WickedCadrach

Sigh... Not Guilty. Most are dead accounts now, but this needy-greedy brain craves validation in all the most unhealthy ways. The next person relocates the spiders before clearing away webs.

Sinful pleasure

Hell yeah. Talk nerdy to me. (I don't think an Ability makes sense for Missy out the gate, but mechanically I'm intrigued at the idea of picking one up in-game. Thanks for the rules breakdown!)

Zoophile

Impatient hunger

You have Pherotech listed on your sheet. Not sure if that's the same thing? @DreamsnThings The Distinctions are also in the Rules Reference thread. Scroll down to Distinctions/Traits and then down in that section to The Big List of Distinctions/Traits for 1880s Steampunk Western RPG. You can pick one there or work out something unique with Izzy (like you did with Honeypot). Though, I might recommend boosting one of the Distinctions you already have instead (Honeypot or PheroTech).

Yep! That's the essential difference. Once you update your character sheet with the choices for whichever Youth path you choose, I think you'll be ready for the next step.

I got you! In the TTRPG Club - Roleplays tab, there's a thread for Cortex Steampunk Rules Reference . Just open that page and scroll down to the Spoiler tab labelled for Pathways (it's at the bottom). Open it up and then go to the section for Youth. In that tab will be the directions for what to do depending on whether you pick Apprentice or Believer. (Side note: The Mr. Kay and Red Jenny connection is wild Love it. )

Not Guilty. The most complicated stuff I can hit on guitar is some Iron Maiden with simplified solos. I play folk on acoustic and mandolin, but it's all the same stuff. I don't think I've learned a 'new' song all the way through in the last five years or so. The next person is skilled at something that isn't an art.

Sadly, Not Guilty. I've only seen a friend's college production of Dido and Aeneas, but I've always thought I'd enjoy opera if I ever got to see it unfiltered by a screen. The next person has at least one playbill they've kept as a memento.

It's not quite 5 AM and The rain is through waiting. Only a mile in, I don't even slow. I'll be soaked, more than usual. It's fine. I drink a liter before I even lace my shoes, And feeling every inch of clothing Pasted to my body by sweat is not uncomfortable. Not to me. To you maybe. You'd prefer I came out of the box like this, No evidence of what it costs. Me too, honestly, But only sometimes. The feeling of my burning muscle Steaming in cool rain, makes me remember I came From mud. From swamp. From survivors Of fangs in the millennial darkness of naked epochs. I don't eat meat. I can't bear suffering. But I can smell it. And the ghosts inside me remember. I am a creature Running in the rain. It's not the first time that I've thought About throwing off my bra. Peeling my shorts Off my heated thighs. Running Sky-clad. In the rain we have no more secrets. Everything is shown. Dignity is washed off first. And in the hypnotic rhythm of the run, In the mud and new-born puddles soaking your socks, Thoughts rise like parish graves in a hurricane. The night before, I stared into a page full of lies. Fifty siblings lined up behind it. My eyes glistened Like the vodka in my hand. CTRL+A, DEL CTRL+Z Wince and down the vodka. Light a cigarette and walk away Before my pen carves another line into the pressboard desk That's almost as scarred as me. Almost as cheap as me. I wonder if it will rain overnight. It didn't. It waited for me A mile outside my door. Focus on breathing. Three in. Two out. Keep time with your steps. A mottled, dishwater grey cat is looking at me, Maybe wondering what I'm running from, What I'm doing in the rain. If I'm here for her. I think she wants to follow me. Turning her head, she lifts a paw in a hesitant half-step. She's considering if I'm what she's looking for. Food. Companionship. Some way out of the rain, maybe. There are no secrets in the rain, even for cats. I decide that if she follows me, I'll let her inside— And deal with the growls and the hissing and The jealous suspicion of the two in my bedroom who have forgotten What it is to be outside in the storm. A memory bubbles up Of sitting under a bridge, Sharing a cigarette while the rain fell and she told me She got a gun. Because he still comes into her room at night. And I feel ashamed because I was thinking about her lip gloss And her lips. And my jealousy of her tits that wasn't only jealousy. Three in. Two out. The cat doesn't follow me. She doesn't need me. She has her claws, and She'll take her chances, Curled under a bush until the sun rises. I take my shoes off at the door. Socks too. I hold my ankle and pull it to my spine, Dripping onto the doormat, Hoping the cat is ok as thunder arrives. And I wonder if I should go back out to look for her. Sometimes we only get one chance. Sometimes we can only pray we see her again In daylight. I'm lingering, A little waterfall trailing off my elbow onto the carpet. You ask me what's wrong, And I see how I must look to you, Even with the muddling speckles of water on my glasses. Curls tangled and plastered against my scalp, Dripping like I'm fresh from a shower and Fidgeting on one foot like a pale, anxious flamingo. And that's all you'll ever see. You don't look at me the way they do at the bars, Sipping your coffee in a fluffy robe that reminds me Of how the rain and sweat is chilling on my skin and Makes me wish I could be warm in there as well. I smile and shake my head. I joke about the rain waiting for me, and You put your hand on my arm, Laughing back as you offer to pour me some coffee. The touch is chaste in all the ways I'm not, and Shame boils inside, as I know I can't put my hands on you The same way. I play it off as awkwardness. Maybe it is. Maybe the woman is still too much The gangly girl on the soccer team Who stiffens like she's been stabbed when a hug comes too swift. Maybe I'm still the girl on the theater catwalk Who leans too close, grabs too fast, and kisses too hard Because keeping her body to herself Feels like a kind of suicide. Maybe I'm the cat too, Sleeping in the rain, because its safer than misunderstanding— Safer than wondering if she'll think of me at all When she's drifted out the other side of my life. You ask how the book is coming, And I offer to make you breakfast. I'm not hungry. Thunder growls, And I worry about the cat.

