Frolie, your application seems good as well. But I want you to be specific about this:
Quote from: Frolie
Prophet nodded. "Yes I am, Blackburn. You'll have your ride, on the morrow. You might sleep here for the night. Oh, and please! Take some of my herbs, and spices, and flours of my glorious trade! You might be in need of fire and sleep when you go to this, valley."
List what exactly has your character taken, and how much as well. Also, your character isn't lockpicking 24/7 and it seems she didn't take any practice locks. I'd say most of those in Ineu Pass would be either rusty or damaged. I don't want to see or hear about any "i can pick any lock in 10 seconds go aside ok im moving on this door xd".
Sorry, I finished writing that bit of the story at like, five in the morning. The things that she took with her were strictly related to what Prophet had made during their stay: as in, a moderately sized plastic container of gasoline, a small container of motor oil and another, smaller container of high-proof alcohol. Also, a thick jug of bleach and small bottle of acetone, not to mention a liberal supply of rags for both 'recipes'.
As far as locks go, I got a bit carried away in the backstory but the original intention was for her to have moderate skills in that area. That being said, I'd say it could take anywhere from 30 to 40 OOC seconds, with infinite possibilities for more. I'll give you a small example of what that roleplay might look like:
** Layla 'Razors' Blackburn looks anxiously down one end of the corridor, then the other, before carefully going to her knees before the knob of the door. She slides her bag over her shoulder, planting it down beside her to look inside of.
** Layla 'Razors' Blackburn shakes her head frustratingly as she digs her way around inside, past her cigarettes and small other tools, until her hand finally seals around the black-leather case of lockpicking tools. After a moment or two more of carefully removing the case, she presses open the clasp on the side examining her tools.
** Layla 'Razors' Blackburn selects a moderately sized torque wrench and a basic, hook-shaped pick. She slides the end of the wrench into the lower portion of the lock, testing the strength of the lock before inserting the pick into the top port. She counts the pins in her head as she rakes gently across them with the pick: 3... 4... 5.
** Layla 'Razors' Blackburn applies careful amounts of pressure to the back pin, simultaneously applying different levels of torque to the wrench. After a few moments of experimentation, the driver slides into the cylinder, locking the pin in place.
** Layla 'Razors' Blackburn moves onto to the next pin, then the third and fourth.
** Layla 'Razors' Blackburn has a small coughing fit, her grip slipping on the torque wrench for a fraction of a second, causing the four pins to lock back into place.
** Layla 'Razors' Blackburn cusses under her breath, starting her work again, albeit this time much faster, having discovered the pressure and torque the first time.
** Layla 'Razors' Blackburn eventually sets all the pins back in place, as well as the fifth one, until the entire cylinder begins to twist off the the right. She removes the pick, twisting the wrench until the cylinder reaches it's limit and the lock disengages.
** Layla 'Razors' Blackburn puts the pick and wrench back inside the case, and then the case back inside her bag. She stands, twisting the door-knob and shouldering her way inside.
Also, there would be intervals of a few OOC seconds in between each performance, during which time she could be talking to someone, or engaging in something else. All and all, pending intervention from other characters, the whole process would take maybe 30 to 50 seconds.
I was trying to demonstrate that I have little intent to use the weapons within the city. If having them removed temporarily is an issue, then I could keep them during my stay: all the same, I intend to still be armed when I return to Outlands.
Bringing an smg and large auths to the city because you want to watch one of your own characters and you're 'bored' What, this is absurd
You're entitled to your opinion, although I honestly expected this reaction from both you and hogs. I guess, on paper, it might look a little 'absurd', but it's markedly frustrating on the wait for Outlands, and in the backstory, the dialogue exchange between Eli and Layla set up some RP for both me and Elions there.
