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52,302 | 1,418 | 16 | 1,500 | 564 | The katana cut through the skinny arm of the Mr. Handy. The flamethrower falls to the ground with a soft thud. Fuel oozes out of the severed arm like blood from a severed limb. Mr Handy Spins to ready his saw for an attack and sprays the fuel out everywhere. It did not feel pain, so it could not react to the loss of its limb like a normal creature. Its AI brain merely stopped being able to read the existence of the flamethrower. The Mr. Handy bot attacked Willhelm with its saw. The saw was going to take a moment to penetrate the power armor.
Rose was slashed a bit by the fuel from the Mr. Handy. She paid it little mind. She was focused getting her aim on the brain bot at the end of the hall. The brain bot did not seem to notice her. She was presenting a small target as she laid prone on the stairs. The Brain bot targeted Willhelm and a flash of a lazer erupted from its hands. The laser mistakenly struck the Mr. Handy. Rose unleashed a shot into the glass head of the brainbot. Her bullet bounced off the brain bot's glass leaving the glass badly cracked. Rose pulled hard on her bolt action to load the next round. She fired again. This time She broke the glass, but she missed the brain itself. Brain fluid began to flow out of the glass. The brain bot would die shortly, but it was still a threat.
---------------------------
Out of the scorched sands of the wastes, a old prewar building stood defiant to the whims of time and sand. This was a four story building hiding in the shadow of a small mountain. The nearest settlement is a two day walk from the nearest settlement. The building looked almost untouched even by the most daring of scavengers. This building had not seen visitors for some time until today. The sounds of Gunshots could be heard faintly outside coming from somewhere inside. | Name: Rose Anew
age: 22
skills: repair, science, stealth
SPECIALs: (40 points distributed between 7 stats. 10 being the highest and a minimum of 1.)
strength 3
perception 4
endurance 3
charisma 9
intelligence 9
agility 7
Luck 5
Equipment:
Antimatter rifle modded with lightframe, improved optics, bolt action
laser pistol modded with extended mags, and beam focuser.
10 mm pistol modded with laser sight, extended mags, and silencer
machete with sheath
camping backpack for carrying stuff |
52,303 | 1,418 | 17 | 1,566 | 50 | Mordred heard a faint gunshot in the distance and was forced to stop himself from hitting the dirt. Old habits die hard, and he had been guarding one too many a caravan that had been attacked by some lucky raider with a rundown anti-material rifle. He scanned the horizon carefully, seeing nothing more than a relatively harmless bloatfly in the distance before his eyes came to rest on the four story building standing, he thought, rather defiantly in the wastes. He thought for a moment before making his way at a slight jog towards the building. He had just reached the entrance to the lobby of the first floor when he heard 2 definite anti-material rounds go off in quick succession somewhere above his head, he was unable to guesstimate the floor. He shook his head and muttered under his breath,"What the hell is that guy shooting at that he needs 3 of those rounds to kill?" His Pip-Boy took him halfway to the answer by providing a name for the building it was in. His eyes widened and he retrieved his carbine from his back while taking to the stairs slowly but surely. | Name: Mordred Smith
age: 18
skills: guns, explosives, survival
S 4
P 5
E 8
C 2
I 8
A 8
L 5
Equipment: Scoped 5mm carbine with extended magazines and foregrip, Gun Runner Caravan Guard Armor, Pip-Boy 3000GRMOD Prototype, M1911 handgun with extended magazines and detachable supressor, Combat Knife with optional bipod, scope , and suppressor, lightweight caravan guard travel pack, rations 1 day, Gun Runners employment papers.
Theme Song: Wasteland Soul by Miracle of Sound |
52,304 | 1,418 | 18 | 2,747 | 345 | A gruff man by the name of Robert Black sits underneath the top part of a blown apart and abandoned car. The heat was rather intense and it was a good two days travel to his destination. Looking down at a small package he lights a cigarette and scratches his beard. Inside is a secret delivery item that has to make it to the next town. His work as courier depends on it. He had failed to deliver his last package and that cost him a lot of credibility. Granted he had made it there in time but felt that the package would be better suited for him than the band of bandits that had ordered it. His fond stroll down memory lane was interrupted by the all too familiar sounds of gunshots popping in the distance.
"What the-" he starts as he pulls out his binoculars to take a closer look.
Through them he spots a 4 story run down building. He catches glimpses of what is happening inside the 4th floor through the windows but can't get a clear picture of how many or even what was fighting.
"Better go check it out." He says under his breath as he gathers his guns. As he gatheres his items he picks up the package and hesitates for a moment. "Maybe... I shouldn't...bah!" shoving the package into his bag he threw responsibility to the wind. His curiosity had won over his work ethic.
Quickly he hops out of the car and starts a quick dash but begins to sneak as he gets closer. He notices another man who arrives just moments before him cautiously going into the front door. It looks as though he has remained undetected. Still attempting to remain stealthy he crouches and follows slowly up the stairs and remains out of sight.
Once he feels he is at a good spot he pulls out his silenced anti-material rifle and points it at Mordred just outside the 4th floor.
"Don't do anything I wouldn't do." He says quietly but loudly enough for him to hear. "I just have a couple of questions. 1st, who are you. 2nd, what are you doing here? 3rd, do you know what's going on in there?"
(see ooc) | Name: Robert Black
age: 29
skills: Guns, Sneak and Reapir
SPECIALs: (40 points distributed between 7 stats. 10 being the highest and a minimum of 1.)
strength 6
perception 3
endurance 5
charisma 4
intelligence 9
agility 8
Luck 5
Equipment: Antimaterial rifle, several pistols, "that gun", grenade launcher. Light metal armor. |
52,305 | 1,418 | 19 | 1,566 | 50 | Mordred had made his way up 3 stories of the building before he began to hear a muffled conflict playing out above him, his Eyes Forward Sensor (EFS) below the compass his Pip-Boy had superimposed on his vision picked up 2 yellow and 2 red tabs moving about on the floor above him. He had noticed a gratuitous amount of deceased rad roaches on his way up the staircases, clearing the first hallway of each floor as he went. Clearly, whoever had entered the building and was now making all that ruckus had plenty of high caliber rounds to spare.
It was on the third floor when, while he did a quick re-check on his gear before heading up to the fourth floor, he heard the soft, unmistakable click of an anti-material rifle moving a round into the chamber. He froze, his already adrenaline filled heart began to beat faster as he turned slowly to face the new... not hostile? His EFS showed the stranger to be a friendly, but the man, clearly approaching 30 years old, had an anti-material rifle pointed at Mordred.
The man questioned Mordred, who swallowed his momentary shock and answered,"Uhm... my name is Mordred Smith, I am an employed caravan guard for Gun Runners, though I'm currently on leave for the next month or so, and I came here to investigate the whole gunshot serenade I'm sure you heard."
A loud thump from the floor above shook dust from the ceiling,"Friends of yours?" | Name: Mordred Smith
age: 18
skills: guns, explosives, survival
S 4
P 5
E 8
C 2
I 8
A 8
L 5
Equipment: Scoped 5mm carbine with extended magazines and foregrip, Gun Runner Caravan Guard Armor, Pip-Boy 3000GRMOD Prototype, M1911 handgun with extended magazines and detachable supressor, Combat Knife with optional bipod, scope , and suppressor, lightweight caravan guard travel pack, rations 1 day, Gun Runners employment papers.
Theme Song: Wasteland Soul by Miracle of Sound |
52,306 | 1,418 | 20 | 340 | 88 | Despite the suit protecting him, Will could feel the pressure from the saw. Rage begins to build as he does not have the credits to repair this armor if it so happens to get destroyed. He heard the shot from the Brain bot his the Mr.Handy bot and is glade that putting the bot between him and the brain bot worked. He then uses a stepping technique to move his body around so the saw was no longer biting into his armor. He then used the momentum from the movement slash downwards onto the saw arm and main body. | Name: Willhelm Might
age: 24
skills: Melee, Security, Persuasion
SPECIALs: (40 points distributed between 7 stats. 10 being the highest and a minimum of 1.)
strength 8
perception 6
endurance 8
charisma 5
intelligence 3
agility 4
Luck 6
Equipment: A titanium katana, days worth of Rations, Combat knife, brother hood of steel T-60 power armor, backpack to carry stuff, water skin, and a paper with his terms and condition as a mercenary.
Most of the time Willhelm is wearing his armor but when he is not he usually sporting light clothing. He has black hair cut short, six feet in height and is bulky. |
52,307 | 1,418 | 21 | 2,747 | 345 | Robert watched him with narrow eyes for a moment as he listened to Mordred's answers. He watched and seemed to be judging his body language as well as his words. Then he lowered the gun slightly so that it was no longer pointed towards Mordred while taking one hand off of his weapon to grab a cigarette and put it in his mouth.
"Alright. I believe you." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small lighter and lights his cigarette. "Name's Robert and I'm a courier for hire. I too came to investigate he gunshots. I would put that thing down and pull out your own weapon before we go further."
He turns to look down at the trail of wreckage and empty shells. However what is more concerning is that the damage done to these roaches is pretty intense. The ones upstairs are probably troublesome if they are not friendly.
"No time like the present. Get ready." He said before kicking open the door and then immediately sneaking to the side of the door leaving only Mordred in the open. Quickly turning to glance around the corner he see's two individuals fighting against robots. One of them was wearing a power suite and had just slashed into a bot. Quickly taking aim while still being hidden he shoots a single shot from his silenced antimatter rifle at the core of the bot before retreating back around the corner. | Name: Robert Black
age: 29
skills: Guns, Sneak and Reapir
SPECIALs: (40 points distributed between 7 stats. 10 being the highest and a minimum of 1.)
strength 6
perception 3
endurance 5
charisma 4
intelligence 9
agility 8
Luck 5
Equipment: Antimaterial rifle, several pistols, "that gun", grenade launcher. Light metal armor. |
52,308 | 1,418 | 22 | 1,500 | 564 | Willhelm's downward slash was cut deep into the main body of Mr. Handy. It was a blind cut but the blade entered vital areas of the Bot. The bot twitched as it crumbled to the ground. The bots electric circuits fired randomly and fried themselves trying to continue fighting. The Mr. handy bot fell to the floor never to rise gain.
The Brain bot was still being a problem. The leak of brain fluid had caused the Bot to go crazy as the brian slowly starved. Rose was not satisfied with the speed it was taking to die. She pulled out her beloved suppressed 10mm pistol and stood up. She took aim and fired one round into the brain of the brainbot. The brain exploded at the impact of the round. Both bots were finally down. Rose knelt down to pick up her expended brass. "Good work, Both bots down-" Rose replied when she suddenly sensed the presence of another.
Rose grabbed her rifle again and aimed at the main with a similar rifle. His rifle looked to have recently been fired. Had she missed a shot being fired. Rose addressed the man, "Identify and Explain yourself! This building is my claim. My Salvage!" | Name: Rose Anew
age: 22
skills: repair, science, stealth
SPECIALs: (40 points distributed between 7 stats. 10 being the highest and a minimum of 1.)
strength 3
perception 4
endurance 3
charisma 9
intelligence 9
agility 7
Luck 5
Equipment:
Antimatter rifle modded with lightframe, improved optics, bolt action
laser pistol modded with extended mags, and beam focuser.
10 mm pistol modded with laser sight, extended mags, and silencer
machete with sheath
camping backpack for carrying stuff |
52,309 | 1,418 | 23 | 340 | 88 | Willhelm spins around to see this new man. He moves himself to the side of rose but a bit in front in case this man began a fight. His suit can handle a few shots before it breaks enough time so Rose could get to cover. He raises his sword into a prepared position to strike. "We do not wish for a fight, put your gun down" He did not know who this man was, a bandit, a scavenger, anyone. But what Will can see is this man is well armed. | Name: Willhelm Might
age: 24
skills: Melee, Security, Persuasion
SPECIALs: (40 points distributed between 7 stats. 10 being the highest and a minimum of 1.)
strength 8
perception 6
endurance 8
charisma 5
intelligence 3
agility 4
Luck 6
Equipment: A titanium katana, days worth of Rations, Combat knife, brother hood of steel T-60 power armor, backpack to carry stuff, water skin, and a paper with his terms and condition as a mercenary.
Most of the time Willhelm is wearing his armor but when he is not he usually sporting light clothing. He has black hair cut short, six feet in height and is bulky. |
52,310 | 1,418 | 24 | 2,747 | 345 | Moving just out of the line of sight round the door robert shouts out
"Jus' trying to see whats all the noise about." He cocked his gun just in case but didn't want to engage. "My name is Robert. This here is my companion for the time being. The both of us just happened across the building when we heard the gunfire." He knew that his words were a half lie/half truth but convincing them that it would be an even 2v2 if they were hostel is better bargaining chips than 2v1. "Don't mean no harm if you don't."
As an act of good faith Robert lowers his weapon while still keeping a firm grip and turns slowly back into view through the door. He remains crouched but isn't pointing his gun at either of the two. Watching with narrow eyes he see's that the girl who just shouted at him is holding an anti-material rifle similar to his own and a man in power armor with ....katanas?
"Ole' fashion courtesy dictates ya'll should tell us yer names as well. An' if it isn't too much to ask maybe lower your weapon. I ain't gonna charge you." | Name: Robert Black
age: 29
skills: Guns, Sneak and Reapir
SPECIALs: (40 points distributed between 7 stats. 10 being the highest and a minimum of 1.)
strength 6
perception 3
endurance 5
charisma 4
intelligence 9
agility 8
Luck 5
Equipment: Antimaterial rifle, several pistols, "that gun", grenade launcher. Light metal armor. |
52,311 | 1,418 | 25 | 1,566 | 50 | Mordred now found himself growing a dislike for his 'companion', Robert. He was being used as a bullet catcher at the moment, and while that was something he had done on plenty of occasions before, Robert had hardly even asked him to do it.
"Well, my name is Mordred for starters. How's your day been?" He said looking pointedly at the chainsaw marks in the man's power armor. Mordred had already assumed the man was a sword for hire, judging by the his body language and careful positioning.
Quietly, he wondered if all people with sniper rifles hired bullet catchers. Probably for target practice if nothing else. | Name: Mordred Smith
age: 18
skills: guns, explosives, survival
S 4
P 5
E 8
C 2
I 8
A 8
L 5
Equipment: Scoped 5mm carbine with extended magazines and foregrip, Gun Runner Caravan Guard Armor, Pip-Boy 3000GRMOD Prototype, M1911 handgun with extended magazines and detachable supressor, Combat Knife with optional bipod, scope , and suppressor, lightweight caravan guard travel pack, rations 1 day, Gun Runners employment papers.
Theme Song: Wasteland Soul by Miracle of Sound |
52,312 | 1,418 | 26 | 1,500 | 564 | Rose slowly lowered her antimatter rifle. She stowed her 10 mm back in its holster. She cautiously picks of the last peice of her expended Brass. "I am Rose Anew. Also known as Phoenix." Rose replied coldly, "If you came to investigate gunshots then you are the have found the source. Be gone with you!" Rose turned to move down the hall, "Willhelm, I will pay you your caps once I get came here to get."
Rose walked to the end of the hall and looked around the corner. The sight she saw filled her with absolute terror. She quickly dove back towards the group and hit the ground. A missile sails down the adjacent all past where Rose rounded the corner. It exploded a safe distance down the hall. Two heavily armored Sentry bots sat on either side of a heavily steel door. This was clearly the room She was looking for. | Name: Rose Anew
age: 22
skills: repair, science, stealth
SPECIALs: (40 points distributed between 7 stats. 10 being the highest and a minimum of 1.)
strength 3
perception 4
endurance 3
charisma 9
intelligence 9
agility 7
Luck 5
Equipment:
Antimatter rifle modded with lightframe, improved optics, bolt action
laser pistol modded with extended mags, and beam focuser.
10 mm pistol modded with laser sight, extended mags, and silencer
machete with sheath
camping backpack for carrying stuff |
52,313 | 1,418 | 27 | 2,747 | 345 | Robert sighed a sigh of relief when she put the anti-material gun away. He kept his out just in case but didn't make any kind of movments and listened to her introduction. Phoenix huh? That name had sounded somewhat familiar but he wasn't able to recall where he had heard it before.
"Well my name is Robert...also known as....Bob. Nice to meet you." nailed it. He thought to himself. However his relief was short lived as a missile misses him by just a few inches and it explodes on the other end of the hall.
"Look alive boy!" He shouted at his new companion as he pulled out his rifle and took aim at the first bot. Everything moved in slow motion for him for just a moment and he unloaded three shots at the bot before diving for cove. | Name: Robert Black
age: 29
skills: Guns, Sneak and Reapir
SPECIALs: (40 points distributed between 7 stats. 10 being the highest and a minimum of 1.)
strength 6
perception 3
endurance 5
charisma 4
intelligence 9
agility 8
Luck 5
Equipment: Antimaterial rifle, several pistols, "that gun", grenade launcher. Light metal armor. |
52,314 | 1,418 | 28 | 1,566 | 50 | Boy? Okay, he had most definitely heard that before, so why was it grating his nerves now? This man must simply have a way for being rude... but then Mordred thought for a moment. Bob hadn't been truly hostile towards him, and seemed to act with the best of intentions. Perhaps he should withhold judgement based on someone's mannerisms alone.
"Just give me a second." Mordred said, reaching into the folds of his armor to retrieve a stowed plasma grenade," Phoenix, how grouped are those two hostiles?" | Name: Mordred Smith
age: 18
skills: guns, explosives, survival
S 4
P 5
E 8
C 2
I 8
A 8
L 5
Equipment: Scoped 5mm carbine with extended magazines and foregrip, Gun Runner Caravan Guard Armor, Pip-Boy 3000GRMOD Prototype, M1911 handgun with extended magazines and detachable supressor, Combat Knife with optional bipod, scope , and suppressor, lightweight caravan guard travel pack, rations 1 day, Gun Runners employment papers.
Theme Song: Wasteland Soul by Miracle of Sound |
52,315 | 1,418 | 29 | 1,500 | 564 | Rose climbed back to her feet and peered around the corner at the two bots. There was the sound of a Gatling gun winding up from the around the corners. Rose did not let herself be a target long enough to be fired upon. Rose pulled her head back around the corner. She explained, "Two Sentry bots. Look like prewar military models. They are standing on either side of the door. Maybe three feet apart, Mordred. I think I might know what you are thinking. Be careful. I need the electronics in the room beyond intact." Rose pulls out her laser pistol and readies herself to attack. | Name: Rose Anew
age: 22
skills: repair, science, stealth
SPECIALs: (40 points distributed between 7 stats. 10 being the highest and a minimum of 1.)
strength 3
perception 4
endurance 3
charisma 9
intelligence 9
agility 7
Luck 5
Equipment:
Antimatter rifle modded with lightframe, improved optics, bolt action
laser pistol modded with extended mags, and beam focuser.
10 mm pistol modded with laser sight, extended mags, and silencer
machete with sheath
camping backpack for carrying stuff |
52,316 | 1,418 | 30 | 1,732 | 16 | Turning the corner of a rocky ledge came an average humanoid figure and the silhouette of a bulky canine companion, both trudging at just below average speed. "Over that ledge is bound to be a place to find something to fix your leg, Bark." Chadrick and Barkimedes had been prospecting in the area for a while when a young gecko sprang out of a crevice between two prewar vehicles. The gecko was luckily small and unable to do much damage to the cyberdog, however it effectively removed a single bolt that fastened together the dog's right hind leg. Unfortunately for Barkimedes, Chadrick was unable to find the bolt in the dirt.
As per the usual for Chadrick, luck was on his side. A four story building, seemingly abandoned, came into view around the bend. "Well, Bark, have I ever led you wrong? I'll have you fixed up soon. Just try to leave the tussling to me, I can't have my only true friend biting the dust. I need ya, boy. More than you even know." Bark whimpered affectionately at the ghoul, who then led him to the door of the building they had found.
The air inside the building was not pleasant on a normal scale, but when compared to the dry, inescapable sun of the wastes, the change in temperature was greatly appreciated. It became clear that the first floor of the building was essentially comprised of office space. The upper floors would need to be explored if spare parts compatible with Bark were to be found.
Upon climbing the stairs several loud bangs and thumping noises could be heard. It was easy to tell Chadrick and Barkimedes were not alone in the building.
"Bark, I want you to sniff around and find a spot that's safe. When I whistle, you come to me. Now go on, good boy." The cybernetic beast hesitated for a moment, scanned the nearby rooms on the second floor, and proceeded to wait to be called from safety.
This would be the roughest part of any experience with other people. The initial shock of meeting a ghoul. Though most of Chadrick's front side was intact, he maintained the scarred, dry skin that was a trademark to his race. He decided to keep his helmet on, but slide the red tinted frames away, so that his most pure, human feature was revealed first: his eyes.
Chadrick readied his MF HyperBreeder pistol and ascended the stairs. The sound of bullet spray in rapid succession echoed down the corridor of the fourth floor. Chadrick cracked open the door and peeped at what lay beyond. From what he could tell, the sounds he had heard were most likely that of sentry bots unless someone had entered the building with a minigun. Beyond the door he could see a mismatched group of travellers who seemed to be fighting off the robotic adversaries.
"Please do not be alarmed, friends. My name is Chadrick. I have simply come in search of spare parts. It seems I have stumbled into a conflict, and I would be happy to assist in the removal of that prewar, mechanical ruffian." Chadrick spoke at an audible level, but in a manner that he intended to be most sincere and least startling. | Name: Chadrick Knight
age: 200 (Ghoul)
skills: Science, Medicine, Speech
SPECIALs: (40 points distributed between 7 stats. 10 being the highest and a minimum of 1.)
strength 3
perception 4
endurance 3
charisma 8
intelligence 10
agility 4
Luck 8
Equipment: I am wearing a hazmat suit from Big MT, however instead of the green eyed cowl I am wearing a red eyed riot helmet. As weapons I have a cowboy repeater and a MF Hyperbreeder Alpha pistol. A backpack with a bedroll and some non-perishables like Cram and Sugar Bombs. Chadrick is a ghoul, therefore there are some wraps around his skin in some areas. Lastly a cyberdog, named Bark-imedes, he once rescued serves as his faithful companion.
Theme Song: Darude. Fuckin. Sandstorm. |
52,317 | 1,418 | 31 | 340 | 88 | Willhelm ducks behind a corner his katana out in the ready. Missiles damn it, his armor could not possibly withstand those kind of attacks. Kind of remind him of a time in the Enclave were some bandits hid in a old pre war bunk that the higher ups wanted. They went in thinking the bandits could not of possibly found the locked weapons cache, boy they were wrong. He see the new person appear, wearing a Hazmat suit Will does not take time examining the stranger and barks out. "Alright the more the merrier , just someone help give me a opening so I can charge in!" He waited for a opportune moment, his armor could take some hits by the minigun but the missiles is the main issue. | Name: Willhelm Might
age: 24
skills: Melee, Security, Persuasion
SPECIALs: (40 points distributed between 7 stats. 10 being the highest and a minimum of 1.)
strength 8
perception 6
endurance 8
charisma 5
intelligence 3
agility 4
Luck 6
Equipment: A titanium katana, days worth of Rations, Combat knife, brother hood of steel T-60 power armor, backpack to carry stuff, water skin, and a paper with his terms and condition as a mercenary.
Most of the time Willhelm is wearing his armor but when he is not he usually sporting light clothing. He has black hair cut short, six feet in height and is bulky. |
52,318 | 1,418 | 32 | 1,566 | 50 | Mordred ignored the newcomer, he had been busy crunching numbers. The variant of plasma grenade he held was designed for high yield low collateral, meaning it produced more plasma upon detonation with less of a shockwave. The maximum radius of effective damage was a little under 5 feet from the epicenter. He figured he could land it 4 feet in front of the sentry bots, dealing massive structural as well as electronic damage to them and still not destroy anything beyond them.
"You may want to back up, Phoenix," he said, removing the pin of the grenade,"Shiny, you're on point the moment this goes off, don't worry, I'll be right behind you."
Mordred pressed the primer button for the plasma grenade now that he had removed the safety pin, tossed it up in the air to cook it off, caught it, and backhand-threw it against the opposite corner into the midst of the 2 sentry bots.
He prayed his calculations were correct. | Name: Mordred Smith
age: 18
skills: guns, explosives, survival
S 4
P 5
E 8
C 2
I 8
A 8
L 5
Equipment: Scoped 5mm carbine with extended magazines and foregrip, Gun Runner Caravan Guard Armor, Pip-Boy 3000GRMOD Prototype, M1911 handgun with extended magazines and detachable supressor, Combat Knife with optional bipod, scope , and suppressor, lightweight caravan guard travel pack, rations 1 day, Gun Runners employment papers.
Theme Song: Wasteland Soul by Miracle of Sound |
52,319 | 1,418 | 33 | 1,500 | 564 | Rose shakes her head as another new comer politely introduced himself, "Why?! Why! This building has not have had a visitor is over 200 years. I take all that effort to find and track down this place and now everyone wants to come explore this building. I am totally not sharing. Never said I would. If you all want to assist fine, but I am going to get what I came for." Rose stepped away from her corner as Mordred prepared a grenade. Rose pointed to everyone in turn as she introduced everyone around her to the newcomer. Oddly, She did not introduce herself.
The grenade bounced as it skidded into position. Mordred's skill was able to get it close enough his targets. The bots did not react to the grenade until it was too late. The blast hit the bots hard. Their internal circuits became overloaded by the blast and were paralyzed as well as badly damaged. | Name: Rose Anew
age: 22
skills: repair, science, stealth
SPECIALs: (40 points distributed between 7 stats. 10 being the highest and a minimum of 1.)
strength 3
perception 4
endurance 3
charisma 9
intelligence 9
agility 7
Luck 5
Equipment:
Antimatter rifle modded with lightframe, improved optics, bolt action
laser pistol modded with extended mags, and beam focuser.
10 mm pistol modded with laser sight, extended mags, and silencer
machete with sheath
camping backpack for carrying stuff |
52,320 | 1,418 | 34 | 1,732 | 16 | Chadrick took note of each of the given names and didn't focus too much on how insistently defensive they seemed to be. It's a hard wasteland. He supposed that everyone must build a defense in some way or another. Some wore power armor, some relied on wristbound old world tech. Some simply toted a large gun! Even he had built a defense for himself through the means of a sharp, silver tongue.
"Well Miss, as long as you don't need every half-inch nut you find I'll be getting what I need as well. That and some interesting companionship! It seems some strange fate has brought us here, so I doubt we'll be taken down by these simpletons now," Chadrick spouted. Upon finishing his thought he crept quickly into the room to scout out what was left of the enemies there. So as not to leave himself too exposed he crouched behind a desk near to the entrance of the room which harbored the robotic husks. | Name: Chadrick Knight
age: 200 (Ghoul)
skills: Science, Medicine, Speech
SPECIALs: (40 points distributed between 7 stats. 10 being the highest and a minimum of 1.)
strength 3
perception 4
endurance 3
charisma 8
intelligence 10
agility 4
Luck 8
Equipment: I am wearing a hazmat suit from Big MT, however instead of the green eyed cowl I am wearing a red eyed riot helmet. As weapons I have a cowboy repeater and a MF Hyperbreeder Alpha pistol. A backpack with a bedroll and some non-perishables like Cram and Sugar Bombs. Chadrick is a ghoul, therefore there are some wraps around his skin in some areas. Lastly a cyberdog, named Bark-imedes, he once rescued serves as his faithful companion.
Theme Song: Darude. Fuckin. Sandstorm. |
52,321 | 1,418 | 35 | 2,747 | 345 | Robert ducks out of the way as Mordred throws a grenade into the hall. He holds onto his rifle tightly and mentally prepares himself to take the next shot. However in the midst of all of this another person bursts into the room. He can't see his face as its over a helmet. He decides that since he isn't already shooting at them that he could be trusted for the moment. The man introduces himself as Chadrick he seemed only interested in nuts and bolts and Wilhelm seemed to trust him.
The grenade explodes in the hallway and he can visibly see the frustration on Phoenix's face as she is obviously irritated at the sheer number of people that have happened upon her secret treasure hunt. Though in the wastes its rare enough to have this many allies even if its temporary...though this gives him an idea.
Not having enough time to dwell on his thoughts he peeks around the corner and can quickly spot that the bots are having a momentary case of the paralysis.
"Good throw." he says as he aims his gun and fires at the non moving bot. At this distance it should be easy to hit and he quickly turns to the second bot and lets loose a second bullet firing both at the head of the bots. | Name: Robert Black
age: 29
skills: Guns, Sneak and Reapir
SPECIALs: (40 points distributed between 7 stats. 10 being the highest and a minimum of 1.)
strength 6
perception 3
endurance 5
charisma 4
intelligence 9
agility 8
Luck 5
Equipment: Antimaterial rifle, several pistols, "that gun", grenade launcher. Light metal armor. |
52,322 | 1,418 | 36 | 340 | 88 | Willhelm readied himself for once the plasma grenade went off he would charge as fast as he could. Miniguns and rocket launchers are great and all but useless if someone is to close. Well sometimes useless there was once a Ranger he met in the Mojave that could use a sniper rifle at close combat. Nearly blew his head off if it was not for a split second dodge. He heard the plasma grenade go off and he bolted down the hall way, he could see that they were paralyzed good just the chance he needed. Adrenaline kicked in and time seemed to slow down a bit, he prepared his sword for a horizontal swing to the bot on the right. Once he got to the bot he swung his blade horizontally then performed a stepping maneuver to place himself between the two bots, so the others can shoot with less chance of hitting him. | Name: Willhelm Might
age: 24
skills: Melee, Security, Persuasion
SPECIALs: (40 points distributed between 7 stats. 10 being the highest and a minimum of 1.)
strength 8
perception 6
endurance 8
charisma 5
intelligence 3
agility 4
Luck 6
Equipment: A titanium katana, days worth of Rations, Combat knife, brother hood of steel T-60 power armor, backpack to carry stuff, water skin, and a paper with his terms and condition as a mercenary.
Most of the time Willhelm is wearing his armor but when he is not he usually sporting light clothing. He has black hair cut short, six feet in height and is bulky. |
52,323 | 1,418 | 37 | 1,500 | 564 | Wilhelm's speed startled Rose a bit. She was quite familiar with people in power armor, but none of them ever used it to get in close enough to beat robots over the head with a metal cutting device. The Robot's weapon's twitched as they tried to overcome their paralysis and shoot Wilhelm. Wilhelm's blade cut deep into the belly of the Sentry bot. It severed many of the vital lines that made the Bot 'alive'. Wilhelm's quick side step saved him being shot in the back by Robert. Robert's bullets hit their marks effortlessly. They entered each bot's metal skulls, fragmented, and damaged the CPUs of the bots beyond repair. Both bots who had operated flawlessly for over 200 years now ceased to exist forever more.
Rose rounded the corner and approached the bots slowly with her rifle leading the way. Once she was confident they were 'dead' she slung her weapon. "Good work, boys. Willhelm, you earned your caps." Rose walked up to the heavy door. There was a terminal that governed the door. Rose activated it and unlocked the door. She did not need to hack the terminal, she had the code already. The door unlocked and opened. Inside was a small room with a large prewar databank like one might see in an overseer's office in the vaults. Rose enters the room. She pulled her pack off her back and began to look through it. She pulls out a small device and painstakingly attaches it into main terminal. She then go on the terminal and began to work. | Name: Rose Anew
age: 22
skills: repair, science, stealth
SPECIALs: (40 points distributed between 7 stats. 10 being the highest and a minimum of 1.)
strength 3
perception 4
endurance 3
charisma 9
intelligence 9
agility 7
Luck 5
Equipment:
Antimatter rifle modded with lightframe, improved optics, bolt action
laser pistol modded with extended mags, and beam focuser.
10 mm pistol modded with laser sight, extended mags, and silencer
machete with sheath
camping backpack for carrying stuff |
52,324 | 1,418 | 38 | 1,566 | 50 | Mordred walked down the hallway shortly after Rose, clapping Willhelm on the back on the way," Remind me never to challenge you to an arm wrestling contest." He then glanced back to where Robert was crouching," Nice marksmanship."
He stepped into the room he and his new... companions?... had fought for. Honestly, he had been expecting something more akin to a weapon locker or something more practical. However, this was Phoenix's salvage, Mordred respected that. Besides, the last thing he wanted was to have another anti-material rifle pointed at him.
He looked around the room, just skimming over it, to see if there was anything that took his attention. | Name: Mordred Smith
age: 18
skills: guns, explosives, survival
S 4
P 5
E 8
C 2
I 8
A 8
L 5
Equipment: Scoped 5mm carbine with extended magazines and foregrip, Gun Runner Caravan Guard Armor, Pip-Boy 3000GRMOD Prototype, M1911 handgun with extended magazines and detachable supressor, Combat Knife with optional bipod, scope , and suppressor, lightweight caravan guard travel pack, rations 1 day, Gun Runners employment papers.
Theme Song: Wasteland Soul by Miracle of Sound |
52,325 | 1,418 | 39 | 1,732 | 16 | Chadrick was both astonished and pleased at the gusto with which his companions took out the bots! Perhaps, he thought, he and Bark should stick around with this group, provided that they stayed together after whatever this ordeal currently is was finished.
After taking a moment to appreciate the handiwork of the mismatched travelers, Chadrick stood up, cracking his knees, and walked over to examine the, now exposed, innards of the sentry bots. After collecting the ammunition remaining within the gun barrels and carefully disarming the missile launcher, he laid out the 5mm bullets and missiles on a nearby table. He then began to work on gutting the robots by removing the wiring and salvaging what was not fried, sliced, or pierced by bullets. There wasn't much wiring that had been spared being cut short, the sensor modules were both quite damaged from bullet fire, and it seemed that the conductors were both intact, but upon close inspection Chadrick could tell that one of the conductors had been fried by the surge of plasma energy. He set the working conductor aside.
Chadrick was quite sure he would find the exact nut that he need for Bark, however it would take a minute or two of work to get to it. He pulled out a wrench and decided to make conversation. Seeing that the woman who was likely in charge was busy working at the terminal, he thought it best not to bother her. "So what brings you three here? Do you people have some sort of group going on here? The battle synergy is quite remarkable might I say," commented Chadrick, as he went about his work. | Name: Chadrick Knight
age: 200 (Ghoul)
skills: Science, Medicine, Speech
SPECIALs: (40 points distributed between 7 stats. 10 being the highest and a minimum of 1.)
strength 3
perception 4
endurance 3
charisma 8
intelligence 10
agility 4
Luck 8
Equipment: I am wearing a hazmat suit from Big MT, however instead of the green eyed cowl I am wearing a red eyed riot helmet. As weapons I have a cowboy repeater and a MF Hyperbreeder Alpha pistol. A backpack with a bedroll and some non-perishables like Cram and Sugar Bombs. Chadrick is a ghoul, therefore there are some wraps around his skin in some areas. Lastly a cyberdog, named Bark-imedes, he once rescued serves as his faithful companion.
Theme Song: Darude. Fuckin. Sandstorm. |
52,326 | 1,418 | 40 | 2,747 | 345 | Robert watched as the post apocalyptic samurai cut down one of the bots and his bullets penetrate the skulls of them afterwards. He made sure to note the speed and power granted to him by his power armor. This wasn't something he wanted to be on the receiving end of unless he was plenty far away. Those grenades weren't anything to sneeze at either. He had picked up a few in his travels but he wasn't very good at using them. He has only thrown one once and that cost him a stimpack or two for his legs. Taking a deep sigh he hesitantly put his gun away and lit a cigarette.
"Thanks" He responded to mordred. He found it unusual to have a compliment but it wasn't a bad thing. Another glance over the group the gears in his head begin to turn just a bit. Maybe. He found himself thinking. Maybe they could...nah. Lets just see how this pans out first.
Turning his attention to Rose as she walks past the bots he notices something strange. She didn't hack the mainframe. She knew the password. This was...odd. Very odd. Following his instinct he walks up to Rose and takes a glance at what it was that she was doing. He didn't want to steal her loot but he was not going to simply let his questions go unanswered.
"Knowing the password" He says in a low tone so that the others couldn't hear. "Isn't the normal way that people break into these things. What is it exactly that we just helped you get? I don't want to cut into your loot or anything but its just a tad suspicious isn't it?" | Name: Robert Black
age: 29
skills: Guns, Sneak and Reapir
SPECIALs: (40 points distributed between 7 stats. 10 being the highest and a minimum of 1.)
strength 6
perception 3
endurance 5
charisma 4
intelligence 9
agility 8
Luck 5
Equipment: Antimaterial rifle, several pistols, "that gun", grenade launcher. Light metal armor. |
52,327 | 1,418 | 41 | 340 | 88 | Willhelm removed his helmet revealing to all his goatee and black hair. He about his mid twenties with a scar here and there on his face. He makes a note of what everyone is doing and quickly checks his own blade and armor. His armor going to need some repairs after what the saw blade did to it. Also his Katana could use some detail work. He see's Chadrick doing some salvaging on the robots, maybe he could do the repairs. He chuckled at Mordreds comment on arm wrestling, so many times some drunk at a bar decided he was the toughest one alive. Will could see that Mordred, and Robert either looked like wanderers or Couriers.Though seeing a second anti matter rifle in one day is impressive.
He walks over the Chadrick and replies back to his question " I found this place by chance. I finished a contract at a neighboring town and went in the direction they gave me to the next town. I got lost and was burning up so I decided to come in to cool off, met Phoenix here and she offered some Caps to help deal with these robots. The rest is what you see here." He did not mind companions, since he left the Enclave he ran into different people here and there. Traveled with them then went separate paths. He usually pretty good with all kinds of people other then those who deal in slavery or causes problems to innocent people. | Name: Willhelm Might
age: 24
skills: Melee, Security, Persuasion
SPECIALs: (40 points distributed between 7 stats. 10 being the highest and a minimum of 1.)
strength 8
perception 6
endurance 8
charisma 5
intelligence 3
agility 4
Luck 6
Equipment: A titanium katana, days worth of Rations, Combat knife, brother hood of steel T-60 power armor, backpack to carry stuff, water skin, and a paper with his terms and condition as a mercenary.
Most of the time Willhelm is wearing his armor but when he is not he usually sporting light clothing. He has black hair cut short, six feet in height and is bulky. |
52,328 | 1,418 | 42 | 1,500 | 564 | Rose worked quickly at the terminal of the database. The Device she attached to the computer was blinking a steady green. She glared angerly over her shoulder as she is addressed by Robert. "I already let it slip the fact I tracked down this place. Of course I came prepared with the passcode. Those robots were not anticipated. They were probably activated when the building was abandoned." She began as she worked her way through the computer's files, "Information, my kind sir, my loot in information. My... employers are very interested in prewar information. prewar anything really..." Rose hits the computer in frustration. "Damn! it isn't here! ...looks like it was moved just before the bombs fell."
Rose turned to Robert, "You seem curious enough. also resourceful I could use someone like you." She walks out of the room to where most everyone was. Mordred found nothing special in the room except a ancient human skeleton probably left behind by some old poor soul who trapped himself inside. | Name: Rose Anew
age: 22
skills: repair, science, stealth
SPECIALs: (40 points distributed between 7 stats. 10 being the highest and a minimum of 1.)
strength 3
perception 4
endurance 3
charisma 9
intelligence 9
agility 7
Luck 5
Equipment:
Antimatter rifle modded with lightframe, improved optics, bolt action
laser pistol modded with extended mags, and beam focuser.
10 mm pistol modded with laser sight, extended mags, and silencer
machete with sheath
camping backpack for carrying stuff |
52,329 | 1,418 | 43 | 2,747 | 345 | Robert was taken aback for just a moment. The ice princess just gave him a compliment. Maybe he had read her wrong. Robert still wasn't sure at this point. Though if she was willing to ask him for help at some point perhaps he could ask her for help. Letting his hand fall unconsciously towards the opening of his backpack his mind flashes back to the package and his troubles with it. Though there were still questions to be answered.
"If you don't mind me asking" He starts "Who are your employers?" There is no shortage of people who are interested in pre-war items and information but someone had information on a building that allegedly had not been touched in 200 years. "You don't have to answer that question if you don't want. Its more of an idle curiosity I have. You can learn a lot from someone by who it is that they work for. Me for example is the one with the most caps that I don't put a cap in. I hope that gives you some insight into my character."
