Farcry11

Response Suggestions: "Peters gammy eye" "Smythe, lord of the Securifort" "A robo-penis" "Dicklizard" "Space Nazis" "The Russians, yet again" "Moriarity, damn his eyes!" "An Unathi's slimy dick-cloaca" "Cyborgs interfacing, all night long" "Furcri" Call suggestions: "What the hell is that?!" "Did anyone else hear that? It sounded like..." "Why does the HoS have such a stick up his ass?" "Oh god! There's ____ outside of escape!" "The passionate ERP was interrupted by ___"

To hear other people tell it, I apparently alternate between being strange/awkward and being cool/chill/pleasant to talk to. Not sure how this works, but okay.

Peter stared out of the window, the sound of the waves crashing on the seashore seemingly muffled by the thick, wet air of the Havana night. The sultry, black-haired Spanish woman he had picked up earlier snored softly in the bed across the room, tangled in the sheets. Thrushwood turned away from the window, staring at the lady for a moment, before picking up his eyepatch from the table before him and donning it. Approaching the bedside, he left a few coins on the pillow beside the sleeping woman's head, then picked up his nearby satchel and left. The rest of the inn was quiet this time of night, the last few drunks stumbling home down the cobblestone streets. He walked down the stairs and out the front door undisturbed, stepping in to the muggy Carribean night. He looked up at the sky, a brilliant painting of stars- a thousand-thousand points of light burned upon a black canvas. He was lost in them for a moment, before remembering that this night was one of grave purpose. He set off down the street, each impact of his boots on the stone seeming more audible than they had any right to be. He checked his bag anxiously as he walked, making sure nothing had been forgotten- powder, shot... He reached the agreed meeting place after an hour of walking. Moonlight shown brilliantly on the cliff's edge, and the sea stretched endlessly in to the night, far below. He sat on a nearby rock, listening to the waves and waiting patiently. Time passed, the waves kept crashing- and suddenly, he could hear a noise. The clopping of a horse's hooves, coming up the road. Thrushwood raised his head in anticipation, and soon the mounted figure was before him- a man clad in black trousers, burgundy leather boots, a cream blouse, and a brilliant red coat. His long brown hair swayed slightly in the wind, and a neat beard framed his mouth. Finally, his eyes- a brilliant green Thrushwood would recognize anywhere. The man dismounted, and then grinned. "Dean Sinclair. Ye showed up after all- I was expectin' you to leave me twistin' in the wind. As yer wont t 'do," Peter said, staring at the somewhat flamboyant man in front of him. "Amigo! You offend me with such talk- haven't I always been the greatest of friends to you?" "Like when you left me on that sinkin' ship off o' Antigua? Or when ye pinned me with that huge tab ye ran up at the pub in Nassau? Eh?" "Momentary lapses in judgement, you understand. Sometimes I'm simply not myself," Sinclair grinned wickedly, a hand resting on the flintlock jammed in to his belt, "but in any case, what's at stake here was too grand to walk away from. Whoever walks out of this alive gets all of Deadwater's loot- and you always were a terrible shot. I imagine the eye helps you none either." Peter frowned and spat. "Don't rib me about the eye, arsehat. And aye, the loot's here, right down over in th' cave on the cliff. Ye remember the agreement we all made those 10 years ago, aye? When there's only two blokes left alive from the original crew, they meet up n' settle the matter like men. One o' us is walkin' out o' here a rich man, n' the other ain't walkin' out at all. Maybe I'll do the decent thing and bury yer dandy arse." He left his place on the rock and rummaged through his bag, pulling out the fine flintlock , his powder horn, and a small bag of bullets. He loaded the weapon up, with his opponent doing the same. They barely looked at each other as they took the seven paces, then turned to draw. The blast of the guns and the acrid scent of gunpowder filled the air. Peter was unscathed- but so was Dean. Both men frowned and hurriedly began to load again. The horse had fled- presumably, Sinclair had either stolen it, or presumed that he was about to become rich enough that he needn't worry about tying up his mounts. The two finished reloading, quickly aiming and firing again. Another burst of smoke, more gunpowder in the air. Another mutual miss. And another. And another. After five shots, the two men stared at each other, perplexed, and then began to load again. Suddenly, rain started to fall, so they hurried their work before their powder would be rendered useless. Both reloaded, both aimed, both fired. Two screams cut through the rain, the ringing sounds of fire, the cloud of gunsmoke. Both men had crumpled to the ground, clutching at the wounds on their legs- Peter his right, Dean his left. The two men groaned in agony, applying pressure to their wounds, and after a few moments realized the bullets had gone straight through. They stared at each other, and then, simultaneously, burst in to an uproarious laughter peppered with groans of pain. The rain poured down on the two men as they laughed and groaned for what seemed, at least to the two of them, like hours. A few days later, Peter came to see Dean off at the Havana port. Sinclair had bought passage back to England on a galley, and planned on taking it easy for a few months. Both men were walking with crutches, but fortunately their legs weren't going to be cut off. They embraced for a moment, patting each other on the back, then separated. Dean got as far as the foot of the gangplank before he stopped and turned. "Peter, what are you going to do?" "Well, I'm quittin', t'be frank. The pirate life ain't fer me, not anymore- but I could do well here. I met a nice girl the night o' our duel, a fair Spanish lady by the name o' Rosa. With any luck, I'll get married, have a few little ones, get a house down here in Havanna. I can settle fer that." Dean smiled, nodding once. "My friend, I wish you the best of luck. I'd say if anyone's earned such a life, it's you." "And what about you, Sinclair?" The man seemed to think for a moment, before the ship's bosun cried, "all aboard!" The pirate hurried up the gangplank, looking down at Peter as the ship began to cast off. He simply shrugged. Peter nodded back as the ship began to sail away, leaning on a nearby rail and watching it until it disappeared over the horizon. "I'll kill yer arse. Someday, I'll kill yer bloody arse."

