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<Snipped quote by Lemons>
It's just the Pariah template, Lems.
it is not i stole this one from Polaris >:(
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Bio
Most Recent Posts
it is not i stole this one from Polaris >:(
The IC is open for business! I won’t be totally available to answer any questions as I’ll be at work until 6:00 pm CST but you can short me a message here or on Discord and I’ll get back to ya ASAP. Have fun my little miscreants
Aces and Eights Saloon, San Calvo | Arish IV
February 14th, 3061
The Aces and Eights Saloon was quiet as a grave. It was just as empty last year on the same day. Same as the year before, and the year before that, and...
In fact, the whole town of San Calvo was a graveyard. Everyone was holed up in their coffins, waiting with baited breath for the specter of death to pass over them once again. The only living soul about was the cemetery's caretaker. He sat at the bar, nursing a half-finished bottle in his shaky hands. He was young. The spattering of stubble on his chin did little to hide his round face and juvenile features. On any sane world there wouldn't be an iron strapped to his hip. The boy lifted his drink to his lips and sipped at its contents, wincing at the burn it left in his throat. Liquid courage, Miss Seong called it. He tried to pay his hands no mind.
The doors to the saloon slid open with a loud hiss. Three sets of spurs clinked against the floorboards. The boy at the bar turned to face them slowly, holding his hands up where they could see them. "Easy there, fellers." He whispered, his throat hoarse.
Time to meet the specter.
"You must be the esteemed Mr. Haycock," the leading man gave a wide grin, his steel fangs flashing in the sunlight. "Its a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. I have always said a personal touch is the most important part of maintaining a healthy business relationship."
He approached the bar, looming tall over Haycock as he took the liberty to pour himself a drink. The man was tall, broad-shouldered and bursting with chrome-enhanced muscle. His dress was as distinguished as his practiced twang: A fine purple vest, golden pocket-deck, charcoal long coat and too-small bowler hat. Clothes like that cost more than the cantina they stood in, Bill Haycock reckoned. That thought made the heat stir in his gullet.
"I propose a toast." The specter smiled, lifting his glass. "To San Calvo's new sheriff. May he protect the fine people of this township for many'a year to come."
They clinked their glasses together and downed a shot in unison. "Or at least longer than the office's previous holder," the specter added, chuckling to himself. His bodyguards joined in, barking like jackals.
The heat previously in the sheriff's gullet moved up to his cheeks. He could feel his face twisting with anger, even as he tried to resist.
"Oh oh oh, Mr. Haycock," The man clicked his tongue. "You ought to learn how to control that temper of yours. Hate can make a moron out of any man." His eyes slid down to the pistol on Billy's hip. "And you aren't stupid, are you, son?"
Billy took a deep, slow breath. He was right. The town had been through enough as it was. Nobody else was willing to pin on the badge after Jack McCaw was sent up river. If something happened to Bill then there'd be blood, and this vulture would take his pickings from San Calvo anyway. There wasn't an alternative. Not anymore. "Alright, alright, I'm sorry, Mr. Ducaine. Won't happen again." He assured, eyes on his boots.
"That's either Baron Ducaine or sir, boy. You had best remember your manners." The baron paused, boring a hole into Haycock's skull with his eyes.
He held his gaze for half a minute before finally breaking it off to pour another shot, demeanor shifting back to the smooth-talker that'd stepped into the saloon just moments ago. "Now, onto the matter of this year's taxation..."
The Bridge, Fortuna | In Transit
February 21st, 3061
The bridge of the Fortuna was quiet. Most of the hands were downstairs watching the mech simulations, leaving a small skeleton crew on watch for the time being. Captain Deckard Jones was among them. He sat reclined in his leather throne, staring up at the ceiling with an empty look in his eye. They'd been in transit for a month now and boredom had set in. There was little to do on extended voyages such as this one that he hadn't already gotten sick of in his three decades of service. An old man could only play cards and drink himself into a stupor so many times before it lost its appeal.
He dragged himself up, his captain's chair screeching in protest. Those hydraulics should've been replaced months ago if they had budget for it. Thirty years. Thirty years of trudging across the galaxy and he couldn't afford a decent chair. It might’ve been funny if he didn’t feel the weight of each of those years in his aching joints.
