Spore

Introduction

Dustcrow is a dying town. It's in the middle of no where, surrounded by dusty savannah in every direction. Many members have attempted to leave the town, daring the endless deadlands surrounding; their fate never having been heard of to the remainder of Dustcrow.
Those few that decided to stay, stayed. A single, enriched well in the center of town remains, where people gather the water to feed their window-sill crops, kept out of the harsh winds, but soiled from meters of digging through the ground to rich soil, that soon dries from the sun and fills from the wind.
Somehow yet, gunslinging travellers, some outlaws, some not, come through town from across the savannah, drinking from the well, before moving along or stopping by the tavern.

How to Play

Much like the few "dead xspore?" threads, with the entries people have made about the "tower" that xSpore remains as. Instead, make up a character and roleplay/practice writing, playing out scenes through text.
Interact with each other, or roleplay the entire meeting out yourself. The town is lazy, days passing by slowly and that's the theme you could keep to - or spark up some sort of paranoia/insanity/dramatic gunfight and so forth. Whatever. I just thought it'd be nice to have one thread for us to roleplay away in.

Additional: In fact, if you want to, go ahead and create several characters. Say you go to the tavern, but the town needs a barkeep - go ahead and make him. just make sure you do a little documenation on him, such as personality and appearance, so that others can then use him.

Rules

1. Rules are to just keep it realistic, as far as that goes. I imagine the town as a deep-south dust-town from a "wild west" setting, horses and gunslingers, booze and whores... but feel free to throw in some magic and steampunk if you like. Or bows and swords if that's your thing - just no SUPER HUGE ALIEN SPACESHIPS or "DINOZAURS ATTAKING!" situations.

Additional: When I say "DINOZAURS ATTAKING!" that doesn't rule out attacks from random monsters... giant underground worm creatures, huge four-legged beasts, two-legged beasts, iron colossus, orcs, hellish dragonling-like things, swarms, locust, raining frogs; whatever.

2. Have fun.

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Wishlist:

Someone's been playing Red Dead Redemption? I mean, it JUST came out, and this is set in the Wild West... Coincidence?

Although a good idea Azk, this has been done before in various different fashions and the following people WILL join it:
-Nexus
-Screedle
-Diamond, maybe.

Give them a setting, explain the town a bit, and then the people shall flock.

I would, but, I'm "revising" for an exam in a few hours.

EDIT: Having read your post on "remember..." I see what you're trying to do. I'll lay the scene in a reply to this, hold on.

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Dustcrow's centre well forms the meeting hub (of what fwe remain) in the town. Around it, the city appears to be modelled around the well. Directly opposite the well in terms of use, a general store lies open, yet if one were to travel inside they would find it bleak and ruined, everything of use taken and gone, with only loose shelves and the wooden structure itself remaining.

On the other side lies the saloon, run by Old Mister Graham Smith, an ex-prospector of the nearby mountains. The only reason he remains in the town is due to his age; being too old to leave, he uses his profits from prospecting to buy from traders that pass through the town on the odd ocassion. Coincidently, he acts as the town bank, as far as he can in a town that hardly needs money. Of the saloon itself, it is exceedingly large for a town as small as this. The previous owners gave no reason for it's size before leaving, but one can always suspect they expected Dustcrow to be bigger, more lively, and bustling with those on adventure (instead, they got bandits and famine).

Down the street, other abandoned shops lie open; a gun store, two clothing shops (one casual, one for the adventurous), a hotel (almost burnt to a crisp, apparently by a molotov cocktail thrown through the window, hinted by the broken glass bottles on the floor), a hunters lodge, and two unused shops, still with their for sale signs up. Apart from the hotel, they all appear to be in good condition, safely standing there and staying strong, despite the constant batterings from sandstorms and bandits. Not a single building has anything of worth in it, apart from possibly the hotel which is too unstable to be safely scavanged anyway.

