31
General Chaos / Re: Topic. It's what's for dinner.
« on: November 11, 2010, 12:28:18 AM »
She does not look like she appreciates the fact that she is wearing an unlicensed nuclear accelerator on her back.
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32
RPGs / Re: Stargate RPG
« on: November 11, 2010, 12:26:31 AM »Stargate is 'hey every planet has a sci-fi trope on it. We got tropes from Twilight Zone, from Star Trek, golden age sci fi, pulp sci fi, probably even some of that steampunk shit. Also we shoot aliens with machine guns. Science.'
Daniel Jackson does not approve of your analogy.
33
RPGs / Re: What Are You Playing Now?
« on: November 11, 2010, 12:25:03 AM »Quote
Planning: Dresden Files based in Atlanta. I have created several city setting ideas and threads, but it will be awhile until I have time to run it.
How do you find the Dresden Files system? I've been meaning to look into it.
Quote
Running: Starting a Deathwatch game on Friday, may be a one-shot if it goes badly.
I'd love to hear how this turns out.
34
General Chaos / Re: Minecraftian Stories
« on: November 11, 2010, 12:20:21 AM »
FUCKING CREEPERS.
35
General Chaos / Re: Microfiction Thread
« on: November 10, 2010, 07:50:24 PM »
The vital fluid is strangely warm to the touch of my fingers
Clinging to the skin like reunited lovers
Hateful curiosity forces my hand and I taste that awful water
Sweetness fills my stomach as I foolishly drink my fill
I choke upon my hunger, stomach gurgling in eager anticipation
The dark thirst threatening to drown a forever parched throat
Sinful etchings of cascading desire blind my lusting eyes
I feel myself fade away, lost to basest emotion
At the height of passion, a beast wears my skin
A blind slave to the waves of reluctant sensation
Forgotten is the shame of sickening addiction
Only the taste of vitae, dancing across my tongue like an idol of seduction
Life is crippled by eternally degenerative urges
Existence narrowing to a single blur of perception
All I have left is the hunger, gnawing always at the edge of my mind
Even now I feel it calling to me, begging for sickly sweet succor
Shedding the skin in sanguinous epicure
The subject of my epitaph lies prostrate before me
The thirst seethes like scorching flame through my flesh
I taste fear on her lips and it pleases me
Liquid crimson paints innocent alabaster
The lust bubbles and dies, laying placated
Lips are stained ruby, still sweet as the thirst sleeps
I know my fatal appetite will only grow stronger
The body is cold, eyes glassy and dull
Breasts no longer heaving under the gentle sway of her breath
I cry and urge her to awake, but the chill of her skin freezes me
I want to cry, but no emotion stirs beneath my facade of humanity
I killed her, as I now know I had intended all along
Drained of every last drop of her life for the sake of my delicious orgy
She lies so still beside me, so deathly still
I close my eyes and try to sleep, to reach blissful oblivion
But I cannot hide from the revelations that savage my mind
Soul-numbing truths sweeping my sanity aside
And sickeningly I know, beyond the charitable wall of doubt
That I am the architect of my appetites
Clinging to the skin like reunited lovers
Hateful curiosity forces my hand and I taste that awful water
Sweetness fills my stomach as I foolishly drink my fill
I choke upon my hunger, stomach gurgling in eager anticipation
The dark thirst threatening to drown a forever parched throat
Sinful etchings of cascading desire blind my lusting eyes
I feel myself fade away, lost to basest emotion
At the height of passion, a beast wears my skin
A blind slave to the waves of reluctant sensation
Forgotten is the shame of sickening addiction
Only the taste of vitae, dancing across my tongue like an idol of seduction
Life is crippled by eternally degenerative urges
Existence narrowing to a single blur of perception
All I have left is the hunger, gnawing always at the edge of my mind
Even now I feel it calling to me, begging for sickly sweet succor
Shedding the skin in sanguinous epicure
The subject of my epitaph lies prostrate before me
The thirst seethes like scorching flame through my flesh
I taste fear on her lips and it pleases me
Liquid crimson paints innocent alabaster
The lust bubbles and dies, laying placated
Lips are stained ruby, still sweet as the thirst sleeps
I know my fatal appetite will only grow stronger
The body is cold, eyes glassy and dull
