Welcome to Fawnskin. It's 1958, the sabers of the great nations are rattling. All over men and women fear the Marxist ideologues of Soviet Communism. Times are tough for everyone. Women are expected to stay home and clean, a black man can't drink from a public water fountain. Fawnskin is different though, small, friendly. It's an escape from the hard work down in Los Angeles. Lakeside it's beautiful in all seasons. The air is crisp and clean. Life is good, and except for the past few days it would be quiet. But a man's coming to town, one of those Civil Right's types. He's a powerful speaker and they all know him down in LA. Most of the folk here have mixed feelings about the whole idea. Some don't even want a black man in their town. The Inn accepts all types though, has since 1920, and they're not going to lose their reputation over some mouthy slack jawed yokels. The Sheriff isn't taking this lightly either, and he's got all of his men, whether they like it or not, involved. Rules This is a story driven RPG set in the real world, but don't expect anything to be normal about Fawnskin, it's inhabitants, or anything else for that matter. We're going to play a little differently than most RPGs. So let me try and outline some stuff. I am by no means a rule Nazi, and these will probably change and progress as we go along. I just had this horrible vision of this RPG turning into a zombie apocalypse, but you know what, I think that'd be cool if it happened. 1. Submissions will be no less than 100 words and no more than 1000. If you're planning on posting more than 1000 words it would be better to separate your story into several chapters. It's no fun when you hog the game to yourself either, so consider writing half of something and allowing it to evolve with other players input. 2. Submissions will be written in Third Person Limited or First Person only. This isn't a hard core rule, so if you can do another style and make it work, try it. 3. Other players may reference and use other players in their stories. Certainly this would be a boring RPG if two friends couldn't go running down the hall together like they would in real life. Extreme overuse of someone's character, using them in a way that does not fit their personality, or killing them is not allowed except by private permission from me. 4. "Story Driven" means that every submission should be a miniature short story, conflict can build and cliffhanger endings are excellent ways to pass the torch, but the idea here is to write what almost could be read as a novel. Every submission is a chapter, and every chapter should have a title. 5. I encourage everyone who can to illustrate their submissions, as I will, hopefully, be making a few for every story I write. Creating A Character This is up to you, I'm not going to write a template, but feel free to include as much detail, down to eye color, or as little detail as you please. Remember that this is 1958 California. You will be expected to follow the style of the time and avoid any anachronisms. I may suggest however, that if you're a fan of sci-fi, you could be creative and make your character the local nut who's been abducted by aliens. If you like fantasy, maybe your character is a Mexican Indian Shaman, in the vein of Carlos Castaneda. If you're a girl, you probably wouldn't want your character to be a boring wasp of a housewife, though that would be cool too, but creativity again could bring you into the route of being a woman's rights activist. I trust that you guys have written enough or have played enough RPGs to think of something truly interesting. You'll need things, of course, things like a Job, a School, a reason for being. But what you make up is really where the meat of this story is. Remember what's happened in the 50s and use that for inspiration. Korea was the original "never forget". Behind the Name is a website that's an excellent resource from names. Additionally, you may want to consider checking the Wiki for Fawnskin, CA as well as it's the Google map, to get a good layout of the land. You're expected, if you're not a resident of Fawnskin, to have a reason for being there. Big Bear is a pretty big town not far from the place, and it's likely we may have to move our story there or anywhere in the surrounding area, so if you commute to your RPG, write that in. Further Words Updates to the game, changes to the rules pending discussion in the RPG section and everything else will be posted in this thread. Updates will be tagged by a date to let you know what's going on. Characters may drop in and out, and we'll have a process for working with that. Cheers guys and gals, I hope you enjoy something a little different. After collecting the characters the first post will be made by me, so if you feel I've not given you enough information to reference, you won't. ___________________________________________________ RULE UPDATE 6/1/10: After discussion in the discussion thread, it's been decided that you do not have to wait for my starting post to begin your story. This has been altered to so players may build a description of their characters within a narrative, allowing elements to be featured that will add to the detail of the main plot. If you would rather detail your character in list format and wait for me to introduce you, that's fine. If you wish, you can choose to run with both options.
