Badd_Kharma
New Member
Looking for a partner (or partners) to GM or Lead RP in a Shadowrun type setting. This Character is created for Shadowrun, but I am looking for more plot and character development and dont want to be too heavy on the dice/mechanics of Shadowrun. It doesn't even have to be in a Shadowrun setting but would make the most sense considering the character that is being developed. I apologize for not knowing the BB code well enough to do a fancy profile sheet.
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Name: Elena "Glytch" Ruiz
Age: 14 (26 Human Equivalent)
Race: Orc
Hair color: Purple (natural: Brown)
Eye color: Hazel Green
Height: 5'5"
Weight: 140
Job: Decker
Bio: Born the runt of the litter, Elena took to cyberspace as her escape. Shunning much of her past, she lives in astute isolation. Rarely if ever does she unplug longer than is needed. Working odd jobs and assisting with bug hunts, code marathons (outsourced from various Corporations), and the occasional request from a private detective, she makes end meet. Barely. When she does venture out, it is strictly for business. She does everything she can to hide her heritage though her lithe frame (for an orc), curved ears, yellowish-hued skin color, and her filed down tusks, constantly betray her. In the Matrix she can be free. Her assumed avatar is always human, and as close as she perceives -- no desires, herself to be.
Meatspace:
Matrix Avatar:
Including a short sample of Elena in action. This Primer serves as a good session plot hook. But totally up to you/group wether to start here or not. Since I am new to this site, I thought it important to showcase a bit of my style and writing to any potential matches.
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Lastly, Since I am new I am always looking for RP plots. Futuristic, Dystopian, Sci-Fi, Post-Apocalyptic, and Low-Fantasy are my favorite Genres. RP for me is flexing my writing muscle so no bridge too far, or RP too strange for me (at least not that i know of yet). Anime and its various fandoms are not my forte at all, and it mostly reads like Greek to me so anything along that vein would be a non starter, but anything else outside of that, send me a PM and lets see what we can work out.
============================================================
Name: Elena "Glytch" Ruiz
Age: 14 (26 Human Equivalent)
Race: Orc
Hair color: Purple (natural: Brown)
Eye color: Hazel Green
Height: 5'5"
Weight: 140
Job: Decker
Bio: Born the runt of the litter, Elena took to cyberspace as her escape. Shunning much of her past, she lives in astute isolation. Rarely if ever does she unplug longer than is needed. Working odd jobs and assisting with bug hunts, code marathons (outsourced from various Corporations), and the occasional request from a private detective, she makes end meet. Barely. When she does venture out, it is strictly for business. She does everything she can to hide her heritage though her lithe frame (for an orc), curved ears, yellowish-hued skin color, and her filed down tusks, constantly betray her. In the Matrix she can be free. Her assumed avatar is always human, and as close as she perceives -- no desires, herself to be.
Meatspace:
Matrix Avatar:
Including a short sample of Elena in action. This Primer serves as a good session plot hook. But totally up to you/group wether to start here or not. Since I am new to this site, I thought it important to showcase a bit of my style and writing to any potential matches.
She pulls her hood up a little further, any more and her head will pop out of the back of the damned thing. Glancing about this suspiciously run-of-the-mill waterhole. The Dirty-Hoe Bar in mid-town Seattle, a legacy from the old world, a building almost as decrepit and shady as its occupants, seems to sustain a larger than average crowd but with enough seating and swaths of open space she can observe quietly from her corner undisturbed. She runs her tongue across her lips and savors the fact she can almost taste the stench in the air. Alcohol, sweat, perfume, cologne all mixed and loaded in an incestuous cacophony of smells and flavor.
Desperation – a guy trying too hard to hold the attention of a sable-haired Woman. Synthetically pretty, in a kabuki theater type of way. Amazing the amount of regret, guilt, and a lifetime of bad, no desperate, decisions, a pound of makeup can cover. She toys with him, allowing him to buzz incessantly in her orbit, not even worth the effort to swat away as he plies her with drink and annoying chit-chat. The woman is polite, smiles at the right times, chuckles when appropriate, and nods her head in cadence with what is being said, all while keeping her eyes scanning across the landscape of this bar, idly smoking, and nursing her obligatory drink. The sable-haired Woman knowing well enough to hold out for a more interesting, or affluent, client.
Addiction – the scent she is most familiar with. A smile creaks across her lips as she observes two burned out junkies slooping over in the corner booth. Amazed at the sheer power of will to maintain the facade of sobriety. Yet the unfocused eyes, pupils as wide as manhole covers, the complete lack of any communication between the two and the constant touching of their faces and arms for sheer tactile stimulation. This was a vice she was familiar with, though chemicals to her always seemed so distasteful, BTL, or beetles, on the other hand was her drink of choice. Why bother with metabolizing in the meat, when you can jack in, upload, and go straight to the good stuff. Cleaner, faster, and way more efficient, better-than-life chips live up to their name.