Walking with her so that he is now in the room with everyone else he continues.
"I've come across a certain predicament. The lot of you seem to be pretty capable." Glancing over at the newest newcomer "I haven't seen what you can do yet but my gut is telling me you are pretty good at handeling yourself. If nothing else you walked into a spray of blood, blades and robots without so much as batting an eye. You are either very stupid or have a giant brass pair." He nods twice before looking around at the rest of the group once again. "Anyone interested? There may be some interesting loot and definitely some caps in it." | Name: Robert Black
age: 29
skills: Guns, Sneak and Reapir
SPECIALs: (40 points distributed between 7 stats. 10 being the highest and a minimum of 1.)
strength 6
perception 3
endurance 5
charisma 4
intelligence 9
agility 8
Luck 5
Equipment: Antimaterial rifle, several pistols, "that gun", grenade launcher. Light metal armor. |
52,330 | 1,418 | 44 | 1,566 | 50 | Mordred had gathered his thoughts for answering Chadricks question, but stopped when he went to mark eye contact with Chadrick. Chadrick's eyes unnerved Mordred for some reason Mordred himself could not place. He made to brush the feeling aside, for he had already almost misjudged someone earlier that day, but the gut instinct held its ground almost admirably. Mordred did not know why, but his body did not trust Chadrick.
It was then Bob proposed his offer. Mordred shook his head with a small smile and said,"To be honest, I wouldn't care for caps or loot, I'm pretty well off as is, but I have nothing better to do at the moment so why not?"
This was bound to be one hell of a vacation. | Name: Mordred Smith
age: 18
skills: guns, explosives, survival
S 4
P 5
E 8
C 2
I 8
A 8
L 5
Equipment: Scoped 5mm carbine with extended magazines and foregrip, Gun Runner Caravan Guard Armor, Pip-Boy 3000GRMOD Prototype, M1911 handgun with extended magazines and detachable supressor, Combat Knife with optional bipod, scope , and suppressor, lightweight caravan guard travel pack, rations 1 day, Gun Runners employment papers.
Theme Song: Wasteland Soul by Miracle of Sound |
52,331 | 1,418 | 45 | 1,732 | 16 | Chadrick had finally found the nut he was searching for, just the right size to replace the one that secured and bolstered Barkimede's leg. It was about this time that Wilhelm answered his query. "I find it fascinating that everyone simply stumbled upon this place simultaneously." Chadrick was replacing his tools when he noticed that Mordred's body seemed to sigh with some internal conflict. He hoped he had not happened upon a bigot. However, if he had it would not be the first time. As he had lived a long time, he was very well traveled; it was apparent to him that bigots were common among those who had never in fact seen a ghoul who was non-feral.
Robert and the apparent leader of the group, the one whom Mordred referred to as Phoenix in combat, strolled from the terminal room. She looked quite displeased, perhaps she had not retrieved what she had come for, or perhaps the large man whom she was conversing with was irritating her. After they emerged, Robert gave his compliment which thoroughly pleased Chadrick. It seemed sincere. He liked sincere compliments.
"I too don't care as much for caps or loot, however I could use some money for supplies and food I suppose. I would greatly appreciate the companionship and accompanying adventure... Just as long as you don't mind one more coming along. Don't be alarmed, friends, he would be here already, but I worry for him in combat." With that being said, Chadrick turned towards the door and whistled a few precise pitches to signal Barkimedes. As the cyberdog ascended the stairs, Chadrick crouched down and held out one hand to receive the dog while holding up his other hand to caution the fellow travelers in the room not to shoot.
Bark crept slowly into the room and sat in front of Chadrick, who scratched under his chin affectionately. Chadrick turned to the group. "This here is my traveling companion, Barkimedes! Say hello, Bark," Chadrick commanded. The dog sat, let out a quiet woof, then proceeded to lay down. "And this-" Chadrick held up the nut, "is why I stumbled upon this place," he finished. He then examined Bark's hind leg and went about replacing the missing nut.
'Okay,' Chadrick thought, 'I think it's time.' "Lastly, friends. Don't be alarmed, but I am a ghoul." He hesitated, scanning the group's reactions, then proceeded to remove his helmet. As his helmet was off, his face was revealed. Along the back of his head were wraps of gauze and cloths that had likely not been replaced for some time. This was to cover the greatest extent of his hideous scarred tissue. His face was surprisingly not as vehemently ugly as most ghouls', however it was not untouched. Mostly, the scarred tissue was on his back and his left side, leaving his face looking similar to a prewar villain named Twoface, however not as cleanly divided. He braced himself for the worst and hoped his charm was enough to soften the impact of his reveal. Barkimedes whined quietly. | Name: Chadrick Knight
age: 200 (Ghoul)
skills: Science, Medicine, Speech
SPECIALs: (40 points distributed between 7 stats. 10 being the highest and a minimum of 1.)
strength 3
perception 4
endurance 3
charisma 8
intelligence 10
agility 4
Luck 8
Equipment: I am wearing a hazmat suit from Big MT, however instead of the green eyed cowl I am wearing a red eyed riot helmet. As weapons I have a cowboy repeater and a MF Hyperbreeder Alpha pistol. A backpack with a bedroll and some non-perishables like Cram and Sugar Bombs. Chadrick is a ghoul, therefore there are some wraps around his skin in some areas. Lastly a cyberdog, named Bark-imedes, he once rescued serves as his faithful companion.
Theme Song: Darude. Fuckin. Sandstorm. |
52,332 | 1,418 | 46 | 340 | 88 | Willhelm stand there with a bit of contemplation. It is visible that he had his hand on his blade ready to draw. At the same time he could see this one meant no harm. He has a strong code against attacking those who are innocent. He then said towards Chadrick "I will admit I never once met a none feral Ghoul. I have killed many Ghouls in my time and not one talked or showed civility. As long as you do not attempt to attack us I will not draw my blade against you. Other wise I would like to get to know you." He walks away towards Robert and says " I am a mercenary for hire, as long as the job does not go against my code of honor I will follow through with the contract." He could use the caps because he is kind of dead broke. | Name: Willhelm Might
age: 24
skills: Melee, Security, Persuasion
SPECIALs: (40 points distributed between 7 stats. 10 being the highest and a minimum of 1.)
strength 8
perception 6
endurance 8
charisma 5
intelligence 3
agility 4
Luck 6
Equipment: A titanium katana, days worth of Rations, Combat knife, brother hood of steel T-60 power armor, backpack to carry stuff, water skin, and a paper with his terms and condition as a mercenary.
Most of the time Willhelm is wearing his armor but when he is not he usually sporting light clothing. He has black hair cut short, six feet in height and is bulky. |
52,333 | 1,418 | 47 | 1,500 | 564 | Rose ignored the question Robert put to here. She did not need to reveal her employers quite yet. If she did, she would have to force this group of misfits to accompany here or kill them all. She really company nor did she think she could handle them all especially since the ghoul seemed to have a cyberdog. She remembered the reading about Cyberdogs as a child. They were not to be underestimated.
She scanned everyone in the area. They all really could be useful. She finally spoke, "Sorry, Robert. I am not in this for charity. You are going to have to do whatever it is by yourself. I must head to the nearby town of Thamien to radio in what I discovered here. Hopefully you will find your way there before I get orders to depart."
Rose walked up to Wilhelm and gives a curtsy, "Sir Willhelm, Forgive be I underestimated you. In fact, I was going to put a bullet in your back for several reasons. One is the fact you have power armor and another is I do not have 200 caps on me. I have roughly 100 on me. If accompany me to Thamien, I will get you the rest of your well deserved Caps. I will also repair your power armor." | Name: Rose Anew
age: 22
skills: repair, science, stealth
SPECIALs: (40 points distributed between 7 stats. 10 being the highest and a minimum of 1.)
strength 3
perception 4
endurance 3
charisma 9
intelligence 9
agility 7
Luck 5
Equipment:
Antimatter rifle modded with lightframe, improved optics, bolt action
laser pistol modded with extended mags, and beam focuser.
10 mm pistol modded with laser sight, extended mags, and silencer
machete with sheath
camping backpack for carrying stuff |
52,334 | 1,418 | 48 | 1,566 | 50 | Mordred quietly froze when Chadrick removed his mask. Ghouls...
The only experience in all 18 years of his life in which had seen a ghoul was the death of his father. He shivered at the thought, he had only been a todler at the time and had witnessed what a pack of feral ghouls could do to a man.
He tore his eyes away from Chadrick to occupy his vision with a crack on the wall. This ghoul was still civilized, but there was really no way for him to judge how long that would last. As far as Mordred knew or cared about ghouls, they all went feral eventually. | Name: Mordred Smith
age: 18
skills: guns, explosives, survival
S 4
P 5
E 8
C 2
I 8
A 8
L 5
Equipment: Scoped 5mm carbine with extended magazines and foregrip, Gun Runner Caravan Guard Armor, Pip-Boy 3000GRMOD Prototype, M1911 handgun with extended magazines and detachable supressor, Combat Knife with optional bipod, scope , and suppressor, lightweight caravan guard travel pack, rations 1 day, Gun Runners employment papers.
Theme Song: Wasteland Soul by Miracle of Sound |
52,335 | 1,418 | 49 | 2,747 | 345 | Robert shakes his head as Rose brushes aside his offer. He had expected as much but foolishly he had let himself hope. Though his eyes quickly dart up when she mentions the name of the town that she was going to go to.
"Well not to be the one to piss in your irradiated cereal but that is the city that I have to deliver my package too. You aren't with that bad of misfits are you? I don't have you pegged as one."
(sorry for short post been busy) | Name: Robert Black
age: 29
skills: Guns, Sneak and Reapir
SPECIALs: (40 points distributed between 7 stats. 10 being the highest and a minimum of 1.)
strength 6
perception 3
endurance 5
charisma 4
intelligence 9
agility 8
Luck 5
Equipment: Antimaterial rifle, several pistols, "that gun", grenade launcher. Light metal armor. |
52,336 | 1,418 | 50 | 1,500 | 564 | Rose turned to face Robert. She glared with some anger in her eyes, "If you assume my people are anything like those ruffians then you, Sir, are poorly mistaken. It might cost you your life. Anyways, Any who, Looks like you and I have something in common after all. You need to go to the same town as me. You need to deliver a package. I need my gear. Someone stands in both our ways and it is the same someone. Take point. You have my aid."
Rose may have told Robert to take the lead, but she turned to leave the building. She motioned to Willhelm, Mordred, and Chadrick to follow. | Name: Rose Anew
age: 22
skills: repair, science, stealth
SPECIALs: (40 points distributed between 7 stats. 10 being the highest and a minimum of 1.)
strength 3
perception 4
endurance 3
charisma 9
intelligence 9
agility 7
Luck 5
Equipment:
Antimatter rifle modded with lightframe, improved optics, bolt action
laser pistol modded with extended mags, and beam focuser.
10 mm pistol modded with laser sight, extended mags, and silencer
machete with sheath
camping backpack for carrying stuff |
52,337 | 1,418 | 51 | 340 | 88 | Willhelm sighed, not only is he not getting his caps but also has to move on when he wanted some rest. Well he put on his helmet and says "Alright I will follow you Rose since I was promised payment. Also Robert after these events I would not mind joining you as long as we fill out a proper contract and I get paid. I am a mercenary after all" He begins to follow Rose, he still a bit suspicious of her and a bit upset because of the lie. However she was honest so he can trust her to a point, hopefully that point does not lead him to the barrel of her gun. | Name: Willhelm Might
age: 24
skills: Melee, Security, Persuasion
SPECIALs: (40 points distributed between 7 stats. 10 being the highest and a minimum of 1.)
strength 8
perception 6
endurance 8
charisma 5
intelligence 3
agility 4
Luck 6
Equipment: A titanium katana, days worth of Rations, Combat knife, brother hood of steel T-60 power armor, backpack to carry stuff, water skin, and a paper with his terms and condition as a mercenary.
Most of the time Willhelm is wearing his armor but when he is not he usually sporting light clothing. He has black hair cut short, six feet in height and is bulky. |
52,338 | 1,418 | 52 | 1,500 | 564 | Rose got bored of waiting for everyone to get ready. She did not really know why she was waiting for them. Willhelm needed to follow her because she owed him money. Robert and herself were going to be headed in the same direction. Thusly, she reasoned those were going to be the only ones she would have to be traveling with. If Mordred or Chadrick and his robomutt were going to follow, Rose might have to question their motives. She dislikes being followed. In fact, she disliked being observed. This was the main quality that got her selected for this mission she was on. If these four bystanders proved their worth to her as she reclaimed her stuff from the besieged town of Thamein, she might have to make the case to her superiors that they may be able to help her to complete her mission.
Rose left the building without saying much more. She made her way across the way across the wastes towards Thamein. She walked with a great deal of alertness. Even something as harmless as a bloatfly made her seek cover and hid. She was more than armed enough to destroy a small lone bloadtfly, but she did not want to waste a bullet. Finally about an hour and a half before sundown, Rose and anyone following her got to the town of Thamein. She stopped behind the cover of a large boulder within sniper range of the town borders. A wall that had not been around the town had been raised with considerable haste. It was little more than a pile of junk. It would be effective however to deter attacks from anything short of deathclaws or organized military force.
Rose turns to the group, "Any thoughts on how you boys want to assault this place?" | Name: Rose Anew
age: 22
skills: repair, science, stealth
SPECIALs: (40 points distributed between 7 stats. 10 being the highest and a minimum of 1.)
strength 3
perception 4
endurance 3
charisma 9
intelligence 9
agility 7
Luck 5
Equipment:
Antimatter rifle modded with lightframe, improved optics, bolt action
laser pistol modded with extended mags, and beam focuser.
10 mm pistol modded with laser sight, extended mags, and silencer
machete with sheath
camping backpack for carrying stuff |
52,339 | 1,418 | 53 | 340 | 88 | While still wearing his armor Willhelm strokes were he chin would be. He begins to scan the town for anything noteworthy. "Not entirely sure this is a new place to me. Rose tell me everything you know about this place." In order to develop a proper strategy Will needed to know more then just that a junk wall been built around the town. | Name: Willhelm Might
age: 24
skills: Melee, Security, Persuasion
SPECIALs: (40 points distributed between 7 stats. 10 being the highest and a minimum of 1.)
strength 8
perception 6
endurance 8
charisma 5
intelligence 3
agility 4
Luck 6
Equipment: A titanium katana, days worth of Rations, Combat knife, brother hood of steel T-60 power armor, backpack to carry stuff, water skin, and a paper with his terms and condition as a mercenary.
Most of the time Willhelm is wearing his armor but when he is not he usually sporting light clothing. He has black hair cut short, six feet in height and is bulky. |
52,340 | 1,418 | 54 | 1,500 | 564 | Rose thought for a moment before answering, "This town was prewar. most buildings date from that era. No relevant technologies. Peaceful inhabitants for the most part. They left you alone as long as you did not make trouble. Town proper consists of 4 streets spanning out in the cardinal directions from a prewar courthouse that has been recently converted into the town church and market and seat of government. Buildings line the road providing plenty of cover. makeshift shaks do exist just off the main streets. Town has fresh water and grows own food which it uses to trade..." Rose stopped herself. She was sounding like a soldier. She had given the same report to he superiors not to long ago when she set up shop here. "Anything else you need. Does anyone else have anything to add." | Name: Rose Anew
age: 22
skills: repair, science, stealth
SPECIALs: (40 points distributed between 7 stats. 10 being the highest and a minimum of 1.)
strength 3
perception 4
endurance 3
charisma 9
intelligence 9
agility 7
Luck 5
Equipment:
Antimatter rifle modded with lightframe, improved optics, bolt action
laser pistol modded with extended mags, and beam focuser.
10 mm pistol modded with laser sight, extended mags, and silencer
machete with sheath
camping backpack for carrying stuff |
52,341 | 1,419 | 0 | 1,583 | 2,241 | the candle flickers . . .
They dreamed of a white dragon, a tree, a streetlamp haloed by moths. A glossed fangy grin, a shimmer of scales, twisted dark trunks that swayed and creaked and snapped, a deep howling hollow, a flicker in the lamplight. The wind smelled like salt and moss and blood and indigo. The leaves on the tree were shaped like faces. Someone was coming. The dragon opened its molten eye.
Wake up.
Alicia, Zosime, Dakota, Christopher, Sidwell
They'd been lying stiff on the floor for awhile now, rocking gently, surrounded by the wooden creak and muffled waves of a ship at sea. Gray foggy sunlight splintered through the seams of the domed ceiling and cast a dim light upon the room.
The floorboards and panels -- which had once long ago been straight and polished -- were rough with new bark. Sprigs of tiny bright leaves dotted the floor and the walls and quivered under the ceiling.
Thin vines webbed up the hexagonal column at the center of the room. The wooden column was also veiled in bark and little branches, but the intricate reliefs and carvings were still visible under the growth. On one side of the hexagon was an empty hollow and a faint imprint of a hand in the wood within. On the opposite side was a door.
The column rose six feet, and atop it rested a magnificent -- if tarnished -- brass telescope. It dominated the room, and must once have shimmered splendidly, but now it only stared blindly up at the closed ceiling while the skies passed outside.
Access to the eyepiece of the telescope could be obtained via a short staircase that rose along the wall. The stairs led to a small weedy platform from which the eyepiece could be grasped. There were, of course, stiff valves and switches attached to the eyepiece which could be used to adjust the view of the dark ceiling.
Farther along the wooded wall was another door, and then a mechanical lever fixed into the wall. The lever was rusted and knotted with stringy vines. A tough black cable ran up the wall from the lever and disappeared into the ceiling.
There were books here, crumbling in bookcases set into the walls and secured by creeping vines. A weathered, lichen-spotted table was nailed to the floor, and on it an orrery gleamed.
The orrery was the only thing that seemed untouched by age, though it sat dormant. Its clean brass sun -- the size of a grapefruit -- was circled by an array of mechanical planets supported by rods and gears and springs.
Below the floor came the low murmur of voices.
Moss, Tamara, Tommy, Elin, Chris
They lay among musty parchment and scattered pencils, a chaos of thrown books and two runaway globes that rumbled and rolled with the tilt of the room. It was dry here, and it smelled like old paper and ink and glue. All around them, wood creaked and groaned. Occasionally a ring of old iron keys tapped and jangled against the wall where they hung. Beside the keys was a door that -- given the glow of pale sunlight behind it and the louder sounds of the ocean -- must lead outside.
The floor, the walls and the ceiling were coated in new bark and sprouting little sprigs of leaves, as if the wood had come back to life. Few of the new sprouts on the floor had survived the constant trek of the globes that crushed them, and leaves lay withered and dead among the frayed maps. Almost all of the maps on the floor bore at least one X, scrawled in thick ink.
The center of the room was filled by a wide hexagonal column that stretched from floor to ceiling, and it was sprouted and rough with bark as if it fancied itself a tree. There had once been beautiful carvings in the column, depicting scenes from seafaring folklore -- but they had long ago been carved over by a madman's hand, which had gnawed runes and arrays and a crude carved picture of a dragon into the side of the column with a penknife. These carvings had been smoothed long ago by bark and thin webbed vines.
A crude map of an island was tacked to the column. On it was scrawled "Last known strike of feather" with an arrow pointing to a mountain at its heart.
On one side of the column was a small hollow, at chest height, in which sat a ratty stuffed bear with one eye. On the opposite side was a door.
Bookshelves spanned one wall, and wispy vines and struggling saplings filled the gaps where most of the books had been yanked and tossed on the floor long ago.
One shelf near the ceiling had been entirely cleared away, leaving only a small silver box. It was carved ornately with flowing patterns, and sat on silver feet like talons. All of the keys on the wall were far too big to fit the little silver lock.
Another sprouted wall held a dozen glass boxes, each of which contained the skeleton of a strange small creature -- some with two heads, others that appeared to be not quite lizards nor birds nor mice. Two of these boxes were empty.
A long table and four red-cushioned chairs were nailed to the floor, all of them covered in dust and scrolls and maps and ink. A long map of an ocean passage was held down on the table by two empty mugs, a magnifying glass and an oil lamp. A tripod was positioned over the map, and a sharp gleaming pendulum swung back and forth. There were traces of dark old blood on the pendulum and the map.
Beside the map was a hammer, and the crushed remains of bones in a shallow bowl. One of the little skeletons sat beside the bowl as if awaiting its fate.
Garren, Samira, Suichiro, Risa, Connor
They had been lying stiff on the floor for a long while before the gentle rock and creak and clink of wood and metal roused them. The stifling room was pungent with copper and cedar and oil and soot. The floor was spattered with old oil stains and charred by ancient accidents, which were hidden by new bark and sprigs of little leaves, as if the floorboards had begun to come back to life.
Four huge, lichen-pocked boilers dominated the room, surrounded by pipes, valves, gauges, levers, buttons and sprockets that crowded the thin corridors. A network of cold pipes crisscrossed overhead. Four deep wells -- two along each wall -- were filled with giant gears and slack cables. At each well was a ladder that led down into the dark crawlspaces below the floor.
The gears of one of the wells were jammed by splintered bones and tattered gray cloth.
Each of the six levers throughout the room had been locked into position with crude knotted chains. Wrenches and screwdrivers had been crushed and lodged between the gears' teeth. Buttons had been yanked from their seatings, the springy disks littered the floor.
The boilers were empty, and the burners hung open and black, invaded by creeping vines. At the far end of the room, plenty of coal sat unused in a metal closet. Beside it sat ravaged boxes of tools and oily singed gloves.
At the other end of the room was a locked door that led deeper into the ship; what dim light there was to see by shone down through a grate above the door. Beside it was a brass horn connected to a pipe that disappeared into the ceiling. Attached to the pipe was a switch, no doubt for the purpose of opening or closing communication with other decks.
On opposite walls, vine-wrapped metal ladders led up to locked trap doors in the ceiling. Dark oil lamps hung from nails on the walls.
At the center of the room, surrounded by walkways and boilers and ladders, was a tall, complicated nest of thin pipes, cables, gauges, gears and wires that undulated and wrapped around one another like the ornate trunk of a tree. The core of the messy and beautiful sculpture was a glass cylinder with delicate clamps inside it. Whatever this had been meant to protect was now gone. | Garren is approved. Please copy the CS to the Characters section.
Suichiro is approved. You know the drill! ;)
<Snipped quote by >
That is presumptuous considering your character hasn't been approved yet (at least as far as I see here). I would assume we could have some freedom in that aspect as kingdoms have risen and fallen throughout history and are not always large or written about. Something realistic for a time period should work pretty easilly.
<Snipped quote by >
In the Interest Check we only talked about having characters from different times (the examples were Middle Ages and Victorian). I believe the idea is to take people that are from a similar, common skill level and throw them into a fantasy beyond what we experience here on Earth.
Both drewccapp and t2wave are right. Everyone is from Earth. However, feel free to make up imaginary towns/kingdoms/etc. to suit your needs. But everyone is essentially from Earth. It therefore follows that everyone is human, no exceptions. I promise every character is special in other ways. ;)
Yay good to see you again! Alicia is approved. Please copy her CS to the Characters section.
The shift to balance looks good to me. Approved! Please copy the CS to the Characters section.
Dakota is approved! Please copy the CS to the Characters section.
Just gonna reserve a spot for my CS over here. Say, just asking, would an artist who was also a member of the local militia due to national obligations be considered someone in a 'violent' profession? They don't fight wars or do any fighting, they just pretend to be soldiers one week out of every month, or something along those lines.
This would count as something that'd need to be balanced. Just point out in the CS that the character has little experience and you're good to go. :)
Ah. Then there is perhaps something I missed. Could you point me to the precedent so I could be better informed?
I can answer that! drewccapp is referring to a very similar RP that I'm also running that she's also a part of. Her character there is from a made-up kingdom. Which is totally OK in this RP too!
Did I get everyone? -- I gotta go, I'll be back in a few hours! |
52,342 | 1,419 | 1 | 693 | 1,157 | Engine Room
Suichiro sat up slowly and with a weak wince. Lying on stiff boards with no cushioning wasn't comfortable in any way. He stretched slowly, first wondering how he ended up sleeping on the floor. Then he opened his eyes and saw the unfamiliar room. "Eh?"
He stood up and dusted himself off of some splinters. He could tell from the gentle rocking motion that he was on a ship of some sort, but when did he get here? He had gone to sleep at home with his wife, not here. He scanned the room and noticed he wasn't alone. There were four others. He wearily walked over to what clearly was a device for communicating to the other decks. He flicked the switch on and spoke into the device. "Hello?" He didn't really expect anyone to respond, at least not anyone on the other end of the pipes. He could hope that someone was there to explain what was going on at least.
He paced around not too far from the communication pipes waiting for someone to say something. He stopped briefly to look inside of the horn before he resumed waiting for a response. | Name: Suichiro Hamani
Age: 21
Occupation: Gardener
Personality: Suichi is a kind soul. He loves plants and animals, especially cats. He is a hard worker that tries to inspire others to have the same work ethic. When he is pushed into a corner his personality becomes very direct and takes all actions possible to deal with the issue at hand. While he can end up regretting the decisions he makes, he doesn't let that stop him from moving forward.
History: Suichi was raised by his father and never knew his mother who died during childbirth. He was fortunate to have survived himself and until he turned 17 had health issues that prevented him from too much phyiscal activity. He spent a lot of his time in his father's flower shop and inherited his father's enjoyment of the job. He ended up taking over the shop when his father retired and ran a successful business with his wife. Now he's happy with his life... but not for long... |
52,343 | 1,419 | 2 | 2,356 | 5,042 | Map Room
Was it the rocking or the unsettling rumble of the globes that moved freely about? Whatever it was Chris woke only to be greeted by an entirely unfamiliar setting. The question that first came to his mind was "Where am I?" He had a flashback to waking up on the floor after passing out and asking himself the same question. Unlike then there was no mistaking this was somewhere new and very unusual. The rocking and creaking as the wood settled brought up images of wooden ships the likes of which one only saw in movies.
Sitting up he first noticed the movement of the globes. Not finding that particularly important at the moment he came to the realization that other were in the room as well. A large burly man, two young women, and a teenager. Should he attempt to wake them? Probably, one of them may know what was going on. Stepping over to each he nudged them on the shoulder and spoke. "God I hope one of them knows what's going on." Having disturbed the lot he began to look around the room again. There was not the greatest of lighting here. Figuring that the outside lay behind the door he stepped over to open it. | Name: Risa Robinson
Age: 22
Appearance:
Occupation: Writer
Personality: Risa is the type of person that will start a conversation with anyone around her as long as she has something to talk about. While she appears to be able to handle a lot of things she often doubts herself and worries when something does not go as planned. She has a need to things to go the way she wants, but that is because she is afraid of losing control of the things she can control. She does her best to do what other wants, but inside often gets annoyed at people and wants nothing to do with them. At times her immaturity comes through when she lashes out in anger or starts crying in frustration. As much as she tries to look at things optimistically, the truth is she had a negative view on life and the people around her.
History: Risa was born into a middle class family in the year 2000. He was the second child of three. They did not have much as a child, but that never bothered her. She loved her family and she wanted noting more than to be around them. She was not the most popular kid in school, but she quickly found a love of books. She found enjoyment in a good adventure in a book rather than playing tag with her classmates. As she grew older all she wanted to do was become a writer. She spent a lot of her free time writing the ideas that came to her head. When she started high school her parents pushed her to become an accountant. She found that she liked the class and applied to study it in university as a backup plan.
It was in her second year her book became published and she dropped out of her program to focus on her stories. It did not take long for her book to get popular and she started to work on her next hit. Even though she had made it with her first book she was very worried about writing a book that would be just as good or even better than her first one. |
52,344 | 1,419 | 3 | 345 | 92 | Engine Room
Risa moaned as she started to wake up. She could tell that her pillow was missing and without opening her eyes she looked for it. He alarm had not yet gone off, so she was going to sleep until it did. That was until she felt that she was not touching the hardwood of her home, but something else. She opened her eyes and found that she was not in her bedroom or even her office. She thought for a second if she had gone out the night before, but she clearly remembered that she had gone to sleep in her bed.
She noticed the door and quickly ran to it and tried to open it, but since it was locked it did not budge. It was at that moment that she realized the she was trapped in the room. She took a deep breath in attempt to keep herself calm. She was in a strange place and she could not afford to panic. If she was kidnapped by someone then it was only a matter of time before they came back. Maybe she could hide and get them from behind when they came in.
She started to look around and that was when she noticed that she was not alone. Her thoughts went from kidnapping to black market organ ring. Why did she have to think about things so negatively all the time. 'stay positive,' she told herself mentally. At least she was not in the room alone. She made her way over to the male that was beside the horn. "Let me guess you went to sleep in your bed as well?" She had heard him say hello to the horn she decided to see if there was going to be a response. She knew very little about how these machines worked. She had studied accounting and was a writer now. Give her something to do on paper and she would be able to do it. But to actually get these things to work or get out was another thing. "I'm Risa." | Name: Moss
Age: 18
Appearance: Moss is a ratty child. She’s just below average height and slim as any hunger-borne kid could be expected to be. Being an Irish immigrant hasn’t afforded her much in the way of a healthy living, but it has given her a lean layer of muscle hidden beneath her scrawny form. Red hair so dark it might be blood is chopped short upon her head, and usually sits beneath a rugged old bolero that’s seen its share of fair and foul weather.
The most striking thing about her physical appearance is doubtlessly her eyes; two nearly reflective icy-blue orbs often give people the impression that she’s always sizing them up.
Occupation: Con artist
Personality: Moss is a bit cheeky in all of the things she does. She’s a fair share pugnacious and a fair share diplomatic, but whether she’s playing you in a game of cards with a cold deck or getting ready to go fist-to-fist, it can be said for certain that she’ll be doing it with a silver tongue. Well, as silver as something can be when it’s tarnished with cursing and other such vile.
All in all Moss is a bit of a bitter pill. She doesn’t take much seriously, and when she does it’s hard to tell whether she’s being patronizing or sincere. And though “loyal” is never a word that could be attributed to her, when she does happen to hold someone close enough to be considered a “friend”, she’s loathe to see them hurt to any serious degree. That doesn’t mean she won’t lie or cheat or steal from them, but she might feel a bit bad about doing afterwards, and might slip a few coins their way later on.
History: Once upon a time Moss ran with a caravan of gypsies, comprised mostly of Irish, Spanish, and Slavic immigrants. As with most of the children in the caravan, they were parented by more or less anyone who would give them the time of day. This led to her having to get a loose grasp on a few languages, which never really stuck, and in the end most of her time was spent around an Irish boxer and a Spanish “magician”.
As far as parental figures went, the boxer made a good enough mother, and for the brief time that the Spaniard was around he at least gave her a few tricks to build on.
Had she herself stuck around for long after her sixteenth birthday, she might have wanted to follow in the Irishwoman’s path. After all, scrapping was fairly common in the caravan, and Moss had gotten into her fair share of brawls with some of the other kids. But in the end she just couldn’t keep still, and somewhere in the mess of the California gold rush she broke away from the caravan and made a home for herself in San Francisco.
Home here meaning that she spent the following two years scamming fools from their gold with little more than her wit and a deck of cards, which never, ever left her person. |
52,345 | 1,419 | 4 | 693 | 1,157 | Engine Room
All Connor wanted was just a good night's rest.
The day before had been incredibly taxing. Not only was it the coldest day of the year, it was also the one day when he had to marshal out with the rest of his regiment to go on some exercise to prove that yes, they still knew how to fight. Even though he went along with it like every other militiaman, Connor never saw a point to the exercises. The Shetlands were about as far away from civilization as one could get without going to darkest Africa or the ends of the Earth. The most 'action' they ever saw just involved a handful of them sailing out to chase away Danish or Norwegian fishermen who entered British waters.
He was so worn out by the time he got home that he had simply just dropped his rifle on the floor and fell face-first into his bed, still wearing his uniform. Washing up was something that could wait till the next day, he had thought. At that point in time, he wanted nothing more than to just close his eyes and sleep. Thus, when he woke up and found himself in a place which he could only describe as being a cross between a dream and nightmare, he felt his heart skip more than just a single beat.
He quickly got to his feet and looked around him. There were others with him, some asleep, two awake and seemingly busy doing something with some odd contraption that he had never seen before. In fact, the entire room was alien to him; it looked like one of the engine rooms of the steamers which occasionally docked at the Shetlands for resupply, but at the same time, it looked far too advanced, like something out of a writer's imagination. He did not like this at all, but forced himself to remain calm. There was no way he was going to get anything done if he started panicking, though for the first time, he found himself wishing he had his rifle with him.
The second thing he did was to look down at his own body. Yes, he was still in his uniform, and it still looked as dirty as it was when he fell asleep in it. He took a look at each of the people around him. While they looked normal - or at least what he thought was normal - he still found himself feeling more at ease when he felt the hilt of his sword bayonet, even though it was notched and worn from being used for everything other than its intended purpose.
Once he had gotten his bearings, he figured that if he was going to find his way out, he was going to have to work with the people around him. The two studying the contraption looked approachable enough, and so Connor carefully made his way towards them. "This was not how I wanted to wake up," He said and cleared his throat, trying to keep his tone as light as he could. "Connor O'Flaherty. I take it neither of you know what's going on either?" | Name: Suichiro Hamani
Age: 21
Occupation: Gardener
Personality: Suichi is a kind soul. He loves plants and animals, especially cats. He is a hard worker that tries to inspire others to have the same work ethic. When he is pushed into a corner his personality becomes very direct and takes all actions possible to deal with the issue at hand. While he can end up regretting the decisions he makes, he doesn't let that stop him from moving forward.
History: Suichi was raised by his father and never knew his mother who died during childbirth. He was fortunate to have survived himself and until he turned 17 had health issues that prevented him from too much phyiscal activity. He spent a lot of his time in his father's flower shop and inherited his father's enjoyment of the job. He ended up taking over the shop when his father retired and ran a successful business with his wife. Now he's happy with his life... but not for long... |
52,346 | 1,419 | 5 | 1,951 | 317 | Observatory
Christopher knew that he had quite a bit to drink but it was weird for him to have this much of a rocking sensation, plus he didn't own a water bed so it really didn't make sense to him. He had stirred a little bit more and seen that it was day time but it didn't have the same level of light that he was used to have come through his windows. The moment that Christopher had noticed that something was out of the usual was when he picked up the scent that just wasn't right. He could tell that the scent was salt not just salt that you would reason your food with but salt water. This startled him because there wasn't any salty body of water for literally hundreds of miles.
Christopher decided to sit upright and observe the space that he currently occupying. The first thing that he seen was a giant pillar in the middle of the room, with a ladder leading to the top. It had something sitting on top of it but he hasn't figured out what it was quite yet. He also noticed that he wasn't the only person who was in the room there were some other people who were lying on the ground also. He went to the first person and gave them a quick little shake but they didn't respond to it. He looked closely seeing that the chest was raising and falling meaning that they were alive, which he was grateful to see. He went to the other three people that were occupying the room with him and did the same thing but had the same response each time.
The next thing that caught his eye was the bookcase filled with books. It was made with a type of wood that he had never seen before in his life. It was quite a nice looking wood, he took his hand and let it glide across the surface. The wood was treated perfectly giving it a nice looking finish. He took a quick glance at all of the books that were on the shelf also but out of all of the books eligible to read he had never seen any of them in his life. There had been one book however that had looked brand new, almost looked like it was fresh out of a bookstore. The only thing that looked brand new in this place. Christopher tried to take the new book off of the shelf but it wouldn't move, it seemed almost like it was one with the shelf and wouldn't ever move.
What kind of situation has he gotten himself into this time. Maaaan he was never going partying with two Russian woman at the same time again. | Name: Christopher Casablanca
Age: 28
Appearance: Not the exact same tattoos, my RP character will two tribal sleeves.
Occupation: High-End Furniture Maker
Personality: Christopher is a man with a taste for finer things which was what made him decide on the profession that he has chosen. He might seem rather snooty because he likes to make his opinion well known and potentially create arguments if he is passionate about his topic. He does enjoy the company of other level headed individuals.
History: Christopher had a tough life growing up, mother and father both held two jobs just to keep enough food on the table to keep them from starving. Both of his parents abused numerous substances to numb everything in the world around them after getting home, so it was the job of Christopher to take care of his younger twin brothers who were 9 years younger. After Christopher finished high school he went onto learn how to make furniture which provided much better than his parents had been able to so Christopher had gone onto become legal guardians to his two brothers.
When his two brothers were in school Christopher would go to his workshop and make a living but this wasn't what he wanted to do all his life was to make decent furniture while just keeping afloat, so when his brothers started participating in afterschool activities Christopher went back to school to learn more technical procedures and how different woods were to be treated.
When both of his brothers turned 19 and went off to college for higher education Christopher put his nose to the grindstone and made a name for himself in the home decor world. One night after signing a large deal that would change his world as he knew it, he decided to hit the downtown nightlife. After picking up two fine ladies at a bar they went back to his place for a different kind of party. That was the last thing that Christopher remembered ... |
52,347 | 1,419 | 6 | 150 | 2,985 | Observatory.
The awakening wasn't quick. Sidwell shuddered and a blurring sea of vision leaked back into his eyes, but for him, one dream had merely given way to another, for he was well used to shutting the real world out of his mind. Soon, almost forcibly, he dozed again.
When the gentler dreams had tugged Sidwell's drifting body back to the shallows by the shoulder, he began to feel the intrusiveness of his new surroundings. The hardness, pushing his poorly covered bones back into him. He'd slept in worse places, but not for a long while, and this was not the feel of a hammock. His ears opened. Creaking, yes, but no wind with it. Why was his cabin creaking if there wasn't a storm?
His body woke with a shudder of effort, pushed against the floor, blinked wide. Nothing but fuzz. They blinked again, straining. Slits of light in the roof, then walls. Not his walls. Grander than that, and greener. Everything felt green, just softly greening away in the quiet. Sitting position. His eyes reached the floor and found the others.
Shock finally found Sidwell, shaking him, throwing a hand before his mouth, backing up until his shoulders hit a hard surface. He stood, still in the workwear he had fallen asleep in, still pressing against the wall at his back as if it could save him. Then surely I have died, and this is Hell. For Sidwell had never known any alternative answer to a change such as this. Prayed desparately in his whispers, his free hand made a cross on himself, but his eyes did nothing but gaze at them, the strangers, the foreigners. They were three, all sleeping. A young woman in a red framework mask and two children, one with almost long hair, one completely bald, the first with almost thick enough clothes for a snow, the second in jewels of a noble's son. They were likely no more than fifteen and twelve, by height. Both were from nowhere near Flidais. They had no such look about them.
The fourth object on the floor was his hat. Thoughts interrupted, Sidwell stooped to take it back up, relishing its familiarity. It fit as well as if he had woven it for himself, and he had. It brought comfort.
In a better state of mind, Sidwell saw the curved shape of the room, and turned to follow it. He had been leaning against not a wall but a great pillar, supporting at its head a vast tubular object completely foreign to him. And the pillar, too, was green with vines. Under it was wood. Hell is the place where the worms never die, nor the fire is ever quenched. There is no fire here. There were even books, under the green- Many, many books, more than he'd ever seen even at a monastery. They brought up poor memories. There was a low table. Sidwell stepped towards it, squinting at the oddly elegant tangle of brass rings and spheres resting on it, unwilling to touch what seemed to have an importance all of its own, and a value likely greater than his own life. He turned further, restless. A man, this one wakeful, with his back to him and his face to a shelf. He wore, like the child, well-dyed and well-made clothes. There were black marks on his arms.
Sidwell removed his hat and took a step, then stopped. He did not know what he'd see if the man showed his face to him. Demon? Or merely another sufferer in this strangest circle of Hell?
What God has ordained, let be, he thought, and stepped a little closer. "God bless you and the day, friend," he spoke aloud. | Name: Connor O'Flaherty
Age: 25
Appearance: Connor is a rather unimpressive person, being of average height and build. Muscular enough for people to believe that he is in the militia, but not so muscular that he looks more of a brute than an artist. He has ginger hair, cut short to militia standards, but it still licks at his brows and collar of his shirt. As if nature had decided to make him look like distilled-Irish, he has bright, green eyes.
