WickedCadrach

No worries. Thanks for sayin'.

Kinda struggling on the whole 'we don't judge' part of the game, huh?

The cold mountain air was exactly what Emily needed as she left Magda's office. Out of sight of her commanding officer, the pilot ignited the electric nic-stik and took a heady drag that set her artificial lungs audibly skirring. She stared off into empty sky, tracing the ragged claw marks of thin clouds as she used her outward cool to cudgel the restlessness in her chest back into submission. "Fuck," Emily whispered, exhaling chemical wisps that mingled with the mist of her hot breath. "Fuck. That's what it is. It's just a fuck. Just some fucking sparring to blow off steam. With—With your captain." The lieutenant's flesh-and-bone leg quirked in, dropping her hip and shoulder against the icy container wall of the nearest barrack pod. Her head followed and she let it lay there, putting her brain on ice a moment while she drew in another pull from the plastic and copper cigarette between her lips. She did all of this as a way of burying the thought that she'd almost said 'with Magda' and tossed why she felt the need to use the commanding officer's title instead of her name into that unmarked mental grave for good measure. For all the crap she gave her, Emily respected Magda. As a warrior. As a leader. As a woman who took care of her business. The only softness Emily had seen was the usual smirking comradery that successful officers doled out in moderation, enough to keep the troops on side but not so much as to lose the authority of command. And Emily had believed the softness Magda reserved for her had been of similar stuff—that or the maternal protectiveness that the lieutenant's 'broken doll' body seemed to engender in others before she shit-kicked the notion out of them. But that moment Magda's nose brushed hers wasn't either of those two familiar options. "Fuck..." The nic-stik's green LED flashed red as the chemical reservoir ran dry and Emily sucked burnt air and the taste of copper. Pulling the dull black and red stick from her lips, she grimaced down at it and wondered idly if her fingers were made from the same kind of wiring and rigid metal under the soft silicone 'flesh'. The thought lingered as she watched the blinking indicator on the nic-stik pulse, growing fainter and fainter before finally blinking out. Emily shivered. The exposed metal of her left leg was transferring the high altitude's cold up into her, but that wasn't why she trembled or why her breath caught. She tried to tell herself it was stupid to get sentimental about a fucking smoke, forcing herself to throw the discharged device off the rim of the slope as she turned for her bunk. Things got used up. Or they broke. You enjoy them while they're here, but it's idiotic to get attached when you know it's not forever. By the time Emily made it back to the pilot barrack, Diego was coming in from his shift on watch. She dragged him to the showers, pulling his hair and biting his shoulder and neck until he shoved her face-first against the wet tile. It wasn't enough to make Emily forget. But, for the night, it was enough to convince herself she didn't care. --- Cocooned inside the wet, roiling coils of Scylla's cockpit, Emily picked up the faint visual of Magda at her BioFrame's heel. She wasn't so deeply synced that she couldn't hear Magda with her own ears, but Scylla's impressive sensory organs and apparatus shot an echo of the call in crystal clarity to overlay Emily's natural senses. "There's some tow-hooks on the back of her calves and hips," Emily called back through the narrow opening through Scylla's abdomen that exited at the base of the BioFrame's spine. "Secure it wherever, just try to split it or ballast it. My girl's a dancer. Not a fucking tractor like Patune." Emily smirked, already imagining the look on Magda's face at the comment. Making a few final checks of the scant digital and analog controls in the cockpit, Emily stroked the dark tendril resting against her temple that was giving her a faint link to Scylla. "I know. I know. You like it better when it's just us. Me too. But Magda's cool. And I'm still driving, baby girl." The white-steel tentacles along Scylla's back swayed anxiously and the black, luminous eyes glanced down at Captain Payarkoon with an inscrutable and eerie stillness that might have been curiosity or warning on the BioFrame's alien and feral features. Emily decided to get ahead of any misunderstandings though and called out, "Don't worry. She's just nervous about someone riding shotgun. Climb up when you're set." A moment later, her own checks now finished, Emily added, "By the way, that new Frame we jacked. Does he have a callsign yet? I figure when it's time to make the switch, it might be a little late for introductions."