Fuck, of course. The sky is clouded but the birds are singing again, and a bed made warmer with some company sounds amazing

Not Guilty. Had to look that one up, and definitely not the sort of thing we'd have been allowed to watch growing up. (Also, tajin on popcorn sounds awesome.) Though, speaking of deathmatches... The next poster has been to a live wrestling show (like WWE, not Olympic wrestling).

I think if we want that Western feeling of lonely trails, instead of focusing on a town, maybe we should focus on a region. I'm imagining a little frontier town two days ride across wilderness and homesteads from an only slightly bigger town, but one with a railroad or attached army fort to show that encroaching 'civilization'.

Kill. It was going to be Fuck, but he said he didn't want to get fucked, soooo...

The silent satisfaction that followed made Emily's eyes heavy. Despite the intervening shower, she and Magda both were only a couple hours removed from the skirmish at the Hive hab base, and the pilot's muscles were now demanding true rest. For a moment, she considered releasing the last of the tension in her limbs, slipping down to lie fully against the woman under her. She could stay a few minutes at least... right? The moment just felt so— Magda's nose brushed Emily's and the dark-haired frame-jockey started, blinking as she felt the playful touch. A moment passed where her eyes moved between Magda's, looking first to the right then the left. Why had that surprised her so much? They had touched each other everywhere else with much much more intense contact. They'd kissed, something that not everyone Emily took to her bunk wanted to do do—not something she always wanted out of a lover, but something that had felt right in the moment. Still... that had been the heat of the moment. People said and did crazy stuff when their blood was moving, but things were cooling off now. Did she want another round? That didn't seem to be it. There was a heartbeat of pause where Emily thought she knew the answer, but silently the pilot shoved the thought away, playing dumb with herself as she shifted in place. Because in the stillness of the command office pod, just as Magda's nose had touched hers, Emily had felt a flutter in her chest that frightened her. Slipping on a crooked smirk, she pushed the feeling down. "Awww... Did I find the happy switch? My captain seems a little less cunt-y now," she said, her voice low and breathy despite the cavalier cadence. Withdrawing slowly, Emily pulled her hips away until she felt Magda's fingers slip free, and dropping a metal foot to the floor, she gave the other woman a last appreciative stare, her cool, mischievous expression softening as her gaze moved up from her captain's bare legs and chest and reached the shaved head lifting from the table to look her way. Without another word, Emily gathered her clothes, dressing promptly before firing off a sloppy salute at the door. "Captain."

