Wow, this is great! Thank you so much, guys--I'm definitely learning a lot :)
WanderBug Member
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Tim the Yeti
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Bio
I've been RPing for about 10 years on and off, and I secretly want to be a writer. I'm a casual/advance RPer with a distaste for character sheets and extensive templating. I just want to write well with others.
Creative collaboration brings me so much joy, so please don't hesitate to message me if you're interested in telling a story together!
Currently in: San Francisco
Creative collaboration brings me so much joy, so please don't hesitate to message me if you're interested in telling a story together!
Currently in: San Francisco
Most Recent Posts
I love this!! Thank you tons, guys.
Definitely interested! I opened the page and was hit with the Avatar feels.
Hello, hello!
I'm interested in plots: "A New World" and "Paranormal Encounters". I'm looking for RP's that act as challenging writing exercises, so the expectation of detailed posts and collaboration is a good thing :)
I'm interested in plots: "A New World" and "Paranormal Encounters". I'm looking for RP's that act as challenging writing exercises, so the expectation of detailed posts and collaboration is a good thing :)
Hello!
I wanted to know about your best RP experiences with GM's (whether you've experienced being one or not) and what made them the best? I want to compile any best practices that you've encountered and seen work--what are they, and why?
Of course, there is no one best way of doing things!
One my favorite GM's never played a single character, taking on the role of the entire environment (NPC's, setting, plot) to respond to the player's characters. This was great fun for me, but it put all responsibility of plot creation on him (booo). I'm interested in how to facilitate good collaboration between players--one thing I've tried a chat group on Discord, a chat messenger mostly used for gaming, and Google Docs to edit the same post for dialogue heavy scenes.
GM's really set the tone for how an RP plays out--how members collaborate, incentives/disincentives for accountability, general mood, etc--so I'd love to hear your best and interesting experiences with GM's and what made them so.
I wanted to know about your best RP experiences with GM's (whether you've experienced being one or not) and what made them the best? I want to compile any best practices that you've encountered and seen work--what are they, and why?
Of course, there is no one best way of doing things!
One my favorite GM's never played a single character, taking on the role of the entire environment (NPC's, setting, plot) to respond to the player's characters. This was great fun for me, but it put all responsibility of plot creation on him (booo). I'm interested in how to facilitate good collaboration between players--one thing I've tried a chat group on Discord, a chat messenger mostly used for gaming, and Google Docs to edit the same post for dialogue heavy scenes.
GM's really set the tone for how an RP plays out--how members collaborate, incentives/disincentives for accountability, general mood, etc--so I'd love to hear your best and interesting experiences with GM's and what made them so.
There were doors lining the hallways, but he headed straight for the one at the end. the treasure was hidden somewhere downstairs. He would have to navigate a maze-like path to find it, but at least it wasn't in the opposite side of the building.
The door was slightly open, and he slipped a couple fingers in the crack and put his eyes against the opening. It was a spacious room, lavishly decorated with vases and murals stretching across the walls. There were a couple guards standing at the only door he could see, which probably led downstairs. Shadows still lapping at his body, he slinked through the door and kept at the side of the room, where the light from the windows didn't reach. He glided with the shape of the shadows and slinked behind vases, along the tapestries. The guards looked bored out of their minds, chatting to each other, not paying attention to the shifting light and dark in the side of the room.
He was behind on of the guards and pulled a needle out of his pouch, pricking the neck of the guard lightly. The man swatted his nape and grumbled something about mosquitoes and the other guard shrugged. They continued talking, something about in-game hacks, before the man started warping his words. He paused, confused, and tried again. The other guard looked at him bemusment, and asked, uh, I can't understand you man.The guard tried again and chocked on the word, this time, falling to his knees, hands on the ground to support himself. The other guard rushed to his side, and knelt, shaking him lightly--they paid no attention to the figure that appeared behind him--the shadows lapped at the both of them, before swallowing them whole--
Emerson stood in front of the door, a wicked smile on his face, and the outfit of one of the guards snugly fit to his form. His cape was hid under clothing with ease; it was amorphous and intangible. The guards had disappeared by now, and it would take them a while to respawn. He walked through the door with confidence, and he was in a room with spiralling stairs; he skipped down the steps, feet not touching the ground for more than a second, and went all the way to the bottom. He was in a hallway, part of a larger room which steps leading to the first floor, reminiscent of the entrance hall to a castle where people would hold balls--except not as large or glamorous. Capriciously, he twirled, feeling like a second rate belle. He grinned again, and took a step forward. He heard a door open.
