+- Discovery Gaming Community (https://discoverygc.com/forums)
+-- Forum: Role-Playing (https://discoverygc.com/forums/forumdisplay.php?fid=9)
+--- Forum: Stories and Biographies (https://discoverygc.com/forums/forumdisplay.php?fid=56)
+---- Forum: Watering Holes (https://discoverygc.com/forums/forumdisplay.php?fid=149)
+---- Thread: The Green Hell Beergarden (/showthread.php?tid=6728)
RE: The Green Hell Beergarden - cobraSting - 03-21-2013
Stuart Knox was starving. Plain, straight-up starving.
Staggering into the beergarden in clothes smelling of a rather common aroma in these parts, he looks around with ludicrously red eyes to see if he recognizes anyone today. Often times in the past he had wandered into the Hell, only to find complete strangers, a thought which disturbed him greatly. Ever since, he has been terrified of going to pubs and not recognizing anyone.
Looking up at the bar, he sees some familiar faces. He begins to walk towards the faces (which are familiar) and bumps into a table. Looking down at the table, he exclaims "Get out of my way, your worthless pile of junk." After this slightly serious proclamation, he looks back up and continues walking.
However, the table is still in his way, and being bolted to the floor, doesn't move.
Stuart's confusion over why the familiar faces were not getting bigger is gone when someone bumps into him as they pass by.
"Whooooaaaaaaaa" he lets out.
After regaining his balance, which involved substantial use of a chair, he resumes his quest to meet the familiar faces. This time, as he is unhindered by a table, the familiar faces start to get bigger as he approaches.
RE: The Green Hell Beergarden - Kontrazec (Somni) - 11-07-2013
Over the years and months, the Hell had been prosperous. Four of its levels still remained operational as Islay's favourite (and only) beergarden. Two, however... Did not. After the fall of the Nature's Last Hope, the short-lived reign of the Underloch, and finally, the stillborn Death Cult, including the vanishing or deaths of some of the greatest personae Islay had ever known, two levels of the Hell were locked away. The lowest two levels, those normally having housed the... less than lucrative, yet favourite corners of the complex for the few loyal, old-time Gaians.
Heavy footsteps rung through the mostly vacant Hell, the few patrons inside casting suspicious eyes to the rushing, shambling figure. Its silhouette was unremarkable, apart from its morbidly malnourished appearance, shrouded in a tattered, filthy old trenchcoat. Open in the front, all it gave notion of was the handle of a thigh-sheathed sawed off shotgun. An ancient double-barrel implement, nonetheless quite effective at point blank range in a place where rarely anyone wore body armor of note. A cascade of grimy, messy, dark brown dreadlocks hung from the figure's bowed head, all the way down to the back of its knees, drawing attention to the limping gait this person sported.
There had been word around the Hell of a return- An unorthodox return. Islay's dock had recently approved mooring rights for an obsolete design of the 'Claymore' gunship, and rumour had spread across the base, making many swarm to the dock to see the abomination of technology- The boat looked nothing like its former glory. Its hull was dented, scraped, burned and perforated in countless places, the larger tears and punctures obviously, and inexpertly, patched up with what looked to be hull fragments of all manner of ships. Here, a Decurion's wingtip welded to hold two panels together- There, a salvaged Gallic gunship stabilizer forced into place. It seemed like a wonder this thing even flew at all- What with its left engine missing, and a makeshift ballast bolted together in place to keep the weight in place.
Yet, as the crowds scratched or shook their heads, or even laughed at the sad sight in the dock, a keycard was used. Once the figure had reached the old, run-down door, unopened in months, a card was quickly swiped, followed by a paranoid glance-around, dreadlocks swinging. Slowly, with a pained, rusty old squeal, the door parted and slid open, letting the stale, stinking air out in a gust to mix with the... well, not much more pleasant atmosphere of the remainder of the Hell. The door then slid shut, as the figure secured it behind itself, turning on several of the atmospheric fans that had once supported an entire cell of men and women. Further footsteps begun to raise dust, of which a thick layer had formed over everything present- It muffled the heavy bootsteps, leaving prints in an awkward, mismatched pattern behind the figure, which had now begun to glance around the second deepest level. The info wall was old- Set to dates long gone, with information still new to the man.
