door on the mansion's first floor, slipping behind a finely sculpted hedge just as a guard patrol came by. After the guard's lantern was out-of-sight, Emilio slipped out and was free to roam the city as he pleased....though quietly, lest his rival gang, Los Sureños, hear the jingling in his pockets and get the wrong idea.

He walked up to the northern side of Trinidad, the poorer side, and twenty minutes later was knocking on the door of his secondary home and gang headquarters. Faustina, the girl who opened the door for him, gave him a wide grin. "Emilio! You're late! We thought you'd surely never come back!" She slipped a hand around behind him as he crossed the threshold, cupping his butt and giving it a friendly squeeze. His cheeks reddened as he hurried through the door all the faster. She laughed but made no other remark as Emilio led her and two other members through the little flat to the main room where a large metal table took up the center of the room. It was to this table that Emilio marched, emptying all of his ill-gotten gains with a triumphant expression. The sound of all those jewels and gold bangles hitting the metal was like the sweetest rain they'd ever heard. It was clearly enough to feed their families for the next six months, a year even, if properly apportioned.

Faustina's overprotective brother, and gang leader, Pedro ran a hand over the assortment, lingering on several earrings. Picking one ruby-studded piece up, he inserted into a preexisting hole in his ear and let the piece dangle crookedly before giving Emilio an equally crooked grin. "You've made me a very rich man, Emilio! Gracias!" Not us, not "the gang", but "me." Emilio sighed inwardly. Of course his efforts wouldn't be praised by this one. Pedro was almost as much of a stuck-up puta as the governor's wife seemed to be. It was no wonder he'd named their little band of thieves Buscadores de Oro (Gold Diggers).