Name: Reykh (Name of Bartimaeus given by Ptolemy in the Bartimaeus Trilogy) Age: 14 Gender: Male Appearance: Standing at 4"11, he is quite thin. His face has an innocent look and his hair are neatly combed mainly but at the left side his hair are spiked. Personality: Easily influenced, no concrete personality. Background: He was traveling from BoulderBay to Grout Bay when the boat sunk. He was the lone survivor on a small raft that broke away from the boat. He somehow managed his way to FawnSkin where he now studies as a student.
14 Dead in Ferry Sinking. Deputy Jake Holden: "There was nothing we could do." Jake realized he hadn't looked at the clock for some time. It was a little blurry, but this was a slow day. “11:11,” he said, wondering slightly why he felt he needed to. The phone rang like a call to arms. “Deputy Jake Holden. Yes Mam, Sonny's out.” A strict set of seconds clattered away. “Jesus! The whole ferry?” In a blink of memory he was at the docks. Smell of fish everywhere, a bleak light coming through the clouds like winter light that would die rather than spring. A mist caught rain scent and Jake rode that feeling until he got to the cruiser. “Nathan.” He paused and passed by. “Zachary,” he said, then stopped. “Alright men,” Jake looked around, “how many did we pull out?” “Three.” Nathan had spoke first. “But two died as soon as we got them ashore – a little girl sir, and a woman, looked about 40.” Zachary had followed. Zachary always followed. Rubbing his neck Nathan automatically began to give what he could of the report. Zachary stood, not listening, but thinking, after a minute he broke into the conversation. “Something really weird Sir. All the bodies were laying face down when the boat got out there.” “Well, we can expect that.” said the Deputy. “No sir, but, it was such a short time. You'd think like some would of drown ok, but I swear, it's like none of them did anything. Nobody even got a life jacket.” “Boats go down fast Zach, I know it's terrible.” He paused. “What does the kid know?” Nathan got a distant look in his eyes. “Won't say anything sir. The little girl was with him when we got them ashore. She said his name was, what was it, Rake?” “Ricky,” said Zachary, “could be Ricky.” “No sir. Well, I don't know. He's been checked out. The church is going to take him for tonight. Should be in school tomorrow, the Father Matthew's going to talk with him after, they think it's best he try and keep a normal routine.” Jake lit a cigarette. “God boys, when this hits the papers, it's going to make us look like idiots.”
Enter Paul. Evening of the ferry sinking. Name: Paul Bio: Paul is thirty-four years old and married to Joan, but is childless. He works for the local post office. He is tall and gaunt. He loves to talk about “big things,” although he has never traveled far from Fawkskin since settling there a decade before. I think his character will become more apparent through the story. Joan heard the front door bang open and then closed as she moved around the modest kitchen. Her husband hustled in to greet her, mumbling to himself. He pecked her on the cheek, still mumbling. “Good evening, honey, something happen at the post office today?” Joan brushed at his disheveled hair. “You won’t believe it. Unbelievable!” Paul shook his head. His eyes, usually sparkling with optimism, were dull and foggy. “What is it, dear?” “My god, the ferry. I don’t know how. They, a young boy, oh god!” “Paul, please, your not making any sense.” He breathed deeply to regain his composure. Steadying his voice, he said, “The ferry sank. I heard bits and pieces from different folks, but I don’t know the whole story. They, oh Lord, they all drowned,” He choked up, ”One p-poor boy lived. Oh my...” “Now, now, there’s nothing we can do except say a prayer before bedtime. I’m sorry, dear,” Joan patted him on the shoulder. While they stood huddled together in silence she glanced at the oven, worried that her potatoes were burning. “Dreadful,” she whispered. “Isn’t it? I feel a little feverish,” Paul massaged his forehead with both hands. “You just need something to eat.” “No, I’m going out. To find Jake or someone, I don’t know. I’ll be back.” Paul escaped from the kitchen before his wife could stop him. She slumped against the counter, her potatoes forgotten. Joan had never quite understood her husband. Sometimes he overflowed with joy and anticipation and other times he seemed to drown in melancholy. And he only got worse with all this excitement in town. Paul hadn’t once stopped badgering her about that stranger in town talking about “Civil Rights.” It wasn’t that he supported the man’s views exactly; it was more that he loved the talk, the thinking. Joan saw herself as a more sensible person, and, believing that skepticism was a virtue, she didn’t like all the stir around town. It was dangerous, for heaven’s sake.