As far as 'high profile' activities go, I have no interest in them. In fact, I'd be quite fine with my inventory being wiped before I entered the city, of course, pending that I get them back on my return to Outlands. I have no interest in stirring up the hive during my stay.
please explain how you managed to arrive at the city through the canals plz they are closed off if you have actually botthered to look in the map
I might point out here in, that the entire map is sealed off, canals included. I looked through other applications, curious as to how those characters entered the city, but found little relevant information. That being said, I partook in that most dastardly of crimes; I used a little imagination.
Given that the canals are really one of the only routes that seemed at all connected easily to the outside world, I figured that made the most sense. That, in and of itself, is likely the biggest flaw with this application, and indeed with most others: there's really no IC route in and out of the city.
Feel free to call me out on this but I'm fairly sure this char going to the city to watch out for another one of your chars breaks the interaction rule. However I think the char in the city belongs to Elions? Not too sure on this. [/quote
The character Layla is going to look for / protect is Joanna 'Tragedy' Sinbow, a character of Elions. There's no infringement of the interaction rule taking place here, trust me.
What are you suggesting?: Makeshift Graveyard What style will it be in?: Rebellion, Barren, Wastlandish Will it have any special features such as moving doors or traps? If so, list them below.:
Not really a special feature, but one open grave might be nice (in preparation, there's no body or anything like that inside.
Reference Pictures:
Extra Notes:
The graveyard should be a somber location, where significant characters could be laid to rest should they die, and other characters could go to mourn their deaths.
** Idea was very much inspired by the Goodsprings Cemetery in Fallout: New Vegas, and the Boot Hill Cemetery
IT WAS ME *GASP*
Added 10% forum warning for unconstructive posting / posting image macro reply. You already got one warning about this, please stop. ~Khub
Having recovered from his depression and alcohol addiction, Simon would resume his proffesional medical career, this time as an administrator and lecturer. After several years of prominent medical advancements under his watch, he'd eventually die of health complications resulting from his burns, liver damage from his excessive drinking, and cancer from his smoking habits before the war.
Ali Ezra
Her being one of the few children to survive the 7-Hour-War, Ali would become a prominent novelist and poet, who would achieve marginal fame and wealth as a result of her critically acclaimed novels. She'd marry in her late 20s, and return from writing in her 30s to settle down and raise a family with her husband.
The Hound
Her obvious mental imperfections would result in her placement in a mental home, where her primal instincts would eventually get the better of her. Inside the hospital, she'd insue a killing spree, butchering 8 patients, 3 doctors, and 4 police officers with her barehands before being shot down during a police assault.
Layla 'Razors' Blackburn
After the war, Layla would begin an underground group devoted to using CCA archives to track and kill loyalists, CWU members, Administrators, CCA units, and even Overwatch Agents. After her mission is more or less complete, she would take up work for a security and private investigation firm, doing sidework by electronically robbing immoral individuals who profited after the war. Finally, after reaching a significant budget, she'd retire entirely, and to somewhere in Europe.
Steam Name: Frolie Age: 15 How long have you been Roleplaying? (can be any game): About Five Years How long have you been playing Serious GMod RP?: About Two Years
Character Section
Authorization(s):
- Amateur Explosives Manufactor (Molitov Cocktails), Breathable 'Anesthetic' or 'Sedative' (Chloroform or Amonia / Bleach)
- Moderate Skills in Lockpicking, and Rudimentary Lockpicking Tools
Write a detailed in-canon back-story how your character obtained these authorizations.
Lockpicking Skills & Tools:
Spoiler for Hiden:
If there's only one way past, there's a dozen.
It was a personal creed Razors had lived with her entire life. It lead to her intellect's application in computer sofftware, hardware, and hacking, as well as her finetuned abilities in mechanical and electrical engineering. However, Breaking & Entering wasn't a hobby of Razors, or an interest in the slightest.
Locks are a fashion of keeping something secret, or sealing out prying eyes. They symbolized the thing Razors despised above all else; boundaries. So, learning the skills attributed to lockpicking wasn't so much a method for her work, but a personal rite of passage required for her to feel completely uninhibited.
