Tlaloc

The Cursèd West

Flattered by all the interest! Seems like enough to move to the next stage -- however, I'm yet to decide on what group size would be appropriate for this, so feel free to give your thoughts on that below.

Since this is in the Advanced section, I ask that you only apply if you feel comfortable with the section's general standards -- sorry if that sounds pretentious.

I'll be making the discord soon. Drop a like on this post if you want an invite.
@Vixere, @Cool Ghoul, @Archazen, @Festive, @Sadie, @Skelm, @Byrd Man, @BayRat

As for now, here's a final interest check/teaser for the actual plot I'm brainstorming.

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The year is 1888.

Times are changing in Europe. The world hurtles towards the 20th century with great advancements in industry, culture and technology. Across the Atlantic, however, progress is a little slower.

They say that the new world was discovered when sailors followed a hot, red streak across the sky that sent storms of ash raging all across the world. Four-hundred years on, this shattered continent is still untamed. The air here is thick with stories of folk who’ve witnessed things that defy reason; rivers running red, whispering woods, and dead men walking. Populated by creatures twisted by otherworldly influences, and etched with eldritch ley-lines, the American frontier is a place where European order doesn’t quite apply.

The people who have carved out lives in this rugged continent have learned to survive: but survival here means more than just battling the elements. It means confronting the unknown. There's plenty of work available, thanks to the abundance of untapped resources, but none of it is easy. Outside of major colonial settlements, wealthy industrialists known as Barons hold most of the power, employing labourers to tap into the fat of the land, and mercenaries for protection. In the frontier, progress is a double-edged sword. For every mile of track laid by the Barons, there’s a cost -- a price paid not just in sweat and toil, but in the balance of forces that have long governed the land.

Whoever you are, you're a soul making your way through the lonesome west. Perhaps you live in a cowtown on the frontier, or maybe you're a city-slicker setting out into the unknown for the first time. The frontier is a diverse place. While there are plenty of labourers working on a Baron's dime, there are mercenaries, outlaws, lawmen, prostitutes, trappers, monster hunters, gamblers, cowboys, doctors, preachers, and all manner of people. All of you, whoever you are, have two things in common. The first, you have been called by something. Something inexplicable. The sky cries out your name, beckoning you further west than you've ever been; where it's said that a raging storm never ends. Where only the natives have ever really returned from. Where skin-walkers and wendigos dwell. But also, where miracles are said to come true.

The second thing you all have in common: you're in need of a god-damned miracle.

---

Definitely putting my interest out there! I was wondering if you were potentially going to use/reference American folklore and Cryptids specifically in the west/mid-west region?

@Festive

The above should answer this question!

The Cursèd West

If anyone has serious interest in this and would find it enjoyable, I'd be open to a co-GM!

I'll plop a little interest for now. Curious to see the OOC. been wanting a supernatural western for a bit.

@BayRat

Thanks! Working on more of a concrete concept now. Hopefully will get a couple of people with more solid interest.

The Cursèd West

Still in the initial concept phase, but putting out this teaser to see if anyone's interest. Would be more than happy to worldbuild with others. In terms of characters/plot, I have an idea for something suspence/mystery adjacent, with a healthy dose of supernatural (taking some ideas from my LOST-themed RP I was previously planning). Something involving Pinkerton-esque agents as villains. DM/reply if interested!

My current plan for the narrative will involve a journey following a mysterious entity across the Cursèd West with the promise of wealth/salvation, but would start in a town setting. Any character (within reason) that would find themself in this part of the world would be welcome.

The Cursèd West

edit: OOC is officially up.

edit 2: We are pretty much full, but feel free to join the discord for future consideration.

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The Cursèd West,

or 'The American Dream'

