Happy birthday to:
The best way to think of the current iteration of OtherSpace and our activities on Slack is as an epic serial television show that hops from one part of the Orion Arm to another at any given time.
You’re playing central characters in a creative ensemble. At the end of the day, the give-and-take of the story should bend toward advancing the narrative around your characters. That’s a roundabout way of saying: “It’s all about you.”
That doesn’t mean one player is always the center of attention. Everyone should have a chance to shine. But it does mean that a great deal of responsibility rests on each of you as players to help push things forward.
I’ll offer hooks and RP opportunities, but – in the end – it’s up to you to take what I offer and run with it. Or, if you’re not keen on what I’m putting out there, be ready to share ideas of your own and follow through with them.
Here are some quick points I want to establish for Slack RP going forward:
Feel free to reach out with suggestions, thoughts, or concerns as we move forward with the new experiment!
You can see some of our first activities at the following links:
Thanks for participating. Want to join the Slack site? Send email to firstname.lastname@example.org to request an invitation!
The second official roleplaying scene on our OtherSpace Slack site. It takes place on Demaria:
Emergency sirens wail on the outskirts of Alhira, a city of rough sandstone, steel, and glass that’s currently awash with torrential downpours and the raucous rumble of thunder between forks of lightning. Rescue hovertrucks whir and weave away from the city center, buffeted by winds that blow the rain sideways. They’re followed by media vehicles – one hovercar and several drones.
A dark figure stands on a hotel balcony not far from the edge of Alhira, watching the storm from beneath the balcony above. Some of the rain strikes Razorback’s long coat and his mane, but his attention seems to have been drawn by the commotion, his tail flicking silently behind him.
Lightning strikes one of the hovertrucks, piercing the cab and torching the occupants inside before the vehicle goes into a spin and collides with the media hovercar. The media vehicle careens toward the lobby of the hotel where Razorback is staying. The driver just manages to regain control before the car barrels through a stone support column outside reception. The concrete roof above falls just as the car’s fender moves out of the way.
The dark Demarian reaches out a paw to steady himself from the impact, his ears tightening against his head. He pulls himself forward, his muscles tensing as if for a desperate leap, but almost instantly thinks better off it, counting seven floors between him and the street. A dark chuckle escapes him as he darts inside. “Getting a bit old for that,” he mutters in Demarese.
An alarm wails throughout the hotel – triggered, perhaps, by the impact of the CBN media car that has now pulled off to the side of the thoroughfare. One of the remaining rescue trucks has stopped so that they can care for any unlikely survivors in the lightning-scorched truck that’s now burning bright in the storm. The other trucks continue their route toward the outskirts near the desert.
The Cliffwalker comes out a side door and makes his way quickly to the lobby where the concrete overhang has fallen. His nostrils twitch as he attempts to seek out any injured around the fallen structure, doing his best to sift out the odors of burnt flesh, hair, and ozone.
In the wreckage, Razorback might discover a Demarian porter, pinned by a large chunk of the ornate column. As the alarm continues to wail, guests start gathering in the lobby. The crew in the media car – two Demarians and a Castori – emerge with their gear and start walking downhill toward the hotel.
Razorback glances up at the news purveyors for a moment before turning his attention to the trapped porter. He looks the column piece over, attempting to determine if he could free the Demarian unaided. “How are you feeling, my friend,” he asks gently, checking him for aogns of consciousness.
The porter is unconscious and bleeding from wounds on his head and leg, but appears to be alive. The chunk pinning him could be moved without aid. One of the Demarian journalists deploys a cam orb to swoop around and capture the chaos.
The Cliffwalker takes a deep breath before leaning down to lift the piece of concrete, growling with the effort until he tosses it to the side. “Any of you trained in first aid?” he calls out to the reporters as he pulls his coat off.
“No,” says a reporter with a grunt. “Who are you? Are you a doctor?” The cam orb takes a position above and in front of Razorback as he tends to the porter.
