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 Posted: Mon Jun 24, 2013 4:38 am |  |
This is a general call for Atonement logs. No matter how short, or long, anything that you feel is worth sharing can be shared here. Let your old characters give inspiration to new characters in Rust, or just reminiscence about those great memories and old scenes--I'm sure a lot of people out get just as misty-eyed, but didn't have the foresight to log them at the time!
P.S: Here's also a great place to share your old character sheets if you kept them.
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Holmes
Dictator in Absentia
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Posted: Mon Jun 24, 2013 4:43 am | |
A roguish, lean-bodied man tells a fair-skinned, long-sable-haired young
man, shaking his head, arms folding behind his head,
"Dude, relax, you'll live longer. I know what I do and I do it best."
You tell a roguish, lean-bodied man, a touch blandly, as he sinks into a seat at a comfortable, wide couch with high armrests,
"You also pointed us in the wrong direction. Bu', wha'ever. Stop
chatterin'."
You sit at a comfortable, wide couch with high armrests.
A sable-haired, prosthetic-footed woman asks a roguish, lean-bodied man, in
a lilting, asian accent,
"What exactly is that?"
A roguish, lean-bodied man tells a sable-haired, prosthetic-footed woman,
counting on his fingers,
"Recruitin', moral, radio, parties, music and fuckin', in reverse order."
You tell a roguish, lean-bodied man, in a smooth, rolling Grunger brogue,
"You're pretty fuckin' terrible at all o'them. I can vouch on three
counts m'self, 'least."
A roguish, lean-bodied man tells you, waving the man off,
"Bollocks dude, you're enjoyin' this."
A sable-haired, prosthetic-footed woman tells a roguish, lean-bodied man,
in a lilting, asian accent,
"Those are not particularly difficult jobs. I feel as though my morale
has waned in your presence."
A roguish, lean-bodied man asks a sable-haired, prosthetic-footed woman,
waving a hand lazy,
"Would you all fuckin' cheer up?"
You tell a roguish, lean-bodied man, lazily settling a carbine, reddened .45 assault rifle at his side,
"All I'm sayin' is I'm 'bout twenty words from shootin' you. And I ain't
so good at counting."
A fair-skinned, long-sable-haired young man seems to find a good notion
in taking a couple extra steps away from you.
A roguish, lean-bodied man tells you, shaking his head with a sigh, he
still sits with his feet hitched up and arms behind his head,
"I'll shoot this, shoot that. I've had that said to me so many times it's
lost all meanin'."
A sable-haired, prosthetic-footed woman asks, in a lilting, asian accent,
"Perhaps you would care to regale us with the cautionary tale of Stagger
Lee?"
You ask a fair-skinned, long-sable-haired young man, hoisting a carbine, reddened .45 assault rifle and leveling it at a roguish, lean-bodied man,
"Zif, 'ow many was that?"
You stop using a carbine, reddened .45 assault rifle.
<***** / ^^^^^^ / ||||||> OK.
You wield a carbine, reddened .45 assault rifle.
<***** / ^^^^^^ / ||||||> You take aim at a roguish, lean-bodied man.
<***** / ^^^^^^ / |||||| / aimed> A fair-skinned, long-sable-haired young man tells you, taking another step
back,
"Nineteen."
<***** / ^^^^^^ / |||||| / aimed> A roguish, lean-bodied man tells a fair-skinned, long-sable-haired young
man, lifting his hands from behind his head, waving them lazily in the air,
"Shit."
<***** / ^^^^^^ / |||||| / aimed> You squeeze the trigger of a carbine, reddened .45 assault rifle, a
bullet shooting towards a roguish, lean-bodied man.
The bullet ruptures his abdomen.
<***** / ^^^^^^ / ||||||> A long-limbed, straw-haired young man's finger tugs steadily on a
carbine, reddened .45 assault rifle's trigger, sending a bullet clean into
a roguish, lean-bodied man.
<***** / ^^^^^^ / ||||||> Jerking suddenly as the bullet hits his bared stomach, a roguish, lean-bodied
man gasps in a weak breath. Looking down at the suddenly bloody wound in his
chest he slumps to the side, off his chair to the floor.