In front of his old, useless chair was a still old but slighter more useful deck. It was a hefty console that stretched in a semi-circle around his seat with half a dozen accompanying monitors brimming with information. From here the captain could see everything going on in his ship: internal security footage, live engine readings, oxygen levels and fuel reserves. Everything was low. They hadn’t found a decent port since they’d set off into the frontier in search of work. A friend of a friend sent Jones a tip about some corpo mining flotilla on the edge of known space looking for protection from lurking pirates; plenty of credits to be made, if one was willing to make such a long trek.
Better be worth the damn fuel.’ He grumbled, swinging over in his chair to the navigational charts. There wasn’t much of worth out here: a handful of tiny settlements, a few research facilities, a Thedian listening post. Only one place that he could see might have a spaceport large enough to service the Fortuna. It was a backwater by core world standards, but its population was sizable by frontier standards. The real treasure was one of their main exports: refined N1-class fuel. Low grade, inefficient, and being pushed out of the market by better alternatives- it was exactly what the Fortuna needed.
“Hey, Tex,” he called across the bridge to his pilot, the old walrus in oversized shades and a bucket-shaped hat. “How many jumps would it take to get us to Arish IV?”
Texas Danger let a long trail of smoke slip between his lips as he set a fat cigar down on his console. His old fingers danced across the keys. It took a couple of minutes for the computer to make the calculations and a couple more for Danger’s scar-strewn brain to catch up. ”Uh..lookin’ like I could make it in one, if we wanna burn down to critical fuel. You in a hurry to get your boots dirty? Place looks like a shithole.”
”Oh yeah.” Deckard chortled, standing up. ”Get me off this tub ‘fore it drives me to swallow a laser. I’m gonna go check on my pilots. Let ‘em hear the good news: we’re gettin’ some goddamn shore leave.”
In fact, the whole town of San Calvo was a graveyard. Everyone was holed up in their coffins, waiting with baited breath for the specter of death to pass over them once again. The only living soul about was the cemetery's caretaker. He sat at the bar, nursing a half-finished bottle in his shaky hands. He was young. The spattering of stubble on his chin did little to hide his round face and juvenile features. On any sane world there wouldn't be an iron strapped to his hip. The boy lifted his drink to his lips and sipped at its contents, wincing at the burn it left in his throat. Liquid courage, Miss Seong called it. He tried to pay his hands no mind.
The doors to the saloon slid open with a loud hiss. Three sets of spurs clinked against the floorboards. The boy at the bar turned to face them slowly, holding his hands up where they could see them. "Easy there, fellers." He whispered, his throat hoarse.
Time to meet the specter.
"You must be the esteemed Mr. Haycock," the leading man gave a wide grin, his steel fangs flashing in the sunlight. "Its a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. I have always said a personal touch is the most important part of maintaining a healthy business relationship."
He approached the bar, looming tall over Haycock as he took the liberty to pour himself a drink. The man was tall, broad-shouldered and bursting with chrome-enhanced muscle. His dress was as distinguished as his practiced twang: A fine purple vest, golden pocket-deck, charcoal long coat and too-small bowler hat. Clothes like that cost more than the cantina they stood in, Bill Haycock reckoned. That thought made the heat stir in his gullet.
"I propose a toast." The specter smiled, lifting his glass. "To San Calvo's new sheriff. May he protect the fine people of this township for many'a year to come."
They clinked their glasses together and downed a shot in unison. "Or at least longer than the office's previous holder," the specter added, chuckling to himself. His bodyguards joined in, barking like jackals.
The heat previously in the sheriff's gullet moved up to his cheeks. He could feel his face twisting with anger, even as he tried to resist.
"Oh oh oh, Mr. Haycock," The man clicked his tongue. "You ought to learn how to control that temper of yours. Hate can make a moron out of any man." His eyes slid down to the pistol on Billy's hip. "And you aren't stupid, are you, son?"
