@Gunsight1 @Foxtrot 813 @paladinrpg @Born-On-Board @ShotJon @Deathevn
The following is the first post of an invitation-only RP with intent to create a flagship Nepleslian plot that can be used to provide a stricter canon. It takes place in the city of Craggston on Planet Vandenberg. Everyone, you know what to do, I think. If not, we'll field questions in the plot's PM.
People who live in the big city like to toss around words like 'community' and 'neighbourhood' when they talk about the block, the borough, the street, the whatever-it-is they live on that they think defines their territory. Home isn't just your tiny apartment or your studio loft-- it's whatever of the immediate surroundings you and your neighbours have banded together and decided is yours. And whether or not somebody likes it, that's their community. For the people of Vance Bridge Road, the community is very neatly defined. The network of aqueducts built to keep the city of Craggston from flooding during Vandenberg's frequent rainfall was perhaps accidentally built in such a way that an entire block, the only block of that particular road, was entirely surrounded on four sides by aqueduct. This made the construction of a bridge neccesary. Nobody knows who Edward J. Vance is, but the bridge is named after him and so thus is the road which stems from it.
For the citizens of Vance Bridge Road, a tight-knit community was never really something anybody needed. Modern technology and fast Nepleslian lifestyles have made it more and more possible with each passing day to live a fulfilling life without ever looking at your neighbours or talking to them. In fact, some would argue that whether new or old, the residents of this particular side street island were never really a tight-knit community until something came up to shove them together. The item in question was a horde of young entrepreneurs with a fondness for music. While that may sound inoffensive in and of itself it was perhaps their decision to play this music at appalling volumes during the wee-est of morning hours that made them stand out as something more like interlopers. Combined with their chosen occupation (streetside pharmaceutical vendors), these youngsters were the most unwelcome thing on the block since Ralph's Twenty-Four Hour Cage Grocery had that huge stock of exotic Abwheran cheeses. And like the day that someone had finally had enough and bought every single wheel of high-gravity Gruierre and tossed them into the aqueduct, somebody decided to do something about this gang of youthful exhuberants.
It was around 6.23 AM on a Thursday when the iron gates to the massive, secretive mansion complex that'd always seemed quietly out-of-place in a middle-class urban neighbourhood opened to reveal a slender, well-dressed man with a stride that communicated a calm and efficient desire to remove the undesirables. They were gathered in the cul-de-sac at the end of the road. A cavalcade totalling no less than thirteen teenagers with baggy slacks and wifebeater shirts was engaged in what appeared to be a well-coordinated breakdance right in the middle of the wide open street. These youths were unimpressive by themselves, perhaps not even normally possessing the neccesary initiative to strike up such a disruptive hobby club were it not for the figurehead that stood at the head of the group comitting to popping and locking the likes of which were not typically seen even in staged performances. Masterful Jack seemed to be his legal name, and as such he wore the most colorful attire possible. Business on top, party on the bottom: A fine, neatly pressed violet blazer with matching silk tie and the cleanest crispest shirt to ever rest beneath a black felt bowler hat; paired with tight leather shorts, fishnets, a pair of mean-looking riding boots and a submachinegun the size of a large combo from Neppy's strapped into a thigh holster. One had to admit, for as ridiculous a get-up as it was, it was impressive the boy could dance so well in it.
All this dancing came to an abrupt end at the approach of the man from the mansion. He was a tall, middle-aged man with clothes that said something similar to Jack's. Business on top, business on bottom, business in the middle, money everywhere in between. A full three-peice suit with a waistcoat and pocket watch, red and black striped tie, smart wingtip shoes and even an elegant little eyepatch over one eye. Black hair was carefully parted to one side to reveal a rather intense if bored-looking blue eye which focused on the caramel-colored figurehead while the gentleman toyed with the slender black cane rested against his leg. He was saying something to the youth, something the gang as a whole didn't seem to like because they were steadily forming a circle around the pair of them. It seemed as if they were probably going to beat this overly-moneyed and overly presumptuous man to a pulp if somebody didn't step in soon.
Observing this from down the street was a set of binoculars poking out from between a rack of faded blinds. One of the ring-encrusted hands wrapped around the binoculars scratched at the thick mound of body hair emerging from the velour tracksuit within the distant office before reaching idly for a phone to call the police; only to come up instead with a stale cannoli-- which was promptly devoured without a second thought.