He leapt back and crouched behind a wall--there was someone who had entered from the side door, who rushed to darker area of the room, also crouching. Well, that wasn't a guard. Too damned suspicious. Emerson waited from his position, eyes tracking the movement of the figure with the white long hair.
The door was slightly open, and he slipped a couple fingers in the crack and put his eyes against the opening. It was a spacious room, lavishly decorated with vases and murals stretching across the walls. There were a couple guards standing at the only door he could see, which probably led downstairs. Shadows still lapping at his body, he slinked through the door and kept at the side of the room, where the light from the windows didn't reach. He glided with the shape of the shadows and slinked behind vases, along the tapestries. The guards looked bored out of their minds, chatting to each other, not paying attention to the shifting light and dark in the side of the room.
He was behind on of the guards and pulled a needle out of his pouch, pricking the neck of the guard lightly. The man swatted his nape and grumbled something about mosquitoes and the other guard shrugged. They continued talking, something about in-game hacks, before the man started warping his words. He paused, confused, and tried again. The other guard looked at him bemusment, and asked, uh, I can't understand you man.The guard tried again and chocked on the word, this time, falling to his knees, hands on the ground to support himself. The other guard rushed to his side, and knelt, shaking him lightly--they paid no attention to the figure that appeared behind him--the shadows lapped at the both of them, before swallowing them whole--
Emerson stood in front of the door, a wicked smile on his face, and the outfit of one of the guards snugly fit to his form. His cape was hid under clothing with ease; it was amorphous and intangible. The guards had disappeared by now, and it would take them a while to respawn. He walked through the door with confidence, and he was in a room with spiralling stairs; he skipped down the steps, feet not touching the ground for more than a second, and went all the way to the bottom. He was in a hallway, part of a larger room which steps leading to the first floor, reminiscent of the entrance hall to a castle where people would hold balls--except not as large or glamorous. Capriciously, he twirled, feeling like a second rate belle. He grinned again, and took a step forward. He heard a door open.
He leapt back and crouched behind a wall--there was someone who had entered from the side door, who rushed to darker area of the room, also crouching. Well, that wasn't a guard. Too damned suspicious. Emerson waited from his position, eyes tracking the movement of the figure with the white long hair.
[Placeholder for Collab]
Jay’s face relaxed and he smiled, feeling like he had to approach the boy as one approached an unsure fawn. He felt a little bad for the black boy with his punctured bike and guilty face. It was almost nine and they were decently far from denser signs of civilization—it only made sense to bring him.
“I’m heading up north to Chiloquin. I can take you up there. It’ll take an hour, but at least you can call someone or find somewhere to stay for the night.”
He pulled the gear to park and got out of the car, his body and facial expression open and easy. He was still perturbed by how effortless it was to talk to people, adopting their social standards and making conversations “easy”. The disarming demeanor he grew up with, and the necessity of social adaption in his job and prison, were enough to outlast his complete breakdown a few years ago. Old habits die hard.
He pointed to the boy’s bike and said, ”I’ll put that in the back for you. You can also put your things in the back or just in the seat.”
After an affirmation, Jay lifted the bike and strapped it to the back, securing it to the floor of the trunk with a strap. He gave it a couple pats before opening the passenger door and walking to his side of the vehicle. He stepping up the foothold and hauled himself to his seat. He leaned back into the cushioned leather, inhaling the comfortable fumes of the car, and the heated leather of the seat held him close. Even though it was summer, Oregon nights still brought an enduring chill. Even in the form of consistent car heating, he would take all the blessings he could get.