Light shed onto the figure's face revealed scarred, rarely untouched dark skin, hidden partways by the dreadlocks. A previously milky white eye was now replaced by a surgical cyber-implant, projecting a dot of green light as its focus, whooshing over all the history on this wall, most jarring this scarred man's memory. Notes of the Sirius Coalition's Revolutionary Army and the long-forgotten treaties, the ancient rosters of the various organizations the Hell had housed- All but forgotten after the move to Faroe. Islay was, mostly, a dead base.
Yet, no concern was shown by the man about all this, or at least it seemed. A light frown adorned his features as he set his course directly over a set combination of hallways, and a staircase, leading him down, into the forgotten dark of the lowest level. The air there was even thicker, and it reeked. The stench of mold and stale air was so powerful, he had not even had time to register the utter emptiness of the level before retching uncontrollably over the mesh stairs, slowly staggering back up over the stairs. It was most likely wiser to wait until the air fans did their magic before going down- Not to mention, he was fairly sure that most of what had been left behind by the former leaders and members was gone by now.
Most of the members' quarters, he noticed, were empty- Cleared of all their possessions, stripped even of the furniture and basic holo-panels on the walls. Thankfully, some were still untouched. Covering his nose, he swiped another card through the reader next to a nearby door, to be greeted by a rush of warm air carried from out of his own old quarters. It was all still there, preserved surprisingly well... Apart from anything organic, naturally, which had decayed and faded long ago. A small measure of contentment spread through his being, and a smirk appeared on his lips, just before he turned about, taking a few paces over the platform he stood on, leaning onto the squeaking railing and looking down onto the dry rocks and dirt that had once been lush with vegetation.
His smirk widened considerably, revealing his decayed and broken teeth in a newly crafted grin. "Looks to me... Dis place be cryin' for a rebirt'."
RE: The Green Hell Beergarden - Marburg - 12-29-2013
![[Image: Commpic_zps64fc2f54.png]](http://i263.photobucket.com/albums/ii151/Erinloch/Commpic_zps64fc2f54.png)
![[Image: MM_zps391af5cb.png]](http://i263.photobucket.com/albums/ii151/Erinloch/MM_zps391af5cb.png)
![[Image: MM2_zps4ac3e09a.png]](http://i263.photobucket.com/albums/ii151/Erinloch/MM2_zps4ac3e09a.png)
Dimi McEwan flinched at the sharp pain behind the front of his skull as his neural-net jolted him awake with a text message in his left eye: Beergarden Warrens Access Approved. ID- JonahIslay1
'Oh cool!' he thought to himself groggily as swung his legs over the edge of the bed and lit his morning joint of Kalisti Gold while harvesting the crust from the corners of his eyes.
He stands and begins to forage his breakfast fruit from one of the many wooden branches protruding through the wall of rock and steel in the corner of his cabin. The fruit itself is sweet and filling, but it's the capsaicin vein within it that wakes him up. It burns like fire and clears the mind almost as well as it clears the sinuses. He steps out onto the balcony that overlooks Murphy Central, the hub of the Hell, from fifty feet above.
Most of the stores and pubs are boarded up. The alleyways all but empty. The smell wafting from the Erinloch Reservoir over in the neighboring cavern, stagnant.
Damien takes another hit and holds it in his lungs while he waits for the physical pain of his next neural-net headache.
It comes with a text message from Matthew Grim in his other eye: Oi, Dimi. You receive the news yet?
"Aye" he replied aloud with a bit of a smile. "Jonah's home. I'll meet you up at the point of access in five."
'Oh cool!' he thought to himself groggily as swung his legs over the edge of the bed and lit his morning joint of Kalisti Gold while harvesting the crust from the corners of his eyes.