Just on the outskirts of the small town are the townhouses, each made up to be little more than a shack (yet made of surprisingly thick wood). Two horses can be seen tied up to a rack outside one house, yet apart from that the area appears lifeless. On the ground, coyote tracks are obvious, the animals fearing not of the locals in the slightest. One of the houses has been renovated to hold thick wooden bars and a gate, operating possibly as a jail.

Of the residents, there are few, each sharing one of the 5 houses (the 6th being the jail house) and staying somewhat cautious of the town. Old Mr Smith stays in his saloon, remote from the rest of the world. The town itself is hardly used, for they have no need to use it anyway. A few farms lay scattered, the trails from the well blatently obvious, but they don't fair well.

To the north and south, there are merely endless plains, eventually ending in a block of haze for the onlooker from the well. To the east, past the general store, great canyons can just be seen, forming fantastic structures over the waste. To the west, mountains form, blocking the evening sun and showing a wonderful sunset. From this direction, the bandits often come, sweeping across the north-south road and into the east.

Hope for Dustcrow seems bleak, but, strangely, word by passing bandits and adventurers (assuming the town is abandoned and talking freely) speak of a coming to Duskcrow in order to revive it. Word of a river of some sort bringing life, of gold and riches, of prosperity, but also of corruption and greed. It's probably all but of rumor; nobody knows of Dustcrow, but we shall soon see.

And back to the well, it gurgles slightly as a mud bubble at the bottom pops, infecting the water with it's black swirl. Shots of pistols can be heard in the distance, along with a cry of pain. For all it seems, Dustcrow is lost.

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Red Dead Redemption? No. More like Deadwood.

Actually, the idea of this game was for people to generate their own setting and characters. If you give them a finite number of locations and peoples, the game will be finite. In hindsight, I think a dark city would be a far more expansive setting... But I'll do that some other time.

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Wishlist:

To the west lays an abandoned mine; a remnant of the glory days.
Aside from the occasional traveller, nobody visits the mine. To the villagers, it is simply a painful reminder of an age long-gone.
The mine itself is quite small, abandoned when it became apparent there were no ores present.
The only sign of human life comes from passing bandits, but even they do not venture deep into the mining tunnels.

Far into the north runs a mighty river; one can only wonder why the town was not built along it. The road follows it, and a now nearly invisible path leads to Dustcrow.
The first settlers made the path, but it is now only rarely used.
A ruined watchtower sits alone there. It used to guard the path, but the bandit attacks have made short work of it.
The remains of the tower barely hold together now, but it still has an occupant.
Old Man Carver lives there with a broken rifle, rarely venturing out into Dustcrow.

A half-finished wall guards the western edge of Dustcrow, and the tools used in it's construction lay on the ground around it. No man has taken up any of them in years.
A skeleton sits on top of the wall, but nobody remembers who it was anymore.
Neither does anybody want to.

Back outside the town, something is happening.
The jail doors are pushed open, and a man lands on his back on the floor.
His imprisoner ignores his threats and begging and locks the door.
He walks out, holding his captive's revolver in his hands.
Chuckling, he walks away, leaving the captive screaming inside the makeshift jail.
The captive does not believe the man is coming back, and eventually collapses onto the floor, sobbing.

__________________
Billions of people are addicted to Real Life. Curiously, those who try to end their addiction are considered mentally disturbed and given psychological "help" to keep them addicted.

The prisoner next to him slips a flask of vodka and says, "So what got ye in ze 'ole?"

The captive responds wiping the tears from his face, "Nothing... I did nothing..."

"Well, ze officer wouldn't throw ye 'ear fir nothin"

"I said... I didn't do a thing..."

"Kill a man? Sleep with 'is wife? Rob ze bank?"

"No... I said I didn't do anything!"

"If ye insist... Say, what's yur name?"

"Morris... Just Morris..."

"Well, mi name's Richardson, and I killed a man, slept with ze officer's wife, and robbed ze bank."