Aaaaagh... I have done too much shit from that feeling of 'please pick me'. So, I kind of get it. I cut my arm in front of a boyfriend once just to show him how easy it was for me. We were having a fight, somehow the fact that I used to cut came up, and he said some cocky shit about how I'd 'never do it again'. My dumb ass sure showed him

I have 'taken care of myself' in a chapel. No one was there when I started, and if the guy who walked in realized I was there, he was very discreet about it.

Definitely. There's no need to map every corner (or even decide if we're 'for sure' on Earth) yet. Obviously figuring out the relevant faction to your character's background makes sense, though. Even if they don't 'come onto the scene' until much later. & I think we have something here. While plenty of failed test-subjects might get handed a rifle and told to 'patrol the wastes', it makes sense that the Hive would use them for propaganda operations like this one. Being told 'Go garrison this outpost. It's very important' while command prepares to let it be overrun or attacked by kaiju to draw out the LU. For the actual experiment, the character might have been dosed with an e-blocker that 'burnt out' certain emotions that make their detox mild or relatively short. They'd need to acclimate to the emotions they can feel, but they don't have the traditional freak-out because they've lost all capacity for a keystone emotion like aggression (or grief; or fear; etc). Alternately, they might be an experiment because instead of a chemical e-blocker, they have a piece of implanted cyber that acts like a noise-gate for emotions. They can feel fear and anger and love and such, but if they grow too strong, the cyber clamps down and shorts out the emotional response. That also gives us a mini-quest to see if they want that cyber removed and if/how to safely remove it. Either way, whether we go with this failed experiment of a Hive soldier or one of the ideas WNS had (the more privileged Hive scion who was already off e-blockers, or the Hive emo-dealer used to hiding their emotions), that sets up the character to get a cool moment of 'finding' their Bio-Frame in-game—a sort of 'getting knighted on the battlefield' moment if we want. -- Also, WNS, I love the world-building you're throwing in there. I'm all for the Hive elite having this divide where some hedonistically indulge in emotion while others double-down with even stricter limits. Having people dosed with unique cocktails by their employers or commanders, the A&A girls, all of that makes sense. I'm imagining speakeasies with illegal e-blockers and enhancers, old 'mood organs' people pay to hook into and get their brains stimulated with certain emotions for half an hour, that kind of thing.

I'm happy to let them lie. The current bump for the Lincoln Palace and Jane Montgomery still make the most sense to me.

@WritesNaughtyStories @Icarian Dreams Ooooo-k, I picked an exciting couple of days to disappear Sorry! But I'm here now, and I'll try to keep my thoughts crispy. First off, Hi, @Icarian Dreams! I'm glad to see you pop in. --On the idea of a 3rd-Party Pirate / Mercenary character... I have no problem with this. The main conflict is Hive vs. LU, but in a planet-wide conflict, you would 100% have people outside those main spheres of control: I'm imagining blasted former-battleground lands that neither the LU nor the Hive fight for because they aren't strategic or valuable enough. A few enterprising young men and women might find enough scrap Bio-Frame tech to 'wrangle' a Kaiju and make a 'jury-rigged' Bio-Frame of their own. They might find a 'left-for-dead' Hive BioFrame and nurse it back to fighting shape to take for their own. Either way, once they have the tech, they could do mercenary work for food/meds/etc that they can send back home or keep for personal wealth (trading it in other fringe villages like that). I can imagine a Hive suit slumming it in the local 'cave colony' to stir up the locals ahead of an incursion against the LU. I can easily picture the LU trying to rally local fighters and mercs (even those without BioFrames) with promises of weapons, tech, meds, or food. There are other ways it could play out, but the main idea on why this works for me is that there would be areas neither major faction has the resources or interest in controlling. In those areas poverty and scarcity become the motive to join the fight on whichever side is paying. --On the idea of a Hive defector character... This is a cool idea. If we're not interested in a character undergoing e-blocker detox, then how do we feel about the Hive employing 'canaries'? The broad order is 'emotions are forbidden', but the Hive could have specific positions where someone is left with their emotions intact or on a very light dose of the e-blockers. This could be justified as needing someone who can 'think like the enemy', or it could just be Hive hypocrisy. They might realize the tactical advantage of someone who can think 'outside the box', so they secretly keep a few free-feelers who have been trained to pretend at emotionlessness. Chasing it another way. We could have a character who has had a natural immunity to the e-blockers their whole life, but they learned really young that it was going to get them in trouble, so they fake it and blend in. They've never had a serious thought about defecting, but now the Hive has unceremoniously demanded their death in a propaganda-driven last stand. --Other faction characters? @Icarian Dreams raises an interesting point about what other ideals there could be within the larger factions. I don't think it breaks anything if we explore what some of those sects inside the factions might be. Off the top of my head... * A Hive faction that e-blocks everything except Greed and Lust, because they believe it spurs a 'survival of the fittest' mentality. * An LU faction that think the surest path to victory is to stop trying to 'cure' captured Hive personnel and burn it all down. * An unaligned faction that believes in kaiju supremacy - siding with LU to liberate Hive BioFrames, but siding with the Hive to stop LU intervention against Kaiju attacks. I think WNS got the questions about the detox, 'is this Earth', and such, but if there's something else I can answer, please let me know! I'd be very excited to see someone else hop in on this adventure with us!