Mine were abscessed and ruptured almost a day to a week before surgery. No way. Mine exploded a week before surgery too. Mine never exploded, because I'm good at being alive. Har.

SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!

Attention spacemen. This is an important notice to all potential robusters. Security officer Daniel Wahlberg, a former cattleherd, has defeated both an ex-Spec Ops captain with plasteel arms, and a 6'7 foot tall Unathi hunter. Unarmed. In the same sparring session. Bow down to your new robust cattleherd god.

Leonin Smythe X Isilithai Uaekis Maximum hardass

All except the street sweeper with modified armor piercing slugs. That's needed for... Reasons.

This is why I decided to not take another go at applying for/being a mod. The sense of helping people is satisfactory, and the little privileges and powers are nice. But the game lost a lot of it's mystery for me. No longer was I a potential and unwitting victim, because I knew the round type and who the antags were. At any time I could leave my body and pop over to where the action was happening (usually because it was part of the job). After a while, I realized that I had ceased to be an actual player, and I was more of an outsider looking in. That was one of the major reasons I ended up leaving for so long- a feeling of all the challenge, all the fun being sucked out of the game. And I don't think anyone, especially myself, would begrudge you for feeling how you do. But beyond that, I feel we have enough staff now that some of you can deadmin and come play, let off some steam when you need to. All is not lost.

More like Risk of Ragequit. This game is fucking ungodly levels of hard. For those of you that haven't heard of it, Risk of Rain is one of those "rogue-types"- a game that takes many elements of roguelikes, but also blends it in to something a little more streamlined. It's a sidescrolling platformer shoot 'em up with minor RP elements and heavy randomization. No two levels are the same. Your character can gain new abilities or have his existing ones augmented by picking up various passive artifacts or active "usables". These range from a crappy jump-boost jet to a device that spawns remotely detonated dynamite whenever you shoot an enemy. You will need these upgrades to survive. You tend to get these devices with money. You get money from enemies. The longer you play a level, the more money you rack up. However, more and more monsters spawn the longer you play. They're also tougher. And to advance to the next level (after a boss fight, mind you) you have to hunt down all living monsters and kill them. Oh, and you lose all your money when you move to a new level. It's entrapment. IT'S GODDAMN ENTRAPMENT. Oh, and if you die, you get a snide remark implying that you suck shit and need to lower the difficulty. You also get sent back to level one. It's so goddamn infuriating. But for some reason I keep coming back. Discuss.