Just then the officer comes back in.
Morris looks up still wiping the tears away, he hides Richardson's flask.
The officer sees the flask and asks for it.
Morris refuses.
The officer takes out a gun and asks him again.
Morris refuses again.
The officer points the gun at Morris and asks him one last time.
Morris refuses for the last time.
A shot is heard, Richardson jumps in astonishment.
The officer falls over dead.

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YOU CAN NEVER BE TOO SURE

A lone native American walked the wide open planes of the South, tired, spear, bow and quiver slung over his back and hardly any possessions to his person, walking barefoot North towards the town besides his dignity covered with a simple leather garment all ragged and disordered, for his back a simple leather on it to protect him from the sun as he walked with his back hunched.

He stood tall, higher than any man of his day, truly an intimidating sight even in exhaustion, he appeared and dissapeared in amongst all the dust and soon quenching his first at the well like he would die any moment, he rushedly drew water out the well and gulped it down by the bucket before sitting down back against the well and gasping for air.

__________________
Simply a master of magic, undefeated =P, also casual hardcore gamer hybrid
It was a flop
But we had fun didnt we?
Yes thats the point, we had fun
I hopeI am the ex Ark Angel agent 009 BEWARE, now back in business =D

A wooden building stood along with the others, its left side leaning slightly in-wards. If you looked through the window you would have seen a normal house; two chairs, a stove, and a restroom. However, at the back of the house was a trapdoor leading to a cellar. And in that cellar was a man on the edge of losing his mind, spending all his time trying to build things he himself knew he might not accomplish.
For instance, he had tried making a long distance phone system out of alot of string and many conch shells, but the wires would always snap or twist. There was a clock that could have tracked the year and date as well as time, but it would always get confused after a summer solstice. And, from what I could gather from the ashen remains of that place, a glass prism with some small clock like device built in, but I have no idea what it could have been used for. Oddest of all, there was a large machine built into the wall, made out of millions of gears and wires smaller than paper clips.

The man who made these strange items was known as Johnathan. Nobody knew his last name or where he came from, all he would say was "A city, OK?" and that was that. He rode into town sometime while the hotel was still running, albeit struggling. He accompanied a woman called Sophia, a heavily pregnant girl in her mid-twenties. A few days later, she gave birth to a boy she called Ron. John never told the boy. He just bought a house, raised his son and got on with his life. And now he's old and forgotten; he gave up his pursuit of money years ago, nobody here could afford anything, and back home, everyone would steal his ideas.

Every day he would work on what he called 'The greatest Clock in the World', but to his frustration, it didn't seem to work. If one piece was out of place, fixing it would shift a dozen others. Looking over his design, John knew he couldn't change a thing or it wouldn't work, but it seemed like the pieces would never fit right.

He heard the door upstairs open. Something happened every time: he expected Sophia to return to him, but she never would. Instead, it was his red-haired son, back from another day of messing about with the few friends he could have in this town.

'Dad? I got the cheese.'

And with that, John pulled on a rope, lowering a curtain over his machine.

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. . . ehh.

We have to guard him.
He was called Marhaw, but that did not matter in the spirit world. Here they saw the true form of eachother, and names were useless.
They were standing high above the clouds, looking down at the world.
Their brother was a bright flame in otherwise bleak and empty land, like a hand reaching for the heavens.
Other, dimmer lights rose around the town, but they were not important.
Their brother had come far from their homes, into these strange lands.
Yes. He replied. The newcomers would use him, if not kill him, if they did not intervene.
No more words were needed. It was time to act.
The two shamans descended upon the town of Dustcrow, unseen by anyone in the real world.

__________________
Billions of people are addicted to Real Life. Curiously, those who try to end their addiction are considered mentally disturbed and given psychological "help" to keep them addicted.

I don't like the assumption that i will join in every time, actually except for this i may not post here again, i will watch and read it though.pretty good so far.