He stands and begins to forage his breakfast fruit from one of the many wooden branches protruding through the wall of rock and steel in the corner of his cabin. The fruit itself is sweet and filling, but it's the capsaicin vein within it that wakes him up. It burns like fire and clears the mind almost as well as it clears the sinuses. He steps out onto the balcony that overlooks Murphy Central, the hub of the Hell, from fifty feet above.
Most of the stores and pubs are boarded up. The alleyways all but empty. The smell wafting from the Erinloch Reservoir over in the neighboring cavern, stagnant.
Damien takes another hit and holds it in his lungs while he waits for the physical pain of his next neural-net headache.
It comes with a text message from Matthew Grim in his other eye: Oi, Dimi. You receive the news yet?
"Aye" he replied aloud with a bit of a smile. "Jonah's home. I'll meet you up at the point of access in five."
RE: The Green Hell Beergarden - Pel - 12-31-2013
![[Image: x2fKSyZ.jpg]](http://i.imgur.com/x2fKSyZ.jpg)
Ichabod: I'll have a pint of the house ale, barkeep.
*barkeep nods in return, serves the ale*
Ichabod: (in a musing voice) I have always believed that the Universe has a magical and mysterious way of ensuring that you have the tools and the people you need at the right times in your life. Know what I mean?
*takes a sip, the barkeep nods*
Ichabod: Perhaps you have also been on the verge of giving up when someone suddenly came into your life and boosted your confidence and your energy? Or perhaps when you were supposed to give up on something-- things just didn't work out-- and you found your energies redirected toward something that was ultimately more productive?
*barkeep shrugs*
Ichabod: I find this has happened a number of times in my life.
*barkeep walks away and polishes the far counter*
Ichabod: (continuing to talk to himself) Here on Islay we're all co-existing-and doing a lot better at that than I can say for the rest of our fellow humans, but what I saw planetside on the Hill of Witches makes me question even that. It's hard to put into words.
But it makes me think that all this "not giving up" was dead wrong. Maybe I was misinterpreting things all along. Maybe the Universe was telling me something else entirely.
*barkeep raises an eyebrow, continues to clean*
Ichabod: I just went down to party a bit, enjoy the Nurses getting up to some witchery around Samhain, but it turned out to be much more.
*barkeep nods, continues to clean while moving closer*
Ichabod: There was a woman there, on the edge of the darkness surrounding the bonfire, just watching-- her eyes a glint in the black, hardly visible. I think she could read my mind. I felt drawn to her and she just stepped into my thoughts. I don't think she moved her lips at all, she just locked me in her gaze and told me to be quiet-- and my mind became still. She told me, "Don’t carry on about how the human race has shown itself to be a greedy, amoral parasite, a blight on the flesh of this Universe. That type of negativity offers no solution to the inexorable horrors which we have caused, continue to cause." I nodded, captivated by her gaze, and she smiled, "I give you an alternative, a happy solution. Rather than the extinction of millions upon millions of species of plants and animals I offer you the voluntary extinction of one species: Homo sapiens... us. So-- when shall you be going?"
*the barkeep looks mildly confused, walks to the sink to rinse his rag*
Ichabod: I know it sounds nuts, but I keep hearing her voice in my head. Maybe she's right. Maybe we're wasting our time, flying about, fighting the contagion of mining and commerce. Maybe all it takes is a bullet to the head or a trip out the airlock.
*Ichabod downs the last of his ale and strides out, shoulders slumped in thought*
Ichabod: Thank you for the drink, barkeep.
*barkeep looks his direction, polishes a glass*
Barkeep: Get some sleep, Dr. Tickles.
RE: The Green Hell Beergarden - The Banger Grim - 09-26-2014
![[Image: Bangerjul12.jpg]](http://i263.photobucket.com/albums/ii151/Erinloch/Bangerjul12.jpg)
The screen at the office door flashes to life as the automated turrets on both sides of it do the same and target the old man.
::Voiceprint identification required::
"Crushed velvet corpsegrinder" he spoke aloud.