Learning the rudimentary wasn't difficult for her. She understood locks from the inside based on diagrams and from reading books and articles off her computer, as well as purchasing a few locks of her own and disassembling them. As ever, it wasn't for several weeks before taking up a new obsession that she actually tried her hand at it. She ordered a basic set of picks and torque wrenches from an online locksmith's catalog, then set to work on a simple 3-pin tumbler lock.
It was much easier than it was made out to be, starting with only three pins. Within a single night, she had subliminally counted a total of 79 successful attempts at picking the lock, each time better fine-tuning the exact pressure required on the pins to push the driver through the cylinder. Within an hour, the lock could be opened in only a second or two.
She slowly worked on increasingly more difficult locks in her spare time, working up from 3, to 4, to 5, 6, 7, 8, even 9 pin tumbler locks. All fell like dominoes under Razors' obsession for perfection. Even once she could topple some of the best commercial pin & tumbler locks, she didn't stop. She moved on to Side-Locking Bar Locks, Tubular Locks, Rim and Mortise Locks, even stretching out to her other skill groups to work on mechanical and electronic locks. She thought nothing of this abilities application in the real world; to her, it was all a game, the equivalent of an 'ordinary' man's crossword puzzle or sudoku.
Among her other valuables and thoughtfully useful utensils she packed during and after the 7-Hour-War, her small black-leather case of locksmithing tools, picks, rakes, and other helpful tool was stashed into the bottom of her bag, waiting her further attention should she become 'bored', or their actual integration to her arsenal of tools and skills.
Amateur Explosives Manufactor (Molitov Cocktails), Breathable 'Anesthetic' or 'Sedative' (Chloroform or Amonia / Bleach)
Spoiler for Hiden:
"He'll see you now."
Layla waited for no further introduction or ceremony before shouldering her way past the door's gaurd; or as she preferred to dub him, secretary. Inside was the man she had been waiting to see for several weeks; Prophet.
He was short, for a man, standing at 5 feet and 6 inches, but few would question his abilities of intimidation. Over his face, he wore a mask made of crumbled aluminum, cracked from flame and imbedded with layers of rusted steel or iron. It was a grizzly testament to his greatest passion; fire.
As far as his attire was considered, he was more or less ordinary. He wore a curt black coat with two rows of buttons down his breast, and a baseball cap onto of his wretched mask. A pair of Olive-Drab Cargo pants cut away halfway up the calf were adorned about his hairy legs, and those too were patched and torn in numerous places. The only other notable feature about the man was his right leg, or lack thereof. Speculation surrounded how exactly he'd lost his leg, though most assume it was torn away during the 7-Hour-War. In it's place, there was a curved bit of springy metal that he could use to get around on easily enough. Nonetheless, to keep his posture and preserve his dignity, he often walked with a withered extension from the branch of an oak tree, which he used for a cane or staff.
He was waiting Razors inside the back of the tent. He sat on a folding camper chair, with a dozen crumpled beer cans to his left and a plastic table littered with chemicals and volatile ingredients to his right. In the corner, a man with no legs, or any prosthetic to speak of at all, was playing the guitar and murmuring words that were either foreign or so deeply shrouded in mental illness that the were indecipherable, or inaudible.
Prohet's mask cocked off to the right, signifying his curiosity at Razors' arrival. "Our Blackburn, arriving on time? Unbeffiting, Prophet thinks..."
Razors shrugged, her non-chalice installed in her proffesional attitude for the day. "I'm in need of a favor, Prophet. Knowing your connections, it won't be difficult for you to obtain."
Prophet rose from his sagging chair, his swaggering steps moving in unison with the cripples guitar playing as he moved over to the table, evidently resuming some activity he was up to. "Blackburn wishes a favor... Prophet does owe Blackburn, yes he does..."
He popped a plastic funnel onto a label-less brown-glass bottle picking up a tin container and emptying it into the funnel as he listens, somewhat hedonistically to Razors' request.
