Chat - Vol 2

(2008-01-29 18:54:27) Wolf: No doubt.

(2008-01-29 18:54:54) ImperialDingo: I'm a bit I'm going to call them and see if they carry 360s.

(2008-01-29 18:55:15) Wolf: I'm a bit I'm?

(2008-01-29 18:55:18) Wolf: WTF...

(2008-01-29 18:55:27) Wolf: You're like the grammar/spelling Nazi of Doom.

(2008-01-29 18:55:30) ImperialDingo: DON'T QUESTION!

 

(5:00:13 PM) D3M0N65: Mad English Skills: -100

(5:00:36 PM) D3M0N65: Net Mad English Skills: 389

(5:00:40 PM) ImperialDingo: lolno

(5:00:47 PM) D3M0N65: GA has been demoted to Junior Nazi

(5:00:53 PM) ImperialDingo: I'm still over nine thousand.

WPCA - Clear.

A successive flash of hand signals flew up the line. Two enemies behind the door. Flashbang prepped. They waited on the tap. It came along with a flurry, then hell was unleashed. A hand gripping the door handle was given a nod. It flew open, the grenade flew in, the door shut. The wake of the boom and the crashing waves of the det clawed their way into the room amid a standard of hacking, coughing and teary eyes. The exercise of room clearing came along with the echoing staccato of trigger pulls, the sudden rapture of the enemy identified as dead-man stares.

Clear.

The quick spastic motions of hands across bodies policed for their weapons and ammunition took place. They began to move again. Firefights started and died as fast as a trigger was pulled, the quick cry of fire echoing long and loud in the corridors. It was quick and quiet -- but for all the stealth, the rude scream of weapons clatter was a prevalent banshee. The quarry was spotted. Stifled laughter evoked by the burp of a machine gun perforated the guardsmen. Choked-on blood congealed languidly beneath still frame macabre art style stills of dead men plastered to the floor.

Mission accomplished.

What's In the Box?

People lose stuff all the time; it's a natural thing to misplace something, especially if you have a lot of other things to keep track of. I've done it, I know my friends have done it. It's completely natural. And of course, since some people lose stuff, other people find it. There are two different kinds of people to who find things: they either keep it for themselves, or they make a lost and found box and hope, on the honor system, that the proper owner comes along to collect it. Well, there's a lost and found box in my building, a glorified college dorm styled building. The box is meant for people who've either a) lost their room keys, or b) lost their meal card for the mess. That's what the box is meant for.

Anyway, I was standing around waiting for a cab to go into town with a friend when curiosity overtook me. I walk up to the box, the first time ever, and peek in the slot. There are three things that I can clearly see in the box. The first is a lighter. I've no idea whether it is full or not, just that it's there. Second, there is a pack of cigarettes, open, and missing probably three from the pack. So let's tally what we got so far in the box: a lighter and a pack of cigs. Rather odd for a key and meal card slot box, eh? Most curious, though, is the last item in the box: a GST cheque. I could even read the print for how much it was worth: $54.00.

In total, what I saw in the box was a Bic lighter, a pack of cigarettes (Player's), and a GST cheque for $54.00.

Why these items are there, I can't begin to fathom, but considering that there was a beer bottle on the top of the entire ensemble, I can only imagine the kind of drunkard that put everything there in the first place. Maybe I should try and claim all the stuff in it. I could go for an extra $54.00...

Funeral for a Friend -- Duel Intro

He was escorted into the small, square suite, resplendent with its two chairs of cherry and a boorish, square oak-colored table. A half a wall was given over to a giant mirror set directly into the wall--a one way mirror. Opposite the steel door was a tiny eight inch by sixteen inch window with bars across it; you couldn't see through it because of some white coating on it, but it let through an anorexic shaft of light that looked ready to molest the next person it touched with its pallid illumination. He was asked to sit, and moved across so that the little light could scratch away at his scalp.

"Okay, Mister Filsinger, do you know why we brought you here?"

"Yeah. I saw your buddy yesterday, and his buddy the day before, and his buddy the day before that. Do you want the short or the long, you know, 'cause I can do either."

The officer sighs, rubbing his forehead with exaggerated motions as though he already had the headache he knew was coming.

"The long version, if you'd please."