Billy took a deep, slow breath. He was right. The town had been through enough as it was. Nobody else was willing to pin on the badge after Jack McCaw was sent up river. If something happened to Bill then there'd be blood, and this vulture would take his pickings from San Calvo anyway. There wasn't an alternative. Not anymore. "Alright, alright, I'm sorry, Mr. Ducaine. Won't happen again." He assured, eyes on his boots.
"That's either Baron Ducaine or sir, boy. You had best remember your manners." The baron paused, boring a hole into Haycock's skull with his eyes.
He held his gaze for half a minute before finally breaking it off to pour another shot, demeanor shifting back to the smooth-talker that'd stepped into the saloon just moments ago. "Now, onto the matter of this year's taxation..."
The Bridge, Fortuna | In Transit
February 21st, 3061
The bridge of the Fortuna was quiet. Most of the hands were downstairs watching the mech simulations, leaving a small skeleton crew on watch for the time being. Captain Deckard Jones was among them. He sat reclined in his leather throne, staring up at the ceiling with an empty look in his eye. They'd been in transit for a month now and boredom had set in. There was little to do on extended voyages such as this one that he hadn't already gotten sick of in his three decades of service. An old man could only play cards and drink himself into a stupor so many times before it lost its appeal.
He dragged himself up, his captain's chair screeching in protest. Those hydraulics should've been replaced months ago if they had budget for it. Thirty years. Thirty years of trudging across the galaxy and he couldn't afford a decent chair. It might’ve been funny if he didn’t feel the weight of each of those years in his aching joints.
In front of his old, useless chair was a still old but slighter more useful deck. It was a hefty console that stretched in a semi-circle around his seat with half a dozen accompanying monitors brimming with information. From here the captain could see everything going on in his ship: internal security footage, live engine readings, oxygen levels and fuel reserves. Everything was low. They hadn’t found a decent port since they’d set off into the frontier in search of work. A friend of a friend sent Jones a tip about some corpo mining flotilla on the edge of known space looking for protection from lurking pirates; plenty of credits to be made, if one was willing to make such a long trek.
Better be worth the damn fuel.’ He grumbled, swinging over in his chair to the navigational charts. There wasn’t much of worth out here: a handful of tiny settlements, a few research facilities, a Thedian listening post. Only one place that he could see might have a spaceport large enough to service the Fortuna. It was a backwater by core world standards, but its population was sizable by frontier standards. The real treasure was one of their main exports: refined N1-class fuel. Low grade, inefficient, and being pushed out of the market by better alternatives- it was exactly what the Fortuna needed.
“Hey, Tex,” he called across the bridge to his pilot, the old walrus in oversized shades and a bucket-shaped hat. “How many jumps would it take to get us to Arish IV?”
Texas Danger let a long trail of smoke slip between his lips as he set a fat cigar down on his console. His old fingers danced across the keys. It took a couple of minutes for the computer to make the calculations and a couple more for Danger’s scar-strewn brain to catch up. ”Uh..lookin’ like I could make it in one, if we wanna burn down to critical fuel. You in a hurry to get your boots dirty? Place looks like a shithole.”
”Oh yeah.” Deckard chortled, standing up. ”Get me off this tub ‘fore it drives me to swallow a laser. I’m gonna go check on my pilots. Let ‘em hear the good news: we’re gettin’ some goddamn shore leave.”
Gonna work on the IC post today oboi
Location: Laughing Worg Tavern -- City-State of Thorinn, Aetheria
"Parasites?" Graves snorted, unsure if that should be insulting or hilarious. It'd been years since he last heard that word thrown around. There was almost an absurd nostalgia to it, like he was back around the dinner table. Dad only ever talked politics when he was sloshed, and the bottle had a habit of loosing his tongue. A dozen arguments a lot like this one played through his mind. Anna and dad would scream at each other until she couldn't take anymore and storm out in a huff. William would sit there chuckling to himself, his mind elsewhere. Mom did her best to 'moderate'- which meant taking dad's side on everything and just wording it a little kinder.
Graves just shook his head. He didn't want to fight Rael on this, but she had this special ability to get under his skin like nobody else could. Even Kazuki, for all his calculated cruelty, had only set him off a couples times.
