PBADownwarp - Revision history

Emanate at 03:56, 3 December 2016

2016-12-03T03:56:30Z

Emanate at 03:49, 3 December 2016

2016-12-03T03:49:04Z

Show changes

Emanate at 03:10, 3 December 2016

2016-12-03T03:10:37Z

Emanate at 02:57, 3 December 2016

2016-12-03T02:57:40Z

Emanate at 02:57, 3 December 2016

2016-12-03T02:57:06Z

Emanate at 02:46, 3 December 2016

2016-12-03T02:46:28Z

Emanate at 02:44, 3 December 2016

2016-12-03T02:44:32Z

Emanate at 02:42, 3 December 2016

2016-12-03T02:42:50Z

Emanate: /* = Main Square */

2016-12-03T02:42:28Z

‎= Main Square

Emanate: Created page with "=== Subpages === ** Big Active ** Rookery ** Darkunder === Main Square ==

 You stand on a platform of corrugated metal the size of a ci..."

2016-12-03T02:27:45Z

Created page with "=== Subpages === ** Big Active ** Rookery ** Darkunder === Main Square == <pre style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> You stand on a platform of corrugated metal the size of a ci..."

New page

=== Subpages ===

** Big Active
** Rookery
** Darkunder

=== Main Square ==
<pre style="white-space: pre-wrap;">
You stand on a platform of corrugated metal the size of a city block adorned with hazard stripes, rivets, and glass shards. Sagging pipes and bundles of black wire crisscross the platform between crumbling buildings of dirty concrete and rusted metal, and broken machines, some the size of houses, are scattered randomly.
Looming above you is a massive skeleton of steel girders with half-completed walls and floors. Everything is covered with graffiti, but the designs are artful -- even civic-minded. A constant ripe gust rustles the trash under your feet, swirling paper chad, leaflets, and food wrappers over sleeping bodies covered in dingy tarps. Looks like there was a party last night.
Or maybe it's still night. The sky is orange-gray and impenetrable. The only lights come from sodium lamps and neon overhead; a distant
thump and clack of machinery comes from there as well.

The closest building is an office <tower> of perhaps 120 stories, with two pyramid-shaped peaks. Its walls of gold-tinted glass are broken
and stained.

Some distance away, there seems to be an elevated highway running across the metal plain. A rusty <stairway> leads up to it.

A few hundred meters away, orange-white steam billows from a <hole> in the asphalt, surrounded by decrepit buildings.

Nearby, surrounded by the rubble that was a building, is a <red door>.
A flattened ovoid blob of liquid <mirror> floats here, lazily oozing in midair.
</pre>

== JG Ballard Memorial Freeway ==
<pre style="white-space: pre-line; word-break: keep-all;">
You stand on a ribbon of cracked and broken asphalt, a boneyard of broken machines, the grave of a mad dream of speed. The freeway's twenty crumbling lanes are littered with the metal carcasses of a myriad crashed and burned vehicles, the debris of some unthinkable catastrophe -- thousands of cars, trucks, motor vehicles of all kinds from a hundred ages and technologies; even, incomprehensibly, the enormous hulks of aircraft and spacecraft, their wings broken, silver skin gone dull with rust and age. Fragments of broken glass, plastic and metal litter the road, and various fuels and lubricants have run like blood from ruptured tanks and engines, pooling in the potholes in the blacktop, and sometimes reacting with one another -- which explains the occasional plumes of yellowish, acrid vapor.

The highway signs, bold white sans serif on dark green, are riddled with bullet holes. You still manage to make out most of the text, but instead of locations, strange slogans are printed, along with numbers for nonexistent exits. 6A - Put A Tiger In Your Tank. N32 - Better Living Through Chemistry. FF - The Ultimate Driving Machine. 12.5 - Quality Is Job One.
</pre>

@@ Line 1: / Line 1: @@
 === Subpages ===
@@ Line 156: / Line 160: @@
 Note: Everything is true.  Even the false things.  If there's a feeling of laid back, sort of mixed IC and OOC atmosphere here... well, that's part of it.  Basically, it's an attempt at a place just to chill out and be with others, completely nonrigid, nonstatic, and everything and anything goes in this place.  Take it as you will.  :)</pre>
 {{DISPLAYTITLE: Archive - Downwarp}}

← Older revision		Revision as of 02:46, 3 December 2016
Line 1:		Line 1:
		+	== Downwarp Archive ==
		+
	=== Subpages ===		=== Subpages ===

@@ Line 1: / Line 1: @@
 === Subpages ===
@@ Line 10: / Line 8: @@
 == Main Square ==
 <pre style="white-space: pre-line; word-break: keep-all;">
 You stand on a platform of corrugated metal the size of a city block adorned with hazard stripes, rivets, and glass shards.  Sagging pipes and bundles of black wire crisscross the platform between crumbling buildings of dirty concrete and rusted metal, and broken machines, some the size of houses, are scattered randomly.
 Looming above you is a massive skeleton of steel girders with half-completed walls and floors. Everything is covered with graffiti, but the designs are artful -- even civic-minded. A constant ripe gust rustles the trash under your feet, swirling paper chad, leaflets, and food wrappers over sleeping bodies covered in dingy tarps. Looks like there was a party last night.
 Or maybe it's still night. The sky is orange-gray and impenetrable. The only lights come from sodium lamps and neon overhead; a distant
 thump and clack of machinery comes from there as well.
 The closest building is an office <tower> of perhaps 120 stories, with two pyramid-shaped peaks. Its walls of gold-tinted glass are broken
 and stained.
 Some distance away, there seems to be an elevated highway running across the metal plain. A rusty <stairway> leads up to it.
 A few hundred meters away, orange-white steam billows from a <hole> in the asphalt, surrounded by decrepit buildings.
@@ Line 21: / Line 19: @@
 A flattened ovoid blob of liquid <mirror> floats here, lazily oozing in midair.
 </pre>
 == JG Ballard Memorial Freeway ==
 <pre style="white-space: pre-line; word-break: keep-all;">
 You stand on a ribbon of cracked and broken asphalt, a boneyard of broken machines, the grave of a mad dream of speed.  The freeway's twenty crumbling lanes are littered with the metal carcasses of a myriad crashed and burned vehicles, the debris of some unthinkable catastrophe -- thousands of cars, trucks, motor vehicles of all kinds from a hundred ages and technologies; even, incomprehensibly, the enormous hulks of aircraft and spacecraft, their wings broken, silver skin gone dull with rust and age. Fragments of broken glass, plastic and metal litter the road, and various fuels and lubricants have run like blood from ruptured tanks and engines, pooling in the potholes in the blacktop, and sometimes reacting with one another -- which explains the occasional plumes of yellowish, acrid vapor.
-The highway signs, bold white sans serif on dark green, are riddled with bullet holes. You still manage to make out most of the text, but instead of locations, strange slogans are printed, along with numbers for nonexistent exits. 6A - Put A Tiger In Your Tank. N32 - Better Living Through Chemistry. FF - The Ultimate Driving Machine. 12.5 - Quality Is Job One.
+== Cyclotron Forest ==
 </pre>
 {{DISPLAYTITLE: Archive - Downwarp}}

@@ Line 4: / Line 4: @@
 * Big Active
-** Rookery
+* Rookery
-** Darkunder
+* Darkunder