The new forums will be named Coin Return (based on the most recent vote)! You can check on the status and timeline of the transition to the new forums here.
The Guiding Principles and New Rules document is now in effect.
A trail of water dots the cracked earth as the Farmer races to reach the mysterious, myriad seeds with nought but an old leaky bucket for irrigation. He raised his eyebrows as fresh white shoots peek out moments after he waters the seeds. Must be hybrids. Looks like they’ll be citrus trees! A luxury out here.
With the seeds planted, the Farmer throws his faithful shovel over his shoulder and heads south. He crosses the farm entire, hopping the back fence and into no man’s land... or at least he doesn’t know no man that owns it.
...
He’d spied it on day one, laid in a bed of dirt. He was so tired then he’d felt a kinship to it. But nap time was over. It takes all damn day, but as dusk settled over the rugged landscape like a blanket, he slammed the shovel down and wiped his brow. He’d dug up what he figured was there. A highly modified Automatic Bandido. The Farmer squinted, trying to remember all he once knew.
It needed a new battery, for a start, if he wanted this thing to stand up and do some real work.
First come, first served: In the next five posts (by different posters) give me one fact about A.Bs.
———
When all was done the Farmer scritched that goat’s neck on the way back home. It was heavily pregnant, he noted.
The Farmer: Guess I’ll call you... Cat.
He walked with it to the stable, and decided it was much too late to question why Dog was jet black on one side, her pupils fixing dead small and red before reverting to something approaching natural once Cat was deemed a non-threat.
Success! The farm has its very own goat, with more on the way soon enough!
I’ll update the map later. In choosing to dig up the A.B you’ve knocked a couple squares off your treasure hunting options, which is good!
I guess in Spanish they’re called Bandido Automático.
Endless_Serpents on
+1
FishmanPut your goddamned hand in the goddamned Box of Pain.Registered Userregular
Unlike the larger, later specialised designs that replaced them in the events leading to the Break, Automatic Bandidos were noted for being one of the last Automatics that were generally reliable and obedient, lacking the fully-autonomous higher-order bicameral intelligence that was ultimately outlawed following incidents such as the White Protest Riots and the Night of the Three-fold Cascade.
A.B:s are reliable kinda like kalashnikovs are, parts are easily and cheaply replaceable, and they tend to keep working in conditions where other automatas might not. This is due to their simple construction and inexpensive parts, thus they are low performing and lacking some of the bells and whistles other automatas might have.
A.Bs were also highly modular.
Being as they were non-specialised and perhaps under-specced for many situations, multiple units were designed to interface with each other into larger units. Such mechs were lent greater specialisation based on their configuration and specific arrangement, as well as much larger power output
Facts:
The herbs in the garden are ready for harvest.
The Farmer is penniless.
The decision not to visit the town after rising from the dead matters.
Already, those mysterious seeds have grown into young citrus trees—limes, oranges, hybrid fruits from foreign climes unknown to the Farmer... and they’re continuing to grow.
The A.B is dormant... but who knows if it’s fully offline? It needs a new battery.
———
Right now, the Farmer is about to start another day... What will he do?
A. Harvest and sell herbs in town.
B. Use the last of the scrap to make a milking area come shelter for Cat. Goat’s cheese could turn a profit.
C. Dig for treasure! Say where.
Highest vote wins, but the Farmer will only commit to one task today... as something is about to get in his way.
FishmanPut your goddamned hand in the goddamned Box of Pain.Registered Userregular
On the one hand: we have water, fruit, wheat, herbs, wild game, and shelter, so unless someone comes looking for dues we can get by for a while without needing cash or services.
On the other hand, we don't really want to invite anyone to just come calling around and seeing that nice big shiny Bandido we salvaged out of the scrap; that's the kind of thing that might invite someone to come along with a hoist and salvage it themselves after we did all the hard work, lying as it is outside the boundary fence.
No, if there's trouble brewin', it'd be better to meet it away from the farm if we can. Time to head into town, settle some of whatever outstandin' accounts the farmer has been building.
Cat can shelter in Dog's stable while we ride up into town to sell herbs. It'll do until we can fashion something a bit more permanent for her; it's important to treat your goats right, if you want them to tolerate you.
A.
Hunger may be the greatest condiment, but surely some random herb like weeds we found are a close second.