Ok! I think I've got it sorted. I have Holland as... 2d4 'Judge' Holland Buck (Intimidation, Information) And I've swapped the Relationship bump over to Millie Gearhart (d6->d8) I'm totally on board with your list for which NPCs to revert, so I've pushed Red Jenny to a Resource as well. 2d4 Red Jenny (Secrets, *Revenge) *Not sure if this is specific enough of a vibe, so the fallback is 'Supernatural' if you think that would work better?

Oh, I'm sure people are. I was actually misremembering and thought we had someone already in debt to the casino on top of Millie's debt to Sloan. It's your line to draw, so go with whatever feels right to you. I was just brainstorming because I wasn't sure why Missy would be gambling at the casino on credit. Though, given she's trying to keep up appearances of being 'high society' without the money to back it, she might have miscalculated and ended up with a debt at the casino while she was trying to make an impression with the upper crust of [CITY NAME HERE].

I might be a little out of the loop, but I'm going to butt in here because it feels like buffing and blasting (crazy super speed, fireballs, etc) is starting to peel away from the tone and limits we established early on. I think the idea was magic exists, but it's subtle not flashy. It's not high fantasy magic, it's more Call of Cthulhu than Dungeons & Dragons. No one else really has anything combat driven like that, because it doesn't seem like that kind of game. Just dropping the quote from the early Want / Do Not Want compilation. If you'd like to draw a debt as the line between the Casino and Missy, I'd be ok with it. But can I suggest something like "We can't prove it, but she's definitely cheating." instead? Just because we already have debts in play.

Guilty. I'm a practicing Heathen, and I celebrate the four blóts (think 'feasts' but literally 'sacrifices'): Summer's Coming (Sumarmál), Midsummer (Miðsumar), Winter Nights (Vetrarnætr), and Midwinter (Miðvetr). Some people know I celebrate 'weird holidays' but not the specifics ,and no one really celebrates with me. Funny enough, Winter Nights is starting tomorrow night and is one of my favorites (feel free to imagine a small fire, hot cider, and quiet singing under the full moon). It's also called the dísablót because the emphasis is placed entirely on the Norse goddesses (the dísa), and... and I'm rambling, so I'll just stop there. The next person has celebrated the solstices or equinoxes before.

Ok! Step 5! Draw an arrow from your square to a new or existing circle (NEW Extra) or diamond (NEW Location). - d4 'Judge' Holland Buck (I'm either going to kill him or kiss him) A former scout for the US Cavalry, Holland took up as a lawman in one of the territories after the war. Rumor has it that it was his gambling debts that were his undoing. Others say it was a woman as wild and dangerous as the West itself that made the lawman give up his silver star. Either way, for three years, the hard-fighting and fearless gambler has lived bounty to bounty under the tried and true words "Have gun. Will travel." What Holland and Missy did in that Texas jail cell was decidedly unprofessional for a sheriff and an (alleged) horse thief. What they did in the back of the monsignor's private train car was even more so—and not simply because Missy's escape plan included being disguised as a nun at the time. But now that Missy has dressed herself in the fragile trappings of respectability, the return of the rough gunman has drawn old feelings to the surface: the fear of losing all that she's built... and the temptation to burn it all down. Draw an arrow back to a Lead square. - Added a line from The Exchange to Alicia (Whatever she's doing, it's bad for business.) Live Changing Event: The Reckoning Step up Justice or Honor twice, or step up each once. - Justice and Honor both d4 -> d6 Step up a Value of your choice. - Passion d4 -> d6 Step up or Add a Distinction. - Corset Tease d4 -> d6 Step up two Relationships once, or one Relationship twice. - Holland Buck d4 -> d6 - Edmund Blackwood d4 -> d6 Step up an Extra (or Location, if no Extras exist). - Lincoln Palace 2d4 -> 2d6 Step up a Relationship, Asset, or Resource. - Jane Montgomery d6 -> d8

