That's right Escapists, it's time for another one. I promised to do one over the holidays but strangely enough, I was busy. Anyways, I figured the best way to end my period of inactivity was to run another Lyncher RP. The setting isn't exactly worked out, all I know is that it'll be set in the Arctic and that there's gonna be some sort of conflict best solved by democratic homicide. What the actual enemy of the players is going to be hasn't been fully realized yet. At this point, your just as likely to find yourself pitted against a murderous computer as you are to fight off Nazi-Commies.
Just a couple of ground rules:
Keep your posting to a reasonable level, no one wants to wake up and find that they've got to sift through five pages of discussion.
Accept your fate with a smile; for whatever reasons, the group decided you were the main threat to their continued survival. Nothing personal, it's just that you're an untrustworthy dog who'd slit their throats first chance you got.
Beyond that, just have a good time and enjoy trying to pin the murders on your friends. I intend to update this thing on a pretty regular basis of every couple days or so. If you're interested in joining, just post a character sheet with a quick bio and your employment on the ship (Navigator, Captain, Helicopter Pilot, Bait, etc.) I plan to start this thing by Tuesday (hoping to steal Obama's thunder), or whenever we get a dozen or so players.
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The Arctic winds howled around the bridge of the lone ship. Freezing gales beat flags against their lines, stretching them almost to the breaking point. The sound of thrumming engines competed with the howl of the wind and crack of the ice for dominance over the clear night sky. Inside the bridge, the helmsman guided the ship along, slowly, through the ice. Eyes straining through fatigue, the lone pilot braced himself against the wheel, hoping that the AI would be brought back online soon.
Deeper in the ship, a team of engineers worked with the room-sized computer responsible for the safe operation of the vessel. On its maiden voyage, the Morning Star was supposed to function with a skeleton crew of engineers and backup navigation staff. No such luck.
A week out of port and the thing had already shut down. Uncertain of whether or not the problem lie in the programming or hardware of the machine, the crew had resigned themselves to manually piloting the ship along its route, after all, these things were to be expected on a test run. The ship continued along its course, most of the crew were standing watch or asleep in their bunks. None passing by the computer room paid much attention to the activity within. A few clangs of their tools and barely muffled curses could be heard in the hall just outside.
Within the confines of the room, two engineers busied themselves checking over the AI's connections to the ship. Wires were stripped and soldered, connections broken apart and tinkered with. A few interruptions by an obnoxiously inquisitive corporate executive were tolerated, the last of which ended in fighting words and an "accidental" solder gun burn. That'll learn him to meddle in the affairs of code monkeys.
As the empty suit sat nursing his reddened hand, he contemplated the effects of this PR campaign. His company had just been contracted to design an advanced navigational aid and could open up a whole new market should this thing work. Galt Intelligence had taken a hit since their automotive navigator led to a few dozen accidental deaths. Alright, maybe it was a mistake to say a GPS system could "drive the car for you!", but the stockholders should understand that's not the problem of management! What could John do if his programmers refuse to work to his standards? Punitive budget cuts didn't seem to work, but again, that's the fault of those shiftless eggheads! If only he could convince the world that the company was just as strong as it had been in his father's days.
Suddenly, the burnt hand gave Galt a new idea, the combination of physical discomfort and the perpetual despair of running his business seemed to unlock a new wing of ideas in the halls of his mind. As he finished with the bundle of ice on his hand, Galt snatched up a pen and began to scrawl notes on a fresh piece of stationery, the incessant stinging of his palm driving his mind to work. "New approach to management: burn the slow..."
Outside, the wind continued to howl, the icebreaker pushed onwards, and the pilot fell asleep at the wheel...
Just a couple of ground rules:
Keep your posting to a reasonable level, no one wants to wake up and find that they've got to sift through five pages of discussion.
Accept your fate with a smile; for whatever reasons, the group decided you were the main threat to their continued survival. Nothing personal, it's just that you're an untrustworthy dog who'd slit their throats first chance you got.
Beyond that, just have a good time and enjoy trying to pin the murders on your friends. I intend to update this thing on a pretty regular basis of every couple days or so. If you're interested in joining, just post a character sheet with a quick bio and your employment on the ship (Navigator, Captain, Helicopter Pilot, Bait, etc.) I plan to start this thing by Tuesday (hoping to steal Obama's thunder), or whenever we get a dozen or so players.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Arctic winds howled around the bridge of the lone ship. Freezing gales beat flags against their lines, stretching them almost to the breaking point. The sound of thrumming engines competed with the howl of the wind and crack of the ice for dominance over the clear night sky. Inside the bridge, the helmsman guided the ship along, slowly, through the ice. Eyes straining through fatigue, the lone pilot braced himself against the wheel, hoping that the AI would be brought back online soon.
Deeper in the ship, a team of engineers worked with the room-sized computer responsible for the safe operation of the vessel. On its maiden voyage, the Morning Star was supposed to function with a skeleton crew of engineers and backup navigation staff. No such luck.
A week out of port and the thing had already shut down. Uncertain of whether or not the problem lie in the programming or hardware of the machine, the crew had resigned themselves to manually piloting the ship along its route, after all, these things were to be expected on a test run. The ship continued along its course, most of the crew were standing watch or asleep in their bunks. None passing by the computer room paid much attention to the activity within. A few clangs of their tools and barely muffled curses could be heard in the hall just outside.
Within the confines of the room, two engineers busied themselves checking over the AI's connections to the ship. Wires were stripped and soldered, connections broken apart and tinkered with. A few interruptions by an obnoxiously inquisitive corporate executive were tolerated, the last of which ended in fighting words and an "accidental" solder gun burn. That'll learn him to meddle in the affairs of code monkeys.
As the empty suit sat nursing his reddened hand, he contemplated the effects of this PR campaign. His company had just been contracted to design an advanced navigational aid and could open up a whole new market should this thing work. Galt Intelligence had taken a hit since their automotive navigator led to a few dozen accidental deaths. Alright, maybe it was a mistake to say a GPS system could "drive the car for you!", but the stockholders should understand that's not the problem of management! What could John do if his programmers refuse to work to his standards? Punitive budget cuts didn't seem to work, but again, that's the fault of those shiftless eggheads! If only he could convince the world that the company was just as strong as it had been in his father's days.
Suddenly, the burnt hand gave Galt a new idea, the combination of physical discomfort and the perpetual despair of running his business seemed to unlock a new wing of ideas in the halls of his mind. As he finished with the bundle of ice on his hand, Galt snatched up a pen and began to scrawl notes on a fresh piece of stationery, the incessant stinging of his palm driving his mind to work. "New approach to management: burn the slow..."
Outside, the wind continued to howl, the icebreaker pushed onwards, and the pilot fell asleep at the wheel...