“I’m heading up north to Chiloquin. I can take you up there. It’ll take an hour, but at least you can call someone or find somewhere to stay for the night.”
He pulled the gear to park and got out of the car, his body and facial expression open and easy. He was still perturbed by how effortless it was to talk to people, adopting their social standards and making conversations “easy”. The disarming demeanor he grew up with, and the necessity of social adaption in his job and prison, were enough to outlast his complete breakdown a few years ago. Old habits die hard.
He pointed to the boy’s bike and said, ”I’ll put that in the back for you. You can also put your things in the back or just in the seat.”
After an affirmation, Jay lifted the bike and strapped it to the back, securing it to the floor of the trunk with a strap. He gave it a couple pats before opening the passenger door and walking to his side of the vehicle. He stepping up the foothold and hauled himself to his seat. He leaned back into the cushioned leather, inhaling the comfortable fumes of the car, and the heated leather of the seat held him close. Even though it was summer, Oregon nights still brought an enduring chill. Even in the form of consistent car heating, he would take all the blessings he could get.
His fingertips brushed against soft fabric where there was once air, warmth crawling up his body as the heavy sheets materialized. Just having sat in a chair, he felt himself become vertical, lying on the creaky twin bed he’d become accustomed to. He waited for the shifting of sensation to stop before he opened his eyes and stretched out his hands in front of him, the leather of his fingerless gloves creasing around his hands. It always took him a few seconds to adjust after entering the game—a pressure in the back of his head lasted until he exited. He appreciated it. If the game felt completely realistic people would develop a dependency on it. Not that the game let them; time limits were implemented since the creation of immersive VR.
He threw off the blanket and went to his writing desk, grabbing his weapon belt and attaching it to his waist. He tapped on his pants pocket and a screen appeared in front of him with slots of items; he swiped through the different categories and made sure he had potions, weapons, and lockpicks. Tonight was going to be a fun one. He grinned and left the room, heading downstairs.
The floor was buzzing with patrons, and he moved to take a seat at the bar, waving a hand at the bartender who brightened and waved back.
“Hey Emerson!” The bartender approached him with a friendly grin, ”Anything I can get for you? You look like you need a captain.”
“No thanks, Rooke,” Emerson rolled his eyes and smiled, ”You know what I’m here for. And thank you again for taking care of this shift for me.”
“Yeah, no problem. You’ll have way more fun running around dungeons tonight anyway. Be sure to get the goods, ok? Don’t get too distracted by the social dynamics of the guards.”
“Hah! You got it.”
They grasped hands and Rooke slipped him a slip of paper before winking and going back to his other patrons. Emerson pocketed it and left the inn, slipping behing the building and into an alleyway. It was night now, and as he moved further and further away from the main square, where the popular Rhubarb Inn was located, it became darker and quieter. Fog creeped above him as he moved to the outskirts of the city—concrete turning to greenery—until he was surrounded by it. There was nothing but the fog anymore. He pulled up the dark mask hanging around his neck to cover his lower face, and smiled against the fabric.
His map told him he was near the Thorne’s Keep. It was a large, stone property located on the fringe of the city, with members of the faction being renowned for their cautious play styles. NPC Guards patrolled the area 24/7, but they would always switch up their routines. Being machines, they weren’t truly randomized, and Rooke had helped him figure out the pattern. They would be sparse in the right wing tonight, enough so that news of an invasion could be cut off with the right people. He had brought enough skill and items to do that—illusion and misdirection was his specialty.
He tugged his cape around his shoulders—the ends of it disappearing into shadowy tendrils lapping at his feet—and lept to a ledge in the back. As he landed lightly on his feet, a notification popped up and read “You’re now entering unauthorized area. Proceed with caution.” He peered in through a window; there was a small hallways with no guards. Any other day and there would be one walking back and forth without rest. He pushed open the window and stepped into the room and on the luxurious red carpet that covered the floor. He pulled his cape more fully over his body and his whole being seemed to become shadow. It would not last long—he had to move.