As if dust rolling away the town seems to spring to life around the Native, finally finished gasping he ponders if this place is haunted and ghosts are coming out now that he has walked into town, or maybe he was closer to death than he thought. Finally rested he hears his stomach grumble, he realises he is going to need something to eat as well and best get looking.

Finally examing his surroundings more closely he sees the mountain, the valley, the open planes in the directions beyond the town. The town being dormant for the most part, but the somewhat large building, from his youth he remember sneaking into towns like these when he was little, buildings this large normally had rich smells coming out. When he could have otherwise been carted off, he never learnt how to speak their language.

He walks into the bar, somewhat empty save a lonely old man. Walks over to the counter, sitting at one of the seats he slips his hand into the maze of his garment and pulls out some coins and slaps them down on the counter, some specks of blood on them, but otherwise fine. A dead man would be paying his meals today.

__________________
Simply a master of magic, undefeated =P, also casual hardcore gamer hybrid
It was a flop
But we had fun didnt we?
Yes thats the point, we had fun
I hopeI am the ex Ark Angel agent 009 BEWARE, now back in business =D

I'm trying to avoid rpg for some time, Sorry.

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A fiddle of gold against your soul that says I'm better than you.

Upon entering Dustcrow he immediatley felt homesick. The surrounding area was a dry savannah with little to no greens, no marshlands, no elaborate waterways. The only thing coming ''close'' to a waterway construction was the well in the middle of the town. This did have one advantage though: No constant threat of flooding as was the case in his homeland.

The man walks into what looks to be a rather abandoned Inn near the outskirts of the town. The outside looked crummy and the inside were no better. It's as if this place wasn't properly looked after since...Well, since a long time. He stood a good few inches taller than the other few folks making their round in the ancient in. He overhears some whisper of contraptions run by boiling water and others of archaic books filled with mysterious words.

Ignoring these rumours he walks up to the barkeeper, who's clumsily trying to clean what looks to be a shotglass. ''I'll have a room for the night, please'' the man asks in his best English. The barkeep looks up to the man infront of him as if inspecting him. Tall, brown hair, brown eyes and the body of an adequate swimmer. The barkeep scoffs and focuses on his shotglass again before replying with ''Your room be at the end of the hallway, near the shitter. We don't like your kind here'' The barkeep doesn't look the man in the eye.

The man nods a thank you to the barkeep and heads towards his room. As he expected he got the worst of the worst. There's barely a bed to sleep on and the window looks as if it was recently punched out the wall. The man stares out the window, into the fast distance. Nothing that reminded him even slightly of his homeland was to be found here. No tolerance, no hospitality, no water, no dikes, no windmills. The Dutchman felt alone.

The dead man paying for the native was the officer.

The officer laid there, bleeding out, while Morris and Richardson watched in confusion.
A dark figure was behind him, it threw it's gun on the floor.
It didn't speak, it just went over to take his money.
Morris asked,

"Who the hell are you!?"

The native did not respond, instead he ran as fast as he could away from the jail.
Like he mysteriously appeared, he disappeared the same way.
Morris and Richardson look at each other in confusion.
Richardson suggests,

"Ze officer 'as ze key. We need 'is body ovur 'ere. Break ze wooden pole next to ye, and use it to push ze officer."

Morris did so, but not without splinters from the wood.
One flew off and caught him in the eye.
Morris screamed and grabbed his bleeding eye.
He pushed threw the pain and put the wooden pole in between the jail bars.
He managed to get it behind the officer, but he could not push him.

"Try to get ze key ring. On 'is belt"

Morris adjusted the pole to go through the keyring.
He managed to get it out of the officer's pocket.
The key was soon in his hand.
He got up and unlocked both cells.
Morris and Richardson were free men again.