Character Profile: Matthew Reilly Name: Matthew James Reilly Age: 19 Physical: Green eyes, dark brown hair. The included picture is of a modern Matt, so for this RPG you'll have to imagine him with a different haircut, probably something similar to what Elvis wore before he grew it out long and grew mutton chops (pictured above), and minus the earring. He is skinny but lanky and broad shouldered, with lean muscle and a square jaw. He has a broad face, big nose, and a tendency to keep his eyes squinted. His hands are big and completely roughened over from his job. Position in life: Matthew graduated high school in 1957 with extremely low grades, but having done well in his industrial arts courses he got himself an apprenticeship with the town carpenter, Mr. John Garner. He's only been working for about a year. However, Mr. Garner was one of the passengers aboard the sunken ferry and drowned. Family: Matthew has a 15 year old brother, Joe, and two younger sisters, Mary-Anne and Lucy. His mother, Beverly, works as a nurse. Interests: He loves rock 'n' roll, blues, and jazz, and is a huge fan of Johnny Cash. He spends most of his extra money on records or movies at the drive-in. He is among the first generations of young adults to go through high school when "teenage culture" is just starting to become widespread in the US. Personality: Should become clear in the story It's no fun to tell and not show personalities. However I will say this much about him: he works hard to help support his family, but his real talent lies in the arts. He was never good at school and had trouble with it since he was young. Though he may work hard, he doesn't feel ready for the responsibility of 'growing up,' getting married, and being a man. He'd much rather listen to records and drive around with his friends all day. ^These are basics, and they don't in any way cover how deep of a character he is and how much I've worked with him over the last year. I'll be introducing him via a short chapter, or someone can write him in. Either way is fine by me.
Diary of a Gunman May 8th The eyes are stinging in the morning again. No cold comes through but the cold rattles as it rests in my bones. I have spoken to the angels again. No news. Somewhere along the line I think I may have lost my way and they've decided to keep me in the dark until my greater purpose. The flowers here are tangerine colored like the sky is. I burnt 13 of them and left them around the side of my bed to see if it would please the maker. Hunted. The new Remington 722 performed smoothly upwards of 300 yards. Target shooting by the back of the cabin produced a center cluster that did not deviate an inch. Five bullets, 3 holes. This has exceeded my expectations in all regards. I am left with a feeling of peace. The pangs of my hunger still and thrive sweetly with the pains of the world. I feel as if I am moving with the seasons. My sense of smell is keen up here. The mountain air is keeping me healthy and fit. May 9th Did not pray today.