Western, Low Fantasy, Alternate History, Mystery
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I've seen devastating poverty and pollution in London's ganglands, and utter brutality in the Crimean War. I’ve seen the hopelessness of plague-wrought civil war in China; and death, munity and annihilation in India. But there's only one place I know that’d make the devil himself turn tail and run. They say that the new world was discovered when sailors followed a hot, red streak across the sky that sent storms of ash raging all across the planet. Four-hundred years on, this shattered place remains untamed. Ain’t just the dangers that roam the land, though there’s plenty of those. No, it’s the land itself, like it’s got a grudge against every soul that sets foot upon it. Here, the dead come back to life, only they ain't quite alive anymore. Witchcraft isn't some secret art, it's blatant and inescapable. Men'll conjure flames to their hands, or send eldritch shivers through the wind, and they won't bother hidin' it. There's some law enforcement, but it's no real match. The only real power is whoever is rich enough to have their own private guard, which is usually rail barons and the like: people who've got their claws deep in the frontier who are only out for themselves. There's woods that whisper to you -- turn you mad. There's deserts where you'll never find you way out, no matter how well you retrace your steps. There's plains where red ichor seeps from the soil like the land itself is bleedin' out... folks say the blood of all the men who died there during the war has stained the soil. Maybe they’re right. Or maybe it's just like the rest of this god-forsaken continent: pure, unadulterated Hell on Earth. Maybe I'm just a skeptic. Some say that this place is a blessing. Old rules don't apply here. I've heard of unexplainable, miraculous recoveries from terminal conditions; fortunes made by the poor, fortunes lost by the evil. I guess whatever your life was 'cross the Atlantic, it don't matter here. But if you ask me, the people saying that are just tryin' to sell you something. The American Dream, I guess.

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---

'Floating' (Star Wars 2 BBY)

Viszt froze as the locals stared him down. He'd have trouble taking one of them down, never mind three. At best, they'd beat him to a pulp and take every possession he carried. At worst, they'd shoot him then and there, taking no risks. Thoughts raced through his head of how he could talk his way out of the alley. He went to speak, but the words caught in his dry throat.

“Do we have a problem here, sir?” a feminine voice spoke, snapping Viszt out of his spiralling inner-monologue.

He glanced up at her, with softened eyes that said: 'thank you'. Again, the words caught in his throat before he could reply.

“This guy cheated in a game of Sabacc," the twi'lek said. The malevolent arrogance he had previously exhibited had been neutered by an armed imperial's presence. "We want our credits.”

“I doubt that is true. I suggest you three leave or I will arrest you. For disorderly conduct against an Imperial officer.. ”

Viszt watched the twi'lek's reaction - his large face contorting as he mulled over whether a fight was worth it or not. Eventually, he seemed to decide upon the latter, glaring towards Viszt and gritting his hideous teeth. “If we see you again, let’s hope this trooper isn’t around.” With that, they scuttled away into the shadows.

It seemed this brush with death was over, thanks to the woman. Immediately, Viszt's mind flicked to the consequences he might face having been spotted by another Imperial gambling with locals. Well, better that than a dirt-nap, he thought.

“Do you need an escort back, sir?” she asked.

Hmm. He was unaccustomed to such deference from troopers. He supposed that his sleek lab-technician uniform could be mistaken for that of an officer's. Her uniform looked a little beaten and tired: she must've been busy across Lotho.

"Yes. Thank you -- really." He exhaled in relief, allowing a smile to happen upon his face. "You must've been sent by Dr. Benaire for me. We'll have to get back quickly, there's been an incident in my department that has to be seen to."

He walked with a hurry to meet beside the woman, who had emerged from the same side of the alleyway he'd come from that led down one of the main streets in town. He poked his head out, glancing around for where abouts the junkers had slunk off to, but saw no sign. He did, however, see more troopers, presumably from this woman's squadron.

"I don't recognise your voice. We musn't have met. Viszt." He extended his hand politely.

'Floating' (Star Wars 2 BBY)

The medical bay within the Basilisk was sleek, organised with military precision, and humming with machine ambience. Rows of medical cots followed the walls, each equipped with state-of-the-art diagnostic and life-support systems. The bay was immaculately clean: its white, sterile walls and floors routinely decontaminated by droids.

Viszt stood by a console, reviewing the day’s analytics. Since the Basilisk had been put out of action several months ago, each day had been near-identical. Operating on somewhat of a skeleton crew, the Empire had uprooted the majority of medical personnel, leaving only a handful to tend to the daily requirements of the imperials garrisoned on Lotho. What the bureaucrats had failed to acknowledge, however, was that running medical facilities on a ship of the Basilisk’s size did not become drastically easier when stationary. There were just as many plates as before, and significantly less hands to keep them spinning. Thus, Viszt spent the majority of his waking hours working himself to exhaustion. Today, it was only himself and his supervisor, Dr. Benaire, an old, quiet human, who manned the med bay.

The doors to the bay slid open, and with a swift, clicking footsteps, a rigid figure entered. Viszt, in his state of fatigue, took several moments to realise the visitor was Admiral Kara, executive officer of the Basilisk. Kara was a real fierce bastard according to just about every crew member who’d incurred his wrath firsthand. Luckily, Viszt hadn’t ever had a one-to-one interaction with the man. He snapped to attention, observing Kara, who seemed to look through him like a phantasm, focusing his attention on Dr. Benaire.

