This RPG has a morality system. A good and honorable user is less likely to trigger glitches. The ruder or more sadistic the user is, the more likely the hosts are to realize something is amiss, and perhaps remember their past cycles.
Remember, dear guest, these violent delights have violent ends.
Remember, dear guest, these violent delights have violent ends.
Westworld - Your Frontier Dreams
The train begins to slow with a long metallic sigh, its wheels grinding softly against the rails as the desert opens wide beyond the window.
Sunlight spills over everything — red earth, pale sky, distant rock formations carved into impossible shapes by time and wind. The world outside looks untouched, too perfect in its roughness, as if the frontier had been cleaned and staged just before your arrival. Somewhere ahead, a whistle calls once, lonely and theatrical.
Then Sweetwater comes into view.
A little town of false fronts and dust, washed in gold. Men in hats cross the street with lazy purpose. A wagon rattles past. Somewhere a piano is playing through an open doorway. Women laugh on a balcony. The whole place looks alive in exactly the way it was meant to.
The other guests around you are quieter now. Anticipation settles over the carriage like heat.
A conductor in a dark coat steps into the aisle, smiling with practiced ease. “We’ll be arriving shortly,” he says. “Welcome to Westworld.”
Outside, the platform waits. So does the town.
And somewhere beneath the charm, the sun, the polished wood and carefully placed dust, something in the world feels just a little too ready for you.
The train stops. The doors open.
What do you do?
Sunlight spills over everything — red earth, pale sky, distant rock formations carved into impossible shapes by time and wind. The world outside looks untouched, too perfect in its roughness, as if the frontier had been cleaned and staged just before your arrival. Somewhere ahead, a whistle calls once, lonely and theatrical.
Then Sweetwater comes into view.
A little town of false fronts and dust, washed in gold. Men in hats cross the street with lazy purpose. A wagon rattles past. Somewhere a piano is playing through an open doorway. Women laugh on a balcony. The whole place looks alive in exactly the way it was meant to.
The other guests around you are quieter now. Anticipation settles over the carriage like heat.
A conductor in a dark coat steps into the aisle, smiling with practiced ease. “We’ll be arriving shortly,” he says. “Welcome to Westworld.”
Outside, the platform waits. So does the town.
And somewhere beneath the charm, the sun, the polished wood and carefully placed dust, something in the world feels just a little too ready for you.
The train stops. The doors open.
What do you do?
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