Edit:
Looks like we have room for one more AB Fact...
A person wearing a Mechtronic X-38b neuro-interface helmet with Command Oversight Interface could simultaneously control multiple ABs from a remote location.
They wouldn't respond as smoothly or as quickly as they would if they were manned or directly controlled, but they could attack with no fear of human casualties, an important capability that came into play in the waning days of the war as experienced human combatants were in increasingly short supply.
Older ABs, those in service long enough to start developing personality "quirks" often took to this sacrificial style of combat...poorly.
@Tiphareth voted after a voting was closed and so shall ever more be cursed to become a wendigo. Henceforth whatever option they choose in a vote will take -2 votes. Use this vile power as you wish!
———
Riding on the back of his brilliant white steed (she shifted to green briefly as they passed some trees) the Farmer felt powerful. He arrived in town openly, flinging himself from Dog and landing heroically in the red dust that constituted the main road. Murmurs grew in his wake, doors were shut and curtains shuffled aside for prying eyes. Three riders were on the horizon, tiny black dots against a ghoulish, wavering yellow sky. Heading this way.
No matter, the Farmer thought as he strode up to a couple of drunks drying out in the sun.
Risky and Odds were a pair of cowpokes long overdue death, but got by on booze, cigarettes and ignorance.
Risky: You got something to clear a head?
Odds: How about something to escape one?
The Farmer sold them handfuls of herbs—They could figure out what did what, if it mattered at all in their sorry state. Later on he managed to sell the rest to a shrieking woman who made the sign of a cross at him, then hurled a wad of cash at his chest before running indoors. He left those herbs on her doorstep.
The Farmer has earned twenty-five crisp, green Vespucci! They’ve got the picture of the ship and skull on and everything. The real deal!
———
Before he starts off for whatever might almost be a store or smithy in this town, perhaps he asks the drunks a question or three...
A. No. Why would he? Tell me what’s to buy!
B. What’s the mayor like? Is he really in charge? Has he been mayor long?
C. What happened to the last farmer? Was there.. some kind of thing living at the farm too?
D. How much food and drink is in storage for the town? When will it run out? Who’s distributing it?
X. ___________________________?!
Understanding Power Dynamics will grant us a wealth of clear opportunities and goals moving forward. Knowing which characters to shove Ale into the arms of and which characters to shove Chicken Fried Rice into the arms of is what's gonna help us move *up* in this town!
Being a Farmer means eventually becoming a supplier, so we need to know whose toes we're inevitably going to begin stepping on. This town's dance floor doesn't have a lot of room on it.
GNU Terry Pratchett
PSN: Wstfgl | GamerTag: An Evil Plan | Battle.net: FallenIdle#1970
Hit me up on BoardGameArena! User: Loaded D1
Rumour places the cattle rustlers in one of three treacherous locations.
The cattle rustlers were flying the flag of Erebus.
Was there.. some kind of thing living at the farm too?
The prior farmer (by the name of Annie) lived there with her younger sister.
The sister (no one asked her name) was wheelchair bound.
Both of them had been in the circus before coming to town.
How much food and drink is in storage for the town?
There is a water tower and a large warehouse of dried goods.
Anything else is personal produce, but the town really can’t grow much worthwhile.
The farm is the only area with the right soil to grow food.
When will it run out? Who’s distributing it?
Enough until Autumn. It being summer now, unless the Farmer sorts it out, there will soon be none at all.
A man named Bosch distributes it. His best friend was the last sheriff.
He hands just enough out, with the lion’s share going to ‘important persons’ to keep the town running.
———
The drunks map out the surrounding land with scratch marks and pebbles in the red earth. The fight and bicker over the particulars, but it’s as sound an estimate as any given the Farmer hasn’t scouted much himself as late.
A. Longhorn Estate. The mayor’s home, built in a foreign, old fashioned style. The town’s armoury is stored here for when they really need it.
B. Bosch’s Yard. Bosch keeps the town’s water tower and a warehouse full of corn and other dried food under lock and key. For the good of all, naturally. Bosch does all the paperwork and reading for the local law enforcement.
C. The town proper. It’s got a crappy saloon, a general smithy, the sheriff’s office/jail, a funeral parlour, and homes in varying stages of disrepair.