Guilty. I co-authored half of a fantasy series, and was the ghostwriter for a few dozen novels (mostly mystery-thriller). I'm trying to finally get a book out that's all me and under my own name, so... fingers crossed. The next person has had a body part reattached.

Hey. I'm sorry I disappeared on y'all for a minute. I'm catching up now. Ok... missed steps first. Lincoln Palace (Shelter, Diversion) - An upscale hotel with a reputation for discretion. Fine enough for well-heeled travelers to stay in the rapidly growing town. Missy performs and rents a room in the Palace. And, Step 4 then. I'm drawing a line from Red Jenny to Edmund Blackwood - "She's been in his bed before" Missy's Road is the Backroads. Missy shoots upright in her bed, her scream choking off as she coughs and disentangles the sensation of her nightgown clinging to her sweat-soaked body from the sound of the dappling rain against the window pane. She puts a shaking palm to her temple, the memory of mud under her fingernails pulling the hand away instantly. At fifteen, she'd had no idea if the man she and Clarence had buried in the shadow of that crumbling, red butte had been dead before they covered him with the plastering, blood-colored earth. Clarence Whitty had told her bodies sometimes moved like that a while after they died. He swore it to her. And she took his word. But not because she believed him. Those bones beneath the red clay testified to the danger of peeking behind the curtain. The truth is a poison, and only a fool would drink it without a proper mixer. - Step up Truth x2 (d4 -> d8) - Added Distinction : d4 Corset Tease - Step up Relationship : -> d6 Ramona Hart - Step up Relationship : -> d8 Alicia Ok... I don't think I've missed anything.

Guilty. It's honestly such a small thing—but I have this silver chain earring with a cuff, and when I put it on, something in me switches from "She's cute. You should go talk to her." to "She's cute. You should push her against that wall." It's the one accessory that makes me an absolute menace. The next person thinks a particular piercing is devastatingly sexy.

Not Guilty. But I did throw up in my friend's basement the first time I saw The Nightmare Before Christmas, and I still get a tiny bit uncomfy and queasy whenever it's on. The next person celebrates a holiday nobody else in their immediate family celebrates.

Excite

Absolutely gorgeous

We can go with this. She's been giving Missy a placebo, but after hitting her a couple of times with a very real effect from the pherosol, Missy has this association that Ramona and her pills can help her. That makes sense to me. I think this works too. It gives that hook that Ramona's been watching, analyzing, and using Missy's dependence on her placebo to get a psychological edge on her.

omg, I just realized I haven't put anything in the relationship line between Missy and Ramona. @DreamsnThings I think Missy puts up a very composed and mystical persona in public, but she's still a young woman one bad night from feral after so many years living town to town on lies, manipulation, and outright theft. Now that she's got money, she's moved up from whiskey to laudanum. She gets the drug discreetly from Ramona after a chance encounter where the pharmacist stumbled on her in the middle of a panic attack (Laudanum is opium + alcohol and one of the only contemporary treatments for anxiety). So I'm thinking - Ramona Hart (She's my remedy) if that all sounds good to you?