Occupation: Artist/Militiaman
Personality: Some might call him a coward, but Connor prefers to describe himself as being more discerning as to the types of risks he is willing to take. Who cares if his reputation suffers when he runs from a fight he's absolutely confident of losing? As long as he is in one piece and is able to function properly the next day, it's all fine by him. Besides, he never puts himself forward as a warrior; he's an artist first and a soldier second. A very, very, very far second.
He is rather open with his thoughts, though that has less to do with lack of tact and more to do with having lived much of his adult life on an island faraway from civilization. Sometimes it may even appear that he is talking to himself, but he's not crazy. It's just a method he uses to prevent his train of thought from derailing, though from the disjointed thoughts that comes of his mouth, it can be hard to believe. Just trust in that he knows what he's doing. Most of the time.
History: An Irishman living in Scotland while serving an Englishman trying hard to be Scottish. Don't worry if that confuses you; sometimes Connor feels the same as well. Born to an impoverished Irish family in Victorian-era London, to say that Connor had a rough childhood would be an affront to the phrase 'massive understatement'. If the other - usually English - street urchins didn't make his life hell, then the deep-seated against the Irish, especially Irish Catholics like his family, did. If a day went past without him or his family being wrongfully accused of a crime, or he did not have to run away from anyone, Connor would have taken it as a wonderful day.
In a rather roundabout attempt to show others that they were a good, British family, Connor's father pressured him to join the army in some capacity. The best outcome would be that Connor would be sent off to fight in some faraway corner of the globe for Queen and Country, and his father would be able to proudly say that at least one member of his family was doing some good to the British Empire. Connor, however, wanted to have none of that. He loved drawing, and usually spent whatever spare time he had sketching out scenes from his life onto whatever scraps of paper he had. Soldiering was not for him; Connor wanted to be an artist.
After several arguments and failed attempts to physically pull Connor to a recruitment office, he and his father settled on a compromise. Instead of joining the regular force, Connor would join the territorial army. He would never be sent overseas, and as long as he pretended to be sad about it every time a war broke out, he would still appear to be a good little patriot. Even better, Connor had to option of choosing where he wanted to be posted, and he chose to be sent to the Shetland Islands, or as his father called it, the 'arse of the British isles'.
It was a perfect life for Connor. The Shetlands were faraway from the mainland enough that he was rarely ever called for service, and as long as he fulfilled his yearly requirements of showing up to prove that he could still fire a rifle, stand in a file and fight alongside his regiment of fellow misfits, he was left alone. The islands were also quiet, and provided no shortage of scenery for him to sketch, and eventually, paint. It was not long before his talents were noticed by a rather wealthy local who then hired Connor to produce his works of art for various auction houses. The money, while not amazing, was good, and Connor felt himself believing in the whole 'luck of the Irish' thing.
Oh, if only he knew where he would wake up. |
52,348 | 1,419 | 7 | 2,356 | 5,042 | Map Room
Moss' reaction was far from what Chris expected. Forgoing opening the door he took a step back and held his hands out where she could see them. "Whoa whoa, no one is going to do anything." He glanced at the other two. "At least I won't." He put one hand down and used the other to lift his glasses back into place. The woman's accent was definitely Irish, but that could mean several things. She had asked a question that he had no real answer to.
Taking another look around the room for anything familiar he was drawing a blank. He should probably be terrified about waking up in a strange place but it hadn't quite sunk in. He checked his pocket real quick and found his phone missing. This was bad, or at least it was looking to be that way. If neither of them had any idea what was going on they they may have both been abducted. "I don't know where we are. This isn't where I fell asleep. And my things seem to be missing. We might both be in a lot of trouble." The concern was starting to show in his expression and for the moment it didn't seem to be directed at Moss. Something else was occupying his mind, namely where they could be and why. A ship for sure, but that didn't mean a lot. There was a lot of ocean. | Name: Risa Robinson
Age: 22
Appearance:
Occupation: Writer
Personality: Risa is the type of person that will start a conversation with anyone around her as long as she has something to talk about. While she appears to be able to handle a lot of things she often doubts herself and worries when something does not go as planned. She has a need to things to go the way she wants, but that is because she is afraid of losing control of the things she can control. She does her best to do what other wants, but inside often gets annoyed at people and wants nothing to do with them. At times her immaturity comes through when she lashes out in anger or starts crying in frustration. As much as she tries to look at things optimistically, the truth is she had a negative view on life and the people around her.
History: Risa was born into a middle class family in the year 2000. He was the second child of three. They did not have much as a child, but that never bothered her. She loved her family and she wanted noting more than to be around them. She was not the most popular kid in school, but she quickly found a love of books. She found enjoyment in a good adventure in a book rather than playing tag with her classmates. As she grew older all she wanted to do was become a writer. She spent a lot of her free time writing the ideas that came to her head. When she started high school her parents pushed her to become an accountant. She found that she liked the class and applied to study it in university as a backup plan.
It was in her second year her book became published and she dropped out of her program to focus on her stories. It did not take long for her book to get popular and she started to work on her next hit. Even though she had made it with her first book she was very worried about writing a book that would be just as good or even better than her first one. |
52,349 | 1,419 | 8 | 2,290 | 156 | Observatory
Zosime wasn't consciously aware of being gently shaken, but it was probably what started her on the path to wakefulness. Half in a dream, she was vaguely aware of the wrongness of her surroundings. Lying on her stomach, her face buried in the crook of her elbow, Zosime was sleeping aware that she shouldn't feel the texture of bark under her hand, shouldn't be gently rocking, and shouldn't be able to smell salt in the air. She should have been in her quarters in the temple of Sekhmet, sleeping on her hard pallet, incense lingering in the air from last night's ritual, when the chosen among the priestesses had consumed huge amounts of wine to turn aside Sekhmet's wrath.
But she was more asleep, and these glaring contradictions didn't immediately trouble her somnolent mind. Her hand idly fiddled with a small cluster of leaves growing out of the deck beside her, rubbing the smooth surfaces between forefinger and thumb, and tucked her face tighter into her arm, shielding her eyes from the light.
What jolted her awake was the sound of a man's voice. She did not understand the words, which was worrisome in itself, but it was clearly a male voice, and men were not supposed to be in the female quarters. Ever. With a yelp, she scrambled to her feet, stumbling when she realized she had been lying on the floor instead of the slight elevation of her pallet. She whirled around, taking in the bizarre surroundings - a gently rocking room full of weird things and made of apparently living wood - before taking in the people who were present.
Two were asleep, like she had been; a male and a female, both dressed in incredibly strange clothing. The other two, clearly her captors, were standing. Both were very tall men, both were bearded, and one was tattooed. This did not seem to be good news. She crossed her arms in front of herself, noting that she seemed to be fully dressed - did she even remember returning to her quarters after the ritual? - and levelled her very best glare.
They looked pretty disreputable, and hairy, so Zosime decided to speak in aramaic when she demanded, "Who are you? Where am I? Why have you brought me here?" | Name: Tommy Burma
Age: 25
If someone had lived in a cave their whole life and asked "What does a man look like?" you would probably describe to them Tommy. A large man, very muscular from lifting and swinging heavy things all day, he is what every man dreams of being. He has rough skin, a dark beard and dark eyes, a very dominant punnet square for a very dominant human being. He is covered in hair all over and is usually covered in dirt, sweat and sometimes blood.
Occupation: Would you believe me if I said Lumberjack?
Personality: Tommy is a hard working man, but the fact is, work is all he knows. He was an orphan who ran away at the age of 16 and ran north until he was taken in by a group of lumberjacks who fed him and taught him their trade. He is loud and wales with his deep voice, but not obnoxious and a considerably meek and humble man for his size. He loves to talk and sing as he works. He is not much of a ladies man though, not because of his looks of coarse, but because of his only seeing a handful in his life in the occasional bar or market. He isn't clumsy, but sometimes he doesn't know his own strength and has been known to accidentally break small objects. When he started cutting in the forest he was weak and frail, and built himself up to the man he has become. He gained much respect among his "family" and many began to look up to him, even in his youth. Due to this, he is a great leader but a great follower as well.
History: From the Forests of Canada in the late 1930s |
52,350 | 1,419 | 9 | 345 | 92 | MAP ROOM
Moss didn't lower release her hammer, but she did seem to relax a little bit. The more she looked at the guy the less she was afraid of him, and the less she thought that he was the one to have done this. He didn't look like a sailor, in fact he didn't look like much of anything she'd ever seen. Besides, he was unarmed as far as she could tell.
Her attention turned back to the room, and she scuttled over to the long map on the table she'd snagged the hammer from. It was...definitely a map, that was for sure. It looked like one anyway, or what she imagined a map looked like -she'd never actually seen on before. Her interest in it died, and she looked back to the other bodies on the floor. She had half a mind to rifle their pockets, a few of these bastards looked pretty well off.
"Lot o' poor shites here," she mumbled, giving one a little kick to the foot, as if to test if they were awake. There was a burly man she thought might be most at home far from the sea, and a girl who looked...odd, to the say the least. Colorful. She had short hair though, like her. Then there was.
"Fok'n-" She jolted in surprise at the sight of Elin. "What the bloody hell is that?" | Name: Moss
Age: 18
Appearance: Moss is a ratty child. She’s just below average height and slim as any hunger-borne kid could be expected to be. Being an Irish immigrant hasn’t afforded her much in the way of a healthy living, but it has given her a lean layer of muscle hidden beneath her scrawny form. Red hair so dark it might be blood is chopped short upon her head, and usually sits beneath a rugged old bolero that’s seen its share of fair and foul weather.
The most striking thing about her physical appearance is doubtlessly her eyes; two nearly reflective icy-blue orbs often give people the impression that she’s always sizing them up.
Occupation: Con artist
Personality: Moss is a bit cheeky in all of the things she does. She’s a fair share pugnacious and a fair share diplomatic, but whether she’s playing you in a game of cards with a cold deck or getting ready to go fist-to-fist, it can be said for certain that she’ll be doing it with a silver tongue. Well, as silver as something can be when it’s tarnished with cursing and other such vile.
All in all Moss is a bit of a bitter pill. She doesn’t take much seriously, and when she does it’s hard to tell whether she’s being patronizing or sincere. And though “loyal” is never a word that could be attributed to her, when she does happen to hold someone close enough to be considered a “friend”, she’s loathe to see them hurt to any serious degree. That doesn’t mean she won’t lie or cheat or steal from them, but she might feel a bit bad about doing afterwards, and might slip a few coins their way later on.
History: Once upon a time Moss ran with a caravan of gypsies, comprised mostly of Irish, Spanish, and Slavic immigrants. As with most of the children in the caravan, they were parented by more or less anyone who would give them the time of day. This led to her having to get a loose grasp on a few languages, which never really stuck, and in the end most of her time was spent around an Irish boxer and a Spanish “magician”.
As far as parental figures went, the boxer made a good enough mother, and for the brief time that the Spaniard was around he at least gave her a few tricks to build on.
Had she herself stuck around for long after her sixteenth birthday, she might have wanted to follow in the Irishwoman’s path. After all, scrapping was fairly common in the caravan, and Moss had gotten into her fair share of brawls with some of the other kids. But in the end she just couldn’t keep still, and somewhere in the mess of the California gold rush she broke away from the caravan and made a home for herself in San Francisco.
Home here meaning that she spent the following two years scamming fools from their gold with little more than her wit and a deck of cards, which never, ever left her person. |
52,351 | 1,419 | 10 | 2,356 | 5,042 | MAP ROOM
~~~Dream Sequence~~~
Running wild as he jumps from roof to roof, he flies through the air as he grabs hold of the hang rail as he flips a bit and lands on his feet sliding down as his tail sways from side to side. He hits the bottom crashing through a pool of water before he reached out to his goal, a bright ball of light as he was about to reach it he got hit from the side as he lost reach of his dream and opened his eyes
~~~DS Break~~~
A young boy with cat ears was nudged as this disrupted his dream somewhat, he opened his eyes slightly as he was still sleepy. He was not able to hear what was said and just dosed back off to sleep not even understanding the situation he was in as he curled up into a ball like a cat would. Though it appeared strange from a human body, his flexibility was definitely really good not that it mattered right now as he drifted back off into dream land
~~~Dream Sequence Continued~~~
As he was falling to the side his goal having drifted further away he crashed into the water as he felt his entire world swaying which was strange. He never had this feeling before and did not understand it as he looked around, he was now all alone in a blank empty space as he was not sure what this meant. He forgot what he was chasing and why he was there as he searched in the blank empty space. Things were boring and he began to think he was trapped in some kind of facility like a lab, maybe he got a disease and they were checking up on him. He was a bit worried since sometimes if the disease is too dangerous they take you to a white room and then explode you with explosions. This term would make no sense in the distant past as being exploded with explosions exploding explosions was something invented by a mad man of the past. As he waited he just felt a sharp pain as his entire world exploded.
~~~Dream Ends~~~
He heard some strange noise and he heard some strange language asking what bloody something was there. He could not understand it and then he blinked a few times as his eyes tried to adapt to the light as his cat ears twitched from left to right and all around picking up different sounds. He blinked a few more times before his eyes slowly began to accommodate the lighting of the area. He saw some strange old guy with some strange object over his eyes, he had never seen something like that before and he was about to look around further when he looked at the strange red head, he had not seen that colour in a long time. The last time he saw it was when he jumped and hit a wall and scratched himself a bit, then a while later the healing bots would patch him up and then placed some soft bouncing pad near the wall to make it safer. He did not understand the bots, but then he noticed there were no bots, he could not hear them and further more the strange red head and blinked a few times before realising she had a weapon in her hands as he jumped up he ran as his instincts kicked in.
He dashed around as the parchments and pencils flew all over the place as he scurried around with a pace that was not much faster than a normal human, but he could not balance normally as he fell one, two then finally a third time before stopping and looking to his attacker. This red headed beast must be after his tail as it was something that he learnt. In the world he lived people from outside ate anything from animals to plants to tails and even ears. He held on to his tail tight and finally spoke in his native language which was En, an advanced speech which uses the minimum of sounds to explain meaning. They discovered the spectrum for sound had over fifty billion or more variations and by using those variations they created the language of En.
He spoke and what they heard was "En...hn...." which unknown to him translated to "Leave my tail... alone you red beast". He was struggling to keep his balance as the ground was shaking like an earthquake to him, this ball that kept rolling passed nearly hit him twice as it was bothering him slightly on instinct and partly because it nearly hit him a few times now. His knowledge was not the best in the world but at the very least his basic knowledge was anything strange and anywhere without the bots was outland, the land outside of the Society which was described as Hell. This made him mistake the bloody hell for meaning that she was going to take him deeper into hell. He was not surprised to understand different languages though as in the Society exists a universal translator in every area in order to prevent misunderstandings.
What had the poor boy walked in on and why did they have to be creatures bigger than him. He did not even notice that there was this strange girl laying behind him or that there was this large man also laying around as well. He was scared, confused and all alone | Name: Risa Robinson
Age: 22
Appearance:
Occupation: Writer
Personality: Risa is the type of person that will start a conversation with anyone around her as long as she has something to talk about. While she appears to be able to handle a lot of things she often doubts herself and worries when something does not go as planned. She has a need to things to go the way she wants, but that is because she is afraid of losing control of the things she can control. She does her best to do what other wants, but inside often gets annoyed at people and wants nothing to do with them. At times her immaturity comes through when she lashes out in anger or starts crying in frustration. As much as she tries to look at things optimistically, the truth is she had a negative view on life and the people around her.
History: Risa was born into a middle class family in the year 2000. He was the second child of three. They did not have much as a child, but that never bothered her. She loved her family and she wanted noting more than to be around them. She was not the most popular kid in school, but she quickly found a love of books. She found enjoyment in a good adventure in a book rather than playing tag with her classmates. As she grew older all she wanted to do was become a writer. She spent a lot of her free time writing the ideas that came to her head. When she started high school her parents pushed her to become an accountant. She found that she liked the class and applied to study it in university as a backup plan.
It was in her second year her book became published and she dropped out of her program to focus on her stories. It did not take long for her book to get popular and she started to work on her next hit. Even though she had made it with her first book she was very worried about writing a book that would be just as good or even better than her first one. |
52,352 | 1,419 | 11 | 345 | 92 | When the boy jumped and ran -or rather tried to run- Moss only stood even more on-end. He glared daggers at her, holding onto his tail like it was a lifeline. She gripped the hammer with both hands and glared back. The little demon thing might've looked like child but Moss had heard enough folktales to know that appearances weren't everything. Deception was key, and if this kid was lying behind some disguise she wasn't gonna fall for it.
And yet the other guy was coming to his defense?
"Are you serious it-" she recoiled when Elin spoke, brow furrowing. She'd run with plenty of gypsies before, folks from all over, and not a one spoke like that. "Look it's fok'n speakin in tongues, it's got a tail comin' out its arse for Christ's sake!" | Name: Moss
Age: 18
Appearance: Moss is a ratty child. She’s just below average height and slim as any hunger-borne kid could be expected to be. Being an Irish immigrant hasn’t afforded her much in the way of a healthy living, but it has given her a lean layer of muscle hidden beneath her scrawny form. Red hair so dark it might be blood is chopped short upon her head, and usually sits beneath a rugged old bolero that’s seen its share of fair and foul weather.
The most striking thing about her physical appearance is doubtlessly her eyes; two nearly reflective icy-blue orbs often give people the impression that she’s always sizing them up.
Occupation: Con artist
Personality: Moss is a bit cheeky in all of the things she does. She’s a fair share pugnacious and a fair share diplomatic, but whether she’s playing you in a game of cards with a cold deck or getting ready to go fist-to-fist, it can be said for certain that she’ll be doing it with a silver tongue. Well, as silver as something can be when it’s tarnished with cursing and other such vile.
All in all Moss is a bit of a bitter pill. She doesn’t take much seriously, and when she does it’s hard to tell whether she’s being patronizing or sincere. And though “loyal” is never a word that could be attributed to her, when she does happen to hold someone close enough to be considered a “friend”, she’s loathe to see them hurt to any serious degree. That doesn’t mean she won’t lie or cheat or steal from them, but she might feel a bit bad about doing afterwards, and might slip a few coins their way later on.
History: Once upon a time Moss ran with a caravan of gypsies, comprised mostly of Irish, Spanish, and Slavic immigrants. As with most of the children in the caravan, they were parented by more or less anyone who would give them the time of day. This led to her having to get a loose grasp on a few languages, which never really stuck, and in the end most of her time was spent around an Irish boxer and a Spanish “magician”.
As far as parental figures went, the boxer made a good enough mother, and for the brief time that the Spaniard was around he at least gave her a few tricks to build on.
Had she herself stuck around for long after her sixteenth birthday, she might have wanted to follow in the Irishwoman’s path. After all, scrapping was fairly common in the caravan, and Moss had gotten into her fair share of brawls with some of the other kids. But in the end she just couldn’t keep still, and somewhere in the mess of the California gold rush she broke away from the caravan and made a home for herself in San Francisco.
Home here meaning that she spent the following two years scamming fools from their gold with little more than her wit and a deck of cards, which never, ever left her person. |
52,353 | 1,419 | 12 | 457 | 98 | MAP ROOM
He lost focus as the strange guy with the strange glass in front of his eyes spoke and said he was dreaming or going crazy. The dreaming part he understood, however he was not fully brought up with an understanding of what exactly crazy was. The translator seemed to lack a dictionary of sorts to help further the translation for him. The guy made it sound likes his ears and tail were something strange, he wondered if this weird guy grew up inside one of those caves he once read about in history, a hole where people who have nothing live. While he looked slightly at the moving hand through hair movement which also seemed strange before returning his gaze to the red beast. He then mentioned an ancient word known as boat, he had no idea what exactly a boat was other than it used to be used to travel over water and was stupid. He could not remember the rest since he hated history, he also did not get what was going on even more.
The Red Beast held on to her hammer tightly as if about to attack And yet the beast spoke strange, when she listened to his voice and speech he did not understand what she meant by him speaking in tongues and then thought maybe she was not used to speaking with normal people since she was a beast using her stupid long speech primitive language. He then got confused and replied with "en... hn... hne..." which more or less sounded nearly exactly the same as the "eh hn" he said earlier. However it translated into something completely different as he was saying "my tail does not come out of there, stupid red beast" the way he had said the "hne" was in a way that meant stupid and somewhere in the way he spoke the frequency meant red and the way he made it short refered to her being a primitive beast. His language was simple in sound but advanced in a sense that it also relied on frequencies with their even being some words only understood with his own ears. Without the translation there would be nearly no way for these people to communicate.
He was a bit less scared then he was earlier as his tail which he let go of was slowly lowering itself to his side as he stood up a bit, he was short and as he realised he was the smallest one here he knew he had to be careful. He then mumbled softly "hn" which if heard by anyone would translate to "help" | Name: Samira Najani
Age: 20
Appearance:
Samira is of Iranian descent and has inherited some of their features. Dark hair and olive skin; almond-shaped hazel eyes; thick, striking eyebrows. Her small frame is thin with subtle curves. While she loves and appreciates fashionable clothes, she doesn't have the money to invest in them. As such, Samira is typically dressed in her university sweats. When she fell asleep that one night in 2004, Samira was wearing a TSU sweater, pajama pants and wool socks...
Occupation: Samira is a waitress at an upscale, American-style steakhouse restaurant.
History: Samira was born in Chicago, Illinois, in 1984, the daughter of first-generation immigrants from Iran. In 1996 her family moved to Nashville, Tennessee, where she lived out her high school days like most kids: listening to grunge music and bubble gum-pop, watching Seinfeld and Buffy the Vampire Slayer, eating Cinnamon Toast Crunch and Toaster Strudels.
After graduating high school in 2002, Samira enrolled into a local university, though she has yet to declare a major. To help pay for school expenses, she applied for a job as a waitress working in a local upscale restaurant called B. Elliot's and has been working there for two years.
One night in 2004, after a long, exhausting Friday night shift, Samira collapsed on her bed and drifted off to sleep...
Personality: Having struggled all her life with identity, Samira is just beginning to articulate the conflicts within herself; being an United States citizen with former Iranian parents; having spent the first half of her life in a big city surrounded by ethnic diversity and being "normal," then coming to Nashville where she was suddenly in an extreme minority and becoming "exotic." Because she hasn't quite settled into who she is exactly, she often questions her feelings and actions.
Samira is a goofball and gravitates to those who can reciprocate her silliness. She's young and naive and ignorant like most twenty year olds, but she has a mind with an intellectual bent, and responds well to people who demonstrate perspective and intelligence. She has a fear of being abandoned, a fear that often displays itself through preemptively pushing people away. Samira is also quite stubborn, and usually won't back down from a argument even when she really should.
She's not entirely sure what she wants out of life yet, but she is determined to find it. |
52,354 | 1,419 | 13 | 150 | 2,985 | Observatory.
Sidwell spun at the noise of the voice but was already throwing his arms to his temples with a pained face, blotting out the sensory world. The lordling had not even yelled, but his fragile, dreamy sense of calm had cracked and was shattering under the angry, questioning torrent. "Oh mercy," he gasped, dropping to his knees, an imperfect prayer position on the hard timber, and the prayer was already spouting. "Et dimitte nobis debita n-nostra sicut et nos dimisimus debitoribus nost-t-tris," he murmured rapidly, only slightly breaking the latin rhythm as the prayer ground to a halt at its end. 'And forgive us our debt as we forgive our debtors'. Mildly appropriate for Hell, but the teenager in finery was not quite Satan.
The questions Sidwell had heard were foreign to him, but even as they spoke a meaning was assembling itself out of them. Complete memories of words in perfect Frankish, as if there had never been another language. Voice, tone and and accent were all preserved to the finest, most human detail.
A cautious lift of the head to look at his speaker again. Not in the face, of course. "My, ah, my la- Liege," he addressed, unsure of the sex of his fellow damned soul but unwilling to stare. "Your friend is named Innocent, of the Sidwells. I believe I am dead, but I do not know." | Name: Connor O'Flaherty
Age: 25
Appearance: Connor is a rather unimpressive person, being of average height and build. Muscular enough for people to believe that he is in the militia, but not so muscular that he looks more of a brute than an artist. He has ginger hair, cut short to militia standards, but it still licks at his brows and collar of his shirt. As if nature had decided to make him look like distilled-Irish, he has bright, green eyes.
Occupation: Artist/Militiaman
Personality: Some might call him a coward, but Connor prefers to describe himself as being more discerning as to the types of risks he is willing to take. Who cares if his reputation suffers when he runs from a fight he's absolutely confident of losing? As long as he is in one piece and is able to function properly the next day, it's all fine by him. Besides, he never puts himself forward as a warrior; he's an artist first and a soldier second. A very, very, very far second.
He is rather open with his thoughts, though that has less to do with lack of tact and more to do with having lived much of his adult life on an island faraway from civilization. Sometimes it may even appear that he is talking to himself, but he's not crazy. It's just a method he uses to prevent his train of thought from derailing, though from the disjointed thoughts that comes of his mouth, it can be hard to believe. Just trust in that he knows what he's doing. Most of the time.
History: An Irishman living in Scotland while serving an Englishman trying hard to be Scottish. Don't worry if that confuses you; sometimes Connor feels the same as well. Born to an impoverished Irish family in Victorian-era London, to say that Connor had a rough childhood would be an affront to the phrase 'massive understatement'. If the other - usually English - street urchins didn't make his life hell, then the deep-seated against the Irish, especially Irish Catholics like his family, did. If a day went past without him or his family being wrongfully accused of a crime, or he did not have to run away from anyone, Connor would have taken it as a wonderful day.
In a rather roundabout attempt to show others that they were a good, British family, Connor's father pressured him to join the army in some capacity. The best outcome would be that Connor would be sent off to fight in some faraway corner of the globe for Queen and Country, and his father would be able to proudly say that at least one member of his family was doing some good to the British Empire. Connor, however, wanted to have none of that. He loved drawing, and usually spent whatever spare time he had sketching out scenes from his life onto whatever scraps of paper he had. Soldiering was not for him; Connor wanted to be an artist.
After several arguments and failed attempts to physically pull Connor to a recruitment office, he and his father settled on a compromise. Instead of joining the regular force, Connor would join the territorial army. He would never be sent overseas, and as long as he pretended to be sad about it every time a war broke out, he would still appear to be a good little patriot. Even better, Connor had to option of choosing where he wanted to be posted, and he chose to be sent to the Shetland Islands, or as his father called it, the 'arse of the British isles'.
It was a perfect life for Connor. The Shetlands were faraway from the mainland enough that he was rarely ever called for service, and as long as he fulfilled his yearly requirements of showing up to prove that he could still fire a rifle, stand in a file and fight alongside his regiment of fellow misfits, he was left alone. The islands were also quiet, and provided no shortage of scenery for him to sketch, and eventually, paint. It was not long before his talents were noticed by a rather wealthy local who then hired Connor to produce his works of art for various auction houses. The money, while not amazing, was good, and Connor felt himself believing in the whole 'luck of the Irish' thing.
Oh, if only he knew where he would wake up. |
52,355 | 1,419 | 14 | 2,356 | 5,042 | Map Room
Tommy had been dreaming of beer....lots of beer. A fountain of it, he and his buddies filled their glasses and clinked them together and sang and old hymn.
He awoke with a startle, not the way you want to end a good beer dream, the floor that he was sleeping on scratched his back, like bark...he knew bark, he was a lumberjack! Had he fallen asleep in a tree again?!?! The room spun with sleepyness before he finally came to. There was, what seemed to be a boy with a tail and cat ears...a woman threatening him with a hammer, and a young man with glasses. In situations like this, Tommy was more in the "Wait and See How It Plays Out" camp...but given the circumstances that he had no clue where he was or who any of these people were, he felt the need to say something. He stood up, a tall man, when he stands up people notice.
"Now let's just wait a minute here." He said in his deepest voice, "First....why don't we lower that-there hammer real slow. Secondly, where in the name of maple syrup and whiskey are we, and what is going on? | Name: Risa Robinson
Age: 22
Appearance:
Occupation: Writer
Personality: Risa is the type of person that will start a conversation with anyone around her as long as she has something to talk about. While she appears to be able to handle a lot of things she often doubts herself and worries when something does not go as planned. She has a need to things to go the way she wants, but that is because she is afraid of losing control of the things she can control. She does her best to do what other wants, but inside often gets annoyed at people and wants nothing to do with them. At times her immaturity comes through when she lashes out in anger or starts crying in frustration. As much as she tries to look at things optimistically, the truth is she had a negative view on life and the people around her.
History: Risa was born into a middle class family in the year 2000. He was the second child of three. They did not have much as a child, but that never bothered her. She loved her family and she wanted noting more than to be around them. She was not the most popular kid in school, but she quickly found a love of books. She found enjoyment in a good adventure in a book rather than playing tag with her classmates. As she grew older all she wanted to do was become a writer. She spent a lot of her free time writing the ideas that came to her head. When she started high school her parents pushed her to become an accountant. She found that she liked the class and applied to study it in university as a backup plan.
It was in her second year her book became published and she dropped out of her program to focus on her stories. It did not take long for her book to get popular and she started to work on her next hit. Even though she had made it with her first book she was very worried about writing a book that would be just as good or even better than her first one. |
52,356 | 1,419 | 15 | 291 | 1,436 | Engine room
So she was right he was a solder, she still did not know from where. Just because a person talked in an accent it did not mean they currently lived there. She was just going to have to wait until he gave some sort of clue where he lived. She was a little surprised that to hear that he was also an amateur artist. For some reason she did not think that someone in the military would be into anything like that. Then again she did not know anyone in the military.
“Well my book The Reaper's Lie is on the New York Times Best Sellers list right now. That would be the one I am most known for. It's being sold in many countries right now so it should be available in any book store.”
She personally did not think she was that well off. She had been careful about spending her money. Her second book was not out yet and she did not want to risk not having money if it did not turn out as good as the first. “It makes enough to get by. I really don't want to go back to school to be an accountant. Being at a desk all day is not the life for me. I'd rather go to a park and wrist a novel any day.”
She took a look back at the two sleeping members. She wanted to make sure that they were okay when they got up. If they were anything like her they would start thinking the worst right away. The last thing she needed was a fight occurring and someone getting injured. She doubted the room had a first aid kit anywhere. So when she saw that there was one sleeping body she looked around.
She saw the girl on the other side of the room. She was hold something that she could use as a weapon. “Hey put that down. You're going to get your clothes dirty. I've already tried the door, it's locked.” She then pointed to the horn. “We're waiting to hear a response for the speaker here. Maybe someone can come and let us out.”
She hoped that was enough to get her to drop the weapon and come join the group, she doubted it. She barely trusted these guys, but right now this was the best opportunity to get out of this place. Or at least find something to eat. | Name: Dakota Cross
Age: 16 1/2
Gender: Male
Appearance:
Occupation: Student/dog adoption center worker
Personality: Like the tranquil Alaskan winter, Dakota is a quiet yet intimate soul. He strives hard in life to support his single mother, and is secretly rather intelligent and somewhat whimsical. He also has a strong moral stability born out of Christian parents and so does not binge drink, smoke, or take drugs like some of his teenage brothers (but it is worth noting he has his father's affinity for beer sometimes). But often, his quiet attitude can be shattered rather easily by sudden danger, life-changing events, or an insult to him or his family.
History: Dakota was born a single child in Anchorage, Alaska on March 9, 1998 to a sailor and a deli receptionist. Dakota’s father died at sea when his son was just three, and a considerable amount of regular income was lost. Dakota loved his mother very much and worked hard at school, particularly excelling in the sciences.
Even though they did not have the money or time to take care of a pet, Dakota loved to visit the local dog adoption center. Dakota fell in love with the place so much that he eventually started working there to support his family. It became his second home, and all of the dogs there became his ‘pets’. His caring attitude developed there, and it has become one of his primary characteristics.
It is now January 6, 2015. Dakota’s future looks bright – he has raised more than enough money to attend the University of Alaska to earn a degree in Chemistry. However, for certain reasons he has had to stay up late in the adoption center on a Tuesday evening (luckily, during Christmas break). His eyes begin to feel drowsy as the clock ticks towards 9:30 PM… |
52,357 | 1,419 | 16 | 345 | 92 | Now that Connor thought about it, the writer's accent did not match any of those that could be found on the British isles, or at least those that he knew of. Her mention of New York was what made Connor guess that she was an American, and that simply added to the mystery of their presence in the room. Whoever, or whatever had brought them here certainly made sure that everyone came from different parts of the world, and if Connor was willing to entertain the idea, different periods of time as well. He had decided that the clothes everyone else wore looked far too strange and different to be from any part of the world that he knew; even the French probably did not dress the way the other two did.
Still, Connor decided to keep that theory to himself for now. It sounded ridiculous and silly even in his head, and the last thing he wanted was to make a fool of himself. There were still parts of the world unknown to him, like the deepest parts of Siberia, the central Asian plains and Canada. That made for a lot of places the other two could have come from. "Ah, I apologize. I haven't heard of that book." Connor said sheepishly and scratched the back of his head. "I don't think there was a bookstore on the part of the Shetlands I lived in, and we only do get books every once in a while from the steamers that roll through every week or so."
He cleared his throat. "But New York? I hear that it's more Irish than Ireland nowadays. Can't say I'm surprised. The English are doing grand ol' job in making us leg it for the New World." He said with a grin, and was about to ask about what the writer had meant when she said that she was going to school to be an accountant. As far as Connor knew, that was something you learned as an apprentice, not something you could master by simply flipping through a book. However, he noticed that her attention had be drawn by another person who had woken up.
The other girl looked terrified, though Connor could not say he blamed her. He could tell that she too had come from somewhere far away - the newspapers and tabloids had been filled with news about the ongoing war in some nation in the middle east, and if he ignored all the traits that were obviously added in for propaganda purposes, the girl more or less fitted the description of someone from the region. Or, at least according to Fleet Street. "Don't be too afraid, we're all friends here." Connor said, though he kept his hand hovering near the hilt of his sword bayonet. He nodded to the other two with him. "They haven't tried to lynch me for being Irish, so I'll vouch for them." | Name: Moss
Age: 18
Appearance: Moss is a ratty child. She’s just below average height and slim as any hunger-borne kid could be expected to be. Being an Irish immigrant hasn’t afforded her much in the way of a healthy living, but it has given her a lean layer of muscle hidden beneath her scrawny form. Red hair so dark it might be blood is chopped short upon her head, and usually sits beneath a rugged old bolero that’s seen its share of fair and foul weather.
The most striking thing about her physical appearance is doubtlessly her eyes; two nearly reflective icy-blue orbs often give people the impression that she’s always sizing them up.
Occupation: Con artist
Personality: Moss is a bit cheeky in all of the things she does. She’s a fair share pugnacious and a fair share diplomatic, but whether she’s playing you in a game of cards with a cold deck or getting ready to go fist-to-fist, it can be said for certain that she’ll be doing it with a silver tongue. Well, as silver as something can be when it’s tarnished with cursing and other such vile.
All in all Moss is a bit of a bitter pill. She doesn’t take much seriously, and when she does it’s hard to tell whether she’s being patronizing or sincere. And though “loyal” is never a word that could be attributed to her, when she does happen to hold someone close enough to be considered a “friend”, she’s loathe to see them hurt to any serious degree. That doesn’t mean she won’t lie or cheat or steal from them, but she might feel a bit bad about doing afterwards, and might slip a few coins their way later on.
History: Once upon a time Moss ran with a caravan of gypsies, comprised mostly of Irish, Spanish, and Slavic immigrants. As with most of the children in the caravan, they were parented by more or less anyone who would give them the time of day. This led to her having to get a loose grasp on a few languages, which never really stuck, and in the end most of her time was spent around an Irish boxer and a Spanish “magician”.
As far as parental figures went, the boxer made a good enough mother, and for the brief time that the Spaniard was around he at least gave her a few tricks to build on.
Had she herself stuck around for long after her sixteenth birthday, she might have wanted to follow in the Irishwoman’s path. After all, scrapping was fairly common in the caravan, and Moss had gotten into her fair share of brawls with some of the other kids. But in the end she just couldn’t keep still, and somewhere in the mess of the California gold rush she broke away from the caravan and made a home for herself in San Francisco.
Home here meaning that she spent the following two years scamming fools from their gold with little more than her wit and a deck of cards, which never, ever left her person. |
52,358 | 1,419 | 17 | 693 | 1,157 | Engine Room
Suichi listened as the two of them responded and then went on to have their own conversation. He found himself to be very puzzled about Connor who spoke of the New World as if it were still a commonly used phrase. Either the man was very committed to his cosplay or he actually believed he was from the colonial days. He had heard about the book as his wife read it quite a bit. She certainly liked American literature, so Suichi took the time and effort to make sure she had new copies of books every so often. He decided it wasn't prudent to speak and simply listened as he waited for a response from the speaker.
Then he noticed a fourth person had woken up with them leaving the fifth one still unconscious. This newly awakened person reacted quite seriously out of fear. He understood. All of them were strangers and it was hard to know who could be trusted. He had a lot of faith in humanity though having seen a lot of good things happen through hard times.
Suichi walked up to the newly awakened woman and knelt just within reach of her with a warm smile on his face. "I'm Suichiro Hamani, you may call me Suichi if you'd like. You're safe with us. We only just woke up as well. What's your name?" He remained calm and friendly. If they were going to get out of here they'd need to work together. | Name: Suichiro Hamani
Age: 21
Occupation: Gardener
Personality: Suichi is a kind soul. He loves plants and animals, especially cats. He is a hard worker that tries to inspire others to have the same work ethic. When he is pushed into a corner his personality becomes very direct and takes all actions possible to deal with the issue at hand. While he can end up regretting the decisions he makes, he doesn't let that stop him from moving forward.
History: Suichi was raised by his father and never knew his mother who died during childbirth. He was fortunate to have survived himself and until he turned 17 had health issues that prevented him from too much phyiscal activity. He spent a lot of his time in his father's flower shop and inherited his father's enjoyment of the job. He ended up taking over the shop when his father retired and ran a successful business with his wife. Now he's happy with his life... but not for long... |
52,359 | 1,419 | 18 | 1,951 | 317 | Observatory
Christopher had heard some stirring behind him but decided to pay no attention since he was paying complete attention to the bookcase that he had been inspecting. He couldn't believe what kind of preparation and maintenance would have to be done to keep this wood looking this nice. Especially in a environment that was as harsh as this, having being surrounded by all this strong salt air would case some sort of slightly rapid deterioration if not treated properly. However this was not the case for this bookcase. It was such a shame that such a beautiful bookcase was housing such disgraceful looking books, something this beautiful should have more than one new book in it. It should contain nothing but new books to complement it.
so Zosime decided to speak in Aramaic when she demanded, "Who are you? Where am I? Why have you brought me here?"
"Et dimitte nobis debita n-nostra sicut et nos dimisimus debitoribus nost-t-tris,"
"Your friend is named Innocent, of the Sidwells. I believe I am dead, but I do not know."
It wasn't until he heard conversing behind him that he decided to give his attention to the other occupants of the room since he was likely going to have a better conversation with two conscious humans as opposed to four unconscious. He also could tell by listening to what he could understand through broken dialect and tough to understand accents that they were in the same predicament that he was, stuck at this unknown location with no clue of how they got here. Christopher had turned around to observe the two conscious people and it was the short Egyptian female and bearded male wearing what looked like an apiarist outfit while two others still occupied their space on the bark floor.
Just before he decided to speak the young male with headphones awoke and looked as shocked and confused, especially after looking down at his phone. He felt a slight bit better knowing that they were all in the same boat together. The only one who was still out was the young female with orange hair.
"Hello my name is Christopher, unfortunately I don't have any more answers than any of you. I assume alike you all I have awoken on the same bark floor unfamiliar with any memory after going to sleep. I assure you I would have loved to wake up in my own bed" | Name: Christopher Casablanca
Age: 28
Appearance: Not the exact same tattoos, my RP character will two tribal sleeves.