D. The Divine Geometry Church of Latter-day Saints. Due to some quirk in the town’s history, the church doubles as the town’s bank.
E. Sweet Tooth Forest. Weird name. Just some trees that are managing to get by despite it all.
F. The farm. Practically destroyed, until very recently of course.
G. Cut Gut Pass. Prime bandit real estate. Littered with remnants of past battles.
H. Severed Head Mountain. Said to have great religious significance to a tribe of people that are all dead now.
I. Longhorn Lake. All dried up.
J. Salt Flats. A fine place to drop dead without causing much undue fuss.
K. Abandoned Railroad. Parts of it have been torn up by scavengers, and the station blown to smithereens. With a significant amount of work it could, in theory, be linked back up to the rest of the world.
The three Xs indicate the potential locations of those no good cattle rustlers, or something worse.
———
I’ve been vaccinating folks nonstop so I’ve not had time to update, sorry gang.
Everyone, describe to me one of the riders, and their temperament! I’ll pick the best three.
Endless_Serpents on
+2
JedocIn the scupperswith the staggers and jagsRegistered Userregular
One of the riders is a mountain of a bear of a man, bearded and with one cotton-eye underneath a jagged scar. He has a sawed-off shotgun holstered at his hip where a normal-sized man would carry a pistol and a knife the size of a machete strapped to one monstrous upper arm. His horse makes agonized eye contact with passers-by, hoping that one of them has a weapon and the courage to do what's right.
Despite his terrifying appearance, the man wears a brightly-colored wool hat with a bobble on top, and is singing a cheerful yodeling song about various lightly-ribald occurrences at a harvest dance. He keeps winking at people, although it's possible his damaged eye just doesn't blink so good.
One of them is thin, prim, and spotless clean. White pants, white shirt and vest, and a ivory white duster, with blond wavy hair flowing out the back. Despite the sun beating down, there isn't a trace of dust or sweat anywhere.
His blue eyes seem disinterested, not even turning his wan face toward the locals, but his hands never seem to stray far from the silver revolvers on his hips. His attitude is as if all others are flies, and he'd feel as much swatting a mosquito as placing a bullet between the eyes of a passerby.
Nanny, of course, sticks out from the crowd. It's not often you see women cattle rustlers in these parts, rarer still to see one on the far side of 60 years.
More than half the town is either related to her, or was welcomed into the world with her as the midwife. She served these parts for years as a medicine woman and a healer when a doctor was too expensive or too far away or just didn't care, up until she was run out of town on charges of witchery.
Now, Nanny doesn't believe in stealing and certainly frowns on anyone she catches thieving.
But she does believe in taking what's rightfully hers. And her belief is that anything she wants is rightfully hers. The brace of revolvers belted to her hips and the long gun across her back tend to back up this belief.
+2
FishmanPut your goddamned hand in the goddamned Box of Pain.Registered Userregular
One of the trio is a pipe-head, one of those unfortunate addicts who moves through the world in an augmented detached reality. Unable to deal with the desperation and deprivation of this descended post-civilisation, they retreated from the real input of their own eyes and ears and instead engage the world through a virtual augmented reality, where their perception is constantly stimulated with visions and enhancements.
The hard ports - the so-called "pipes" -dangle from his scarred skull like metal dreadlocks, entwined with what thin patchy straggles of hair still cling to his head like greasy wires. There's no longer any enhanced reality purveyors to plug into, of course, not out here. Most pipe-heads are long gone; unable to cope with the real world they loaded more and more enhancements onto their hardware until they eventually were no longer able to function. Those that still survive are all varying degrees of hopelessly insane, tortured with degraded images attempting to connect to infrastructure that no longer exists.
This one giggles, suddenly and spastically, reacting fitfully to something no-one else can see. His eyes are hidden behind thick goggles of dark green glass; his nails are long, unkempt, and black; his duster is swept open to reveal an emaciated, malnourished frame underneath.
In front of him, on a leash, walks a small Automatic: a Kell, or maybe a Bolo; one of the small specialised hunter/scouts fitted with an extensive suite of sensor and detection packages. Its original shell is long gone, battered and worn beyond keeping. The remaining exoskeleton has been fitted with sharp bits of scrap metal, black with dirt and possibly blood. From its exposed core up to its owner runs a single metal cable, the pipe-head directly interfacing into his metal hounds sensory feed.