"So anyway, I'm at my apartment and I'm watching the game, right. There's this huge ass band playing across the street, souns like a funeral march, 'cause, you know, there was a funeral. Long line of people, all in black, following behind this casket. Probably cost more than I make in a year, I bet. I found out from a friend, 'cause I called him up as it was happening; he tells me that it's the old Don of some Mafia group died. Right, so I'm like, 'no ****! Really?' And 'course my buddy says yeah. And I'm joking with him, now, telling him how the people are crying and sobbin', even the guys! And they look like ****in' zombies! Zombies! Rocking back and forth on their feet."

"What's your friend's name?"

"Johnny."

"Johnny?"

"Oh, John Baker."

The officer gives him a look.

"And where was this funeral taking place?"

"Broker and Fifth. You know, the big cemetery there. Can't miss it. Got a big brass sign out front, says it's the best place to put your loved ones, you know, when they're dead."

The officer shows Mister Filsinger a photo. There's a graveyard with a brick road winding up to a gardeners shed in the middle built from more brick. There are a half dozen mausoleum styled grave sites, as well as tall and short tombstones. Some have statues, others don't, and a long string of plaques amid lusciously green grass. Trees are thrown up like warding hands around the pathways and around some of the mausoleum-styled grave sites.

"This it?"

"Yeah, yeah. Same place." "So, you were saying, about the people looking like zombies."

"Yeah, so the people were walking toward the grave, and they get there, start lowering it. I turn the game down, 'cause the priest there looks ****ing funny as hell. And then, I swear to you, he says, "Dead man, grave in, Amen." And then the people start crying more, and the, and one of the guys carrying breaks out laughing and loses his grip. They, they ****ing drop the casket! Drop it, and it slips into the grave, and people are shreiking when the thing breaks open and the Don's dead body spills out! There's this, this dead body, and it's flpping around! And the women are cryin' and the guys are tryin' to shoove it back in. And, and, you had to be there. God."

"Was there anything else? You said before you saw a man loitering before."

"Oh, yeah, him. So, there's this guy, standing at the edge of the funeral. He's doesn't really seem a part of it. He's pale, like a, like a vampire; dressed in this black suit, or maybe a dark blue. Anyway, he's standing there, and as the Don falls into the grave, face planting right out of his casket, he doesn't do nothing, at least, not yet, right? Not smiling, not even laughing. But I'm watching, and he seems all odd. Out of place, you know?"

"No, I don't know, Mister Filsinger."

"Anyway, this guy, after a bit of watching the screaming, he walks up through the crowd, grabs the priest. I sweat, threw him like a rag doll, right into a statue. Jumps into the grave, grabs the ol' Don, picks him up like he don't even weigh a thing! Everyone there is still screaming, and now some punk comes running at the guy, but the guy does some Star Wars thing, uses the Force, and sends buddy boy packing. Whoosh! Right over the hole in the dirt and into another statue. Then this freak pulls out a sword or something and starts hacking away at the Don! It was like watching some demented horror movie!"

"So, what happened next..."

"Well,..."

Shiver Me Timbers!

It's been established that I was a brat of a child in my youth. So, as to be expected, I didn't have just one incident where I proved myself benign and noble in my obscene pursuits of random violence, among other things. Well, there was one time...

My family lived in a house with a woodstove. Every summer it was expected that we (by which I mean my father, my older brother and I), would travel into the middle of no where and begin the art of logging. Only we weren't using the trees for lumber, just firewood. Mostly snags (dead trees) were cut down of the pine variety. Sometimes hemlock or birch, whichever my dad was in the mood for.

Well, on this particularly overcast day, my brother and I found ourselves up a steep embankment, probably at an angle of about forty-five degrees, or maybe even more severe. I was about eight at the time. My dad had just finished cutting up a number of trees into movable chunks that my brother and I would toss down the hill, slowly following them down and kicking them out from behind trees and bushes they happened to get caught in, which was actually more frequent than it should have been. So here I am, throwing logs down a bank with my brother and whining about it. I can hear the sound of the chainsaw roaring away as my dad cuts up another tree up above us. My brother at this point is either a) telling me to shut up, or b) ignoring me. I am after all a pain in the ass.

This is where things get interesting.

The noise of the chainsaw cut out a moment. I continue my vocal grumbling, and then my dad shouts down at us. "I'm going to toss these ones down to you!" I'm not that bright. I don't see the harm in this, and shot back "Okay!" since I see it as a means of getting out of work that would mean hiking back to the top and then coming back down again. My older brother has more brains, and as his eyes widen, he yells back up, "No, Dad, wait!" Only, Dad doesn't hear. We stand there a moment, my brother shocked, me kicking at the dirt. Then a sound I still can't forget to this day -- it was almost like rolling thunder. Apparently my dad had set it up to get numerous logs going at once. Yay? Not really. My brother grabs at me yanking me towards an indentation in the steep bank that happens to have an overhang. Not deep enough to be a cave, but deep enough to shield a small, stupid and defenseless eight-year-old and his older brother from what's to come.