::Welcome back Matthew. Access granted::
The guns deactivate and retract back into the wall as the old man walks inside.
"Lights." he spoke aloud.
He grumbles something vulgar and repeats himself, "LIGHTS!"
Still, nothing.
He grabs a candle off the bookshelf, sparks it & takes a seat at the desk.
"System status."
The words scoll across the screen: ::All systems on standby::
"Send a request to the docking bay to release my things from storage & prepare them for transport to Klaksvic."
::Items in storage are not space worthy. Transport to Klaksvic not possible::
"No s*** ya daft chipbrain! Just send the request. The dockmaster will figure it out with me mate upstairs.
::Request sent::
::By the way Matt, there's no need to be rude::
"Alright, fair enough. Sorry. Just make sure those parts are loaded into Riley's hold.
::Will notify when ready::
"Thanks."
Banger reaches and grabs a year old joint of Kalisti gold out of an ashtray, blows the dust off of it & lights it with the flame from the candle.
He takes a deep hit & thinks to himself while holding it in, 'F***. This is going to be a right b****.'
::Voiceprint identification required::
"Crushed velvet corpsegrinder" he spoke aloud.
::Welcome back Matthew. Access granted::
The guns deactivate and retract back into the wall as the old man walks inside.
"Lights." he spoke aloud.
He grumbles something vulgar and repeats himself, "LIGHTS!"
Still, nothing.
He grabs a candle off the bookshelf, sparks it & takes a seat at the desk.
"System status."
The words scoll across the screen: ::All systems on standby::
"Send a request to the docking bay to release my things from storage & prepare them for transport to Klaksvic."
::Items in storage are not space worthy. Transport to Klaksvic not possible::
"No s*** ya daft chipbrain! Just send the request. The dockmaster will figure it out with me mate upstairs.
::Request sent::
::By the way Matt, there's no need to be rude::
"Alright, fair enough. Sorry. Just make sure those parts are loaded into Riley's hold.
::Will notify when ready::
"Thanks."
Banger reaches and grabs a year old joint of Kalisti gold out of an ashtray, blows the dust off of it & lights it with the flame from the candle.
He takes a deep hit & thinks to himself while holding it in, 'F***. This is going to be a right b****.'
RE: The Green Hell Beergarden - Riley Mackenzie - 09-27-2014
![[Image: RileyDumpIDPic2-1.jpg]](http://i263.photobucket.com/albums/ii151/Erinloch/RileyDumpIDPic2-1.jpg)
Riley Mackenzie returns from the Islay Bar and greets the Dockmaster in the bay with a smile and an outstretched hand.
"Jonesey! How you been keepin' Mate?"
"Well, well. As 'effin live and breathe!" said the Dockmaster with an angry snarl. "Look everyone! Mr. RileyMac himself has finally deigned to grace the presence of us lowly greasemonkeys at long last!"
The smile on Riley's face died into one of slight confusion as the reunion with his former boss didn't go quite the way he expected it to.
"You don't call. You don't write," Jonesey continued in irritation, "...and you just waltz here into my dock and offer your hand as if it's just another day?! You're lucky if I don't show ya the back of mine ya ponce!!"
Jonesey gets nose-to-nose in Riley's face and quietly growls with menace:
"Have you ever heard of something called a burr-ee-toe?"
"What?" Riley replied, more confused than ever.
"A BURR-EE-TOE!" Jonesey repeated louder, in order to facilitate better understanding.
"It's this food a Corsair introduced to me about a year ago...It's got meat & cheese in it as well as lettuce, tomatoes, onions and vegetables."
The Dockmaster finally lets Riley off the hook and smiles back at him.
"It's like the best of both worlds. In a rolled up flatbread, it contains both food, and what food eats in a single, portable package!...it's really quite good."
They both laugh & embraced like Brothers.
You're here for Mr. Grims' old Claymore, aye?
"Yeah." Riley replied.
"Well, we're about halfway done loadin' the pieces of its remains into the hold of your girl, Erinloch...follow me & I'll show you what's left of it..."
