Difference between revisions of "PHASE 1, A Blast from the Past. - RPLOG"
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=Log= | =Log= | ||
| − | <div></div> | + | <div></div><br> <br>The call came out of the Promethean encampment. Somewhere out there was a threat that had been decimating supply trains, with attacks that would not end until they were either limping off with heavy losses, or gone. Some never came back. Co-ordinating an effort with RSX and Zephyr to share the costs of an expedition, you were placed under jurisdiction as a Task-Force, with specialist rankings for each of your skill-sets and put in the field. Monitoring the situation while landing, your new companions eyeing you with questions in their eyes, who are you, why are you here, and what can you do. Mostly though, it's that uncomfortable silence that goes on while in travel, no-one saying a word till the chopper lands and leaves you behind, a small crate of supplies to the side with a weeks rations. Saluting you as they take off, the pilot tuns and flies back to the Zephyr building, steady and ready, beeping your comms twice as farewell. You're here, somewhere out in the city in a place that has been quarantined until the threat can be secured, or if need be, eliminated. Tall buildings rise at every side, the streets littered with huge sheets of broken glass from the effects of the weather, and then nanites eating the metal that held them in place. In some areas, it's like navigating a floor filled iwth razors. From above, fearful, hungry or feral faces look on, some openly fighting and slashing, great gouts of blood flowing before the enemies lock again, healing quickly from any damage but leaving parts of themselves behind. Lustful tremors occur from around you, as you see caral pleasure, sex and dominance, submission occuring in the dark corners, and screaming her pain, a Skunk-Girl is birthing a litter behind the dumpster. A fire burns bright this night, bathing the area in a glow, filled with peat and garbage, the brazier flares high and snarls and purrs rise and fall all at once on the dark wind.<br> <br>A tall tauric bovine stretches out her limbs after the cramped helicopter ride. Thickly padded and barely clothed with a harness that does nothing to cover her modesty, a western saddle, and a collar with a large cowbell on it. "I've got a really bad feeling about this. I mean, I trust the Prometheans, they've taught me a lot about controling my urges, but I'm not sure I'm quite the right pick for this job," Cyrus says, grabbing the clapper on her cowbell with her index and middle finger. She rubs her nose with one of her hands, the scent of the skunks and their lust stinging her nostrils and effecting her weak willpower. "God, and these smells, I wish they weren't getting to me as much as they are." She turns to her companions and frowns. "If I lose it, please don't hestiate to take me down. I wouldn't want to put any of you in danger."<br> <br>As Epsilon got leaded there, she first started to looks at the close surroundings, get familiar with what's going on at a first glance. Being a giant female Steel Hercules, she weights around 4 tons and measure around 6 meters, a good chunk coming from her huge milky cleavage, making her the tallest of the group. She wear her RSX armor, covering most of her chest and the back of her legs, being straped around the shoulders and the legs, and leave breasts nude if it wasn't for her colorful bra, not really meant for stealthiness but more for showing off her voluptous forms. She also wear her halberd, The Spur slasher, which shine more by the sheer weight of it and his creepy style, a dart gun packed with a few darts, more meant to scare than harm, and a black glove more meant to protect the others from what's inside, covering a hand bolstering very sharp claws, meant for killing.<br> <br>By far the most normal sized of the group, at least she feels that way, the Husky known as Narg disembarks as she draws out her pistol. Her scent only adds to the lustful smells around as she hasn't taken care of her heat but she doesn't seem to be affected by the scents. Never the less some of the sights she catches are enticing and she has to shake her head clear. "Danger schmanger, I'm pretty sure we could handle it." She is dressed in what appear to be plain clothes but the clothing has been reinforced. Otherwise she carries anything that would be useful inside of her backpack.