"Out past City 45, or Bucharest, there's a small Outlands community of refugees. They call this strip of land 'Ineu Pass'. I require transport to this location, as well as two of your mercenaries to assist me temporarily while I set up my things within a nearby village. This piece of land is in a unique position to-"
Prophet held up his hand, shaking it dismissively. "Enough, Prophet pleads Blackburn, Enough. She will have her transport, and her temps, yes she will... Prophet cares little about your business, he only wishes to be finished with Blackburn. She brings trouble, yes..."
He removed the funnel from the mouth of the bottle, stuffing a damp rag down into it in it's place. "Ah, Prophet yearns for his youth, he does. Blackburn knows what this is, maybe?"
Razors took a few curious steps forward, to examine the bottle in greater detail. "It's a... Molitov, I think they're called. Fuel bomb."
Prophet nodded encouragingly. "It is so! Prophet made many of these, he did, when Prophet was young.The Blackburn made them too, perhaps?"
Razors shook her head in the negative. "No, my hobbies were invested in seeking alternative methods to pass obstacles, instead of burning them."
Prophet cackled, a mad man's laughter behind a hollow mask resulting in a dull ring around the room. Razors winced, but the guitar playing cripple seemed not to much mind at all. "The Blackburn talks all in tongues, she does! She must approach Prophet, so he might teach her this, simple recipe."
Razors shook her head, dismissing the idea immediately. "I've got no desire to burn anything, or blow anything up. You can keep your fire to yourself."
Prophet slams a foot down on the gravel floor of the tent, the way a child might during a temper-tantrum. For just a moment, the cripple ceased his playing, but not a second later did he resume. "Blackburn will learn this one cocktail, or you will get no transport. Besides, Prophet must insist; you will never know when your own fire can tip the scales of battle."
Razors' mind fluttered into her past briefly, back to her relationship with fire, back to her foster-father, back-
She shook her head, drifting out of her repressed subconcious and back into reality. She approached the table with caution, wary of Prophet's unpredictable behavior.
Prophet himself was as giddy as a school child, collecting the proper ingredients for his amateur explosive. "To make these, fuel bombs, as the Blackburn says, first you would need ah... gasoline, yes, and a bottle, cloth, alcohol, some motor oil, mhm... yes, these we need."
Razors stood, stone-faced as she listened to Prophet babble on and on about his praised recipe, and committed it all to memory (by accident, of course; the gift and curse of her eidetic memory). She followed Prophet's instructions in her head:
Fill the glass bottle with gasoline, add motor oil as a thickening agent. Soak the cloth in alcohol- a high proof alcohol, to catch fire. Then, stuff the cloth into the mouth of the bottle, tightly enough to keep it taut. Lighting the alcohol-moist cloth carries a flame, and when the bottle breaks, the gasoline is ignited...
"Child's play! Child's play, I say, I say!" Prophet was jumping up and down gleefully at the completion of their little projection, pulling the crippled player up onto the stubs of his knees to do a small dance. None seemed any the wiser of Razors' mixed reception to the spectacle; confusing, and disturbing, she thought.
"Blackburn must try this, this fiery spirit, as Prophet has on many a-day. Come, come!" Prophet pushed his way out the tent flap, out into the small community of tents that surrounded his own. Most of these people were madmen like Prophet, but many were also part of Prophet's personal army; Mercenaries hired out of pocket, the results of his lucrative trade in pillaging, thieving, and plundering caravans and small settlements. The whole pitiful excuse for a camp reeked of piss and feces and decaying bodies. Razors did her best to both shield herself from the pungent aroma, and also seem unaffected by it. Whether she was successful in her attempts, or Prophet was simply too giddy in his play, she wouldn't know.
"Come, come! Follow me, to the cliff's edge! Best place to toss the flaming spirits, Prophet always says!" His high-pitched, scretchy whine groaned in Razors' ears, but she managed to stomach both the noise and the smell. "Take it, take it! And give it a toss!" Prophet thrust their creation into her palm, taking a few anxious steps back to watch the spectacle.
