New RP

[Arrowhead]

If you've ever played Skies of Arcadia... well, something like that.

setting: A world has taken to the air! Pirates are around every corner, corrupt police haunt the scene, and underhanded merchants in every tavern. If you don't have an airship or are not part of a crew, your link to the rest of the world has been severed but for the unreliable mailing service.

Land floats in the air, as do some quite delicious fish, but the surface of the planet is completely uninhabitable due to poisonous gasses and other odd meteorogical or geological happenings.

characters: Pirates, Flying Guild police, Flying Guild members (choose whatever position you'd like), Merchant, Mechanic, and Freelance (meaning an occupation askew from the society regular).

And START!

[Arrowhead]

(grrr! Earlier today I was trying to get the first post in before I had to go to work. When I hit the post button I got the timed out screen!  so, here it is again)

Twas a world of wonder, of excitement, of neverending mystery as none could comprehend. Life and all of society had taken to the skies. The planet below all but disregarded entirely lay still and untouched by the hands of the sentient. Floating islands and enormous mesa are where the life of all people of all species, genus and blood revolve. That, and their wonderful flying machines.

It is rare to see any one sky without an airship at least several miles away. From small personal jets to large merchant ships, the air is always filled with the buzz of life.

This world is ruled by scurvy Pirates, corrupt Police, underhanded politicians from the Flying Guild, good-natured mechanics, friendly pilots, and mischevious merchants. Each one fights for their place in this world, the biggest fear that unites them all is having their wings clipped indeffinitely.

There is a small yet oddly busy island, known by all as the Merchants Island but officially titled Argon City. Scientists, corporations, and merchant stalls cover every square inch of the island inside and out, the inner core being renowned as the largest flea-market in the world. The outer-rim of the island is nothing but large commercial docking facilities with very few personal craft docking. The jewel of the crown, though, was the lone skyscraper in the dead center of the Island, starting from the very bottom of where the soil use to end to extend fifty stories above the rest of the city. On each one of its four faces was the insignia of the Flyers Guild, the only form of government on the planet. All-in-all there is no trace of the original soil of the island left.

The day was clear, sky fish floating across the highest reaches of the skyscraper with a few daring and small schools wandering down to the city itself. A few of these fish pass by a quick-paced man. A tall man, with wide shoulders to compensate for his thin frame. Quick, calculating and cold eyes move back and forth among the ships and gangplanks and ports, while small ears that seem to defy their size picking up minute sounds most others would miss. Between his ears lays a blue barrette, the front of his christened with a small silver pendant similar to that of the Flyers Guild insignia. Two outstrechted wings, but instead of a propeller in the center there lays an eye. He was a Watcher, a gaurdsman of the docks. Officially with a title of Flying Guild Dock Watcher and Enforcer, others heed his presence with wary eyes.

His long, fox-like snout didn't have the lines one usually gets from smiling, and it looked as if he was born without humour. Around his form was an all-blue trenchcoat, custom-tailored to allow his wide shoulders when buttoned up and the collar to be extra large and stiff. This left his mouth smuggled until you would look at him straight on. Also, the bottom was pulled back to allow for his wide strides, showing off his black, military style cargo-pants being held tight to his thin wait with a plain silver buckle. Lastly, strapped to his waist were two tamphas (police patons) that he looked quite skilled in the use of. All that remains of his 6'10" form were the black, steel-toed boots his pants were tucked into.

This is boring he thinks to himself. There is nothing happening. Sunday afternoon and they expect me to gaurd these docks? Not even the street-rat kids are out and about! With that frustrated thought and an equally frustrated scowl he slows his pace a little and stretches his aching, fleshy wings that start just above the ground and reach at least a foot above his head when folded upon his back. In a city dominated by Badgers, Wolves, Foxes, Otters and Squirrels, he is a lone bat.

And I swear if one more moron comes up to me and sticks his neck out at me tauntingly I'm gonna sink my teeth into him and imagine succulant strawberries! Gods I want a strawberry, or maybe a mango. No more damned mellons!

[Sylvine]

Not that I knew that we had a part of the forum like this *looks around*.

Anyway.

I'm probably not the ideal person for that - You can see how my english sucks when it comes to being descriptive - , but since there seems to be no competition whatsoever... here goes. Worst that can happen is the thread getting deleted. Heh.