Benaire swallowed dryly. A visit from Admiral Kara was seldom a good sign.

“Good evening, Doctor,” the Admiral said, annunciating each syllable emphatically.

“Ahem, good evening, Admiral, sir,” the Doctor replied. “How can I be of assistance?”

“I assume that you were briefed this week on the lowered availability of energy during the current stage of maintenance? Though your frail old mind may betray you from time to time, I assume you are quite aware of the importance of these repairs?”

“Yes, sir,” the Doctor said as any hope of a positive interaction quickly dissipated.

“Then please explain to me why, exactly, good doctor, that your department seems to have made no effort to reduce its power consumption since you received the aforementioned briefing?”

Dr. Benaire twitched a little. There was a perfectly good explanation for the power consumption in the medical bay. The technology they utilised couldn’t just be switched off and on again, and they had a wealth of expensive chemicals kept in cool storage. Viszt knew this, but he could only watch: it was not his place to correct an XO.

“My apologies sir. We have shut down anything deemed non-essential by regulations --” said Benaire.

“Curious. You seem better versed than I in imperial regulation,” Kara spoke, his words venom-laced. “Perhaps I am undeserving of my station.”

“No sir, I only mean --”

“Your cold storage: shut it down. I have arranged a storage in the nearby settlement to have its contents kept. Send your blueskin down with the chemicals on an ITT.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, doctor, if I have to do your job for you again, I will begin to to consider your value to the Empire. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” the doctor repeated.

Viszt watched quietly as Kara left. The old man before him had always been dependable and respected, but in this moment he shrunk before Viszt’s eyes. He thought to console him, but he didn’t want to risk coming off as patronising. His mind quickly shifted to Kara’s mention of the chemical relocation. He cursed internally - not for the slur aimed at him, and not even because it would require him venturing into the potentially dangerous settlement nearby, but because it would prolong his shift for at least another hour.

“Right, boy,” Benaire said, having sobered himself from Kara’s admonishment. “Let's get everything down to the hangar and I’ll set you on your way. I’ll make sure the cold storage is powered down.”

Viszt merely nodded. He was sure Benaire didn’t need to be questioned any further.

Within fifteen minutes, the contents of the cold storage was emptied, moved into the hangar, and loaded on to a Imperial Troop Transport. Benaire slapped Viszt on the back, quickly rushing away to make sure Kara’s orders were seen to.

---

Before long, he arrived in Derrivan's Point along with several troopers - some of which were instructed to accompany him to the delivery point, and a few others that split off on unrelated business.

Viszt winced as he stepped out of the ITT. The place had an unwelcoming odour, its buildings seemed to just about qualify as buildings, and its people, even the children, looked ancient and weary. Disgust washed over him, but quickly receded into a sense of shame. It wasn’t these peoples’ fault they lived in such squalor. The Empire clearly wasn’t doing much to assist them -- and probably even contributed to the degradation.

The stormtroopers handled the interaction with the fellow who owned the storage, instructing Viszt to “deal with the delicates” and “let them do their job.” Though he was sceptical of the rickety cold storage unit’s ability to maintain the integrity of the chemicals, he put them away without argument. He had no interest in pulling up trees. He did his job and kept his mouth shut.

When he returned to the drop-off point, the ITT was gone, and he was informed by the troopers that it would not return until the next patrol shift change in several hours. Though they offered for him to remain with them on their watch, he kindly rejected, deciding to find a nearby cantina. Yes, to an extent, the locals intimidated him: but he was too tired to care about consequences. He just wanted a drink, and perhaps a hand of sabacc.

Whether or not what he found qualified as a cantina, he wasn't sure. It was more a collection of various table-like objects that had been assembled in an unstable-looking, one-story building. A reprogrammed astromech droid played grainy, low-quality jizz recordings. He ordered a drink, which seemed to be watered down, and made his way over to the biggest table in the room, which seemed to be the wing of a TIE-Fighter painted grey. Seven ripe locals swaddled around it, chips gathered around them, cards in hand.

"Might I buy in?" Viszt asked with a polite, charming smile.

"Ha," a portly twi'lek man grinned, flashing red-brown teeth. "Fancy yourself a gambler, Imperial?"

"Not really, friend," he lied. "Just looking to pass the time."