He threw off the blanket and went to his writing desk, grabbing his weapon belt and attaching it to his waist. He tapped on his pants pocket and a screen appeared in front of him with slots of items; he swiped through the different categories and made sure he had potions, weapons, and lockpicks. Tonight was going to be a fun one. He grinned and left the room, heading downstairs.
The floor was buzzing with patrons, and he moved to take a seat at the bar, waving a hand at the bartender who brightened and waved back.
“Hey Emerson!” The bartender approached him with a friendly grin, ”Anything I can get for you? You look like you need a captain.”
“No thanks, Rooke,” Emerson rolled his eyes and smiled, ”You know what I’m here for. And thank you again for taking care of this shift for me.”
“Yeah, no problem. You’ll have way more fun running around dungeons tonight anyway. Be sure to get the goods, ok? Don’t get too distracted by the social dynamics of the guards.”
“Hah! You got it.”
They grasped hands and Rooke slipped him a slip of paper before winking and going back to his other patrons. Emerson pocketed it and left the inn, slipping behing the building and into an alleyway. It was night now, and as he moved further and further away from the main square, where the popular Rhubarb Inn was located, it became darker and quieter. Fog creeped above him as he moved to the outskirts of the city—concrete turning to greenery—until he was surrounded by it. There was nothing but the fog anymore. He pulled up the dark mask hanging around his neck to cover his lower face, and smiled against the fabric.
His map told him he was near the Thorne’s Keep. It was a large, stone property located on the fringe of the city, with members of the faction being renowned for their cautious play styles. NPC Guards patrolled the area 24/7, but they would always switch up their routines. Being machines, they weren’t truly randomized, and Rooke had helped him figure out the pattern. They would be sparse in the right wing tonight, enough so that news of an invasion could be cut off with the right people. He had brought enough skill and items to do that—illusion and misdirection was his specialty.
He tugged his cape around his shoulders—the ends of it disappearing into shadowy tendrils lapping at his feet—and lept to a ledge in the back. As he landed lightly on his feet, a notification popped up and read “You’re now entering unauthorized area. Proceed with caution.” He peered in through a window; there was a small hallways with no guards. Any other day and there would be one walking back and forth without rest. He pushed open the window and stepped into the room and on the luxurious red carpet that covered the floor. He pulled his cape more fully over his body and his whole being seemed to become shadow. It would not last long—he had to move.
“I know you don’t want to see them, but this is the least you could do. 6 months until the day. You’re important to me and I want you to be there.”
The two men sat in front of each other, separated by a glass wall. The man in the crisp suit stared intently at the other, a stocky man in plain prisoner’s clothing, fidgeting in the cracked, plastic chair.
“…Yeah, I’ll come. I don’t dare miss out on the beautiful couple. I didn’t miss the first…or the second, or third—there was a fourth, right?”
“Hah! I appreciate the vote of confidence, but this is it, Jay. You’d like her and the kids.”
“No doubt.” John Bautista always felt uncomfortable they spoke; his body contorting back to its old mannerisms, too familiar for his comfort, his tongue rolling easily over the names of past people and friends and lingo, as if he still yearned for them. Prison didn’t approve of him when he arrived—it never does, not to newcomers—but it finds ways to change you.
He ran a hand through his closely cropped hair and smiled weakly, ”Thanks again for coming to visit. I’ll see you in New York, alright?”
——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————
Occasionally the moon would peak out between the leaves of the trees, leaving spotted bits of light on the hood of his car. It was a quiet night; warmth resting on the forest air and animals tucked away in the nooks of green. The air smelt like redwoods, and he would miss it when he left the west coast. There was no one else on the road but him, and he could only see as far as the next twist on the winding path. He’d have to drive a couple more hours to reach the motel. After he checked in, he’d grab a nice, warm dinner at a nearby diner and go to sleep. Or maybe he’d hit up a local bar. Or lie in bed and watch a documentary until he fell asleep…
The car was quiet and powerful beneath him, a surprising pleasant feel for a used vehicle. He’d gotten it at at a random dealership in the Bay Area after making sure that he had enough in his bank account—it was satisfying and painful to comb through his belongings, frozen in time after the financial mess right a few years ago, before prison and during his time. He was lucky that he lost as much money as he did, and no more—it was more than enough, now.