From her back pocket, Razors withdrew her lighter, pausing just a moment to run her thumb over the Razor-blade indent lining the steel case. She clicks open the cap, and sparks the flint, one single ember catching the kerosene wick completely aflame. Not too long after, the alcohol-damp rag was alight also, and her lighter was back in her pocket. With a curious underarm toss, the bottle spins curiously out over the cliff's edge, down onto the stone ravine below.
The pyrotechnics that followed impressed even Razors. A blazing flower of eccentric flame exploded like a hand-grenade down below them, shrapnel of embers and flickering lights cascading out around the spot of the fall. The flame continued for several more minutes, an irregularly shaped polygon of raging fire gorging into the bland stone.
Prophet clapped excitedly. "You see? You liked it, didn't Blackburn like it?"
Razors nodded. "It wasn't bad..."
Prophet waved his hand around in the air, as if to capture the carefree atmostphere that encricled himself. "You think that good? Prophet will show you something more to your liking, something quiet, sneaky, yes? Yes, I think so." He promptly seized her by the wrist, tugging her eagerly back into the tent. They were behind the plastic table a second later, Prophet prattling on about ingredients and methods, which Razors rationalized for her own purposes:
Bleach and acetone were all that was unnecessary for this recipe. All that needs doing is splashing around a spoonful of acetone into a cupful of the bleach to yield the desired results. Let it set someplace cool and dark for a while, after which some dense bubbles will have formed at the bottom of the solution. Collecting the bubbles is the product of the combination creating-
"Chloroform!" Prophet yelled out. "Sweet smelling, colorless Chloroform! Just what I used to get all the bitches in grade school, you know."
Razors' brow furrowed quizically. "Chloroform? The stuff that knocks people unconcious?"
Prophet nodded furiously. "The very same stuff. Here, you'll see it in action!" Without further warning, he poured the thick solution sloppily onto a gauze bandage, then crushed it up against the Crippled Player's mouth and nose. Before Razors could make any move to protest, the player slumped down onto the gravel like a ragdoll.
"Jesus... I guess that shit really works. So, are you done with your damn talent show?"
Prophet nodded. "Yes I am, Blackburn. You'll have your ride, on the morrow. You might sleep here for the night. Oh, and please! Take some of my herbs, and spices, and flours of my glorious trade! You might be in need of fire and sleep when you go to this, valley."
Razors shook her head affirmatively. "Might be I will..."
What will these authorizations give your character in regards to perks or defects? Lockpicking Skills & Tools + Allows the character to access usually forbidden areas - Is yet another set of tools the character has to keep track of - Picking locks takes time, and leaves the character vulnerable for attack
Molitov Cocktails / Chloroform Production + Allows the character to weild dangerous and potentially life-threatening utensils + Chloroform could be used as a medical anesthetic - Character is clearly uncomfortable with the use of the molitov in the backstory, and therefor would only use it in situations where she is extremely irate. Given that circumstance, it's possibly that the character could act irrationally and do damage to herself - Chloroform requires several breathes to intoxicate a victim, living said target able to fight back
What do you plan to do with these perks/defects?
I plan to both encourage this characters dangerous and calculated method of calculation and intimidation, and also make more options for non-lethal activity, and thus allow more venues for interesting roleplay.
It would also add to my characters already abundant methods of passive roleplay. As could be cited in the back-story, Layla frequently picks locks like a 'game' or to 'pass the time'. Will anyone else need these auths? (If so, list OOC and IC name(s))
Steam Name: Frolie Steam ID: STEAM_0:0:41729694 Character Name: Layla 'Razors' Blackburn Reason for the switch:(OOC) Want to RP on one of my favorite characters, until Outlands returns. (IC) Keeping an eye on Joanna, Seeking in-city contacts
If required, write a detailed backstory on how your character left the Outlands:
Spoiler for Hiden:
Layla pushes open the thick metal storm-door of the safehouse. She's wrapped up in some of her warmest clothing, and looks to be carrying most of her belongings.
"I'm leaving, for a bit. Following your girl into the city."