<***** / ^^^^^^ / ||||||> A fair-skinned, long-sable-haired young man tells a sable-haired,
prosthetic-footed woman, with a sigh,
"I tried ta warn him."
<***** / ^^^^^^ / ||||||> You tell a fair-skinned, long-sable-haired young man, settling a carbine, reddened .45 assault rifle at his side,
"Make sure he don't die."
A roguish, lean-bodied man exclaims, through tightly clenched teeth, his
lips pulled tight in a wince as he fights not to cry out. He fails,
"YOU FUCKING SHOT ME!"
A fair-skinned, long-sable-haired young man emphatically tells a roguish,
lean-bodied man, as he works,
"Stay the fuck still!"
<***** / ^^^^^^ / ||||||> You tell a roguish, lean-bodied man, lazily nodding as he lounges back on a comfortable, wide couch with high armrests, like nothing had happened,
"I do tha'."
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Holmes
Dictator in Absentia
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Posted: Mon Jun 24, 2013 4:48 am | |
Thin as a needle-point with gaunt features, this man stands at
a decidedly average height. The dark lines that streak beneath
his skin, however, are far from average, and mark him as one of
the uncommon Outland cyborgs. A pair of dark green eyes watch
the world around him with a sleepless wariness, set amidst his
weathered features. What was once likely an almost aristocratic
face has been worn hard by the Lunar days, skin darkened by harsh
sunlight. Scars litter that slender frame, and when exposed, his
knee is apparent as a high-end cybernetic replacement forged of
titon. Calluses litter his hands, particularly the right, and
his stance is vaguely bow-legged, lending him a certain swagger.
Though the man himself is apparently no stranger to hardship, his clothing is kept to a certain high standard, despite the poor quality of the cut. His under-arm holster rests low against his left hip, loosely connected to the sheath that similarly rests there. The full, molded grip that protrudes is black, and seemingly rarely-used. The other hangs slightly higher and on the opposite side of his body, a weighted deep purple grip protruding, slightly more worn.
The lightly armoured, typically-built, grayish white-mesh-wrapped person
blows out a slow breath, peering toward the ruined gate here. "It is a sad
sight." He takes a step closer to you and says, quietly,
"Trigger...I've got a problem."
"We're living in Tram writ in small. We have many problems." the well
armoured, scantly-built, blue gray-mesh-wrapped person announces, blandly,
a worn W-hilted shortsword with a thin blade sinking away for the moment as
his eyes traverse the once-grand building ahead.
The lightly armoured, typically-built, grayish white-mesh-wrapped person
blows out a breath and says, quietly, to you, "I can't do this, Trigger.
I can't..." He goes silent for a rather lengthy moment.
Turning his attention over to the lightly armoured, typically-built, grayish
white-mesh-wrapped person at the man's words, the well armoured,
scantly-built, blue gray-mesh-wrapped person's brow cocks upward beneath his
mesh, "What?" He asks, blankly, gaze sweeping the street before returning
to him.
The lightly armoured, typically-built, grayish white-mesh-wrapped person
tugs down a wrap of thick, grayish white mesh a bit to get a better look at
you.
holster (carried) :
a bull-barreled, blued .45 pistol (loaded)
holster (carried) :
a worn, slab-sided, blued .25 pistol (loaded)
The lightly armoured, typically-built, grayish white-mesh-wrapped person
murmurs, quietly, over to the well armoured, scantly-built, blue
gray-mesh-wrapped person,
"I am a part of this, Trigger, of all of this death and destruction. This
is all by Oil's hand, and he used me as part of it."
You tell the lightly armoured, typically-built, grayish white-mesh-wrapped person, taking a half-step back, his lips tugging down into a frown at the man's words,
"Oil is... less than filled with the greatest of scruples- but, this?
This is beyond him."
The lightly armoured, typically-built, grayish white-mesh-wrapped person
gives a couple of very small shakes of his head toward you. "No. It's
not." He takes a deep breath, then says, "What I'm about to tell you is
worth my life, Nicholas. But I have to tell someone before I die."