The following is the first post of an invitation-only RP with intent to create a flagship Nepleslian plot that can be used to provide a stricter canon. It takes place in the city of Craggston on Planet Vandenberg. Everyone, you know what to do, I think. If not, we'll field questions in the plot's PM.
People who live in the big city like to toss around words like 'community' and 'neighbourhood' when they talk about the block, the borough, the street, the whatever-it-is they live on that they think defines their territory. Home isn't just your tiny apartment or your studio loft-- it's whatever of the immediate surroundings you and your neighbours have banded together and decided is yours. And whether or not somebody likes it, that's their community. For the people of Vance Bridge Road, the community is very neatly defined. The network of aqueducts built to keep the city of Craggston from flooding during Vandenberg's frequent rainfall was perhaps accidentally built in such a way that an entire block, the only block of that particular road, was entirely surrounded on four sides by aqueduct. This made the construction of a bridge neccesary. Nobody knows who Edward J. Vance is, but the bridge is named after him and so thus is the road which stems from it.
For the citizens of Vance Bridge Road, a tight-knit community was never really something anybody needed. Modern technology and fast Nepleslian lifestyles have made it more and more possible with each passing day to live a fulfilling life without ever looking at your neighbours or talking to them. In fact, some would argue that whether new or old, the residents of this particular side street island were never really a tight-knit community until something came up to shove them together. The item in question was a horde of young entrepreneurs with a fondness for music. While that may sound inoffensive in and of itself it was perhaps their decision to play this music at appalling volumes during the wee-est of morning hours that made them stand out as something more like interlopers. Combined with their chosen occupation (streetside pharmaceutical vendors), these youngsters were the most unwelcome thing on the block since Ralph's Twenty-Four Hour Cage Grocery had that huge stock of exotic Abwheran cheeses. And like the day that someone had finally had enough and bought every single wheel of high-gravity Gruierre and tossed them into the aqueduct, somebody decided to do something about this gang of youthful exhuberants.
It was around 6.23 AM on a Thursday when the iron gates to the massive, secretive mansion complex that'd always seemed quietly out-of-place in a middle-class urban neighbourhood opened to reveal a slender, well-dressed man with a stride that communicated a calm and efficient desire to remove the undesirables. They were gathered in the cul-de-sac at the end of the road. A cavalcade totalling no less than thirteen teenagers with baggy slacks and wifebeater shirts was engaged in what appeared to be a well-coordinated breakdance right in the middle of the wide open street. These youths were unimpressive by themselves, perhaps not even normally possessing the neccesary initiative to strike up such a disruptive hobby club were it not for the figurehead that stood at the head of the group comitting to popping and locking the likes of which were not typically seen even in staged performances. Masterful Jack seemed to be his legal name, and as such he wore the most colorful attire possible. Business on top, party on the bottom: A fine, neatly pressed violet blazer with matching silk tie and the cleanest crispest shirt to ever rest beneath a black felt bowler hat; paired with tight leather shorts, fishnets, a pair of mean-looking riding boots and a submachinegun the size of a large combo from Neppy's strapped into a thigh holster. One had to admit, for as ridiculous a get-up as it was, it was impressive the boy could dance so well in it.
All this dancing came to an abrupt end at the approach of the man from the mansion. He was a tall, middle-aged man with clothes that said something similar to Jack's. Business on top, business on bottom, business in the middle, money everywhere in between. A full three-peice suit with a waistcoat and pocket watch, red and black striped tie, smart wingtip shoes and even an elegant little eyepatch over one eye. Black hair was carefully parted to one side to reveal a rather intense if bored-looking blue eye which focused on the caramel-colored figurehead while the gentleman toyed with the slender black cane rested against his leg. He was saying something to the youth, something the gang as a whole didn't seem to like because they were steadily forming a circle around the pair of them. It seemed as if they were probably going to beat this overly-moneyed and overly presumptuous man to a pulp if somebody didn't step in soon.
Observing this from down the street was a set of binoculars poking out from between a rack of faded blinds. One of the ring-encrusted hands wrapped around the binoculars scratched at the thick mound of body hair emerging from the velour tracksuit within the distant office before reaching idly for a phone to call the police; only to come up instead with a stale cannoli-- which was promptly devoured without a second thought.
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