((OOC: Just a little something to tide you all over until I get back to answering questions properly. Finishing up a few projects for school, but I should have some free time again soon. Also, proof that I can draw more than just doodles, lol.))
@ askgyrogearloose - Did anyone you’re following add anything onto this story or should I continue it myself? Anybody else want to give this a shot? I think I have a Mickey and a few different Donalds following me who can continue.
(OOC: First RPG story)
Uncle Scrooge in his vault with Donald, Huey, Dewey and Louie. Donald is pushing around the coins with the bulldozer. Scrooge is staring at the dollar he earned in 1880 from his Uncle Angus “Pothole” McDuck.
“And so began my troubles with the Beagle Boys!” sighed Scrooge….
(OOC: Can I get in on this? We can be a couple of noobs, learning the ropes together. :3)
Absolutely.
“Mickey!?” Donald squawked, surprised to see his dear friend had survived the apparent apocalypse, “Why, Mickey, you act as though you’ve seen a ghost!”. The absentminded duck had clearly forgotten he’d just passed his own grave.
“I-I’m not too sure I haven’t. What happened? How did you get here?” replied the aged rodent.
“We could ask you the same thing, Mr. Mouse,” Gyro stated with a thoughtful tilt of his head, “I thought I’d brought us to another dimension, because everything’s so… dead. But it seems we’ve ended up in some twisted, horrible future!”
“So then… you aren’t ghosts?” asked Morty, not quite sure if he could believe such a wild tale.
The group of time travelers all shook their heads.
“Well, if you really are from the past, then maybe you can stop this from happening,” Mickey suggested. It was immediately followed by a bought of weak, dry sounding coughing. Donald winced to see his friend in such a condition.
“But Mr. Mouse, how can we stop it if we don’t know what it is?” asked Huey.
Mickey looked around, as though unsure if they were being watched. Where once there was a joyful, even mischievous gleam in the old mouse’s eye, there was the mark of a haunted, battle-scarred mind.
“It’s not safe out here,” he said at length, “Come with us, and I’ll tell you everything.”
The group followed them into Mouseton proper, gazing in awe at the rubble that was once a grand and thriving city. Every so often, the silence would be broken by the shifting of old steel girders or the distant mechanical screeching of some unseen monstrosity. In some of the more intact buildings, electricity still made the lights crackle and flicker, creating disturbing shadows that danced at the corners of peoples’ vision. When debris blocked the way, Morty and Ferdie would lift Mickey, chair and all, and somehow struggle over piles of crumbling cement and shattered glass.
Eventually, they reached a building that appeared to be a ruined supermarket. Gingerly, they picked their way through the jagged, empty frame of the broken, formerly automatic door. The store was a mess of overturned shelves and fallen lighting fixtures. Any food or supplies that might have once been there were long gone, and the walls and floor were thick with grime.
Morty pulled a small flashlight from his pocket, and led them deeper into the heart of the store. He stopped at the manager’s office, and gave an elaborate knock. An answering knock was heard, and the door swung inward.
Everyone followed Morty into the mid-sized room, but stopped short when they saw who had opened the door. Sitting behind the manager’s desk, looking as young as she had the last time they’d seen her (albeit much worse for wear), was Magicka De Spell. Her hair was short and ragged, looking as though it had been singed away in places, and she had a grizzly crack running along the left side of her bill. The area around her left eye was shiny and warped, reddish pink in color, and completely devoid of feathers; a clouded, blind eye stared out from the lidless socket. Her usual enchantress dress had been replaced by a tight yet modest jumpsuit, worn and riddled with patches.
“Gyro, my clever one, I had hoped that your silly experiments would one day lead you back to me,” she said with her thick Vesuvian accent. The obvious familiarity with his employee caused Scrooge to splutter in surprise, while his nephews’ jaws dropped wide open.
“I- er- what?” he asked, trying and failing to keep the incredulity from his voice.
“Ah, but of course. It figures you would have come from a time before us,” she sighed somewhat dejectedly. She looked at him with a deep, longing sadness. “You’ve only been dead for ten years, you know.”
“Um…” was all the bewildered inventor could manage.
“I wonder… if you change this,” she gestured to the world around her, “if you change the future, will we ever come to be?”
“Magicka… now’s not really the time for all this,” Mickey said, cutting into her depressive reverie. “We need to get below ground.”
Magicka gazed at the perturbed Gyro a moment longer before she said, “Very well.” She turned and cast a spell on the bookcase behind the manager’s desk, which slowly slid open to reveal a passage that lead deep underground. She motioned to Ferdie and said,”You are the last party to return. Lock the door behind you.” She then began to lead the way down the dimly lit passage, and into the unknown.
@unclescrooge Nope, it’s still just us. You can go ahead and make it open to other characters if you want to, though. With a lot of people joining in, there will be more to react to and generally more fun, IMO. Just let me know who adds on to this; I’m afraid I don’t have a lot of people that I follow, or people who follow me, and I probably won’t see it. I’m really looking forward to seeing where this story goes. :)
(OOC: First RPG story)
Uncle Scrooge in his vault with Donald, Huey, Dewey and Louie. Donald is pushing around the coins with the bulldozer. Scrooge is staring at the dollar he earned in 1880 from his Uncle Angus “Pothole” McDuck.
“And so began my troubles with the Beagle Boys!” sighed Scrooge….
(OOC: Can I get in on this? We can be a couple of noobs, learning the ropes together. :3)
Absolutely.
“Mickey!?” Donald squawked, surprised to see his dear friend had survived the apparent apocalypse, “Why, Mickey, you act as though you’ve seen a ghost!”. The absentminded duck had clearly forgotten he’d just passed his own grave.
