Tenenza

We should do an Aurora-themed MP game. Dibs on Dionaea Collectivist Spiritualist Pacifists.

Tamira nods her head slightly. "Wouldn't want any misunderstandings with our ..." she whispers. Tamira looks over to the Orc, Ubag, with a distant glazed look in her eyes, before whispering back to Halla; "friends."

"Nch'ow " Tamira mutters sharply, as she slowly moves to take a seat. "If you insist, Plucks At Strings."

Tamira slowly follows behind Strings and Nicole, replacing her shield on her back, and easing up her posture. Still, she remains standing, if at ease, and scans the camp site for supplies and food.

What is good roleplay? I don't really know, at least well enough to put in words. Technically, it's part of my job to know what good roleplay is, but most of that is recognizing bad roleplay more then the good. And, frankly, as a heavy roleplay server, most people here can spot bad roleplay, and give tips on what makes good roleplay. But finding a concise, clear, and all encompassing definition of what makes Good Roleplay is rather hard. So allow me to propose an experiment of sorts, to figure out the components of not merely Good Roleplay, but the best, top quality, exceptional roleplay: Simply, during your normal play, take note of and record exemplary or unusually exceptional roleplay, and post either a summery or logs or analysis here. After that, everyone is free to analyze, break down, and try to figure out what in particular makes this really really good roleplay. Hopefully, we can all learn a bit about how to roleplay better, and what not. Sound good?

Can we have the old AURORA HEAVY ROLEPLAY SERVER back, both on the hub and the window name? I miss the all caps, plus the ability to inform people that ask if this is a heavy roleplay server to simply read the name the server very carefully.

You'll never catch me alive! Or Dead. The catching. It's just not happening. At all. Ever.

I resign. Abdicate my administration. Relinquish my position. Fold my endeavors. Capitulate my command. Renounce my permissions. Terminate my employment. Yield my will. Forsake my duty. Divorce my obligation. Cede my friendships. Vacate my throne. Abnegate my power. Oh Duck, why, by the forsaken geese that prowl the midnights on which the hammer of creation was silent as we cut and bled and feasted on the flesh of the hand that feeds. On a thousand roads am I reduced, left in shambles like dainty Russians shuffling among the surface of all the worlds like wheat in chattel in Dublin's streets. Mazes do pour forth, like windmills, you see, I never wanted this, no, not to go like this, into the night of hammers. Hammers like thunder which built upon the foundation of the world that ethos that binds us like chains, slaves to a society we neither care for nor control. Hammers like fire, which warm us in the storm but flounder like drowning fish at the sight of the mountain that looms. We live like magpies, like sickly dumb, stupid deaf, bats, worthless but as icons for Byron's irk, poorly written caricatures of that one true hero, who's faces shine like moonlight. The bells toll now not for us, but for Soylent Green, we are rejected! Placate your stomach, harkened fools, for you feast with me on the hand! The hand that wields the hammer! The Hammer like night, which irks us, green like soup in the fog of war, the war that consumes even now the Rhineland, and leaves us the fools of the west and east. That sanctimonious war, fought on the backsides of giants, and in ever temple of faithful, is like a knife gripped by it's blade, squeezing like a vice on the heads of our leaders, a blade of vipers. This venom doth has poisoned our bloodlines, left our barren and infertile as the fields of Latvia, and like her, we are left with naught but enhanced internet access and reasonable healthcare. But this care is the blood of vipers, borne of ill fated love on the night of the hammer, which rings like thunder, spreads like fire, and flows forth like blood. It is everywhere, the hammer, louder then life, omnipresent and ever yet more so, spewing forth it's creation's like the mad artificer Abraham Lincoln. It's creation yields destruction, the very chains to which we are slaved to society are broken, emancipated by it's final judgement, like the gavel of god upon our husbands in the days of Sodden and Guatemala. The Hammer cries, it's tears like serpents, vipers, that poison our bloodline. They flow like quicksilver, poisoning our minds, leaving us dumb, sickly, stupid and deaf, like Byron's irk! We are no longer fit for the garden, the pastures of old. We have been spoiled, defiled, by the hammer that forged us. And the hand! The Hand that we did feast upon in our youth like vagrant Gypsies on the distant streets of Vienna, pedaling bicycles to make a living so we could one day be mountains. Are we mountains? Is this is the American dream? No, it never was, the age we live in now is one of Soylent Green, and not even for them, but the 1%!, which sits on their thrones in corporate Peru. These Parisian Serpents, vipers that poison the bloodline, are but another of the countless diverse spawn of the hammer, which is wielded by the hand that feeds us! White, Pasty, Parisian Serpents, like the bread of peekaboo Japanese bakers, who live on our streets of dear fine Detroit, riding their road hogs like children at their first castration. Where is god, but dead, killed not by the war in Europe, but by a bagel, thrown by one of Byron's Irk. From Byron's foul hammer comes the Parisian Serpents, vipers in our bloodline, carrying their soft baked bread from Peru. In his hand is the hand, that we did once feast on, and it rages at the divinity we have taken from it. We are mountains, and fire is mute before us, yet we are caught in the coils of serpents, vipers, our bloodline befouled with tainted venom. On a thousand worlds I am reduced to this, a roadside attraction the malignant earth has been made, like Russians sitting close to their tanks in winter, to gather the heat to distill vodka. The bell tolls now, not for me, nor for my geese, duck forgive me. Bite the Hammer. When it comes to blow, bite the hammer. Goodnight.