Exhaustion – the poor Waitress, slinging tray after tray of drinks. For what? The tips where probably more than she could make wage slaving, but hey it beats being the sable-haired Woman at the bar. Though from the looks of it, the poor girls will seems to be running thin. She wonders how many times the Waitress told herself this very same thing in a mirror, while watching her youth slip away, one drink order at a time, and yet like every other sucker born nowadays, have yet to get anywhere in this hamster wheel.
The hooded woman sneers at the Waitress from under her hood, a flash of tooth bone protruding from her bottom lip. Filed down and polished smooth, the roots protruding ever so slightly from her mouth, she mutters, ‘Unlucky enough to not have been an Elf, lucky enough to not have been born an Orc, but at least your human…in the same sense at least I’m not a Troll.”, she mutters under her breath. Glancing down at her own arms, pale yellow-hued skin, thick, with corded muscles rippling underneath. A byproduct of her own…condition. Born to Orc parents whose grandparents had once been human, migrants crossing the borders of the former United States to work in the agricultural labor sector. She wonders what there lives where like? The bottom of the caste, yet from the few pics salvaged through the years, she envied them. They were poor, they were destitute, yet they were happy. They were human. That is until Goblinization hit. Then the whole world turned. She slams the last of her drink, and motions to the Waitress for another.
While she waits she pulls her commlink and looks at the message one more time. Had she not been looking at the wrong end of the month, debts stacking, and due dates closing in, she would have ignored it. Probably not even waste the time to junk the message, yet the headers seemed off. The trail of packets as the information made its way to her commlink from wherever the source came from was nonexistent. Any further research, decryption, or fuzzing of the message proved to be of no use. What’s even more odd is, and still raises the hair at the base of her neck, was it was addressed to her, or to be technical, her avatar, which in no way has any links to her in the flesh. This message did not come over the Matrix, instead it was direct sent on one of the many defunct frequencies used for the old commlinks, successors to the ancient cellphone, but predecessors to today’s common tech. Back when the Matrix was nothing more than an inter-network of machines haphazardly connected and barely secured. Hell, it wasn’t even weaponized back then.
The waitress arrives, her over-acted chipper voice drains away as the hooded woman narrows her eyes at her, ‘Oh! Sorry for the wait – here’s your drink.”. The waitress retreats as if the tips don’t matter to her. The hooded woman grumbles as she grips the cold condensation bottle with one hand and runs a finger over her worn down tusks on each side of her lip. “Frack, another centimeter for sure.” She grumbles and takes a long pull from the bottle. Her polished tusk clinking annoyingly against the glass. She sighs, “Another trip to the dentist, second one this month.”, she mumbles. For someone who is considered having just the right amount of orc-pretty to almost be human (from a distance or in poor lighting), but too human-ugly to be accepted as an orc, her life, well what’s left of her estimated median 40-year lifespan, has been one massive self-loathing session after another. Her almost jaundiced yellow-hued skin, and constant protrusion of her tusks is enough to break the impersonation of a human woman, which times such as now, can be startling for even the most tolerant of humans if caught off guard. Her lithe frame, while enticing and athletic by human standards, is seen to be too short, sickly, weak, even malnourished for proper orc attention. Another curse of her birthright. Litter-runt. Her parents didn’t even name her for nearly a month for fear of her being found dead among the rest of the litter.
She pushes the half empty bottle back and returns her eyes to her commlink and the mysterious, nearly untraceable message.
<x-25::490876598-3846598>
To: Glytch (Elena Ruiz)
Dirty-Hoe Bar. 2100. Follow the rainbow to claim your pot of gold.
<//end-of-file>
She closes the message and checks the time, 2040. 20 more minutes to solve this mystery. More important to Elena is the how, not necessarily the why. Either way she returns a glance to the sable-haired Woman at the bar, their eyes locking for a second. The woman’s casual glances towards Elena happening far too often to be a mistake. Elena narrows her eyes; the woman returns with a coy smile before stubbing out the latest cigarette in very long chain, and motions to the still orbiting guy at her empty drink glass, “Well, maybe this night won’t be a bust after all.” She says, reaching for the half-empty bottle on the table and bringing it to her lips.
Desperation – a guy trying too hard to hold the attention of a sable-haired Woman. Synthetically pretty, in a kabuki theater type of way. Amazing the amount of regret, guilt, and a lifetime of bad, no desperate, decisions, a pound of makeup can cover. She toys with him, allowing him to buzz incessantly in her orbit, not even worth the effort to swat away as he plies her with drink and annoying chit-chat. The woman is polite, smiles at the right times, chuckles when appropriate, and nods her head in cadence with what is being said, all while keeping her eyes scanning across the landscape of this bar, idly smoking, and nursing her obligatory drink. The sable-haired Woman knowing well enough to hold out for a more interesting, or affluent, client.