"This! This is exactly what I'm talking about!" A crooked index finger jabbed at the newspaper headline. "Don't it seem suspicious to you? That ferry sinking like that?" The finger belonged to Craig McIntyre, or Crazy Mac as everyone called him. The nickname was even stitched on the nametag of his oil-spotted blue jumpsuit. Atop his hair, which was greasy to the point where an observer was no longer able to discern its natural color, was perched an similarly oil-stained trucker cap, out from under which scraps of tinfoil peeked. A slightly ugly man with crooked teeth, Mac could always be found in the diner around lunchtime, telling wild stories to out-of-towners whenever he got the chance. This afternoon, his victim was a young businessman, likely on his way to or from L.A. The suit was leaning over in his chair a slight distance from Mac, trying to follow the finger without having to get too near its owner. Mac grinned, showing a set of crooked teeth. "She shouldn'ta sunk. She was in perfect condition. I should know, I worked on her myself." "And that there explains the whole tragedy, now doesn't it," Irma, a waitress in her forties, commented as she refilled coffee mugs. She could often be expected to come up with a good retort or at least a snide remark to anything Crazy Mac said, often resulting in the conversation dissolving into a trading of insults and profanities. This time, however, Mac ignored her an continued. "And sinking off Bernardino Point? That's the calmest part of the lake. And shallow! Lead won't sink off Bernardino. And why no survivors? What of the life rafts? The jackets? Surely someone put one on! Any why are they hiding the survivor like that? When the bridge collapsed ten years ago, they were ready and willing to let us know who lived and who croaked." "Well," the young businessmen volunteered, "I'm sure they have a reason. After all, the deputy..." Mac slammed his fist on the table with such a frightening force that the businessman jumped out of his chair. "Deputy Holden is a liar! Either that or a moron. Or both. Either way, these things don't just happen. Something's going on in Fawnskin. Something beyond all of us. Something beyond even this world." Irma's hands went in the air in exasperation. "And there he goes. Always with the aliens. Everything ties back to the aliens." Turning to the businessman, she explained, "Poor fool wandered off into a storm sone night even years ago. Got struck by lightning. They didn't find him until the next day. He's been like this," she jerked a thumb at Mac, "ever since." "I keep telling you, woman, there was no lightning! It was them! It was their storm, and they came for me. After all," he puffed out his chest, "I am the perfect specimen of humanity." Irma couldn't help but laugh at this. "You're the perfect specimen of a dead alligator. Besides, you don't have any proof of aliens. You never have any proof." After a short pause she added, "And don't say a word about the finger, either. The doctor said the lightning bolt blew it off, so it doesn't count." Mac held up his left hand, gazing at the area where his pinky finger used to be. "Kinda funny how the lightning knew to take the finger I use the least. Almost as if it wasn't lightning at all..." "Back to the ferry," Irma said, changing the subject. "You don't have anything direct to tie back to anything. All you have is some weak conclusions drawn from a thirdhand newspaper account. You don't have any more idea what went on than the rest of us; weren't there either." Crazy Mac gave another snaggletoothed "I may not have been there, but I have the next best thing: I was actually listening in on this when it happened!" Irma rolled her eyes. "That's right, I was out on my Ham Radio at the time, listening for...you know, signs. The ferry was running like normal. All the standard radio chatter was there. 'Ten-four, over, roger,' and what-not. And then suddenly," Mac waved his and dramatically, "it just stopped! No screams, no interference, no nothing. Just poof, gone." "A dead radio? That's your proof?" "More proof than you have, you old greasy whore." Mac checked the clock on the wall. "Well, I need to get back to the garage. See you tomorrow."
Gregory sat upright and tall in his seat at diner as he read the newspaper. It was the same as any other day’s routine: get up early in the morning, go to the diner for some coffee and a plate of pancakes at nine, and read the paper. He never changed it, and made sure no one else ruined it for him. If those pancakes were a few minutes late, or his coffee wasn’t right, he’d complain and complain until someone told him to sit down and shut up. This used to have to be one of the townsfolk, but now that Irma behind the counter had grown to know him, she learned to do the same thing. As he was reading the article about the ferry disaster, and enjoying his coffee that was actually quality enough for him this morning, he heard the slam of Mac’s fist from across the diner. Gregory leapt from his seat for a split second and nearly toppled his coffee. Oh what the Hell is your problem now? It better not be some improvable… then Mac mentioned the otherworldly ideas. Oh for God’s sake, shut up you idiot. Go follow that “Civil Rights” dumbass and dig a grave for yourself. No one wants you here. He sipped his grumpily now, as if it tasted like dirt from underneath fingernails. “Ya mind gettin’ my pancakes.” He tapped on his watch as he grimaced at the waitress of a younger age than himself. “Just ‘cause that damn fool be in here raving nonsense don’ mean I ain’t hungry.” “Oh quit making such a fuss Greg. You know how he is and you have for the last four years.” “Well he got…what…” he looked at the paper again, “thirty two peoples killed on that damn floatin’ tub he got ou’ there. Someone should go over to his ‘ouse and shoot his dumb ass for it.” Greg is on the verge of going on a tirade. Who does think he is coming in here to mess with everyone and carry on like that? Blaming aliens? What the Hell kind of response is that? Damn fool… “What kind of idiot blames aliens for…” His pancakes arrived before he could finish the sentence. “You hush now Greg. Eat your pancakes…you know how you are when you’re hungry.” What do you know woman? You’ve sat behind a damn counter all your life. I’ve made my money, and seen the country. You don’t know anything so shut up and do your damn job. “Thank you, Irma.” His voice was monotone and indirect. Irma could feel the resentment, but didn’t bother to ask. At least Greg wasn’t howling at this hour of the morning. He continued to read his paper. “Damn shame…only one boy lived. Glad I ain’t him.” If it wasn't for these damn rednecks. Why the Hell did I move to this God forsaken town?