Occupation: High-End Furniture Maker
Personality: Christopher is a man with a taste for finer things which was what made him decide on the profession that he has chosen. He might seem rather snooty because he likes to make his opinion well known and potentially create arguments if he is passionate about his topic. He does enjoy the company of other level headed individuals.
History: Christopher had a tough life growing up, mother and father both held two jobs just to keep enough food on the table to keep them from starving. Both of his parents abused numerous substances to numb everything in the world around them after getting home, so it was the job of Christopher to take care of his younger twin brothers who were 9 years younger. After Christopher finished high school he went onto learn how to make furniture which provided much better than his parents had been able to so Christopher had gone onto become legal guardians to his two brothers.
When his two brothers were in school Christopher would go to his workshop and make a living but this wasn't what he wanted to do all his life was to make decent furniture while just keeping afloat, so when his brothers started participating in afterschool activities Christopher went back to school to learn more technical procedures and how different woods were to be treated.
When both of his brothers turned 19 and went off to college for higher education Christopher put his nose to the grindstone and made a name for himself in the home decor world. One night after signing a large deal that would change his world as he knew it, he decided to hit the downtown nightlife. After picking up two fine ladies at a bar they went back to his place for a different kind of party. That was the last thing that Christopher remembered ... |
52,360 | 1,419 | 19 | 2,290 | 156 | Observatory
The Egyptian frowned in confusion when the man with his back up against the pillar in the middle of the room knelt and started blathering in Latin. It took her a momnt to mentally change gears from Aramaic to the Roman tongue, and Zosime thought she must have missed something important in what he was saying. Something about debtors?
"Conantes dicere quid?" What are you trying to say? Zosime asked, raising one hand to rub at the side of her head. She was a little surprised to hear the man speak Latin - she'd pegged him for an Israelite. Well, she didn't meet all that many Romans, there were probably some scruffy looking ones from the western edges of the Empire, where the Celts and Gauls and all sorts of other barbarians lived.
He said something else then, which sounded kind of like Latin but well, more like he wasn't saying all the letters, and the vowels were much more nasal than she was used to. She didn't like the sound of it. But, even though the words sounded unfamiliar to her, she was somehow certain that she could understand them. At least she knew his name now.
"Mortui non sumus, Innocent," Zosime said flatly. We aren't dead, Innocent. They couldn't be dead; she could clearly feel herself, physically connected to her body as she should have been. Her ka had not detached; she knew that she was not facing neter-khetet. This was not the underworld through which Amun-Ra sailed each night. The more she interacted with the old man, the more the Egyptian came to believe that far from being her captor, he was a frightened idiot.
Zosime started to open her mouth to try to explain why they couldn't be dead, when one of the remaining sleepers awakened. He spoke an even less comprehensible language, like something she had once heard a captive Teuton shout. Like the pseudo-latin, she felt strangely certain that she could understand this young man's words, even though she knew the sounds coming out of his mouth were unintelligible.
She took a deep, calming breath and shakily forced it back out. It seemed like everyone here was going to be just as confused as she was. The scribe certainly didn't trust them, and she wasn't at all comfortable with the situation, but was suddenly sure that if she didn't stiffen her spine and take charge, no-one was going to.
The man at the shelves picked that time to turn around and introduce himself, somewhat deflating her sense of self importance. He seemed pretty calm. And he seemed to be speaking that Teutonic-sounding language as well; she was increasingly suspicious that this whole abduction was a Roman plot of some kind.
"Salutem, Christopher," Hello, Christopher, she said, deciding to stick with latin. At least one person there seemed to speak it. The Teutonic men might too, for that matter, if they couldn't understand her mysteriously like she could them. "I don't know where we are, or why. It looks like we are all equally confused here. If we are going to get any answers, we will probably need to stick together. My name is Zosime." She looked around the room, taking in the strange furnishings, living wood and unidentifiable metal contrivances. "Does anyone have any idea what any of these things are?" | Name: Tommy Burma
Age: 25
If someone had lived in a cave their whole life and asked "What does a man look like?" you would probably describe to them Tommy. A large man, very muscular from lifting and swinging heavy things all day, he is what every man dreams of being. He has rough skin, a dark beard and dark eyes, a very dominant punnet square for a very dominant human being. He is covered in hair all over and is usually covered in dirt, sweat and sometimes blood.
Occupation: Would you believe me if I said Lumberjack?
Personality: Tommy is a hard working man, but the fact is, work is all he knows. He was an orphan who ran away at the age of 16 and ran north until he was taken in by a group of lumberjacks who fed him and taught him their trade. He is loud and wales with his deep voice, but not obnoxious and a considerably meek and humble man for his size. He loves to talk and sing as he works. He is not much of a ladies man though, not because of his looks of coarse, but because of his only seeing a handful in his life in the occasional bar or market. He isn't clumsy, but sometimes he doesn't know his own strength and has been known to accidentally break small objects. When he started cutting in the forest he was weak and frail, and built himself up to the man he has become. He gained much respect among his "family" and many began to look up to him, even in his youth. Due to this, he is a great leader but a great follower as well.
History: From the Forests of Canada in the late 1930s |
52,361 | 1,419 | 20 | 150 | 2,985 | Observatory.
"Conantes dicere quid?" More fluent than his own words, and a reassuringly human sentiment. Some tension released by the change of tongue and tone, Sidwell listened closely.
The confused foreigner in finery, whom he had decided to establish as a woman, was plainly lying or self-deceived, or perhaps even a pagan. Saint John had been shown the dead rising from their tombs at the end of days, and Thomas Didymus had put his finger in the wounds of the risen Christ; So surely Innocent could be yet dead while he feels his heart pump and his chest shift. Or if not dead, in some state of having died. I am in Purgatory, he concluded with ultimate confidence. This place is my Judgement.
A third stranger arose, mumbling. The boy. To Sidwell's immense relief, his first action was very familiar. "Benedico te," he mumbled, waving a hand in blessing underneath the marked man's stoic but polite introduction in a blend of sounds not entirely dissimilar to what Innocent's precious few Anglish visitors spoke. Christopher- A good name, a very good name, although his arms remained his most distracting feature. Was the man diseased, or cursed? Yet still a small oddity in the land of the dead.
The hairless woman's name was Zosime. By her own confession, she too had no answer to their surroundings, but was vigorously intent on finding them. Sidwell already had the only answer he needed to be satisfied, but the notion to stay grouped was a good and obvious one. He stepped a little closer to the metal device, noticing the rock in the floor and the strange, salty tang in the air that he had missed. "...Credo fiunt ex aere," I suppose they are made of brass, he offered in innocent helplessness, uncertain of the Latin phrasing. His world was too small to know much about anything here except the books. | Name: Connor O'Flaherty
Age: 25
Appearance: Connor is a rather unimpressive person, being of average height and build. Muscular enough for people to believe that he is in the militia, but not so muscular that he looks more of a brute than an artist. He has ginger hair, cut short to militia standards, but it still licks at his brows and collar of his shirt. As if nature had decided to make him look like distilled-Irish, he has bright, green eyes.
Occupation: Artist/Militiaman
Personality: Some might call him a coward, but Connor prefers to describe himself as being more discerning as to the types of risks he is willing to take. Who cares if his reputation suffers when he runs from a fight he's absolutely confident of losing? As long as he is in one piece and is able to function properly the next day, it's all fine by him. Besides, he never puts himself forward as a warrior; he's an artist first and a soldier second. A very, very, very far second.
He is rather open with his thoughts, though that has less to do with lack of tact and more to do with having lived much of his adult life on an island faraway from civilization. Sometimes it may even appear that he is talking to himself, but he's not crazy. It's just a method he uses to prevent his train of thought from derailing, though from the disjointed thoughts that comes of his mouth, it can be hard to believe. Just trust in that he knows what he's doing. Most of the time.
History: An Irishman living in Scotland while serving an Englishman trying hard to be Scottish. Don't worry if that confuses you; sometimes Connor feels the same as well. Born to an impoverished Irish family in Victorian-era London, to say that Connor had a rough childhood would be an affront to the phrase 'massive understatement'. If the other - usually English - street urchins didn't make his life hell, then the deep-seated against the Irish, especially Irish Catholics like his family, did. If a day went past without him or his family being wrongfully accused of a crime, or he did not have to run away from anyone, Connor would have taken it as a wonderful day.
In a rather roundabout attempt to show others that they were a good, British family, Connor's father pressured him to join the army in some capacity. The best outcome would be that Connor would be sent off to fight in some faraway corner of the globe for Queen and Country, and his father would be able to proudly say that at least one member of his family was doing some good to the British Empire. Connor, however, wanted to have none of that. He loved drawing, and usually spent whatever spare time he had sketching out scenes from his life onto whatever scraps of paper he had. Soldiering was not for him; Connor wanted to be an artist.
After several arguments and failed attempts to physically pull Connor to a recruitment office, he and his father settled on a compromise. Instead of joining the regular force, Connor would join the territorial army. He would never be sent overseas, and as long as he pretended to be sad about it every time a war broke out, he would still appear to be a good little patriot. Even better, Connor had to option of choosing where he wanted to be posted, and he chose to be sent to the Shetland Islands, or as his father called it, the 'arse of the British isles'.
It was a perfect life for Connor. The Shetlands were faraway from the mainland enough that he was rarely ever called for service, and as long as he fulfilled his yearly requirements of showing up to prove that he could still fire a rifle, stand in a file and fight alongside his regiment of fellow misfits, he was left alone. The islands were also quiet, and provided no shortage of scenery for him to sketch, and eventually, paint. It was not long before his talents were noticed by a rather wealthy local who then hired Connor to produce his works of art for various auction houses. The money, while not amazing, was good, and Connor felt himself believing in the whole 'luck of the Irish' thing.
Oh, if only he knew where he would wake up. |
52,362 | 1,419 | 21 | 2,356 | 5,042 | The air was stale and the minutes seemed like hours as Tommy watched the girl with the hammer like a hawk, but about that time a girl got up and said something in what seemed like english, string a large number of words together and head toward the door. What seemed like a very intense moment that was going to last for years was broken by the distracting girl. By now, Tommy had figured out, by the words of the girl with the hammer, that the younger girl was about to go outside.
"Hmm...well, someone has to do it." He said, trying to ease the anger of the room, "I'll go with her, ain't no one going to hurt me, least not sober."
He followed the strange girl out of the room, shutting the door quickly behind him because of the wind blowing the maps everywhere. The sunlight seemed to hurt his eyes, it felt like it had been days since he had seen it. The crisp salty air was not something that he was used to. A smile stretched across his face, he was surprisingly happy with the situation....sure it was inconvenient to be taken away from his friends and job, but he always had a heart for adventure ever since he had ran away. He tried to keep pace with the girl, she was quite excited and practically running to see the sights of what was now confirmed to be a ship. He didn't really know what to say to the girl, and was afraid to ask anything because he didn't know if he could follow a conversation with her.
"Er...uh..." He said, looking for something to say just to make the situation on the ship less stressful, "So...uh... what 'id you say yur' name was?" | Name: Risa Robinson
Age: 22
Appearance:
Occupation: Writer
Personality: Risa is the type of person that will start a conversation with anyone around her as long as she has something to talk about. While she appears to be able to handle a lot of things she often doubts herself and worries when something does not go as planned. She has a need to things to go the way she wants, but that is because she is afraid of losing control of the things she can control. She does her best to do what other wants, but inside often gets annoyed at people and wants nothing to do with them. At times her immaturity comes through when she lashes out in anger or starts crying in frustration. As much as she tries to look at things optimistically, the truth is she had a negative view on life and the people around her.
History: Risa was born into a middle class family in the year 2000. He was the second child of three. They did not have much as a child, but that never bothered her. She loved her family and she wanted noting more than to be around them. She was not the most popular kid in school, but she quickly found a love of books. She found enjoyment in a good adventure in a book rather than playing tag with her classmates. As she grew older all she wanted to do was become a writer. She spent a lot of her free time writing the ideas that came to her head. When she started high school her parents pushed her to become an accountant. She found that she liked the class and applied to study it in university as a backup plan.
It was in her second year her book became published and she dropped out of her program to focus on her stories. It did not take long for her book to get popular and she started to work on her next hit. Even though she had made it with her first book she was very worried about writing a book that would be just as good or even better than her first one. |
52,363 | 1,419 | 22 | 345 | 92 | The freak was scuttling around again, but Moss's initial fear of Elin had more or less turned to aggravation and general distaste by then. Clearly, the boy needed a leash, or at least some house training. When she noticed he was hiding away now, she smirked, twirling the hammer in her hand.
"Aye, you stay there."
The bespectacled man spoke up again, this time to her. At least he seemed a bit cautious, and though she was still cautious of him, she had a hammer, and he had...well, it looked like a box. Besides, she'd scrapped with folks bigger than him before, and unless he was one of those martial-arts types, she figured she and the hammer would handle well enough.
Chris, he said his name was. She was fairly certain she'd never met anyone who went by Chris, but there'd been a handful of Christopher's at the mines, and she'd met one or two Cristof's with the caravan. Which one this boy was, she didn't know, he looked fair to midland for either one, really.
Her hammer lowered, but still gripped tight, she began to look around again. Nothing caught her attention though, she'd gotten her deal from the room already, and if the two outside weren't dead soon, she'd probably be heading out there herself. But until she heard screams or otherwise, she was sitting tight right where she was.
"Moss," she said back to the other boy. "M'name's Moss. Y'got a pretty fancy tone to you." | Name: Moss
Age: 18
Appearance: Moss is a ratty child. She’s just below average height and slim as any hunger-borne kid could be expected to be. Being an Irish immigrant hasn’t afforded her much in the way of a healthy living, but it has given her a lean layer of muscle hidden beneath her scrawny form. Red hair so dark it might be blood is chopped short upon her head, and usually sits beneath a rugged old bolero that’s seen its share of fair and foul weather.
The most striking thing about her physical appearance is doubtlessly her eyes; two nearly reflective icy-blue orbs often give people the impression that she’s always sizing them up.
Occupation: Con artist
Personality: Moss is a bit cheeky in all of the things she does. She’s a fair share pugnacious and a fair share diplomatic, but whether she’s playing you in a game of cards with a cold deck or getting ready to go fist-to-fist, it can be said for certain that she’ll be doing it with a silver tongue. Well, as silver as something can be when it’s tarnished with cursing and other such vile.
All in all Moss is a bit of a bitter pill. She doesn’t take much seriously, and when she does it’s hard to tell whether she’s being patronizing or sincere. And though “loyal” is never a word that could be attributed to her, when she does happen to hold someone close enough to be considered a “friend”, she’s loathe to see them hurt to any serious degree. That doesn’t mean she won’t lie or cheat or steal from them, but she might feel a bit bad about doing afterwards, and might slip a few coins their way later on.
History: Once upon a time Moss ran with a caravan of gypsies, comprised mostly of Irish, Spanish, and Slavic immigrants. As with most of the children in the caravan, they were parented by more or less anyone who would give them the time of day. This led to her having to get a loose grasp on a few languages, which never really stuck, and in the end most of her time was spent around an Irish boxer and a Spanish “magician”.
As far as parental figures went, the boxer made a good enough mother, and for the brief time that the Spaniard was around he at least gave her a few tricks to build on.
Had she herself stuck around for long after her sixteenth birthday, she might have wanted to follow in the Irishwoman’s path. After all, scrapping was fairly common in the caravan, and Moss had gotten into her fair share of brawls with some of the other kids. But in the end she just couldn’t keep still, and somewhere in the mess of the California gold rush she broke away from the caravan and made a home for herself in San Francisco.
Home here meaning that she spent the following two years scamming fools from their gold with little more than her wit and a deck of cards, which never, ever left her person. |
52,364 | 1,419 | 23 | 2,356 | 5,042 | Map Room~~!!
Oh wows... like what a for really reals awesomes accents... wows...
The accent was really amazing to the freshly turned eighteen year old cheerleader girl, but it was not the voice as much as it was those eyes. Yes, they were blue, just like her own but... but still, never had Tamara Jane ever seen such wildness; an intensity of a lone wolf. That was the closest she could describe those eyes. Winter like the blues of a wolf, lonely and selfishly alone in its loneliness. But Tamara Jane would never know such ferocity...
...but the depth of pain in those icy blues... just could not remain so hidden when it reflected like a mirror to the soul especially in such a time. A crazy time.
"Ay!" Moss snapped, watching the girl. "Are you outcha god'm mind? We can't just go out there, what if the fokers who put us in here are out there?"
“The door's open, chick,” TamTam said with a melancholic giggle, “you are sooooo awesomes, but even you... have you ever been left wonderin'... just wonderin'... 'what if?' I need that answer to that, Les Mis. I soooo needs it. 'What if...?' Lil' bit o' love, whole lotta' hug... she gave me a reason... What reason? Hahahah... simple...
The door's open, chick...”
Such depth in those icy blues. You could just dive in and gets all lost in them...
A single glance she cast over her shoulder and she saw the nerdy-looking dude grab at a silver item and greedily search for something to pick it open... “Hey, Interlulz probs just give it to Les Mis over there to smack it open?”
TamTam kind of wanted to see her smack it open but-- suddenly she caught sight of Neko-chan dump himself in papers and Tamara Jane smiled at his totally cute whackiness. Wait. Wut. Those ears looked so real. Soooooooooooo effin' real... ewww... for really reals now? The teen was really curious but...
She pulled open the door and marched outside, missing the words of the lumberjack mentioning he would go outside with the teen girl. The wind blasted into her face and the salty wetness of the outside gave her heart a skip of a beat, even though she had to shield her face with both hands. Was she really out here? Into the crook of one denim clad arm went her pale face as she reached back to close the door with her other hand. But it closed itself. Or so it seemed.
A small hand reached out and grasped gingerly at a handle near the door frame. She steadied herself and took a single steeling breath before she decidedly went to go look for her. Another tingle and skip of a heartbeat as she could hear her, just hear her say--
"Er...uh..."
Shrek had followed her outside. And closed the door behind him.
"So...uh..."
All she could see was that massive face and upon that massive face was that bushy, pervie moustache moving over his quivering mouth.
"...what 'id you say yur' name was?"
Ewww. Max Pederson much? Ewww. Daddy Max... but ten times bigger and complete with teenie girly seeking dirty mouthing moustache... ewww...!
His intent was pretty clear. It was just them, just the two of them out here. No witnesses to watch him and his pervie moustache. No hammer to stop him cold. He closed the door afterall.
TamTam was about to scream at the top of her lungs, but the weather and rough seas had decided that they did not want her to get away from danger. Another swelling of big wet hit the hull and the boat lurched violently once more and TamTam lost her grip on the wooden frame. Another gust of wind in her face, driving back and TamTam lost her footing on the wet wooden deck.
Perhaps the weather and rough seas wanted her for themselves. Tamara Jane rolled in a backwards somersault or two, hopefully not towards the outer railing and closer towards the frothing, greedy cold waters. | Name: Risa Robinson
Age: 22
Appearance:
Occupation: Writer
Personality: Risa is the type of person that will start a conversation with anyone around her as long as she has something to talk about. While she appears to be able to handle a lot of things she often doubts herself and worries when something does not go as planned. She has a need to things to go the way she wants, but that is because she is afraid of losing control of the things she can control. She does her best to do what other wants, but inside often gets annoyed at people and wants nothing to do with them. At times her immaturity comes through when she lashes out in anger or starts crying in frustration. As much as she tries to look at things optimistically, the truth is she had a negative view on life and the people around her.
History: Risa was born into a middle class family in the year 2000. He was the second child of three. They did not have much as a child, but that never bothered her. She loved her family and she wanted noting more than to be around them. She was not the most popular kid in school, but she quickly found a love of books. She found enjoyment in a good adventure in a book rather than playing tag with her classmates. As she grew older all she wanted to do was become a writer. She spent a lot of her free time writing the ideas that came to her head. When she started high school her parents pushed her to become an accountant. She found that she liked the class and applied to study it in university as a backup plan.
It was in her second year her book became published and she dropped out of her program to focus on her stories. It did not take long for her book to get popular and she started to work on her next hit. Even though she had made it with her first book she was very worried about writing a book that would be just as good or even better than her first one. |
52,365 | 1,419 | 24 | 345 | 92 | MAP ROOM
She quirked a brow at him. People not understanding her was common enough, she supposed, but it never failed to make her a tad indignant. She leaned against the center pillar, mulling over how to rephrase her question.
"Aye, ya voice. Ya talk like one o' the suit-and-tie-folks, y'know, the businessmen. Not a lot o' them around San Francisco anymore, so where ya from?"
It was perhaps the first question she ever asked people. Even when she was set up behind a small table, playing them in rigged games of blackjack or find-the-lady, she'd always lead with some form or another of "where are you from?". Mostly because she was curious about that sort of thing, but also because she'd vowed never to con a Spaniard or another Irish. Seemed like bad blood, really. | Name: Moss
Age: 18
Appearance: Moss is a ratty child. She’s just below average height and slim as any hunger-borne kid could be expected to be. Being an Irish immigrant hasn’t afforded her much in the way of a healthy living, but it has given her a lean layer of muscle hidden beneath her scrawny form. Red hair so dark it might be blood is chopped short upon her head, and usually sits beneath a rugged old bolero that’s seen its share of fair and foul weather.
The most striking thing about her physical appearance is doubtlessly her eyes; two nearly reflective icy-blue orbs often give people the impression that she’s always sizing them up.
Occupation: Con artist
Personality: Moss is a bit cheeky in all of the things she does. She’s a fair share pugnacious and a fair share diplomatic, but whether she’s playing you in a game of cards with a cold deck or getting ready to go fist-to-fist, it can be said for certain that she’ll be doing it with a silver tongue. Well, as silver as something can be when it’s tarnished with cursing and other such vile.
All in all Moss is a bit of a bitter pill. She doesn’t take much seriously, and when she does it’s hard to tell whether she’s being patronizing or sincere. And though “loyal” is never a word that could be attributed to her, when she does happen to hold someone close enough to be considered a “friend”, she’s loathe to see them hurt to any serious degree. That doesn’t mean she won’t lie or cheat or steal from them, but she might feel a bit bad about doing afterwards, and might slip a few coins their way later on.
History: Once upon a time Moss ran with a caravan of gypsies, comprised mostly of Irish, Spanish, and Slavic immigrants. As with most of the children in the caravan, they were parented by more or less anyone who would give them the time of day. This led to her having to get a loose grasp on a few languages, which never really stuck, and in the end most of her time was spent around an Irish boxer and a Spanish “magician”.
As far as parental figures went, the boxer made a good enough mother, and for the brief time that the Spaniard was around he at least gave her a few tricks to build on.
Had she herself stuck around for long after her sixteenth birthday, she might have wanted to follow in the Irishwoman’s path. After all, scrapping was fairly common in the caravan, and Moss had gotten into her fair share of brawls with some of the other kids. But in the end she just couldn’t keep still, and somewhere in the mess of the California gold rush she broke away from the caravan and made a home for herself in San Francisco.
Home here meaning that she spent the following two years scamming fools from their gold with little more than her wit and a deck of cards, which never, ever left her person. |
52,366 | 1,419 | 25 | 2,356 | 5,042 | Map Room
Chris could face palm himself. "Oh. That makes a lot more sense. Now I feel stupid. I'm not much of a businessman though I just talk that way." He didn't think about it often but he did tend to talk differently than most people he knew. He was about to explain something when the mention of San Francisco sank in. He looked at Moss for a moment but there wasn't any hint that she was playing around. "I'm from Texas. And I've never been to San Francisco. Or California for that matter."
Curious now he tried to put two and two together. "Is that where you were last you remember? Because the last place I was was at my home back in Dallas. Not exactly down the street." | Name: Risa Robinson
Age: 22
Appearance:
Occupation: Writer
Personality: Risa is the type of person that will start a conversation with anyone around her as long as she has something to talk about. While she appears to be able to handle a lot of things she often doubts herself and worries when something does not go as planned. She has a need to things to go the way she wants, but that is because she is afraid of losing control of the things she can control. She does her best to do what other wants, but inside often gets annoyed at people and wants nothing to do with them. At times her immaturity comes through when she lashes out in anger or starts crying in frustration. As much as she tries to look at things optimistically, the truth is she had a negative view on life and the people around her.
History: Risa was born into a middle class family in the year 2000. He was the second child of three. They did not have much as a child, but that never bothered her. She loved her family and she wanted noting more than to be around them. She was not the most popular kid in school, but she quickly found a love of books. She found enjoyment in a good adventure in a book rather than playing tag with her classmates. As she grew older all she wanted to do was become a writer. She spent a lot of her free time writing the ideas that came to her head. When she started high school her parents pushed her to become an accountant. She found that she liked the class and applied to study it in university as a backup plan.
It was in her second year her book became published and she dropped out of her program to focus on her stories. It did not take long for her book to get popular and she started to work on her next hit. Even though she had made it with her first book she was very worried about writing a book that would be just as good or even better than her first one. |
52,367 | 1,419 | 26 | 1,583 | 2,241 | She grabbed the hammer, then whirled around to face the man who'd woken her. "Fok'n get back!" she shouted, holding it tight in one hand . . .
The hammer was heavy for its size, and its dark handle was well-worn. The head of it was ornately carved, with initials scratched into the top. When Moss yanked the hammer from the table, a small puff of bone dust drifted into the air; bits of tiny bone dropped from the bone-powdered hammer.
Forgoing opening the door he took a step back and held his hands out where she could see them. . . .
Moss didn't lower release her hammer, but she did seem to relax a little bit. . . . Her attention turned back to the room, and she scuttled over to the long map on the table she'd snagged the hammer from. It was...definitely a map, that was for sure. It looked like one anyway, or what she imagined a map looked like -she'd never actually seen on before.
The map was huge and incomplete, and very obviously had been drawn by several different hands. There were coffee stains, blood stains, pencil and charcoal marks, and of course the fading and fraying that comes with age and saltwater air. There were no continents, but only islands drawn out with scribbles of writing that were too faded or blurred to read. Several of the islands were marked out with Xes; many of these were accompanied by faded lists of what might be names. And then in the corner was an articulate drawing of a feather with exquisite markings.
The bloodstained pendulum which stood over the map seemed to be swaying in the same direction, unaffected by the sway of the ship. It almost seemed to be urging toward an unknown spot on the map, left blank and unexplored.
The ceiling above creaked with footsteps. People were moving and talking in the room above.
Oh mercy . . . Et dimitte nobis . . . nos dimisimus debitoribus . . . believe I am dead . . . are you? . . . loved to wake up . . . . . .
. . . he jumped up he ran . . . He dashed around as the parchments and pencils flew all over the place . . . this ball that kept rolling passed nearly hit him twice . . .
Elin flung himself around the room, scattering paper that had been still for ages. Revealed on the floor among the old maps and notes was an old flintlock pistol, charred with use and well-worn. Across the room, a pocketwatch glimmered, its gold chain tarnished by age. It was delicately engraved with ornate patterns -- and it was ticking.
He glared daggers at her, holding onto his tail like it was a lifeline. She gripped the hammer with both hands and glared back.
"Now let's just wait a minute here." He said in his deepest voice, "First....why don't we lower that-there hammer real slow."
Moss felt her throat close up when he looked at her, and only gripped the hammer tighter when he told her to lower it.
Pale hands pulled gently at the soft chutes as she knelt, feeling their complete and utter 'realness.' Blue eyes fixated upon some shiny pendulum on some exotic and chaotic table.
The tiny saplings which grew resiliently out of the floor were not quite green in color; they had a purplish sheen to them, and a light oil and a faint smell of strawberry sugar came off the leaves onto Tam Tam's fingers. Their stems were prickly, and promised of future thorns given time to grow.
The pendulum was dark with old blood, and it swung sharply on its silvery thread. It didn't appear to be affected at all by the rocking of the ship, but more insistently sliced the air in one firm, confident direction. It hadn't been doing that before.
Deciding that it would be better not to trapped in a room with strangers Chris opened the door. The wind rushed in and the loose maps strewn about began to flutter around. . . . He had misjudged the mess the wind was creating and closed the door a bit so they would at least have the light without so much of the wind.
Maps, paper, notes, bone dust, charcoal shavings, all of it flung into the wind that was released like a torrent in the room. The keys jangled against the wall. The door in the column at the center of the room creaked open a crack, pulled by the change in air pressure; inside was a tiny dark enclosure piled with boxes of crackers and flatbread, sealed bags of dried meats, stacks of unlabeled cans, and a ladder that led upward.
The plantlife that grew throughout the room seemed to grow a bit brighter and strained immediately toward the light that was let in. An observant person might realize that within those few moments of light, the little saplings were just a bit bigger than they had been before. The walls creaked -- but then, the entire ship was constantly creaking, wasn't it?
The wind also made his hair a mess and papers kept hitting into him and all over the place as the one globe rolled passed him again. . . . he backed away a bit then fell in a pile of papers . . . He stayed still only his ears sticking out as he thought to himself he was well hidden.
Elin would find something digging into his leg where he sat: it was a little silvery key, no bigger than his finger. It was rather fancy and quite shiny, with delicate etchings and curiously patterned teeth.
On one of the pages in his hiding place was a scrawled drawing. This drawing was of a young woman wearing ancient clothes, with no hair on her head, holding a feather. It had been drawn in a hurry, and was little more than a sketch without a face: but whoever had drawn it had thought it important.
The stuffed bunny slung over her shoulder did not seem to mind the wind . . . Tamara Jane wiped away at her tears as she rushed towards the partially opened door.
. . . "Ay!" Moss snapped, watching the girl. "Are you outcha god'm mind? We can't just go out there, what if the fokers who put us in here are out there?"
. . . he grabbed the metal box and looked it over. It definitely looked in better shape than everything else in the room. The intricate patterns also made it the most out of place given the setting . . . He was curious about the objects contents but it appeared that it was locked. The keys by the door surely would not fit the tiny key hole. Shuffling around some of the maps and books he searched for the key.
Chris would not, in fact, find the key he was looking for. He would, however, find several drawings of landscapes in France in the 1700s: city streets, ship docks, rolling hills, houses made of stone, portraits of people and of a great monster with a dozen slitted eyes and teeth like splintered blades.
A globe stopped against Chris' leg. It was old and worn, and appeared to have been whitewashed and painted over with a new scene of waters and islands that were certainly not Earth. Something rattled and scrabbled like little living claws inside it.
She pulled open the door and marched outside . . .
He followed the strange girl out of the room, shutting the door quickly behind him because of the wind blowing the maps everywhere.
The light and the wind flooded the room again, and this time the saplings stretched themselves out toward the door, spreading their leaves. The wood of the walls and the floor shifted just slightly -- squirming imperceptibly, each panel like a stone snake awakening. And then the door was shut again, and everything went suddenly still.
Her hammer lowered, but still gripped tight, she began to look around again. Nothing caught her attention though, she'd gotten her deal from the room already, and if the two outside weren't dead soon, she'd probably be heading out there herself.
Moss' head would begin to feel light; she had been the closest to the bone dust on the table, close enough to breathe it in. She might see some movement in the corner of her eye -- like a tall, long, wisp of a figure standing with its white bony head near the ceiling, big eyes hollow like a skull's -- but when she looked, it was gone.
It had once been a ship's deck. Now, it was the beginnings of a forest.
The saltwater splashed over great branches and shimmering purple-green leaves that twisted and clung to the banisters and cannons. The floor of the deck -- which had at one time shone with polish -- was nothing but bark and roots and leaves and brush.
The old rigging, sewn through with leafy vines, whistled as it rippled in the salty wind. The masts still rose strong, though they had grown branches and were flowering as if they'd become trees once again. The sails were mostly gone -- tatters of their former selves -- but they had not been of cloth. They still shimmered a bit in the gray sunlight, made of something pale and glassy. Old pipes and levers and machines were barely visible under the masses of vines and leaves that enveloped them.
Just outside the map room was the helm; it was made of metal and polished dark wood and tarnished brass, and it looked out over the length of the ship from its perch at the edge of a landing. The helm was wrapped securely by a tangled net of small vines, pulled taut in such a way that the wheel was forbidden to move no matter how the wind and the waves tossed the ship. Beside the helm, equally secured, was a long rusted lever.
Two stairways to the sides led down to the deck below.
A short stairway to one side led up to the small landing just above and behind them; at the top of that landing at the rearmost of the ship was a closed dome structure with a door and little else.
The wind blasted into her face and the salty wetness of the outside gave her heart a skip of a beat, even though she had to shield her face with both hands.
. . . don't know . . . confused here . . . we will . . . Zosime . . . idea what . . . Credo fiunt ex aere . . .
On the wall outside the door they'd just come out of was a brass horn connected to a pipe that led down into the floor. The disembodied voices that drifted between the crashing of waves emitted from this device.
The sunlight seemed to hurt his eyes, it felt like it had been days since he had seen it. . . . "Er...uh..." He said, looking for something to say just to make the situation on the ship less stressful, "So...uh... what 'id you say yur' name was?"
Another swelling of big wet hit the hull and the boat lurched violently once more and TamTam lost her grip on the wooden frame. Another gust of wind in her face, driving back and TamTam lost her footing on the wet wooden deck. Perhaps the weather and rough seas wanted her for themselves. Tamara Jane rolled in a backwards somersault or two, hopefully not towards the outer railing and closer towards the frothing, greedy cold waters.
Tamara crashed through spiked vines and sharp branches; her ribs banged on the edge of the landing banister and she fell heels-over-head toward the deck below, where she rolled, skidded, slammed spine-first into a lever sticking out of the floor, and stopped against the outer railing. She was covered in bark, bramble, cuts, bruises, and strawberry-scented oil. Just beyond the railing, the water seethed and hissed and crashed. Saltwater spray dampened her clothes. She had only barely missed cracking her head against a vine-encased cannon that was chained down just beside her.
The lever that she'd accidentally pushed down in her fall was vibrating slightly.
The sky was a soft moving gray, and the water was bleak and choppy. The remains of the tattered sails high above whipped in the wind.
Something moved in the corner of her eye. A gray fox stood beside her, with her stuffed rabbit held tightly in its mouth.
Even Tommy, watching from above, would not have seen where the animal had come from.
. . . he still found himself feeling more at ease when he felt the hilt of his sword bayonet, even though it was notched and worn from being used for everything other than its intended purpose.
It was imperceptible -- especially while no one was paying much attention to it -- but the blade of Connor's bayonet was slightly brighter than he might have remembered it to be. It was as if something deep within it were glowing -- but even upon close inspection, it might only be a trick of the dim light.
She noticed the door and quickly ran to it and tried to open it, but since it was locked it did not budge.
The iron turnkey lock rattled when Risa tugged at it, but there was a second kind of resistance: as if something or someone was pulling the door in the opposite direction.
Her thin hands darted over the pile of strewn tools and carefully removed a heavy, wrench-like tool, pulling her sweater sleeve over her hand first to keep the oil from causing it to slip from her grasp. Heart pumping, she scanned the walls in either direction, looking for a way out. Having a weapon did not make her feel any safer.
The tool that Samira held was made of iron and smelled sharply of rust and old metal and oil. One end of it was darker than the rest, stained with something deep red. There were sharper instruments in the toolbox as well, along with a few oddly contrived gadgets with uncertain purposes. From her position here Samira might see a sledgehammer propped against the wall, draped in vines.
There were only three ways out that could be seen: two ladders that led up to trap doors in the ceiling on opposite walls, and the locked door. It was unknown where the ladders leading down into the gear wells might possibly lead other than to an assumable dead end.
“Hey put that down. You're going to get your clothes dirty. I've already tried the door, it's locked.” She then pointed to the horn. “We're waiting to hear a response for the speaker here. Maybe someone can come and let us out.”
"Don't be too afraid, we're all friends here." Connor said, though he kept his hand hovering near the hilt of his sword bayonet. He nodded to the other two with him. "They haven't tried to lynch me for being Irish, so I'll vouch for them."
"I'm Suichiro Hamani, you may call me Suichi if you'd like. You're safe with us. We only just woke up as well. What's your name?"
While they all spoke to one another, a noise and a voice crept through the brass horn by the door.
. . . uh . . . what 'id . . . say . . . name . . . ?
The floor gave a sudden lurch, throwing everyone off-balance and crashing into the pipes and machinery and leafy vines.
hkssss-a-a-a-a-a-o-o
Something hissed and cackled and moved in the shadows behind the machines, startled when Risa knocked over a pile of loose pipes that clattered and clanged on the floor.
Something long and dark darted up the wall. It was only visible for a moment, but appeared like a huge skittering lizard as long as a man was tall. It moved quick as lightning, and it curled itself behind one of the ladders at the ceiling. The leaves on the walls trembled in its wake.
From that moment it sat perfectly still, a dark presence in the corner of the ceiling, with a slitted red eye watching, unblinking.
clik-clak. grrrrrroooooaaaannn. CLACK. whrrrrrr . . .
There were noises from above as something mechanical was triggered. A loose thick wire tangled among the gears slowly tightened. A few sprockets moved and groaned against the vines that bound them. When the wire was tight, everything stopped, strained, unable to move any farther in the constraint of the dislodged wires and crisscrossed vines.
He took a quick glance at all of the books . . . There had been one book however that had looked brand new . . . Christopher tried to take the new book off of the shelf but it wouldn't move, it seemed almost like it was one with the shelf and wouldn't ever move.
The book would indeed not come down: it was entitled The Reaper's Lie and was bound in ornate leather. Should Christopher continue to pull on the book, he would find that it gave just a fraction. It wasn't sealed fast to the bookcase, but rather was attached by something mechanical that creaked faintly with every tug.
It would take a great deal of effort to pull the book from the shelf, but it might slowly be pried away.
The fourth object on the floor was his hat. Thoughts interrupted, Sidwell stooped to take it back up, relishing its familiarity.
Perhaps unnoticeable at first, a butterfly was hidden inside the top of Sidwell's hat. Its wings were a luminescent silver, with luxurious tails and shimmering antennae.
There was a low table. Sidwell stepped towards it, squinting at the oddly elegant tangle of brass rings and spheres resting on it . . .
As Sidwell watched, the spheres moved. Only when he stepped close would he hear the telltale ticking of clockwork inside the machine.
The sun and all its planets were represented here by smooth metal spheres like huge marbles; though the one that represented the Earth was made of translucent stone that swirled and glimmered deep inside.
The planets were ever so slowly moving -- in the wrong direction. They orbited backwards around the sun.
At the center of the room, the door in the wooden column suddenly shook and rattled in its frame, as if it had been blasted with wind from inside. A moment later it was quiet.
Her hand idly fiddled with a small cluster of leaves growing out of the deck beside her, rubbing the smooth surfaces between forefinger and thumb, and tucked her face tighter into her arm, shielding her eyes from the light.
The leaves that grew out of the floor and the walls were slick with a purple-shimmering oil that smelled like strawberries. The oil came off on Zosime's fingers, where it continued to shimmer with a pale purplish reflection.
In the room below the floor, people were shouting.
Fok'n get back! . . . lower that . . . real slow . . . this soooo cray! . . . The actual eff . . . You're all crazy! . . . the water!! And her! She's out there! . . .
Dakota quickly snapped out of his blind groping. He was on the floor, not in a bed. . . . He subconsciously felt his headphones resting on his neck. His eyes followed the wires to his pocket, and pulled out his iPhone. No service, no WiFi . . . No battery. . . . Dakota took a deep breath as he tied his thick winter hoodie around his waist . . .
Music.
Faint, staticky music began to play through Dakota's headphones. It sounded like the crumbled crankings of a broken victrola playing the wistful music of a single warbling violin. It was only for a moment, and then faded into nothing.
Like the pseudo-latin, she felt strangely certain that she could understand this young man's words, even though she knew the sounds coming out of his mouth were unintelligible. . . . "I don't know where we are, or why. It looks like we are all equally confused here. If we are going to get any answers, we will probably need to stick together. My name is Zosime." She looked around the room, taking in the strange furnishings, living wood and unidentifiable metal contrivances. "Does anyone have any idea what any of these things are?"
He stepped a little closer to the metal device, noticing the rock in the floor and the strange, salty tang in the air that he had missed. "...Credo fiunt ex aere," I suppose they are made of brass, he offered in innocent helplessness, uncertain of the Latin phrasing. His world was too small to know much about anything here except the books.