chubby cheeks

My Quiet It's the anxious palming of guitar strings, The stillness of corrosion and atrophy, The silence of macerated words kept inside, dissolving into glances, Thin muscles squeezing ribs against lungs Like my mother grabbing me when the brakes stuttered and slid And I heard her cry 'God, save us!' in the voice— The voice Saint Peter must have used, A voice desperate but believing, Certainly more faithful than mine; He saved her, after all. But intercession follows confession, and so I confess, I confess Until there's nothing inside but the quiet. I don't cry out anymore. I hold my breath. I keep my quiet Tight in my chest where it rides my blood to folded hands and still feet; A bowl is most useful to others when she is empty. My quiet is the quiet of waiting, a kneeling quiet, A hands on my knees, chin lifted, Mouth not quite making any human shape because I don't know if you want me to smile Kind of quiet. Slave quiet. Needy quiet. Naked to the bone, Whispers like kindling twigs breaking underfoot ... and I stop, because you only listen when I'm quiet. And after we're done, after I've let you in To turn the quiet loud, to fill me with your sounds, And we're in reality again, towels discarded like autumn leaves, Drinking coffee that tastes like the last pot of coffee, I'm quiet still. My chest crumpling in vacuous uncertainty, I pretend to read my book, in case you want to talk. And in that wordless moment, a moment that's really nothing more Than the possibility of a moment, I imagine what you must think: Disgust, disappointment, regret, hate. Hate. Hate engraved, Etched like fingernails against the inside of a coffin lid. You must hate me. It's not speculation. It's a command. You *must* hate me, So I can apologize, so I can make it right by being small, So small that this quiet in me does not feel so much, So that I can beg and bend and offer you straps to bind me. Hold them, please... Tighter. Harder. Don't let me think. My quiet is natural with a hand on my neck. My stillness makes sense if I am your toy, My rag-doll limbs still and limp, my body Exactly where you left me, should you need me—if you ever needed me. My quiet is expectation like the whiskey you keep over the fridge, Or the way I hold my nights open for the nothing that we do. And it's a lie. Because I'm not your hostage. You're mine. Hold my leash, hold my tongue, And I don't own myself, I don't own my tears, or my night terrors, that day I shut myself in our closet and wrapped your belt around my neck, ... my quiet, and why it stays... quiet. My arms around you, my lips smear the blame across your neck. I'm yours—devoted—quietly waiting every moment on your permission to live, Because I can't give myself permission to die.

That's a perfect place to start! And like Izzy said, there's going to be more chances to raise other relationships as you get further on the Pathway steps.