Eli looks over his shoulder. He’s still covered in bandages and gauze from his recovery, he seems to have been working on something when she stepped in. He slowly gets up from his chair, turning around to look at her.
"... That's a rather dangerous decision to make, don't you think?"
"I got here from City 27. You think I can't walk a few dozen miles and slip into Precinct Three?"
Eli taps his forehead with his index finger twice, and says, "I think you'll get chased the second you step in there. Luco is in the city… You don't think I'd forget something so simple, did you?"
Layla looks down towards the hard-wood floor, almost guiltily.
"Maybe Luco is part of the reason I'm going."
Eli sighs, taking off his glasses for a moment to rub his eyes, and putting them back on. He again begins the same lecture he’s given Layla a thousand times. "Razors, blind revenge isn't going to get anything done... How can I trust you'll go there and won't just get yourself killed in the first 10 minutes you get in?"
Layla scowls at Eli, her icy expression speaking before she does.
"I'm not a child; I can take care of myself. I only let you know as a gratuity, I didn't have to."
She bites her lip, anxiously anticipating the answer to her next question.
"Maybe... you could go with me."
Eli stares at her for a few seconds, not saying a word and keeping a strong stance. "... You know I can't, people still need me here, and I won't abandon them.”
He pauses, searching for words.
"Joanna is there though, that's as close to me being there as we'll get right now... Besides, I'm sure she has 'something' to talk to you about."
Layla adjusts the cold-weather scarf sagging around her shoulders, straightening her posture to address Eli more professionally.
"I've got other reasons for going there, too. I want to get a connection with one of the resistance networks, or smuggling connections. Something, or someone, I could use to farm stuff into the Valley. Besides, I feel somehow obligated to look out for Jo... She was the only one who cared enough to treat me after I got shot by Matt.”
Layla pauses to find more words, and coming up lacking.
"So, I'm headed out... Don't miss me too much."
Eli keeps looking at her intently, seemingly thinking.
"Hold on."
He turns around, digging around in his desk for a moment. He takes out a small envelope from inside, turning around once again and approaching her, handing her the envelope.
"Give this to Joanna when you get there,” He says as she takes the envelope in her hand "Just try to not get yourself killed out there, Layla. You're more important to this place than some people think or are willing to admit.”[/b]
Layla shakes her head dismissively; if it weren't so unbefitting for her psyche, her expression might even be perceived as sad.
"The people have a funny way of showing it..."
Eli thinks for a moment, speaking words from experience.
"It happens in our line of work."
Layla slips the envelope into her bag, patting the pocket it's in as if to assure Eli of it's safe-keeping.
"I guess. When I get back, we might need to talk about some things... But it can wait."
Eli nods. It's clear he has his apprehensions about her going to the city, but it's important enough to let her do it.
"Better go before anyone else catches you hanging around here, they're not as forgiving as I am, unfortunately."
Layla nods, turning and twisting open the door to leave. Just before she exits, she turns to say something.
"Eli, you're... I-"
She seems to choke on her own words, too anxious to finish the sentence. She abruptly pushes her way out the door, cutting Eli off from saying anything in response.
Eli leans against the wall as she leaves, watching the door for a moment to make sure she doesn't decide to come back for some other reason. He talks somberly out loud to himself thoughtfully:
"... She's going to need all the help she can get..."
Layla turns the collar of her jacket upwards against her cheek, cushioning the fierce blow of the mountain winds. She pulls a glove off with her teeth, using the freed hand to dig around inside her jacket pocket. From inside it, she removes a weathered, and wrinkled map of the Romanian Mountains, pausing briefly behind a rock to study it.
Layla shuts her eyes; images flicker past in her head, tracing the path she took so many months ago from City 27 into the Outlands; Ruins, road, rock, town, junkyard, freeway, sign. Her eyelids quiver as the struggles to focus on the details. Sign...
Pitesti, Bucharest, Ploesti.
Bucharest.
