Post
Post #1 (isolation #1) » Mon Nov 02, 2015 12:03 pm
Postby fferyllt »
General Rules:
Voting and Deadlines:
1. Voting must be bolded in the form
Vote: Player
or VOTE: Player, or else they will not be counted. Unvotes are not required to change your vote, but they are helpful.
2. I don't mind if you use nicknames/abbreviations when you vote someone. But if I (or the automated vote counter) have no idea who you're voting for, then the vote won't be counted.
3. Lynches require a majority of votes: (number-of-livingplayers/2) +1, rounded down.
4. If there's no majority at deadline, there's no lynch.
5. When the hammered vote is cast, it is officially twilight. All players may continue to talk about the game, but no votes/unvotes will count after a majority vote has been reached.
6. After you are lynched or night killed, you may make one "bah" post with no game-relevant information on the following game day. Nothing more.
7. Deadlines are set at 72 hours and extensions will only be given in the event of site down time or a player replacement occurring within 12 hours of deadline.
Prods and Replacements:
1. Prods will be given if you do not post in
18 hours
. You will be replaced if you don't post
within 6 hours after that
.
2. You will be replaced if you either do not respond to a prod within 6 hours, or need to be prodded more than
2 times total
. You may request for a player to be prodded at any time, but the less you request, the happier your mod is. Prods requested when a player has been absent for less than 18 hours do not count for replacement purposes.
3. If you're V/LA, make sure I know. If you are V/LA for more than
48 hours
, I'd suggest requesting replacement. After that, I may replace you at my discretion if I feel your absense is adversely affecting the game.
Misc.
1. Dark Blue (#004080) is the color I will use for mod posts. Please don’t use this color or otherwise try to make your posts look like mod posts.
2. You can talk about the game any private threads given to you via PM. Otherwise, please refrain from talking about this game outside of this thread, and don't talk about other
ongoing
games inside of this game thread. This is a sitewide rule.
3. No editing, deleting, using invisible texts, etc...
4. Don't quote mod-recieved PMs. Paraphrasing is permissible. If you're unsure where the line is drawn re discussing role PMs or other mod-received communications, please check with me before making a post you think could be questionable.
5. I make mistakes. Show me them where you see them.
6. Questions are vastly preferred over Modkills. If you're about to do something that you're unsure about, then tell me about it first and I'll let you know if it's ok.
Please note: I am using an automated vote counter to generate the vote counts. There could be a glitch here or there. Please let me know if you notice any votes that are missed or incorrectly assigned.
Amid the pressure of great events, a general principle gives no help.
Post
Post #2 (isolation #2) » Mon Nov 02, 2015 1:11 pm
Postby fferyllt »
Role PMs are going out now. Once all the role PMs are out, I'll open this thread. Confirmation will take place in the game thread. Day 1 officially starts when 11 of 14 players have confirmed here. As soon as that happens, you can start voting. Don't wait for me to make it official.
Amid the pressure of great events, a general principle gives no help.
Post
Post #4 (isolation #4) » Mon Nov 02, 2015 2:26 pm
Postby fferyllt »
THIS WAS A GOLDEN AGE, a time of high adventure, rich living,
and hard dying . . . but nobody thought so. This was a future of
fortune and theft, pillage and rapine, culture and vice . . . but nobody
admitted it. This was an age of extremes, a fascinating century of
freaks . . . but nobody loved it.
All the habitable worlds of the solar system were occupied. Three
planets and eight satellites and eleven billion people swarmed in one
of the most exciting ages ever known, yet minds still yearned for other
times, as always. The solar system seethed with activity . . . fighting,
feeding, and breeding, learning the new technologies that spewed
forth almost before the old had been mastered, girding itself for the
first exploration of the far stars in deep space; but- "Where are the
new frontiers?" the Romantics cried, unaware that the
frontier of the mind had opened in a laboratory on Callisto at the
turn of the twenty-fourth century. A researcher named Jaunte set fire
to his bench and himself (accidentally) and let out a yell for help with
particular reference to a fire extinguisher. Who so surprised as
Jaunte and his colleagues when he found himself standing alongside
said extinguisher, seventy feet removed from his lab bench.