Hmh... I assume, this is future-fantasy? Well, if I commited any artrocities, You'll let me know.

----



Instead of a random moron showing up, something different catches his attention in a more disturbing way: Muffled laughter, filled with evil delight, somewhere in the docks to his left – almost unhearable - , followed by the sound of crude metal being battered with a steel pipe. Even as he turns around to locate the source of the noise, a soft, double thud and a loud cursing reach his ears.

-Ye Bastards! Scram, before I blow Your brains out!

He glimpses a group of shabby, ragged figures at the far end of the docks, all taking a run for it, every single of them laughing. Even before he can memorize any detail that would be useful for later identification, they’re gone in the alleyways between the nearby buildings.

  His attention shifts toward the source of the devoted swearing. It turns out to be a masculine figure, his shape and fur resembling that of an australian dingo. As little as his features go beyound average, as much does his clothing exceed the boarder of normality. The rubber band of a monocle with a variety of lenses pushes back his shoulder-length, gold-brown hair, providing a clear view; some kind of a gas mask, obviously self-made, hangs from his neck. His vest – which seems to consist of pockets and yet more pockets – was probably originally dark-green; now, the layers of dirt, oil and unidentifiable substances make for a pattern any army would gladly use as camouflage. Same can be said about his pants. Meaning: the multitude of pockets does not take an end with the vest, and neither does the “color”. Black boots hide beneath the wide trouser legs. Black rubber gloves reaching the ellbow area do their job to make his appearance unique at the very least, but the really interesting part of his equipment are the monstrous revolvers hanging from two ammunition belts, crossed on his tighs. One of those is still in his right hand, pointing in the direction of the runnaway vandals. A strange sight, since the dingo is 1,7m at most, and can’t be described as extraordinally muscular – on the contruary, he seems to be rather skinny - , and yet, he is holding that monster of a firearm that seems to be almost bigger than his forearm ( and certainly heavier ) single-handed. Now, realizing he’s drawing attention at himself, the dingo lowers his arm and holsters the weapon. His eyes wander to the dropped bags of mixed supplies on the floor; slowly, and sighing, he begins to pick up the goods.
 The vehicle behind him deserves some attention as well. To put it bluntly: It looks like a piece of junk. But an impressive piece of junk, to say the very least. The small, wingless aircraft appears to consist solely of one extra small cockpit, a slightly larger cargo area and lots and lots of jets. Three large, fixed ones at the back, two mid-sized ones on each side, three small ones on the underside – one of them seems to be revolvable, and is facing the opposite of the flight direction; probably, it’s acting as a brake. No visible weapons. The surface of the machine is a dull, metallic silver; in front of the cockpit, a logo of a lunar eclipse and the word “Stargazer” is visible. The very same logo is featured on the left side, but the dark red letteres were crossed out with a neon green spray; beneath it, someone wrote the word “sCavEnGeR” with the very same paint. To the left and right of the eye-offending signature, a few dents and scratches scar the surface of the aircraft...

---

and here, I'll leave it to Your char to react. Feel free to alter my post by including Your Char's actions or whatever seems appropriate. Maybe I'll include a rough sketch of my char later.

~Sylv

[Arrowhead]

Normally you don't control another persons character at all unless given explicit permission, which I don't normally give. I'll let this one slide, although the character I'm using would have reacted quite differently, and for-sure would have been able to nab one of the culprits... he flies (as in he uses his wings), and he does this for a living. Now I gotta think of a reason why he doesn't pursue.

Anywho, don't let me get ye down, I'm just a bitter man who's overly picky about conduct in RPing

-----------------

The bat heaves a sigh, and slowly walks his impeding form over to the dingo. Despite having seen the fiasco only a split second, he knew the area well enough to know the prime suspects. Especially the type of kids who would vandalize a ship. Mentally he made a note to pay the vagrants a visit sometime soon.

As he waltz' over to the oddball and his even more peculiar artifacts, he couldn't help but analyze everything about the marsupial and 'Stargazer'.

Interesting. All engine and no wing? How in the world does he keep it stabalized? he thinks to himself as he approaches the entourage.

"Sir, is everything alright?" He states in an interrogating manner, mostly from habit and lack of caring how he sounds.