Standing apart from most of the trio looms a Triage, the foul odor of dead flesh being more than enough to convince the other two to stand upwind as much as possible.
At one point, near the end of the wars, dead and near dead soldiers were not allowed to remain dead. Instead, a hive of Zeta Omni-Macro Builds mk 13 Triage Bots would be loosed upon the battle field to locate critically wounded bodies. Upon detecting a recently (or soon to be) dead body, the starfish shaped robot would initiate the triage protocols, wrapping around the back of the head, a micro stimulator would be inserted into the base of the skull to manually stimulate the muscles of the body until any remaining chemical energy was exhausted, before leaving the body to hunt for the next. Under the control of the Allied Mastercomputer, a shock troop of ZOMB-13s rising on the battlefield could turn the tide of a battle, the dead suddenly turning an enemy push into a surprise pincer attack surrounding them between a legion of the dead and one of the living. Absent this controlling influence, the mangled corpses under the ZOMB-13 control would stagger about the battlefield, discharging weapons in, generally, the right direction.
After the war, a countless number of ZOMB units remain in the wild, most confined to the deep no-go zones where bodies are few and far between. But occasionally a rogue will find it's way closer to civilization, maybe by riding an animal, or just lucking into an unsuspecting traveler who walked to close the the old battlefields. After The Fall shattered the communication networks, the overarching tactical genius of the Allied Mastercomputer lost it's ability to communicate with any sub units outside of a relatively small area. The remaining units follow their basic programming: Locate and triage a body, ride it until more bodies could be located and triaged. Repeat until you can rejoin the hive. Some people believe that a substantial enough concentration of Triages may be able to network into a greater intelligence, and possibly reconnect with AM, but that's just a tall tale. Probably.
It appears this one has decided that following the gang of cattle rustlers is the most likely path to finding new bodies.
The average Triage is capable of little more than walking and firing a weapon, and skill at both rapidly degrades over time, but the technology in a ZOMB-13 could be put to use if we could capture or salvage one.
As the riders blot the sun their shapes became clear. Outlaws. Didn’t mean much to the Farmer, for the law was in the ground and Chance was a poor replacement. Oh... that’s probably why they’re so inclined to ride in.
His hand went for a gun he didn’t have. Might have need to acquire weaponry, he noted.
Nanny Creek, The Fastest Witch in the West
Vegeta Jones & Gamma-Chare
Nixon John Tyler
Nixon John Tyler: Howdy. Perhaps you might consider us pilgrims of this world. We’ve been hard into the badlands, and are now in need of services. Who might you be?
A cry of a hungry vulture is heard.
The Farmer shields his eyes from the sun reflecting off this pristine visage.
What will the Farmer say?
A. Just a man, no different, no better than anyone.
B. This town’s farmer. What’s it to you?
C. Say nothing. Only kill.
D. Ask Nanny how she’s doing, sidestepping the question.
X. _______________!
Posts
No point doing A or B with no Sheriff
Ain't no-one going to be demanding 10000 gil by next Thursday for payment of the farm with him gone
Also, kiss all the lambs.
———
First come, first served: In the next five posts (by different posters) give me one fact about A.Bs.
———
Success! The farm has its very own goat, with more on the way soon enough!
Being as they were non-specialised and perhaps under-specced for many situations, multiple units were designed to interface with each other into larger units. Such mechs were lent greater specialisation based on their configuration and specific arrangement, as well as much larger power output
Facts:
The herbs in the garden are ready for harvest.
The Farmer is penniless.
The decision not to visit the town after rising from the dead matters.
Already, those mysterious seeds have grown into young citrus trees—limes, oranges, hybrid fruits from foreign climes unknown to the Farmer... and they’re continuing to grow.
The A.B is dormant... but who knows if it’s fully offline? It needs a new battery.
———
Right now, the Farmer is about to start another day... What will he do?
A. Harvest and sell herbs in town.
B. Use the last of the scrap to make a milking area come shelter for Cat. Goat’s cheese could turn a profit.
C. Dig for treasure! Say where.
Highest vote wins, but the Farmer will only commit to one task today... as something is about to get in his way.
if harvest moon, rune factory, and portia have taught me anything, it's money first, screwing around later
On the other hand, we don't really want to invite anyone to just come calling around and seeing that nice big shiny Bandido we salvaged out of the scrap; that's the kind of thing that might invite someone to come along with a hoist and salvage it themselves after we did all the hard work, lying as it is outside the boundary fence.