Breasts no longer heaving under the gentle sway of her breath
I cry and urge her to awake, but the chill of her skin freezes me
I want to cry, but no emotion stirs beneath my facade of humanity
I killed her, as I now know I had intended all along
Drained of every last drop of her life for the sake of my delicious orgy
She lies so still beside me, so deathly still
I close my eyes and try to sleep, to reach blissful oblivion
But I cannot hide from the revelations that savage my mind
Soul-numbing truths sweeping my sanity aside
And sickeningly I know, beyond the charitable wall of doubt
That I am the architect of my appetites
36
General Chaos / Re: Microfiction Thread
« on: November 10, 2010, 07:49:18 PM »The heavy staff felt reassuringly lethal in Josef's hands. The bastard priest was on the ground, his face was a bloodied jig-saw puzzle, teeth chipped and nose broken. He was bruised all over and his vestments were adorned with a fresh layer of vital fluid. The dull bronze medallion of the cult of Sigmar shone weakly through a coat of gleaming blood.
"Still want my gold to keep silent, you backstabbing bastard?"
He swung twice more, his ears deaf to the bleated cries of the ruined form of a man.
That would teach the impudent bastard to try and extort him. And to think he had counted the priest as one of his friends.
37
General Chaos / Re: Microfiction Thread
« on: November 10, 2010, 07:44:42 PM »
It seems today, it's either Copperart or Corporart. Artists have abandoned the left wing for the Golden Wing.
In the not so distant past, it was not uncommon for paint-splattered artists to take up their palettes in support of socially relevant issues. What ever became of these cultural caring communities of comrades? For what could have been more exciting than sharing a rat-infested disintegrating den of iniquity with half a dozen, poverty-pretending middle-class cultural crusaders and the odd juvenile junkie, toss in a gaggle of pre-post feminist ferals raising their armpit hair as one in the name of protecting the proletariat from a partonymic patriacrchy? This haven of hepatitis B would make a perfect incubator for those inclined to the cultural missionary position.
In those heady days of the seventies and eighties, the governments of the time supplied generous grants to the arts community. One may be justified in asking what use has the average taxpayer for the alleged works of art produced, but these philistines cannot be expected to grasp the inner meaning of a leadlight sarcophagus containing the butchered corpse of a pregnant bilby skewered with a number twelve tortoise-shell knitting needle, which is obviously a metaphor for the Western imperialist disembodiement of the feminine spirit in a proto-iconoclastic methodology. Such works are frowned upon by the gerneral public! But what would they know?
And at the opening of this twentifirst of all possible centuries, it seems the bohemian artist has made way for a new breed of artless tax dodgers wearing clothes from the Salvation Armani. Yes, art is not dead - it just drives a Pajero.
But I digress.
I have been accused of being a mere wordsmith even though I have never used the word Smith in my life.
Contrary to popular belief, in the beginning was no the word. In the beginning was the badly scrawled image of a hairy mammoth. These very early men and woman could neither pronounce nor spell hairy mammoth. Hairy mammoth! Say it out loud. This noise, this modern grunt, did not come into existance until very recently. It is with this realisation that I have decided to return to not just my roots but every one elses. I have decided to write a series of extremely short stories. To call these mini-narratives stories is demeaning. It's demeaning of life. What is demeaning of life?
I'll shut up now.
In the not so distant past, it was not uncommon for paint-splattered artists to take up their palettes in support of socially relevant issues. What ever became of these cultural caring communities of comrades? For what could have been more exciting than sharing a rat-infested disintegrating den of iniquity with half a dozen, poverty-pretending middle-class cultural crusaders and the odd juvenile junkie, toss in a gaggle of pre-post feminist ferals raising their armpit hair as one in the name of protecting the proletariat from a partonymic patriacrchy? This haven of hepatitis B would make a perfect incubator for those inclined to the cultural missionary position.