/me swoops downwards, wrekking the ork leader's head right off his shoulders. /me turns to the orks. "YOU ARE ALL FREE NOW!"

Buhbye. Good luck with class.

BYOND Key: Farcry11 Player Byond Key: A whole lot of keys. Reason for complaint: You know, every day, I get up in the morning, bike to school, study hard, bike home, and do my homework. And then I sit down to play videogames. As some of you may know, my main character on Aurora is Peter Thrushwood. Not Peter Thrustwood. I know you all think it's a joke, but every time you call him Thrustwood, it really hurts me as a person, deep inside. I invested a lot of time in that character, and RP is super serious business. I don't come here to be called silly names by you guys. So stop it. STOP IT GOD DAMNIT. GOD DAMN YOU ALL TO HELL! SPACE WILL RUN RED WITH THE BLOOD OF MY ENEMIES! HRAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!!!

*highfives Rusty* And just remember that without us, you'd all be under the Nazi jackboot right now.

aaay, lmao, those Doritos are mine

NEVER

So should we do the Boatmurdered method and have turns be 1 game year long? Also, I've no idea how to pass on the necessary game files. Blegh.

This is beautiful.

On the same subject, I feel that the Security armory is under stocked in the ballistics area. A box full of low caliber ballistic pistols would be nice. As for the laser guns, I support the non rechargeable laser battery clip idea. Would make more sense than the current clunky lasers. Keep the fire rate and such, though.

As long as we have the Space Dandy pompadour I'm satisfied.

I'd do it, of course. As for my current DF exploits... I have a Demigod, superhumanly strong Legendary Dodger/Striker/Kicker/Wrestler, named the Fist of Gods. He also recently learned the secrets of life and death. He's basically an immortal, murderous Kenshiro that can raise the dead.

/me is one of the skeletons, and dances around spookily before gaining sentience. Suddenly I look up at Valkrae, and I realize he must be stopped. I steel myself, and...

I know. Zeke's full name is Ezekiel Eden Gumora. When he told me that, I told him that was as bad as being named Jericho Kane or some shit. And Baijean Shine is... Well, Baijean Shine.

I unloaded on the engineering Borg because it made repeated attempts to attack BeeGee and myself, including (if I remember correctly) dragging a welder fuel tank at us and igniting it while it was standing there with us- apparently as a sort of bombing technique abusing the borg's resistance to explosions. I shot at it, and then it chose to keep coming back, at which point I killed it. If you don't want to get hurt, don't engage the armed terrorists. And if you don't want to KEEP getting hurt, leave the area and don't come back (at least until they're dead.) No two ways about it. The Borg was given ample chance to escape multiple times, and it's only it's own fault that it stuck around and got killed as a result. And yes, there was a bromance between the nuke ops, and something of an unofficial suicide pact. In this case, they had been caught in a pincer by ERT forces and, taking heavy fire, Red King (my Operative) swallowed his pill. He died next to his partner, BeeGee's Op (Azure Duke). It was a bad situation, and I'm pretty sure that, given the RP circumstances, BeeGee was going to take the pill anyway- I was just egging him on in LOOC as a sort of friendly ribbing. Hardly what I'd call giving instructions. And no, there was no ganking. The only interactions I had with crewmembers up until that point was hostage taking, and none of the hostages were ever killed (though one died of a disease or rad poisoning while in our care.) I'm sorry I didn't do the usual Nuke Op thing and mouth off over the radio, but I was trying to be at least somewhat stealthy and professional. I did quite a bit of what I'd call good RP that round, without having to announce myself over the intercoms and make grandiose speeches. That was Stein's job. I apologize for ruining the end of your round, and I can see why you might think I was being a murderboner in this situation, but hopefully this clears things up a bit. (P.S, next time you get killed, maybe calm down a bit and look at the situation from multiple points of view before posting a formal complaint calling someone a murderboner. Hugs and kisses.)