No, if there's trouble brewin', it'd be better to meet it away from the farm if we can. Time to head into town, settle some of whatever outstandin' accounts the farmer has been building.
Cat can shelter in Dog's stable while we ride up into town to sell herbs. It'll do until we can fashion something a bit more permanent for her; it's important to treat your goats right, if you want them to tolerate you.
A.
Probably should attempt to ingratiate ourselves with the community through capitalism.
Hunger may be the greatest condiment, but surely some random herb like weeds we found are a close second.
Edit:
Looks like we have room for one more AB Fact...
They wouldn't respond as smoothly or as quickly as they would if they were manned or directly controlled, but they could attack with no fear of human casualties, an important capability that came into play in the waning days of the war as experienced human combatants were in increasingly short supply.
Older ABs, those in service long enough to start developing personality "quirks" often took to this sacrificial style of combat...poorly.
A
We're riding Dog into town, right? :rotate:
3DS: 0473-8507-2652
Switch: SW-5185-4991-5118
PSN: AbEntropy
A unanimous vote has empowered the Farmer! This vote has been finalised, I’ll have no more.
I’ll update in the vague time frame of soon!
———
———
The Farmer has earned twenty-five crisp, green Vespucci! They’ve got the picture of the ship and skull on and everything. The real deal!
———
Before he starts off for whatever might almost be a store or smithy in this town, perhaps he asks the drunks a question or three...
A. No. Why would he? Tell me what’s to buy!
B. What’s the mayor like? Is he really in charge? Has he been mayor long?
C. What happened to the last farmer? Was there.. some kind of thing living at the farm too?
D. How much food and drink is in storage for the town? When will it run out? Who’s distributing it?
X. ___________________________?!
X: whose the richest person in town?
Time to get some information about our predecessor on the farm.
I mean there absolutely is now, but I'm curious
Understanding Power Dynamics will grant us a wealth of clear opportunities and goals moving forward. Knowing which characters to shove Ale into the arms of and which characters to shove Chicken Fried Rice into the arms of is what's gonna help us move *up* in this town!
Being a Farmer means eventually becoming a supplier, so we need to know whose toes we're inevitably going to begin stepping on. This town's dance floor doesn't have a lot of room on it.
PSN: Wstfgl | GamerTag: An Evil Plan | Battle.net: FallenIdle#1970
Hit me up on BoardGameArena! User: Loaded D1
———
———
What happened to the last farmer?
Was there.. some kind of thing living at the farm too?
How much food and drink is in storage for the town?
When will it run out? Who’s distributing it?
———
A. Longhorn Estate. The mayor’s home, built in a foreign, old fashioned style. The town’s armoury is stored here for when they really need it.
B. Bosch’s Yard. Bosch keeps the town’s water tower and a warehouse full of corn and other dried food under lock and key. For the good of all, naturally. Bosch does all the paperwork and reading for the local law enforcement.
C. The town proper. It’s got a crappy saloon, a general smithy, the sheriff’s office/jail, a funeral parlour, and homes in varying stages of disrepair.
D. The Divine Geometry Church of Latter-day Saints. Due to some quirk in the town’s history, the church doubles as the town’s bank.
E. Sweet Tooth Forest. Weird name. Just some trees that are managing to get by despite it all.
F. The farm. Practically destroyed, until very recently of course.
G. Cut Gut Pass. Prime bandit real estate. Littered with remnants of past battles.
H. Severed Head Mountain. Said to have great religious significance to a tribe of people that are all dead now.
I. Longhorn Lake. All dried up.
J. Salt Flats. A fine place to drop dead without causing much undue fuss.
K. Abandoned Railroad. Parts of it have been torn up by scavengers, and the station blown to smithereens. With a significant amount of work it could, in theory, be linked back up to the rest of the world.
The three Xs indicate the potential locations of those no good cattle rustlers, or something worse.
———
———
Everyone, describe to me one of the riders, and their temperament! I’ll pick the best three.