Leave me Alone "For heaven's sake, I am not a kid and don' ask me questions when I do not know the answers. That's the job of a teacher and not yours," Reykh yelled at the investigators. "Look kid," said the investigator but remembered that the victim hated being called kid, "Sorry, umm boy, yes look boy nobody's sayin' you're a kid. Do you remember what happened to the ferry?" "Well," he said, "I came over to the ropes to look at the lake and its depths. I was there for a minute when I heard something really strange. I do not remember it exactly. I have forgotten it but I just remember this that when I heard that sound I panicked and feared for worst. And I have forgotten what I have forgotten that fear. I just remember that I was afraid and something came over my head and I passed out." "Just that?" asked the other person, "Anything else, kid." "How many times do I tell you that, that is all I know and don't call me a kid. I'm fourteen and more than capable of, of..." he said angrily and added sarcastically, "And my name is Reykh, strange name, isn't it? Well, what's the problem if I am of Egyptian descent. If you still feel stubborn call me Rake but isn't that what you call a type of a tool. Oh, no! You've got great names, you people. Call me that stupid name, Ricky." "OK, Rake," the officer said, "We're here to take you to the nearby place, Fawnskin." "Fawnskin! And you seemed to laugh at my name," said Reykh. "And your parents..." said the officer. "Don't call that scum my parents. My parents were dead in a bombing attack. They took me over for doing all that stuff that seemed to unimportant to them. Apparently, they were here to sell me off," he informed furiously; "Lead the way, officer." "Strange kid," thought the officer, "Probably mad."
America's Native Son “Jake, let me sit with him a minute, you go on out and get you some coffee then.” Sheriff Sonny Barton came happily into the room. He was in uniform, and had just gotten back from evacuation duties with the bad fires that had swept through the Cajon Pass and upwards towards Rim of the World. A bit of sweat was on his face but otherwise Sonny smiled at Jake, walked him him out, then locked the interview room door. “So we don't know much about you Reykh.” “Sorry?” “I mean - Boy.” Sonny stared like a machine. He licked his dirty dry lips. “So you're part of those god damn Arab Empires? That's just as bad as the Pinkos in my book kid and if their ain't nothing worse than a nigger it's a sand nigger boy. So what's that make you to me?" "I -" Reykh started" "But I understand, I understand this town's gotta be kept safe." Sonny pontificated while clenching his fists. Jake heard a series of scuffles from behind the door. He wouldn't miss something like that, usually would be the first to check on Sonny, but a feeling of terrible dread crept into him. For a split second he recalled a memory where he could have sworn his wife's shadow fell on, of all things, an open window. He collapsed over the receptionist with only the clang of a telephone to trumpet his fall. Reykh and Sonny appeared quickly in the doorway looking over Jake. Both were breathing hard but neither spoke to each other, after a minute, Reykh turned and walked out of the police station. Somewhere, some lady shouted “Oh my god.”
