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amenities last won the day on August 11

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  • Birthday 01/01/1869

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  1. Do I have to do anything special to get into the black tarantula?

    1. amenities


      Opening the doors can be a little tricky because there's no "push" or "pull" sign, but besides that nope

    2. Pasion Pasiva

      Pasion Pasiva

      Any reference pictures or description.

    3. amenities
  2. Ambient piano music tinkled through the small establishment’s speakers above the violent armed battery. Gore’s force accompanied his manners well, the kid snapping to and realizing who he was dealing with. The thing was, guys like Gore weren’t used to people folding so easy. He had to smack the kid back into consciousness just to be nice. Stealing stuff from safes was like taking candy from a baby for Gore. Combo memorized in the blasted out brains underneath his hat, Gore gave a sardonic “Haha damn!” at Adime’s eye before holstering his weapon and waltzing for the thick door with a rotating wheel lock next to a combination wheel Gore had a good idea what was gonna happen to the kid. Things were taking off fucking swimmingly. David’s unfortunate young employee was none of his concern. What was his concern… Fancily clicking open the glass door while Adime placed the contents of his pockets on the counter, Gore turned dials on the radio so that, instead of soft piano, blaring metal music rared through the speakers. The sounds of hardcore punk music blared over the sound of anything happening behind that counter. Fingering the safe open, exhaling all the way, and taking as big a drag off the black cigar as Gore’s lungs could handle— acrid puffs venting through the crusty slit in his neck— Gore spit the cigar aside and entered a veritable supermall of drugs organized front to back, left to right, up to down, alphabetically. Strolling to “C” as the cries of fear began from where Adime and his next host were, Gore thrust his Ka-Bar into the nearest brick of pure Yh’mi blow and spooned out a pile along the topside of the footlong blade. He pressed his nose to the hilt of his blade and railed almost 4 grams of white china up his right nostril while simultaneously gutting the entire left side of his face. Blood and white caked on his face, and while the clerk yelled, so did Gore. “WOOOOOOOH!” Now he could get to business!! Gore ran out of the safe, skip-hopping on his one week earlier broken-then-healed left leg to turn the corner. Pain buzzed up his leg but was cut off by the tingling numb crawling across his body from the nose. One, two, three, four, five plastic bags he dapped off the roller before jetting back into the safe to load up on perks, zones, zips, zops, and of course cocaine. Coming out of the safe, flask in his pocket, carrying all the bags on his arms like a man determined to make one trip does groceries, Gore headed for the pharmacy drive-thru window, sparta-kicking it open and getting his leg stuck in the opening. “Got dammit!”
  3. There was a short pause between the twos’ interruptive montage and Timmy’s exclamation. In this short pause, Gore chuckled an indication that he had still caught Adime’s words. “Your mom knows the way.” Then came Timmy, then turned Adime, then Timmy died. Emptying the bottle until just a third was left, Gore looked down and to the left. Adime was right, the bullets would draw people here. The body might even lead them down this alley. There was a toothless homeless guy lying in the trash, nearby staring petrified at what had just happened. “Hey,” said Gore. The homeless guy looked up as Gore handed him the bottle, pointing in the opposite direction we were headed. “Anyone comes this way, tell ‘em we went that way.” Taking the bottle, pants probably full of fearful shit and piss, the hobo nodded profusely, and Adime and Gore were off. “Yeah yeah, just let me get a piece of him first,” said Gore to Adime’s statement about the Mr. Little Dick as they approached the pharmacy called David’s. The bell to a pharmacy nearby dinged as Adime and Gore walked in; of the 6 pharmacists employed at David’s, there was a pubescent young adult man behind the counter. This place kept drugs like strong cough medicines and cures to some biomagical diseases, but all the good stuff was behind the counter. There was even Yh’mi cocaine back there. “DAVID!” shout-laughed the drunken Gore from the counter. The pimply guy had no idea who the cowboy looking gentleman was shouting, but he was young and dumb enough not to run. Gore strolled up to the counter with the cigar in his mouth. “Sir, I’m really sorry but you’re not allowed to smoke in here,” said the timid clerk. Gore got up on the counter almost clumsily, pushing up on his hands until he got his knees up there and THEN standing. But once he was up there, he kicked the register away and, before the shocked clerk could get away, got him in the chin with the follow-through of his foot. The young guy hit his ass just as Gore landed with one foot on either side and wrenched him up by the collar. Smacking him twice, jamming the barrel of a pistol in the nape of his rapidly swelling chin, ash from the cigar falling on his face, Gore accosted him with whiskey spittle and vapor. “Where’s the coke, kid?”