Layla opens her eyes, staring back at the cotton map. She traces her fingers across the dotted-lines, marking public-access roads, leading up to a single intersection. She rubs her neck, thinking to herself.
I can find my way to the sign... Follow the road into the City.
She folds the map in half, then into qaurters, before stuffing it into her pocket and donning her glove again, trudging out across the snow down towards the road.
Pacing briskly down the blacktop of the road, Layla stops mid-stride, delicately turning her head behind her. Something had caught her eye, or she had heard something, or smelled something. Something was different, suddenly.
The survival instinct that had kept her alive her whole life forced her actions:
Get off the road.
Layla makes a 90 degree turn, darting off through the small barrier of snow-covered terrain between the road and the thick brush. She wriggles her way into a secure hiding place, safe from view of the road, before sliding her bag off her shoulder, and tearing it open, digging around inside desperately for her weapon.
The roar of a vehicle blares not too far away, only suddenly audible.
Panic clutches at Layla, like a fist being closed around her stomach. She digs frantically inside her bag, eventually finding a second, brown-paper bag stashed away inside it. She digs inside, pulling her Nine Millimeter USP Match, and the magazine inside the bag as well. She shoves the clip into the empty niche of the grip, then pulls back the slide. She pauses, just a second more, before clicking off the safety.
The vehicle, which was tearing down the road just a minute ago, seemed to be slowing to a stop. With an amateur application of the breaks, it skids to a stop. The driver gets out, as well as someone in the back-left seat.
"I told you not to drink the beer, you were just going to be pissin' half-way through the trip."
Layla's neck creened out from behind her safe cover, examining the pair and the vehicle. Both men were in their 30s or 40s, and there was a third passenger, a female, asleep in the seat opposite the driver's side.
One of the men, sporting a unshaven chin and a .357 in his waistband, approached the brush where Layla cowered, marching into the thick forest.
"I'll just be a second, then we'll be on the road ag'in."
Layla curls her head back behind the tree, just as the man pushes apart the brush to head further into the woods. The other man says something inaudible as Layla holds her breath, not making a single sound. The man passes right by her, undoing his fly nearby a tree.
Layla rises from the snowy dead grass, her pistol at waist-height primed for the man's mid-section
"Don't turn, don't talk, don't move."
The man jumps somewhat, startled by the sudden voice. It takes him only a second or two to adjust to the change of scenario.
"I've got nothing worth taking, so if you see it fit to rob me, you'll get nothing out of it."
"You've got a revolver in your waist-band and a fueled truck on the road. Both seem like pretty good loot, if I were to take them."
"Then shoot me and try your best to deal with my friend. I promise you, it won't be easy."
Layla clicks on the safety, lower the barrel of her firearm down towards the dirt.
"I'm not a robber, and I don't seek to kill you or your friend."
The man zips his trousers back into place and turns. Long, thin, and matted hair line his aquiline facial features, and the rugged unshaven shadow that has developed across his chin and cheeks gave him the appearance of a refugee; an experienced one at that. A brief scar went from his left cheek-bone down towards the edge of his nose, and carvings of wrinkles and creases lined his face here and there.
"If you don't mean to kill me, or rob me, what do you mean to do?"
Layla shrugs.
"Hitch a ride, maybe."
The man chuckles, a deep, bassy, and condescending laugh.
"Why should I? I've got no reason to call you friend. You snuck up on me while I was having a piss, and pointed a pea-shooter at me."
"I didn't shoot you, did I? That should tell you enough to know that I'm not a petty crook. Out here, one hand washes the other. You give me a ride, and I'll pay you back."
The man cocks his head.
"Pay me? With what."
Layla's eyes crawled across every detail of his physique; The hair, the face, the shirt, the hoodie, the jeans, the teeth-
The teeth. Tobacco Stains.
"You're a smoker?"
"Yeah, what of it."
"I'll give you what's left of my pack of cigarettes and One-Thousand Token Bills if you can drive me as close to Bucharest as you're comfortable."