"You think people want to be sittin' around twiddling their thumbs? I know you like it here, Rael, but not everybody's you. A lot of these folks are kids and teenagers, or they got families they gotta get back to. They didn't sign up to be soldiers so why the hell should we expect 'em to step up? Nobody's makin' an effort to integrate them into Thorinn's, I dunno, society. I'm sure most everybody would be willin' to do somethin' if they were given the opportunity. They just don't wanna die."
He leaned forward, placing his weight on his elbows. "Its up to us to find the ones willin' to fight. We gotta get organized. Let's start puttin' out feelers. Reach out to the guilds we got connections with, either ourselves or through Pris and Mystic Prophecy. Maybe we can arrange a moot and get the Wayfarers on the same page. Get those who wanna work in touch with people who need workers, n' those who wanna fight grouped up with people who can help. I mean, we got a ton of experience between us. We can tell 'em everythin' that's different 'bout the dungeons now."
Location: Laughing Worg Tavern -- City-State of Thorinn, Aetheria
"Nobody's talkin' about lettin' Thorinn burn 'cept you." Graves glared. Frustration stirred in his chest. They weren't listening to him. Somehow they'd gotten the idea that the only possibly choice they could make was to play by Thorinn's rules or they'd get crushed; to him, that wasn't a choice at all. The current situation was untenable, as far as he was concerned. There were only so many Wayfarers still willing to delve into the dungeons, and their numbers were thinning by the week. How long would it be before the denizens' mistrust turned to violence? It might've already started. That could've been exactly what all those 'disappearances' were about.
Something needed to change, and he couldn't understand how he was the only one that saw that.
"You're both talkin' about maintainin' the status quo, but I'm tellin' you it won't last. We've goin' out and fighting the good fight and the situation here at home keeps deterioratin' anyway. If doin' our job would earn their trust then it already would'a worked."
Graves sat back in his chair, trying to loosen the knot he felt in his lower back. "They need us. We know it, they know it, everybody does. And much as I don't like it, we need them. You're right. Denizens and wayfarers, we're stuck together. In a shared ecosystem there's gotta be give n' take, yeah? But they aren't givin' us shit. You wanna negotiate with the queen, Kazuki, right? You do it from a position of strength. Use our leverage as the only ones able to protect Thorinn to demand better conditions for our fellow wayfarers. She's gotta acquiesce, 'cause the alternative is..." He motioned in the direction of the Rat King's final resting place.
After a moment's pause, Graves sighed. "Maybe we can convince some others guilds to get back in the field. That oughtta earn us some good will. We've already cleared two dungeons post-Glitch. I don't think anybody else can make that claim. That's gotta count for something."
Location: Laughing Worg Tavern -- City-State of Thorinn, Aetheria
Once Artemis looked comfortable Graves took a heavy seat beside her. He glanced around at the faces 'round the table, his expression tight. Their conversation while he'd stepped away hadn't been lost on him. Both Seele and Alja thought his suggestion was heartless, the latter impugning him more explicitly than the former, but the idea was the same: they had a responsibility to Thorinn that they couldn't shirk, no matter the personal cost. It took a great deal of self-control not to lose his cool at such a foolish goddamn notion.
The denizens were different now, that was beyond question. But everyone was assuming that meant they mattered more- that their lives were somehow equal to the players trapped in Pariah. That was idiotic. Infuriating, even. Graves wasn't about to sacrifice flesh and blood humans for a collection of code, no matter how advanced their AI seemed to be. What did they think had happened? That all the NPCs had suddenly developed sentience overnight? It was absurd. There was obviously a logical explanation for everything- the denizens, the fact they could feel pain and hunger now, and everything else- he just didn't know what it was yet.
"I'm not trying to be a dick, here." He spoke in a subdued, controlled tone, eyes kept low so the group's reactions couldn't upset him. "But I gotta be honest: I think you guys've lost your minds if you think real people should be dying for these denizens. I can't explain why they're so...lifelike...now, but at the end of the day they're characters in a video game. They were designed by a bunch of sweaty ass nerds at MGC. Nothin' that happens in here's gonna change that."
He paused just long enough to gulp down the entirety of his flagon. "My only responsibility is to all of you. I go where you go. I'll fight whatever you point me at. But that's it. Everybody else can go fuck themselves."
accepterino'd
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