  4. This was a place near enough Tia that, when Tia had been a thing, it could basically be called Tia. Instead, this farm town's actual name was Javon's Peak. A circular city on a giant hill with endless tunnels. These tunnels had been overrun with the sickened and crazed flooding out of Tia; it was rumored there still roamed clans of mutant-like people whose sight in the dark was escalated after all their time spent there. Still though, it was little more than a myth to Javon's Peak. In the center of the city was a large stadium, this one new and pristine. It was even equipped to withstand outside assaults should Javon's Peak ever need refuge from such a threat. Much better than the broken down, busted up arena in the southeast corner of J's Peak, not-so-affectionately referred to as Old Peak, which instead of sheltering the town from those tunnels held the direct entrance into them. It was within Old Peak that a thousand honorable men and women sat compliant audience to the conversing Cain and Iblis. Evil and volatility incarnate, the warbling ball of godly green energy cast a sickening light across the Puppet Master's face. Faust would feel something akin to the weight of atmospheric pressure exerting itself upon him. Truth be told, it was a byproduct of Cain's very beating heart, something he could only control in the same manner as one holds their breath; it was uncomfortable for him to suppress his energy and he rarely did. But now.. now it was incensed with Iblis and the orb in his hands, practically uncontrollable even in Cain's own skin. Disturbing, the way his dirty fingernails dug in against the wood grain; how he didn't look Iblis full-faced, his nose almost resting on the stage's edge and eyes like dinner plates unblinking on the magister. It might occur to Faust that he could just, simply, stomp down on Cain's face at this moment and maybe deal him terrible damage. It might also occur to Faust that something unexpected could go awfully wrong with such intent. "For such a powerful construct, I cannot simply reproduce your physical form. Flesh and blood alone isn't going to cut it. I will need to take your soul from your body, and deposit it into the new body as it gestates." As Faust spoke, another figure emerged out of the darkness almost exactly where Cain had been. This figure wore grey pants only, with wild red hair and a singular circle of black that took up most of his torso. It would take a second of staring to realize that Cain's shadow had bled out from the darkness in that moment; another second to comprehend that the black thing on his chest wasn't a black hole. Instead, in the third second, a line traced itself up from the circle bisecting the shadow's face vertically. On the shadow's forehead manifested a rune in a forgotten language. Beneath that rune, a label in Terric: Protection. "At the same time I will slowly infuse the power of Alginak." All of Old Peaks watched as Cain stood up abruptly immediately when Iblis had finished speaking. "I accept." He turned his back on Faust, on his precious energy, and walked to his shadow. The shadow glared at the Earthbreaker with katana in his eyes. A piece of Cain Rose watched in malice as another piece came to claim his life. What have I become, the lesser thought. No longer with sorrow but reptile precision and efficacy, what Poor Rose had become would willingly sacrificed body, mind, and now soul to reach ever greater heights. Cain's sharp teeth grinned at his shadow's expression. His sharp nails plunged through the black circle on his shadow's chest. His sharp shriek penetrated the night sky. The last ounce of something he had that could feel pain now wretched with its unfathomably hellish dismantlement. Pendulums, lotus flowers, auroras of black that was so dark that the colors on its edges were highlighted hyper bright cascaded off the duo of Cain's halves. As the shadow stood, simply allowed the heartless Earthbreaker to reach inside him like a toy chest like nobody else on Valucre could, Cain delved in up to the shoulder. What looked like it would take a mountain of effort, taking an unwilling man's soul, instead looked like rummaging through stuffed animals to the Earthbreaker. That is, until he caught hold of it. Then the Earthbreaker was pulled INTO the shadow almost up to the torso. His bare feet made craters in the earth as he wrestled with something momentous inside his other half. Slowly, though, he withdrew. From eons away came a carnal, snarling roar. From galaxies into the abyss, the Earthbreaker reeled out the original soul of Cain Rose. It was a jagged, swirling ball of blacks and reds and purples. The amalgamation was dark it was visually and physically painful to behold. An endless assault of claws and swords, of tentacles tipped with jagged fangs, stabbed and attempted to mutilate the Earthbreaker. His eyes were clenched shut, teeth bared, the stinging bass and treble of the monster's protest blasting his eardrums, all of Javon's Peak, with hurricane force volume. Stabbing between the ribs, on his eyelids, at his neck, his nuts, the incarnated soul took every cheap shot and aimed for every soft spot its endless limbs could reach; but the Earhtbreaker's flesh only bled. He did not slow, but bearhugged the entity, his arms bulging with heavenly power to suppress, compress the unbelievable creature. To crush it into submission. Punching, jamming, pushing, rolling it in his hands, the Earthbreaker returned to Iblis with a perfectly round, matte black sphere about the size of a baseball. "Careful, that one's tricky," he said, tossing it up to Faust like a hackysack. Behind him, the shadow stood with rolled back eyes. His body was limp, seeming suspended only by the black circle, pinned up by the emblem on his forehead. Cain turned and looked at the shadow of his current self thoughtfully. "I think we can toss it all in there when we're done. What's next? Our thousand men?"