7:00 PM - Evening of the Ferry Sinking I always wonder how I get myself into these messes. One attempt at being a good person and I end up, as usual, with a big pain in my neck and no chance at seeing a movie that night. Not that telling Mrs. Garner that her husband might have been on the ferry today wasn't important, of course, but all the same. Being helpful usually ends with me losing out. I'd closed up the shop at six o'clock after hearing about the ferry. Mr. Garner had gone to get more saw blades in Big Bear. I couldn't think of any reason why he would be late getting home unless he was on that ferry. It took me an hour to find Mrs. Garner. She was outside the Mobil on Main Street. Her reaction was not what I had expected. Shock, yes. Crying, yes. Sadness, definitely. Screaming so that the whole town could probably hear though, was not what I had in mind. She had dropped both bags of groceries she was holding and screamed "Oh my god!" before starting to cry. I was left trying to corral the apples that were rolling around the sidewalk and calm her down at the same time. It didn't go so well. "Mrs. Garner? I didn't say he was on the ferry for sure. I said he might have been. Mrs. Garner?" I got all the groceries together eventually and hefted the bags up. "Mrs. Garner, can I walk you to the police station? I'm sure they can tell you what's going on." My evening was already shot anyways.
Anna Ann was on a trip. She'd planned this before-hand but apparently the L.A. snobs were going to ruin it all with a political speech. Still good roads though, plenty to dip and curve through. Her bike was red and gorgeous. It reminded her of Jason - everything did. Ever since the crash she was like "this". Bandannaed and riding the roads her husband loved so much. But it was less thrilling six years in, and she hadn't had another woman in four months. She liked to imagine he was watching from above. She murmered something about the last blond she'd been with. Fawnskin was going to be some change. She pulled up to the diner expecting the same reaction she always got. "Say, is that your bike?" Gregory weighed in on the conversation. It was, as she'd expected, buzzing like hives in their heads. "Yeah." She lit a cigarette. "Harley. Panhead. Nice. I worked on one once." "Oh did you?" At that moment a screaming police siren dopplered past. Irma began to frown deeply. She dropped a coffee pot. "Oh no. I know it's officer Jake. I just know it. They wouldn't be screaming through town like this if it wasn't." At the same moment a dark skinned boy was seen running past. It looked as if he was following the cruiser. "Well. That was unexpected." Anna said.
Diary of a Gunman 2 May 10th Spoke with the Angels today. They've picked out a city member to represent me in the coming selection. I do not know his name but am very excited. May 11th Very angry today, the Angels have not spoken to me in nine hours. Do not know what to do. May 12th. They called me in. To town. I will travel as soon as I finish this message. Chances are number one has gone signal dead by now. I intend to check the hospitals. I worry what those strange monsters would do to his wife.
Sirens? Crazy Mac poked his head out from beneath the car he was working on and glanced toward the street just in time to catch a police cruiser dashing past, siren wailing. No cop ever turned their siren on in Fawnskin. There just weren't ever any strong enough crimes going on to merit it. And roaring through the center of town like that? And this so soon after last night's "accident"? Mac rolled out from under the car and dashed over to the shelf in the corner of the garage covered in CB radios and police scanners, frantically flicking them all on; screwing knobs and hammering buttons as he tuned each to a different frequency in an attempt to singlehandedly monitor the entire airwave at once. There was something going on, all right, and there was no way he was going to miss it!
“Car 87? Yeah it looks like Jake's out cold. They're running him to Doc Simpson.” “Dispatch Car 57 North on Fawnskin Drive” “Who's that Biker that's come into town?” “Car 87 in route.” “Uh, looks like she's back. Yeah. See her around a few times a year.” “Alright Car 87 do you have any information on uh, the situation?” “Car 55 Highway 38” “Dispatch, we're getting instructions to cut the chatter, can you confirm.” “Dispatch: Car 87, 55. Radio silence.” Mac's ears perked, he'd been at this for hours. Finally, something concrete.