They put Jaunte out and went into the whys and wherefores of
his instantaneous seventy-foot journey. Teleportation . . . the
transportation of oneself through space by an effort of the mind
alone. . . had long been a theoretical concept, and there were a few
hundred badly documented proofs that it had happened in the past.
This was the first time that it had ever taken place before professional
observers.
They investigated the Jaunte Effect savagely. This was
something too earth-shaking to handle with kid gloves, and Jaunte
was anxious to make his name immortal. He made his will and said
farewell to his friends. Jaunte knew he was going to die because his
fellow researchers were determined to kill him, if necessary. There
was no doubt about that.
Twelve psychologists, parapsychologists and neurometrists of
varying specialization were called in as observers. The experimenters
sealed Jaunte into an unbreakable crystal tank. They opened a water
valve, feeding water into the tank, and let Jaunte watch them smash
the valve handle. It was impossible to open the tank; it was impossible
to stop the flow of water.
The theory was that if it had required the threat of death to goad
Jaunte into teleporting himself in the first place, they'd damned well
threaten him with death again. The tank filled quickly. The observers
collected data with the tense precision of an eclipse camera crew.
Jaunte began to drown. Then he was outside the tank, dripping and
coughing explosively. He'd teleported again.
The experts examined and questioned him. They studied graphs
and X-rays, neural patterns and body chemistry. They began to get an
inkling of how Jaunte had teleported. On the technical grapevine (this
had to be kept secret) they sent out a call for suicide volunteers. They
were still in the primitive stage of teleportation; death was the only
spur they knew.
They briefed the volunteers thoroughly. Jaunte lectured on
what he had done and how he thought he had done it. Then they
proceeded to murder the volunteers. They drowned them, hanged
them, burned them; they invented new forms of slow and controlled
death. There was never any doubt in any of the subjects that death
was the object.
Eighty per cent of the volunteers died, and the agonies and
remorse of their murderers would make a fascinating and horrible
study, but that has no place in this history except to highlight the
monstrosity of the times. Eighty per cent of the volunteers died, but
20 per cent jaunted. (The name became a word almost immediately.)
"Bring back the romantic age," the Romantics pleaded, "when
men could risk their lives in high adventure."
The body of knowledge grew rapidly. By the first decade of the
twenty-fourth century the principles of jaunting were established and
the first school was opened by Charles Fort Jaunte himself, then fiftyseven,
immortalized, and ashamed to admit that he had never dared
jaunte again. But the primitive days were past; it was no longer
necessary to threaten a man with death to make him teleport. They
had learned how to teach man to recognize, discipline, and exploit yet
another resource of his limitless mind
-- From the Prologue, The Stars My Destination, by Alfred Bester
The Town win condition is as follows:
Amid the pressure of great events, a general principle gives no help.
Post
Post #317 (isolation #13) » Wed Nov 04, 2015 11:21 am
Postby fferyllt »
Albert B. Rampage has been prodded.
Reminder to all: Prods go out if a player hasn't posted in the game thread in the last 18 hours. From the time of the prod, they have 6 hours to post. After that, I'll seek replacement.
Amid the pressure of great events, a general principle gives no help.
Post
Post #743 (isolation #26) » Fri Nov 06, 2015 5:52 am
Postby fferyllt »
"And you came searching for me? I'm touched, really touched."
"You're insane to be standing out here like this. I beg you to let me --"
"No, no, no. It's beautiful ... Magnificent."
"Let me jaunte with you to some place that's safe."
"Ah, you see yourself as a knight in armor? Chivalry to the rescue. It doesn't suit you, my dear. You haven't the flair for it. You'd best go."
"I'll stay."
"As a beauty lover?"
"As a lover."
"You're still tedious. Come, be inspired. This is Armageddon ... Flowering Monstrosity. Tell me what you see."
"There's nothing much," he answered, looking around and wincing. "There's light all over the horizon. Quick clouds of it. Above, there's a ... a sort of sparkling effect. Like Christmas lights twinkling."
"Oh, you see so little with your eyes. See what I see! There's a dome in the sky, a rainbow dome. The colors run from deep tang to brilliant burn. That's what I've named the colors I see. What would that dome be?"
"The radar screen," he muttered.
"And then there are vasty shafts of fire thrusting up and swaying, weaving, dancing, sweeping. What are they?"