The room gave a sudden lurch, throwing them all across the room, and wind rattled against the walls from all sides; it appeared that the walls and the roof were all that stood between them and the sea wind outside. The telescope above them creaked and groaned and dipped down a few inches. Perched atop the lens was something that appeared to be a mouse -- only it glinted metallic. It sat very still on the top of the telescope, and for awhile it wasn't certain whether the thing was alive at all. Until its gleaming tail twitched only slightly.
There were voices outside -- faint but clearly human.
The walls began to move. It was almost unnoticeable, but the bark-covered panels of the walls, the floor and the ceiling moved slightly like old sleeping snakes; the leaves trembled and moved as if in search of sunlight -- but there was none to be had in that dark closed room, lit only by the ambient gray sunlight that filtered in through the living wood. | Garren is approved. Please copy the CS to the Characters section.
Suichiro is approved. You know the drill! ;)
<Snipped quote by >
That is presumptuous considering your character hasn't been approved yet (at least as far as I see here). I would assume we could have some freedom in that aspect as kingdoms have risen and fallen throughout history and are not always large or written about. Something realistic for a time period should work pretty easilly.
<Snipped quote by >
In the Interest Check we only talked about having characters from different times (the examples were Middle Ages and Victorian). I believe the idea is to take people that are from a similar, common skill level and throw them into a fantasy beyond what we experience here on Earth.
Both drewccapp and t2wave are right. Everyone is from Earth. However, feel free to make up imaginary towns/kingdoms/etc. to suit your needs. But everyone is essentially from Earth. It therefore follows that everyone is human, no exceptions. I promise every character is special in other ways. ;)
Yay good to see you again! Alicia is approved. Please copy her CS to the Characters section.
The shift to balance looks good to me. Approved! Please copy the CS to the Characters section.
Dakota is approved! Please copy the CS to the Characters section.
Just gonna reserve a spot for my CS over here. Say, just asking, would an artist who was also a member of the local militia due to national obligations be considered someone in a 'violent' profession? They don't fight wars or do any fighting, they just pretend to be soldiers one week out of every month, or something along those lines.
This would count as something that'd need to be balanced. Just point out in the CS that the character has little experience and you're good to go. :)
Ah. Then there is perhaps something I missed. Could you point me to the precedent so I could be better informed?
I can answer that! drewccapp is referring to a very similar RP that I'm also running that she's also a part of. Her character there is from a made-up kingdom. Which is totally OK in this RP too!
Did I get everyone? -- I gotta go, I'll be back in a few hours! |
52,368 | 1,419 | 27 | 345 | 92 | MAP ROOM/DECK
Texas? He didn't look like any Texans she'd ever seen. Then again, she hadn't seen many, not so far out in the country. So she was willing to buy that, Chris from Texas it was. It didn't at all help to describe their situation, however, in fact, it only made it more confusing. How had she ended up on a boat with a Texan, and wherever the hell the rest of these people -and cat freak- were from.
"Aye," she nodded. "Fell asleep there, woke up here. Didn't have any enemies really."
That was a lie, that was one hundred percent a lie. She'd conned so many miners out of their hard-earned gold that she was almost convinced this had nothing to do with them. If they'd have caught her, she wouldn't have woken up on a ship in god-knows-where. She wouldn't have woken up at all, in fact.
She walked back to the map, blinking away a sudden sting that accompanied her passage through a dustier portion of the room. She however chalked it off as nothing more than the salty air. When she looked down to the large paper, she paid more attention to the little things. Not the map itself per say, lord knew she couldn't read a map, let alone this map, but blood was identifiable fairly easily. Licking a finger, she touched the coffee stain and brought it back to her tongue cautiously. Blood and coffee, someone had poured effort into this table, whether it was the map or not.
The interesting thing she saw was the pendulum's direction, and how it seemed to view the map with a particular interest to a certain direction. The ship's sway seemed to have no effect on it, but she didn't trust the thing to withstand a major pitch. So, she scanned it over and committed the place the pendulum pointed to to memory, and then put it on its side. A monopoly on information did her good everywhere else, why not here?
Reaching down, she meant to roll up the map and take it with her, but the sides caught her palm at an odd angle, and gave her a thin slit beneath her fingers. Ugh, paper cuts, as if she didn't get enough of that in cards. She rolled it up properly then, and folded it to fit under her shirt.
"If those two ain't dead, we oughta go an' find the wheel, see if we can't turn this big lug around," she said. "Might take us a bit t'get back, but that big foker with the beard -you see that guy?- that one, I'll bet he knows how to captain a-"
The last of her words drifted from her lips, and while at first she was speaking to Chris, by the end she was just staring forward. Moss could not, for the life of her, feel her head. When she tried to step, the odd balance had her stumbling back into the table, free hand scrambling for a grasp, but all she found was the pendulum and the remaining bone dust. By chance her footing stabilize and she leaned against the table. There were voices coming from somewhere -no, not somewhere, up. They were coming from above.
"Someone's...there's a...fok..." her composure was only coming back slowly, but the lightheaded feeling would just not go away. She shut her eyes, waiting for a moment, taking a deep breath only to choke on the god damned dust she'd kicked up. As if the wind wasn't bad enough at that already. Really, screw the ship, screw the sea.
When her eyes opened, she gasped, for she was not one to often scream when startled. For the sliver of a moment, before her head rocketed around to try and see it fully, she caught a glimpse of...something. Something terrifying, or at least when whole, terrifying, for she only caught a ghost of a glance at it.
The hammer was clutched tighter. Never mind, screw this room first of all things. "We should go outside, out o' here. I'm goin' outside. I'm gonna walk. What's the worst that could happen?" her words were breathed and shaky, and the first couple steps she took were hardly stable. But by the time she reached the door her conviction to be absolutely anywhere but in there overcame her induced imbalance, and she was outside in the thick air. It took her a good couple moments to get her bearings, but she did see the big fellow and the jumpy girl, at least until the jumpy girl took a little tumble out of sight. | Name: Moss
Age: 18
Appearance: Moss is a ratty child. She’s just below average height and slim as any hunger-borne kid could be expected to be. Being an Irish immigrant hasn’t afforded her much in the way of a healthy living, but it has given her a lean layer of muscle hidden beneath her scrawny form. Red hair so dark it might be blood is chopped short upon her head, and usually sits beneath a rugged old bolero that’s seen its share of fair and foul weather.
The most striking thing about her physical appearance is doubtlessly her eyes; two nearly reflective icy-blue orbs often give people the impression that she’s always sizing them up.
Occupation: Con artist
Personality: Moss is a bit cheeky in all of the things she does. She’s a fair share pugnacious and a fair share diplomatic, but whether she’s playing you in a game of cards with a cold deck or getting ready to go fist-to-fist, it can be said for certain that she’ll be doing it with a silver tongue. Well, as silver as something can be when it’s tarnished with cursing and other such vile.
All in all Moss is a bit of a bitter pill. She doesn’t take much seriously, and when she does it’s hard to tell whether she’s being patronizing or sincere. And though “loyal” is never a word that could be attributed to her, when she does happen to hold someone close enough to be considered a “friend”, she’s loathe to see them hurt to any serious degree. That doesn’t mean she won’t lie or cheat or steal from them, but she might feel a bit bad about doing afterwards, and might slip a few coins their way later on.
History: Once upon a time Moss ran with a caravan of gypsies, comprised mostly of Irish, Spanish, and Slavic immigrants. As with most of the children in the caravan, they were parented by more or less anyone who would give them the time of day. This led to her having to get a loose grasp on a few languages, which never really stuck, and in the end most of her time was spent around an Irish boxer and a Spanish “magician”.
As far as parental figures went, the boxer made a good enough mother, and for the brief time that the Spaniard was around he at least gave her a few tricks to build on.
Had she herself stuck around for long after her sixteenth birthday, she might have wanted to follow in the Irishwoman’s path. After all, scrapping was fairly common in the caravan, and Moss had gotten into her fair share of brawls with some of the other kids. But in the end she just couldn’t keep still, and somewhere in the mess of the California gold rush she broke away from the caravan and made a home for herself in San Francisco.
Home here meaning that she spent the following two years scamming fools from their gold with little more than her wit and a deck of cards, which never, ever left her person. |
52,369 | 1,419 | 28 | 1,951 | 317 | MAP ROOM
As he was hidden in the pile of papers he felt something sharp as he flinched a bit moving around as it cut him, he nearly cried as he dug around and found a strange shiny silver weapon. He finally had something to defend himself with as he held out what he did not know at the time was just an ordinary silver key. When he looked he noticed the red beast girl called Moss which was a strange short name so maybe she was from the outside where they make short names cause they too tired to make longer names, though Elin was not long he felt the extra syllable was a lot. Having not even told them his name or said much to them he put his weapon carefully into his pocket as he looked around more carefully.
He noticed a small drawing but ignored it as he did not like looking at pictures of clones who were all born bald in his homeland of the Society. Outside of his sheltered existence things changed and it was time for him to take action, time for him to focus.
He began to notice mumbling and footsteps above them as he looked up as some dust went into his eyes as he rubbed his eyes against his sleeve. He did not understand what was going on, but he needed to find things to survive as his mind began to realise that right now his only source of food were these strangers. He began to search around for something that might make a good tool for hunting, he did not know much about it but right now his food was not appearing in front of him like usual. He had to do what they did in history books and attack with weapons in order to hunt and eat other people.
He then kicked into something hard which hurt his foot as he sat down and saw what he needed, a weapon of mass destruction as he picked it up and pointed it towards the guy with glasses as he slowly moved towards a ticking sound. He was curious as it bothered him a lot, he was holding the gun the wrong way as the hole was actually pointing at him as he was holding it like a hammer. He made the mistake of not understanding what a gun was, but since no one used those in the society he could not figure it out. He finally reached the ticking object and picked it up and also pocketed it, but it kept ticking so he took it out and kept fiddling with it until the ticking stopped. He had clicked something which stopped it so he figured it was a noise maker to distract wild animals. He did not realise in a sense that it did just that in distracting him as he held the gun the wrong way still before thinking about it as he stalked his prey.
He began to duck behind tables and piles of papers, books, and other things as he moved in closer and closer until he was at least about five meters away from the guy with glasses called Chris. He then through the gun at him as it flung into the air as he was aiming for the guys head but it would fall short aiming closer to the guy's back or abdomen if he turned around. He was hunting his only source of food as he needed to escape, he needed to survive, he needed to eat. | Name: Christopher Casablanca
Age: 28
Appearance: Not the exact same tattoos, my RP character will two tribal sleeves.
Occupation: High-End Furniture Maker
Personality: Christopher is a man with a taste for finer things which was what made him decide on the profession that he has chosen. He might seem rather snooty because he likes to make his opinion well known and potentially create arguments if he is passionate about his topic. He does enjoy the company of other level headed individuals.
History: Christopher had a tough life growing up, mother and father both held two jobs just to keep enough food on the table to keep them from starving. Both of his parents abused numerous substances to numb everything in the world around them after getting home, so it was the job of Christopher to take care of his younger twin brothers who were 9 years younger. After Christopher finished high school he went onto learn how to make furniture which provided much better than his parents had been able to so Christopher had gone onto become legal guardians to his two brothers.
When his two brothers were in school Christopher would go to his workshop and make a living but this wasn't what he wanted to do all his life was to make decent furniture while just keeping afloat, so when his brothers started participating in afterschool activities Christopher went back to school to learn more technical procedures and how different woods were to be treated.
When both of his brothers turned 19 and went off to college for higher education Christopher put his nose to the grindstone and made a name for himself in the home decor world. One night after signing a large deal that would change his world as he knew it, he decided to hit the downtown nightlife. After picking up two fine ladies at a bar they went back to his place for a different kind of party. That was the last thing that Christopher remembered ... |
52,370 | 1,419 | 29 | 2,290 | 156 | On Deck~~!!
So maybe it was a mistake afterall.
If she had not rushed out that door, maybe she would not be in this predicament, slowly and painfully writhing around in the salty wet... bushes? Wat? This was craziness! Cray, yes, but one thing for sure she knew this was not; a dream. Pain did not hurt so painfully in her dreams.
In memories however, yes, she did remember pain. Her ribs screamed in memory of the time when she was in pyramid formation with her cheer squad. Tamara-Jane was at the top. The others were to spill away and Matty and Di were supposed to catch her in freefall. But Matty and Di got all tangled up and TamTam landed awkwardly on the others. Fail de Epic kinds... ouch. Ribs screamed in memory and a broken forearm sung backup as she remembered the white hot pain when she landed.
But this... Tamara-Jane rolled up to her hands and knees when her strained hitching sobs faded and she finally caught her breath. She was no stranger to having the wind knocked out of her, no matter how much she wished she was a stranger to such an experience. And this time, having the wind knocked out of her was especially uncomfortable with sore, possibly, bruised ribs and a sharp throbbing pain in the small of her back where she had landed upon the lever.
The water on the shrubbery laden deck washed back and forth with the rocking of the boat and TamTam noticed that the water that swished beneath her was coloured pink. Something neath the floor boards rumbled and clanked away but she paid that no mind because her big baby blues took in the sight of her ripped up denim sleeves all the way down to her hands. She was torn up pretty bad. Bleeding too.
A couple of headshakes she gave herself to clear out the stars impeding her vision and she watched more blood fall into the water neath her. A scratched up bloody hand went to her chin and she winced. That was a good cut.
“Awwww... can't try out for Miss Canada with that kinda' ugly on ya, TJ...! Hahahaha...!”
The warm sound of Kaylee's teasing voice in her head brought a smile to her face regardless of the pain rollicking through and over her. Then the scent of strawberries hit her and bitter tears threatened to fall once more, and the sting in her nose she fought. Strawberry blonde was her older sisters hair colour. Ooooohhhh... Kays... miss muh big sis soooooooooo mu--
A pitter patter of something coming near her made her gasp in surprise and then once again in pain as her ribs and back reminded her not to do that unless she liked to feel more pain than necessary. But she braced herself and rolled away towards the big ol' rusty cannon despite the screaming white hot jolts in her body and landed on her round butt with a splash.
Big blue eyes widened when she saw what pitter pattered on over.
Suddenly the teen girl knew she was not ever going to see Mom, Kaylee, Di, Matty, Chels or Mo ever again. There was a reason everything was soooooo crazy right now. And no, this was not a dream. No, for really reals...
... because Tamara-Jane Winstanley knew she was dead.
Because there she was. Big baby blues unleashed tears once again because there she was. Even all blurred up and obscured by her own salty wet waters in her eyes, she could see that before here was simply the most beautiful thing she ever seen. Period.
So maybe it wasn't a mistake to rush out that door and onto the deck afterall.
After all this time, TamTam had kept that stuffed bunny. She had altered it, stitched strings to it so it could be slung around her body. It was a very special gift from someone very special. And stitched upon the bunny's white fuzzy chest was a message to be read aloud when that gift was returned... returned upon a very special day. Like today.
Upon that bunny's chest was the message: 'I love you for now and hey, baby, hey, I love you for when--'
“...for when I see you again in Heaven...” she whispered fondly and softly with trembling pink bloodied lips.
Because there she was. Tamara-Jane's dead first love. And so now there she was to receive that gift she had given Tamara-Jane on their first and only anniversary. Tamara-Jane's dead first love had given her an adorable white stuffed bunny, and Tamara-Jane had given her first love a fox... that chick had such an obsession with kitsune...
Back to a kneeling position went the dark haired teen, wet black locks plastered across her forehead and choking back heavy sobs. Rough choppy seas continued to rock the creakng boat. White frothy water sprayed her several times. Slowly, yet deliberately, a trembling hand reached out rainbow coloured fingertips to stroke the darling fuzzy face of the fox that she knew was not a fox but her love in disguise carrying that stuffed white bunny. Finally she whispered, spurned on by the wavering strength of a broken heart:
“Hey, baby, hey... I knew... I just soooo knew I'd see ya again, I swear... I missed you LynLyn... I'm... I'm soooo...sosososo sorry, baby... I didn't mean to get you killed. I'm soooo sorry...” | Name: Tommy Burma
Age: 25
If someone had lived in a cave their whole life and asked "What does a man look like?" you would probably describe to them Tommy. A large man, very muscular from lifting and swinging heavy things all day, he is what every man dreams of being. He has rough skin, a dark beard and dark eyes, a very dominant punnet square for a very dominant human being. He is covered in hair all over and is usually covered in dirt, sweat and sometimes blood.
Occupation: Would you believe me if I said Lumberjack?
Personality: Tommy is a hard working man, but the fact is, work is all he knows. He was an orphan who ran away at the age of 16 and ran north until he was taken in by a group of lumberjacks who fed him and taught him their trade. He is loud and wales with his deep voice, but not obnoxious and a considerably meek and humble man for his size. He loves to talk and sing as he works. He is not much of a ladies man though, not because of his looks of coarse, but because of his only seeing a handful in his life in the occasional bar or market. He isn't clumsy, but sometimes he doesn't know his own strength and has been known to accidentally break small objects. When he started cutting in the forest he was weak and frail, and built himself up to the man he has become. He gained much respect among his "family" and many began to look up to him, even in his youth. Due to this, he is a great leader but a great follower as well.
History: From the Forests of Canada in the late 1930s |
52,371 | 1,419 | 30 | 150 | 2,985 | Observatory.
A sliver of good fortune had positioned Innocent beside the brasswork-bearing table in the same direction that the floor swung, giving him something to hold on to. Though his feet slipped out sideways between the table legs, he caught himself at a kneel and braced against the floor. There he stayed a few seconds, head spinning, not sure if the floor was stable of if they would all keep tipping sideways until they fell through the roof, or perhaps through the roof and up into Heaven. Sidwell's dreams hadn't prepared his expectations well for a place so surreal.
Standing up to the complaints and questions of his fellow dead, he readjusted his hat silently, feeling numb. Perhaps I have run through my stock of shock, he thought, bringing down his hand to find a wisp of silver-grey resting on it in perfect, contagious calm. ...And for what sin did you need to fall from grace, little angel? The insect avoided the question, flitting back upwards and onto the brim of Sidwell's hat where so many others had rested in the past.
A sound of knocking wood tugged his attention back to the room. Zosime had put her attention back to the pillar, but Christopher was tapping on the floor like a door. Listening in as closely as he could, Sidwell could hear what Christopher had picked up on before him, though of course, he did not recognise the voices. Many die and few go straight up, so it's a small wonder that the grave is crowded, he explained to himself, but did not stoop down to listen to the floor. The voices could wait until he found their owners, wherever they were.
Innocent had only explored part of the room around the pillar, and with two of the other three wakeful lost in their own worlds of exploration (The boy still seemed to be fiddling with his dull black jewellery; The poor fellow was likely stunned by shock), he thought it appropriate to follow suit. The books in the walls were, as Christopher had shown to his frustration, adjoined to their shelves, and to try and remove them himself when Christopher had already tried felt like it would be a slight against all his effort. Besides, there was an odd, shifty quality to the vines that he didn't like, as if they were crawling around when they knew he wasn't watching. Sidwell left them be and continued to the far side of the pillar, where a door waited for him. He knocked, to no reply other than the snapping of some leaves on the wood, which smelled familiarly of strawberries.
Facing the pillar again to address the others, perhaps ask their thoughts on opening this door, Innocent's eye caught on a gleam in the dark on the top of the pillar device. The shape was too small and distant to make out easily until it moved, and Sidwell squinted at it. A little tailed animal, perhaps a rat, glinting like the flutterby on his hat and just as still. He let go of the doorknob he didn't realise he'd been holding, but the animal was too far to reach, and Sidwell was not a cat, that he could climb up and look for it. Still distracted, he put his hand back on the doorknob, neglecting to use Latin when he stated that "...I am going to open this door and see what's outside."
The door opened with more of a wooden creak than a hinged metal one, and dull light shone in, dazzling the night-eyes he'd been using since he awoke. The scene was a mangle of conflicting elements. The leaves and vines in his awakening room were a shadow of what he saw here. The ground was almost completely overgrown with roots, and trees were rising. This wasn't a forest, though, for at the edges of it all was a railing, and beyond that railing, seething grey. It took landlocked Sidwell several seconds to recognise the movement as water, unholy amounts of water that stank of salt and mysteries.
"Et dedit mare mortuos qui in eo eran." And the sea gave up the dead that were in it. From the Apocalypse of Saint John, from the very end of life and the Good Book. Sidwell didn't take his eyes from the water as he walked down to it, nearly tripped by the stairs between the deck and the domed observatory. His hands clutched the railing and he watched the sea, unafraid of the mute idiot mass of water crawling below him. He was dead, and had nothing to fear from this natural world.
The sound of tears didn't reach him for quite some time. Innocent turned his head without averting his stare from the water until he caught sight of a human figure in the periphery of his gaze. His rapture broke and his tense body slackened back into small, humble Sidwell. The woman was kneeling in front of a fox, talking in distress, mourning her lost child to it. “...Soso sorry, baby... I didn't mean to get you killed. I'm so sorry...”
Wavering, he stepped a little closer and spoke, unsure of exactly what he was interrupting. "Forgiveness comes to all good souls," he offered, trying to compensate for the regret the woman was clearly showing. No doubt this was the sin which she rests in Purgatory to pay off. | Name: Connor O'Flaherty
Age: 25
Appearance: Connor is a rather unimpressive person, being of average height and build. Muscular enough for people to believe that he is in the militia, but not so muscular that he looks more of a brute than an artist. He has ginger hair, cut short to militia standards, but it still licks at his brows and collar of his shirt. As if nature had decided to make him look like distilled-Irish, he has bright, green eyes.
Occupation: Artist/Militiaman
Personality: Some might call him a coward, but Connor prefers to describe himself as being more discerning as to the types of risks he is willing to take. Who cares if his reputation suffers when he runs from a fight he's absolutely confident of losing? As long as he is in one piece and is able to function properly the next day, it's all fine by him. Besides, he never puts himself forward as a warrior; he's an artist first and a soldier second. A very, very, very far second.
He is rather open with his thoughts, though that has less to do with lack of tact and more to do with having lived much of his adult life on an island faraway from civilization. Sometimes it may even appear that he is talking to himself, but he's not crazy. It's just a method he uses to prevent his train of thought from derailing, though from the disjointed thoughts that comes of his mouth, it can be hard to believe. Just trust in that he knows what he's doing. Most of the time.
History: An Irishman living in Scotland while serving an Englishman trying hard to be Scottish. Don't worry if that confuses you; sometimes Connor feels the same as well. Born to an impoverished Irish family in Victorian-era London, to say that Connor had a rough childhood would be an affront to the phrase 'massive understatement'. If the other - usually English - street urchins didn't make his life hell, then the deep-seated against the Irish, especially Irish Catholics like his family, did. If a day went past without him or his family being wrongfully accused of a crime, or he did not have to run away from anyone, Connor would have taken it as a wonderful day.
In a rather roundabout attempt to show others that they were a good, British family, Connor's father pressured him to join the army in some capacity. The best outcome would be that Connor would be sent off to fight in some faraway corner of the globe for Queen and Country, and his father would be able to proudly say that at least one member of his family was doing some good to the British Empire. Connor, however, wanted to have none of that. He loved drawing, and usually spent whatever spare time he had sketching out scenes from his life onto whatever scraps of paper he had. Soldiering was not for him; Connor wanted to be an artist.
After several arguments and failed attempts to physically pull Connor to a recruitment office, he and his father settled on a compromise. Instead of joining the regular force, Connor would join the territorial army. He would never be sent overseas, and as long as he pretended to be sad about it every time a war broke out, he would still appear to be a good little patriot. Even better, Connor had to option of choosing where he wanted to be posted, and he chose to be sent to the Shetland Islands, or as his father called it, the 'arse of the British isles'.
It was a perfect life for Connor. The Shetlands were faraway from the mainland enough that he was rarely ever called for service, and as long as he fulfilled his yearly requirements of showing up to prove that he could still fire a rifle, stand in a file and fight alongside his regiment of fellow misfits, he was left alone. The islands were also quiet, and provided no shortage of scenery for him to sketch, and eventually, paint. It was not long before his talents were noticed by a rather wealthy local who then hired Connor to produce his works of art for various auction houses. The money, while not amazing, was good, and Connor felt himself believing in the whole 'luck of the Irish' thing.
Oh, if only he knew where he would wake up. |
52,372 | 1,419 | 31 | 2,356 | 5,042 | Engine Room
When the floor suddenly moved under her Risa she crashed into pipes. When she heard the hiss she grabbed a pipe that was nearby. She looked around in a panic. She did not care if the other person was holding a tool, there was something else here, something more dangerous. She looked around suspiciously holding the pipe close to her.
In her paranoid state she saw the leaves move at the top of the ladder. Whatever was in here she was sure it was there. She was relieved that it was up there. She was scared of heights and was not sure if she would be able to climb up a ladder to get away. As long as that creature stayed up there she would not have to use her pipe against another person.
She grabbed a nearby lamp, not sure if should would find a way to light it, but when she had a way she would have a light source if it got really dark.
She slowly backed away to the speaker. Once she got there she looked away for the first time. "Hey, is anyone there? There is something down here. Get us out of here," she yelled out. She was still not sure if there was someone there on the other side, but someone out there should be able to help them get out of here. | Name: Risa Robinson
Age: 22
Appearance:
Occupation: Writer
Personality: Risa is the type of person that will start a conversation with anyone around her as long as she has something to talk about. While she appears to be able to handle a lot of things she often doubts herself and worries when something does not go as planned. She has a need to things to go the way she wants, but that is because she is afraid of losing control of the things she can control. She does her best to do what other wants, but inside often gets annoyed at people and wants nothing to do with them. At times her immaturity comes through when she lashes out in anger or starts crying in frustration. As much as she tries to look at things optimistically, the truth is she had a negative view on life and the people around her.
History: Risa was born into a middle class family in the year 2000. He was the second child of three. They did not have much as a child, but that never bothered her. She loved her family and she wanted noting more than to be around them. She was not the most popular kid in school, but she quickly found a love of books. She found enjoyment in a good adventure in a book rather than playing tag with her classmates. As she grew older all she wanted to do was become a writer. She spent a lot of her free time writing the ideas that came to her head. When she started high school her parents pushed her to become an accountant. She found that she liked the class and applied to study it in university as a backup plan.
It was in her second year her book became published and she dropped out of her program to focus on her stories. It did not take long for her book to get popular and she started to work on her next hit. Even though she had made it with her first book she was very worried about writing a book that would be just as good or even better than her first one. |
52,373 | 1,419 | 32 | 1,583 | 2,241 | Any thoughts Connor had of knowing more about the skittish girl staying away from the rest disappeared when a sudden, violent lurch sent him flying into a tangle of cables which thankfully prevented him from slamming straight into the mess of pipes behind. As he slowly got to his feet and tried to steady himself, a cable which had managed to wrap itself around his right ankle brought him crashing to the ground the minute he tried to take a single step. This time, there was nothing to break his fall and he felt his whole body ache as he stood back up.
"Bloody feck," He muttered to himself as he straightened out his clothes. "Someone somewhere has a wicked sense of humour."
He was interrupted by a strange, hissing sound. Surrounded by so many pieces of machinery, most of them unknown to him, Connor initially wrote it off as just ambient noise. However, he briefly saw an oddly shaped creature darting up a wall. It moved faster than any man Connor knew, and he knew someone on the Shetlands who could outrun a horse for brief periods of time, so that was indeed saying something. The creature had disappeared from sight, but Connor kept his eyes on it's last known position, near the top of a ladder.
"Anyone else saw that?" He asked, his voice dropping to a low whisper. "There's something else here with us."
Gulping, he slowly backed away and drew his bayonet. Despite the tense situation, he noted that the blade of his weapon looked a little bit shinier than usual. Perhaps that sludge Corporal Brekker had convinced him to drown his bayonet in a week ago had actually done some work. "Whatever you're doing," He called out to the writer, who was trying to call for help via the horn. "I hope to God it actually works, otherwise I'm going to start cutting things and hoping for the best." | Garren is approved. Please copy the CS to the Characters section.
Suichiro is approved. You know the drill! ;)
<Snipped quote by >
That is presumptuous considering your character hasn't been approved yet (at least as far as I see here). I would assume we could have some freedom in that aspect as kingdoms have risen and fallen throughout history and are not always large or written about. Something realistic for a time period should work pretty easilly.
<Snipped quote by >
In the Interest Check we only talked about having characters from different times (the examples were Middle Ages and Victorian). I believe the idea is to take people that are from a similar, common skill level and throw them into a fantasy beyond what we experience here on Earth.
Both drewccapp and t2wave are right. Everyone is from Earth. However, feel free to make up imaginary towns/kingdoms/etc. to suit your needs. But everyone is essentially from Earth. It therefore follows that everyone is human, no exceptions. I promise every character is special in other ways. ;)
Yay good to see you again! Alicia is approved. Please copy her CS to the Characters section.
The shift to balance looks good to me. Approved! Please copy the CS to the Characters section.
Dakota is approved! Please copy the CS to the Characters section.
Just gonna reserve a spot for my CS over here. Say, just asking, would an artist who was also a member of the local militia due to national obligations be considered someone in a 'violent' profession? They don't fight wars or do any fighting, they just pretend to be soldiers one week out of every month, or something along those lines.
This would count as something that'd need to be balanced. Just point out in the CS that the character has little experience and you're good to go. :)
Ah. Then there is perhaps something I missed. Could you point me to the precedent so I could be better informed?
I can answer that! drewccapp is referring to a very similar RP that I'm also running that she's also a part of. Her character there is from a made-up kingdom. Which is totally OK in this RP too!
Did I get everyone? -- I gotta go, I'll be back in a few hours! |
52,374 | 1,419 | 33 | 1,951 | 317 | Observatory
Christopher has never been a fan of the unknown, even worse was when there was something in front of him that was unknown to him but he couldn't figure it out what it was. This what seemed like a boat by the way that it moved and how the environment smelled seemed to be especially good for, having a lot of unknown. That was the case with that stupid book with such a weird name "The Reapers Lie". There were voices that appeared to be human on a different level of the floor but it didn't seem that anyone had responded to his knocking on the floor boards, so maybe they hadn't been human or even real voices at all but instead Christophers mind playing a trick on him. Maybe that's what all this was, just some crazy dream since he did have a pretty crazy night with those ladies. He thought maybe that he would just lay on the floor and wait for this dream to end and him to wake up in his comfortable bed. It didn't last long before he got tired of lying on the floor bleeding all over himself and his white dress shirt that he had worn out to the club before going unconscious.
He decided to stand up and jump on the floor three times to indicate to the people below them that they were here. As he performing this action there had been a book that lay open next to his foot and each time that he stomped on the ground a few more specs of blood fell from his chin down onto the open book. Christopher hadn't looked down at the book that was there and it was a good thing because what was there might have frightened him quite well. After Christopher stomped on the ground he was going to have a round two with the book that he couldn't take off of his mind, but the book was not in the same condition before he had laid down. It looked like it popped open a bit like maybe he opened the binding that kept it closed. For the first time since he had been here a smile broke across of his face, he was about to solve the unknown about this book and examine its contents even if he recognized what it said or not. To his astonishment it wasn't a real book at all but it looked like a small safeguard for little items, when he looked inside he was completely floored. There had been a single pearl that was sitting there staring at him, it looked like it had been begging for him to take it. He didn't really mind what the others thought about the contents of this or if he even told them about it but it was his doing that had given up its hidden contents. Having appreciation for the finer details in things as much as he thought that the title of the book was stupid he now had seem the poetics in it now. Another thought entered his mind instantly after the first, hopefully it was purely poetic instead of symbolic. "The Reapers Lie" Hopefully they weren't truly dead and being kept prisoner by "The Reaper" as the "Lie" aspect was true as it wasn't truly a book but a secure place to the pearl.
Christopher was now getting slightly annoyed with the cut on his forehead since it kept getting in his eye. There didn't seem to be anything that he could use around the room and he didn't really thing that parchment would be a benefit for him so he ripped off both of the sleeves on his shirt and wrapped one around his forehead. Even though it was white and would soon turn red given how steady the flow of blood had been, probably didn't help that he had worked himself up by demolishing the contents of the bookshelf and getting his heart rate higher pushing more blood around.
Christopher had started to walk over to the rest of the group to discuss what there the best plan for them to do would be, whether it be to explore the rest of this small room or to try and find their way out while trying to locate where the voices had been coming from. Maybe they would have a few more answers then them. If anything else there might be more of a chance that someone else spoke English as well as he did, which seemed fairly likely given what little he could make out from through the floor boards. While making his way over he stepped on a book, he couldn't ignore the book since maybe it had something hidden in it also since it seemed pretty thick if he wasn't mistaken it seemed about as thick as "The Reapers Lie" when he bent down it on both of the open pages there had been pictures instead of words.
It looked harmless like a picture book that you would show a child but without any captions or words to explain what the pictures showcased. When Christopher had looked down at the pages that the book had fell open to it looked like he had seen a dozen ghosts at once. This was something that had come from his past that only a handful of people knew about, the only ones were his parents, his siblings and himself. On the picture there was the most dark piece of Christopher whole life, he was standing at the feet of a deceased male impaled with a fire poker with his two siblings behind him with his arms spread out protectively. Looking at this image he knew it was about him since he could picture that moment in his mind vividly as it had just happened.
He had collapsed to his knees but he couldn't put the book down, as he flipped the page he had seen another images from his past, when he flipped a few more times he could see himself walking through his apartment door with two women in his arms but they were only silhouettes but they hadn't been wearing what the image in this book portrayed, they had little horns and a tail like many woman had dressed up for Halloween. Like little devils. When he flipped the page once more there had been an image that he didn't remember happening in his mind at all. Like it hadn't happened yet, or happened after he had been with those ladies because he usually had an impeccable memory but this didn't ring any bells. When he turned the next page to see if anything else followed it every single page after it had been ripped from the binding of the book. | Name: Christopher Casablanca
Age: 28
Appearance: Not the exact same tattoos, my RP character will two tribal sleeves.
Occupation: High-End Furniture Maker
Personality: Christopher is a man with a taste for finer things which was what made him decide on the profession that he has chosen. He might seem rather snooty because he likes to make his opinion well known and potentially create arguments if he is passionate about his topic. He does enjoy the company of other level headed individuals.
History: Christopher had a tough life growing up, mother and father both held two jobs just to keep enough food on the table to keep them from starving. Both of his parents abused numerous substances to numb everything in the world around them after getting home, so it was the job of Christopher to take care of his younger twin brothers who were 9 years younger. After Christopher finished high school he went onto learn how to make furniture which provided much better than his parents had been able to so Christopher had gone onto become legal guardians to his two brothers.
When his two brothers were in school Christopher would go to his workshop and make a living but this wasn't what he wanted to do all his life was to make decent furniture while just keeping afloat, so when his brothers started participating in afterschool activities Christopher went back to school to learn more technical procedures and how different woods were to be treated.
When both of his brothers turned 19 and went off to college for higher education Christopher put his nose to the grindstone and made a name for himself in the home decor world. One night after signing a large deal that would change his world as he knew it, he decided to hit the downtown nightlife. After picking up two fine ladies at a bar they went back to his place for a different kind of party. That was the last thing that Christopher remembered ... |
52,375 | 1,419 | 34 | 345 | 92 | Moss jolted at the sounds and sight of the side-wings extending out. She scurried over to the railing, looking down at them with skeptical fascination. That wasn't where sails went, boats didn't have bloody wings, and they sure as hell didn't have trees in them either. Part of her wanted to hop down onto them and see what sort of bits they were attached to, but then something else caught her attention.
The sky was furious, she'd never seen clouds like those that had begun to rage above them. The deck and in fact the whole ship was rocking, their great vessel at the mercy of the waves and the gales. This was going to get very bad very fast if they didn't get a grip on this ship. Before she could move to the odd girl and the priest-looking guy, a sudden, panicked voice nearly jumped her out of her skin.
--"Hey, is anyone there? There is something down here. Get us out of here!"--
Well, at least whoever that was seemed to be on the same level as everyone else. She made her way back to the speaker, giving it a tap before leaning in close. The metal gave her lips a static tinge at first, but she ignored it.
"Aye, I hear ya," she said back. "Just sit uh...sit tight, where are ya?" | Name: Moss
Age: 18
Appearance: Moss is a ratty child. She’s just below average height and slim as any hunger-borne kid could be expected to be. Being an Irish immigrant hasn’t afforded her much in the way of a healthy living, but it has given her a lean layer of muscle hidden beneath her scrawny form. Red hair so dark it might be blood is chopped short upon her head, and usually sits beneath a rugged old bolero that’s seen its share of fair and foul weather.
The most striking thing about her physical appearance is doubtlessly her eyes; two nearly reflective icy-blue orbs often give people the impression that she’s always sizing them up.
Occupation: Con artist
Personality: Moss is a bit cheeky in all of the things she does. She’s a fair share pugnacious and a fair share diplomatic, but whether she’s playing you in a game of cards with a cold deck or getting ready to go fist-to-fist, it can be said for certain that she’ll be doing it with a silver tongue. Well, as silver as something can be when it’s tarnished with cursing and other such vile.
All in all Moss is a bit of a bitter pill. She doesn’t take much seriously, and when she does it’s hard to tell whether she’s being patronizing or sincere. And though “loyal” is never a word that could be attributed to her, when she does happen to hold someone close enough to be considered a “friend”, she’s loathe to see them hurt to any serious degree. That doesn’t mean she won’t lie or cheat or steal from them, but she might feel a bit bad about doing afterwards, and might slip a few coins their way later on.
History: Once upon a time Moss ran with a caravan of gypsies, comprised mostly of Irish, Spanish, and Slavic immigrants. As with most of the children in the caravan, they were parented by more or less anyone who would give them the time of day. This led to her having to get a loose grasp on a few languages, which never really stuck, and in the end most of her time was spent around an Irish boxer and a Spanish “magician”.
As far as parental figures went, the boxer made a good enough mother, and for the brief time that the Spaniard was around he at least gave her a few tricks to build on.
Had she herself stuck around for long after her sixteenth birthday, she might have wanted to follow in the Irishwoman’s path. After all, scrapping was fairly common in the caravan, and Moss had gotten into her fair share of brawls with some of the other kids. But in the end she just couldn’t keep still, and somewhere in the mess of the California gold rush she broke away from the caravan and made a home for herself in San Francisco.
Home here meaning that she spent the following two years scamming fools from their gold with little more than her wit and a deck of cards, which never, ever left her person. |
52,376 | 1,419 | 35 | 2,356 | 5,042 | Engine Room
Well, at least if they died right then, Connor could go knowing that he had been right about there being some sort of creature skulking in the shadows. It was little solace - or it would have been, if he had the time to even think about it - as he desperately did his best to alternate between fending off the creature and putting as much distance between it and him as possible. The most preferable option would have been to find a way to kill the damn thing, but firstly, Connor doubted he had the stomach for it and secondly, he did not even know if the thing would die like a human.
"Engine room!" Connor shouted in the general direction of the horn, hoping whoever that was on the other side would be able to hear him. "We're in the fecking-" He was rudely interrupted when the creature made a swipe towards him, forcing Connor to back away even further. "We're in the fecking engine room!"
The creature lunged for Connor once more, and in a panic, he backed away until his back touched the wall. Connor only wished he knew why the creature was so intent on chasing him, rather than the girl. She was the one who was unarmed, after all. It made more sense for the creature to attack her instead, but then again, Connor wondered if his and the creature's sense had anything in common. Keeping his eye on the creature, Connor used his free hand to search his surroundings for anything that he could use to, at the very least, spite the creature before he was torn to bits.
His felt his hand grab onto what felt like dusty stones, but they would have to do. With a shout, he spun his body and put as much force into throwing a handful of the stuff - it looked like coal, he noted - at the creature. Connor had been aiming at the eyes, but given how large they were, he did not really need to be precise. Taking advantage of the creature's temporary blindness, pain or whatever that was causing it to reel, Connor ran past it. "Any help you can give would be sure as feckin' helpful right now, missy!" He said to the girl as he looked around for anything that could be used.