The sound gets a bit worse, like stampeding animals. Then the first log flies overhead. Another flies past off to the right. It continues like this for a bit. The sound wanes for a bit, so my brother sticks his head out only to yank it back in as a piece of rumbling wood flies past at the point where his head had been a moment ago.

Another piece flies overhead, rebounds off a tree and comes back at us. Time seems to slow as my heart rate spikes. I'm thinking at that moment, I'm going to die and it's all my dad's fault. Only it hits another tree on the way back and flies off in a random direction down the hill.

We're safe.

My brother and I stand there a while, quiet, breathing heavily. Then my dad walks into view, spots us and smiles.

"Hey boys!" he says, "What're you guys doing in there?"

Why My Dad Loves Me

There was this one time, I was five years old and a complete douchebag. Describing the kind of awful kid I was can't quite be put into words. My dad was sleeping on this old couch we had, a giant sofa-bed conglomeration with a mixture of ratty brown, orange and yellow textiles that smelt slightly, of what I don't know, and was probably from the 1970's, at least. Well, as I said, my dad was sleeping, his head propped up on a cushion, lying sideways with his face calm. I walked up to him, standing in front of his face.

Now, I'm a real prick of a kid -- a horrible devil child. I've got one of those ancient dolls in my hand, the kind with the cotton body and the plastic arms, legs and head with its eyes that are weighted to open when the doll's erect. Despite being a complete jerk of a kid, I'm pretty patient. I actually stand there and wait until my dad begins to wake up. His eyes begin to flutter open, he sees me and smiles. "Hey, son," he begins. And that's when I whip the doll out from behind my back as fast as my little arms can to smash it across his face with all my might.

Suffice to say, my dad is shocked, completely and utterly shocked at this. And he's got a welt to end all welts on his face about now. Me, being at least somewhat smart (that is to say smart enough to know when I'm about to get whipped), turn tail to run for my life. And I did just that, only I ran into a slight hitch -- dad was in such an uproar about me being the hellion that I am that he had an adrenaline dump and as I was moving away as frantically as I could, he reached out, grabbed me by the upper arm, and laid into me.

This is an example of the kid deserving the spankings, because, honestly, I think that I deserved it much afterwards. To this day, my dad still isn't all to impressed with what I'd done.

That's just one example of me being a complete asshat. I hope to God that if I ever have kids they don't turn out like me at all -- that'd just be asking for a bad day.

Forum Dueling Basics - Tech, Vol 2

Tech.

Last time I discussed tech, I spoke on how anyone can use tech and how it is by and large can be more powerful than magic because there generally aren't any adverse effects on the user.

With tech, you must build the device to accomplish the action you want. Some devices are multi-function and are capable of various input to do various output, while others are specialized. The end result, though, is that you must have the device/object that does what you want it to. A description of size, shape, color, maybe even weight and you're done. This is generally where tech shines, in the description: basically, it's the proving ground of the concept. Most writers in a duel with just say what the device is called and what it does, but others try to approximate something close to reality in how it works. If the device is based on some kind of reality, it gives itself/gains some credibility. Of course, since you are dueling/RPing, you will suspend some of the belief because at current, such devices aren't possible. But like I said, it's an approximation of current-day technology, an extrapolation if you will, of what tech could very well be capable in some far-off distant future if we were to advance far enough.

The function of tech is limited only by creativity. If you can dream of it, tech can do it. It's the same for magic, but again this comes back around full circle to the fact that tech can accomplish for the user without draining the user, while magic is the opposite -- it sucks the user dry to accomplish the end. Now, I'm not going to say what kind of devices you should create, because that would be stupid -- you need to create weaponry based on your personal preference and what works for you. But as to categories and the types of tech you can create, while the sky might be the limit, here are a few: bodyarmor, firearms, lasers, missiles, rockets, grenades, and etc. I could go on for a long while with more categories, but won't.

These are just broad categories. I can already hear you saying (possibly complaining even!) how you can't use these, that they don't suit. Why not? Because they sound like they might be right out of today, that they're modern and not futuristic at all? An example of a futuristic weapon would be a railgun. You think cool. But a railgun is a firearm; depending on the size, it can either be a rifle or a massive artillery piece.