[Sylvine]

Allright... personally I find it quite awkward if the posts consist of one-two sentences because You always have to wait for the character to react, even if he is not even supposed to react at all ;P the kids were just a means to draw attention, anyway ^_^ But I'll keep that in mind.
(Probably just a game master habit of mine, I guess )
Oh, I won't let You get me down. You need more than that to accomplish htat task ^_~.

--------

The dingo managed to pick up the scattered supplies and is now stuffing them into the cramped cargo area of his ship, which is probably more entertaining than solving jigsaw puzzles - to use that metaphor, here, it's like having three pieces missing to complete the puzzle, but only two of them seem to fit. A quick look at the  inside of the ship would reveal a chaos worthy of a whole new theory: between loads of what seems to be junk, wierd pieces of machinery and equipment that seem to consist more of dents and scratches than anything else, the occasional sparkling diamond of gleaming, clean and well-preserved tool, and long-forgotten ( and probably already cultivated ) Pizza boxes, there's only little room for the goods - mostly food - the peculiar person is trying to stuff inside, passionately ignoring the laws of physics, and apparently insisting that You can create new space by the sheer willpower. Interesting enough, he actually manages to complete his quest for storage, so that he can straighten up and actually respond. A quick look at the inquirer results in an even quicker twitching of his right ear, although he shows a broad, almost genuine grin a split second afterwards.
Great... just what I needed, now. There's a slim chance this does not mean trouble, but I wouldn't bet a dollar on it. Not even a quarter, actually..... Of course, he does not intend to say that at all. His verbal response is indeed quite different.

"Huh? Oh, yeah. Sure thing, officer... just a good thing I'm not trigger-happy, I guess, eh? And my precious " - he pats the bizzare construction that vaguely resembles an Aircraft - "could use some, hm, visual upgrade, anyway. Or at least fresh paint." - he adds, with a side look at the neon-green graffiti. 

His voice is smooth and low - not the cheerful-dumb chatter people would anticipate from his appearance, though now, a light, relaxed, quite friendly tone. He produces a lighter and a slightly rumpled pack of cigarettes, offering the latter to his interlocutor. "Smoke?"

----------


hope that was better ^^' throw some stones at me if it wasn't, I'll try to look hurt ^_~

~Sylvine

[Arrowhead]

Ahh, I see... Sorry to tell yas, but currently I am the DM for this little shabang. 

However, RPing online is very much different than tabletop. Tabletop yes, the DM controls the majority of the direction of the events. Online, generally only key-points are controlled by whom started the RP, but for the most part anybody can change the story to their liking as long as everybody is in agreement.

Generally you can tell people will allow it if nobody complains. For the most part people take anything they dislike as a challenge to make right through clever plotting. This makes up for the lack of dice: pure creativity. And boy, you are going to find out that because of this, I can be pretty much an asshole but will stay well-within the lines of what people are allowed to do ^.^

--------

The bat's eye twitches a little

is he for real?

"Sir, I am going to assume that you crawled out from under a rock and decided to join civilization after ignoring it for the past fifty years. First of all, smoking tobacco has been illegal for the past fifty years. If you have smoking tobacco you could be arrested. I suggest you do something with what's in your hand while I'm not looking... and now."

He says this while staring knowingly at the dingo.

"Secondly, firearms are prohibited on my dock. I am still unsure of how you managed to not get any weapons and other questionable or non-questionable substances past the screening, and for that I will need to bust a few heads at the checkpoints. In the meantime you need to produce your liscense and registration for handling firearms. If you have none, which I am under the impression you don't, then once again I did not see any firearms on your person and you need to stow away whatever questionable objects you may or may not be carrying. Lucky for you I do appreciate antiques."

"Now, about your... artwork. I really don't want to go through the paperwork to have it torn down to see if it is within ship regulations as deemed by the flyers guild, so I am going to report it as an artpiece. I don't see any visible way it could fly any farther than a block. I honestly do not know if half those panels are real. As for the miscreants who vandalized your artwork, I know of a few kids who do cause commotion and I would like for you to stay in the city long enough to identify and possibly testify against the culprits,"

As he says this last bit, he pulls out a small pad of paper from his chest pocket and a pen.

"Can you give me a quick description of said criminals? Species, approximate hieght, weight, age, and any markings, shavings, fur color, dyed fur, scars, peircings, scents, open wounds, or other way to identify said criminal?"