  5. Posted! @Rabbit if you want to teleport away from the Morgue to escape the zombies, you have to roll a d6 in the Dice Rolling Thread. The number depends where you end up. 1 - Outside 2 - Emergency 3 - On Mans' desk in Administration 4 - Outside again 5 - Right in front of Remus 6 - The Basement
  6. MERIDEATH shattered lights, screens for X-ray viewing, monitors, and skulls with her hail of bullets. She was even lucky enough to impact one of the assailants before they were able to escape. Venturing next into the cafeteria, MERI found Nikolai defending an open doorway. Instead of waiting in the entrance of the cafeteria for Nikolai to walk up as her bullets did nothing, MERI moved down the hallway outside the cafeteria so Nikolai would have to follow her into the hall to engage. "I'd like to schedule an appointment." If and when he did reach her and extend his hand, she extended her hand in turn, palm facing Nikolai. “Sorry, all booked until next week,” came the robot’s voice. “Rain check!” Suddenly the pudgy bottom of her palm flipped up, cyborg fingers pressing against the top of her wrist as they bent back to allow a 4-inch x 4-inch steel bar to pummel outward into Nikolai’s shield. No matter how powerful he was, Nikolai would be assailed by the sudden force in such a way that he was driven about 5 feet back. Not before ripping off her battering ram arm, though. Jagged pipes extended from the wound which sparked with arcane energy and a black ooze. Now, instead of engaging, MERI’s waist swiveled to face away from Nikolai and her treads blasted her down the hallway unerring to the bodies and debris that fell in the flickering light. Behind her were several small black balls that looked kind of like little poops. Meanwhile, her original targets who had teleported away found themselves in the Morgue. Oh, how lucky they must feel in the cool silent midst of the dead. How lucky, until the sound of heavy breathing alerted them to the darkest corners of the room. There stood Regulus, black hair matted to his face. He was throwing a surgical glove away, smelling his fingers disgustedly. Behind him stood a dozen lurching, jittering, naked bodies with control nodes shoved up their buttholes. Back in the control room, Remus fingered a console with three buttons on it. Vito looked at Regulus. Regulus looked at Remus. They both looked like a deer caught in the headlights. Then the naked bodies ambled toward the sudden teleportees. Not fast, but very zombielike. The thing about the Mausoleum was that, while Last Chance had not expected their coming, they somewhat welcomed it. The Mausoleum came shortly after an unprecidented attack on Last Chance, so the Chance had overlooked its lack of permits or what-have-you so far for the benefits they could reap from its medical expertise. While a wave of bad-meaning guys might not launch many places into full lockdown and defense mode, the Mausoleum was no such place. Riding in the front doors on a draug, freezing the lobby and shouting threats at its patients hadn’t been a good first move if the assailants wanted to avoid something of a full response. However, that was not to say the chaos was not opportune. Especially with Farkis in his face, Mans had been effectively neutralized from helping with the overall hospital situation. In fact, as Rhen left security and headed for Administration, Mans was already crawling his way to the basement. Regius’ face had been altered so that his face was literally upside down. Looking at Farkis, unable to express anything but inane confusion in the sudden reality shift, Regius extended his meaty hands into the daze him and Marisante. “Flagellll—” said Regius, flapping his tongue in an attempt to make it work right. He wasn’t stupid, but he was about done for the second his world got flipped upside down. Meanwhile, in the secret control room, Remus had alerted the authorities to a dire situation at the hospital with multiple casualties and major damage reported. With that, he left and headed for Administration to meet up with Regulus and Regius. Last Chance Police Arrive in 4 Posts