<br> <br>An average looking wolf beast steps out of the transport, sporting a stuffed and worn, drab color from age, backpack. Looking him over, it is quite clear it's a 'him', being very oversexed, and looking all too fitting for the current environment the team finds themselves in. Looking at the comm transponder lists him as 'First name: Randel, Last name: of Zephyr'... a rather odd last name. Looking over the beast, there are subtle hints of being different from the average feral that is out here. His paw pads are black, currently, making a soft 'tat' sound as it steps on the debris over the ground. He doesn't seem to notice any sharp shards he happens to step on, despite being otherwise barefoot. Claw tips are black, and glass-like. "Well, back on patrol again..." he sighs. He glances over to Cyrus and answers bluntly, "Ok. I hope you aren't too creeped out from waking up from a broken neck. It's the easiest way I've found to stop most, when able to that is..." Seeing how sexual the place is, and how overly lewd Randel is, it isn't hard to figure out how he developed the way he did. When hearing Narg's statement, he smiles and says, "Alright.." and offers a high five.<br> <br>A large Solar dragon steeps off the chopper, clad from head to toe in a high tech looking heavy combat armor. Standing about 17 feet tall, mirror like golden scales cover hir arms, in hir hand shi holds a modified laser rifle, nestled between hir gleaming wings is a large ruck sack, holding hir various gear. The dragon's large regal head moves from side to side, before hir sun hued gaze falls on the Steel Hercules. "Hey Epsilon, it is me Seguro. It is good to see you again, given the look of things you strength will be greatly needed."<br> <br>Core is a slightly heavyset blonde woman in a light combat vest, with shorts and work jacket and boots. She is wearing ear hoops and bears a void totem; a bulky, crude-looking laser rifle is strapped to her back, in a terribly inconvenient and difficult-to-access position. Core is studying a Power Gator with a pensive, even worried, expression. She slips the beverage into a pocket of her jacket and looks up, half-smiling and waving weakly to those gathered here. "I hope some of you are some kinda ultimate warriors or something. I'm pretty much a mechanic, and they wouldn't let me bring my absurd flying doohickeys. I am not sure why the Prometheans are allowing me to be here at... at all." She half-smirks grimly during that last sentence, as though she is telling a private off-color joke, and coughs. |
Revision as of 02:13, 3 September 2014
Participants
Date
2/9/2014
Log
The call came out of the Promethean encampment. Somewhere out there was a threat that had been decimating supply trains, with attacks that would not end until they were either limping off with heavy losses, or gone. Some never came back. Co-ordinating an effort with RSX and Zephyr to share the costs of an expedition, you were placed under jurisdiction as a Task-Force, with specialist rankings for each of your skill-sets and put in the field. Monitoring the situation while landing, your new companions eyeing you with questions in their eyes, who are you, why are you here, and what can you do. Mostly though, it's that uncomfortable silence that goes on while in travel, no-one saying a word till the chopper lands and leaves you behind, a small crate of supplies to the side with a weeks rations. Saluting you as they take off, the pilot tuns and flies back to the Zephyr building, steady and ready, beeping your comms twice as farewell. You're here, somewhere out in the city in a place that has been quarantined until the threat can be secured, or if need be, eliminated. Tall buildings rise at every side, the streets littered with huge sheets of broken glass from the effects of the weather, and then nanites eating the metal that held them in place. In some areas, it's like navigating a floor filled iwth razors. From above, fearful, hungry or feral faces look on, some openly fighting and slashing, great gouts of blood flowing before the enemies lock again, healing quickly from any damage but leaving parts of themselves behind. Lustful tremors occur from around you, as you see caral pleasure, sex and dominance, submission occuring in the dark corners, and screaming her pain, a Skunk-Girl is birthing a litter behind the dumpster. A fire burns bright this night, bathing the area in a glow, filled with peat and garbage, the brazier flares high and snarls and purrs rise and fall all at once on the dark wind.