"Interceptor beams. You're seeing the whole electronic defense system."
"And I can see the bombs coming down too ... quick streaks of what you call red. But not your red; mine. Why can I see them?"
"They're heated by air friction, but the inert lead casing doesn't show the color to us."
"See how much better you're doing as Galileo than Galahad. Oh! There's one coming down in the east. Watch for it! It's coming, coming, coming ... Now!"
A flare of light on the eastern horizon proved it was not her imagination.
"There's another to the north. Very close. Very. Now!"
A shock tore down from the north.
"And the explosions ... They're not just clouds of light. They're fabrics, webs, tapestries of meshing colors. So beautiful. Like exquisite shrouds."
"Which they are, Lady Olivia."
Night 1 begins now and will end on November 8 at Noon US Eastern Time
Countdown: (expired on 2015-11-08 09:00:00)
Amid the pressure of great events, a general principle gives no help.
Post
Post #744 (isolation #27) » Sun Nov 08, 2015 6:15 am
Postby fferyllt »
The Sedative Garden atop the Therapy Building was a triumph of therapeutic planning. Every perspective, every color, every contour had been designed to placate hostility, soothe resistance, melt anger, evaporate hysteria, absorb melancholia and depression.
"Sit down," Dagenham said, pointing to a bench alongside a pool in which crystal waters tinkled. "Don't try to jaunte -- you're drugged. I'll have to walk around a bit. Can't come too close to you. I'm 'hot.' D'you know what that means?"
He shook his head sullenly. Dagenham cupped both hands around the flaming blossom of an orchid and held them there for a moment. "Watch that flower," he said. "you'll see."
He paced up a path and turned suddenly. "You're right, of course. Everything that happened to you is real. ... Only what did happen?"
"Go to hell." He growled.
"You know, I admire you."
"Go to hell."
"In your own primitive way you've got ingenuity and guts. You're Cro-Magnon. I've been checking on you. That bomb you threw in the Presteign shipyards was lovely, and you nearly wrecked General Hospital getting the money and material together." Dagenham counted fingers. "You looted lockers, stole from the blind ward, stole drugs from the pharmacy, stole apparatus from the lab stockrooms."
"Go to hell, you."
"But what have you got against Presteign? Why'd you try to blow up his shipyard? They tell me you broke in and went tearing through the pits like a wild man. What were you trying to do?"
"Go to hell."
Dagenham smiled. "If we're going to chat," he said. "You'll have to hold up your end. Your conversation's getting monotonous. What happened to Nomad?"
***
"All right," Dagenham spat. Suddenly he pointed to the orchid blossom he had enclosed with his hands. It was blighted and rotting. "That's what's going to happen to you."
It's been a busy night!
Amid the pressure of great events, a general principle gives no help.
Post
Post #1146 (isolation #41) » Tue Nov 10, 2015 3:38 pm
Postby fferyllt »
He jaunted for the last time and the power of his willingness to believe transformed the para-NOW of his random destination into a real ...
***
NOW: Rigel in Orion, burning blue-white, five hundred and forty light years from earth, ten thousand times more luminous than the sun, a cauldron of energy circled by thirty-seven massive planets ... Foyle hung, freezing and suffocating in space, face to face with the incredible destiny in which he believed, but which was still inconceivable. He hung in space for a blinding moment, as helpless, as amazed, and yet as inevitable as the first gilled creature to come out of the sea and hang gulping on a primeval beach in the dawn-history of life on earth.
He space-jaunted, turning para-Now into ...
***
NOW: Vega in Lyra, an AO star twenty-six light years from earth, burning bluer than Rigel, planetless, but encircled by swarms of blazing comets whose gaseous tails scintillated across the blue-black firmament ...
***
And again he turned now into NOW: Canopus, yellow as the sun, gigantic, thunderous in the silent wastes of space at last invaded by a creature that once was gilled. The creature hung, gulping on the beach of the universe, nearer death than life, nearer the future than the past, ten leagues beyond the wide world's end. It wondered at the masses of dust, meteors, and motes that girdled Canopus in a broad, flat ring like the rings of Saturn and of the breadth of Saturn's orbit ...
***
NOW: Aldebaran in Taurus, a monstrous red star of a pair of stars whose sixteen planets wove high velocity ellipses around their gyrating parents. He was hurling himself through space-time with growing assurance ...
