The Press

You must apply and be hired for the job.

People who are hired for the Tamerlane Times are required to write an article, do video and photos at a minimum, once a month.

To apply for a job at the Tamerlane Times

To apply for a role at The Tamerlane Times, please submit your photos, written submissions, social media examples, and video examples to Bri McMahon in Second Life. You can also apply through our Discord Directory Classifieds using the appropriate thread for the job.

Cut and Paste to an SL Notecard

Please do not give us your real-world name! RP names only, thanks! This application is also contained in our Discord.

Name:

Discord and/or Second Life Name:

Time Zone:

Do you play LOTRO? If yes, Toon name that you would be joining us with:

What other games do you play?

Position applying for:

Please attach your submissions to be considered for the job position. You may attach links to your content.

These jobs are non-paying, but all journalists receive a byline and can showcase their work in their portfolio.

For Roleplayers

Rewards as Role-players in this field include leveling up your stats and skills.

The role of the journalist fulfills the need for news. People like being in the "know" of their Verse! Be it events, comedy, politics, and rumors of the realm.

There are mixed feelings about Journalists. Some people regard them with respect and awe, while others view them with distrust and animosity. The Lady King has spies everywhere, don't you know?

The Victorian Brownstone 2-story news building rises like a brick-and-iron monolith amid the fog-choked alleys of a bustling port city. Its façade is ornate yet functional—girded in soot-darkened copper panels, with exposed piping snaking like veins across its exterior. Large gears whir gently in a rooftop mechanism that powers the printing press within, their rhythmic clanking barely audible beneath the deeper, more primal throb of bass from the nearby nightclub, Twisted Chaos.

Atmosphere & Lighting:

A thick salt-laced mist rolls in from the ocean just a block away, blurring gaslamp halos and throwing a murky golden sheen across the cobblestones. The news building glows dimly from within—amber light leaking through tall, leaded windows, distorted by grime and moisture. Along the side alleys, sputtering lanterns cast long, warped shadows that dance across alley cats and metal refuse. Occasional electric arcs flicker from exposed wires along the rooftop—a hint of experimental Tesla tech recently installed by an overconfident inventor-journalist.

Sounds:

The printing press inside churns steadily, a mechanical heartbeat of clicking gears and rolling drums. Outside, the thud of nightclub bass pulses through the ground like a second pulse, interspersed with distant shouts, laughter, and the clang of ships being loaded at the docks. Steam hisses from nearby grates. You might also catch the tap-tap of a stiletto heel or the skitter of something small and mechanical scurrying across the cobbles—a newsboy's rogue automaton, perhaps.

Smells:

A heady mix fills the air—ink and oil from the printing presses, sweat and perfume wafting in from the nightclub, and the briny tang of the nearby sea. There’s also the acrid scent of burning coal from underground furnaces and the subtle sweetness of opium smoke that drifts now and then from the opium den disguised as a "tea house."

People:

By day, the building hosts sharp-eyed reporters in high-collared coats, with smudged spectacles and stained gloves, typing fervently or arguing over breaking scandals. By night, the surroundings attract a different crowd: grease-streaked machinists, masked couriers, stiletto-heeled spies, grifters in velvet waistcoats, and sultry singers on cigarette breaks. The occasional constable loiters near the curb, but rarely strays too far from his post—too many stories here best left untold.

The building hums with stories yet to be printed—some true, others stitched from rumor, steam, and the very fog that hides a thousand secrets.