  7. Gore’s hands made like Hungry-Hungry Hippos as the gold coins scattered across the flaming bar to him, grabbing coins and flames alike with careless abandon. Gore laughed at scattering coins too. He laughed at a lot because, today, there was just so much to laugh about. One flask-sized bottle in his left pocket, both jangling with change, Gore swapped the cigar for Adime’s bottle. He put down almost a third of it in one series of chugs. Gore was about to be so drunk that even the proverbial Jesus to his wheel would have to have some tolerance to drunkenness to control his wasted ass (luckily, this Jesus had more than his fair share of wine behind him). With their doorway into chaos smoldering on Veluriyam’s face from whatever realm’s sky this ways, the devils walked side by side as old compadres tempered in subversion and deceit. The desperados broke the back of the crowd with nary a word of protest. Gore zipped up his jacket to cover the- well, the gore. And the bullets. Gore zipped up his jacket to cover the gore and the bullets so he could use both hands freely. Trading the bottle for the cigar again and biting it, he pushed a finger into his ear in an unnecessary but trained gesture of awkward humor. “Mortimer’s, eh? Funny thing, that.” Gore looked at the black earwax under his fingernail, scraping it off on his thumb and flicking it away. The cool afternoon swept a breeze down the avenue and sent people coughing away from the tavern behind them. Gore and his frankly enjoyed the smell of burning wood and flesh. “Mortimer’s belongs to a friend of mine now. After ol’ Morty kicked the bucket, my guy decided to capitalize. In a real cash cash way, too. There is a guy from old Morty’s lab who wasn’t down though,” said Gore, puffing doubly on the smoke blowing over them and the cigar. “Fuckin’ David," Gore's voice sounded muffled by the whiskey-tinged smoke pluming thickly from between his crackingly dry lips. He’s got his own pharmacy. I vote we hit up David’s. More fun that way. This way,” said Gore, nodding his slit neck to the right down an alley. His head looked like it almost fell right off. The two headed into the darkness, shoulder to shoulder like good friends. About halfway to the light at the end of the alley, Hey! came a voice from behind them. Gore didn’t stop walking. Didn’t even flinch. “Go home, Timmy!” he cackled. “‘Fore I toss ya down the well.” The sound of a pistol being cocked clicked through the grey light behind them. Gore still didn’t stop. He spoke in a vague wish-wash of country and pirate. “C’n I get that bottle, matey?”
  8. A catastrophe, Everything I love has to be. After me you could write a fuckin Passion scene. Where the passion be? I'm not tired I'm just uninspired. Can't pass the title when there's no fighters, Can't pass the torch when there's no fire Guess I gotta scorch it with my own lighter.
  9. Gore’s smokey cackle cracked out at the death, at fear as Mr. Bartender gurgled his last breaths and the tavern’s patronage recoiled collectively. Like an abuser’s hand when the abused flinches away, he lifted his chin at their reaction. Pivoting his forearm on his elbow, exercising terrible muzzle awareness as Adime leapt across-range, Gore brought his second barrel hollering soon as Adime was across. This, unlike the last chestborn shot, splashed into the nearest gent and sent him falling back like a used up party popper. Nobody was so inebriated that they hadn’t counted Gore’s two shots. Not even Adime. He wasn’t sure how something like Adime felt substances, but the way Gore’s network worked, he was allowed to feel as much of that as he wanted. As much of his nervous system as was required, as long as the room that possessed his power source and the power source itself existed, Gore could be powered up or powered down in various capacities. The downfall of his side of their paradigm was that Gore couldn’t employ his own little Gores or even easily switch bodies. There was a bloodclot somewhere inside Gore that manipulated his body, kept him alive, bled the blueprints into his system that dictated he act in such ways. He could supposedly plunge that bloodclot into somebody else, but its gestation period against their consciousness would take a few minutes. What’s more, Gore wouldn’t typically have to be but was being consciously controlled at the moment. Afterall, what villain wouldn’t want partake in the sodom and gomorrah that was Adime and Gore? Clem, the man with no head, fell before his friends. Except their initial shock from seeing the bartender blown away had numbed the second blow. Of all them, strangely, Adime had chosen about the second-biggest. Well, now the biggest shouldered past his fallen comrade in an undoubtable act of selfless bravery. Selfless bravery, and stupid. Gore laughed at stupid, selfless bravery too! He whipped open his bomber with the zzt! of its zipper. Gore was strung with an “X” of bulletloops packed with shells. Underneath he wore a brown rancher’s shirt spattered with dried brown. It seemed to have poured from a gruesome scar across Gore’s neck that had never been stitched, but seemed simply crusted shut. His appearance gave the big man a second pause— a second too long, too. Also across his hips were two belts, one with a holstered revolver and one with a footlong Ka-Bar. Gore plunged it into the guy’s solar plexus in the forehand grip, jerking downward once and watching his third victim’s guts spill out all over the hardwood through his pelvic floor. The dexterity of a puppet was funny. When you wield a million limbs, what becomes of a simple one-human dual-wield? The rest of the