Despite his terrifying appearance, the man wears a brightly-colored wool hat with a bobble on top, and is singing a cheerful yodeling song about various lightly-ribald occurrences at a harvest dance. He keeps winking at people, although it's possible his damaged eye just doesn't blink so good.
His blue eyes seem disinterested, not even turning his wan face toward the locals, but his hands never seem to stray far from the silver revolvers on his hips. His attitude is as if all others are flies, and he'd feel as much swatting a mosquito as placing a bullet between the eyes of a passerby.
More than half the town is either related to her, or was welcomed into the world with her as the midwife. She served these parts for years as a medicine woman and a healer when a doctor was too expensive or too far away or just didn't care, up until she was run out of town on charges of witchery.
Now, Nanny doesn't believe in stealing and certainly frowns on anyone she catches thieving.
But she does believe in taking what's rightfully hers. And her belief is that anything she wants is rightfully hers. The brace of revolvers belted to her hips and the long gun across her back tend to back up this belief.
The hard ports - the so-called "pipes" -dangle from his scarred skull like metal dreadlocks, entwined with what thin patchy straggles of hair still cling to his head like greasy wires. There's no longer any enhanced reality purveyors to plug into, of course, not out here. Most pipe-heads are long gone; unable to cope with the real world they loaded more and more enhancements onto their hardware until they eventually were no longer able to function. Those that still survive are all varying degrees of hopelessly insane, tortured with degraded images attempting to connect to infrastructure that no longer exists.
This one giggles, suddenly and spastically, reacting fitfully to something no-one else can see. His eyes are hidden behind thick goggles of dark green glass; his nails are long, unkempt, and black; his duster is swept open to reveal an emaciated, malnourished frame underneath.
In front of him, on a leash, walks a small Automatic: a Kell, or maybe a Bolo; one of the small specialised hunter/scouts fitted with an extensive suite of sensor and detection packages. Its original shell is long gone, battered and worn beyond keeping. The remaining exoskeleton has been fitted with sharp bits of scrap metal, black with dirt and possibly blood. From its exposed core up to its owner runs a single metal cable, the pipe-head directly interfacing into his metal hounds sensory feed.
At one point, near the end of the wars, dead and near dead soldiers were not allowed to remain dead. Instead, a hive of Zeta Omni-Macro Builds mk 13 Triage Bots would be loosed upon the battle field to locate critically wounded bodies. Upon detecting a recently (or soon to be) dead body, the starfish shaped robot would initiate the triage protocols, wrapping around the back of the head, a micro stimulator would be inserted into the base of the skull to manually stimulate the muscles of the body until any remaining chemical energy was exhausted, before leaving the body to hunt for the next. Under the control of the Allied Mastercomputer, a shock troop of ZOMB-13s rising on the battlefield could turn the tide of a battle, the dead suddenly turning an enemy push into a surprise pincer attack surrounding them between a legion of the dead and one of the living. Absent this controlling influence, the mangled corpses under the ZOMB-13 control would stagger about the battlefield, discharging weapons in, generally, the right direction.
After the war, a countless number of ZOMB units remain in the wild, most confined to the deep no-go zones where bodies are few and far between. But occasionally a rogue will find it's way closer to civilization, maybe by riding an animal, or just lucking into an unsuspecting traveler who walked to close the the old battlefields. After The Fall shattered the communication networks, the overarching tactical genius of the Allied Mastercomputer lost it's ability to communicate with any sub units outside of a relatively small area. The remaining units follow their basic programming: Locate and triage a body, ride it until more bodies could be located and triaged. Repeat until you can rejoin the hive. Some people believe that a substantial enough concentration of Triages may be able to network into a greater intelligence, and possibly reconnect with AM, but that's just a tall tale. Probably.
It appears this one has decided that following the gang of cattle rustlers is the most likely path to finding new bodies.
The average Triage is capable of little more than walking and firing a weapon, and skill at both rapidly degrades over time, but the technology in a ZOMB-13 could be put to use if we could capture or salvage one.
Nanny Creek, The Fastest Witch in the West
Vegeta Jones & Gamma-Chare
Nixon John Tyler
———
What will the Farmer say?
A. Just a man, no different, no better than anyone.
B. This town’s farmer. What’s it to you?
C. Say nothing. Only kill.
D. Ask Nanny how she’s doing, sidestepping the question.
X. _______________!
It is best to be polite to witches.