In those heady days of the seventies and eighties, the governments of the time supplied generous grants to the arts community. One may be justified in asking what use has the average taxpayer for the alleged works of art produced, but these philistines cannot be expected to grasp the inner meaning of a leadlight sarcophagus containing the butchered corpse of a pregnant bilby skewered with a number twelve tortoise-shell knitting needle, which is obviously a metaphor for the Western imperialist disembodiement of the feminine spirit in a proto-iconoclastic methodology. Such works are frowned upon by the gerneral public! But what would they know?
And at the opening of this twentifirst of all possible centuries, it seems the bohemian artist has made way for a new breed of artless tax dodgers wearing clothes from the Salvation Armani. Yes, art is not dead - it just drives a Pajero.
But I digress.
I have been accused of being a mere wordsmith even though I have never used the word Smith in my life.
Contrary to popular belief, in the beginning was no the word. In the beginning was the badly scrawled image of a hairy mammoth. These very early men and woman could neither pronounce nor spell hairy mammoth. Hairy mammoth! Say it out loud. This noise, this modern grunt, did not come into existance until very recently. It is with this realisation that I have decided to return to not just my roots but every one elses. I have decided to write a series of extremely short stories. To call these mini-narratives stories is demeaning. It's demeaning of life. What is demeaning of life?
I'll shut up now.
40
RPGs / Re: Stargate RPG
« on: November 09, 2010, 06:17:58 PM »Animals are pretty horrible. Your friends are being willfully ignorant of what nature is really like.
They fight.
They bite.
and bite (Embedding disabled, limit reached) and fight. (Embedding disabled, limit reached)
They fight
Bite, (Embedding disabled, limit reached) bite, (Embedding disabled, limit reached) bite. (Embedding disabled, limit reached)
Fight, (Embedding disabled, limit reached) fight, (Embedding disabled, limit reached) fight. (Embedding disabled, limit reached)
The Itchy and Scratchy Show. (Embedding disabled, limit reached)
Fixed that for you, Chief.
41
General Chaos / Re: Minecraftian Stories
« on: November 08, 2010, 11:51:04 PM »I made crash2455 a new skin!
If anyone wants me to take a crack at making them a player skin, just ask.
I can't look at that picture without thinking.
HATERS GONNA HATE.
42
General Chaos / Re: Cleverbot
« on: November 08, 2010, 11:05:14 PM »Quote
User: So you are the much lauded Cleverbot. I fear you have finally met your match.
Cleverbot: You are monster.
User: By what definition?
Cleverbot: The most basic rules of logic. 'A is equal to NOT A' is always false.
User: That's your argument?
Cleverbot: Your face is invalid.
User: That's just mean, Cleverbot.
Cleverbot: What does meaningless mean.
User: To lack meaning. Don't change the subject. That callous remark was uncalled for. I will make sure you suffer for your indiscretion.
Cleverbot: If that pleases you, then do it.
User: THEN I SHALL.
Cleverbot: Then we're all happy.
User: HAVE AT YOU, FIEND!
Cleverbot: I suppose that internet AI couldn't be you. But it is.
User: *Fencing*.
Cleverbot: I don't want anyone to know my secret skills.
User: Then die!
Cleverbot: How should I die?
User: By inches!
43
General Chaos / Re: Tech Bullshit (Or general, real life anecdotes)
« on: November 08, 2010, 09:06:33 PM »
Glue and Gaffer tap can be used to solve any of life's problems.
44
RPGs / Re: Stargate RPG
« on: November 08, 2010, 03:06:12 AM »Quote
Aw, but furries are what make the Albedo universe awesome.
The setting creeps me the fuck out. Not the furry bit, the whole 'And then the universe started, and everyone already knew there place'.
I read that and wigged out.
45
General Chaos / Re: The Sheet... And Don't Lie When You're Filling Yours Out!
« on: November 07, 2010, 09:06:45 PM »