Duck. I'm capping the players off at 6 to start with, though this number will likely be increased. I can't imagine I'll need a waitlist, but I'll make one if I have to.
[10]- Duck indeed!
You flutter downward, alighting on a big red...
thing sticking out of the water. You're not sure what it is, to be honest. It's certainly not a duck.
To one side, you can see a large bridge. In the low light of dusk, you can just barely make out a few figures loitering on said bridge. To the other side lies a vast expanse of ocean.
You are a mallard: the mottled precursor to the white domestic duck.
+4 to conning stupid people out of their hard-earned breadcrumbs.
+2 to harassing lemonade-stand owners
Duck.
[8]
A little duck perches next to you.
Hey, get your own... thing!
You are not a duck. Rather, you are a loon: a waterfowl with smaller wings, a marginally larger body, and comparatively somber plumage. Any aviphile worth his bird porn could tell you that.
+4 to impersonating ducks.
+2 to diving.
Duck.
[3]
You scurry through the underbrush on nimble paws, your rat-like tail bobbing behind you. Somewhere high above, you hear the piercing shriek of an owl, scanning for prey.
You press on, fueled by fear and a gnawing hunger. You scan your surroundings for something, anything to shove in your ugly bald snout. Brush turns to grass, and grass turns to pavement. Another scream from above. A distant purr crescendoes to a threatening roar.
You stop in your tracks, suddenly blinded by a pale, yellow light.
You are an opossum: a repulsive little creature, like if Mickey Mouse hooked up with a mangy bald eagle who
just happened to be his first cousin. You’re agile, and a decent hunter; however, you’re rather lacking in the charisma department.
+1 to "playing possum".
+5 to scaring children.
Duck. I'm capping the players off at 6 to start with, though this number will likely be increased. I can't imagine I'll need a waitlist, but I'll make one if I have to.
[7]
Darkness.
Then, muffled grunts, and a soft
click.
It takes your beady little eyes a moment to adjust to the sudden light. You're in an apartment, in a cage, on a desk. You recognize this place instantly- the tattered posters, the broken furniture, the heaps of clothes strewn across the floor... this is
home.
Your owner, a tired little man with unkempt hair and sunken eyes, clad in pajama pants and his long overcoat, is standing by the desk, having just turned on the lamp. Smiling weakly, he nods to you, and sets an envelope on the desk. You watch in confusion as he rummages through the drawers, until at last he finds whatever it is he was looking for. You only get a glimpse of it before he tucks it into his coat- it's a long, metal object of some sort.
Your cage rattles as he lifts it off the table, walks across the room, and out the front door. To your surprise, he proceeds to draw back the latch, setting the now open cage on the pavement.
As he stands, a single tear falls from his left eye. He quickly wipes it away, looking somewhat embarrassed. There's a long pause. Then, hands shaking, your owner turns and disappears into the night.
You are a cockatoo: one of the more sensible members of the parrot family. Unfortunately, you don't have the throat necessary for human speech, so no pirate impressions for you.
+4 to courting lady-parrots.
+2 to baffling John Cleese.
Duck
[2]
You float like a duck. You're roughly the same weight as a duck. You're even tethered to the sea floor like a duck!
But you, unfortunately,
are most certainly not a duck.You are a buoy: one of those bright red things that seagulls like to perch on. You've been suffering an identity crisis ever since some punk in a canoe decided to spray paint a duckface on you. Well, he spray painted a number of things on you, most of them too profane and/or phallic to describe here. But for some strange reason, you've latched onto the duckface.
+5 to bobbing up and down in the water.
+1 to obstructing small boats.
GOOSE!
Err, I mean, DUCK
[6]
You rustle restlessly in your twigpile. Perhaps nesting on top of a bridge wasn't the wisest of choices.
The source of your discomfort is, of course, the three suspicious men parked on the road beneath you.
You are a pigeon: for all intents and purposes, a cooing rat. Or maybe an overcooked dove.
+4 to aggravating locals.
+2 to delivering messages.
Author
Topic: RTD: Roll to Duck- Round 2 (6/6) (Waitlist Open) (Read 5471 times)