__________________
YOU CAN NEVER BE TOO SURE

After riding for some time Ron came to a stop outside the mine. Dustcrow was just a blur on the horizon, almost invisible in the middle of endless desert. He dismounted his horse and looked around for his pickax. It wasn't there. "Dammit," he thought "Has some cheap bastard stolen this one too?" he was just about to call it quits when he heard a voice from inside the mine.

"There's nothing left." Cried a soft voice. "I just dug five feet all directions, not a lick of iron left.."

John turned around and gazed upon this incredibly beautiful girl. She was about five foot tall, brown hair, well fitted Grey eyes, and was also a fan of low-cut skirts. This was Serena, one of the few girls in town.

Ron took a moment to regain his thoughts, then eventually managed to form a sentence.

"Are you the one that stole mah pickax?"

"Are you daft? This here's mine since somebody stole my last one."

"No, somebody stole mine. I found that one inside the mine."

"Yeah, and I bought it".

They stared at each-other. Eventually, they started laughing at the ridiculousness of the whole thing.

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. . . ehh.

"We're free."

Richardson looked around the makeshift jail, then at the dead guard.

"Ze officer was breaking 'is own laws"

Morris looked at him with a face that said, "I know."

"Get ze gun, and 'is badge"

Morris went over to get the gun and badge.
He cocked the gun, and shot at the dead officer.
The body twitched, and Richardson yelled,

"Ze hell!? Ye mad!?"

Morris went to pick up the native's gun as well, ignoring Richardson.
He threw it at Richardson.
He spoke,

"That dark figure was a man I knew, when he heard my voice he ran. That's how I know who he is. I assume he shot the officer for two reasons. One, for his money. Two, because he hates officers, or anyone in a law position. A couple of officers killed his family, he managed to escape."

"Why did 'e run? 'E scared of ye?"

"I assume he didn't see me in the cell, otherwise I would be dead as well."

"Ye didn't answer me question."

"I was one of the officers that killed his family."

__________________
YOU CAN NEVER BE TOO SURE

'Ehh, don't you know what that is? It's a ghost town. I don't think people live there anymore.'
Walter shrugged. They needed food and water, and it seemed like a place as good as any.
The caravan had stopped at the old, dusty road. Their maps claimed there was a town called Dustcrow down the road, but Brooks and a few older men were arguing against stopping there for the night.
' If it turns out there's nobody there, we leave and move on. This trip won't take much of our time.' he replied, putting the map back down. Besides, the men were bored. Fights were already breaking out between the guards. If he let them have their fun at a town, they could continue on their way safely.
Brooks snorted.
' It is a ghost town, idiot. We're just wasting time here.'
Still, he seemed to have given up arguing. Walter nodded, signalling the caravan to follow him and turn.

Dustcrow was further away than the maps claimed, but when they finally reached it, the sight wasn't pretty.
It did look dead. Brooks rolled his eyes behind him. There had to be someone there.
But just as they passed into the town, they heard a gunshot coming from the other side of the town.
While not entirely welcome to his ears, the sound meant humans, and humans meant life.
'Alright, we'll set up here and go investigate. We'll be staying here for the night.'
Walter nodded to three of the caravan guards, signalling them to come with him.
They begun marching towards the far edge of the town, and, more specifically, the houses and the jail, while the mercant wagons were brought to a halt behind them.

__________________
Billions of people are addicted to Real Life. Curiously, those who try to end their addiction are considered mentally disturbed and given psychological "help" to keep them addicted.

"Ye what?!"

"No time to chat, I-"

Richardson pointed the revolver at Morris. Morris stopped in mid sentence startled.

"Ye tell me everything ye know, or I shoot ye."

"Ok... Calm down... What do you want to know?"

"First, why were ye thrown into ze jail?"

"The officer, his name was Franklin, he was my partner. I had slept with his wife, he caught us... He shot at me, but hit his wife in her arm... She... She started bleeding badly. He then dragged me here so he could deal with me later. I assume he went back to get her help. I don't know what happened to her..."

