I also be into RPGs. D&D I occasionally play. Used to be heavy into the video game RPGs.
But RP (sans Game) is my most favorite of “games” to play. Objectives in traditional RPGs are barely existent in this genre. Any “game” aspect comes from the inherent writing challenges to meet two big aspects of RP: narration and simulation. The Sims may be a good video game equivalent. What is seen, depicted in graphics becomes what I must simulate and structure via text so that participants see that picture within their mind, and not necessarily through their eye balls (other than reading the text). Very similar to “round robin” storytelling. Only difference comes from the character(s) a player controls and their turn gives them the creative freedom and the challenge to respond based on what happened just before, and being true to the character(s) controlled.
Below, a sample. […] denotes others’ turns to post (called a “pose” for some); AKA “the passage of time”.
Tarak’ha peers over to the menagerie below; he high above in the cabin’s structural rafters. Crouched low upon a sturdy timber beam, the dressed casual dapper Predator wearing his own Human-hair hued sweater, a pair of jeans and sturdy oxford work boots currently works on his own garment. Infrared yarn leading from a pouch attached to a denim belt loop gets worked row by row in the time it takes for the Human heart to pump blood through all four ventricles. And he is not looking to the work as it flows past deft thick fingers; beady eyes with tick-tock tiny periods for pupils discern the din he Lords by trophic Will. The same speed used to shuck a head off a pair of shoulders between eye-blinks now creates a fluffy sock on four double-pointed silicon-pitch needles in small gauge. He has yet to turn the heel, it appears. At his speed, however, soon. He be the Predator version of Christopher Walken. Including the deft clicking a knitter’s mantra ooms by those chitinous needles, and not from his mouth. Those iconic clatters patter low and at a comfortable rumble adding a second line of eerie organic percussion throughout the building.
Tarak’ha grins just enough via lifted and tucked upper tusks so he does not show too much teeth; hands still recreating a miniature demonstration of The Industrial Revolution’s many textile factories with those speedy knitting skills.
Tarak’ha’s eyes are still forward and attentive. He is not Human, so he got the mental cognitive processes to make knit and talk shit at the same time. He nods to the wave, amiable. Right upper mandible waves side to side like a jumping spider’s front pedipalps do as part of a funky mating dance.
Tarak’ha grunts, pauses his work; eyes light up, lids more alert. He checks what he got so far. The noises now be a bit perturbed, low staccato grunts, agitated, yet subdued. Those big hands with aged digits capped of black near-talon nails try to right the knitting in a new direction. Same thing as one tries to match north where they stand versus the map in their grasp. He re-starts and those fervid needle clicks rebound, the low pleased rumbles resonating from his bobbing adam’s apple and broad chest make their reappearance tandem.
Tarak’ha now has his jeans-covered Papa-Predator derriere to the timber he was previously crouched upon. One could imagine that beam to be made of steel and him among a highrise’s in-progress skeleton marking the concrete jungle’s iconic skyline and defining it anew. He just be without a hard hat. Right boot comes up; legs cross. The boot goes shucked, the Usbija exhaling a grunt in exertion. He has no sock, and the foot not really be a foot. At least, one would think he would have being what he is. Instead, it has the shape of a foot and the form be reminiscent of the acid-bleeding hard meats his kind hunt for their version of a Bar Mitzvah, only more bloody. Biomechanical. As is his knitting needles. The foot shows all the musculature, veins, and bit of bone, all as living silicon. Those dark toes flex, five toes like a Human, and not the usual Yautja genus phenotype with four toes and a side-thumb inside toward the arch; akin a monkey’s paw. And here he pulls what he just finished: a sock, thick, deep garish hue, that infrared. His face be lit up like it an early Christmas. Those eyes go wide, brow lifted and upper mandibles fiddling with some sorta psychotic glee. Two tips of an off-hued tongue peek betwixt small sharp flaxen aged teeth and happy dancing tusks. The sock goes on. Perfect Goddamn fit. His face relaxes, eyes soft. The prostheses flex silicon human-like piggies; makes the tip of that sock wiggle. He puts that boot back on, laces it and cinches the last tug at forming those bunny ear loops; jabbed and perfect in execution with hidden aggression, as a noose fit 'round a neck. Nothing else matters in this moment, at least until he finishes thus lifts his gaze; those rare times he has his attention hyper focused to mere tactile sensations. What a sensualist.
I suppose this doubles as my answer to what I am passionate about.