'I could be on the road forever,' he mused, 'I could do that. After the wedding, though.'
He hummed to the song on the radio, dipping in and out of static, and continued down the almost nausea inducing road. The greenery around him became less and less as he neared the city, and he came onto a straight road. He squinted at a blinking light in the distance, preparing to make any hard turns to avoid drunk motorcyclists. The light waved around wildly, but didn’t seem to be moving forward, and he quickly flipped his high beams on and off.
It was a young man, one hand waving a flashlight and the other resting on the handles of a bike. Jay hesitated, but slowed as he neared the figure. The boy seemed sullen and unsure what to do with himself—a flat tire? a runaway? Jay was tempted to mind his own business, but it had been an uneventful past week. Plus, the boy looked like he needed a hand. He pulled onto the side of the road and rolled down the window, ”Hey, you ok? Lookin’ a bit lost there.”
The two men sat in front of each other, separated by a glass wall. The man in the crisp suit stared intently at the other, a stocky man in plain prisoner’s clothing, fidgeting in the cracked, plastic chair.
“…Yeah, I’ll come. I don’t dare miss out on the beautiful couple. I didn’t miss the first…or the second, or third—there was a fourth, right?”
“Hah! I appreciate the vote of confidence, but this is it, Jay. You’d like her and the kids.”
“No doubt.” John Bautista always felt uncomfortable they spoke; his body contorting back to its old mannerisms, too familiar for his comfort, his tongue rolling easily over the names of past people and friends and lingo, as if he still yearned for them. Prison didn’t approve of him when he arrived—it never does, not to newcomers—but it finds ways to change you.
He ran a hand through his closely cropped hair and smiled weakly, ”Thanks again for coming to visit. I’ll see you in New York, alright?”
——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————
Occasionally the moon would peak out between the leaves of the trees, leaving spotted bits of light on the hood of his car. It was a quiet night; warmth resting on the forest air and animals tucked away in the nooks of green. The air smelt like redwoods, and he would miss it when he left the west coast. There was no one else on the road but him, and he could only see as far as the next twist on the winding path. He’d have to drive a couple more hours to reach the motel. After he checked in, he’d grab a nice, warm dinner at a nearby diner and go to sleep. Or maybe he’d hit up a local bar. Or lie in bed and watch a documentary until he fell asleep…
The car was quiet and powerful beneath him, a surprising pleasant feel for a used vehicle. He’d gotten it at at a random dealership in the Bay Area after making sure that he had enough in his bank account—it was satisfying and painful to comb through his belongings, frozen in time after the financial mess right a few years ago, before prison and during his time. He was lucky that he lost as much money as he did, and no more—it was more than enough, now.
'I could be on the road forever,' he mused, 'I could do that. After the wedding, though.'
He hummed to the song on the radio, dipping in and out of static, and continued down the almost nausea inducing road. The greenery around him became less and less as he neared the city, and he came onto a straight road. He squinted at a blinking light in the distance, preparing to make any hard turns to avoid drunk motorcyclists. The light waved around wildly, but didn’t seem to be moving forward, and he quickly flipped his high beams on and off.
It was a young man, one hand waving a flashlight and the other resting on the handles of a bike. Jay hesitated, but slowed as he neared the figure. The boy seemed sullen and unsure what to do with himself—a flat tire? a runaway? Jay was tempted to mind his own business, but it had been an uneventful past week. Plus, the boy looked like he needed a hand. He pulled onto the side of the road and rolled down the window, ”Hey, you ok? Lookin’ a bit lost there.”
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