So, the questions in the end are: what're you going to build? How much description should you put into the device to make it feasible? Would the tech you've built be considered cheez, god-modding or over-powering?

The unfortunate part, though, is that the third question is where you're going to hit a speed bump. A lot of tech will be considered over-powering because of its ability to perform its actions on the fly, instantaneously without having to go through any kind of warm-up sequence. Just going to have to be careful with it. And that's that.

WPCA - Bronstein

In England it was just another day above the Heathrow International Airport. A half dozen aircraft lingered in the air waiting for permission to land while on the ground more than a dozen other jets waited to taxi out onto the appropriate runway to take off. The air was filled with the distinct whine of jet engines, screaming in and around the airport and heard for miles by anyone who hadn't already blocked out the noise. There was one jet, though, a black jet--the subject of many a conspiracy theorists speculation--making its final approach, landing gear extended as it slowly descended toward that tarmac. And with the usual wailing screech, the tires touched and the black jet of the name Kristallmesser began to slow before turning off its particular runway to taxi out toward a set of hangers. The Kristallmesser taxied along until it reached the hangar of large enough capacity reserved in advance and put aside specifically for the sleek, hundred and twenty foot long aircraft. Once inside the hangar, the hanger doors closed and the jet is blocked from world view.

No crews were inside the hangar, and once inside it, the jet came to a complete stop and moments later a hatch at the bottom of the craft (situated just aft of the cockpit) swung open allowing one Cristoph Sergei Bronstein to step down the small ladder that had extended when the hatch opened. The Kristallmesser is C.S. Bronstein's personal aircraft, and while the jet is called Kristallmesser on all records--a German name meaning Crystal Knife--the owner calls if the Krymackt. Also, the name on the records, while odd, is appropriate given the aircrafts' design--something conspiracy theorists agree upon (although they still speculate at the purpose of the jet).

Clad in black business suit resplendent with red necktie and dark sunglasses despite an overcast sky outside, C.S. Bronstein stepped down from his private jet and walked over to the side of the hanger to retrieve some blocks to stop up the wheels of the Kristallmesser. He was followed by his associate, a Mr. Deliverance, who only stood and waited for C.S. Bronstein to finish the task he had started. If you looked at the pair it would be easy to spot that it was Mr. Deliverance who was the leader, but C.S. Bronstein still had an air of importance about him.

Mr. Deliverance, unlike C.S. Bronstein, wore a gray business suit with white dress shirt seen through the unbuttoned jacket. Mr. Deliverance also wore a hat overtop his largely light brown in color, although streaked with blonde, hair, and to finish off the look wore a set of thin, metal framed glasses to cover his gold colored eyes. Both men are tall, standing a little over six feet each, and each has a medium build (although C.S. Bronstein appears the more athletic of the two, but it wouldn't be disputed who could move faster than who). And while Mr. Deliverance restricts his hair by way of hat, C.S. Bronstein allows his to wave about his head in crows nest fashion; he also has a pair of ice-blue orbs for eyes, if you could look past those dark shades.

The Kristallmesser, the craft the two men have just exited is a strange vehicle, not built in the usual cylinder-like fashion of other jets. In fact, it almost appeared to look like an SR-71 for the most part up until you reached its mid-section where the jet widened out with the air intakes. In the back quarter of the craft is a pair of forward swept wings. Mid-way between the mid-section and the cockpit are a pair of upward slanted canards. The jet has two large engines with stabilizer fins facing in outward slants at forty-five degrees. There is also a pair of smaller stabilizer fins on the bottom of the craft facing out at the same degree of inclination. These stabilizer fins are just a meter fore of the engine nacelles. In total, the aircraft is a hundred and twenty feet in length with a wingspan of a hundred feet.

Its primary color was black, a deep charcoal that soaked in all light, yet isn't a reflective black sheen as one would expect of a high quality craft. Navy colors accentuated specific points such as the wings where one might think hardpoints for weapons might be placed. Its description being as unique as it was it was easy to assume that no other jet like it existed on Earth, and this was indeed truth. Conspiracy theorists who had seen the craft on previous occasions--which are rare, indeed--speculate as to where the craft had been built and who had been contracted to build it. The jet appears to incorporate stealth technology into its construction, and considering that the US is the foremost authority with that kind of advanced technology, it is then thought that the craft was built at Area 51, and that the design is just a throw-back to the days of the SR-71.