“I-I’m not too sure I haven’t. What happened? How did you get here?” replied the aged rodent.
“We could ask you the same thing, Mr. Mouse,” Gyro stated with a thoughtful tilt of his head, “I thought I’d brought us to another dimension, because everything’s so… dead. But it seems we’ve ended up in some twisted, horrible future!”
“So then… you aren’t ghosts?” asked Morty, not quite sure if he could believe such a wild tale.
The group of time travelers all shook their heads.
“Well, if you really are from the past, then maybe you can stop this from happening,” Mickey suggested. It was immediately followed by a bought of weak, dry sounding coughing. Donald winced to see his friend in such a condition.
“But Mr. Mouse, how can we stop it if we don’t know what it is?” asked Huey.
Mickey looked around, as though unsure if they were being watched. Where once there was a joyful, even mischievous gleam in the old mouse’s eye, there was the mark of a haunted, battle-scarred mind.
“It’s not safe out here,” he said at length, “Come with us, and I’ll tell you everything.”
The group followed them into Mouseton proper, gazing in awe at the rubble that was once a grand and thriving city. Every so often, the silence would be broken by the shifting of old steel girders or the distant mechanical screeching of some unseen monstrosity. In some of the more intact buildings, electricity still made the lights crackle and flicker, creating disturbing shadows that danced at the corners of peoples’ vision. When debris blocked the way, Morty and Ferdie would lift Mickey, chair and all, and somehow struggle over piles of crumbling cement and shattered glass.
Eventually, they reached a building that appeared to be a ruined supermarket. Gingerly, they picked their way through the jagged, empty frame of the broken, formerly automatic door. The store was a mess of overturned shelves and fallen lighting fixtures. Any food or supplies that might have once been there were long gone, and the walls and floor were thick with grime.
Morty pulled a small flashlight from his pocket, and led them deeper into the heart of the store. He stopped at the manager’s office, and gave an elaborate knock. An answering knock was heard, and the door swung inward.
Everyone followed Morty into the mid-sized room, but stopped short when they saw who had opened the door. Sitting behind the manager’s desk, looking as young as she had the last time they’d seen her (albeit much worse for wear), was Magicka De Spell. Her hair was short and ragged, looking as though it had been singed away in places, and she had a grizzly crack running along the left side of her bill. The area around her left eye was shiny and warped, reddish pink in color, and completely devoid of feathers; a clouded, blind eye stared out from the lidless socket. Her usual enchantress dress had been replaced by a tight yet modest jumpsuit, worn and riddled with patches.
“Gyro, my clever one, I had hoped that your silly experiments would one day lead you back to me,” she said with her thick Vesuvian accent. The obvious familiarity with his employee caused Scrooge to splutter in surprise, while his nephews’ jaws dropped wide open.
“I- er- what?” he asked, trying and failing to keep the incredulity from his voice.
“Ah, but of course. It figures you would have come from a time before us,” she sighed somewhat dejectedly. She looked at him with a deep, longing sadness. “You’ve only been dead for ten years, you know.”
“Um…” was all the bewildered inventor could manage.
“I wonder… if you change this,” she gestured to the world around her, “if you change the future, will we ever come to be?”
“Magicka… now’s not really the time for all this,” Mickey said, cutting into her depressive reverie. “We need to get below ground.”
Magicka gazed at the perturbed Gyro a moment longer before she said, “Very well.” She turned and cast a spell on the bookcase behind the manager’s desk, which slowly slid open to reveal a passage that lead deep underground. She motioned to Ferdie and said,”You are the last party to return. Lock the door behind you.” She then began to lead the way down the dimly lit passage, and into the unknown.
How convenient that it was something harmless that allowed for whimsical costume changes as opposed to one of my two hundred and thirty-three onboard missiles! Please, kids, don’t go pushing random buttons on robotic supersuits without proper adult supervision.
In case you find yourself thrown back in time to the wild west. There should be a button right near there that will disguise the rest of the suit as well… honestly, did you read the manual, or just skim it?
(OOC: First RPG story)
Uncle Scrooge in his vault with Donald, Huey, Dewey and Louie. Donald is pushing around the coins with the bulldozer. Scrooge is staring at the dollar he earned in 1880 from his Uncle Angus “Pothole” McDuck.
“And so began my troubles with the Beagle Boys!” sighed Scrooge….
(OOC: Can I get in on this? We can be a couple of noobs, learning the ropes together. :3)
I'd wager the whole "awkward" thing is just a ploy. In fact, I believe you could be incredibly suave, if you wished.
AnonymousI- er- what? I have no idea what you’re talking about, Anon.
OOC Post of Doom
Hey everybody. The school’s cramming as much as it can into the next few weeks before Spring Break, so I won’t be on much which isn’t really saying a lot. I’m also planning a trip with my boyfriend and brother for the holiday, so you can pretty much expect nothing until mid-April. I’ll see what I can do, but no promises. :/
Gyro’s latest invention actually made some decent silver dollar pancakes - before it cooked my hat.
Again, I am very sorry, sir! I just haven’t been sleeping well lately and must have missed something. Will a new hat and some free pancakes make up for it?
What's it like working for Mr. McDuck?
AnonymousIt really isn’t as bad as people make it out to be. He’s a kind employer, despite his temper, and I might even be so bold as to call him my friend. He’s also a shrewd businessman and a quick wit, with the optimism and never-say-die attitude of a man half his age. I make decent money for the work I do, but I still have to work at odd jobs to cover some of my other expenses… mechanical parts don’t come cheap, you know! In all, I enjoy working for Mr. McDuck. He’s certainly better than a lot of other options out there.