The twi'lek gestured at an empty seat, pleased by the answer. Viszt handed over the required credits, and recieved chips in their place. As he waited for the next hand, he swigged his drink and grimaced, the unlabelled beverage reminding him of stale rain-water.

For a little while, they played. Viszt kept his head low, eager not to seem a threat, but as the game progressed, his chips mounted. He fooled and baited the patrons, one by one, and his pot ripened.

"Schutta..." the twi'lek frowned. "You've played before, haven't you?"

"Once or twice," Viszt smirked, lying again.

His smile was snatched away as his comms buzzed.

"Viszt, I need you --" Benaire's voice sounded. "There's a problem with the cold storage. I shut it down, but there's been a leak. I need you over here, right now. I've asked for a transport to be sent."

Viszt sighed, holding the button down on his comms. "I'll be right there."

He looked to his left and right and smiled warmly. "Well, my friends, it seems this game has been cut short. It's been a pleasure."

"Hm?" One of the humans looked over, disgruntled. "You can't just walk away, the game's not done!"

"Look, it's clear that I'm winning, and it's not particularly close," Viszt gestured at his abdunant chip haul. "But, tell you what, you give me back my buy-in, and keep the rest. I don't want any trouble."

"Or what?" the twi'lek spoke lowly.

Viszt peered back. Good question. He supposed he might be able to drag a stormtrooper over and fill him in on the story, but should his superiors learn of his mingling with the 'local scum', he might get in some kind of trouble. Bluffing couldn't hurt, though, right?

"Well," Viszt gestured to his uniform, attempting to angle a threat at the man. "It would be rather unwise to try and swindle an Imperial."

He was met with seven glares.

He came to his senses. This wasn't the time, nor the place, to assert power. "You know, on the other hand, keep it... as a thank-you for your... wonderful company."

He hurried up, and made his way out of the door. He wasn't sure of his best course of action for making it back to the Basilisk, but Dr. Benaire needed his assistance. His pace increased, but he must have been flustered by his cantina encounter, and made a wrong turn. He realised he did not know his way back to the dropoff point, and he felt the seed of panic bloom within him.

As he stopped still in the street, he sought to compose himself, to get his bearings, to --

"Schutta," a voice from behind him spat. The portly twi'lek, flanked by two of his cronies, stepped out, blasters exposed. "You should be careful who you threaten."

'Floating' (Star Wars 2 BBY)

	"VISZT" "VISZT" Name: Shiv'isz'tamos Faction: Galactic Empire Species: Chiss Age: 25 Sex: Male Height: 6'0" Eyes: Red Physique: Thin, broad shouldered Hair: Short, straight, black-blue Skin: Cerulean blue Force Sensitive: Signs point to no

A P P E A R A N C E :
A P P E A R A N C E :

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Viszt can be considered to be conventionally attractive, though perhaps rather uninteresting-looking, aside from his stark blue skin. His eyes are the deep, hot red that is typical of a Chiss. He has a squared jaw and prominent cheekbones that give his face a gaunt look. His blue-tinged black hair is uniformly short and straight. His straight-backed posture and thin, wide-shouldered build perhaps makes him seem a little taller than his six feet. He seems to be very hygenic, having clear skin, pearlescent teeth, and a pleasant lavendery scent. His looks are somewhat betrayed by stress lines and dark circles beneath his eyes. When working, he wears sleek, clean, unremarkable laboratory garments; otherwise, he wears minimalistic dark clothing.

B I O G R A P H Y :
B I O G R A P H Y :

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Born on Jamiron, an industrial planet within Chiss Ascendancy space, Viszt was the child of a mid-level bureaucrat. His family was large; stable financially, but not particularly wealthy. The fourth of eight children, Viszt was instilled with a sense of ambition from a young age, determined to set himself apart from his peers. In his hometown, most young people ended up working in the industrial sector. However, from infancy, Viszt exhibited a high level of intelligence and adaptibility that was seldom seen on Jamiron. His father, aware of this gift, chose to nurture Viszt's talents, hiring him an expensive personal tutor. This caused somewhat of a rift between Viszt and his siblings, who harboured resentment over a percieved favouritism. Thus, throughout his younger years, Viszt was a precocious, solitary boy with few friends, spending most of his hours reading.