You tell the lightly armoured, typically-built, grayish white-mesh-wrapped person, drawing off a wrap of thick, blue gray mesh, his stance straightening as he regards the lightly armoured, typically-built, grayish white-mesh-wrapped person, attention held fast by the man,
"I have a vested interest in ensuring you do not die, Director."
The lightly armoured, typically-built, grayish white-mesh-wrapped person
murmurs, taking a long breath before starting,
"It started when there was the assault upon the underground New Phoenix
base west of the factories. I went in with Lieutenant Zeek and the tech
Laon. We'd barely breached the door with the Lieutenant ordered me out.
I was half furious. Then he told me about it all. The Crater Lake
mineral rights, and the minerals that get sent off to New Phoenix that
Grungetown never sees. The minerals that very likely paid for the
fortress we live in. Zeek, myself, Oil, and the three heads all know
about it. Zeek told me if I breathed a word of it to anyone other than
those mentioned, he'd have to put a bullet in my head himself..."
You tell the lightly armoured, typically-built, grayish white-mesh-wrapped person, interjecting only briefly, though he betrays not the slightest hint of emotion beyond a tightening of his features,
"Lieutenant Zeek is a glorified Caravan-jockey who couldn't hit the
surface of crater lake from under it."
The lightly armoured, typically-built, grayish white-mesh-wrapped person
murmurs, letting out a shaky breath, looking around suspiciously for a moment,
"We got back from there, and that was when Oil told me we had to begin
the move to the new compound, emptying the Manor and all of our shops.
The environment was going to become inhospitable, he said, and we had to
move on. So the move was ordered, and I got sent on a diplomatic
mission. To New Phoenix. I assured them that the Wilmingtons played
absolutely no part in that assault, and gave them the code word "Ash". I
didn't know what it was at the time."
The lightly armoured, typically-built, grayish white-mesh-wrapped person
murmurs, continuing on, his voice finding strength the longer he continues his
narrative, though still remaining quiet,
"I suspected at the time that Oil was planning to bomb or burn the Manor
and our shops, as a political maneuver to gain sympathy and support of
the other Families. I never guessed....I never guessed that it was
-this-.."
Drawing a wrap of thick, blue gray mesh up against his features, a
needle-thin cyborg with harsh features's gaze flits over the street with a
newfound edge, nose wrinkled. He never stops listening rather closely to the
lightly armoured, typically-built, grayish white-mesh-wrapped person, and his
eyes lock back on the figure in the end. "We are Tram, writ in small, and
covered in filth." He remarks, head shaking.
Paranoia edging in, you thought: This could be a trap. A game. A test of
loyalty.
The lightly armoured, typically-built, grayish white-mesh-wrapped person
murmurs, blowing out a slow breath, looking around,
"But he's done it, Trigger. In one fell swoop, Oil managed the deaths of
many thousands and assumed his authority over all Grungetown again. I
once assured Rooster that my loyalty, above all, was to the safety of
Grungetown before the Wilmingtons. The very same question was once posed
to me by Jain, with the same answer. Now...this."
You tell the lightly armoured, typically-built, grayish white-mesh-wrapped person, drawing a wrap of thick, blue gray mesh back about his features, exhaling sharply before it muffles the next inhale,
"I answered the same question. The same way."
The lightly armoured, typically-built, grayish white-mesh-wrapped person
murmurs, his head shaking slowly,
"Everything I've done, I've done for -Family-, not for Oil. I've worked
my ass off for every damned man, woman, and child in this Family, and
they've done the same for me. But all of us...all of us are working for
Oil instead...and he's only working for himself. I have my suspicions
that he was even behind Dom's assassination."
Thinking of the smooth draw that's to come, you thought: I have to be sure.
Will he draw on me? Does Frank have it in him? Is he committed? Or is he still
a pawn of Oil? This could be a game in the same manner as the brands.
You ask the lightly armoured, typically-built, grayish white-mesh-wrapped person, his hand coming to rest at his hip, against the holster that rests there, gaze turning briefly skyward before descending back to the lightly armoured, typically-built, grayish white-mesh-wrapped person,
"We all have our Masters. What do you plan?"