Addiction – the scent she is most familiar with. A smile creaks across her lips as she observes two burned out junkies slooping over in the corner booth. Amazed at the sheer power of will to maintain the facade of sobriety. Yet the unfocused eyes, pupils as wide as manhole covers, the complete lack of any communication between the two and the constant touching of their faces and arms for sheer tactile stimulation. This was a vice she was familiar with, though chemicals to her always seemed so distasteful, BTL, or beetles, on the other hand was her drink of choice. Why bother with metabolizing in the meat, when you can jack in, upload, and go straight to the good stuff. Cleaner, faster, and way more efficient, better-than-life chips live up to their name.
Exhaustion – the poor Waitress, slinging tray after tray of drinks. For what? The tips where probably more than she could make wage slaving, but hey it beats being the sable-haired Woman at the bar. Though from the looks of it, the poor girls will seems to be running thin. She wonders how many times the Waitress told herself this very same thing in a mirror, while watching her youth slip away, one drink order at a time, and yet like every other sucker born nowadays, have yet to get anywhere in this hamster wheel.
The hooded woman sneers at the Waitress from under her hood, a flash of tooth bone protruding from her bottom lip. Filed down and polished smooth, the roots protruding ever so slightly from her mouth, she mutters, ‘Unlucky enough to not have been an Elf, lucky enough to not have been born an Orc, but at least your human…in the same sense at least I’m not a Troll.”, she mutters under her breath. Glancing down at her own arms, pale yellow-hued skin, thick, with corded muscles rippling underneath. A byproduct of her own…condition. Born to Orc parents whose grandparents had once been human, migrants crossing the borders of the former United States to work in the agricultural labor sector. She wonders what there lives where like? The bottom of the caste, yet from the few pics salvaged through the years, she envied them. They were poor, they were destitute, yet they were happy. They were human. That is until Goblinization hit. Then the whole world turned. She slams the last of her drink, and motions to the Waitress for another.
While she waits she pulls her commlink and looks at the message one more time. Had she not been looking at the wrong end of the month, debts stacking, and due dates closing in, she would have ignored it. Probably not even waste the time to junk the message, yet the headers seemed off. The trail of packets as the information made its way to her commlink from wherever the source came from was nonexistent. Any further research, decryption, or fuzzing of the message proved to be of no use. What’s even more odd is, and still raises the hair at the base of her neck, was it was addressed to her, or to be technical, her avatar, which in no way has any links to her in the flesh. This message did not come over the Matrix, instead it was direct sent on one of the many defunct frequencies used for the old commlinks, successors to the ancient cellphone, but predecessors to today’s common tech. Back when the Matrix was nothing more than an inter-network of machines haphazardly connected and barely secured. Hell, it wasn’t even weaponized back then.
The waitress arrives, her over-acted chipper voice drains away as the hooded woman narrows her eyes at her, ‘Oh! Sorry for the wait – here’s your drink.”. The waitress retreats as if the tips don’t matter to her. The hooded woman grumbles as she grips the cold condensation bottle with one hand and runs a finger over her worn down tusks on each side of her lip. “Frack, another centimeter for sure.” She grumbles and takes a long pull from the bottle. Her polished tusk clinking annoyingly against the glass. She sighs, “Another trip to the dentist, second one this month.”, she mumbles. For someone who is considered having just the right amount of orc-pretty to almost be human (from a distance or in poor lighting), but too human-ugly to be accepted as an orc, her life, well what’s left of her estimated median 40-year lifespan, has been one massive self-loathing session after another. Her almost jaundiced yellow-hued skin, and constant protrusion of her tusks is enough to break the impersonation of a human woman, which times such as now, can be startling for even the most tolerant of humans if caught off guard. Her lithe frame, while enticing and athletic by human standards, is seen to be too short, sickly, weak, even malnourished for proper orc attention. Another curse of her birthright. Litter-runt. Her parents didn’t even name her for nearly a month for fear of her being found dead among the rest of the litter.
She pushes the half empty bottle back and returns her eyes to her commlink and the mysterious, nearly untraceable message.
<x-25::490876598-3846598>
To: Glytch (Elena Ruiz)
Dirty-Hoe Bar. 2100. Follow the rainbow to claim your pot of gold.
<//end-of-file>
She closes the message and checks the time, 2040. 20 more minutes to solve this mystery. More important to Elena is the how, not necessarily the why. Either way she returns a glance to the sable-haired Woman at the bar, their eyes locking for a second. The woman’s casual glances towards Elena happening far too often to be a mistake. Elena narrows her eyes; the woman returns with a coy smile before stubbing out the latest cigarette in very long chain, and motions to the still orbiting guy at her empty drink glass, “Well, maybe this night won’t be a bust after all.” She says, reaching for the half-empty bottle on the table and bringing it to her lips.
=====================================
Lastly, Since I am new I am always looking for RP plots. Futuristic, Dystopian, Sci-Fi, Post-Apocalyptic, and Low-Fantasy are my favorite Genres. RP for me is flexing my writing muscle so no bridge too far, or RP too strange for me (at least not that i know of yet). Anime and its various fandoms are not my forte at all, and it mostly reads like Greek to me so anything along that vein would be a non starter, but anything else outside of that, send me a PM and lets see what we can work out.
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