"Makes ze two of us"

"What... you-"

Richardson lowered the revolver.

"I slept with ze fine laddie, oh and fine she was."

"I don't know what to say... I..."

"We are convicts now mister, we 'ave to run."

"But to where? "

"We 'ave guns, we just take a 'ouse"

"First we must find out if the wife is ok... I... I need to know."

So off to the saloon they went. Old Mister Graham Smith is the one with the greatest medical knowledge. Being an old prospector, accidents happened, and he was there to help. If anything went wrong, he would be there to fix it. He would be the one that the officer took his wife too. And he would be the one that the two convicts went to see.

The two convicts left Franklin's body laying in the jail, all bloodied on the floor.

__________________
YOU CAN NEVER BE TOO SURE

The Native in his thirst and hunger induced exhaustion couldn't care less to speak to the barkeep, didn't even notice he walked in just after the Dutchman. Doesn't even remember where he got the coins now, he just knows they belonged to someone that is now dead.

The barkeep and his jealously of the Dutch and how they'd come out of their comfort zone to be here made him rage though and the Native was an unfortunate victim of this rage.

"So I guess you'll be wanting a room and meal then!??!"

No response, the somewhat silent Native had a strangely theraputic effect on the barkeep. He didn't need to say anything, the large spear over his back, along with bow and raggedy garments showed the Native's focus on what matters, not silly things like Dutch people's awesome.

"You're right, I shouldn't care, so what if he is Dutch, he didn't earn it, he inherited his Dutchiness, just because that makes them bigger douches than everyone else doesn't mean I should care"

No response from the Native, he patiently waits for the barkeep to get him some food and just falls asleep regardless of all the activity happening in this ghost down.

"Thanks, you helped alot, showed me that I should just accept his existence as an inevitable part of life. Though he is still a fish out of water, I must encourage him to go back to where he belongs so he can be happy. The meal and room are on the house as thanks."

The barkeep goes off into the kitchen leaving the coins on the counter and the Native sleeping there with his head resting. The barkeep stops his rant on the Dutch though as if there was nobody to speak to in the kitchen.

__________________
Simply a master of magic, undefeated =P, also casual hardcore gamer hybrid
It was a flop
But we had fun didnt we?
Yes thats the point, we had fun
I hopeI am the ex Ark Angel agent 009 BEWARE, now back in business =D

Because in the kitchen there was a body, it was the officer's wife.
Old Mister Graham Smith was working his hardest to get the bullet out with nothing but kitchen supplies.
Blood was everywhere, the bartender yelled,

"Did that Dutchman do that!?"

Old Mister Graham Smith ignored him, working tirelessly to get the bullet out and stop the bleeding.

It took him a couple of hours, but he got the bullet out, stopped the bleeding, and got her in a bed for rest.

It was night time, everyone was sleeping in their beds. Even the native managed to get up and go into his room.

But two individuals were still up.
The convicts, Morris and Richardson, walked quietly up to the saloon. They peaked in through the window.
The bar was empty.

"We should come back in ze mornin'."

"Shhh... The door is open, be very quiet... Draw your weapon."

"Zis is a bad idea..."

Morris and Richardson entered, they checked the kitchen and saw the blood.
They slowly walked up the stairs that lead to the rooms.
Richardson tripped but caught himself before making a noticeable sound.
Morris gestured to be quiet.
They opened the first door, nobody.
They opened the second, the Dutchman.
The opened the third, the native.

"Shit..."

Morris whispered to Richardson, he drew his weapon.

"There he is, he'll surely kill me if he saw me sleeping,"

"He saved ye life..."

Morris put away his weapon, closed the door, and checked the next one.
It was the wife, she was sleeping.

"She's alive..."

"Good, now let us go,"

"Not so fast"

The Dutchman stood, weapon drawn.
Both Morris and Richardson drew theirs.
All three fired shots.

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YOU CAN NEVER BE TOO SURE