The lightly armoured, typically-built, grayish white-mesh-wrapped person
shakes his head rapidly, "I do not know. I have oft considered, of late,
murdering Oil, to be perfectly honest. I imagine Horace, or Travis, or Rego
would just step up to take his place, and have me killed immediately. But a
good part of me doesn't care about that. I can't keep going as I am, sleeping
in a comfortable bed that's paid for by thousands of lives." He peers off
eastward, toward the Manor ruins. "I considered inviting Rooster in on it,
until he came to me suggesting Oil's responsibility for it all, but offered me
his silence in exchange for the Burlesque. His loyalty is cheap. And even if
I did that, it would mean the deaths of many of my fellow Family, and still
we'd have a poor leader."
The lightly armoured, typically-built, grayish white-mesh-wrapped person
says, quietly, with a couple of nods of his head, as if reassuring himself,
"My plan is to kill Oil Wilmington."
holster (carried) :
a bull-barreled, blued .45 pistol (loaded)
You thought: This is the moment where he must be tested.
In the span of time that the lightly armoured, typically-built, grayish
white-mesh-wrapped person's attention turns toward the manor, the well
armoured, scantly-built, blue gray-mesh-wrapped person's hand slides the
bulky weapon free from a black, thick handgun holster, the thing brought to
bear on the man with a practiced ease, his stance shifting mechanically as he
inquires. "And, Director, if I planned to stop you? Here, and now?"
You draw a bull-barreled, blued .45 pistol from a black, thick handgun holster.
The lightly armoured, typically-built, grayish white-mesh-wrapped person
says, peering off toward the broken Manor, not moving himself yet,
"Then I'd ask you a gentleman's courtesy of allowing me to stand with my
own pistol and die with a gun in my hand."
You ask the lightly armoured, typically-built, grayish white-mesh-wrapped person, the pistol not shifting, the man's hand steady and well-used to the posture he maintains,
"Would you offer Mister Wilmington that courtesy, Director?"
The lightly armoured, typically-built, grayish white-mesh-wrapped person
says, replying somewhat blandly,
"I said a gentleman's courtesy. I'm not sure that applies to Mister
Wilmington. But I take your point."
You tell the lightly armoured, typically-built, grayish white-mesh-wrapped person, the weapon sliding away as quickly, and as neatly, as it had come to-hand,
"A wretch deserves a wretch's death. If this is a test of loyalty,
Director, do know that my last act will be ensuring you join me in the
end. Much as my last assassin did."
You holster a bull-barreled, blued .45 pistol in a black, thick handgun holster.
Paranoia still edging into his thoughts, you thought: I did not push hard
enough.
The lightly armoured, typically-built, grayish white-mesh-wrapped person
murmurs, speaking over toward the well armoured, scantly-built, blue
gray-mesh-wrapped person,
"It is a test of your loyalty. Rather, to whom you are loyal. I bear the
brand of Oil Wilmington upon my neck. The pain of that brand I remember
every day. But greater to me is the pain that I am holding secret from
my entire Family how one man uses them. People that I would bleed, and
die, for. Would Oil do the same for any of us? Were it better for the
Family, would he cast aside his position?"
You tell the lightly armoured, typically-built, grayish white-mesh-wrapped person, blandly informing the man, once more stripping a wrap of thick, blue gray mesh from his face,
"You need not persuade me further, Director. If I had my loyalties to Oil
Wilmington over you- you would have died the moment I was certain you
had no co-conspirators."
The lightly armoured, typically-built, grayish white-mesh-wrapped person
says, his tone mild as he peers at a needle-thin cyborg with harsh features
over the top of a wrap of thick, grayish white mesh,
"You still can't be certain. For if I had any co-conspirators, my loyalty
to them would ensure my silence on their behalf. If any risk is
undertaken, I do not require anyone else face the same."
You tell the lightly armoured, typically-built, grayish white-mesh-wrapped person, drawing a wrap of thick, blue gray mesh against his sweat-streaked forehead,
"If you have co-conspirators, Director, and yet you informed a man who
could kill you with ease of your plot -alone-, then I fear for this
conspiracy."