"Bucharest? That's City 45, ain't it? Most folks are trying to get out of the cities, not crawl back in."
"You want what I've got, or no?"
The man pauses to think, eventually giving a brief nod in affirmation. He walks back down the hill, through the brush, expecting Layla to follow.
Back at the truck, the other passenger looks confused at Layla as they work down towards the car. "We've picked up a Hitch-Hiker?"
The opposite man nodded, "Aye, this is..." He turned, facing Layla. "You didn't give a name, you know."
Layla pushed open the passenger side door, calling out her moniker and she slammed it closed again: "Razors."
Both men again re-enter their vehicle, assuming their position for the road-trip once again.
"I'm Jag, his name's Shaun. Now everyone get comfortable, we've got a few hours ahead of us."
They had passed the sign about 15 minutes ago. Layla knew that they drew close, not just because of the looming city landscape but because of the rank odor of metal and fuel and blood.
The car slowly slide to a halt. Shaun turns from the passenger's seat, addressing Layla.
"I drove you where you wanted, now give me what you promised."
Layla leans in, setting a stack of CCA token bills, and her last package of Beans' cigarettes on the dashboard (minus four, of course; she had to keep some for herself).
"Thanks for the lift. If you need a place to stay when you're riding through the valley, I'll make sure there's a spot for you."
Jag nodded, though somewhat dismissively. It was obvious that he didn't enjoy her company, and would prefer it if this business were wrapped up quickly.
Layla crept out of the vehicle, and quietly shoved the door closed. The red glare of the headlights illuminated her path for a moment as the car backed up, and lurched back the way it came. Layla wasted no time in finding the nearest canal access; she'd heard tale of how simple it was to access the city through these useful portals. Clicking on her flashlight, she began the slow, 15 minutes of claustrophobic mission through the damp tunnels, into Precinct Three.
Extra Notes:
It should be noted that the character is in possesion of both a Nine Millimeter, and an SMG (as well as two boxes of ammunition for the pistol, and one box for the SMG).
What are you suggesting?: Makeshift Graveyard What style will it be in?: Rebellion, Barren, Wastlandish Will it have any special features such as moving doors or traps? If so, list them below.:
Not really a special feature, but one open grave might be nice (in preparation, there's no body or anything like that inside.
Reference Pictures:
Extra Notes:
The graveyard should be a somber location, where significant characters could be laid to rest should they die, and other characters could go to mourn their deaths.
** Idea was very much inspired by the Goodsprings Cemetery in Fallout: New Vegas, and the Boot Hill Cemetery
This is really more of a conceptual idea, nothing concrete.
I was curious as to how much it would run me if I wanted to buy Cc flags for the Outlands. The character that they would (hypothetically) be given to is both an electrical and mechanical engineer, so (of course, pending donation) I would put a couple of weeks of Roleplay into repairing what would likely be a truck, and then I'd post an authorization application.
So, in summary, I really just need to know if getting flags via donation is possible, how much that would cost, and whether or not the above stated ideas would be acceptable.
Steam Name: Frolie Steam ID: STEAM_0:0:41729694 Character Name: Alex Korbin Reason for the switch: Mis-Click
If required, write a detailed backstory on how your character left the outlands:
-
Time when it happened(if mis-click):
I don't quite recall. Several months ago, at least. I hadn't thought about getting the character moved back to the city after the misclick until the City came back.
Ok wrap things up. Outlands should arrive in the next couple days and RP in here will cease without extending into the server. Experiences in here however may cross over as long as the rules stated in the OP are followed.
Out of Character for OOC:
I figure that once the actual server is up and in service, Elions will lock the thread, and any RP sequentially following events that have already been wrapped up will be cut short (hopefully for players to follow up on in the server).
** Ali, whom has been calming herself outside for sometime, walks down across the road to clear her head. As she continues up the concrete pathway, she spies Ori and Scruffy further up the way. Curious, and having very little to do, she approaches them, not seeming to notice the scanner **
"Er... What's going on? I thought I heard some shouting."
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