[Sylvine]

Ahhh... my ignorance got me, I guess. But two can play that game, You know ;)

Though You have an edge over me, of course, since You know more of that world ( and can probably invent something as we proceed ^^ ).

Hum. Next thing 'll probably be that the occupation of my Char is unacceptable. Ohwell. We'll see ^^'

oh, right. Sorry I took so much time.


----------------

Here we go again, the Dingo thinks, aloowing the bat's gaze to pierce him. That's what isolation can do to You.... You forget every little stupid thing You're not allowed to do. Aloud, he says:
"Oh well. Good riddance"- calmly, he crushes the pack in his palm and throws it into the next trash bin. Asthoundingly, he doesn't miss.
That, and there's more where that came from, anyway. - he thinks as the officer continues his little speech. As he is informed of the weapon prohibition on the docks and prompted to produce a license for the posession of firearms, he wordlessly stashes his revolvers in the cargo area of his Aircraft, then starts checking his pockets for a wallet.
When the topic changes to the "Stargazer", his expressions hardens, and he stops his frantic search for a second or two. He does not interrupt the interrogator, though, but continues his search, finally finding his black leather wallet in the very same moment the officer stated his question.

"Umm... right. Can't say I can be of much help there. I only had a short glimpse at them before they fleed at the sight of my Gun - which was, for the record, not even loaded, and for which I indeed do have a permit." - He produces what seems to be a genuine License from his wallet. The photo shows a slightly younger version of the owner, with shorter hair and a broad grin, but without the monocle-ish device on his forhead. According to the document, his Name is Simeon Brandeau Losstarot. 
"Well, I could definately give You a good description of their backs" - he starts, attempting a little joke - doing so kind of seems to be coded in his genes. However, he quickly becomes serious. "No, really. Not much that could help You, I guess. Two canines, two felines. Each of them with dust-grey fur, though I couldn't tell whether it was the natural color or the lack of hygiene. The felines were both about 1,65m high, the canines...well, one of them about a head shorter than You. Don't know about the other one, he was ccrouching when I got here, and started running as if he forgot everything about evolution, if You know what I mean. Didn't see enough of them to distinguish any facial details - well, or any other ones, for all it matters.... wait, no. One of the felines had the tip of the left ear torn off. THat's about everything I could tell You. Look" - his voice changes from the slightly absent tone which it had saas he was trying to remember any useful information - it always pays to try to be helpful to a cop - to a more sober, present tone. "They didn't do that much damage, anyways. And I wouldn't want You to waste Your valuable time for such minor affairs. I always tried to respect the law and it's officers - althought You probably won't really belive me here - , especially by trying not to cause any trouble. Plus, I only stopped here for some supplies and intended to be gone again in two, three days at most. What I'm trying to ask is: Is all this really necessary?"

--------

That was probably as far from the right response as it could get. Oh well. I'll just see where it leads me to. ^^

~Sylv

[Arrowhead]

It's all good. Besides, you just described characters other people can pick up (nudge nudge, wink wink, say-no-more). This should be interesting. Wasn't what I was expecting so I will need to change tactics here...

--------------------

As the dingo talks, the tall bat writes furiously in his pad, not looking up or acknowledging the pilot in any way, shape or form, except to view the firearms liscense. He noted it was just renewed, which brought a small smile to his face.

Great. At least I dun have to mess around with this.

His scribbling stops a few seconds after Simeon stops talking.

"Thank you very much sir. Indeed, this is all very neccessary. It's my job." he states matter-of-factly, "I believe I know the ruffians you described. They cause a lot of trouble here on the docks. Rich parents, the lot of them, so they think they can get away with almost anything. I've had to bring several of them to the brig once or twice, but they always get bail." As he says all this he put his notepad back into his jacket and took off his hat to run his hand through buzz-cut head-fur, then replaces his hat.

"Thank you for the help, Mr. Losstarot. If you need any help, there are roaches about that will come and get me if you tell them to," he states as he points to a box not too far away, attached to a light pole. As if on que, a tiny, mechanical roach springs out of the box, does a little flip, and lands back inside. "Disgusting little things, in my opinion, but they get the job done. Good-day, sir," he states and starts to walk down the docks again.

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This is an open point, so if nobody wants to take the reigns and created some conflict or simply a new scene, I will.