The lightly armoured, typically-built, grayish white-mesh-wrapped person
tells you, quietly, his shoulders lifting,
"I've no wild assassins at my beck and call, no. At best, I could hope
that with my death, they would at least spread the truth across
Grungetown. And that is what I plan to do when the deed is done.
Nonetheless, I imagine even if I am successful, which is doubtful, that
Oil's personal guard will have me dead."
You tell the lightly armoured, typically-built, grayish white-mesh-wrapped person, waving dismissively, wagging a wrap of thick, blue gray mesh skyward,
"It is not Oil's personal guard that should worry you- it is what New
Phoenix will do if its resources are threatened. Little stops them from
simply seizing control, or finding a new man who wishes to serve them.
Killing Mister Wilmington is the easiest task- ensuring that
Grungetown's tenuous stability remains, is the difficult one."
The lightly armoured, typically-built, grayish white-mesh-wrapped person
tells you, giving a slow nod,
"You are quite correct. When it happens, if successful, New Phoenix will
have to find another man. And I will not deny that diplomacy with New
Phoenix is necessary. But not this way. I'd rather arm every Grunger and
have them go down shooting before I'd have them killed mercilessly in
artillery strikes."
You tell the lightly armoured, typically-built, grayish white-mesh-wrapped person, shaking his head briskly, gloved fingers shifting beneath a metal-plated, deep purple-leather cowl before he sets off down the winding path, lecturing briskly,
"If you armed every Grunger against New Phoenix, the only thing they'd go
down shooting is mortar shells. You understand that your office is most
certainly bugged, video'd, and consistently monitored? Likewise for
every room within the compound. Likewise for this very spot by the next
time we get here. This business should never be discussed in the same
place twice, never mentioned over the radio, and never spoken of within
fifty meters of another living soul."
The lightly armoured, typically-built, grayish white-mesh-wrapped person
tells you, his head bobbing several times,
"I am well aware. I trust no place within the Compound. I am, in fact,
certain that my office is bugged. I carry with me no small amount of
paranoia."
You tell the lightly armoured, typically-built, grayish white-mesh-wrapped person, distastefully,
"You haven't died yet."
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Posted: Thu Jun 27, 2013 6:07 pm | |
Background: That ain't the real Jain. He's dead, but Blake thinks it is. Proceed.
An intent, shorn-haired young man rises slowly, his arms folding around
you, his left eye already swelling up and bruising.
A trim-looking man with a shaved head and one eye watches an intent,
shorn-haired young man now, a dust-covered finely-crafted legionary
shield coming up, a touch warily.
When an ancient, battle-scarred monstrosity with snake-like eyes fails at
grabbing you, he's about to reach for her again but pauses when an
intent, shorn-haired young man does, his eyes lifting to him. Then,
something clicks. "Blake. There are no mutants in the other worlds."
From the flat of his back, a dashing, blond-haired young man with faintly
glowing eyes glares daggers at an intent, shorn-haired young man, a
loud low snarl emitting as the young man embraces you.
A snake-green-eyed scarred young man with metal-plated arms tells an
ancient, battle-scarred monstrosity with snake-like eyes, with a raspy Carthage
accent,
"Jain wasnt a mutant."
An ancient, battle-scarred monstrosity with snake-like eyes tells a
snake-green-eyed scarred young man with metal-plated arms, in a surprisingly
articulate blend of Outlander accents, an exhausted rumble emitting from his
throat,
"But Blake is."
A stark-white-haired, black-eyed chick shoves her arms tightly around an
intent, shorn-haired young man, burying her head against him, shaking with
heavy sobs, "Ain' go. Ain' lemme go. Please ain' go." She doesn't seem to
pay any attention to her surroundings anymore, just clinging desperately to her
prize.
Distractedly, a trim-looking man with a shaved head and one eye looks back
to an intent, shorn-haired young man, breathing out.
An intent, shorn-haired young man whispers to you, blood trickling from his
nose, eyes wide and soft upon the girl's face as he raises a hand to brush some
of their hair from the side of their face,
"'m sorry. Been waitin' s'long t'tell you."