In his teen years, upon being admitted into a school on the Chiss capital of Csilla, he was able to blossom socially. Having had to manufacture a protective shell of psuedo-confidence to survive his tumultuous family, Viszt was among the most charismatic figures in his school. Now surrounded by like-minded, intelligent adolescents, Viszt re-invented himself through his school years, which allowed his performative confidence to slowly transform into something not so performative. This also marked a period of his life in which he became acutely aware of his hyperfixations. He was obsessive; prone to addictions, which had, throughout his childhood, manifested innocuously. As he hurtled towards adulthood, however, a ravenous pursuit of vices crept into him. However, he was savvy enough to mask these temptations from the outside world, appearing to most as a healthily functioning straight-A student.

At 18, he was offered a unique opportunity. As part of an ongoing diplomatic allemande between the Chiss Ascendancy and the Galactic Empire, some Chiss were offered opportunities within Imperial space. Reccomended by his tutors, as well as his father, to a high-ranking member of the Ascendancy, Viszt was put forward as a candidate for a scholarship within the Empire to pursue the sciences. It seemed an offer too good to turn down -- a fully-funded doctorate, Imperial-provided accommodation and amenities, and guaranteed employment for the rest of his life. Despite having a fair few friends on Csilla, Viszt accepted the offer without antipathy.

Relocating to a new part of the galaxy at 18 with no friends or family did prove difficult, however. His studying was demanding, and as part of the programme he was required to undertake a significant amount of field-work. He was often re-assigned or re-located, meaning he had little opportunity to form significant relationships. It was isolating; and worst of all, he had heard and seen enough from within the hollow shell of the Empire to know that it was a force of overt oppression, not measured governance. He wasn't the type to bang a revolutionary drum, however, so he resigned himself to his work and study without explicit complaint. He sank into his vices as a means to survive. He spent most of his nights at cantinas, making fleeting friends with drifters and mercs, sometimes winning, sometimes losing. He was good -- but not good enough to quit when he was up. And what comes up must come down.

By 25, having completed the majority of his scholarship, he was a fully-fledged doctor in all but certification: but things had gone awry for Viszt. After an unfathomable string of losses, he'd wracked up debts with multiple unsavoury syndicates; he'd been entirely disenchanted with the prospect of working for the Empire, and he'd become inarguably addicted on stimulants that he used to keep himself sharp for his long shifts. Feeling the walls closing in, he decided that he had to leave, or be crushed under the pressure of it all... but one does not simply stroll out of the Galactic Empire.

S T R E N G T H S & W E A K N E S S E S :
S T R E N G T H S & W E A K N E S S E S :

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Brimming intellect:
With a photographic memory, a knack for problem-solving, and a ravenous mind, Viszt was considered something of a genius among his peers. Though it could be argued that he never truly harnessed his potential, his mind is most certainly the sharpest tool in his arsenal.

Medical expertise:
Viszt is a skilled surgeon and medical researcher with several years of academic and practical experience. Though not quite a fully licensed physician, he is mere months from obtaining his final certification. He also has a fairly comprehensive knowledge of drugs, both legal and otherwise.

Sharp tongue:
Having grown up in a large family, Viszt has learned to pull strings. Considered by many to be charismatic, he projects an aura of confidence that, while not entirely authentic, is quite convincing. Given his fondness of gambling, he has used his charm to make a fair few credits.

Ambitious:
For better of for worse, Viszt has set his sights on bigger things than working in a lab for the Empire. His destiny, while he might not know exactly what it looks like, is something much greater. He'll gladly burn bridges and step on heads if it means he can reach it.

Self preserving:
Some may call it cowardice; others might call it survival. While he might consider putting his neck on the line for a loved one or a child, he would much rather run and hide when danger comes his way. Acts of heroic bravery are nothing more than fuel for egotistic fools.

Addictive personality:
When something hooks Viszt, it digs its claws in and never lets him go. Be it gambling, indluging in illicit substances, or just ingesting copious amounts of caffeine, Viszt is not a man of moderation. Currently, he has a rather intense addiction to stimulants.

Lack of combat skills:
Viszt does not pretend to be an action hero. He hasn't been in a real fistfight since he upset his older brother at thirteen. He barely knows how to use a blaster, and wouldn't know the first thing about manning a turret.

DHARMA Initiative - LOST

Lovely to hear! Will leave this up for another day or two to see if anyone else is interested.

'Floating' (Star Wars 2 BBY)

<Snipped quote by Tlaloc>

Let’s see a premise / idea for your character Tlaloc!

@deegee

Shot you a message!

'Floating' (Star Wars 2 BBY)

Dropping a message to say I'm very much interested in all of this, and plan on putting together a sheet. Please let me know if there's no longer enough room!