There was a pistol-shaped object hanging from a wall behind a series of boilers, and immediately Connor knew that he was going to need that. The problem was that it meant he had to run past the creature again, and now he had nothing to work with. "We need that pistol," He said to the girl and gulped, his fear showing through. | Name: Risa Robinson
Age: 22
Appearance:
Occupation: Writer
Personality: Risa is the type of person that will start a conversation with anyone around her as long as she has something to talk about. While she appears to be able to handle a lot of things she often doubts herself and worries when something does not go as planned. She has a need to things to go the way she wants, but that is because she is afraid of losing control of the things she can control. She does her best to do what other wants, but inside often gets annoyed at people and wants nothing to do with them. At times her immaturity comes through when she lashes out in anger or starts crying in frustration. As much as she tries to look at things optimistically, the truth is she had a negative view on life and the people around her.
History: Risa was born into a middle class family in the year 2000. He was the second child of three. They did not have much as a child, but that never bothered her. She loved her family and she wanted noting more than to be around them. She was not the most popular kid in school, but she quickly found a love of books. She found enjoyment in a good adventure in a book rather than playing tag with her classmates. As she grew older all she wanted to do was become a writer. She spent a lot of her free time writing the ideas that came to her head. When she started high school her parents pushed her to become an accountant. She found that she liked the class and applied to study it in university as a backup plan.
It was in her second year her book became published and she dropped out of her program to focus on her stories. It did not take long for her book to get popular and she started to work on her next hit. Even though she had made it with her first book she was very worried about writing a book that would be just as good or even better than her first one. |
52,377 | 1,419 | 36 | 345 | 92 | On Deck~~!!
Lightning, angry and demanding cut the spiralling, storming heavens above her and TamTam cringed even more than when the giant poles grumbled forth then swept from the hull and out across the rough seas. Like angel wings attempting to pacify a greyed out, murderous beast, they hovered and the blue-eyed teen could not help but feel strange comfort upon seeing the unblemished material of the outstretched posts. But the sounds of them unfurling. Oh shudder!
She had bumbled up to a standing position, reaching out after the fox who she thought was not a fox but her love in disguise. But this fox darted this way and that, eluding her desperate attempts to caress its fuzzy frame. Her jaw dropped open and baby blues widened in alarm when the fox nimbly dashed away from her.
Tamara-Jane then scowled and pulled up at her torn denim sleeves as if ready to get down and dirty, “Oh nonononono...! I've been waiting for this moment for sooooooooooo long now, LynLyn!! I don't thinks so! You are sooooo not getting away again!”
She took two steps then she heard someone speak and promptly came to a skidding halt.
“Forgiveness comes to all good souls...” spoken from the lips of an angel.
Quickly she wheeled about and held her bloody chin with both hands. She felt the sting of pressing tears again but held them back for even though he sounded like one, TamTam did not see an angel before her. No wings... but a butterfly on his hat...?
A soft smile she offered the dude, this AngelMan and inhaled deeply before she spoke--
--"Hey, is anyone there? There is something down here. Get us out of here!"--
Tamara-Jane jumped then held a blood-smeared hand where her heart thudded away. Heart?! LynLyn! Baby blues widened again and she swiftly glanced over her shoulder. The amber eyes of the fox stared into hers and Tamara-Jane's lips pouted with wistful affection. Oooooh... of course... you're waiting for me...
“Hey, baby, hey...”
Wet black hair re-plastered against her forehead as she turned back to face the Angelman “Thank you. My name is Tamara-Jane Winstanley. TamTam. And TamTam needs that forgiveness, please, I'm sure you must understand. That's why I need to be with that fox in Heaven. Crystal-Lynne, that's her... I just know it... Please understand... and please--” TamTam pointed at the speaker, “--save them too. Please.”
"Aye, I hear ya," It was Les Mis! "Just sit uh...sit tight, where are ya?"
"Engine room! We're in the fecking-- We're in the fecking engine room!"
She nodded graciously at the Angelman then took leave in the direction of the fox. As she moved, she spied in the distance, between the shrubbery and tree trunks, Les Mis near the speaker tube thingy and just behind her Neko-Chan sprung out from the doorway, mewling, all saddened and lost looking. They did not look so scary out here in light of the raging storm above them and churning sea neath them. And Les Mis was going to save people too. Looking up towards them, a flash of a smile and a slender, but bloodied hand she raised for them, before turning around and bolting away, chasing the fox (bunny still lolling from its mouth) wherever it may lead her down those steps.
“LynLyn! Foxy lady! Wait up, chick! I'm going with you!” | Name: Moss
Age: 18
Appearance: Moss is a ratty child. She’s just below average height and slim as any hunger-borne kid could be expected to be. Being an Irish immigrant hasn’t afforded her much in the way of a healthy living, but it has given her a lean layer of muscle hidden beneath her scrawny form. Red hair so dark it might be blood is chopped short upon her head, and usually sits beneath a rugged old bolero that’s seen its share of fair and foul weather.
The most striking thing about her physical appearance is doubtlessly her eyes; two nearly reflective icy-blue orbs often give people the impression that she’s always sizing them up.
Occupation: Con artist
Personality: Moss is a bit cheeky in all of the things she does. She’s a fair share pugnacious and a fair share diplomatic, but whether she’s playing you in a game of cards with a cold deck or getting ready to go fist-to-fist, it can be said for certain that she’ll be doing it with a silver tongue. Well, as silver as something can be when it’s tarnished with cursing and other such vile.
All in all Moss is a bit of a bitter pill. She doesn’t take much seriously, and when she does it’s hard to tell whether she’s being patronizing or sincere. And though “loyal” is never a word that could be attributed to her, when she does happen to hold someone close enough to be considered a “friend”, she’s loathe to see them hurt to any serious degree. That doesn’t mean she won’t lie or cheat or steal from them, but she might feel a bit bad about doing afterwards, and might slip a few coins their way later on.
History: Once upon a time Moss ran with a caravan of gypsies, comprised mostly of Irish, Spanish, and Slavic immigrants. As with most of the children in the caravan, they were parented by more or less anyone who would give them the time of day. This led to her having to get a loose grasp on a few languages, which never really stuck, and in the end most of her time was spent around an Irish boxer and a Spanish “magician”.
As far as parental figures went, the boxer made a good enough mother, and for the brief time that the Spaniard was around he at least gave her a few tricks to build on.
Had she herself stuck around for long after her sixteenth birthday, she might have wanted to follow in the Irishwoman’s path. After all, scrapping was fairly common in the caravan, and Moss had gotten into her fair share of brawls with some of the other kids. But in the end she just couldn’t keep still, and somewhere in the mess of the California gold rush she broke away from the caravan and made a home for herself in San Francisco.
Home here meaning that she spent the following two years scamming fools from their gold with little more than her wit and a deck of cards, which never, ever left her person. |
52,378 | 1,419 | 37 | 150 | 2,985 | ENGINE ROOM
Risa heard the chain clinking, but she was more interested in lighting the lamp. She saw that matches and she wanted nothing more than to walk over and grab a match and light the lamp right now, but that meant getting closer to the creature. She felt safe here for now. That was until she heard the creature start to move again. While she could not tell where it was she gripped the pipe in her hand. When it moved to attack Connor, she could not help but be relieved.
She knew that she should help him, but she could not move. She did not want to see a person hurt bedside her, but she did not want to put herself in danger. She was not that kind of a person, not unless she had a weapon that she could use. That was when she heard the voice over the speaker. There was someone else there and worse off these people did not know where they were. She looked at Connor and then back to the speaker.
"You need to hurry, there is a giant lizard attacking Connor. Please help all we have weapon wise is his sword." she said in a panic. She was going to say more, but Connor started to talk to her. She turned to him and looked around for something that she could use. Maybe something that would allow her to attack from a distance.
When he mentioned a pistol she looked in that direction. She had never used a gun before, but if it meant that she could stop the lizard she was more than willing to use it. She slowly moved over to the boiler making sure that the lizard was paying attention to Connor. She managed to get behind boiler and grabbed the pistol.
She got out from behind the boiler and held the pistol up. She had no idea if it was loaded, but if she did nothing she would end up the next target of this lizard. She hold the pistol and pressed the trigger. | Name: Connor O'Flaherty
Age: 25
Appearance: Connor is a rather unimpressive person, being of average height and build. Muscular enough for people to believe that he is in the militia, but not so muscular that he looks more of a brute than an artist. He has ginger hair, cut short to militia standards, but it still licks at his brows and collar of his shirt. As if nature had decided to make him look like distilled-Irish, he has bright, green eyes.
Occupation: Artist/Militiaman
Personality: Some might call him a coward, but Connor prefers to describe himself as being more discerning as to the types of risks he is willing to take. Who cares if his reputation suffers when he runs from a fight he's absolutely confident of losing? As long as he is in one piece and is able to function properly the next day, it's all fine by him. Besides, he never puts himself forward as a warrior; he's an artist first and a soldier second. A very, very, very far second.
He is rather open with his thoughts, though that has less to do with lack of tact and more to do with having lived much of his adult life on an island faraway from civilization. Sometimes it may even appear that he is talking to himself, but he's not crazy. It's just a method he uses to prevent his train of thought from derailing, though from the disjointed thoughts that comes of his mouth, it can be hard to believe. Just trust in that he knows what he's doing. Most of the time.
History: An Irishman living in Scotland while serving an Englishman trying hard to be Scottish. Don't worry if that confuses you; sometimes Connor feels the same as well. Born to an impoverished Irish family in Victorian-era London, to say that Connor had a rough childhood would be an affront to the phrase 'massive understatement'. If the other - usually English - street urchins didn't make his life hell, then the deep-seated against the Irish, especially Irish Catholics like his family, did. If a day went past without him or his family being wrongfully accused of a crime, or he did not have to run away from anyone, Connor would have taken it as a wonderful day.
In a rather roundabout attempt to show others that they were a good, British family, Connor's father pressured him to join the army in some capacity. The best outcome would be that Connor would be sent off to fight in some faraway corner of the globe for Queen and Country, and his father would be able to proudly say that at least one member of his family was doing some good to the British Empire. Connor, however, wanted to have none of that. He loved drawing, and usually spent whatever spare time he had sketching out scenes from his life onto whatever scraps of paper he had. Soldiering was not for him; Connor wanted to be an artist.
After several arguments and failed attempts to physically pull Connor to a recruitment office, he and his father settled on a compromise. Instead of joining the regular force, Connor would join the territorial army. He would never be sent overseas, and as long as he pretended to be sad about it every time a war broke out, he would still appear to be a good little patriot. Even better, Connor had to option of choosing where he wanted to be posted, and he chose to be sent to the Shetland Islands, or as his father called it, the 'arse of the British isles'.
It was a perfect life for Connor. The Shetlands were faraway from the mainland enough that he was rarely ever called for service, and as long as he fulfilled his yearly requirements of showing up to prove that he could still fire a rifle, stand in a file and fight alongside his regiment of fellow misfits, he was left alone. The islands were also quiet, and provided no shortage of scenery for him to sketch, and eventually, paint. It was not long before his talents were noticed by a rather wealthy local who then hired Connor to produce his works of art for various auction houses. The money, while not amazing, was good, and Connor felt himself believing in the whole 'luck of the Irish' thing.
Oh, if only he knew where he would wake up. |
52,379 | 1,419 | 38 | 1,583 | 2,241 | Aye, I hear ya. Just sit uh...sit tight, where are ya?
Engine room! We're in the fecking-
We're in the fecking engine room!
aaaaaaahhhhhhhhhnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn!!!!!!!!!!!
. . . the fok up! Stop . . . christ's-sake . . . fok'n understand me . . . pay attention . . . absolutely fok'd . . . all gonna sink, ya understand me? . . . Stay. With. Me.
. . . Foxy lady! Wait up, chick . . . going . . .
You need to hurry, there is a giant lizard attacking Connor. Please help all we have weapon wise is his sword.
Any help . . . be sure as feckin' . . . missy!
. . . Shtay wif Mosh, gaffer foks . . .
. . . Room with devices . . . people there looking for. . . . below that. I think . . . avoid this storm.
Scraaaeeeeeeiiiii ik-ik-ik-ik-ik . . .
ElinWith a huge thud as he hid shoulder first making a soft yelping sound he flew out the door into a new world, a world he had never seen before as some blood dripped on the floor as he was not used to taking any hits. . . . His body was not used to all of this as his right foot was bleeding underneath, his one shoe was left behind in the map room all torn. Meanwhile his left shoe was not much better off as it had also been mostly torn and he was nervous. . . . shouted in a loud high pitched voice. "aaaaaaahhhhhhhhhnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn!!!!!!!!!!!"
. . . He looked at her as he sniffed a bit the tears still running down his face, she then pointed a finger at him as he was already sitting he jumped up before falling back hard against the door which happened to have closed again.
The droplets of Elin's blood seeped into the raw bark. The leaves of the saplings there turned a shimmering violet. His tears, as well, were soaked up by the wood, already saturated by saltwater.
The wind howled; the sky swirled and furied with sparks of electricity behind the gray ominous clouds. The water crashed and seethed and hissed against the ship.
Behind him, the maps and papers swirled and fluttered until the door slammed shut, leaving him standing before the vine-encased wheel.
MossWell, they had to gather, and though all of this sudden buddy-buddy shite was way out of Moss's own comfort zone for interactions, she much preferred the awkward bout of courage to swimming in brine.
"Fine, aye, good," she said quickly, giving the strange girl her attention. "Do ya know where we can find this damn Engine Room?"
Tamara JaneLooking up towards them, a flash of a smile and a slender, but bloodied hand she raised for them, before turning around and bolting away, chasing the fox (bunny still lolling from its mouth) wherever it may lead her down those steps.
“LynLyn! Foxy lady! Wait up, chick! I'm going with you!”
SidwellBeckoning to the boy, who was in confusion or terror attempting to crush together more than one language, Innocent Sidwell turned his back on the waves and the storm and stepped towards the stairway where Tamtam had disappeared in her chase, gently resting his free hand on the trees as he walked.
The overgrown deck was rough and none too easy to traverse steadily as the ship rocked beneath them. Though saltwater spray soaked the bushes and saplings and vines and branches, none of it seemed to be affected -- in fact, perhaps the plantlife thrived on it.
The main mast appeared as an old tree with twisting bark and wide leafy branches. Its ropes and rigging were still mostly intact, as was the birds nest at its precipice. The tattered remains of a blue-and-gold flag whipped high above.
At their feet, roots and bark made walking treacherous. Aged, vine-wrapped cannons were lined up along port and starboard. A wide metal grate in the deck allowed a view of the level below, which was just as overgrown as the main deck. The leafy tops of branches stuck out through the holes in the grate.
The fox darted down a flight of stairs, into the Mess Deck.
The mess was long and wide, with boxes and barrels stored at the fore and two dark, open doorways at the aft. Where light shone down through the grate in the ceiling, small trees grew taller and wider, like a small grove in the middle of the floor. Everything here, too, was covered in growing bark and small saplings and twists and webs of vines.
There were more cannons here, and corralled cannon balls. Flowering tables lined the walls, with bark-crusted chests to sit on, and hammocks hung from the ceiling. In the ship's better days the crew would dine and sleep and live here.
The fox skidded around the grove of small trees and galloped toward the back of the room. It stopped beside the last cannon and, swishing its tail, dropped the bunny on top of a padlocked trap door.
Underneath the floor here -- under the trap door -- was the muffled sound of terrified voices, the distinct smell of something burning, and something inhuman screeching in pain.
RRRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
ConnorWith a shout, he spun his body and put as much force into throwing a handful of the stuff - it looked like coal, he noted - at the creature. Connor had been aiming at the eyes, but given how large they were, he did not really need to be precise. Taking advantage of the creature's temporary blindness, pain or whatever that was causing it to reel, Connor ran past it. . . . "We need that pistol," He said to the girl and gulped, his fear showing through.
Scraaaeeeeeeiiiii
The beast screeched, reeling, its fanged jaws wide in distress, shaking its head violently in a futile attempt to dislodge the coal in its watering red eye.
ik-ik-ik-ik-ik
It dropped to the floor in front of the door; its massive, black-scaled body blocked any hope of escape that way, and prevented anyone from getting anywhere near the speaker. A long pink tongue darted out and licked its eye while the beast hissed like an angry cobra. Its eyes seemed even brighter red than before -- but perhaps that was only the irritation from the bits of coal that clung to them.
RisaShe got out from behind the boiler and held the pistol up. She had no idea if it was loaded, but if she did nothing she would end up the next target of this lizard. She hold the pistol and pressed the trigger.
Fire burst in a shock of bright light out of the pistol; a stream of flame and smoke shot out and engulfed the lizard, which convulsed and screeched bloody murder.
RRRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
Leaves on the vines nearby caught flame; fire trickled its way up the vines that were wrapped around the gears. Meanwhile the lizard charged blindly forward while the propellant still burned on its scales. The flaming lizard screeched and shook and slammed itself into Risa, knocking her hard into a boiler.
Meanwhile, the lizard's burning scales were lighting still more leaves and vines aflame.
Above them came the distinct sound of creaking footsteps. Someone was walking in the room above.
Christopher. . . he ripped off both of the sleeves on his shirt and wrapped one around his forehead. Even though it was white and would soon turn red . . . He had collapsed to his knees but he couldn't put the book down . . .
The book showed Christopher every prominent moment in his life -- and many of his most memorable nightmares. It seemed every page had something more to offer him, some new memory, and some things that didn't seem quite right.
While he was engrossed with the book, thunder rolled overhead. Wind whistled across the opening in the roof. The new light in the room encouraged the saplings and the vines to grow higher, stronger, greener.
Vines crept around Christopher's legs where he knelt on the floor. They tightened around his ankles and knees.
Something under the floor knocked in the same pattern Christopher had used not long before.
Somewhere, distant and faint, an inhuman creature was screeching in pain.
ChrisFor now he set the silver box back where he found it. Pocketing the pistol he caught the globe that had been rolling around and wedged it in a corner. He had heard a knocking on the ceiling not long ago. Carefully he stepped up on one of the chairs and knocked back with the same pattern. . . . He walked over to the door and took the keys from the wall. First off they might end up being useful and second he was tired of hearing them jangle around. Placing that in another pocket he turned to the far end of the room. Moss seemed to have a change of heart when looking in that direction. Cautiously he circled around. He left the door open for some extra light. . . . The pillar had a one eyed teddy bear. A slightly odd item he thought. He didn't have a use for it but picked it up anyhow.
The teddy bear was, peculiarly, nothing special. It was well-worn and well-loved. One ear had been chewed by young teeth. But underneath the bear was a scrawled note, done in a hurry, splattered in old crusted blood:
A NEST OF THEM IN THE HOLD. SEALED OFF THE LOWER DECK. TELL ENGLAND WHAT'S BECOME OF US.
Somewhere far below, an inhuman screech of fury rang out. Thunder roiled. | Garren is approved. Please copy the CS to the Characters section.
Suichiro is approved. You know the drill! ;)
<Snipped quote by >
That is presumptuous considering your character hasn't been approved yet (at least as far as I see here). I would assume we could have some freedom in that aspect as kingdoms have risen and fallen throughout history and are not always large or written about. Something realistic for a time period should work pretty easilly.
<Snipped quote by >
In the Interest Check we only talked about having characters from different times (the examples were Middle Ages and Victorian). I believe the idea is to take people that are from a similar, common skill level and throw them into a fantasy beyond what we experience here on Earth.
Both drewccapp and t2wave are right. Everyone is from Earth. However, feel free to make up imaginary towns/kingdoms/etc. to suit your needs. But everyone is essentially from Earth. It therefore follows that everyone is human, no exceptions. I promise every character is special in other ways. ;)
Yay good to see you again! Alicia is approved. Please copy her CS to the Characters section.
The shift to balance looks good to me. Approved! Please copy the CS to the Characters section.
Dakota is approved! Please copy the CS to the Characters section.
Just gonna reserve a spot for my CS over here. Say, just asking, would an artist who was also a member of the local militia due to national obligations be considered someone in a 'violent' profession? They don't fight wars or do any fighting, they just pretend to be soldiers one week out of every month, or something along those lines.
This would count as something that'd need to be balanced. Just point out in the CS that the character has little experience and you're good to go. :)
Ah. Then there is perhaps something I missed. Could you point me to the precedent so I could be better informed?
I can answer that! drewccapp is referring to a very similar RP that I'm also running that she's also a part of. Her character there is from a made-up kingdom. Which is totally OK in this RP too!
Did I get everyone? -- I gotta go, I'll be back in a few hours! |
52,380 | 1,419 | 39 | 1,951 | 317 | Christopher was scared senseless by the discovery of the contents of the book in its entirety. With each turn of the page he would have a flashback of each of them. It was everything that was memorable whether it be good or bad they were all there. This was something that he couldn't leave lying around, even though it was pretty impossible for any other person to know they were pertaining to his life. He probably would have spent a lot more time consumed in the darkness that the book had brought rushing back to him if he hadn't noticed a steadily increasing pressure building up at his ankles and his knees. When he shook his head he noticed that the door was open and Sidwell was gone, he looked down at his lower limbs and noticed that there was now vines coiling around him like a snake going in for the kill. He didn't want to die now or in the near future and especially not by freaking vines! He took the book and started hitting the vines and using his other free hand to try and leverage and pry the vines off his legs. After what seemed like an eternity of struggling he managed to get away from the vines.
Given that he was already 'attacked' by the vines he figured that it wasn't really safe for him to be there any longer. He carried the book under his left arm since he was right handed. When he was getting back up off of his knees he heard the rhythmical pattern that he had made before a short while ago. It was quite a rhythm that he would hope anything besides a human could replicate. He decided to make the tap once more so give a little awareness that he was there. --Tap, tap, tap, a second pause, tap, tap, a second pause tap, tap -- He placed his face to the ground and spoke.
" Ummm hello, down there. I don't know how to find you because I haven't left this room yet but I think I have to leave this room since I don't believe that it is safe to be here any longer. I hope that I meet you soon, keep safe. Also before I leave my name is Christopher so that when we meet that you know it is me."
He could feel a change in the temperature in his left hand from where he had broke pretty much all the bones in his hand from when he had dropped one of his dressers that he was working on. This event was depicted in the book he had under his arm. As much as he would love to wait out whatever kind of change was coming, most likely rain given that it was currently mild outside. When he was about to walk out of the room he heard a rumble of thunder which meant that it probably wasn't a good idea to go outside since getting struck by lightning wasn't exactly on his list of things to do list.
"I changed my mind, I swear I heard a rumble of thunder and I can feel that a storm is on its way. I am going to stick it out."
He decided to close the door since he noticed that every little piece of vine that was in the light coming through the door was wiggling around like it was giving it energy to expand. A thought had come across his mind, since he was going to be stuck on this room he decided that he was going to explore what was at the top of the pillar. He carefully placed the book in the waist of his pants so that he could use both hands to climb the ladder that was on the side of the pillar giving access to its top.
When he got to the top the thing that immediately caught his eye was an amazingly crafted telescope, it was unlike any he had ever seen before. It looked like it was handcrafted from extremely rare Ahloki . It was completely old school since it had levers and cranks to adjust the way that it pointed. Christopher had decided to take a look through it since he was already pointing out of the open ceiling in the room. When he looked outside he was floored for the second time since he was in the room, he couldn't believe what was in the sky approaching the ship that they were on. | Name: Christopher Casablanca
Age: 28
Appearance: Not the exact same tattoos, my RP character will two tribal sleeves.
Occupation: High-End Furniture Maker
Personality: Christopher is a man with a taste for finer things which was what made him decide on the profession that he has chosen. He might seem rather snooty because he likes to make his opinion well known and potentially create arguments if he is passionate about his topic. He does enjoy the company of other level headed individuals.
History: Christopher had a tough life growing up, mother and father both held two jobs just to keep enough food on the table to keep them from starving. Both of his parents abused numerous substances to numb everything in the world around them after getting home, so it was the job of Christopher to take care of his younger twin brothers who were 9 years younger. After Christopher finished high school he went onto learn how to make furniture which provided much better than his parents had been able to so Christopher had gone onto become legal guardians to his two brothers.
When his two brothers were in school Christopher would go to his workshop and make a living but this wasn't what he wanted to do all his life was to make decent furniture while just keeping afloat, so when his brothers started participating in afterschool activities Christopher went back to school to learn more technical procedures and how different woods were to be treated.
When both of his brothers turned 19 and went off to college for higher education Christopher put his nose to the grindstone and made a name for himself in the home decor world. One night after signing a large deal that would change his world as he knew it, he decided to hit the downtown nightlife. After picking up two fine ladies at a bar they went back to his place for a different kind of party. That was the last thing that Christopher remembered ... |
52,381 | 1,419 | 40 | 150 | 2,985 | Engine Room
"Sweet mother o' Jesus feckin' Christ!"
The last thing Connor had expected to come out of the pistol's muzzle was a tongue of flame that set the creature aflame. He was close enough to the creature to feel the intense heat, and was horrified to see that the creature was still very much alive. It's cry of pain was grating on Connor's ears, and he covered them with his hands in a desperate attempt to block out the noise. Fortunately, the creature did not take the chance to attack him, rather, it ran blindly forward and barreled right into Risa, pushing the two of them against a boiler. In the process, the flames still sticking onto the creature had ignited some of the cables and vines hanging around the room.
"This room's going to go up in fecking flames!" Connor yelled out, hoping whoever was listening in on the other side of the horn could hear him. He only had a split-second to decide between whether or not he should help Risa first or if he should attempt to put out the fires. He felt a slight twinge of shame as his mind lingered more on the former than the latter; while Connor did not want Risa to get hurt, he was not sure if he could in fact do anything to the creature. It had just been blinded by coal and set on fire, and it did not seem to be any worse for wear. In fact, it looked as if all they had managed to do was just piss it off even further.
"Oi! How 'bout you fight someone your own size, ya little shite!" Connor shouted out to the creature, deciding to help the girl. His fear of being left alone in the room was far greater than his fear of fighting the damn thing. He rushed over to the creature, taking care to avoid the burning vines. Those he could not, he simply gave them a rough tug to pull them free from whatever they had been hanging on to. As he neared the creature, he gulped his fear down and tightened his grip on the bayonet. Time to see if it was still as lethal as it should be.
He reached out with a hand and placed it on the creature's shoulders, and summoning whatever strength he had, pulled it off Risa. In the same motion, he plunged his bayonet through the creature's back. He just hoped that it would do at least some good, because if it did not, he was pretty sure that the creature would rip him to shreds before he could do anything else. | Name: Connor O'Flaherty
Age: 25
Appearance: Connor is a rather unimpressive person, being of average height and build. Muscular enough for people to believe that he is in the militia, but not so muscular that he looks more of a brute than an artist. He has ginger hair, cut short to militia standards, but it still licks at his brows and collar of his shirt. As if nature had decided to make him look like distilled-Irish, he has bright, green eyes.
Occupation: Artist/Militiaman
Personality: Some might call him a coward, but Connor prefers to describe himself as being more discerning as to the types of risks he is willing to take. Who cares if his reputation suffers when he runs from a fight he's absolutely confident of losing? As long as he is in one piece and is able to function properly the next day, it's all fine by him. Besides, he never puts himself forward as a warrior; he's an artist first and a soldier second. A very, very, very far second.
He is rather open with his thoughts, though that has less to do with lack of tact and more to do with having lived much of his adult life on an island faraway from civilization. Sometimes it may even appear that he is talking to himself, but he's not crazy. It's just a method he uses to prevent his train of thought from derailing, though from the disjointed thoughts that comes of his mouth, it can be hard to believe. Just trust in that he knows what he's doing. Most of the time.
History: An Irishman living in Scotland while serving an Englishman trying hard to be Scottish. Don't worry if that confuses you; sometimes Connor feels the same as well. Born to an impoverished Irish family in Victorian-era London, to say that Connor had a rough childhood would be an affront to the phrase 'massive understatement'. If the other - usually English - street urchins didn't make his life hell, then the deep-seated against the Irish, especially Irish Catholics like his family, did. If a day went past without him or his family being wrongfully accused of a crime, or he did not have to run away from anyone, Connor would have taken it as a wonderful day.
In a rather roundabout attempt to show others that they were a good, British family, Connor's father pressured him to join the army in some capacity. The best outcome would be that Connor would be sent off to fight in some faraway corner of the globe for Queen and Country, and his father would be able to proudly say that at least one member of his family was doing some good to the British Empire. Connor, however, wanted to have none of that. He loved drawing, and usually spent whatever spare time he had sketching out scenes from his life onto whatever scraps of paper he had. Soldiering was not for him; Connor wanted to be an artist.
After several arguments and failed attempts to physically pull Connor to a recruitment office, he and his father settled on a compromise. Instead of joining the regular force, Connor would join the territorial army. He would never be sent overseas, and as long as he pretended to be sad about it every time a war broke out, he would still appear to be a good little patriot. Even better, Connor had to option of choosing where he wanted to be posted, and he chose to be sent to the Shetland Islands, or as his father called it, the 'arse of the British isles'.
It was a perfect life for Connor. The Shetlands were faraway from the mainland enough that he was rarely ever called for service, and as long as he fulfilled his yearly requirements of showing up to prove that he could still fire a rifle, stand in a file and fight alongside his regiment of fellow misfits, he was left alone. The islands were also quiet, and provided no shortage of scenery for him to sketch, and eventually, paint. It was not long before his talents were noticed by a rather wealthy local who then hired Connor to produce his works of art for various auction houses. The money, while not amazing, was good, and Connor felt himself believing in the whole 'luck of the Irish' thing.
Oh, if only he knew where he would wake up. |
52,382 | 1,419 | 41 | 2,356 | 5,042 | On Deck!! / Mess~~!!
"Do ya know where we can find this damn Engine Room?" said the scruffy, scrappy looking Les Mis.
Those eyes. Dayaaaam... She just could not hold gaze with those wild icy blues; too intense for too long. She had to look away as she spoke.“No, I don't but I'mma just follow along--”
“Tam... Tam...” said Neko-Chan, soooooo adorable and complete kawaii finger pushing up at her own nose. He then pointed over at Les Mis and said: “Mosh. Shtay wif Mosh...”
“Awwwwww...! he gunna shtay wif Mosh...!” Tamara-Jane giggled, in the madness of this salty wet and stormy skied heaven, and weirdo dubbed English, the teen actually giggled. And for just a brief moment, the actual chick that lived in Cheerleader, Canada shone through her baby blues as she stared fondly at the exasperated look upon Les Mis when she stared over at the blank eyed look of Neko-Chan here! “And TamTam gunna shtay-shtay with Les Mis here too, yeah-yeah! Soooo... like, hey, Neko-chan, who're you cosplayin' there? Looks soooooo real--”
Of course the voice of the Angelman had to remind her that she was dead. Just had to: “You'll find your fox in heaven if your heart is pure,” Thin black eye-brows slowly raised as she turned to face the big fella. Wows. Like just totes wows... TamTam's eyes glistened and a secret thought bled through her head for just a moment like a little girl waiting expectantly at the window, staring longingly at the driveway.
“Save them, please... amirite? Fo' sho, Angelman...” once more she nodded graciously and followed the fox she thought was not a fox but her dead love in disguise.
Kitsune. A shapeshifter. A spirit, playful, yet purposeful, said LynLyn. But which one was this one? Of goodness of badness. Of Mirth or Malice, was how LynLyn put it. But whatever the case, TamTam would follow and she would find her answer.
From out the maw of the fox, the fuzzy bunny with the strings attached to it fell and flopped to the waiting trapdoor. Twisted and damp, its black bunny eyes stared out accusingly at Tamara-Jane.
This fox. It was both. Mirth and Malice. Both hands shot up to cradle her chin and white heat of pain shot through her as she bumped the cut on her chin. But it sobered her up to the situation.
She was being selfish again. All she could think about was herself. No, TamTam was not stuck up, but sometimes... just sometimes--
“--I hate when you get like that. You should hear your selfish-ass self sometime...!” she mumbled. And she could not help but cry now, bitter waters running down her cheeks like water through the cracks to the deck below. That was one of the last things Crystal-Lynne ever said to her. Before the tears blurred it out from her view, she saw the symbol of her selfishness; the pad lock.
She walked--- no, she bolted past those jangling things on her wild imaginings that LynLyn was out here to grant her salvation and reprieve from guilt. And oh, she was here, but not like how the blue-eyed cheerleader wanted. No. LynLyn did not take Tamara-Jane's crap; she would shove it back into her face. Just like now. Just like how she could have just reached out and grabbed those keys.
And she was sure one of those forsaken iron things would have fit. And like how she pleaded the Angelman, she could have been the one to 'save them.' But all she wanted was what she wanted. All she acted was for her own stupid emotions.
Tamara-Jane stumbled back into the first person behind her as Innocent reached for another barrel. She just could not stand there, leaning into someone else, when she could have done something. She just could not. 'C'mon, TJ, do something! Kick its ass!' Oh, Kaylee...! Miss ya, big sis...
“I-I saw them...! Keys! O-on the door of the mapped up room!!! We have to get them... like 10 minutes ago, err'body! Or just--”
She cut herself off and just shook her head while looking for input from the others. A sinking feeling her belly grew for all she could do right now was hope that the liquid from the barrels would at least stop the burning below deck. | Name: Risa Robinson
Age: 22
Appearance:
Occupation: Writer
Personality: Risa is the type of person that will start a conversation with anyone around her as long as she has something to talk about. While she appears to be able to handle a lot of things she often doubts herself and worries when something does not go as planned. She has a need to things to go the way she wants, but that is because she is afraid of losing control of the things she can control. She does her best to do what other wants, but inside often gets annoyed at people and wants nothing to do with them. At times her immaturity comes through when she lashes out in anger or starts crying in frustration. As much as she tries to look at things optimistically, the truth is she had a negative view on life and the people around her.
History: Risa was born into a middle class family in the year 2000. He was the second child of three. They did not have much as a child, but that never bothered her. She loved her family and she wanted noting more than to be around them. She was not the most popular kid in school, but she quickly found a love of books. She found enjoyment in a good adventure in a book rather than playing tag with her classmates. As she grew older all she wanted to do was become a writer. She spent a lot of her free time writing the ideas that came to her head. When she started high school her parents pushed her to become an accountant. She found that she liked the class and applied to study it in university as a backup plan.
It was in her second year her book became published and she dropped out of her program to focus on her stories. It did not take long for her book to get popular and she started to work on her next hit. Even though she had made it with her first book she was very worried about writing a book that would be just as good or even better than her first one. |
52,383 | 1,419 | 42 | 1,583 | 2,241 | Sweet mother o' Jesus feckin' Christ! This room's going to go up in fecking flames! Oi! How 'bout you fight someone your own size, ya little shite!
Fire crackled and blazed. Gold and red flickers illuminated the smoky stifling room; firelight flashed in reflection on the dented boiler walls and glowed dimly on the oily gears and chains. Heat pushed against Connor's skin and tickled in his throat.
The beast was cold under his hand. The scales scraped his palm as he yanked it away from Risa and plunged his shining blade between its shoulderblades. The bayonet slipped deep into the beast's ribs like a knife through butter.
And then the beast was gone.
In one moment, Connor was a knight slaying the black dragon; in the next, in less than a blink, the room was empty where the lizard had been. As if it had never existed at all. As if the beast itself had only been, simply, a figment of Connor's imagination.
Risa lay bleeding and unconscious in the dent of a boiler, flickers of fire crackling behind her. Vines had reached loosely over her arms and legs. Their white flowers caught the light of the flames.
In another corner, Samira's unmoving leg stuck out from behind another boiler.
Suichiro lay propped against the door, his head bleeding profusely and his eyes staring hollow and vacant.
Only Connor was left standing over them all, relatively unhurt, with a blade that was no longer shining.
Smoke stung his eyes and scraped in his lungs; the flames appeared as a hazy glow in the thick air.
Some voices waited for him as usual as Sidwell unlidded and peered into the closest barrel, inhaling. Wrapping his arms around the barrel, he threw his shoulder into work and tipped it, almost hurled it across the mess deck. It rolled little but spilled its contents far over the wooden floor, soaking and dripping into the cracks to the room below.
The pungent sour smell of fermented apples spilled and spread and fizzed among the leaves and bark of the mess deck floor, masking the thick musk of smoke from below. Rotten apples and bits of fleshy core rolled and hid under cannons and tables while watery apple-wine flooded the deck and dripped through the fissures between the barky floor panels.
There were indeed more barrels: one full of what appeared to be petrified apricots, the other half-full of pickles, and a third had a human skeleton stuffed inside it, with a curved knife and a belt buckle and a bracelet made of shells.
Below, in the engine room (which was quickly running out of breathable air) it began to rain sour wine. Droplets hissed into the flames and dripped on Connor's head. A section of fire was completely put out by a particularly thick waterfall from the ceiling above it -- but the danger was still very real, and the addition of the stench of rancid wine didn't quite help Connor's ability to breathe.
“I-I saw them...! Keys! O-on the door of the mapped up room!!! We have to get them... like 10 minutes ago, err'body! Or just--”
But Moss wasn't there. Had she been there at all? Tamara's eyes met with a wide vacant room filled with vines and overgrown cannons and boxes and tables, and a thick of saplings growing out of the middle toward the only sunlight in the ceiling. The air was thick with the stench of rancid wine, but there was no longer any smoke rising up out of the floor. For the room below, this was a bad thing.
The fox stared unblinking at Tamara Jane, as if it saw her struggles and only waited for her to realize where the true difficulties lay. Only when Tamara finally looked at the fox again did it spin around once, chasing its fluffy tail before it stared at her again. It was now standing next to a pyramid stack of cannonballs. It licked its jowls, skittered a bit away from a growing puddle of apple wine, glanced at the padlock, and stared again at Tamara.
When he got to the top the thing that immediately caught his eye was an amazingly crafted telescope, it was unlike any he had ever seen before. Christopher had decided to take a look through it since he was already pointing out of the open ceiling in the room. When he looked outside he was floored for the second time since he was in the room, he couldn't believe what was in the sky approaching the ship that they were on.
At first, they were only shimmers in the stormy sky. With some adjustments to the telescope, Christopher might make out a few fleeting glimpses of silvery wings sparking against the dark clouds.
Thunder rolled and shook the ship's walls.
A flash of lightning momentarily blinded Christopher. Another look would show him a tiny silver bird -- one of hundreds that ebbed and flowed among the clouds, flowing together in the sky like currents in water. Veins of lightning sparked bright between them. White glimmers of electricity followed their movements and sparked on their flitting wings.
The sky was darker than it had been before.
With each flash of lightning, Christopher would see the silhouette of a huge shadow behind the swirling clouds.
Climbing the ladder Chris found himself in another room. He was hoping to see who had knocked but didn't see anyone ready for that.
While Christopher stood atop the pillar above, watching the stormy sky through the lens of the telescope, Chris emerged from the door in the pillar.
The observatory was darkening, and its door was shut; any movement the plantlife therein might have exhibited before had ceased, and an electric sense of waiting filled the air. Wood creaked; the ship rocked.
The orrery on the table began to tick and whirr loudly. The planets moved backwards around the sun, and the Earth glowed bright, a galaxy turning inside its marble surface.
Thunder rumbled again. A flash of lightning coursed through the flock of silver birds outside and sparked bright through the opening in the ceiling.
In the flash of light, Chris would see something standing tall against the wall by the bookcases: it was thin, robed and impossibly high, with a hollow bony face that stared down deep into Chris' soul.
When the lightning was gone, so was the vision. The place where the apparition had stood was empty. | Garren is approved. Please copy the CS to the Characters section.
Suichiro is approved. You know the drill! ;)
<Snipped quote by >
That is presumptuous considering your character hasn't been approved yet (at least as far as I see here). I would assume we could have some freedom in that aspect as kingdoms have risen and fallen throughout history and are not always large or written about. Something realistic for a time period should work pretty easilly.
<Snipped quote by >
In the Interest Check we only talked about having characters from different times (the examples were Middle Ages and Victorian). I believe the idea is to take people that are from a similar, common skill level and throw them into a fantasy beyond what we experience here on Earth.