***
NOW: Antares, an MI red giant, paired like Aldebaran, two hundred and fifty light years from earth, encircled by two hundred and fifty planetoids of the size of Mercury, of the climate of Eden ...
***
And lastly ... NOW:
He was back aboard Nomad.
Gully Foyle is my name
And Terra is my nation.
Deep space is my dwelling place,
The stars my destination.
The girl, Moira, found him in his tool locker aboard Nomad, curled in a tight fetal ball, his face hollow, his eyes burning with divine revelation. Although the asteroid had long since been repaired and made airtight, Foyle still went through the motions of the perilous existence that had given birth to him years before.
But now he slept and meditated, digesting and encompassing the magnificence he had learned. He awoke from reverie to trance and drifted out of the locker, passing Moira with blind eyes, brushing past the awed girl who stepped aside and sank to her knees. He wandered through the empty passages and returned to the womb of the locker. He curled up again and was lost.
She touched him once; he made no move. She spoke the name that had been emblazoned on his face. He made no answer. She turned and fled to the Interior of the asteroid, to the holy of holies in which Joseph reigned.
"My husband has returned to us," Moira said.
"Your husband?"
"The god-man who almost destroyed us."
Joseph's face darkened with anger.
"Where is he? Show me!"
"You will not hurt him?"
"All debts must be paid. Show me."
Joseph followed her to the locker aboard Nomad and gazed intently at Foyle. The anger in his face was replaced by wonder. He touched Foyle and spoke to him; there was still no response.
"You cannot punish him," Moira said. "He is dying."
"No," Joseph answered quietly. "He is dreaming. I, a priest, know these dreams. Presently he will awaken and read to us, his people, his thoughts."
"And then you will punish him."
"He has found it already in himself," Joseph said.
He settled down outside the locker. The girl, Moira, ran up the twisted corridors and returned a few moments later with a silver basin of warm water and a silver tray of food. She bathed Foyle gently and then set the tray before him as an offering. Then she settled down alongside Joseph ... alongside the world ... prepared to await the awakening.
Amid the pressure of great events, a general principle gives no help.
Post
Post #1153 (isolation #42) » Tue Nov 10, 2015 3:48 pm
Postby fferyllt »
I'll post the PTs in a little while.
Well done town!
Postgame questions:
- Did the 18 hours til prod, 6 hours to post afterwards rule seem reasonable?
- Would a 48 hour day have been preferable to 72?
- What about the 48 hour night? I thought it was better than 24 hours mostly so players could have downtime every few days.
- Is there anything about the format that you would change?
- My design plans were to make the game design a little more townsided than I ordinarily would because of the short format. I also set things up so that early mass claim would hurt town more than mafia. Was this a reasonable design choice? Why or why not?
Amid the pressure of great events, a general principle gives no help.
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Post #1166 (isolation #45) » Tue Nov 10, 2015 4:10 pm
Postby fferyllt »
In post 1163, chamber wrote:Scum got owned during the day anyway, but this setup seems to lean pretty hard towards town.
I don't know about pretty hard, but I think the decision to try to make it a little townsided to make up for the short days was a mistake in retrospect.
Losing their jailkeeper on day 1 was a real blow to scum, and I think it exposed the rest of the team, unfortunately.
Also, there was stellar in-thread masoning happening which quickly shut down mislynch possibilities. bbmolla, Syryana and Ranger had awesome reads right from the start,
Amid the pressure of great events, a general principle gives no help.
In post 1163, chamber wrote:Scum got owned during the day anyway, but this setup seems to lean pretty hard towards town.
They did. And though town did have a lot of PRs scum also had a great deal of counterpower; jailkeeper for the townish claim and roleblockery (or even saving a scum from a vig), strongman beats both roleblockery and the one shot BP.
Sure it was swingy as hell, but I don't think it was terribly townsided.
Also,
@Ranger
, I loved your play here, but I am sort of curious: why the FACK would you watch Molla N1?
I can sorta answer that. Ranger thought scum might skip over you N1 because of the likelihood you'd get doc'd. Which, if scum hadn't had a strongman shot and if town had a doctor...might have happened.
Amid the pressure of great events, a general principle gives no help.
.[/area][/color]