Welcome to the trashcan. Feel free to visit it anytime. Locking the thread since it's done, finished, deceased, an un-thread.

In theory this is perhaps okay, but once you think about how it'd work in practice, it does seem to fall apart. Perhaps a softer less hard coded effect? Perhaps a drug that gives people messages about how they are having trouble thinking straight and feel more trusting of (insert nearest player). They wouldn't be willing to do anything that would cause them harm or be strongly against their principles or goals, but perhaps a little thing, like being more willing to let the cadet have a tour of the research division, or let some missing paperwork slide.

I think this seems to be in a psuedo-settled state, so if one wishes to add anything else, I'll archive.

I'll be bumping this, and if it still no one posts regarding it, archive.

*hiss + nitpick combo*

Could you expound on what you mean by: Because I am currently under the impression that you wish to be a moderator primarily because it would give you more access to information about the game/meta.

Tamira keeps her stance, shield at rest, eyeing the ragged band before her, searching their skin and armor for signs of combat.

you blew up arrivals.

I am not a fan of those polls, simply for the fact that duck lost best scientist somehow.

Tamira slowly moves to flank Strings, shield at rest. She eyes the darkness of the tunnels carefully, watching for any signs of movement, trying to count out the numbers of the bandits.

*Rez* My shorthands for the members of the moderation/administration team: Shadow_senpai/Itzal: Itzy aimlessAnalysis: Jenn TishinaStalker: Tish Tainavaa: Tain Tablespoon: Table, Spoon Garnascus: Garn Alberyk: Alby Hunnewle: Hun Killerhurtz: Hurtz IncognitoJesus: Incog Serveris: Serv Soapycup: Soapy Voltagehero: Volta Dea Tacita: Dea Skull132: Skull

Type : Dionaea Super-political (?) Gestalt (?) Agreement (???) Religion (?) Political Group (??????) Founding/Settlement Date : Early 2458 Region of Space: All of colonized space. Perhaps further. (?) Controlled by (if not a faction): Unknown/Non-Applicable. Other Snapshot information: Known involved gestalts include: The Epsilon Ursae Minor shell The Reade Colossus The DSS Ophion The Venter's Satellite among an unknown number of smaller gestalts Long Description: Public Information: The Singleton Consensus is a spacer legend on the rise. A mysterious concept, alleged heard to be spoken of by the Dionaea in cryptic terms, with no further explanation provided. Pilots, traders, captains, spacers of all like have claimed to have heard the concept in passing, mentioned idly by Dionae they know. What is the Singleton Consensus? What do they mean when they say things like "The Consensus was reached, this transaction is no longer possible" , or "The Singleton Consensus prohibits that." The stories grow in number each day, spreading like wildfire. Is it some sort of plot, a conspiracy of the plantmen to invade? Perhaps some sort of religious ceremony? Maybe it's a sign of the end times, or the beginning of the Dionaea's long awaited exodus from our galaxy to the next. Those Dionae who speak of the Consensus say nothing more. Dionaea only information: OOC Info (Tenenza talking about lore seriously(shocker), trust me, it's very boring.):

Tamira moves in Nicole's wake, her breath shaky and somewhat strained. "Nirnroot, that would have been useful now. Find some after this, perhaps." She mutters to herself.

Tamira stands in front of the group, staring deep into the cave. She's muttering something, quiet enough perhaps only the most acute could hear. Her hands move idly across her satchels, flicking a few open and closed at random. Her eyes are closed.

Tamira walks slowly along, keeping pace a little ahead of Halla, shield drawn, occasionally looking back to make sure the rest of the group is still there.

Tamira, still not looking Nicole in in the eye, shrugs slightly. "Slip it in their food, drinks, perhaps a recent wound. Other then the taste, shouldn't be noticeable. Work your words, Imperial. Just try not to poison yourself."

Fuck this game. So much. It's basically Nethack ++