Both drewccapp and t2wave are right. Everyone is from Earth. However, feel free to make up imaginary towns/kingdoms/etc. to suit your needs. But everyone is essentially from Earth. It therefore follows that everyone is human, no exceptions. I promise every character is special in other ways. ;)
Yay good to see you again! Alicia is approved. Please copy her CS to the Characters section.
The shift to balance looks good to me. Approved! Please copy the CS to the Characters section.
Dakota is approved! Please copy the CS to the Characters section.
Just gonna reserve a spot for my CS over here. Say, just asking, would an artist who was also a member of the local militia due to national obligations be considered someone in a 'violent' profession? They don't fight wars or do any fighting, they just pretend to be soldiers one week out of every month, or something along those lines.
This would count as something that'd need to be balanced. Just point out in the CS that the character has little experience and you're good to go. :)
Ah. Then there is perhaps something I missed. Could you point me to the precedent so I could be better informed?
I can answer that! drewccapp is referring to a very similar RP that I'm also running that she's also a part of. Her character there is from a made-up kingdom. Which is totally OK in this RP too!
Did I get everyone? -- I gotta go, I'll be back in a few hours! |
52,384 | 1,419 | 43 | 1,951 | 317 | It looked like little silver wings, probably hundreds of them approaching like they were on a mission. It was tough to tell what they were until he twisted a dial and had the telescope magnify closer on the winged beast. When he zoomed in they were quite little silver birds the most eerie feature about them was there solid red eyes, similar to that of an albino. They looked like they were traveling with the menacing cloud, almost like they were a team if that was even possible.
Christopher was looking so close at the birds that be almost missed something that was even more menacing than the silver birds. There was an extremely.huge shadow silhouette that was looming over the thunderstorm and the red-eyed silver birds. When he seen this he stumbled a bit losing grip of his dark book that was now falling the length of the pillar.
The book made contact which was no surprise to Christopher since the book had fallen but it wasn't until the book made contact a second time before he realized that something was a stray. Upon looking over the side of the pillar Christopher had noticed that his book had made contact with the person standing on the floor ... Wait person. He must have entered while he was staring into the telescope but how had he entered, it wouldn't have been the door since the vines hadn't acted up. That was when he noticed that there was a trap door that was opened, how had he not noticed that door. It must have been underneath of the table that he hasn't examined since he was so busy raging against the bookcase.
"Hello down there, I'm sorry about the book I didn't realize that anyone was down there. Were you the one that returned my knock? I don't really have any clue what is happening here. Do you? What's the craziest thing you have ever seen? I bet it will change if you look through this telescope. I'm sorry I talk a lot when I'm nervous aaaaaand right about now is one of those times. Oh by the way my name is Christopher. One more thing can you throw that book back up here ... Please "
He was so nervous after seeing the ominous cloud, red-eyed silver birds and giant shadow that he had no vocal filter at the moment and everything that came to his mind went right out his mouth. | Name: Christopher Casablanca
Age: 28
Appearance: Not the exact same tattoos, my RP character will two tribal sleeves.
Occupation: High-End Furniture Maker
Personality: Christopher is a man with a taste for finer things which was what made him decide on the profession that he has chosen. He might seem rather snooty because he likes to make his opinion well known and potentially create arguments if he is passionate about his topic. He does enjoy the company of other level headed individuals.
History: Christopher had a tough life growing up, mother and father both held two jobs just to keep enough food on the table to keep them from starving. Both of his parents abused numerous substances to numb everything in the world around them after getting home, so it was the job of Christopher to take care of his younger twin brothers who were 9 years younger. After Christopher finished high school he went onto learn how to make furniture which provided much better than his parents had been able to so Christopher had gone onto become legal guardians to his two brothers.
When his two brothers were in school Christopher would go to his workshop and make a living but this wasn't what he wanted to do all his life was to make decent furniture while just keeping afloat, so when his brothers started participating in afterschool activities Christopher went back to school to learn more technical procedures and how different woods were to be treated.
When both of his brothers turned 19 and went off to college for higher education Christopher put his nose to the grindstone and made a name for himself in the home decor world. One night after signing a large deal that would change his world as he knew it, he decided to hit the downtown nightlife. After picking up two fine ladies at a bar they went back to his place for a different kind of party. That was the last thing that Christopher remembered ... |
52,385 | 1,419 | 44 | 345 | 92 | DECK
Moss flinched at the screech, the nightmarish sound that shattered the air and made her grip the hammer tight. Everyone had scattered, the storm was beginning to shout its hateful intentions, and Moss was beginning to get the feeling that they were not the first ones to sail on the wretched ship.
"We should do whatever the fok it takes to make sure we never see what made that bloody sound," she said quietly. It wasn't as if anyone would have heard her over the roar of the world anyway, had she spoken normally.
They needed to be moving, they needed to be getting the people in the Engine room out and away from whatever it was that was down there. She looked around, spying anyone and everyone she could and waving her arms in the air.
“C’mon!” she shouted, forcing her voice through the dense sounds of the storm. “Over here, gather ‘round c’mon!” | Name: Moss
Age: 18
Appearance: Moss is a ratty child. She’s just below average height and slim as any hunger-borne kid could be expected to be. Being an Irish immigrant hasn’t afforded her much in the way of a healthy living, but it has given her a lean layer of muscle hidden beneath her scrawny form. Red hair so dark it might be blood is chopped short upon her head, and usually sits beneath a rugged old bolero that’s seen its share of fair and foul weather.
The most striking thing about her physical appearance is doubtlessly her eyes; two nearly reflective icy-blue orbs often give people the impression that she’s always sizing them up.
Occupation: Con artist
Personality: Moss is a bit cheeky in all of the things she does. She’s a fair share pugnacious and a fair share diplomatic, but whether she’s playing you in a game of cards with a cold deck or getting ready to go fist-to-fist, it can be said for certain that she’ll be doing it with a silver tongue. Well, as silver as something can be when it’s tarnished with cursing and other such vile.
All in all Moss is a bit of a bitter pill. She doesn’t take much seriously, and when she does it’s hard to tell whether she’s being patronizing or sincere. And though “loyal” is never a word that could be attributed to her, when she does happen to hold someone close enough to be considered a “friend”, she’s loathe to see them hurt to any serious degree. That doesn’t mean she won’t lie or cheat or steal from them, but she might feel a bit bad about doing afterwards, and might slip a few coins their way later on.
History: Once upon a time Moss ran with a caravan of gypsies, comprised mostly of Irish, Spanish, and Slavic immigrants. As with most of the children in the caravan, they were parented by more or less anyone who would give them the time of day. This led to her having to get a loose grasp on a few languages, which never really stuck, and in the end most of her time was spent around an Irish boxer and a Spanish “magician”.
As far as parental figures went, the boxer made a good enough mother, and for the brief time that the Spaniard was around he at least gave her a few tricks to build on.
Had she herself stuck around for long after her sixteenth birthday, she might have wanted to follow in the Irishwoman’s path. After all, scrapping was fairly common in the caravan, and Moss had gotten into her fair share of brawls with some of the other kids. But in the end she just couldn’t keep still, and somewhere in the mess of the California gold rush she broke away from the caravan and made a home for herself in San Francisco.
Home here meaning that she spent the following two years scamming fools from their gold with little more than her wit and a deck of cards, which never, ever left her person. |
52,386 | 1,419 | 45 | 150 | 2,985 | Engine Room
Connor, still caught up in the heat of the moment, did not even notice the creature's disappearance until he felt the sudden lack of anything under his hand. His bayonet, which had been buried hilt-deep in the creature just a moment ago, was now just held in front of him, the blade devoid of any blood and the only sign that it had been used in combat being the scratches marring the blade's surface. Once his mind caught up with the situation, Connor staggered back, dropping his weapon. The room still looked the same, but there was no creature, not even the corpse Connor had been expecting to see.
Looking around him, Connor felt his breath catch in his throat and his head spin. The Oriental, Suichiro, looked dead - Connor did not even need to check, he had seen the same vacant look and lifeless eyes before, when he had the misfortune of having to pull the bloated bodies of drowned sailors from the beaches. The other girl, Samira was hidden behind a boiler, with only her leg visible. Connor did not fancy the chances of her being still alive, but he maintained hope.
Above all, however, only one thought went through his mind. Had there really been a creature? There was nothing to tell him that the thing he had just fought ever existed. Could it be that it had all just been a figment of his imagination and that in fact he had just slaughtered those who were trapped in the room with him in a fit of panic? The thought of it was just too much for him to bear and, for the first time in a very, very long time, he doubled over and vomited.
Fucking shite, He thought miserably to himself as he stood back up and wiped his mouth clean with his sleeve. Taking in a deep breath, he took a few uncertain steps towards the still form of Risa. There was only one way to find out if he had indeed killed all these people, and that was to see if the girl was dead with a stab wound through the abdomen. Connor felt his heart race as he dreaded what he was to find, but he steeled himself and pushed on. Much to his relief, as little as it was, the girl was not dead, but unconscious, and her wounds were not at all consistent with the killing blow he had dealt to the creature.
"Come on," Connor muttered as he pulled the girl away from the boiler. He was no physician, but he could tell that she was just barely alive. She was going to need help quick, and Connor was not at all a person who could provide it.
He walked over to the horn and spoke into it again, this time his voice tired and weary. "Engine room again," He began and took in a deep breath to conceal his fear. "Whatever was hammering us is gone, but we have one dead, one possibly dead and another going to be dead if we don't get help soon." | Name: Connor O'Flaherty
Age: 25
Appearance: Connor is a rather unimpressive person, being of average height and build. Muscular enough for people to believe that he is in the militia, but not so muscular that he looks more of a brute than an artist. He has ginger hair, cut short to militia standards, but it still licks at his brows and collar of his shirt. As if nature had decided to make him look like distilled-Irish, he has bright, green eyes.
Occupation: Artist/Militiaman
Personality: Some might call him a coward, but Connor prefers to describe himself as being more discerning as to the types of risks he is willing to take. Who cares if his reputation suffers when he runs from a fight he's absolutely confident of losing? As long as he is in one piece and is able to function properly the next day, it's all fine by him. Besides, he never puts himself forward as a warrior; he's an artist first and a soldier second. A very, very, very far second.
He is rather open with his thoughts, though that has less to do with lack of tact and more to do with having lived much of his adult life on an island faraway from civilization. Sometimes it may even appear that he is talking to himself, but he's not crazy. It's just a method he uses to prevent his train of thought from derailing, though from the disjointed thoughts that comes of his mouth, it can be hard to believe. Just trust in that he knows what he's doing. Most of the time.
History: An Irishman living in Scotland while serving an Englishman trying hard to be Scottish. Don't worry if that confuses you; sometimes Connor feels the same as well. Born to an impoverished Irish family in Victorian-era London, to say that Connor had a rough childhood would be an affront to the phrase 'massive understatement'. If the other - usually English - street urchins didn't make his life hell, then the deep-seated against the Irish, especially Irish Catholics like his family, did. If a day went past without him or his family being wrongfully accused of a crime, or he did not have to run away from anyone, Connor would have taken it as a wonderful day.
In a rather roundabout attempt to show others that they were a good, British family, Connor's father pressured him to join the army in some capacity. The best outcome would be that Connor would be sent off to fight in some faraway corner of the globe for Queen and Country, and his father would be able to proudly say that at least one member of his family was doing some good to the British Empire. Connor, however, wanted to have none of that. He loved drawing, and usually spent whatever spare time he had sketching out scenes from his life onto whatever scraps of paper he had. Soldiering was not for him; Connor wanted to be an artist.
After several arguments and failed attempts to physically pull Connor to a recruitment office, he and his father settled on a compromise. Instead of joining the regular force, Connor would join the territorial army. He would never be sent overseas, and as long as he pretended to be sad about it every time a war broke out, he would still appear to be a good little patriot. Even better, Connor had to option of choosing where he wanted to be posted, and he chose to be sent to the Shetland Islands, or as his father called it, the 'arse of the British isles'.
It was a perfect life for Connor. The Shetlands were faraway from the mainland enough that he was rarely ever called for service, and as long as he fulfilled his yearly requirements of showing up to prove that he could still fire a rifle, stand in a file and fight alongside his regiment of fellow misfits, he was left alone. The islands were also quiet, and provided no shortage of scenery for him to sketch, and eventually, paint. It was not long before his talents were noticed by a rather wealthy local who then hired Connor to produce his works of art for various auction houses. The money, while not amazing, was good, and Connor felt himself believing in the whole 'luck of the Irish' thing.
Oh, if only he knew where he would wake up. |
52,387 | 1,419 | 46 | 2,356 | 5,042 | Mess~~!!
Her nose scrunched up as soon as the smell of the rancid fruits wafted up her nostrils. A rainbow-coloured fingernail tipped hand pinched her nose close as she shook her head and motioned for the Angelman to close it. A half-hearted smile held at her lips while she turned her head and glanced over to see where the FoxyLady had bounded off again. But then the ship lurched and suddenly it became very quiet in here. Uncomfortably quiet.
The inhuman screeching had stopped. And Angelman was peering into another barrel with a look upon his face that just did not sit right with TamTam.
“Hey, hey, Angelman, what is it...?” she asked with a tremble in her voice. But he just quietly put the lid back onto the barrel.
Then just as quietly, he lifted the lid and reached inside. Tamara-Jane took a step backward, mouth agape with horror.
“No, wait! What's in the barrel? Dude! What's in the barrel?!” Baby blues widened as the Angelman slowly extracted the answer from the barrel; it was an old knife and not the dead body that she imagined hid therein waiting to spring on them like a gibbering zombie jack-in-the-box. A gust of relief blew from her pink lips and a hand fell upon her chest to still her racing heart. But then again... wasn't there some other smell intertwined with rotted cider...?
"I can try to get them. If the room they're in is charted out, it mustn't be too hard to find." said the Angelman in regards to the keys she mentioned.
With a polite nod and an enthusiastic grin she answered him, hope shining in her eyes. Then she tucked some wet and unruly midnight hued hair behind an ear then pointed at the FoxyLady seemingly dancing at a pile of big old cannonballs. “And what about her? She seems like she wants us to--”
"Engine room again... Whatever was ... but ... one dead, one ... dead and another ... be dead if we don't get help soon."
“We are coming!” said the Angelman as he made his way to the above deck.
“Okay! FoxyLady! Let's go!” she motioned for the dancing Fox to follow. The dancing Fox near the cannonballs. Big-assed cannonballs. Ones that could shoot the lock open!!! “Yeah-yeah! I get it now! I do! Hells yesh! Hey, Angelman! Hey, hey wait! Like, dude! Wait! I-- awwww!! Fine. I'll do it myself then...”
The shredded and torn up denim jacket she shed, exposing her tummy-revealing white top with the faded print on it. “EAGER BEAVER!!” exclaimed the print, complete with a cheesy looking, smiling beaver face splashed over a red maple leaf. TamTam wiped her hands on her jeans pockets and went about picking up a cannonball. It was about 10kg but she had lifted heavier weights. TamTam worked out. She was a cheerleader afterall! But still she gingerly held the iron thing; the pain from her fall and tumble earlier still throbbed, reminding her to be careful. Thunder grumbled out from the skies above, promising something nasty it seemed.
“Riiiiiight... so how am I supposed to fire this thing anyways...” she muttered as she stared at the rusted out iron backing of the cannon, “and just how do you open this thing—WHOOOAAA!!”
The ship lurched and so did she. The cannonball shotput out of her hands up high and came crashing down. Right smack dab onto the offending implement keeping the others trapped down below.
~CLANGGGG!!!~ Padlock open.
“Yeah... I sooooo meant for that to happen...” A wry sideways glance she gave FoxyLady coupled with a sly wink and spry double-click out the corner of her mouth.
From above deck, she could hear Les Mis and Angelman calling out to each other.
“Hey, I did it, err'body!!!” she yelled out as she scrambled over to undo the pad lock from the iron latch. She plucked it out and held it up over her head triumphantly as she knelt in front of the trapdoor. With a curt nod, she winked a baby blue once more at the Fox. Then she thrust out her chest at the Fox, giving the goodies in her bra a hefty bounce.
“Boob-bump, biyatches! TamTam n' FoxyLady! Awwww yeah-yeah!!” she whooped then with a casual flick of her wrist she tossed the offending implement that used to keep the others trapped down below. “Buh-byeee!!”
It clanked off in the distance as she reached over and grabbed the floppy fuzzy stuffed bunny. She gave it a hearty kiss, smearing its cute face with blood from her cut chin. Gently she put it aside then briskly rubbed her hands together. When she was steeled and focused, TamTam eagerly grasped the iron rings of the trapdoor. Thunder rumbled above again, making the ship shudder.
“Go time, biyatches. Ready?! Okay!” She took a sharp inhale, “ 3, 2, 1, GOOO!!!” and pulled with all her might.
As she struggled, against both the resistance of the trapdoor and the screaming pain from her back and tummy she could not help but notice the Fox staring at her expectantly. “Hey c'mon, chick!” she said through clenched teeth. Taut tummy and back muscles clenched and flexed, arms shivered with the tremendous effort she put forth, “you could help, y'know?! A little bit of--”
The Fox trotted over and nudged at her legs. She was kneeling right on top of the trapdoor.
“Yeah... I knew that. Wait. Wut?! Didja jus roll your eyes at me?!”
The trapdoor swung open and instantly TamTam was choking in the rising smoke. Coughing, she flailed, moving away from the gaping smoking hole in the floor. With a soft thud, the teen landed on her round butt and scrambled backwards clutching at her sore ribs. But she was backing up not because of the smoke. No, it was because of the thing that made the screeching noises. The inhuman thing. She found herself beside the cannonball that she 'sooo intentionally shotput' at the lock. Quickly she grabbed it and scrambled to her feet.
“Hey, hey, come on out!! Come on out!! Wait! But I swear, if you're some kinda' creepy monster, I'mma...” she paused to consider her threat as she stared at the cannonball. Baby blues sparkled with an idea! “I'mma shoot you! Didja' hear that 'whump!' noise down there? That's right! TamTam has a cannon and TamTam soooo not afraid to use it again! Boom-Boom! Yeah-Yeah, I'mma shoot you!”
Dark thin eyebrows arched high as she shrugged, staring at FoxyLady as if to tell her: 'Hey at least I tried, right?' Baby blues popped wide and sparkled once more.
“Oh! And did I mention I have an attack wolf here too! That's right! Huuuuuuge teeth. Snarling too! I say the word and she'll eat you! You dead, son!”
A single calming breath she took as she waited with bubbling nervousness at the gaping hole in the floor. Thunder rolled over the ship once more.
“Uhhh... Helloooo..?” | Name: Risa Robinson
Age: 22
Appearance:
Occupation: Writer
Personality: Risa is the type of person that will start a conversation with anyone around her as long as she has something to talk about. While she appears to be able to handle a lot of things she often doubts herself and worries when something does not go as planned. She has a need to things to go the way she wants, but that is because she is afraid of losing control of the things she can control. She does her best to do what other wants, but inside often gets annoyed at people and wants nothing to do with them. At times her immaturity comes through when she lashes out in anger or starts crying in frustration. As much as she tries to look at things optimistically, the truth is she had a negative view on life and the people around her.
History: Risa was born into a middle class family in the year 2000. He was the second child of three. They did not have much as a child, but that never bothered her. She loved her family and she wanted noting more than to be around them. She was not the most popular kid in school, but she quickly found a love of books. She found enjoyment in a good adventure in a book rather than playing tag with her classmates. As she grew older all she wanted to do was become a writer. She spent a lot of her free time writing the ideas that came to her head. When she started high school her parents pushed her to become an accountant. She found that she liked the class and applied to study it in university as a backup plan.
It was in her second year her book became published and she dropped out of her program to focus on her stories. It did not take long for her book to get popular and she started to work on her next hit. Even though she had made it with her first book she was very worried about writing a book that would be just as good or even better than her first one. |
52,388 | 1,419 | 47 | 1,951 | 317 | Map Room / Deck "Nice to meet you Christopher. My name is Chris. And I have no idea what's going on. Every time I think I might have an idea it just gets weirder. And I think something is in here so forgive me if I don't make the trip up. I could use a hand with supplies down here though"
Without having much of a chance anything Chris had taken off down the ladder. Down their truly sounded good at the moment especially given the fact that whatever was coming had access to him through the opening in the ceiling for the telescope lense. He didn't want to have a delightful encounter with whatever they were. While he was having this debate in his mind Chris had already taken off down the compartment that lead downstairs. Christopher had decided to go downstairs with Chris and when he went down the stairs he closed the hatch behind him. He got into the room that has been covered in maps, literally dozens of them. He grabbed a few of them hoping that it might give some sort of sense of geographic location. He placed them inside of his book that was again in his possession.
He grabbed a burlap sack and surveyed the room thinking what would be the most useful but then his nose noticed what Chris had just spoke about, the smell of smoke. This really wasn't going to be a good mix, a fire on this ship and whatever was coming their way. He was starting to feel like he was stuck between a rock and a hard place. He went to the entrance of the map room and looked out on the deck with Chris. He didn't want to go too far out in open in case those red eyed silver birds came or worse. He figured he would stick nearby Chris so they could help each other if need be. | Name: Christopher Casablanca
Age: 28
Appearance: Not the exact same tattoos, my RP character will two tribal sleeves.
Occupation: High-End Furniture Maker
Personality: Christopher is a man with a taste for finer things which was what made him decide on the profession that he has chosen. He might seem rather snooty because he likes to make his opinion well known and potentially create arguments if he is passionate about his topic. He does enjoy the company of other level headed individuals.
History: Christopher had a tough life growing up, mother and father both held two jobs just to keep enough food on the table to keep them from starving. Both of his parents abused numerous substances to numb everything in the world around them after getting home, so it was the job of Christopher to take care of his younger twin brothers who were 9 years younger. After Christopher finished high school he went onto learn how to make furniture which provided much better than his parents had been able to so Christopher had gone onto become legal guardians to his two brothers.
When his two brothers were in school Christopher would go to his workshop and make a living but this wasn't what he wanted to do all his life was to make decent furniture while just keeping afloat, so when his brothers started participating in afterschool activities Christopher went back to school to learn more technical procedures and how different woods were to be treated.
When both of his brothers turned 19 and went off to college for higher education Christopher put his nose to the grindstone and made a name for himself in the home decor world. One night after signing a large deal that would change his world as he knew it, he decided to hit the downtown nightlife. After picking up two fine ladies at a bar they went back to his place for a different kind of party. That was the last thing that Christopher remembered ... |
52,389 | 1,419 | 48 | 2,356 | 5,042 | Engine Room/Mess
Connor sat, slumped against the unused boiler beside Risa, his heading hanging low as he contemplated his current situation. Just yesterday, the greatest worry in his life was whether or not there would be a surprise mobilization, or whether war would suddenly break out between the British Empire and the Kalmar Union, thus requiring him to actually prepare for a real, blood-and-steel fight. Now, that all seemed like such minor worries. Not only was he stuck somewhere that could possibly be another world, he had to deal with the fact that he could have actually maimed or even killed the few people he had been trapped with.
The wounds did not match up, yes, but that did little to silence the nagging voice in his head. According to it, the creature had been nothing more than the product of stress, panic and his over-active imagination. "Quiet," Connor murmured and buried his face in his hands. This was not a situation he had prepared for, and aside from murderers, who could prepare for a situation where one had the blood of possibly three lives on their hands?
Suddenly, a creaking sound from above alerted him, and Connor sprung to his feet, but not before snatching up the bayonet he had earlier dropped. Looking up, he saw the trap door opening and the silhouette of a girl looking down at him.
“Hey, hey, come on out!! Come on out!! Wait! But I swear, if you're some kinda' creepy monster, I'mma...” she paused to consider her threat as she stared at the cannonball. Baby blues sparkled with an idea! “I'mma shoot you! Didja' hear that 'whump!' noise down there? That's right! TamTam has a cannon and TamTam soooo not afraid to use it again! Boom-Boom! Yeah-Yeah, I'mma shoot you!”
Dark thin eyebrows arched high as she shrugged, staring at FoxyLady as if to tell her: 'Hey at least I tried, right?' Baby blues popped wide and sparkled once more.
“Oh! And did I mention I have an attack wolf here too! That's right! Huuuuuuge teeth. Snarling too! I say the word and she'll eat you! You dead, son!”
A single calming breath she took as she waited with bubbling nervousness at the gaping hole in the floor. Thunder rolled over the ship once more.
“Uhhh... Helloooo..?”
The girl sounded very lively, that much Connor could tell, but in his dazed state, he still was not sure whether or not this was just another product of his mind. Still, deciding that he had very little to lose, he walked over to the ladder and slowly climbed up. Only then did he fully realize just how much he had exerted himself during the fight. His legs, and especially his arms, ached from the sudden exertion after such a long period of disuse. Mobilizations on the Shetlands were painless and rather boring affairs; he would show up with his rifle, stand in the firing line and fire off a few rounds into the ocean, march around for a bit and that was it.
Once he climbed through the trapdoor, and dropped to the floor, overly-glad that he was finally out of the accursed room. He took in a deep breath, then looked at the girl who had spoken to him through the trap door. She looked almost as pale as those who claimed Viking descent in the Shetlands, though he found it hard to tell her age, or where exactly she came from. "Others," He said numbly, pointing down to the engine room through the trap door. "There were others with me, but I don't know if they're still alive. The girl by the boiler...She was barely living when I climbed up."
He got to his feet. "I'm sorry for asking you this, lass, but I need help to bring them up. I cannot in good faith leave them down there." | Name: Risa Robinson
Age: 22
Appearance:
Occupation: Writer
Personality: Risa is the type of person that will start a conversation with anyone around her as long as she has something to talk about. While she appears to be able to handle a lot of things she often doubts herself and worries when something does not go as planned. She has a need to things to go the way she wants, but that is because she is afraid of losing control of the things she can control. She does her best to do what other wants, but inside often gets annoyed at people and wants nothing to do with them. At times her immaturity comes through when she lashes out in anger or starts crying in frustration. As much as she tries to look at things optimistically, the truth is she had a negative view on life and the people around her.
History: Risa was born into a middle class family in the year 2000. He was the second child of three. They did not have much as a child, but that never bothered her. She loved her family and she wanted noting more than to be around them. She was not the most popular kid in school, but she quickly found a love of books. She found enjoyment in a good adventure in a book rather than playing tag with her classmates. As she grew older all she wanted to do was become a writer. She spent a lot of her free time writing the ideas that came to her head. When she started high school her parents pushed her to become an accountant. She found that she liked the class and applied to study it in university as a backup plan.
It was in her second year her book became published and she dropped out of her program to focus on her stories. It did not take long for her book to get popular and she started to work on her next hit. Even though she had made it with her first book she was very worried about writing a book that would be just as good or even better than her first one. |
52,390 | 1,419 | 49 | 693 | 1,157 | Mess/Engine Room
Connor recalled the first time he ever saw a dead body. It had been a dismal day, complete with grey clouds and a light, freezing drizzle that chilled him to the bone. He had been dispatched out to one of the many uninhabited archipelagos to investigate a fishing trawler that had foundered in the shallow waters around one of the plentiful tiny islands. The ship's hull had been pitted with rot and slowly-expanding colonies of barnacles and the sails were little more that rags desperately clinging onto the yard. The sight and smell of the bloated, rotting and partially eaten bodies had made Connor throw up and swear that he would never see a sight more discomforting.
The thought was brought to the forefront of his mind as now, as he stood in the engine room, he felt an even greater pull at his heart as he saw the still bodies of those that had been trapped with him. No, their bodies were far less decayed and mutilated than those he found in the trawler, but oddly enough, he felt a lot more for them than the fishermen. It did not make sense to Connor, and he doubted that it ever would. Perhaps it was all to do with the fact that he actually talked to and at some level, knew those in the engine room.
With a shake of his head and a mental shrug, Connor set about pulling the bodies towards the ladder. "Thank you," He said to the other man who had climbed down with him. Granted, in hindsight it would have been better for Connor to stay up there to assist with pulling the bodies up and out, but for a reason that he himself could not discern, he felt the need to return to the engine room. A series of coughs alerted him and he rushed over to the boiler where Risa was still leaning against. He immediately rushed to her and knelt opposite the girl who had opened the trapdoor. TamTam, she had introduced herself. People in the future certainly have odd names, Connor figured.
"Feckin' hell, you're still kicking." Connor said, though from the looks of it, that was not going to be the case for long. Spying the pistol-like object that was on the ground beside Risa, Connor picked it up and tucked it into his belt, if not for safekeeping - it was a dangerous item, after all - then just in case. It could turn out to be quite useful in future. "We can't drag her, not while she still breathes, and I can't carry her on my own." Connor said quickly and looked at TamTam. "I'll need a hand. You take her arms, I'll take her feet, we bring her to the ladder."
He paused for a moment as he thought of a way to say the next sentence without sounding too morbid or pessimistic. "Then depending on her...State, we can go from there." Connor said after a few moments of silence, his voice low and his gaze shifted to the floor beside Risa. If there was a God above, and he did answer prayers, then Connor prayed that at least someone in the engine room would live. It was so unlike him to actually pray for someone else's wellbeing - people he had only just met, even - but after the whole debacle with the creature that may or may not have existed, he needed at least one person to be alive so that he could in good faith tell himself that he did the right thing. | Name: Suichiro Hamani
Age: 21
Occupation: Gardener
Personality: Suichi is a kind soul. He loves plants and animals, especially cats. He is a hard worker that tries to inspire others to have the same work ethic. When he is pushed into a corner his personality becomes very direct and takes all actions possible to deal with the issue at hand. While he can end up regretting the decisions he makes, he doesn't let that stop him from moving forward.
History: Suichi was raised by his father and never knew his mother who died during childbirth. He was fortunate to have survived himself and until he turned 17 had health issues that prevented him from too much phyiscal activity. He spent a lot of his time in his father's flower shop and inherited his father's enjoyment of the job. He ended up taking over the shop when his father retired and ran a successful business with his wife. Now he's happy with his life... but not for long... |
52,391 | 1,419 | 50 | 693 | 1,157 | Engine Room
"Someone else is still alive? Christ in heaven, I might actually start smiling again." Connor said as he gently lowered Risa to the floor, his happiness barely contained. It was still too early to tell whether or not this new survivor would last for any significant amount of time, but given everything Connor had just gone through, he was desperate for something to just lift his spirits. Though he desperately wanted to rush over to the new survivor to give them a quick one-over, he resisted the urge and stayed where he was to continue with his task. Risa was the top priority for now; she could still be saved, even if the chances were slim.
TamTam bounded up through the trapdoor back into the mess and called back down to someone she called 'Interlulz'. That could not be the other man's real name, it sounded much too ridiculous, even for people from the future, or people he assumed were from the future. Then, she addressed another person she called 'Smokie', and it took Connor more than a few moments to realize that that was his assigned nickname. "My name is Connor," He replied and shifted his attention back to the still form of Risa at his feet. Getting her up and through the door was going to be easier said than done, but he had to at least try.
With a grunt, he picked up the girl by the waist and slowly raised her up over his head. "Bloody hell," He said through gritted teeth as his arms slowly extended. "Take her, quick!" He shouted out. It was amazing how some of his fellow militiamen or even regular Shetlanders could make this maneuver look so effortless.
It came as a great relief to him when TamTam took her off his hands quite literally. "She's a heavy one." Connor said, gasping. Catching his breath, he quickly added with a grin, "Don't tell her that, if you would be as kind." This was certainly a turn-around from his previous demeanor. He was actually quipping and grinning again. Then again, Connor could not help but at the very least crack a slight smile when he looked at TamTam. Though he had initially found her odd to say the least, and a bit too over-energetic, he had to admit that her exuberance was both contagious and somewhat of a spirit-lifter.
However, now it was time for Connor to deal with the last of the people that had been trapped with him, and that was the girl behind the boiler. She had been silent ever since the appearance of the creature, and Connor did not just fear the worse, he had accepted it with much resignation. 'Interlulz' was probably seeing to Suichiro - Connor supposed that was the name of the man that had been trapped in the engine room as well - and that left Connor with the unenviable job of slowly pulling the other girl out from behind the boiler. The damned piece of machinery was heavy, but it stood on four stubby legs that allowed Connor to use some leverage to shift it slightly to one side.
He knelt beside the girl's body and placed two fingers to her neck, then two to the wrist, as he had seen countless physicians do. Disappointingly but not too surprisingly, he found no traces of a pulse. Perhaps she still lived, and it was simply because he was too unskilled to be able to find it, but Connor was not about to pin his hopes on that possibility. He let out a long sigh, closed his eyes and bowed his head slightly. How sad it must be, to die so far away from her home. "I know not what Gods you worship, but I hope you find peace." Connor said. He had never given last rites before - he barely practiced his religion, but it seemed like the right thing to say.
He stood up and walked over to 'Interlulz' with a grave look on his face. "The other one is gone," Connor said and squatted down beside Suichiro. The Asiatic certainly looked as if he had seen better days, but at least he was breathing and conscious. Little victories, Connor supposed. He looked to 'Interlulz'. "When you're ready, we should move him." He said, then looked back to Suichiro. "Unless you think you can walk under your own power?" | Name: Suichiro Hamani
Age: 21
Occupation: Gardener
Personality: Suichi is a kind soul. He loves plants and animals, especially cats. He is a hard worker that tries to inspire others to have the same work ethic. When he is pushed into a corner his personality becomes very direct and takes all actions possible to deal with the issue at hand. While he can end up regretting the decisions he makes, he doesn't let that stop him from moving forward.
History: Suichi was raised by his father and never knew his mother who died during childbirth. He was fortunate to have survived himself and until he turned 17 had health issues that prevented him from too much phyiscal activity. He spent a lot of his time in his father's flower shop and inherited his father's enjoyment of the job. He ended up taking over the shop when his father retired and ran a successful business with his wife. Now he's happy with his life... but not for long... |
52,392 | 1,419 | 51 | 1,583 | 2,241 | On the deck, the battle of the sea raged and swelled and hissed and roared and smashed against the hull. Wind howled in the rigging; rope snapped and whipped. The tatters of flags flung in the ferocious salt spray. Crashes of sea foam leaped into the air and slammed the boat to and fro, tossing it up and dropping it, plummeting down again into the tumult of waves.
A pair of headphones skidded across the foamy wet deck, connected to nothing.
A lumberjack's boot caught against the mainmast, soaked through and ruined by salt.
A slashed, bloodied and unraveled sweater -- bearing the letters TSU -- was tangled wetly in the cannon ropes.
Thunder boomed and cracked open the sky with a violent flash of light. The ship thrashed; a cascade of water tumbled into the Mess through the grate, and with it fell the glimmer of a stopped pocket watch and a little silver key, two treasures that had until now been in the cat-boy's pockets.
These were all that were left of Dakota, Tommy, Samira and Elin.
Water sloshed thick and foamy against the walls of the Mess, crashing and hissing every time the floor shifted in a new direction. It fell in buckets through the open hatch and quenched the last of the flames. The bodies collected beneath it -- waiting to be hauled above -- were soon drenched.
Zosime -- after being dragged out from behind the boiler -- no longer breathed nor exhibited a pulse, but there appeared to be no injury to her person. She was, quite simply and incomprehensibly, dead.
Risa, on the other hand, continued to breathe but refused to wake. Her skin was cold to the touch.
Light accompanied a deafening crack of thunder. Throughout the ship, every unwitting passenger was blinded by brightness. By the time their eyes once again adjusted to the dark, TamTam had suddenly and silently disappeared.
And so, six remained.
The gray fox stood silent in the sloshing water, its fur matted and dripping, offering an intelligent stare to Connor, then Sidwell, Suichiro, Chris and Christopher. Its ears pricked and turned, listening to something no one else could hear over the waves and the wind.
The ship tossed. Cannons on the far side of the tilting floor strained against their straps. The cannon ball that TamTam had used to open the trap door rolled and rumbled through the hissing water and smacked the wall.
Lightning flashed once more; in that moment of light, only Christopher and Moss might see the spectral, translucent image of TamTam pressed back against the leafy wall of the Mess, her head thrown back in a silent scream of terror.
R-r-r-r-ke-ke-ke-ke
A familiar growling, clicking sound filled the engine room. Although unseen, the dark lizard lurked somewhere in the shadows and smoke.
The vines that crisscrossed the machinery had been burned and frayed. Some of those vines snapped, and gears began to grind and turn. A few of the larger gears were jammed by the mangled bones of an old corpse caught in their metal teeth.
While the boilers remained cold, there was little the machines could do. | Garren is approved. Please copy the CS to the Characters section.
Suichiro is approved. You know the drill! ;)
<Snipped quote by >
That is presumptuous considering your character hasn't been approved yet (at least as far as I see here). I would assume we could have some freedom in that aspect as kingdoms have risen and fallen throughout history and are not always large or written about. Something realistic for a time period should work pretty easilly.
<Snipped quote by >
In the Interest Check we only talked about having characters from different times (the examples were Middle Ages and Victorian). I believe the idea is to take people that are from a similar, common skill level and throw them into a fantasy beyond what we experience here on Earth.
Both drewccapp and t2wave are right. Everyone is from Earth. However, feel free to make up imaginary towns/kingdoms/etc. to suit your needs. But everyone is essentially from Earth. It therefore follows that everyone is human, no exceptions. I promise every character is special in other ways. ;)
Yay good to see you again! Alicia is approved. Please copy her CS to the Characters section.
The shift to balance looks good to me. Approved! Please copy the CS to the Characters section.
Dakota is approved! Please copy the CS to the Characters section.
Just gonna reserve a spot for my CS over here. Say, just asking, would an artist who was also a member of the local militia due to national obligations be considered someone in a 'violent' profession? They don't fight wars or do any fighting, they just pretend to be soldiers one week out of every month, or something along those lines.
This would count as something that'd need to be balanced. Just point out in the CS that the character has little experience and you're good to go. :)
Ah. Then there is perhaps something I missed. Could you point me to the precedent so I could be better informed?
I can answer that! drewccapp is referring to a very similar RP that I'm also running that she's also a part of. Her character there is from a made-up kingdom. Which is totally OK in this RP too!
Did I get everyone? -- I gotta go, I'll be back in a few hours! |
52,393 | 1,419 | 52 | 2,356 | 5,042 | Engine Room/Mess
Moving to get people out was tough with the rolling of the ship. Getting a good footing was not a simple task and even with some resilience the motion was slightly nauseating. It was all he could do to get Risa up and out. Water came pouring down on his head as he went back down for more. This storm would be the end of them. With some help with TamTam she moved the next one over to the ladder before a blinding flash of light hit. The other end of the body dropped and the usual chatter stopped completely. "Tam?" No response. Further calls went just as unanswered. She was gone.
So not he was in the engine room alone with bodies. Or at least what he assumed were bodies. Checking for a pulse confirmed that there was nothing they really could do for them. The least he could do was prop them up just in case. But now he wanted out. Doing his best to position them the sound of a creature came through. That was enough for him. Making his bay back to the ladder he stumbled a bit and beaned his head. Thankfully it should only result in a knot and nothing major. Still not fun. Scrambling out he slammed the hatch once all were clear. "They're all gone. There's nothing we can do for them." Sitting down on the floor he didn't care that water was sloshing around him. He was already soaked. This place, where had they been taken?
All of it was beginning to be quite taxing both physically and mentally. He didn't even know where to go next. Despite keeping a cool expression his eyes told of the wall he'd hit. A cannonball rolling across the room snapped him back when it knocked him in the back. "Ow. Ah, okay... We need to find somewhere more dry." The sound of waves crashing over the deck told of the danger above. "We're not going back up that's for sure." Listing himself up he became away of a small object he was sitting on. Fishing it out it was a pocket watch. Not the most useful trinket in the world but keeping track of time was generally a good thing. In a flash of lightning he could see that the hands were stopped. He pressed the button to its side to see if it would function. The thing could very well be broken. | Name: Risa Robinson
Age: 22
Appearance:
Occupation: Writer
Personality: Risa is the type of person that will start a conversation with anyone around her as long as she has something to talk about. While she appears to be able to handle a lot of things she often doubts herself and worries when something does not go as planned. She has a need to things to go the way she wants, but that is because she is afraid of losing control of the things she can control. She does her best to do what other wants, but inside often gets annoyed at people and wants nothing to do with them. At times her immaturity comes through when she lashes out in anger or starts crying in frustration. As much as she tries to look at things optimistically, the truth is she had a negative view on life and the people around her.