“If I were a doctor, I would not have asked,” Razorback growls, “You…” He points to the member of the trio who seems the least occupied. “See if you can get someone from that rescue vehicle to come and help this man, lest you three become murderers today,” he says, a command expecting obedience. He lays his coat over the injured porter, his brow furrowed in concern as he strips off his shirt, revealing the light flak vest beneath.
“Murderers?!” The Castori burbles in affront. He had emerged from the driver’s side of the hovercar. “We nearly died because that truck slammed into us! If I hadn’t swerved the way I did, we’d have been in that lobby instead of clipping the column!”
“Go!” the Cliffwalker roars back, his teeth bared, “Or would you rather let this man bleed out while the whole galaxy watches.” His eyes settle on those of the Castori without budging a millimeter.
The second Demarian huffs, then departs to find a paramedic. This leaves the Castori to bristle at Razorback. He’s about to say something when a guest near the lobby door – a Timonae – points up the hill and shouts: “Flood!” Indeed, a flash flood wave is rushing downhill, slamming into the media car and bringing it back toward the hotel.
“By the Mother…” Razorback snarls. He decides the risk of spinal injury is worth moving the injured porter out of the way of the flood. He scoops the other, hopefully smaller Demarian up over his shoulder and races towards the hotel. He vaults to the top of the fallen overhang, hoping to reach the building before the water and vehicle, but looking up for a second-floor balcony if that proves impossible.
There’s a balcony, but challenging to reach with the burden of a wounded Demarian. However, the journalist Demarian and his Castori companion help bear the load. The Demarian returning with the medic is caught up in the wave. The car slams into the medic and sends him spinning away into the torrent.
With more than one person in tow, the balcony is more of a clamber than a jump as Razorback does his best to help those he can. Once his charge is on the balcony, he hangs from the rail and hauls first one reporter than the other up if he can.
The Demarian reporter doesn’t even think twice. He hefts the Castori up and over the balcony – just as the flood gushes up and knocks his legs out from under. He disappears into the froth.
Razorback snarls as his paw misses the second reporter, but quickly looks up at the direction from where the water came, looking for any additional danger.
The flood subsides almost as quickly as it arrived, although it has left quite a bit of destruction in its path. The cam orbs bob above the balcony, capturing the chaos. The Castori hoots sadly.
The Cliffwalker sighs with relief and sadness, then looks over the glass door to the hotel room within. Finding it locked, and the room empty, he glances over at the camera orb. He pulls his coat over the face of the injured Demarian. A paw snaps out, snatching the camera from the air and hurling it through the glass.
“What’s your name?” The Castori asks, finding the words through nervous shock. “Who are you?”
“I am no one of consequence, not at the moment anyway,” the Cliffwalker says, stepping over the broken glass to retrieve clean towels and bedsheets from the hotel room. “Try the room comm, see if you can get anyone from Emergency up here,” he says as he does what he can to bandage up the porter, “Speaking of names, what were those of your comrades?”
The Castori replies: “Whiteruff and Odin. The one who saved me was Odin. Not his born name. He had an unhealthy obsession with Earth mythology.” He scratches the side of his snout, then moves to the room comm. The concierge replies that they’ve got a doctor staying at the hotel. He’ll be to the room in a few minutes.
“That does sound unhealthy,” Razorback says with a quiet chuckle as he puts pressure the worse of the wounds. No skilled healer is he, but he has seen his share of blood. “You will mention them when you tell your story, yes?” he asks of the ursinoid.
“Of course,” the Castori confirms. “But people should know who you are.”
The big Demarian looks up at the Castori contemplatively before he reaches down and carefully slips a ring from the paw he has clamped down on the porter’s wound. “This ring is ironically unique in that alone of the House signets of Demarian, it has a twin,” he says, holding the green-gemmed ring up to eye level, “Until the bearer of its mate no longer holds power over my people, it is best that people remain ignorant of my existence.”
The Castori considers this for a few moments, peering at the ring. Eventually, he says: “Nobody of consequence, then. Understood.” Someone knocks on the door.
Join the fun! Request an invite via email to email@example.com!