bruiser’s friends ran for the door, proving smarter than they were brave, Gore having dispatched of three men without even unpropping his elbow from the counter. Meanwhile, Adime was smashing bottles on peoples’ heads. Gore held a hand out, and instead of a bottle smashing anywhere Adime plopped a bottle in his hand with the same motion he’d been using to smash others. Biting its cork off through the aluminum wrapper of an unopened bottle, Gore lost a tooth but didn’t seem to notice. He set the bottle down on the bar as the wood burst into flames, elbow leaning unabashedly while he loaded some shells into his shotty. Soon the heat would be enough that any reasonable gunman would avoid them laced with so many shells. But, just as it seemed unwise for him to linger and Adime had collected their cash, Gore swept the bottle off the counter and they headed for the door. From upstairs there came three women in a hurry to get dressed and one man, holding his pants to his naked crotch as the four tried to escape the bar down a staircase descending the doorward wall of the tavern. Gore unleashed one more wad from his sawed-off, blasting the guy into the wall as the ladies ran naked into the street before the flaming building and fluttered off like doves before two desperadoes. Gore could have done something like grab one by the hair, take her for ransom. The thing was, as he looked at the frightened women, he felt something different than the alien Adime must feel. Something too personal to betray. Therein laid the true difference in their paradigm. The alien and the predator stalked into the streets, where a crowd was still more dispersing away than there was gathering in. Adime and Gore could slip through that, Gore tucking the weapons into their holsters and putting his hands in his pockets. He didn’t have to zip up the bomber as long as he just held it shut with his hands in the pockets. “How much skrill you got?” said Gore, suddenly smoking a fat cigar that seemed to materialize out of nowhere. “Hey, where’s my cigar? I was just smoking it,” said a fat mafioso behind them. “You ever heard of the Mil Dot?” asked Gore as they cleared the back of the crowd, puffing out a giant cloud of bitter and sweet smells.
  10. "Gimme a sec." Three sounds of Gore’s respective shots clicked on the bar as Adime ventured toward the gents. Gore turned his head at an awkward angle to watch until Adime and his next surrogate went into the washroom. Gore knew Adime in the same way Nica Sero had once known a man named Braykel. Now, with a nominally greater understanding between the two, when their motives could be sewn together, why shouldn’t they be? While the guys a few tables down waited to congratulate their friend, Gore turned back to his drinks. Grabbing all three between his four fingers, he poured an impressive waterfall of tequila into his mouth. Guess we start now, he thought as the new Adime met his old friends with an unconvincing wave before returning to sit beside one of two men who had just challenged their buddy. Half curious, half suspicious, the group rose from the table in various forms and degrees of conjecture with their friend’s new gait, and his new friend. The bruiser seated himself beside Gore, whose chin dripped with liquor while he felt his bomber assumably for the tab for his drinks, bartender standing in anticipation for this tab across the counter. "I don't think they got any autowagons around here. Real bummer,” he said as some of the bruiser’s old friends got the cajones to see what was up. Little did they know, Gore imagined, they would probably soon resemble the crumpled drunk in the bathroom with cheesesteak on his face. “Th-a-a-at is a bummer, ah-ha!” belched Gore, homing in on the spot he was looking for and reaching into his bomber. “Maybe we just saddle up on the sleekest looking steeds or? I dunno. Maybe we just start right here?" “I reck’n that’s the way to do it.” Now the bruiser’s friends had gathered behind Adime. One tapped him on the shoulder, not too aggressively. “Buddy, what’s up? What happened in there?” In front of Adime, Gore withdrew not the tab for his drinks but a sawed-off Mossburg 500. Thunking it on the table pointed toward the bartender, Gore pulled the trigger and blasted the barkeep 2 feet backward into the glass shelves of drinks on the back wall of the bar. He had never been feeling for cash— after all, dead men pay no sales (or something like that).
  11. Thankful, I try to be, can't contain what's inside of meThey don't like this side of me 'cause I lack in compliancyI question what I can see if you're not playing my CDNo expiring, I'll decide when I think it's my time to leave (woo)Yeah, 'cause then won't retire me, it inspires me to be inspiringWhen I'm lower, feel like I'm spiralingPushing forward, look, I can't ignore itThere ain't no I in team, but drop the T and ASometimes, if I'm being honest, feels like it's only meNo defeat, notably, better have it right if you're quoting meWrite my name on your hit list, it might be the last time you wrote somethingRip that cocky smile right off your face for thinking you're close to meGrab a can of gasoline, light it all over your self-esteem got DANG
  12. Yet another that recognizes the greatness of NF.