Your loving

Prompt 12: Don't Touch the Art “You don’t want to fuck a swan.” The words had none of the hesitancy or dismissive scoffing that colored the first half-dozen times Lydia had said the phrase. Now it had the rhythmic cadence of a mantra, and she didn’t even think before linking them to the chain of her glance at the marble statue’s graceful strength and the warm blooming that dripped from her heart and pooled beneath her stomach. There had certainly been pieces that drew a reaction from her in the past: ambient, erotic feelings or the idea of desire and stimulation. But not like this. There was a difference between a painting of Cupid and Psyche stirring her up and the hot, urgent desire in her to feel the chill of the swan’s stone throat against her fingers… on her lips… “You don’t want to fuck a swan.” Lydia let the wide-lipped hand-truck drop to a halt with a clap. She’d bring it up in therapy—when she had time for therapy—but right now, her confusing feelings about the white and black marbled bird were secondary to the problem of its relocation. And how to stop it wandering back. Three nights in a row, the piece had abandoned its plaque against the west wall, upending the mercifully soft and forgiving Obsession in Crimson, and taking its place on the dais at the center of the room. The first night had been unnerving. The second and third, Lydia had suspiciously triple-checked the locks on the gallery doors and run back the security camera footage, only to find the files corrupted. Tonight, as pale rain turned into a popping fireworks show against the glass skylight, the underpaid and overcaffeinated gallery assistant only felt the annoyed fatigue of being told the same lame joke four times in a row. The stone sculpture was shockingly heavy, and having moved it three times already, Lydia found her arms and legs preemptively trembling at the thought of laying her hands and body against the cool stone again to lever it onto the little cart. “Honestly, you look better there,” Lydia murmured, negotiating with the swan while rubbing at her eyes and letting out a sigh like a quietly deflating balloon. The dais was the keystone of the exhibit, a throne where the chosen piece sat like a prophet or a king… a god in a small, white-walled temple. Whatever rested there set the tone for the entire gallery, and conscious or not, the feelings that flowed from that piece would bleed into everyone walking the circuit around it. Maybe that was why she was hesitating tonight, she thought. As thunder rumbled overhead, the pattering rain softening her thoughts, and Lydia stared into the extended wings and the gently arcing crook of the swan’s neck. And she knew in her bones that Obsession in Crimson did not deserve that place. She swallowed, and her breath came shallow and tight as her neck flushed. In the half-light of the closed gallery, shadows gave the illusion that the swan was breathing as well, its wings gently stirring as they stretched wide enough to wrap around her, folding her in—if only they could move. Those stone eyes felt alive as well, and Lydia’s lips quirked. An awkward feeling came with that stony stare, intimidating and intriguing. The longer she looked at the bird, the more she felt that hypnotic pull it seemed to emit, the feeling like a man staring at her from across a crowded party, eyes full of temping promises and invitation. Another growl from the storm overhead vibrated through her, and Lydia found her feet moving. She left the hand-truck behind, her flats tapping the muted tile with each step, her skirt rustling around her knees as those steps then widened with her growing desire. People who come to the gallery only see the front. They don’t think about where the art goes when it’s not on display. Bound in crates. Covered in drop-cloths like funeral palls. Entombed in lightless storage units kept temperature stable, humidity controlled… utterly lifeless. Waiting in that darkness for years after that one moment in the sun where they were adored. Maybe sealed away forever, or until the unforgiving fingers of time picked them apart enough to join the dust that gathered over their shrouds. The thought of the swan meeting that fate twisted Lydia’s heart, and she mounted the dais with a painful yearning that tugged her to her knees like a fishhook lodged in her stomach and reeling into the marbled breast of the swan. Her hand pressed to the cool feathers in a rippling caress, her chest hugging against the figure as she felt the mix of chill and her own arousal making her peak within her bra. Some art endures, kept forever in the sun while the world turns around it. Most are more like people, loved by a few for a short time then forgotten. People and art both want to be treasured, though, even if it is only for the experience, even if it is only for a flicker of a moment before being enshrined in the tomb of memory. Lightning flashed overhead. The gallery lights went out, the dim reflected glow of city lights barely making an ingress through the rooftop window overhead to soften the utter blackness, and Lydia’s breath caught, her fingers clutching the statue under her while her heart pounded and her stomach dropped in a dizzying pulse of vertigo. And under her palm, the stone wings of the swan moved. Lydia saw them as another crack of lightning flared in the skylight overhead, but more than that, she felt them wrapping around her like a blanket, cupping her shoulders and curling below her skirt to draw her hips toward the statue. The motion against her was slow, gentle, but