Emily could not help herself. As Magda came apart under her, hips rising and the feral sounds of pleasure accompanying every roll of Emily's wrist, the pilot leaned down into the kiss her captain arched up to take. The warmth of their thighs sliding against each other, sweat and discreet silicone making the hot flesh glide, urged Emily closer, until every upward push of Magda's body met hers in a counterpoint of explosive contact. The two fingers stretching her backdoor sent a hot, gasping groan out of Emily's throat, her lips coming off Magda's to let out the encouraging sound while her eyelids half closed in a tremble matching the contractions at her center. The pressure and the rhythmic slide of Magda's fingertips pushing against her inner wall to touch the bundle of electrified nerves deep inside her, drew a collapsing backward drop from Emily's taut hips. She was trembling, and feeling Magda shake under her along with the writhing flutter of the other woman's hand inside her made it impossible to stay still. She rode Magda's thigh, leaving wet, urgent kisses on the trembling muscle as it pushed up against her. Knees spread wide, dropping down as Magda rolled up, Emily chased the stormcloud feeling mounting inside of her, her lower lips parted around the muscle, the glistening bud of her clit greedily taking the friction it could from her CO's leg as the fire Magda had kindled inside her blazed with every stroke of her fingers. She wanted more, needed more. The feeling of the woman who was one part sister-in-arms, one part mother, one part judge and jury... the feeling of her falling to pieces under her... Emily had never wanted another person quite like this, and she drank in the smell of her before their lips came together once more. With the tearing sound of Magda's last bit of clothing being stretched too far and the squealing, broken sound of her body seizing in the last moment before the drop, Emily felt Magda's fingers inside of her stiffening and plunging in a desperate stroke as the small hand muscles were caught in the same tidal wave as the rest of her. And that sudden pulling pressure was enough. One hand still inside her, the other coiled in her dark hair, Emily let herself be pulled forward as a swimming oblivion rocked through her, collapsing her fingers and toes in a curling tension that sent the chrome of her cybered leg digging into the metal of the desktop under her with the high ping and crack of a snapping screw. The starfish pucker of her anus squeezed down on Magda as Emily gasped and panted, blindly accepting the kiss that followed, her mouth open and accommodating with a wet, inviting curl of her tongue. For a moment, she simply lay there, allowing the soft aftershocks to inform the much more gentle rolling of her hips, the turning of her cybernetic hand, and the pressure of her lips and tongue. It felt like being inside Scylla, in a weird way. Like the borders between them had disappeared... the sweat on their skin like the neuro-fluid in the Bio-Frames. She wondered if Magda could read what she was thinking. As Emily slipped her fingers from between the other woman's legs and dragged them up along her hip, it almost seemed like Magda was moving her chin to meet her before her thumb found its way there to give a light, tracing caress. Emily felt the temptation to say something, to cut the silent bliss of the moment with some pithy joke or comment. She'd done it before, lying in her bunk with some pilot on loan from another command or one of the crew at the Firebase, just to make it clear what things were and what things absolutely weren't. But her, still tangled up over her CO as the chill of the mountains began to leak back in through the metal floor and desk under them, Emily didn't feel like saying anything. She simply stared, her own dark eyes meeting Magda's, enjoying the view, the dark flush in her lips and the way her chest shifted under her as she caught her breath, while the miniature turbine augmenting Emily's own breathing left her almost conspicuously still.

The Relationship step-ups are one-sided when they're picked. For instance, Missy might have a d4 relationship with Ramona while Ramona has a d10 for her relationship with Missy. It also seems to be less 'how well' you know someone and more 'how invested' you are in the dynamic. So you can kind of follow your heart here . Maybe one of us shady people you've been investigating have made you particularly interested or you spied us doing something that really makes your blood boil? Maybe you're really loyal as a partner or have history, so your relationship with Mr. Kay is the one you step up first?

Fresh face

Old regret

Personally, I love this idea. Whether you're a G-Man for the US Secret Service, US Marshalls, or some other group, I'm enjoying the idea of this character and how they'll click and have friction with the others. It looks like 'Umbracite' is going to be our gold-rush material (MB and Izzy were just talking about it here). Your "Q" college could definitely be an NPC and your Pharmacy could be a Location. Once you have your core character concept and want to start moving on the Pathways steps, you'll get a chance to add them to the web. A slight tangent, but if we have a pharmacy as an important location... in the late 1800s... I just want to note that historically pharmacies were wild. Morphine, laudanum, cannabis, heroin, cocaine, arsenic, mercury, and turpentine were all ingredients in the 'patent-drug' craze of the time. Nothing was accurately labelled. Everything was just available and commonly mixed with alcohol. So, on top of the steampunk alt-history of it all, actual history here is a disaster lever that we could definitely pull on.

I think so (I hope so, since I did already)