A tall tauric bovine stretches out her limbs after the cramped helicopter ride. Thickly padded and barely clothed with a harness that does nothing to cover her modesty, a western saddle, and a collar with a large cowbell on it. "I've got a really bad feeling about this. I mean, I trust the Prometheans, they've taught me a lot about controling my urges, but I'm not sure I'm quite the right pick for this job," Cyrus says, grabbing the clapper on her cowbell with her index and middle finger. She rubs her nose with one of her hands, the scent of the skunks and their lust stinging her nostrils and effecting her weak willpower. "God, and these smells, I wish they weren't getting to me as much as they are." She turns to her companions and frowns. "If I lose it, please don't hestiate to take me down. I wouldn't want to put any of you in danger."
As Epsilon got leaded there, she first started to looks at the close surroundings, get familiar with what's going on at a first glance. Being a giant female Steel Hercules, she weights around 4 tons and measure around 6 meters, a good chunk coming from her huge milky cleavage, making her the tallest of the group. She wear her RSX armor, covering most of her chest and the back of her legs, being straped around the shoulders and the legs, and leave breasts nude if it wasn't for her colorful bra, not really meant for stealthiness but more for showing off her voluptous forms. She also wear her halberd, The Spur slasher, which shine more by the sheer weight of it and his creepy style, a dart gun packed with a few darts, more meant to scare than harm, and a black glove more meant to protect the others from what's inside, covering a hand bolstering very sharp claws, meant for killing.
By far the most normal sized of the group, at least she feels that way, the Husky known as Narg disembarks as she draws out her pistol. Her scent only adds to the lustful smells around as she hasn't taken care of her heat but she doesn't seem to be affected by the scents. Never the less some of the sights she catches are enticing and she has to shake her head clear. "Danger schmanger, I'm pretty sure we could handle it." She is dressed in what appear to be plain clothes but the clothing has been reinforced. Otherwise she carries anything that would be useful inside of her backpack.
An average looking wolf beast steps out of the transport, sporting a stuffed and worn, drab color from age, backpack. Looking him over, it is quite clear it's a 'him', being very oversexed, and looking all too fitting for the current environment the team finds themselves in. Looking at the comm transponder lists him as 'First name: Randel, Last name: of Zephyr'... a rather odd last name. Looking over the beast, there are subtle hints of being different from the average feral that is out here. His paw pads are black, currently, making a soft 'tat' sound as it steps on the debris over the ground. He doesn't seem to notice any sharp shards he happens to step on, despite being otherwise barefoot. Claw tips are black, and glass-like. "Well, back on patrol again..." he sighs. He glances over to Cyrus and answers bluntly, "Ok. I hope you aren't too creeped out from waking up from a broken neck. It's the easiest way I've found to stop most, when able to that is..." Seeing how sexual the place is, and how overly lewd Randel is, it isn't hard to figure out how he developed the way he did. When hearing Narg's statement, he smiles and says, "Alright.." and offers a high five.
A large Solar dragon steeps off the chopper, clad from head to toe in a high tech looking heavy combat armor. Standing about 17 feet tall, mirror like golden scales cover hir arms, in hir hand shi holds a modified laser rifle, nestled between hir gleaming wings is a large ruck sack, holding hir various gear. The dragon's large regal head moves from side to side, before hir sun hued gaze falls on the Steel Hercules. "Hey Epsilon, it is me Seguro. It is good to see you again, given the look of things you strength will be greatly needed."
Core is a slightly heavyset blonde woman in a light combat vest, with shorts and work jacket and boots. She is wearing ear hoops and bears a void totem; a bulky, crude-looking laser rifle is strapped to her back, in a terribly inconvenient and difficult-to-access position. Core is studying a Power Gator with a pensive, even worried, expression. She slips the beverage into a pocket of her jacket and looks up, half-smiling and waving weakly to those gathered here. "I hope some of you are some kinda ultimate warriors or something. I'm pretty much a mechanic, and they wouldn't let me bring my absurd flying doohickeys. I am not sure why the Prometheans are allowing me to be here at... at all." She half-smirks grimly during that last sentence, as though she is telling a private off-color joke, and coughs.