    1. Show previous comments  3 more
    2. Ataraxy


      Which is your favorite? I have Lie, Mansion, and WHY on like infinite replay lol

    3. King


      Mansion, All I Have, Intro III, Changes, Green Lights, and Options.

    4. amenities


      He strikes me as a more conscious rapper version of Big Sean who can string lines together in this dark way that's comparable to Hopsin and Eminem in his earlier days. WHY, Green Lights, and Hate Myself are my favorites.

  13. This one weird thing always happens to me where the base of my fan looks like my cat on the floor. I've done this with 3 different fans now.

    1. jaistlyn


      But have you done it with three different cats tho?

    2. Metty


      I see my cat sometimes in places when he isnt even there...

  14. For those who don't know, GM's are Game Masters. DM's are Dungeon Masters. Dungeon Masters are a somewhat downsized version of the same thing. A Board Leader might be a GM, running that whole setting and determining what standard their areas are held to. A Dungeon Master (DM) is the person running your particular story, but they can also be called GM's depending on semantics. I have a question for you. Do you like being in control of a story, determining the ebb and flow of awesomeness and letting others run wild in your world? Or do you prefer just participating and letting your character be the representation of your awesomeness? I'll give some semblance of an answer first. I love DMing! In no way do I claim to be the best at it, but I don't think there is such thing (Although we can all agree @supernal throws a great shindig). But I, as many RPers do at some point, decided that I enjoy building RP settings and coming up with interesting stuff to throw at RPers who might come there. On top of fun stuff to throw at the RPer though, I struggle to make it palatable. I enjoy something I constantly have to work at, but I also get worn out after extended periods of effort lol.. So while I enjoy the DM game, every now and then I enjoy chilling out and just RPing. If you prefer RPing, or have been deterred from/intimidated by DMing, then why?
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