RE: The Green Hell Beergarden - Kontrazec (Somni) - 01-14-2015
It had been a long, arduous fourteen months for Jonah. In the depths of the Hell's Warrens, he had been a very, very busy boy. Him, and a chosen crew of well-paid and ultimately rather worn/freaked out folks had been hard at work, constantly trucking all manner of items in past the secure door on the Hell's lowest, fourth level. Mostly, however, what was being rolled in through the doors seemed to be shipments of soil, fertilizer, lots of canistered water, plant food and a variety of building materials. Piping, scaffolding, paneling, tools of varying sizes and functions, along with no small amount of chemicals which, when combined, would be called a ridiculous risk to human health- At the very least, that is. The crews alternated in the warrens constantly, however Jonah himself seemed to be confined to the space for a great deal of the fourteen passed months, apart from his personal little excursions, more than a few of which consisted of several-week long absences, and he would most always return with a great deal of rarities; In particular, seeds, sproutlings and other iterations of strange, vibrant flora. One would not have to guess long, with his penchants, where he'd been getting those. It would however be worth noting that he, in those fourteen months, had been very often known to 'commission' the mortuary on Islay to ship the corpses of those deceased, with their families' permission, into the warrens. A morbid combination altogether, indeed.
Yet, behind the shut doors, magic was happening. The upper floor of the warrens, where the old crew had normally resided, had been completely reworked and renovated. Supports lay in places where they'd been missing or stripped, the doors had all been replaced, the crew quarters all had been redone and renewed- Even Jonah's own. The single two he would never touch, still, were in a corner past the corridor bend of the living quarter circle. A firmly locked shut door, with the name 'Banger Grim' scrawled on the tagline, remained old-looking, tattered and worn- A matching one with the name 'Druce Faolan'; Out of respect, their quarters were not touched, since they were the only two apart from Jonah that had not pulled all their crap out of the little two by three boxes they all 'lived' in back in the old days. A pair of full renewal kits were in the storage room at the opposite side from the living quarters, along with ridiculous amounts of fertilizer and soil bags on pallets.
However, if one were to look down and stare over the railing of the catwalk of the first floor, they'd be met by a glorious sight. A world of vibrant colours- Reds, greens, blues, purples, pinks, yellows and whites swayed gently under the breeze produced by ventilation fans to keep the stems strong and the plants breathing. The lower part of the warrens had before been their planning and staging ground- This was still true to an extent, but mostly the room seemed to serve a different purpose. Plast-glass cases and terraria containing all manner of Gaia-native flora were scattered along the walls- These held the toxic and dangerous plants, while the harmless, aromatic and fruit-bearing flora was planted in the room in planters of varying sizes, which in turn were incorporated in the general look of what seemed to be a gathering area, filled with all manner of seating and lounging surfaces. A bar was installed in a corner, but the centerpiece was a large circular table surrounded by spinning chairs, with a massive holodisplay in the middle of it, idly simulating Gaia in her full splendor, spinning around lazily in the thick, moist atmosphere which carried a myriad of floral scents- And a particular one, which tickled the nose in a particular way.
It came from the spark atop a lit Kalisti gold joint tucked between Jonah's lips, burning ferociously as he dragged on it, lounged in a corner beside a small, cheap audio system which played some sort of archaic electronic music- He never really liked it much, but it was better than grave silence and the hum of the ventilation. Behind him, a terrarium case with a whole row of Kalisti gold plants in it, healthy, strong and picked clean- Before him, the harvest, stuffed into a pack of dry-glass, airtight shut jars; Alongside it, a pack of rolling papers and a lighter. He smiled, because he knew- He had renewed his home- And he'd just finished calling all the Watchers to join him... in the Depths of Hell.
RE: The Green Hell Beergarden - Marburg - 03-02-2015
//From now on, I'd like to invite participants to continue this humble Watering Hole in Somni's rockin' thread, The Depths Of Hell
Thank you for your support