However, all the speculation on the part of the conspiracy theorists couldn't be farther from the truth. The jet in question didn't have its origins based in the US, nor in any country on Earth. It was a joint effort by two companies outside any jurisdiction of the governments of Earth--but with leanings more inclined to extra-terrestrial assistance. But even had the conspiracy theorists known this, the vehicles' military overtones could not be overlooked in the slightest. Just so, with all the hubbub that concerned the creation of the vehicle, many more theorized as to how the craft had come into the hands of one C.S. Bronstein. The reality was that C.S. Bronstein was in on the project and had actually overseen a large portion of it, and had picked it up as a gift from a higher-up superior. Of course all these particulars weren't known to anyone but C.S. Bronstein, who now exited the hanger with associate in tow headed towards the latest iteration of the BMW 3-series sedan--a 330i to be exact.

The sedan was a blithe gray in tone, and sported modifications under the hood that increased its power output. Plus the paneling on the car was significantly upgraded to make the vehicle bulletproof to a large extent. Taking a set of keys from his right pocket, C.S. Bronstein unlocked the vehicle long before he got to it, opened the door and slipped in. The center console was dominated by a navigation screen, and when C.S. Bronstein sat down, he spoke only three words: "Shangri La Headquarters." Those words brought up the navigation system and outlined the fastest route from the airport to Shangri La HQ. Two doors slammed as both C.S. Bronstein and Mr. Deliverance closed them in sync.

The engine started up with a deep thrum followed by a continuous rumble. C.S. Bronstein, hitherto called Bronstein, threw the car into 'D' by way of 'R' then 'N' and began the arduous drive through London rush-hour traffic. He navigated his way through the airport terminal lots before managing to come out onto M4 thoroughfare, which he followed east toward the London core. The drive was quiet, and Bronstein didn't bother to push the vehicle. He didn't want to draw any more attention than what the Arbiter's were already turning in his and Mr. Deliverance for their grand entrance into England by way of the Kristallmesser. At the end of the M4, they turned North up the 406, then East again once they had reached the M40. From there it was only a hop-skip-and-a-jump until the Shangri La HQ.

The drive was done in silence; not an edgy silence, but a comfortable silence. The kind of silence shared by two associates who had been in the same business with one-another that they could almost read the others' thoughts and that there was no need for words between them. The BMW drove through the narrow and winding streets, a complicated mess that planners had never thought ahead to deal with. London was a sprawl; an urban virus that just expanded outwards. In some cases, as with the more modern buildings, it spanned upward via skyscrapers, like a New York skyline. When no more than forty-five minutes had passed, the BMW came to a halt in a small parking garage. Both men got out, the rear and fore lights of the car flashed, doors were slammed and the two men made their way down the street in the greater business district of London for the Shangri La HQ.

They moved through the slow churning masses of people that walked the streets window shopping. And when they reached the glistening tower, they walked in through the revolving glass door and approached the single desk set in the middle of the spacious lobby. A perky woman with a bun sat there, a smile transfixed on her face as if plastered there by hooks.

"Hello," the perky woman began, "how may I help you?"

Bronstein and Deliverance exchanged a quick look at one another. The look implied that the woman was too robotic to be human. That kind of perkiness just didn't seem natural. After a moment, Bronstein cleared his throat. "I am Cristoph S. Bronstein. This is my associate, Mr. Deliverance. We are here to see a Mr. Sokolov. It is urgent. Would you please put a call through to him now?"

The woman, at no loss for her perkiness despite Bronstein's rudeness, said only this: "Mr. Sokolov is currently busy. May I take a message?"

Bronstein blinked once, trying to hold back his own rage. The woman was denser than he thought. It took every iota of his willpower not to reach into his jacket, pull his gun and discharge a shot into the receptionist's skull. He was certain that'd probably be an improvement.

Mr. Deliverance, not at all perturbed by the reply said, "Please inform Mr. Sokolov that my associate and I are here to see him at his earliest convenience. Would you do that much for us?"

The perky receptionist seemed to like that idea, uttering an "Mm-hmm!" in a very giddy manner before saying, "Please, wait over there." She directed Bronstein and Mr. Deliverance toward a set of chairs lining a far wall (a sitting area of sorts). Bronstein and Mr. Deliverance obliged, not wanting to cause a scene. There were worse things than perky receptionists, after all.