Lydia found she could not pull away. She didn’t want to. Instead, her legs shifted, her heels rising off the dais to accommodate the pressure against her and to fall back into that support. What was happening in that moment felt beyond her control, beyond her. She had felt in that flash a dropping sensation, like falling in a dream. Only was she awake now? It felt unimportant. Pressing her lips to the slender neck, she felt as if the stone were not true marble anymore. The texture reminded her pushing her hand into a mattress, right into the hot indent where someone had been lying… soft… warm… familiar. And with a breathy exhalation, she felt as if that neck had widened, the wings at her back now cradling her with strong forearms and fingers that curled against her skin in greedy desire to touch, to hold—to experience her. The being that held her now was a man, his dark eyes were framed in black ringlets that curled into a dark beard that drew ticklish flinches from her shoulder as he bent to kiss across her jaw and pulled her against him to claim her lips. In that moment, she felt as if she couldn’t move, as if she were the art and the man now holding her were here to admire her… to treasure her. There was something in his touch, in his kisses… an exploration that passed to the side of simple attraction. He might have used only his eyes and left the same effect, but in his lips and his hands and the press of his body against hers, she felt the same mindful intent—to experience her. Lydia arched her back, her chest pressing to him as her hands tangled in those curls. It was the swan still, she knew it. In whatever this dream space was she knew it with unshakeable certainty. As the man lay her down on the dais, his hands slipping beneath her skirt to pull her leggings off in an indulgent, peeling tug, Lydia saw warm spots of light blooming in the room around them. At each of the gallery displays, the paintings and sculptures were gone, faded away like fingerprints on glass. In their place, she saw movement and soon Lydia made out the figures of satyrs and nymphs tangled together in pairs and trios. High, sharp cries and moans of debauched pleasure rose and fell as if Lydia were hearing them through a glass window. Her eyes widened and the slick sound of the faun’s hands and cocks set her blood on fire. The swan’s fingers rose and pressed between her folds, teasing her opening and painting the ready wetness up and around her clit in a crescent that drew a pitched gasp from Lydia’s throat. She was ready, had been ready. And pulling the man who was the swan by his shoulders, her hips pushed up against him, her body begging even as she whispered, “Yes,” nodding in affirmation to a question unasked. When Lydia felt him push into her, the feeling of that hot fullness rippled up through her, tensing in her neck as she pushed against him, moving counterpoint to his own quickly building thrusts. There was no hesitation, no testing rhythm or adjustment. From the moment he was inside her, she felt that same direct and driven need in him, that craving to have her, to know and experience her body as it was. And lying back, her stomach tensing and fluttering, Lydia disappeared into the sensation. She was with him, holding him, being held by him, adored by him. Worshipful bites drew sharp gasps from her molten body as the swan’s human teeth pinched her throat and then, opening her blouse, the soft flesh of her breast. But she was also with the gallery. Around her, the coupling nymphs and satyrs seemed to echo back what she felt. Her moans became theirs, every curling foot and toss of a nymph’s hair echoed from her and back into her as she watched the satyrs, like her swan, relentless and possessive, chasing pleasure out from her center in a mounting wildfire. When she felt him swell inside of her, Lydia could do nothing as her body seized and her hand slapped from his shoulder to the corner of the dais beside her. The wave of that climax spilled out in a cry that was silent for a single racing heartbeat. And then all around her, the nymphs and satyrs moaned and screamed with a dozen variations of the crash that had flowed out of Lydia’s body. Her eyes fluttered as the aftershocks pulled her limbs like puppet-strings, lifting her head off the dais. And in that moment, a fresh bolt of lightning crashed overhead, thunder trumpeting in a crack that drove all other sound from the room like the blowing out of a candle. The gallery lights flickered and buzzed as they came back to life. Lydia lay back, panting, her flushed face tingling as she reached up to lay a wrist over her eyes. She felt then the emptiness between her legs, and looking down, she saw her skirt and leggings restored, lying over her as they had when she’d first come into the gallery that night. Sitting up on her elbows, Lydia looked around. No nymphs to be found. No satyrs either. Obsession in Crimson lay where it had been justly dumped onto the floor beside the dais. And beside her, the stone swan sat with its wings extended. Tentatively caressing the carved feathers, Lydia felt the cold marble and recoiled her fingers. For a moment, she questioned herself, but the ache between her legs was no illusion, nor was the hot blushing all across her body. And laying a hand over her waist she rested there a long while. At least for tonight, she belonged on that dais as well… an object, an art piece of flesh and blood, a treasure, perhaps. But one adored. At least for a night.

Fuck. Because she seems sweet, and giving moods deserve a good return.