A crescent-kissed young woman with wild black dreads casts a perhaps
surprised look to an ancient, battle-scarred monstrosity with snake-like
eyes, small, squared off chin lifted a bit as she regards him from her place
by the southern door.
An ancient, battle-scarred monstrosity with snake-like eyes emphatically
tells you, growling to her again, eyeing an intent, shorn-haired young man,
shaking his head, repeating himself,
"There are -no- mutants in the other worlds!"
A trim-looking man with a shaved head and one eye asks an ancient,
battle-scarred monstrosity with snake-like eyes, quietly, shifting to his side
and murmuring out of the corner of his mouth,
"Can you get her loose of him?"
A midnight-crowned female with cerulean eyes struggles with something
before she speaks to an intent, shorn-haired young man. "If you are not
the real Jain...then you are incredibly cruel." She doesn't speak loudly, it
might be to herself.
You whisper to an intent, shorn-haired young man, sobbing
and hitching and speaking as softly as she can back up to the boy,
lifting her gaze up towards him, oblivious to everything else, seemingly,
"Tell me what? I love you. I love you. Y'here now. Ain' let 'em take me
'way. Please ain' let them take me from you."
A clown-painted, jumble-eyed man moves behind an intent, shorn-haired
young man, drawing his knife free, and goes to drive it deep into the back of
the boy, up to the hilt if possible.
An ancient, battle-scarred monstrosity with snake-like eyes tells a
trim-looking man with a shaved head and one eye, though he does take a step
towards an intent, shorn-haired young man and a stark-white-haired,
black-eyed chick, his fingers flexing, talons extending, cut off by a
clown-painted, jumble-eyed man's actions, pausing before he gets too close,
"Not without hurting her, too--."
The rage that a dashing, blond-haired young man with faintly glowing eyes
suddenly seems to subside as your sobs and the words said to an intent,
shorn-haired young man, his face going blank for moment before becoming
pained, eye twitching. After a moment he pushes to his feet.
A charred, bulbous-headed, stunted-armed mutie murmurs, looking over
towards an intent, shorn-haired young man with his eyebrows raising,
"Uhm..."
A trim-looking man with a shaved head and one eye stares at an intent,
shorn-haired young man and a clown-painted, jumble-eyed man now,
transfixed.
A midnight-crowned female with cerulean eyes asks meekly, "Cant
like...Pointdexter do a blood test on him?" she whimpers. "Maybe he's real?
He ...he looks like a real guy..."
A charred, bulbous-headed, stunted-armed mutie asks an ancient,
battle-scarred monstrosity with snake-like eyes, pointing a finger over towards
an intent, shorn-haired young man as he moves right over to the large
mutant, rasping out,
"Uhm... he's dead. Or was... or, what's going on?"
Suddenly, faster than the previous commotion or a clown-painted, jumble-eyed
man's attack or what seems possible, an intent, shorn-haired young man
drives both of his thumbs into your eyes. On impact, the tiny orbs explode
in a burst of fluid and tissue. He does not stop, though, digging the fingers
further into the girl's skull, her jaw muscles and cheekbones crushing under
the impact of the superhuman force. As her body begins to fall, lifelessly, he
smiles and says with satisfaction, "Jain is with us, where he belongs. I
have come to celebrate the last day of your race's existence. Ad Judicium
Neco. It all ends now."
An intent, shorn-haired young man stares at you, narrowing his eyes.
Shortly thereafter, your heart obediently ceases to beat, and you feel death
upon you...
Your character has, regrettably, passed away. Our condolences. . .
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Posted: Thu Jun 27, 2013 7:15 pm | |
...
.... I have to go hug my totally-not-dead-or-evil husband now.
<3 Nyn
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grandpa
Registered
Entrenched Oldbie
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Posted: Thu Jun 27, 2013 8:18 pm | |
| eltanimras wrote: |
...
.... I have to go hug my totally-not-dead-or-evil husband now.
<3 Nyn |
E>!
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| It is a poor craftsman who blames his tools. | |
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