Post by mechwarrior5 on Jul 19, 2005 9:48:06 GMT -5
(I'm posting in a different thread because I kinda got lost with what all was going on in the other thread, and everyone else seems to already know one another. I figured I'd start up this one in case anyone else felt confused and isolated in the whole roleplay thing as well. Feel free to insert your character however you like)
The Road Rash Grill, situated on the northern stretch of I-5, plays host to all sorts of characters. From sprawl gangers to sports enthusiasts to corporate wageslaves out for a cheap thrill, a wide range of people can be found in this rambunctious establishment. The place is modeled after a 1970s roadhouse with artificially aged synth wood paneling over most of the building and all manner of knick nacks—stuffed animal heads, tin beer signs, and other odds and ends—covering the walls. Large trideo screens dot the walls at 10 foot intervals, ensuring that no matter where you sit, you can still get a good view of the many sports games in progress. A portion of the stand-alone building is taken up by the bar where various patrons drown their sorrows and cheer on their favorite urban brawl team. Most of the Grill is occupied by wooden boothes where waitresses serve the clientel, a heavy portion of whom are ork and troll, with various mixtures of ork and american cuisine, the most famous of which is their 24 ounce New York Strip.
Peaches sits in the lounge area, a small circle of burgandy synth-leather couches where patrons can go to relax and let the night’s alcohol run its course. With a smoking stogie clenched between his teeth, the big ork lounges on one of the couches, watching the trideo as the Seattle Timberwolves take on the Boston Breakers in the latest combat biking competition. He wears a worn leather jacket over a black shirt with the white letters “Jesus Rocks!” and a white outline of the man himself wailing on a guitar. The older ork wears a pair of blue jeans and black work boots, along with a chain belt that matches the chromed hand he has wrapped around the shoulder of the troll next to him.
Small for a troll, Sugar is nearly as big as the ork next to her. She is relatively fine boned—for a troll, that is, and even though she isn’t particularly pretty, she does manage to be look somehow alluring despite her unfeminine bulk. She favors a dark look with dark black hair tied in a loose pony tail behind her neck. Her horns have pained black with swirls of chrome in them, and she wears a studded dog collar around her throat. Tonight she has on a dark blue spaghetti-stringed top that reveals her muscled shoulders and the tatoo of a bullwhip that starts off on her left shoulder and wraps around her bicep. A pair of tight black jeans and black heeled boots complete the ensemble, as does the riding crop she fondles with one hand. She occaisionally slaps Peaches’ leg with it, but it all seems to be in good fun. For the most part, the two watch the game and trade puffs off of the cigar, competing at blowing the biggest smoke ring.
(Yeah, so . . . in the game we played with, Peaches main squeeze, Sugar (the NPC troll) was a BDSM freak until P got ahold of her. Trying to play that up a bit--hope it ain't too freaky for some.)
The Road Rash Grill, situated on the northern stretch of I-5, plays host to all sorts of characters. From sprawl gangers to sports enthusiasts to corporate wageslaves out for a cheap thrill, a wide range of people can be found in this rambunctious establishment. The place is modeled after a 1970s roadhouse with artificially aged synth wood paneling over most of the building and all manner of knick nacks—stuffed animal heads, tin beer signs, and other odds and ends—covering the walls. Large trideo screens dot the walls at 10 foot intervals, ensuring that no matter where you sit, you can still get a good view of the many sports games in progress. A portion of the stand-alone building is taken up by the bar where various patrons drown their sorrows and cheer on their favorite urban brawl team. Most of the Grill is occupied by wooden boothes where waitresses serve the clientel, a heavy portion of whom are ork and troll, with various mixtures of ork and american cuisine, the most famous of which is their 24 ounce New York Strip.
Peaches sits in the lounge area, a small circle of burgandy synth-leather couches where patrons can go to relax and let the night’s alcohol run its course. With a smoking stogie clenched between his teeth, the big ork lounges on one of the couches, watching the trideo as the Seattle Timberwolves take on the Boston Breakers in the latest combat biking competition. He wears a worn leather jacket over a black shirt with the white letters “Jesus Rocks!” and a white outline of the man himself wailing on a guitar. The older ork wears a pair of blue jeans and black work boots, along with a chain belt that matches the chromed hand he has wrapped around the shoulder of the troll next to him.
Small for a troll, Sugar is nearly as big as the ork next to her. She is relatively fine boned—for a troll, that is, and even though she isn’t particularly pretty, she does manage to be look somehow alluring despite her unfeminine bulk. She favors a dark look with dark black hair tied in a loose pony tail behind her neck. Her horns have pained black with swirls of chrome in them, and she wears a studded dog collar around her throat. Tonight she has on a dark blue spaghetti-stringed top that reveals her muscled shoulders and the tatoo of a bullwhip that starts off on her left shoulder and wraps around her bicep. A pair of tight black jeans and black heeled boots complete the ensemble, as does the riding crop she fondles with one hand. She occaisionally slaps Peaches’ leg with it, but it all seems to be in good fun. For the most part, the two watch the game and trade puffs off of the cigar, competing at blowing the biggest smoke ring.
(Yeah, so . . . in the game we played with, Peaches main squeeze, Sugar (the NPC troll) was a BDSM freak until P got ahold of her. Trying to play that up a bit--hope it ain't too freaky for some.)