History: Risa was born into a middle class family in the year 2000. He was the second child of three. They did not have much as a child, but that never bothered her. She loved her family and she wanted noting more than to be around them. She was not the most popular kid in school, but she quickly found a love of books. She found enjoyment in a good adventure in a book rather than playing tag with her classmates. As she grew older all she wanted to do was become a writer. She spent a lot of her free time writing the ideas that came to her head. When she started high school her parents pushed her to become an accountant. She found that she liked the class and applied to study it in university as a backup plan.
It was in her second year her book became published and she dropped out of her program to focus on her stories. It did not take long for her book to get popular and she started to work on her next hit. Even though she had made it with her first book she was very worried about writing a book that would be just as good or even better than her first one. |
52,394 | 1,419 | 53 | 1,583 | 2,241 | Scrambling out he slammed the hatch once all were clear. "They're all gone. There's nothing we can do for them."
As soon as Suichiro was out, the hatch banged shut with a slam and a splash; the waves breathed outside, the ship creaked and groaned and rocked. Rain and seafoam hammered on the deck above them. Wind howled across the grate, and the small grove of plantlife growing in the middle of the floor trembled and bent under a torrent of water. The ankle-deep slosh of saltwater removed the stench of vinegar from the floor, at least.
Listing himself up he became away of a small object he was sitting on. Fishing it out it was a pocket watch. Not the most useful trinket in the world but keeping track of time was generally a good thing. In a flash of lightning he could see that the hands were stopped. He pressed the button to its side to see if it would function. The thing could very well be broken.
The brass tarnished watch spilled a splash of saltwater upon opening. Behind the scuffed glass -- behind the still silver hands of the clock -- instead of a display of numbers, its face was black: a deep, hollow black, like the sky on a starless night.
Opposite the face, etched carefully into the inside of the lid: 526 418 749 1131
The button was pressed, and the gears began to turn and click. The minute-hand ticked: 6:17.
Below deck, a shrill scream was suddenly cut off.
A vine snapped.
A metallic click, click, click echoed in the room under their feet. Rustling. Moving. The clatter of what sounded like rocks being poured into a copper bucket.
R-r-r-r-r-ke-ke-ke-ke the beast hissed, skittering in the engine room below.
Lightning cracked.
The drenched fox stared at those who remained, shaking and dripping. Aside from the hatch, there were two ways out of the Mess: up the stairs toward the deck and the galley, or back toward the stern of the ship, where beyond the pole of the mainmast was a dry, dim room that smelled like wood dust and metal. It was the ship's workshop, where repairs and inventions were made -- and where someone of some eccentricity apparently had lived.
At the back of the workshop was a metal staircase that led up into an open space in the ceiling. | Garren is approved. Please copy the CS to the Characters section.
Suichiro is approved. You know the drill! ;)
<Snipped quote by >
That is presumptuous considering your character hasn't been approved yet (at least as far as I see here). I would assume we could have some freedom in that aspect as kingdoms have risen and fallen throughout history and are not always large or written about. Something realistic for a time period should work pretty easilly.
<Snipped quote by >
In the Interest Check we only talked about having characters from different times (the examples were Middle Ages and Victorian). I believe the idea is to take people that are from a similar, common skill level and throw them into a fantasy beyond what we experience here on Earth.
Both drewccapp and t2wave are right. Everyone is from Earth. However, feel free to make up imaginary towns/kingdoms/etc. to suit your needs. But everyone is essentially from Earth. It therefore follows that everyone is human, no exceptions. I promise every character is special in other ways. ;)
Yay good to see you again! Alicia is approved. Please copy her CS to the Characters section.
The shift to balance looks good to me. Approved! Please copy the CS to the Characters section.
Dakota is approved! Please copy the CS to the Characters section.
Just gonna reserve a spot for my CS over here. Say, just asking, would an artist who was also a member of the local militia due to national obligations be considered someone in a 'violent' profession? They don't fight wars or do any fighting, they just pretend to be soldiers one week out of every month, or something along those lines.
This would count as something that'd need to be balanced. Just point out in the CS that the character has little experience and you're good to go. :)
Ah. Then there is perhaps something I missed. Could you point me to the precedent so I could be better informed?
I can answer that! drewccapp is referring to a very similar RP that I'm also running that she's also a part of. Her character there is from a made-up kingdom. Which is totally OK in this RP too!
Did I get everyone? -- I gotta go, I'll be back in a few hours! |
52,395 | 1,419 | 54 | 693 | 1,157 | Suichi stared at the water after he was led out of the room. So there was a way out of the room. He finally became used to the aching of his head, but even still concentrating was hard. He looked at those that came out with him and stared for a while. He knew that he had originally woken up with other people. He remembered one of them was particularly scared. He didn't recognize any of them. He simply couldn't remember.
"I, uh, I d-" Then he heard something.
R-r-r-r-r-ke-ke-ke-ke the beast hissed, skittering in the engine room below.
He let out a fearful shout and found himself a corner to curl up in. He remembered that fearsome noise from just before he blacked out. He remembered the terror that thing produced. He shuddered uncontrollably, repeating. "No... No... No..." | Name: Suichiro Hamani
Age: 21
Occupation: Gardener
Personality: Suichi is a kind soul. He loves plants and animals, especially cats. He is a hard worker that tries to inspire others to have the same work ethic. When he is pushed into a corner his personality becomes very direct and takes all actions possible to deal with the issue at hand. While he can end up regretting the decisions he makes, he doesn't let that stop him from moving forward.
History: Suichi was raised by his father and never knew his mother who died during childbirth. He was fortunate to have survived himself and until he turned 17 had health issues that prevented him from too much phyiscal activity. He spent a lot of his time in his father's flower shop and inherited his father's enjoyment of the job. He ended up taking over the shop when his father retired and ran a successful business with his wife. Now he's happy with his life... but not for long... |
52,396 | 1,419 | 55 | 2,356 | 5,042 | MessOrdinarily Chris would not think much about the engines below starting at the same time he clicked the button on the watch. But so far this ship has been anything than what he expected. Everything had some strange twist or angle. Clicking the button once the engine stopped. Again and it started. The sound of the creature below reminded him of what he read earlier. Looking around he quickly found something with weight and shoved a full barrel over the hatch. "Alright, calm down. I got it trapped down there." He tried to gather himself as well while reassuring Suichi.
This place was insane. The fact that it could be remotely real was terrifying because thus far it made no sense. Where does one even start when you're on a weird old steampunk ship that appears to be a living plant? And then there were the flashes of creatures and strange sounds. Nope, Chris was done. Everyone has their defense mechanisms. In the case of the young man he tuned things out. It meant he could continue on in the mean time but would likely suffer for it later. Rather than saying anything to the others he started moving on toward the Galley.
GalleyThe room was much drier which was a slight easing of the mind. However the rest of the room was not quite what one would expect. Clearly a tinkerer had claimed this space as a workshop. Gears, pulleys, and levers were everywhere. Another common theme was drawings and models of spiders. Hell even the small table had legs. Curiously it moved and swayed to counter the rocking of the boat. Were Chris in his more usual mood he would have studied it closer. Curiosity wasn't completely gone as he saw a valve off to one side. So far everything had caused one event or another so he degan to turn it.
Near his feet something moved. They looked like large spider legs. Whether they were or not didn't matter because when they sprung out it caused Chris to jump and stumble over the parts strewn everywhere. Coming down with a crash one of the models was crushed under his arm. A dark fluid leaked out onto his arm, oil maybe. Looking up he tried to find what surprised him. Maybe he was just on edge but he swore that he felt something move on his arm but there was only the oil. | Name: Risa Robinson
Age: 22
Appearance:
Occupation: Writer
Personality: Risa is the type of person that will start a conversation with anyone around her as long as she has something to talk about. While she appears to be able to handle a lot of things she often doubts herself and worries when something does not go as planned. She has a need to things to go the way she wants, but that is because she is afraid of losing control of the things she can control. She does her best to do what other wants, but inside often gets annoyed at people and wants nothing to do with them. At times her immaturity comes through when she lashes out in anger or starts crying in frustration. As much as she tries to look at things optimistically, the truth is she had a negative view on life and the people around her.
History: Risa was born into a middle class family in the year 2000. He was the second child of three. They did not have much as a child, but that never bothered her. She loved her family and she wanted noting more than to be around them. She was not the most popular kid in school, but she quickly found a love of books. She found enjoyment in a good adventure in a book rather than playing tag with her classmates. As she grew older all she wanted to do was become a writer. She spent a lot of her free time writing the ideas that came to her head. When she started high school her parents pushed her to become an accountant. She found that she liked the class and applied to study it in university as a backup plan.
It was in her second year her book became published and she dropped out of her program to focus on her stories. It did not take long for her book to get popular and she started to work on her next hit. Even though she had made it with her first book she was very worried about writing a book that would be just as good or even better than her first one. |
52,397 | 1,419 | 56 | 1,583 | 2,241 | He let out a fearful shout and found himself a corner to curl up in. He remembered that fearsome noise from just before he blacked out. He remembered the terror that thing produced. He shuddered uncontrollably, repeating. "No... No... No..."
The sounds under the floor faded to a small scuffle, a few clinks and shuffles, the hushing sound of vines being torn away from the machines. Then, there was quiet.
The gray fox padded up to Suichiro, snuffled his ear and licked his face, its bushy tail swishing empathetically.
Above, thunder crashed. Light flashed through the cracks in the ceiling. The ship tossed and rocked and crashed on the waves. The gray fox skittered, crouched, and crawled close again to Suichiro, whining.
Hell even the small table had legs. Curiously it moved and swayed to counter the rocking of the boat. Curiosity wasn't completely gone as he saw a valve off to one side. So far everything had caused one event or another so he degan to turn it.
Near his feet something moved. They looked like large spider legs. Whether they were or not didn't matter because when they sprung out it caused Chris to jump and stumble over the parts strewn everywhere. Coming down with a crash one of the models was crushed under his arm. A dark fluid leaked out onto his arm, oil maybe. Looking up he tried to find what surprised him. Maybe he was just on edge but he swore that he felt something move on his arm but there was only the oil.
Indeed, those hinged machines that littered the workshop -- strewn throughout the room by years of being flung about in storms and waves -- appeared to be moving in the corner of Chris' eye.
Turning the valve did nothing, at first. But as the minutes went on, the pipe it was connected to would slowly heat up, and a dim hiss of steam would flow through it freely.
The boilers in the engine room had been filled and set alight.
The oil on Chris' arm didn't behave like usual oil -- it clung to his arm, more like a leech than a liquid, and occasionally it shifted as if the oil itself were alive. Simply brushing it off would send it to the floor, where it would seep into the cracks between the floorboards.
"WHO'S THERE!"
A gravelly voice shouted from the pile of wreckage behind Chris, and the gears and spider-legs began to shift and move. The inventions seemed as if they might be coming to life, their springs and hinges extended to capture Chris and devour him into their metal chaos --
Instead, a very human old man pushed his way out from behind them, grunting and grumbling and huffing with the effort of untangling himself from a set of hanging spider legs. He was a slightly rotund, red-faced, bushy-bearded old man who had possibly never smiled a day in his life, and he squinted through foggy spectacles at Chris.
"WHO ARE YOU?" he shouted, throwing his big hands in the air. "WHAT DO YOU WANT?" He grabbed Chris' arm where the oil had spilled, and yanked it close so he could see the stain closer. "WHAT DID YOU TOUCH?"
His voice boomed throughout the ship, followed by a crack of lightning outside.
In the Mess, the gray fox perked its ears and stared with interest in the direction of the workshop. | Garren is approved. Please copy the CS to the Characters section.
Suichiro is approved. You know the drill! ;)
<Snipped quote by >
That is presumptuous considering your character hasn't been approved yet (at least as far as I see here). I would assume we could have some freedom in that aspect as kingdoms have risen and fallen throughout history and are not always large or written about. Something realistic for a time period should work pretty easilly.
<Snipped quote by >
In the Interest Check we only talked about having characters from different times (the examples were Middle Ages and Victorian). I believe the idea is to take people that are from a similar, common skill level and throw them into a fantasy beyond what we experience here on Earth.
Both drewccapp and t2wave are right. Everyone is from Earth. However, feel free to make up imaginary towns/kingdoms/etc. to suit your needs. But everyone is essentially from Earth. It therefore follows that everyone is human, no exceptions. I promise every character is special in other ways. ;)
Yay good to see you again! Alicia is approved. Please copy her CS to the Characters section.
The shift to balance looks good to me. Approved! Please copy the CS to the Characters section.
Dakota is approved! Please copy the CS to the Characters section.
Just gonna reserve a spot for my CS over here. Say, just asking, would an artist who was also a member of the local militia due to national obligations be considered someone in a 'violent' profession? They don't fight wars or do any fighting, they just pretend to be soldiers one week out of every month, or something along those lines.
This would count as something that'd need to be balanced. Just point out in the CS that the character has little experience and you're good to go. :)
Ah. Then there is perhaps something I missed. Could you point me to the precedent so I could be better informed?
I can answer that! drewccapp is referring to a very similar RP that I'm also running that she's also a part of. Her character there is from a made-up kingdom. Which is totally OK in this RP too!
Did I get everyone? -- I gotta go, I'll be back in a few hours! |
52,398 | 1,419 | 57 | 693 | 1,157 | Mess
Suichi felt a cool moist something touch his hand. The words of his comrade hadn't gotten through to him, but when he noticed the fox he felt a bit more relaxed. The animal brushing up against him had a soothing effect on him. He pet the animal lightly as it skittered up against him when the lightning struck.
He waited for some time with the fox, calming himself down the best he could. He remembered that there had been others on the ship with him, where had they gone? He shivered when he thought of the possibilities. Then he heard a booming voice off in the distance and looked off towards where Chris had gone. What happened? Would Chris be alright?
Then the fox started heading towards the workshop. Suichi slowly but steadily stood up and made his way over. He felt a heavy pressure in his head as he stood up, something he could only believe was a concussion. He would have to take it easy.
Galley
As Suichi entered the drier galley he noticed a spider theme, and a person he didn't recognize with Chris. He half mumbled. "W-what's going on?" He then saw the stranger grab Chris' arm and pull him in close. "Don't hurt him!" He blurted those words out without thinking panic rising. He didn't want any fighting to happen. He only wanted for people to be safe. At least as safe as they could be in this ship. | Name: Suichiro Hamani
Age: 21
Occupation: Gardener
Personality: Suichi is a kind soul. He loves plants and animals, especially cats. He is a hard worker that tries to inspire others to have the same work ethic. When he is pushed into a corner his personality becomes very direct and takes all actions possible to deal with the issue at hand. While he can end up regretting the decisions he makes, he doesn't let that stop him from moving forward.
History: Suichi was raised by his father and never knew his mother who died during childbirth. He was fortunate to have survived himself and until he turned 17 had health issues that prevented him from too much phyiscal activity. He spent a lot of his time in his father's flower shop and inherited his father's enjoyment of the job. He ended up taking over the shop when his father retired and ran a successful business with his wife. Now he's happy with his life... but not for long... |
52,399 | 1,420 | 0 | 694 | 2,138 | Hall of Justice
Washington, DC
July 4th - 11:14 am
Nightwing immediately turned the corner of the hallway as the device on his wrist gave its foreboding beep that something had happened and the alarm was active for all members of Young Justice. After coming in from one of the special zeta tube in Gotham City, Nightwing had to go from one end of the hall to the other. Thankfully no one was really there to make a mess of things. Save for a tourist from one of the viewing areas, wondering why the young hero was in such a hurry. Still they were easy to ignore after a little.
The Hall of Justice itself was certainly a facade. While it was the actual HQ for the Justice League it now only served as a fake while the real one was up in space. The Young Justice squad had made it into their own base. Since plenty of rooms in it were abondoned or now just stored random things. The team was able to use a lot of it for their own personal needs while staying respectful of its former occupants at the same time. Still Nightwing was too much worried about what the alarm was for when he turned a corner to see Aqualad and Supergirl.
Both of the young heroes were already in costume, having arrived fresh from zeta tubes in Coast City and Metropolis respectively. They wasted no time in making their way to the central hub of the Hall of Justice, the secret room where their team usually held meetings and mission briefings. Pulsing red lights bathed the chamber in a hellish glow and blaring klaxons assaulted their ears with a deafening wail. Coming to a screeching stop near them Nightwing panted slightly, the closest he'd normally come to sounding tired. "Whats going on? Where's Kid Flash?"
"I'm not sure." responded Aqualad. "I tried raising him on the comms as soon as we got here, but he didn't answer." The Atlantean adolescent peered curiously around the room. There was no one there who could have activated the alarm, the only ones capable of doing so being members of the Justice League or their own team.
As if on cue, the alarms stopped suddenly and there was an awkward pause in noise. Nightwing's mind started playing through all the dangerous scenarios that could play out. Supergirl hovered nearby, a perplexed expression suddenly coming to her face. "Wait. There's something strange. I smell... smoke?"
"PFFFFFFFFFTTTTTTTTTTTTTT!"
"WOO! PARTY!" Kid Flash, clad in his own superhero suit, with a noisemaker in one hand, really silly looking party hat on his head, and a cake with a candle in the top of it balancing on his other hand. Came into the room with the most joyous expression his body could clearly muster. Though he looked like he was already in a party Nightwing just stood there completely dumbfounded. "Okay... Wally? What the hell... just seriously." He couldn't get much else out before pinching at the bridge of his nose and shake his head slowly. Having another moment in which he had to seriously ask himself why he was friends with someone who can transition from smart to completely stupid so seemlessly.
Kaldur'ahm managed to open his mouth and ask the important question."I think what Nightwing is trying to say is... what's up with the alarm?" Aqualad looked only slightly amused, while Kara simply stared at the cake Wally held in his hand. "Yeah, that." Nightwing finally replied with a sigh, having a personal moment of despair over his life choices.
"Hey hey I know. I'm not suppose to activate the alarm unless its an emergency." Kid Flash put down the cake onto the table where on the top 'Happy 1 year Young Justice' was written in on red icing. "I figured you guys didn't realize or remember, but it was one year ago we saved Supergirl and this whole thing got started! I mean we've just spent 365 days kicking ass and taking names. Why not get together and celebrate the occasion?" Kid Flash had the smile of pride on his face that made it hard for Nightwing to hate him too much longer... fully at least. "Look Wally you still can't just go pulling the alarm whenever you feel like hanging out..."
"You never gave me your phone number and the last time I went to the batcave that new Robin nearly tasered me to death..." Kid Flash quickly pointed out, his tone more just to the point from the previous cheeriness.
"Point made." Nighwing retorted.
Aqualad chuckled under his breath, placing a hand on Nightwing's shoulder. "C'mon, Dick. Don't you think it's sweet what Wally's doing here? Going to all this trouble. Making us this cake... Wait, did you actually make the cake?" He turned to Wally now, a skeptical look on his face.
"What me? No no, I learned my lesson from last time!"
'How can the flour get EVERYWHERE LIKE THISSSSSSSS?!'
Nightwing, finally just letting the sorrow in his heart go for now. Sighed as he let a smirk come out and pat Aqualad's hand. "Yeah I guess you're right man, it'll be nice to have a little R & R after the last week days personally." Gotham City has been really going through its paces lately. Notably from a lot younger people Nightwing had noticed. Some of them lame like a guy who was dressed as a giant ketchup bottle named Condiment King, a lot of the others were a lot more vicious though, he had been planning on talking to Batman about it.
"Look for real, I bought it from a Central City bakery. They gave me a 25 percent discount too! The benefits of being Flash based royalty my friend!" Kid Flash proudly was telling Aqualad as Nightwing was momentarilly in his own thoughts. Kid Flash dashed out of the room and a second later returned with a large knife from the kitchen in the Hall. "Alright anyone want any particular part? I'm calling a corner for sure, much more frosting yo!" Suddenly in a flash Kid Flash's arm was a blur going through the cake in all different directions before stopping. The cake having perfect slices in both directions as Kid Flash stopped to gently wipe the sides of the knife off of its chunks of cake and frosting with a thumb before licking it off of his digit.
Aqualad divvied out the pieces of cake, handing one to each of his three friends. "Thanks, Wally. It really was thoughtful of you."
"Oh! I almost forgot. Forks." Wally once more vanished into the kitchen only to reappear an instant later with four forks in hand. He shared them with Dick, Kara and Kaldur and they all seated themselves at a nearby table.
Kara eyes remained fixed on her piece of cake for several moments as if she was unsure what to make of it. She prodded it curiously with her fork, seemingly fascinated by the color and texture. Finally, she speared a portion of the piece and shoved it into her mouth, chewing pensively for a few seconds before her eyes grew wide with delight. "This is wonderful! How is it so spongy and so moist at the same time?" She continued to chew the cake with a joyful expression, putting more and more of it in her mouth. As Kara continued to stuff more and more of the cake into her mouth Dick, Wally, and Kaldur all stopped eating their pieces, even chewing altogether just to watch Kara devour her part of the cake. "You think she's going to eat the fork too?" Wally asked curiously, as it wouldn't be the first time.
"Batman to Young Justice unit, report."
The screen behind them came on with the dark knight's menacing face. Not leaving Nightwing much time to wipe his face and swallow his food before addressing his colleague and mentor who was on the big monitor. "Yes Batman... we're here."
"I'm not interrupting anything am I?" Batman's voice unchanged at all, but had the small notes to it that Nightwing knew as mild concern.
"Not really, Kid Flash brought cake since its the first year anniversary for us... I guess." Nightwing quickly realized he has no idea if Wally was speaking the truth or not. Its been a busy year.
"Well as soon as you can report in to HQ, we need to speak to you four on possible future status."
"Well he seemed like a joy as always." Wally noted gulping another piece of cake down, his face covered in small chunks of cake and frosting.
"He's a black forest cake kind of guy honestly." Nightwing joked with a grin as he turned back to the others.
Aqualad set his fork aside, contemplating Batman's instructions. "I think he must have been confused. We're already at our headquarters." A look of recognition suddenly dawned on Kaldur'ahm's face. "Wait... Batman said HQ. Do you think he means... the Justice League's headquarters?"
Nightwing paused in thought before shrugging, "Well yeah I mean whats what I took out of it and..."
"DUDE DID HE SAY FUTURE STATUS?!" Wally finally practically flubbered out of his mouth, not looking very graceful as he spittled out cake. "Dude, DUDE. Future status? Do you guys realize what that means?!"
"You're going to clean up the mess you just made?" Nightwing asked, mildly disgusted.
"We're going to be in Justice League!"
The Watchtower
July 4th - 12:13 pm
Kid Flash's jaw dangled down in a limp at the news, his eyes gone for a moment as the reality of the news came to them. "Wait... WHAT?!" Kid Flash gasped out in shock.
"See Batman I told you he wasn't going to take the news well." The Flash, Justice League member, more importantly Kid Flash's father. Quietly shook his head as he stood next to the remaining stoic Batman. The rest of the core Justice League standing behind Batman. Superman, Wonder Woman, Green Lantern, The Flash, all standing before the Young Justice members who saw them in front of the massive window overlooking space and the now suddenly small seeming Earth outside.
"I'm aware Flash. But getting back to the point, the Young Justice program has been too vital for us to give you the promotion for any time in the near future. Instead we're going to expand your base to a new location, and increase the ranks with several new recruits. Each of whom the four of you will be in charged of training how you see fit."
A holographic projection popped out of thin air in front of the assembled group, showing what looked like a large mountain or volcano situated on a peaceful stretch of coastline. A series of smaller images framed the scene, each of them the face of a different recruit.
"From now on, your team will be operating out of Mt. Justice. It was the former headquarters of the League, but hasn't been used in several years since... a certain incident." Batman paused for the briefest of moments before continuing. "You will report directly to me on all operations and for mission briefs. Any questions?"
"Who... How... WHAAAT?!" Wally stammered, mouth still agape.
"I'll take that as a no. Consider yourselves dismissed. The recruits will be joining you here shortly, and after that all of you will take the Zeta Tubes to Mt. Justice."
With that, Batman and the rest of the League withdrew to the Zeta Tube platform, their silhouettes disappearing into a dazzling flash of light as they left the team behind. The four of them remained standing there, each one dealing with their own thoughts and emotions stemming from the revelation they had just been dealt.
"Well... That wasn't quite what we were expecting." Kaldur'ahm broke the silence, always one to state the obvious when nobody else would.
Kid Flash just remained there, almost twitching as his brain was not handling at all the news. "Pf... I...gah! Come on we're so much better no COOLER than this!" Kid Flash was finally able to blurt out all too late.
Nightwing held his chin cupped in one hand, the other scratching his temple as he stood focused in thought. "There's got to be something they're not telling us. Something they don't want us to know." It didn't make sense for the Justice League to take its crop of young heroes, who have been borderline flawless for a year, and not just bring them into the Justice League all together. Nightwing wasn't just struggling with the question on a logical level but a deeper level. Unlike the others he was keeping the disappointment tucked away inside.
"All these new recruits." Kara looked up at the hologram, taking in the faces of those they were about to meet. "Will we really have to train them all?"
Suddenly, a loud whirring was heard from the Zeta Tubes as they fired up once again. The voice of the Watchtower's computer could be heard as shapes took form within the bright light of the tubes. "Incoming arrivals. B05... B06... B07... B08... B09...B10... B11..."
Nightwing looked on at the zeta tubes surpressing a gulp of worry for what was to come, "Guess we're about to find out..." He told Kara. | Real Name: Wallace “Wally” West
Alias: Kid Flash
Mentor/Sponsor: The Flash
Age: 17
Powers: As he didn't earn the nickname “the fastest kid on the Earth” because it sounded nice. Kid Flash can run at speed of sound speeds. Second only though to his mentor in terms of how fast he can go. Kid Flash can use his speed in a variety of ways. Like run across water and up buildings. Produce powerful tornadoes from running in a small circle. Most notably, although he hasn't quite gotten the hang of it yet, Kid Flash can vibrate his molecules fast enough to be able to go through solid objects. On top of all this his reaction times are faster, and while he is more durable than a normal person. He can heal injuries much quicker. Though he needs to make sure any dislocated or broken bones are put back into place first, otherwise they don't quite heal right.
Skills: Despite Wally's seemingly dim witted nature. Its something that hides his surprisingly solid intelligence into science and chemistry. Its something Wally has always shown both an interest and keen knack for in school. Though truthfully outside of that, Wally is a good cook and can tell you anything about video games or dumb pop culture trivia.
Brief Bio: Wally West grew up a class clown who almost had no direction in his life. He didn't know or care what he wanted to be when he grew up. It was video games, TV, and figuring out new, fun, and inventive ways to drive the teachers he didn't like crazy. His mom blamed the fact that she broke up with Wally's father as his directionless life. The two loved one another but his life in the police department in downtown Central City made things too difficult to keep the marriage together.
When Wally was 12 he got a shock when he met his real father for the first time, police detective Barry Allen. Both Barry and Wally's mom finally decided they needed one another and Barry needed to be in Wally's life. Leaving the both of them deciding to get remarried. Wally resented it all at first, not wanting any part of the creep who left the family when he was little. That is until Barry decided to take Wally to his police station. Not to scare him straight, but because he began to notice Wally's report cards always had straight Cs in all the classes except science. With that in mind he showed Wally the police station's CSI lab. It caught Wally's fancy immediately, however what he ended up having happen next really blew his mind. His father had gone out on a lunch break and left Wally at the station when suddenly The Flash showed up to put a criminal he had caught away. Wally got an autograph and suddenly found himself Flash's new number one fan.
Though while most kids would simply stick with idolizing the superhero. Wally went deeper, studying the superhero how ever he could. Suddenly though he began piecing the puzzle together and came to the shock when he found Barry's ring which released his costume. His new dad, was The Flash.
Quickly Wally's research into the superhero turned father figure began to show what had happened to Barry to get his powers of super speed. Wally, not thinking about any real consequences, set everything up in his room to recreate the set up. It all worked, and Wally suddenly found himself seeing the very dimension known as the 'speed force' for himself. Where everything is peaceful and serene, but moving in a graceful slow motion. Barry though quickly found out, and was not impressed. It took Wally almost a week of non-stop nagging and risk taking to convince his dad to let him become a sidekick. Which brought forth to the world Kid Flash.
Now on his own with his friends both old and new in Young Justice. Wally West is still the lovable goofball he always was, just now with a chip on his shoulder the size of a small European country.
Notes: A tournament level player in 'Combat Club', the popular fighting game. Though Nightwing suspects Wally uses his powers to cheat. Wally denies it, but totally is. |
52,400 | 1,420 | 1 | 2,097 | 1,847 | It was a rainy day in London. Course there was no other kind of days in the English Summer so Zachary did not care all that much. It was just the fact that the whole area was on a line from Nome, Alaska. If not for the locations and a few currents they would be the same and London showers would be snow storms. Zach was full of stupid facts like that. He usually when was either in a bad mood, furious, or tired. Currently he was all three at once. He had just been told, no ordered, that he was going to join some kids club or something. Constantine had decided that Zach needed to leave London, the only home that he had known for the last few years, to head to God only knew where. Now he was wandering through the city while his brown trench coat. Constantine had thought it was a good look for him and good for a laugh. It was not like the original but it had a bit of magic in it. So he wore it with his superhero getup. It had a bit of magic in it like to protect him from water. It was not possessed yet but he figured it would eventually get possessed by some hellish demon. He had a few magical artifacts in his pocket in case he would need one. He had a playing card, a doll, and a few other things.
He was walking near Hyde Park and looked up at the clouds. Part of him liked the idea of all this but the other half hated it. He liked the idea of having a team but he worked better alone. He had done jobs on his own before... Course he could not wait any longer so he turned on his heel and walked towards an alley nearby. There was a blue police box just sitting there. He had placed the glamour on the Zeta Tube himself and he thought it was funny. He needed a joke right now more than anything.
He felt himself vanish for a bit and then heard a robotic voice said "Zachary Zatara B05" It said as he saw the room around him. There were four people looking at the tube. He could tell who they were from the newspaper clippings he kept in his room. He would never ever admit that but it was true. He looked around and scratched his head.
"Hello." He said flatly before his eyes settled on the red head with the party hat. Oh this was going to be fun. "I am Zachary." He said before waving his hands and saying a spell. "egnahC otni ym emutsoc " He said as his outfit appeared under his coat. "I can do real magic which I am guessing none of you can. Especially the party boy over there. I could have sworn that you lot were suppose to be professionals. Seems I was wrong." He said smugly. Constantine had taught him how press anyone's buttons. | Real Name:
Koriand'r
Alias:
Starfire
Mentor/Sponsor:
Martian Manhunter
Age:
17
Appearance:
Costume:
Powers:
FTL Flight, Starbolt energy projection (colored bright green), Starbolt shields, Starbolt blasts, Starbolt bursts, Starbolt beams, Starbolt waves, Starbolt eye beams, Accelerated healing factor, Superhuman strength, Superhuman endurance, Superhuman durability, Superhuman agility, Superhuman reflexes, Language assimilation (lip contact), Invulnerability, Self-sustenance, Immunity and resistance to radiation
Skills:
Experienced hand-to-hand combatant
Brief Bio:
Starfire was born and raised on the distant planet Tamaran as a warrior princess before arriving on Earth. The Tamaraneans are an emotional race who see feelings as the force that drives their very livelihood. In fact, it's their emotions that fuel their natural abilities of flight. Because of this, Starfire is inherently a very sensitive person to begin with. Starfire was cared for as a child by Galfore, her adoptive father after her parents were killed. Starfire's only living, biological family is her evil big sister Blackfire.
Starfire came to Earth as Koriand'r, an alien princess being transported by Gordanians, in exile as a slave to the Citadel after Blackfire sold her to them for peace on Tamaran. Through the use of her innate Tamaranean strength, she broke free from the brig aboard a Gordanian ship and landed in Jump City. While attempting to free herself of the handcuffs with which she had been laden, she ended up both destroying buildings and cars. She wound up meeting a young man by the name of Robin, who she then kissed to learn English, and then told him to leave. But he didn't leave. Instead, he helped her defeat the Gordanians in Jump City and then they parted ways.
After they parted, Starfire created a life of good for herself on planet Earth. She fought crime and tried to blend in, though her alien beauty and alien customs made it hard for her. She wound up repairing all the damage she did to the city and helped even more by taking down many villains. She has not seen Robin, now Nightwing, since that day.
Notes:
Because she is an alien, she is still not accustom to Earth phrases or customs. |
52,401 | 1,420 | 2 | 2,049 | 6,923 | Yeah and now I am suppose to join this kiddy club of super hero brats. Can you believe that crap?! A deathly pale teen with pitch black hair and fiery red eyes groaned as he sat on the edge of a aquarium tank, his metal boots hanging just above the water. Below his boot covered feet in the tank swam a pod of dolphins, about half a dozen. The alien looking teen was munching on a large, incredibly greasy double stack bacon cheese burger. "That is easy for you to say, you don't have to hang out with a bunch of crud munchers for who knows how long!" He spouted with a mouth full of burger, a perfect line of meat juice running down his chin. After about three more bites the teen had completely demolished what was left of the burger and tossed its wrapper over his shoulder, it hitting some soccer mom who was walking by. "Whatever... But I swear if any of them lays a hand on my hog I will show them why I am the baddest bastich in the universe. Catch you later Glumly." The teen said as he stood up, balancing on the edge of the tank, one of the dolphins in the tank chirped back to him almost as if it understood the odd looking kid. The teen then brought his fingers up to his lips and let out a sharp ear piercing whistle. After a moment a large motorcycle with a metal skull mounted on its front roared into the aquarium, literally flying over and around the buildings patterns. As the bike neared the teen jumped on it in one quick fluid motion, revved the engine a few times then rocketed out of the building and into the skies above the city.
To most all that must of been a bizarre sight, an alien teen eating a burger talking to a tank of dolphins and then ridding off on a flying motorcycle, but if one would to get all the facts... well it was all still crazy. For that is pretty much everything the young former intergalactic bounty hunter that is known as Slobo did, crazy crazy and more crazy. The reason Slobo, or the Top Teen as he calls himself, was at the aquarium was because that was where one of the few friends he had on this planet stayed. That friend just so happened to be a Space dolphin by the name of Glumly that decided to live on earth among his non space cousins. Slobo always visited Glumly when he was on earth, Glumly once saved Slobo from a horde of crazed cyborg alien bikini warriors... long story, so the two kind of bonded. Now since it looked like Slobo would be staying on earth for the long haul he has been visiting his space dolphin compadre more and more so he could talk to someone who didn't make Slobo want to blow something up.
With his visit finished he was suppose to go to the location the man of steel himself gave Slobo. With a roll of his eyes the alien teen pointed his spacehog in the direction of the zeta tube he was suppose to take, though he did stop for another burger much to the misfortune of the acne covered teen that was working the drive through he stopped his spacehog in. It didn't take long for Slobo to make it to the Zeta Tube, it was hidden in some ally and disguised as telephone both of all things. Slobo hopped of his bike, which proceeded to race off into the sky and wait for him to call it later. With a sigh Slobo entered the booth and was instantly teleported away.
"Slobo, B08" The robotic voice echoed as Slobo appeared out of the Zeta tube and into the room with the others. He still had his latest burger in hand as he looked over the others. He took a bite of the burger, grease pouring down his chin, before he spoke. "Crap are you guys really my team? I was expecting... well chumps, but better chumps." | "Make way for The Top Fraggin' Teen, Bastichs!"
Real Name
Slobo
Alias
The Top Teen- Calls himself this
Lil Bo'- By Lobo
The New Ultimate Bastich!- Again only he calls himself that
Lil Lobo- "Call me that and I will kick your crud sucking behind to the other side of the universe and back!"
Mentor/Sponsor
Superman
Age
Chronologically eight months, but biologically he is seventeen
Appearance
Slobo is a towering individual, standing at 6'3, with a muscular body build. His skin is out right grey and his eyes are completely fiery red, easily showing that he is not human. He has long messy jet black hair that looks like he has never made any attempt to comb. He has some stubble on his chin that he takes a lot of pride in.
Costume
Slobo's costume consists of whatever he is wearing at the time. Which is usually a rocker T-shirt under a sleeveless leather jacket along with some jeans and a pair of metal biker boots.
Powers
Czarnian Physiology-
Slobo is a Czarnian and has all the benefits that come along with it. His body is self-sustaining, meaning he does not need any food, water, air, or sleep and he can survive in the vacuum of space without any harm. His body is also much more durable than others, being able to take insane amounts of damage with out any real penalties. As well Slobo heals at a much quicker pace, being able to heal from bullet wounds, stabbings, and even broken bones in a matter of minutes
Superhuman Strength-
Though he isn't as strong as the original Lobo, Slobo is far stronger than most. He has been able to lift a bit over a 100 tons.
Superhuman Agility/Speed-
Though no where near the level of that of a speedster Slobo is able to move faster than humanly possible.
Superhuman Stamina-
This goes along with his body's self sustaining ability, Slobo is able to work for days before physical exhaustion takes him.
Superhuman Senses-
Like the original Lobo, Slobo senses are out of the league of most other creatures in the universe. For example his sense of smell is so sharp that he can track someone through the vacuum of space.
Skills
Genius Level Intellect-
As unbelievable as it may seem Slobo is actually incredibly brilliant, especially when it comes to mechanical engineering. He has been able to construct his "Spacehog", a motorbike capable of intergalactic voyages, out of scarps he found at a junkyard and many other wonderfully destructive toys.
Hand to Hand Combat-
Though he describes it as "nonstop face stomping" Slobo is quite skilled in up close combat, though it will never look as graceful as someone who was formally trained
Fire-arms/Explosive Expert-
Slobo is very talented with guns and anything else that goes boom, but is under strict orders from Superman not to use any "lethal" weapons while on the team.
Multilingualism-
Slobo is fluent in 17,897 different languages from across the galaxy.
Brief Bio
"You ever wonder who the baddest bastich in the universe is? Well no need to wonder any longer crud muncher because you are looking at him! That's right I'm the top teen himself, Slobo! What? You don't know who I am?! What kind of two week old space-pig shi- Whatever, I bet you know who Lobo is though right? Right! Everyone knows who Lobo is, The Main Man, Scourge o' the Cosmos, The Last Czarnian Pssshhh! The old man doesn't have anything on me, Hell if he was as great as everyone says I wouldn't be here! You see a while back the geezer bit off more than he could chew and got himself turned into a teen who called himself Lil' Lobo, and I swear if you call me that I will shove my boot so far up your backside you will be tasting shoelaces! Anyway while he was teen he managed to get himself killed, on Apokolips and by some Parademons no less! Well kind of got himself killed, see we Czarnians have this neat little ability where when we die our blood turns into little clones of us, gnarly I know. Moving on all of the little Lil' Lobo clones, try saying that five times fast, started kicking some serious Parademons hide until there were only the little lil' Lobos left, that was when they started killing each other. What did you expect them to do?! There can only be one baddest bastich in the universe! Where was I? Oh yeah the killing! All the little lil' Lobos threw down until there was only one left, he got to become Lobo again. Well Lobo thought he was the only one left, another smarter better looking little lil' Lobo knew when to duck out of the fight. That one got away with out being killed and got to grow and become even more awesome. You guessed it crud for brains, that little lil' Lobo grew up to become yours truly! Since then I've been building my name as the top teen of the universe, kicking some serious ass and building a Spacehog that puts Lobo's to shame, well that was until I was stopped by the red and blue boy scout. Yeah Superman busted me after a bounty I was on, hey how was I suppose to know she was a princess! Maybe if her planet was more important I would of heard of her! Whatever... long story short the spandex addict gave me a choice, either get tossed in the joint or join some team of kiddy heroes psssshhhh! These kids better know what the frag they are doing! Oh and as for you I wouldn't of broken your legs if you haven't tried stealing that car, I am still kind of new to this hero thing."
Notes
Slobo likes spending long nights working on his spacehog, has a soft spot for space dolphins, and has acquired quite the taste for earth fast food despite his lack of needing to eat. |
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